Steps to Deliverance

by Mark Barber

  “Form up!” he yelled to his knights above the cheers from the infantrymen. “Two ranks! Do not let them get away! Charge!”

  ***

  Tancred muttered the Rites for the Departed Souls under his breath, again and again, as his eyes moved across the lines and heaps of dead bodies scattered haphazardly across the fields. Over one hundred rebel soldiers and peasants lay motionless where they fell in battle; next to the road lay twenty-one dead of his own force in two neat rows, including three of his paladins who had been killed in the final charges. The numbers suggested a decisive victory against a numerically superior opposition, but to Tancred, it simply spelled out a tragic waste of life – on both sides – that was utterly avoidable. All down to the ambition and stupidity of one man.

  Two lines of injured mercenaries and men-at-arms lay at the bottom of the plateau to the south of the battlefield; paladins moved among the wounded, those who were trained and able using their divinity magic to heal. Tancred watched them from atop his horse, a welcome sliver of pride forcing its way into the midst of his sorrow and despair.

  “Lord Paladin?”

  Tancred’s attention was dragged away from the macabre result of the morning’s confrontation to the voice that addressed him. Sat on top of her own horse, Sister Jeneveve regarded him with concerned eyes. Her hair was matted to her face with sweat from the exertions of the charge, and blood speckled her armor and blue surcoat.

  “Sister,” Tancred forced a smile, “what is it?”

  “The Dictator-Prefect sends his compliments and requests your company.”

  Tancred nodded and spurred his horse into a slow trot toward where Hugh waited atop the plateau with a small gathering of other soldiers. Jeneveve rode silently next to Tancred as his horse trudged through the dusty, dry earth in the ferocity of the high, midday sun. Tancred tried to summon up the energy to create small talk with his subordinate, but he failed.

  Hugh sat tall and proud atop his impressive white charger, his red cape falling over one shoulder in the fashion that was popular in the capital. Next to him were his two ever present aides, his musician, Captain Georgis, and Orion.

  “My Lord Paladin!” Hugh beamed as Tancred and Jeneveve approached. “What a spectacular result! What a victory!”

  “Yes,” Tancred failed to muster a smile, “the day went our way. Congratulations on your victory, Dictator-Prefect.”

  “Nonsense,” Hugh issued a dismissive gesture, “your flexibility, cool-headedness, and decision making prowess was what won this day. I issued my orders to both of your units, and it was your decision to revoke my orders and change targets for you charges.”

  “My apologies,” Tancred erred on the side of caution, in case the nobleman’s smile was hiding a seething rage at Tancred’s decision, “I saw an opportunity and…”

  “No apology necessary at all. A man can never be a leader if he just blindly follows the orders he is given without thought of the consequences. You were in a position to see parts of the battlefield that I could not. Likewise, you know the capabilities and limitations of heavy cavalry better than I. Rest assured, you made the right decision and I will ensure the Duma hears of this upon my return.”

  Tancred found himself smiling at last, sitting higher and prouder in his saddle.

  “Thank you, my lord,” he nodded his head politely.

  Captain Georgis, mounted on his speckled horse beside Hugh’s aides, cleared his throat and raised his brow. The Dictator-Prefect looked over.

  “My lord, while I certainly agree that the cavalry charges directed by the Lord Paladin were instrumental, it was not lances that saved my men-at-arms from the worst the enemy could throw at us. It was crossbow bolts. Without the steadfast support provided by the mercenaries to our left, we would have been defeated. I think that is worthy of credit.”

  The Dictator-Prefect nodded slowly.

  “Of course, you are absolutely correct. That show of spirit and professionalism should be rewarded. Platus, go and fetch the leader of the mercenary band and bring him here.”

