by Drew Hayes
Food and drink were no concern; she was still quite dead and therefore lacked such physical needs. The larger issue was what her presence here meant. How had she been pulled from Mithingow’s realm, and for what purpose? Based on the decor and the waves of twisted magic trying to press past her protective glow, she hadn’t been captured by a friendly god. A move against Mithingow, perhaps? But why take a lone priestess? Unless whoever had stolen her had taken more. Were there other cells like this one, stuffed with the gnome god’s faithful?
Sitting down again, Madroria ignored the spells attempting to weave torture upon her. If someone expected minor magic like that to be a challenge, they had substantially misjudged the skills of their prisoner.
“Interesting.” He was there with no warning, stepping out of shadows formed by her own light. Features cloaked by a tightly pulled hood, dark clothes, he could have been anyone passing by in any town. The voice was simple as well, flat and unremarkable, the kind meant to be forgotten. “I didn’t expect her power to persist even here, in my realm. When one undertakes something new, they must be prepared for surprises, I suppose. Stealing a soul will undoubtedly provide me with all manner of fascinating discoveries.”
For a devoted servant of the divine, there was no need to wonder who had appeared in the room. “Kalzidar. So, you have taken umbrage with Mithingow. Stealing those who have given all they have for her is a cruel, calculated blow, I grant you, but her fury at such a slight will shatter mountains.”
The hood leaned in, peering at Madroria more carefully. “You address me by name, to my very face. I see now where the paladin learned his bravery. Yet you lack his perception. You’ve over-assumed. I did not steal Mithingow’s followers; I took just one. The dead wife of Grumble’s paladin, who has earned my wrath—which, I assure you, will not stop with something as simple as mountains.”
It took Madroria several seconds to process all of that. She’d had only a single husband in her life, so the lone candidate Kalzidar could be talking about was Thistle. The paladin part seemed like it must be a mistake, but he’d said a paladin of Grumble. If there were any god Thistle would serve, it would be the god of the minions. So, since she’d been dead, he had not only become a paladin, but managed to deeply anger a wicked god.
Were Thistle here, she’d have kissed him with pride.
“And now you’re holding me as a ransom, or, more likely, as bait for a trap.” Remaining seated, Madroria crossed her legs and closed her eyes. Kalzidar wasn’t the only one who needed to learn about this new situation. Madroria had never been a ghost, nor trapped under the power of another god before. She’d have to determine what she was still capable of before she could start working on her escape.
“Perhaps you’re more perceptive than it seemed,” Kalzidar said. “Enjoy your peaceful stay, while it lasts. Soon, I’ll find a way to break that protection, and when I do, we can get things started properly. I do need to ensure your husband has adequate motivation, after all.”
“I cower in thought of the day.” There was nothing fearful about Madroria’s tone, however. She hadn’t even bothered to open her eyes. When only silence was the response, she peeked out and noted that the room appeared empty. Whether it was or not would be impossible to say—in the realm of an evil god, she could trust nothing but herself. Every sight, every sound, came at Kalzidar’s discretion. Only the light of Mithingow and her own mind were real in here. The rest, she would have to treat as illusion. It was the only path forward.
Calming herself was surprisingly easy without a pulse or breath to bother with. Centering her mind, Madroria looked deep within herself, to her connection to Mithingow. Focusing on that above all else, Madroria began to pray.
* * *
Together, the party rode out of the forest, leaving the giant form of Agramor watching from the trees. After so long being stuck in there, the ride out of Notch was surprisingly uneventful. A goodbye with the town council had been short, but sincere. Neither group had chosen to end up in the situation they had, yet they’d come out the other side with respect for one another.
In another life, Timuscor could see settling down in a place like Notch. When his body wore down, who wouldn’t be tempted by trees that granted youth and a city virtually unassailable by monsters? Retirement didn’t come for paladins, though—not the leaving for a new, quiet home sort, anyway. A paladin’s retirement was the permanent kind, and it was a milestone Timuscor planned to put off for as long as possible.
To his surprise, Thistle made his way over, settling into a pace at Timuscor’s side. “Forgive me for taking so long to ask this—my mind has been quite occupied—but how are you feeling? Any unexpected effects or sensations? Any fears or concerns?”
“Thistle, after what Kalzidar did, you owe me no apologies for being distracted,” Timuscor assured him. “I do feel different, though. Not a bad kind of different. Physically improved, of course—an expected boon of becoming a paladin—yet it’s more than that. I feel steadier. Surer. Like I’ve planted myself on solid ground for the first time in a long while. Does that make sense?”
