“I know that, you dolt,” Andar said. “That’s my entire point. Finding paladins is not like raising footmen. You can’t drill them for a few days, throw a pike into their hands, and march them into battle. A paladin needs to be an expert fighter to begin with, own an excellent horse or two, and be devout enough to surrender material comforts to live on the road for weeks or months at a time.”
“Exactly right,” Wolfram said. “There are only so many of these people across the whole of Eriscoba—probably not even five hundred in total. But there are more than a hundred—our current number—that’s for sure. Most of them won’t join us, and it’s not because we ask too much. It’s because we ask too little.”
“I understand,” Marissa said quietly. Two of the others nodded their agreement.
“Oh, do you?” Andar said. “That’s good, because I don’t. You think that to recruit more paladins, we need to make the ones we have suffer more? That’s what will do it?”
“Yes,” Wolfram said. “I noticed it after that first battle at the river, when we fought the giant.”
“That wasn’t the first battle,” someone said. “We’d been on the road three years already at that point.”
“It was the first battle where I was paying attention,” Wolfram said. “Let’s put it that way. Sir Bronwyn told me that night that she was leaving and putting me in charge of the company. Andar and the other injured paladins had already returned home to recuperate. Two of them never returned.
“I thought we’d been going too hard, that people were exhausted, so a few days later, after we fought the skirmish against the gray marauders, I spent twelve days encamped at the edge of the beaver lake to rest.”
“I remember that,” Marissa said. “We were idle—it was terrible.”
“Bored, but getting necessary rest,” Andar said. “You all looked much healthier when I returned to the campaign.”
“Yet we lost three more paladins,” Wolfram said. “They returned to see to matters at home while we were idle, and they never returned.”
“And you picked up five more shortly after,” Andar said.
“Not the right kind of men, though, were they?” Gregory asked. Everyone turned to look at him.
“No,” Wolfram said. “No, they were not. Too soft, too nervous about battle. They lasted a few weeks, then were gone. And those ones I encouraged to leave.”
“You can’t just throw them into battle,” Andar said. “They need to be trained.”
“They need to come trained,” Wolfram said. “You made that point yourself. We can perfect their swordsmanship, teach them bushcraft for surviving in the wilderness, but they need to be paladins from the moment they arrive. We’re recruiting warriors, not would-be warriors.”
Wolfram continued. “After that, I started going harder—longer rides, more aggressive tactics—and that’s when I saw a change. We lost a few, gained a few more.”
“We’re back where we were, more or less,” Marissa said. “Since Bronwyn rode off, I mean. But the ones we have are stronger.”
Wolfram nodded. “Strong in the mind, and that’s where it really matters.”
The vinegar was bubbling now, and he ordered one of the servants to bring him a pair of the big tongs they used for pulling clay pots out of the ovens. While he waited for her to return, he removed the straps from his shield.
“What the devil are you doing with the vinegar?” Andar asked.
Wolfram turned over the shield and looked at the crescent moon on its field of gray one last time. The same crest flapped from a flag atop his father’s castle and had adorned his brother Randall’s shield. Bronwyn had carried the glowing moon emblem on her shield when she left for the khalifates to find the sorcerer. To deface it now seemed like disloyalty. He picked up the tongs and hefted the shield over the pot of bubbling vinegar.
“Captain?” someone said. “Are you sure about this?”
Wolfram let the shield slip into the vinegar. It bubbled across the surface. He forced himself to turn away, tongs still gripped in his hands.
“My sister said that hard times call for hard people. These are very hard times, and we must be equally hard.” He looked over the others. “I’m convinced we haven’t been hard enough. We collect paladins, we lose them. They return to their homes, they rejoin us when they feel the call. Meanwhile, there are dozens, maybe even hundreds, across the free kingdoms who would be fine additions to our order.”
“You can’t force men and women to join,” Andar said.
“No, but once they join we can force them to stay.”
The older knight made a scoffing sound. “How?”
“By forcing them to abandon everything before they join. Do that,” Wolfram added, “and they will flock to us—we won’t need to recruit.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Andar demanded.
“Twenty-four as of the last full moon.”
“You are twenty-four,” Andar said, “and commanding paladins ten, fifteen years older than you. Bronwyn is a fine warrior, but she’s not much older than you are, and now I’m questioning her judgment in naming you captain when she departed—”
“Be quiet, Sir Andar, and let him finish,” Gregory said. The tall quiet knight spoke in a low tone, but there was an edge to it, and Andar shut his mouth.
“Men and women need a banner to flock to,” Wolfram said. “One true banner. One true path, and one leader. A mission and a quest. And that is what we’ll give them. No divided loyalty, no ability or need to return to the family manor, only the company of paladins.”
He dipped the tongs into the pot and pulled out his shield. Hot vinegar dripped off the end. The silver moon was gone, eaten away, as was the field of gray. Left behind was a black patina on the steel surface.
“Our banner is the black shield,” he continued. “And no shield will contain any other insignia or color.”
“We can’t give up our family crests,” Andar protested. “Those crests represent everything we are—our independence, our loyalty to family and farm and home. It is why we are the free kingdoms and not under the tyranny of the eastern despots.”