  Platus, the taller of the two aides, nodded an acknowledgement and spurred his horse into a gentle canter down from the slope to where the surviving mercenaries were gathered in small groups of fours and fives. Still proud and emboldened by the Dictator-Prefect’s words, and the promise of recognition within the Duma itself, Tancred turned in his saddle to smile at Jeneveve. The young woman stared down at the lines of dead bodies at the foot of the plateau, watching in silence as a small group of men-at-arms began the unenviable task of digging graves. Tancred felt his smile fade.

  “It was worthwhile,” he offered gently, “our mission here is vital. Dionne’s influence must be stopped.”

  “Must it?” Jeneveve asked, her hazel eyes still fixed on the corpses below. “Must we stop a man who tried to do the right thing?”

  Tancred opened his mouth to voice the obvious response, but upon realizing how bad it sounded when he ran the words through his mind, he remained silent. Jeneveve turned to fix her eyes on his.

  “The Dictator-Prefect says you are to be commended for using your initiative. Because you did not just blindly follow orders. Is that not what Captain Dionne did? Yet here we are, fighting and dying so that we may drag him in for conviction and execution?”

  Tancred met her accusing stare for a few minutes before looking away. A gnawing in his gut urged him to apologize to her, but he was not sure what for; and so he elected to remain silent. At the foot of the hill, Platus returned and spurred his horse back up to take his place by Hugh’s side. Tancred recognized the hunched figure of Constance, the unremarkable looking woman who led the mercenaries. She limped to the base of the hill, supported on one side by a towering, middle aged man who held onto one of her arms at the elbow. Constance was covered in dirt, and blood seeped through bandages around her forehead and across one thigh. Tancred witnessed a brief altercation between the two – judging from their gestures at least, as he was not close enough to overhear the exchange of words – before Constance gestured to her comrade to leave her be.

  The stubborn woman limped slowly up the hill, pain registering on her features with each alternate step as weight rested on her wounded leg. Finally arriving to stand before the assembled semi-circle of horsemen, she looked up at the Dictator-Prefect with narrowed eyes.

  “You are the leader of this mercenary band?” Hugh asked, gesturing to the crossbowmen at the foot of the plateau.

  “What of it?” Constance said, her tone betraying irritation.

  Hugh leaned back, confusion on his face. He looked to either side at the assembled warriors.

  “You will address the Dictator-Prefect with the correct marks of respect!” Platus snapped. “And stand up straight when you speak to him!”

  Constance wearily dragged her gaze across to fix Platus with a look of utter contempt, before glaring back at Hugh and folding her arms silently.

  “I have summoned you here to commend you on your bravery, and to complement the skill of your men,” Hugh said gently, one hand gripping the reins of his steed while the other was passively open.

  “And what form is this commendation to take?” Constance replied petulantly.

  “Are my words not enough for you?” Hugh exclaimed.

  “I couldn’t give two shits for your words,” Constance hissed through gritted teeth.

  His face a mask of fury, Platus leaned over in his saddle and raised his armored hand high up above his head to strike her. With a sound like a clap of thunder, Orion’s hand shot out and grabbed the master duelist by the wrist. Platus, himself a warrior of imposing size, was dwarfed by the huge paladin who glared down at him. Platus attempted to overpower the bearded, blood-stained paladin, but within moments, he was crying out in pain as Orion bent his arm backward at an unnatural angle.

  “If you ever try to strike any soldier in this force again, I will break you!” Orion growled. “Do you understand me, little man? I will break you!”

 
“Brother Orion!” Tancred yelled.

  The shaven-headed paladin responded instantly, throwing Platus’ arm aside and dragging his warhorse away from the two aides. Constance failed to suppress a smirk.

  “Go!” Hugh gestured at the young woman. “Begone from my sight!”

  Tancred watched as Constance turned and limped back down the slope, seemingly with more difficulty than the ascent, until her tall comrade jogged up to assist her again. Hugh turned to face his aides.

  “By the Shining Ones, what just happened?” he exclaimed, looking in utter bewilderment at the assembled riders. “In what world does a peasant woman throw gratitude back in the face of a Dictator?”

