by Mark Barber
Eager to take advantage of the opening the sorcerer had created, Orion dashed forward to resume his attack. His first blow connected with Dionne’s head with a dull clang but failed to hack through his great helm. His footing unsteady beneath the onslaught of hurricane winds directed by the mage, Dionne stumbled back before falling flat on his back amidst the bodies and burning fires. Orion brought his sword down to hack at the prone warrior, but Dionne kicked his legs from beneath him, sending him rolling down in the dirt and dead bodies.
Jeneveve rushed over, whether it was to attack Dionne or defend Orion, he would never find out. Dionne propelled himself back up to one knee and thrust his sword out, plunging it straight through Jeneveve’s chest. Orion yelled out in anguish as he clambered back to his feet, watching in desperate agony as Jeneveve dropped gently off Dionne’s sword to fall to the ground, her lifeless eyes focused up at the stars above.
Orion ran forward and brought his blade down with all his might in a furious attack aimed at Dionne’s head. The old soldier dodged the clumsy attack effortlessly and smashed the pommel of his sword into Orion’s head, tearing open a bloody wound and sending him staggering back again. He took a few uncontrolled steps back before falling to the ground next to where Valletto had collapsed to one knee, still clutching his wound as blood trickled from one corner of his mouth.
Dionne stood over the two wounded warriors.
“Last chance,” he said grimly, “just go. Paladin, take your wounded comrade and go.”
Orion could do nothing. The three of them had failed to defeat the master swordsman, and with Jeneveve dead and Valletto wounded, he did not stand a chance. The appeal of the offer seemed so tempting, so tangible. At best, Orion could take Valletto to safety and have his wounds treated, meet up with Tancred, and come up with a plan to re-take the hill. At worst, he could run, escape with his life, and leave the pain and the mortal peril behind.
“We’re not going,” Valletto gasped as he struggled back to his feet, “we won’t stand idly by and watch an evil bastard like you ruin these lands. We won’t let your hordes of evil take the lives of the children who depend on us for their safety. We won’t run.”
Orion stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the wounded mage and nodded.
“He speaks for us both,” he said, his eyes fixed on Dionne’s.
The Abyssal soldier rushed at them. Another blast of strong wind from Valletto slowed the warrior enough for Orion to leap in to attack, his sword biting into Dionne’s with a dull thud. The veteran warrior pushed him away and slashed out at Valletto, connecting the flat of his blade against the mage with enough force to send him staggering back over the lip of the hill to slide down the mud bath and disappear into the darkness below. Orion barged his shoulder into Dionne, using his superior size and strength to knock his opponent back to the ground.
He fell on top of him, slamming a fist into Dionne’s face and denting the metal of his helmet with a loud clang. Dionne brought his head up to smash into Orion’s, his metal helm connecting with Orion’s bare head painfully. Undeterred, Orion brought his own elbow around to pummel Dionne again, striking his mouth and splitting his lip with a spray of scarlet. Both warriors rolled over each other in an attempt to gain the upper hand; Orion stronger, but Dionne more skilled and less tired by the night’s battles. Eventually tumbling apart, both men staggered back to their feet and recovered their blades to face each other once more. Dionne looked down at a familiar object in one hand. His eyes widening in terror, Orion brought a hand frantically to his side. It was gone. His uncle’s Eloicon was gone, its chain snapped in the fight. Dionne looked down at the sacred book in his hand before casually tossing it into one of the pillars of fire by his side. His heart thumping in his chest, Orion watched his last physical link with his uncle succumb to the flames and fade to nothing.
Blinking blood from his eyes, Orion tirelessly charged into the fight again. Dionne shifted to one side, bringing a knee up into Orion’s gut to wind him and bend him over double before a fist slammed into his face and knocked him back down into the dirt. He looked up and saw Dionne stood over him, his blade held high over his head in both hands, his red eyes staring down at the felled paladin only a moment away from death.