“We can and we will,” Wolfram said. “The ones we need will come to us with their shields already darkened, all other ties renounced as they pledge their swords to the Blackshields.”
“The Blackshields?” Andar said. “Is that what you’re calling it? You’re mad, boy. It will never happen.”
“It already has.” He tapped the shield, still hot from the vinegar. “This is the beginning, right here.”
Wolfram glanced at the other five paladins, and was pleased to see the skepticism fading from their faces, replaced by hardening resolve. In perfect timing, the steward approached with a nod.
“The manor is emptied, Sir Wolfram.”
“Good. Take lamp oil and spread it through the building. Anywhere there is a wooden floor, I want it soaked with oil. Then I want a big pile of oil-soaked wood placed in the dining hall where the table was.”
The steward blinked. “Are you . . . is this real? It isn’t some sort of test?”
“You will divide the possessions and money from the strongbox as you deem appropriate. Those who wish can approach my father and tell him that my desire is that he hire them as he is willing and able.”
“But Sir Wolfram, I couldn’t possibly give this order.”
“The manor will burn,” he said steadily. “If you will not spread the oil, I will be forced to do it myself, and I have urgent business at hand. Do this, my friend, and the Brothers will bless your soul.”
“Yes, Sir Wolfram.” The steward hurried off to obey the order.
“As for you, my fellow paladins, you are my lieutenants. It falls on each of us to raise and organize a minimum of thirty Blackshields, starting among the existing companies of paladins—I expect most of them to follow, but some will leave us.”
Andar snorted loudly.
“After that, another pass through the free kingdoms to gather me
n and women to our side,” Wolfram continued. “There’s no time to waste—the enemy is growing bold, and it’s time to move from the defensive before they overrun us entirely. But first . . . you will return home, rid yourselves of your possessions, and renounce any titles you may hold.”
Andar turned without another word and stomped off toward the stables, his shield in hand. The others stared after him, and Wolfram braced himself for at least one more defection, possibly two. Like Sir Andar, they all came from families of wealth and privilege and titles. One of them, Sir Corlyn, was already the earl of Westerly.
“I’m with you,” Gregory said.
“Me, too,” Corlyn said.
The other three hesitated.
“Sir Marissa?” Wolfram asked.
Marissa removed the straps from her shield, took the tongs from him, and dropped it in the bubbling vinegar. She turned, put her hands on her hips, and held the captain’s gaze. He acknowledged her gesture with a curt nod. The rest of them worked to remove the straps from their own shields.
Sir Andar stomped into the stables, out of sight. Wolfram sighed. Andar was a warrior and a leader. Why couldn’t he have seen the vision and understood the urgency of the situation?
It took some time for the steward to organize enough servants to spread lamp oil through the manor, and as the rest realized what was going to happen, they ran back inside, apparently not having cleared out everything of value as they’d been instructed. At last, the steward approached, grim-faced, and said that the deed was done.
Wolfram stuck a piece of kindling into the fire beneath the pot of vinegar, which still contained the last of the shields to be blackened. When the end of the kindling was ablaze, he carried it toward the manor house, a heavy, dead feeling in his chest.
This was necessary, but that doesn’t mean it would be easy. He climbed the steps and entered the building, remembering his pride as his father had given him the small castle on his nineteenth birthday, explaining its history, how Wolfram’s third great-grandfather had built it to secure the rich farmland on the northern edge of the small kingdom of Arvada during a period of threatened war.
The chatelet had never been attacked or besieged, but had provided an excellent base for developing the farms and vineyards of the surrounding countryside. There was wealth to be had here, his father had promised, and more wealth to come if the king’s son proved a wise steward of the land.
And now Sir Wolfram was going to destroy it. The others followed him to the edge of the dining hall, but didn’t enter as he set the flaming bit of kindling onto the oil-soaked pile of firewood placed where the table had been. He felt sick as he watched it spread through the firewood, then take hold of the wooden floor. Once he was sure, he led the others back outside, making sure that his face was smooth and impassive.
Even with all the oil and firewood, it took several minutes until flames burst through high glass windows in search of fresh air. Smoke poured out, driven by hot gusts.
Andar emerged from the stables, mounted and with all his gear. He stared with openmouthed horror at the burning manor, then gave Wolfram a look of searing disgust that bordered on rage, before he gave a hard jerk on the reins and turned up the road. By the time the flames burst from the roof of the manor, Sir Andar was long gone. Off to his home in Greymarch. Off to a life of comfort and ease, Wolfram supposed.
And a good riddance, too. Only pure paladins of the newly formed Blackshields remained.
Chapter Seven
The company of gray marauders rode toward the ruined hilltop watchtower while Markal and Nathaliey made hasty plans to escape. The ravine facing them was so daunting that Nathaliey suggested they hunker down in the foundation and try to cloak themselves behind the wards and runes. It had saved them during the night—perhaps it would work a second time. Go inside, wrap themselves in blankets, and remain perfectly motionless until the enemy had departed.
Yes, Markal pointed out, but if the marauders were returning for a second search, they must already know that their quarry was ahead of them. Would the spells hold a second time, during daylight, after their pursuers already knew they’d been tricked? He doubted it. And what about the horses? Wrap them in blankets, too?