  “It’s disgusting, my lord,” sneered Trennio, his second aide. “Utterly unforgiveable.”

  “It has spoiled my mood entirely,” Hugh declared as he sunk lower into his saddle. “Go, all of you.”

  The nobleman kicked his horse into a sullen trot and headed back south, away from the site of the battle. Trennio allowed a few seconds for a respectable distance before following his master. Platus looked up at Orion, saw a snarling mask of fury, and immediately looked away again before following on. Jeneveve was already halfway to catching up with Constance, leaving Tancred alone. Weary and confused by the hollow feeling inside, Tancred dragged his tired warhorse around and trotted off to the east, toward the coast that lay only a stone throw away on the other side of a line of gentle foothills. Within moments, he was aware of another rider catching up with him. He was surprised to see it was Orion.

  “Lord Paladin,” the huge man bowed his head, “please allow me to apologize for my outburst. I…”

  “Tancred. Just call me Tancred. You are my second, and I glean nothing by putting this wall up between us.”

  Orion’s surprise echoed the feeling Tancred felt at his own words. The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments before Tancred found himself blurting out his own sentiments the instant they formed in his mind.

  “I am struggling, Orion. I find command more difficult than I expected. I do not respect the man we follow, and I cannot quite understand why that is. Yes, he is brutal, but there are times that is needed. If our armies are commanded by men of great sentimentality, we will be crushed. The Hegemony needs men like Hugh. Yet I find myself resenting him. I find myself wishing I was more like you.”

  Orion raised his brow and exhaled, and for a moment, he looked like the young man in his late twenties who so successfully hid behind the terrifying facade.

  “We all have our strengths and weaknesses, Tancred,” he smiled softly. “Yes, the world sadly needs men and women who can make difficult decisions, but not like this. I believe you are right to trust your instinct. We would be wise to distance ourselves from the Dictator-Prefect. He readily crosses lines that good men would not even consider approaching.”

  “And the mercenary woman knows this too?” Tancred asked.

  “That is her story to tell, not mine,” Orion gave a slight shrug, “but yes, they have a history, even if the Dictator-Prefect does not recall it.”

  Tancred let out a breath and closed his eyes for a few moments. He opened them to see the glorious sun and clear blue skies that were at such odds with his mood.

  “I am sorry,” he said to Orion, unable to look him in the eyes as he did so, “I have not treated you well since we met.”

  “I have not made it easy. I apologize for that. But I am ready to follow your orders and give you my full assistance in whatever difficulties we face.”

  Tancred looked across at the tall knight. Orion held his hand out and looked down at him expectantly. Tancred shook his hand.

  “I shall see how our brothers and sisters fare after this morning,” Orion said.

  Tancred nodded and watched him leave before turning to look eastward toward the sea again. He felt much better for the exchange with Orion, as if a small victory had been pulled from a scenario that left him feeling growingly nauseous with each passing day. Reaching for his Eloicon, he dismounted his warhorse and dropped to one knee to offer his prayers to the Shining Ones and seek guidance in his time of plight.

  ***

  The crackling of the small campfire broke the silence as Dionne looked across the flames at the human form of the Abyssal Champion. The black sky above the hilltop was relatively clear, showing a starry night broken only by a handful of clouds that appeared as black smears across a deep, blue panorama. The demon, now back in the human form of a slightly built man in red robes with flowing hair of blond, sat on his backpack and gnawed distastefully at a well-cooked rabbit leg skewered on a rusty tent peg. Dionne kept his eyes fixed on the man. It was the second night since their confrontation at the cave, and Dionne had not taken his eyes off ‘Teynne’ since seeing his true form; the previous night had been spent in his bedroll, feigning sleep while he waited to spring into a fight, sword held at the ready under his blanket.

  “You needn’t look at me like that,” Teynne said calmly.

  “Like what?” Dionne demanded, well aware that the complete lack of sleep was making his temper even more volatile; a temper he was well aware of.