An arrow thudded into Dionne’s armpit, driving into his torso and sending him stumbling away with a howl of pain. Staggering back to his feet, Orion looked up and saw Aestelle pacing angrily over from the far side of the hill, throwing her bow and empty quiver to one side and drawing her greatsword. She pointed the elegant weapon at Dionne.
“I’ve already taken the head of one demonic bitch tonight,” the tall woman sneered, “you’re going to be my second.”
With a roar, Dionne yanked the arrow out of his side and threw it away, fixing Aestelle with a rage filled glare.
“Look around you, you stupid old bastard!” Aestelle hissed. “The fight is lost! The paladins hold the foot of the hill! Your army is scattered! You’ve lost!”
Orion looked down the side of the hill. Some thirty mounted paladins were formed up at the foot of the slopes, wheeling their horses back around to face another wave of lower Abyssals who charged headlong at them from the ridgeline to the southwest. With a roar, the paladins hurtled out to meet the charge.
“Looks to me like things are still in the balance,” Dionne said coldly, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Orion placed a hand against his head and used the very last of his rudimentary arcane energy to heal the array of wounds across his face and crown. Wiping blood out of his eyes, the pain momentarily relieved, he felt focused and ready to fight again. Aestelle walked over to stand by his side.
With a defiant yell, Dionne charged into the attack. Orion moved in to meet him, sweeping past and dragging his sword across the old warrior’s side, tearing a gash into the mail beneath his breastplate and drawing blood. Dionne continued regardless, batting aside a series of attacks from Aestelle before punching her in the stomach and slamming a fist into her face, knocking her to the ground.
Aestelle rolled acrobatically away and was back on her feet, a bloody graze across one cheek.
“You punch like an elf,” she laughed at Dionne.
Breathlessly, the effort of the continued fight finally showing, Dionne ran at Aestelle again. Orion rushed out to intercept him, but Dionne met Aestelle first and rained down blows at her head like a hammer. One slipped through her skillful guard, ripping a wound open across her shoulder and forcing her back. Orion barged into the fight and slashed down at Dionne, slicing against his breastplate without success. Dionne again fought skillfully, tirelessly against two adversaries as Orion and Aestelle stood their ground, exchanging attacks and parries with their enemy as metal clanged against metal and vicious blades sliced out in deadly assaults.
Orion felt pain flare up through his leg as Dionne’s sword cut into his thigh; a second later, Aestelle thrust her own blade forward to puncture a hole in Dionne’s breastplate and through the side of his chest. Orion saw the smallest of openings, the briefest of moments for exploitation, and took it. He brought his heavy blade carving up and hacked through Dionne’s arm, slicing it off neatly between the shoulder and elbow.
Blood spraying from the severed stump, Dionne staggered back and dropped to his knees as he yelled out in pain, his remaining hand pressed against the savage wound. Orion and Aestelle advanced to stand over him, looking down at the defeated warrior as his cries trailed away weakly.
“Kill him,” Aestelle spat. “Kill the bastard.”
Orion looked down at the helpless warrior. He remembered his uncle Jahus’ hand frantically clinging to his arm, the strength fading and the grip loosening as his uncle’s life slipped away. He thought of the anger and hatred he had carried with him for the decade since, for the thousand nights he had been unable to sleep, imagining the day he would finally avenge Jahus.
Then he thought of waking up under the care of the Elohi who had saved his life, of the revelation revealed to him rega
rding his own morality and the danger faced by his very soul. He thought of his promise to change. To do the right thing.
“Teynne…” Dionne whispered hoarsely. “Teynne, you bastard…”
“Kill him!” Aestelle repeated. “He murdered your uncle! He threatened our entire country, our entire people! Slit the bastard’s throat!”
Orion thought of Jahus and considered reminding Dionne of what he did eleven years ago, of telling him that he was the squire who had watched the two paladins die on the mountainside. But it would make no difference. This was about justice, not vengeance. Orion lowered his sword and gently held out one hand to Dionne.
“Repent of your sins,” he said softly, “and face your judgment.”