There was no way across the ravine without abandoning the animals—that much was clear—and so they rifled through the saddlebags and carried off only what they could carry: food, waterskins, a pair of knives, and some small items like a fire-starting kit and a needle and thread. Finally, Markal grabbed the linen-wrapped sword and hefted it under his arm. Nathaliey stuffed the rest of what they would carry in a saddlebag and threw it over her shoulder.
They were down the ravine and into the brush just in time. The company of horsemen thundered to a halt not fifty feet above them on the recently vacated hilltop, and one of them immediately spotted Markal and Nathaliey. Two gray-faced men whipped out crossbows, fit bolts, and fired.
Markal waved his hand with a quickly muttered incantation as they fired, and the bolts bent wide. More bolts zipped toward them, and when he repeated the simple incantation, the bolts corrected mid-flight. The marauders had their own magic. But Nathaliey threw up her cloak with her own spell, and the bolts struck it and fell harmlessly to the ground.
The pair took refuge in the scrub oak and juniper that clogged the bottom of the ravine, and the natural obstacles proved even more effective in stopping crossbow bolts than magic. The marauders tried several more times before giving up.
A line of brush crept up the far side, as well, and Markal used it for cover as they climbed. It kept them safe, but at the cost of scratches and scrapes. He grabbed a branch to use as leverage to get up a steep stretch, and it gave way, sending the sandy soil tumbling down. He almost dropped the sword, and when he glanced back, he saw six or seven of the marauders off their horses and picking their way down the hillside after them. Other marauders directed them from above.
“Do you have any strength left?” Markal asked, gasping.
“You mean magic? Of course. Most of it, in fact. Don’t you?”
“No, blast it. Those little spells with the bolts cost me some blood.”
“Oh,” Nathaliey said between her own heaving breaths. “I thought maybe you were tired from climbing straight up this cursed ravine.”
He glanced back again. “They’re gaining on us.”
“That’s because they’re climbing down, and we’re climbing up. Wait until they hit the bottom.”
“No, really. They’re moving faster. No supplies, and they’ve got direction from above. Plus they don’t have to stick to cover.”
A hooded figure on a horse moved to the edge of the ravine and gestured with sharp, barked orders. The others seemed to defer to him, and Markal caught a sense of magic emerging, as well. A whisper of power that was strengthening the men in the ravine.
Markal fought his way through more scrub oak. “Even if we reach the top, that only buys us a few minutes.”
“We have to do something,” she said.
He cast another glance at the one on horseback above the ravine, more certain than ever that he was the marauder captain. If only he could peer behind his hood to see the captain’s face, he might be able to see if it was one of the ones he’d fought in the garden. Instead, Markal studied the man’s posture, tried to hold the scent of his magic so that he could recognize him later.
“I have an incantation,” he said. “It won’t last long, but it might be enough.”
“Is it the one about passing through the forest? I was trying to remember the words just now, but I can’t find them all. Do you remember it?”
He turned it over, thought through each part of the incantation. “Yes, I have it.”
Nathaliey fought her way to a place where she could brace herself against the gnarled trunk of a scrub oak. He was below her now.
“Give me ten seconds to clear my head,” she said, “then feed me the words.”
She closed her eyes, and he waited while a calm look ca
me over her face. The marauders had reached the bottom of the ravine and started up the other side. Moving too swiftly. It was dry here, and he considered a different option: a fire spell. It would set fire to the grass first, racing from there to heavier brush. The juniper trees would go up like flaming torches, and they would set fire to the scrub oak in turn.
But that might cook Nathaliey and Markal, too, might burn for miles, destroying all of the drought-stricken hill country, killing people and animals alike. And the marauders wore their cloaks, which had protected them from magical attack in the gardens. No, he wouldn’t win this fight with fire.
Ten seconds had passed. Maybe more. Nathaliey nodded, and he gave her the spell.
“Flectere cuncta terrae virentia ante nobis. Figura terram.” Bend the vegetation ahead of us. Shape the land.
She fumbled the words, and had to gather herself again when the magic evaporated before it came up. At least she hadn’t bled herself yet, so she could try again. Provided she hurried. Trying not to panic, and more, not to feed Nathaliey’s fears, Markal slowly repeated the words of the incantation.
This time she got it right. And her magic was strong, too. It flowed up and away from them toward the crest of the hill above the ravine.
When they resumed their climb, the hillside was just as steep, but whereas before they had fought their way around every obstacle, stumbled in every patch of loose soil, and clawed their way through every patch of brush, now the land and vegetation conformed to their wishes, instead of eagerly attempting to thwart them.
Where there had been crumbling shelves and rocks waiting to tumble, the ground seemed firmer. They didn’t need to flail their way through clumps of brush and weeds with burrs, as the vegetation parted to let them through, then closed tightly behind them.
They were still tired, still laboring, but it no longer seemed a desperate struggle, and when they finally reached the top of the ravine, Markal glanced behind to see the marauders still near the bottom, and if anything, farther away, as if they’d come up a fruitless path and been forced to backtrack.
The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2) Page 7