  Teynne looked up.

  “I need to eat, just the same as you. I think this rabbit tastes like shit because I have preferences and emotions, just like you. I’m the same man you’ve known and trusted for a year. Nothing has changed.”

  Dionne let out a growl of frustration and leapt to his feet, looking around for something to kick at.

  “Everything has changed!” he snapped. “You lied to me!”

  “I never lied to you,” Teynne said passively, looking up from where he remained seated. “I chose to withhold information from you. Look at you now. Can you blame me?”

  “So I am in the wrong here?” Dionne grunted through gritted teeth.

  “Must I always be in the wrong, simply because I am an Abyssal?” Teynne countered. “You persist in judging me based solely on the mis-education forced upon you by a regime you yourself have come to the conclusion is corrupt and dishonest. That is your argument against me?”

  “Do you expect anything less from me?” Dionne shouted. “I’ve spent my entire life fighting against your kind!”

  “And I’ve spent my entire life fighting against you and people like you!” Teynne countered, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Yet here I am, willing to look past that to work with somebody I have faith in toward a common goal! Somebody I looked at as a friend!”

  Dionne turned his back, unable to keep his eyes fixed on the enigma sat on the other side of the fire. He looked up toward Mount Kolosu, once a spectacular sight and a source of inspiration. Now, finally realizing that his entire life was fuelled by lies, it only made his rage grow deeper. His mind flew back to the very day he discovered the Duma had declared him a traitor. The feelings of betrayal, the wounds that only seemed to grow with each passing year after he was cast aside after giving his life in loyal service, all of the hatred and resentment bubbled up to the surface again. He took a breath in an attempt to calm his anger and stepped away from the fire.

  A few moments of silence passed as Teynne remained seated. He finally spoke.

  “I fought my way up to where I am,” he said quietly, “just the same as you. We have a hierarchy; we reward the brave and the loyal. We have some idiots in positions of authority. We’re just the same in that respect.”

  Dionne turned to face him again but remained silent. Teynne continued.

  “I find many human women beautiful,” Teynne smiled, “and some of the elves, too. But not dwarf women. They’re hideous. It’s the beards. So you see, we’re actually quite similar.”

  Dionne burst into a fit of laughter. The combination of the stress, the lack of sleep, the lunacy of the situation where he found himself sharing a joke with a demon, all of it added up to make the situation all the more hilarious. After several moments of rare and appreciated mirth, Dionne sank back down to sit opposite Teynne.

  “So now what?” he aske
d. “Where are we getting these men from?”

  “What men?”

  “The army you promised me?”

  “I never said the army was made up of men,” Teynne frowned. “We are going to the Abyss.”

  Dionne’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “What?” he snarled. “When did I ever agree to going to the Abyss?”

  “What did you think?” Teynne sighed, resting his head in one hand in frustration.

  “You said we were going north! The most obvious conclusion to draw is that we were heading to the border forts! I assumed that you knew of some legion men who were similarly minded!”

  “You assumed wrong! What, an entire army of legion soldiers just waiting for the right man to follow against their masters? That was your assumption? Of course we are headed to the Abyss! Where else do you think I will find an army for you?”

  Dionne sprang to his feet and set about gathering up his belongings.

  “The deal is off! I was an idiot to ever trust you! Consider yourself lucky that I have enough respect for you not to strike you down here and now! Go! Go back to your Abyss!”

  Dionne was surprised when Teynne stood and, without a word, packed up his belongings and slung his pack onto his back.

  “I’ve had enough of you. I’ve had enough of your bickering, your whining, your lack of trust in me, and your idiotic close mindedness. I offer you my loyalty, my friendship, and an entire army to go to war against the regime that stabbed you in the back after a life of service! And what do I ask? One thing. To see past my form and the lies the Hegemon forced on you. And you couldn’t even do that. Then piss off, Centurion, you are not the man I thought you were. I’ve wasted a year on you, and I’m not wasting any more time.”