“Aye, it makes too much sense, if anything. You’ve been adrift, knowing what you wanted, but unsure of how to obtain it. Now, you’re no longer plagued by such doubt. You’re a paladin, which makes the next step obvious: go forth and do good. It’s the same step we reach every time a battle is won and a day is saved.”
Thistle glanced upward, then back near the tree line, before continuing. “We’re all proud of you, Timuscor, proud of what you did. But you know that we can’t talk publicly about it, right? When other gods learn what you are, they won’t all be happy, and we can’t handle more enemies with what we’re already facing. From this point on, it must be a secret.”
The words rang true; Timuscor could understand where Thistle was coming from. They already had one god pitted against them. More would make their efforts even more laughably impossible than they already were. All the same, Timuscor knew the answer he had to give.
“I will not lie, Thistle. If I am asked what role I fill, I shall say with pride that I am a paladin. If they ask me whom I serve, I will announce to all nearby that I serve the innocent in need above all else, even the gods. But if I am not asked, then I see no need to volunteer such facts. I’ve always been naturally quiet, and I don’t expect that to change, save for the times when it must.”
Reaching over, Timuscor set a steadying hand on Thistle’s saddle. “Please know I say this with respect, but perhaps, when going against a god of darkness, it is prudent not to give over any more aspects of ourselves to his domain. Living in truth, in the light, is something few can do. As paladins, we should strive to be among those few, don’t you think?”
There was a long pause before Thistle replied, in which he gave the words sincere evaluation. “I think that you and I are different kinds of paladins, Timuscor, and I don’t just mean the way we got our abilities. You have good, strong instincts. Follow them. Trust yourself. Trust whatever intuition or dedication brought you to this point.”
Thistle lowered his voice slightly, ensuring that the others wouldn’t overhear by mistake. “And if, in the course of this journey, you and I should disagree on what the right path forward is, trust yourself. Stand your ground. Do not give in to me just because I am older, or have worn the mantle longer. I fear this situation may compromise my judgment, take me to places not suited for a paladin. Put faith in your instincts, Timuscor, because soon, you may need to be the righteous voice who keeps us from taking a dark turn. I am sorry to ask such a heavy task of you so soon, but you wanted to be a paladin. That is part of what it means to wear the title.”
“Then I’ll do all I can to live up to your expectations. Do not give up on yourself so readily, however. I would never have reached this point without a worthwhile paladin to learn from,” Timuscor replied.
Thistle gave him a weak smile, one of the first he’d shown since yesterday’s fight, before riding up closer to the front, ne
ar Eric. As he reached the rogue, Thistle drew near to him, voice once more kept low. “You noticed them, right?”
“Of course. Several were waiting when we left the woods. Think they’ll trail us across the plains?”
“Or different ones will take their place,” Thistle surmised. “For now, do nothing. We’ll figure out how to deal with our escorts eventually. Until then, we ignore them. It’s best not to let tormentors know whether or not they’re getting under your skin.”
The party rode on, losing sight of the small stretch of forest that led to a hidden town inhabited by former adventurers. They turned their horses to the west, away from the sun, toward a new kingdom that they could only hope would have what they needed. And as they rode, six crows flew overhead, watching and leading, guiding them in the same direction they were heading. Whether Kalzidar knew where they were going or simply enjoyed playing games was anyone’s guess.
For Thistle, it made no difference. A line had been crossed, a gauntlet thrown down. This ended when one of them was dead, and not a moment before. He wasn’t even sure it was possible for a mortal to kill a god through normal means, which was why Thistle had purposefully avoided conventional methods. Kalzidar had his divinity, and Thistle’s party had the Bridge. They could do things that weren’t meant to be done, could break the unspoken rules—in the time since fleeing Maplebark, his party had done so several times, usually by accident. It was time to start acting, to break the rules with intent.
One way or another, Thistle planned to save Madroria.
Even if he had to tear down the very existence of the gods to do it.
Other Novels by Drew Hayes
About the Author
Drew Hayes is an author from Texas who has now found time and gumption to publish several books. He graduated from Texas Tech with a B.A. in English, because evidently he's not familiar with what the term "employable" means. Drew has been called one of the most profound, prolific, and talented authors of his generation, but a table full of drunks will say almost anything when offered a round of free shots. Drew feels kind of like a D-bag writing about himself in the third person like this. He does appreciate that you're still reading, though.
Drew would like to sit down and have a beer with you. Or a cocktail. He's not here to judge your preferences. Drew is terrible at being serious, and has no real idea what a snippet biography is meant to convey anyway. Drew thinks you are awesome just the way you are. That part, he meant. You can reach Drew with questions or movie offers at [email protected] Drew is off to go high-five random people, because who doesn't love a good high-five? No one, that's who.
Read or purchase more of his work at his site: DrewHayesNovels.com