With a snarl of pure hatred, Dionne snatched at his sword with his remaining hand and lunged forward at Orion. He had barely moved off one knee when Aestelle’s sword hacked down into his neck to half-sever his head. He sank down off Aestelle’s blade to take his place among the sea of dead bodies around the portal stones. Orion stared down at the corpse, partly unable to accept that this huge chapter of his life truly was at an end. He watched the body warily, almost expecting Dionne’s corpse to transform into an Abyssal Champion and rise from the grave, a great claw emerging from his severed arm as fire spouted from his eyes.
Nothing happened. Orion turned and looked down the hill. The paladins, led by Tancred, charged down the final Abyssal warriors and slaughtered them. He felt a hand rest softly on his shoulder, and he looked across to see Aestelle’s blood spattered face offer him a sad smile.
“Ri,” she said quietly, “it is over now. He’s gone.”
***
Dawn arrived in a blur of grays, color slowly seeping back into the world as the sun peered over the horizon to cast long shadows over the silent battlefield. Orion sat on the lip of the hill’s crest, staring out to the east as the sun rose slowly and magnificently over the Low Sea of Suan, over the same islands and the same fishing fleets he had seen eleven years earlier as his uncle’s squire. Soldiers moved silently across the battlefield, the valley, the hilltops, and slopes, dragging the hideous corpses of the fallen Abyssals to toss into the fires of the still burning mining town. The fallen of Basilea were arranged far more carefully, lined up respectfully at the foot of the hill for a proper burial when the time was right.
Below him, Orion saw Tancred working with a dictator to take charge of the battlefield, to ensure the wounded were properly cared for and units were reformed to account for the dead and missing. Valletto was one of the wounded Orion saw below him, limping along with an escort of two battle sisters who had tended his wounds. The mage looked up at Orion and offered him a weak smile and a wave. Orion stood momentarily to salute him before collapsing back down to sit at the edge of the hill.
The only other wounded warrior he saw who he recognized was the solitary survivor of the men-at-arms who had first set out with them many weeks ago from the City of the Golden Horn, the legion soldier who had been smashed off the hill by the charging molochs. It was only then that Orion recognized him as the father of the children who had rushed out during the march through the streets when they had left the capital weeks ago. It made him smile with a warmth he could not remember.
Aestelle sat next to him on top of the hill as the sun rose. The two waited in contented silence for what could have been hours as the sun chased away the last remnants of darkness from the longest and worst night of either of their lives. As their energy slowly returned, they healed the worst of their wounds but remained physically and emotionally exhausted as they sat, covered in dirt and dried blood, as dawn broke. The clouds broke open and blue filled the skies above as the sun slowly rose, a gentle wind accompanying the cawing of sea birds to the east.
Aestelle stood and walked off after some time, returning several minutes later to stand over Orion. He looked up at her and saw that she was holding her sisterhood Eloicon. She offered it to him.
“I want you to have this,” she said quietly.
Orion looked up into her eyes for several long seconds. She met his stare evenly.
“I cannot take that,” he said gently.
“I want you to,” she repeated, “I… cannot help but think of my actions on this hill. Of what I said at the end. I am thoroughly ashamed. You did the right thing, Ri. You offered mercy when I could not. You stood by the principles of the Shining Ones when I had only anger, malice, and vengeance on my mind. I would be proud if this Eloicon belonged to you. It can never replace the one that was taken from you last night, but at least it can be something. It can be from a friend.”
Orion stood up and looked down at her. He stumbled for the right words but failed.
“I… thank you. Not just for this. Thank you for… well…”
“I know,” Aestelle said with a soft smile.
He took the sacred book and carefully attached it to the broken chain at his waist. The sisterhood copy was smaller, lighter than that given to paladins, but it felt right. Orion felt his uncle would approve.
“Take care, Ri,” Aestelle said, taking a step back away from him.
“You are leaving?”
“I’ll see you at the capital,” she said, “but I’m not going back with the army. All that pomp and ceremony was never my thing. I need some time alone. I’ll see you soon.”
Orion watched her turn and limp over to where the horses had been gathered at the foot of the hill. She took the reins of her own horse and rode off to the south, soon disappearing from view.
