“What are you doing back in here, Darius? I thought I told you to never come back in my tavern again!” Nancy, the old and hobbled barkeep, hated Darius. The guard captain wasn’t fond of her either. The last time that Darius had ventured into Terror’s Legs, a fight had broken out. Darius didn’t often drink, but when he did, he usually got into a brawl or duel with someone. Darius did not take insults to his honor or dignity lightly. Most negative things spoken his way were met with a gauntlet tossed in the offender’s face.
“Oh, come now Nancy, you can’t still be upset! It was just a little fight, nothing out of the ordinary. This is a bar, after all.” The guard captain took a seat at the wooden counter and looked around the room for someone who might give him information. Not too many of the patrons left in the tavern were conscious enough to be of any use.
“Just a little fight?” the haggard wench yelled back at him, “you killed two of my customers! Stabbed them in the alley! If you weren’t in charge of the jail, I would have you arrested!” The woman did have a point, Darius silently agreed.
“To be fair,” he responded calmly, “they were the ones who said that I couldn’t even swing a sword after drinking three pitchers of your spiced ale.” He grinned at Nancy, leaning over the bar and motioning for her to do the same so he could whisper to her. “I’m looking for someone. A warrior,” Darius whispered to her.
“We get a lot of men in here who claim to be warriors. You’re gonna’ have to be more specific than that if you want to find anyone useful.” Nancy was holding her hand out on the bar as she leaned in close to talk to the captain.
“Maybe this will jog your memory,” Darius said as he dropped a coin into her hand. “I need someone to find a king. Someone I can trust. Know anyone?”
Nancy pulled back and bit the coin to make sure it was real before putting it into a pocket on her apron. She put a finger to the edge of her mouth and pondered the question. After a few moments of mindlessly cleaning the bar with a dirty towel, Nancy returned to the captain. “See that man in the back of the bar?” she whispered, motioning with a nod to one of the passed out patrons in the corner. Darius smiled and got up from his stool and talk to the man.
A forceful hand on his arm stopped him before he left his seat. “No, not him,” Nancy scolded. “He isn’t the warrior you are looking for. He can connect you though. I get it; you don’t want to send another search party after the king publicly. The peasants would be in uproar if they thought the government was desperate. Talk to that man in the back. He knows everyone with the skills you are looking for. I think he used to be a pit fighter or something. He can arrange the meeting.” Darius dropped another coin onto the bar and rose from his seat, smiling as he made his way to the blacked-out man.
It took a few shakes before the slumped patron managed to open his eyes and look at Darius. “Hey, what do you want?” he groaned. The weary man shielded his eyes from the sun that came in through the open window set into the door.
Darius sat down with a thud in the stool opposite the drunken man and let the armor plates of his gear clang against the wood. The captain drew forth his sword from its scabbard, making the motion slowly, and forced the metal of the weapon to ring as it was drawn. He placed the sword on the gouged wooden table with the point aimed directly for the drunken man’s chest. “I am Darius. This sword marks my station within Castle Talon. Do you know of me?” The captain didn’t know where to begin soliciting information.
“Hey, am I being arrested?” The man began to rise from his seat, the alcohol in his blood obviously impairing his efforts. A quick shove of Darius’ sword had the man sitting down again in a hurry.
“I am captain of the royal guard. No, you are not being arrested, sir. I am here to speak to you about some information.” Darius took a small silver coin out from the pouch on his waist and laid it down on the table, tantalizing the drunken man.
Without taking his eyes off the coin, the drunken man seemed to sober up a little and brushed some of the sweat from his brow. “What sort of information are you coming here to find, oh gracious guard captain?” the man slurred. His head swaying back and forth as he spoke.
“I need to find a fighter,” Darius said, keeping his voice low and a hand on the hilt of his drawn weapon.
“Should o’ been here last night!” the drunk replied, laughing and nearly throwing up on himself as his chortle quickly turned into a cough.
“Not a brawler, not that sort of fighter. I need a champion, someone who can fight out in the wilds. Someone who can fight alone. I was told that you were the one to see. Now, can you help me or am I wasting my time?” Darius pulled his sword back and slid it into its sheath, taking comfort in the familiarity of the cold metal against his hip. He never liked to have his weapon drawn.
“I know of a man,” the drunkard responded and reached for the coin. His grimy fingers got halfway across the table before Darius snatched the money up.
“This man,” the captain said, skeptical, “are you sure he is a true champion? I need someone resourceful, someone cunning and lithe, but with the strength and prowess of a veteran pit fighter.” He let the coin drop back to the table and roll to the drunk.
The stinking man snatched it up in an instant and clutched it tight to his face as he spoke. “Yes, of course. You need a crusader, a real paladin. I know of one, trained by the Tower of Wings, a perfect fighter. He just isn’t one for… well, talking. Most people don’t get along with him. I can arrange a meeting with you. Just tell me the time and place.” The drunken man grinned and stared at his coin with sheer delight.
“I am going to believe you. Against my better judgment, I will trust this man. Tell him to be at the drawbridge to Castle Talon tomorrow at sunrise. Make sure he comes prepared with full arms and armor. He will be tested.” Much to the delight of the drunken man, Darius dropped a second coin onto the table and left the tavern without another word.
Darius spent the rest of the day fruitlessly trying to figure out a way to defend the city against a possible aerial assault involving a dragon. The artificer’s guild turned him away as soon the captain told them that it was a dragon he feared. In all of the histories of the various kingdoms around the world, a dragon had only ever been seen once. It ravaged the Green City, the home of Talonrend’s ancestors, but that was thousands of years ago. Darius accepted the fact that no one in the city would help him build defenses against a dragon and went to tell his prince of the meeting scheduled for the next morning.
“My liege,” Darius knocked on the door to Prince Herod’s bedchamber. “I might have found someone to go and fetch our beloved king,” he said as the door opened. Herod was visibly intrigued by the idea.
“Who is it?” he asked excitedly. “Have you hired another band of mercenaries to go and find Lucius and bring him back to his throne?”
“Not exactly,” Darius said as he stepped into the prince’s room. “I have a man coming here tomorrow at dawn to prove his worth. He has the reputation of a champion, a true fighter. Self-reliant, resourceful, cunning, strong - he should be what we are looking for to go and fetch your brother.”
“What is his name? Is he one of the pit fighters?”
“His name is… well, actually… I never got his name. I haven’t met him yet either,” Darius confessed. “I am told that he is a paladin, trained by the clergy in the tower. I was also told that he isn’t too good with socializing and doesn’t get along well with others.” That brought a frown to the prince’s sullen face.
“You haven’t even met this man? You hired some ruffian off the street to go and find the ruler of our kingdom?” Herod was visibly upset and paced the room nervously.
“I haven’t hired him yet!” Darius explained, trying to calm the prince. “I want to test him before I pay him. He will be at the drawbridge at dawn. If he is the right person for the job, we will take him to the cave to be blessed.” The guard captain left the room with a flourish of his cloak, angered by the prince’s lack o
f trust in his decision.
Thankfully, the acclaimed champion arrived at dawn the next morning. Darius stood right outside the castle doors and watched the man’s approach from the end of the drawbridge. The brawny stranger cut an impressive image. He was tall, not freakishly tall, but a full head taller than the guard captain with shoulders as wide as the length of Darius’ sword. His head was shaved bald but he sported a long black beard, braided at his chin and hanging down well past his waist. He wore a thick leather belt attached to loose, flowing pants that indicated function over fashion. The belt connected to a harness on his chest that supported the man’s minimal armor. Instead of a breastplate or other traditional protection, the man strode toward the drawbridge wearing two leather straps crisscrossing his chest and a sleeve of chainmail covering his left arm and ending in a thick steel gauntlet. A set of large throwing axes hung loosely from the man’s side. His right arm, back, and his chest were entirely unprotected.
The hilt of a hand-and-a-half sword could be seen sticking up above the man’s muscled shoulders and neck. He walked with the steady pace of a seasoned veteran, slowly making his approach while never taking his eyes off of Darius. “I hope you have come prepared!” the guard captain called out across the bridge before ducking back into the castle.
A bowstring thrummed from the parapet above the castle doors. The warrior’s head jerked up with the sound as an arrow flew from the ledge and headed right for the hulking man. He crouched, just slightly, waiting until the last moment to spring out of the way and clear of the shot. The arrow bit deep into the wood of the bridge and vibrated where it was lodged. Stepping up his pace, the warrior saw a second archer drawing back his bowstring but he was easily able to dodge the poorly aimed projectile.
Grimacing, the warrior lowered his head and charged for the castle doors. Two more arrows plunked into the wood behind him but he made it to the entrance unharmed. The heavy doors of Castle Talon swung open easily behind the weight of the man’s armored shoulder as he barged through. Much to his surprise, there wasn’t an army waiting for him to battle on the other side of the door.
The ferocious warrior straightened and extended to his full height. He strode into the throne room, ready for single combat against his solitary opponent. Prince Herod stood in front of the empty throne, clad in full plate emblazoned with runes and symbols of Vrysinoch. In one hand the Prince held a falchion, the bottom half of the blade cruelly serrated. His other hand held a small dagger with a large crossbar designed for defensive parrying. The prince lifted his falchion up to his great helm, bowed, and began to charge.
The warrior in the doorway growled and set his feet in a defensive posture while he brought one of the throwing axes up from his side. The first whirling axe cleared the charging prince’s head, sailing far too high and landing at the foot of the throne. A second axe went soaring in at the prince, its path perfectly in line with the royal seal of Vrysinoch on the front of Herod’s breastplate.
Attempting to use the parrying dagger to knock the axe away, Herod dropped his hand and swung, solidly connecting with the deadly projectile. The axe’s course diverted, causing it to ricochet harmlessly off of Herod’s thick armor. With speed surprising for someone so heavily armored, Herod closed the gap between the two fighters before a third axe could even be readied.