“You did it, then.”
Orion turned to see Tancred stood a few paces away. The short knight looked exhausted, his armor with its expensive accouterments was battered, tatty, and covered in grime. Orion smiled at the sight of his friend.
“We all did it,” he exhaled. “We lost men and women far better than I could ever aspire to be; but between us, we did it. We stopped them.”
Tancred nodded slowly.
“I think all those who fell would have done it nonetheless, knowing what the alternative was,” he replied.
“I thought of running,” Orion admitted shamefully. “I nearly did not see it through.”
“We all think of running,” the younger knight said, “every one of us. Any man who tells you otherwise is a liar or an idiot. But we did not run. We saw it through.”
The weary young paladin looked up at Orion and flashed him a brief, sad smile as he rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, friend. It is time to go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bells chimed from every chapel, church, and cathedral across the entire City of the Golden Horn. Thousands of citizens flocked to the roadsides, lining the streets leading from the North Gate to the Royal Quarter. Colored banners were strung up across the streets; streamers were thrown from windows and rooftops, a thousand voices screamed and cheered on every street as the returning army marched home.
Beneath the baking autumn sun of southern Basilea, Valletto looked up into a cloudless sky. The familiar, dry, still air felt like a welcome relief after the harsher climates of the north, and the sensation of the Eriskosian climate finally sealed in his mind that he had truly returned home safely. Tancred rode at the very head of the victorious army, at the request of the Hegemon himself, atop his beloved warhorse Desiree. Behind him rode Orion, Xavier, and Valletto before the dictator then led the victorious vanguard. Trumpets blared and drums were beat from the musicians at the head of each column of infantry and cavalry, all but drowned out by the cheering crowds.
Valletto allowed himself a smile as he looked down at the small toy soldier in his hand. A simple, wooden carving of a paladin, carefully painted in blue and white by his son. It was that toy soldier Valletto had given to Tancred to return home. At least Valletto could do it in person now, thank the Shining Ones.
The journey home had been pleasant, surprisingly so, with gratitude showered on the soldiers at every town and village they passed. Valletto had become
friends with Tancred and Xavier, but particularly close with Orion who regularly and awkwardly told him how much he appreciated standing with him atop the hill against Dionne. For Valletto, it was a memory he never wanted to revisit. He saw the impact the confrontation on the hilltop had made on the young paladin, but Orion did not speak of it. A veteran of many wars, Valletto was confident that Orion would wear the turmoil well enough, for now at least.
Tancred was more of an enigma to Valletto. It was obvious that he felt deep remorse over leaving the hilltop, even though his leadership in the valley was one of the decisive factors in their victory. The Hegemon certainly seemed to think so. Nonetheless, the regret was evident even though Tancred never voiced it. What was more confusing was his obvious and growing apprehension to return home. Valletto wondered what on earth could be waiting for him in the capital that was more terrifying than facing an army from the Abyss.
As was tradition within the legion, men and women marching behind Valletto slowly began to break rank and run out to the crowds. Those with families to return to were at liberty to break off the march and leave their unit as soon as they saw their loved ones. It was one of the few Basilean military traditions that really stirred a chord with Valletto, even if it did leave returning parades looking somewhat skeletal by the time they reached their final destination.
The paladins and sisters had no such tradition; they would see it out to the very end. In this case, the very end of the procession was the palace itself, where Tancred had been summoned for an audience with the Hegemon. Such an honor for a relatively low ranking soldier was all but unheard of.
Valletto looked up and exhaled. A few dozen yards ahead, stood just a pace in front of the crowd line, his son Lyius looked frantically and desperately at the ranks of soldiers marching behind Valletto. The little boy had obviously scanned his eyes straight past the important men on horseback at the head of the column, never expecting to see his father there. As more soldiers broke rank to run out to embrace their spouses and children, Lyius looked all the more panicked and breathless. Behind him stood Clera, their daughter Jullia held in her arms. His wife’s normally calm exterior had completely dissolved and the desperation in her face was nearly as evident as in their son’s.