The stranger, attempting to take advantage of the heavily armored prince, turned and pivoted at the last second, flattening his back against the stone of the castle’s wall. Herod read the man’s foot movements and anticipated the move flawlessly. The prince spread his arms out wide and hit the man squarely in the jaw with the hilt of the falchion as he passed by. Having less mobility, it took Herod a second to fully turn around and look for his prey.
A plated gauntlet connected with the back of Herod’s helm in a resounding crash of metal against metal. The ornate great helm, now dented, flew from the prince’s head and skittered to a stop against the wooden door. Grunting, Herod swung both of his weapons in wide from the sides and right for the gut of his attacker.
The nimble fighter was able to quickly bring his armored left arm into the path of the falchion and turn the blade away before it could bite into his flesh. His longer arms and larger physique allowed the man to grab the armored wrist of the prince and stop the dagger a full foot short of its mark. Wasting no time, the warrior reared back and delivered a devastating headbutt to the prince’s unarmored face that sent him flying against the doors.
Blood oozed from the prince’s ruined nose in thick spurts. He tossed the dagger down to the ground and charged in with both hands on the hilt of his falchion. Herod led with a stab that was easily sidestepped by the more agile fighter. Thinking to slice the larger man in half, Herod pulled his hands in and moved the blade in a vicious loop toward his dodging opponent. Metal rang out against metal as the blade of the falchion connected with the armored left arm of the fighter. The well protected arm rolled with the blow and deflected it rather than trying to absorb the hit.
Before Herod could pull his weapon back to strike again, a plated fist crunched into his breastplate, startling him and knocking him back. The man struck out again, kicking Herod’s leg and forcing him to shift his weight to his back foot. The next blow came in the form of an armored punch to the wrist of Herod’s primary sword hand and sent the falchion flying to the ground. The man dropped low and rushed the prince. He lowered his head at the last moment which allowed the hilt of the sword still strapped to his back to land solidly on the prince’s exposed neck.
Herod doubled over in pain. With his back against the castle doors, he had nowhere to run. Fighting out of desperation, Herod attempted to grapple the larger man and wrestle him to the floor. In the blink of an eye, the prince was sprawled out on his back. Herod’s face was smeared with blood and the hulking stranger stood over him and laughed.
“Congratulations,” came the voice of Darius as he walked out from his hiding spot behind the throne. “Herod, my liege, I do believe that we have found ourselves a champion.” The guard captain helped his prince up off his back and returned his weapons to him. Looking at the unknown warrior, he smiled and said, “Well met, good sir. You fought wonderfully, besting your own prince in single combat without even drawing your sword. Might we have the honor of learning your name, brave stranger?”
“Gideon,” the stranger said with a gravelly voice.
Herod patted Gideon on the shoulder. “You fought well,” he said as he inspected the dent on the back of his great helm.
“Why have you brought me here?” Gideon asked. His voice sounded like the low rumble of a landslide.
“I was told that you are a paladin, trained by the tower in the holy art of war. Is that accurate? I saw no use of holy magic in your duel with the prince.” Darius was skeptical of Gideon’s training. He had never seen someone so easily best a seasoned warrior without drawing a blade.
“I was trained by the tower, that is correct,” was the only response the man offered.
“And what are you now, besides just strong and large?” Herod asked, nursing his bruised neck.
“I left the tower after my training,” Gideon explained. “They train men to fight side by side, tower shields and maces forming an impenetrable wall. As far as I am concerned, in order for a warrior to excel to the heights of fighting perfection, he must learn to do combat alone.”
“Yes, our legions are trained to fight as a cohesive unit,” Darius said, considering the lone nature of the warrior before him. “If you were selected for training at the tower, that must mean Vrysinoch speaks to you. Can you still manipulate the holy powers of Vrysinoch?”
“The winged one speaks to me still, although it seems to be more at his pleasure than mine. When I was training with the other paladins, I could command the holy energies at my will, bending them to strike my foes at any moment. Now, it is only in times of great need that Vrysinoch chooses to aid my cause. I do not consider myself a paladin.” Darius moved around the man and inspe
cted his muscled frame for the distinctive tattoo of the paladins.
Just above Gideon’s right shoulder blade, partially obscured by the hilt of his sword, was a small mark: a talon clutching an emerald. “Your mark has not faded. Vrysinoch still names you among his elite. You are a paladin, by all accounts. You are just…” Darius paused, searching for the right word. “Unique,” he continued, “the most unique paladin I have ever met.”
“We need you to go out into the wilderness, alone, and find my brother, the king.” Herod liked this warrior, especially because a man with few friends ran little risk of telling the wrong person about his mission.
“So, the rumors are true then,” Gideon said, looking past the prince and his guard to the empty throne at the center of the room.
“Yes, well,” Darius said, “we aren’t exactly sure where the king is. We have no reason to believe that he is dead, but if you find that to be the case, bring back proof.”
“You will be paid on your return,” Herod was quick to put in, “double if you bring the king back to his castle. We don’t want to financially encourage you to kill my dear brother…”
“I will need equipment, provisions, gear for a long journey,” Gideon remarked, looking to Darius to arrange supplies for his trip.
“Along those lines, we would like you to come to the royal temple, the cavern underneath Castle Talon. We are hoping that the high priest in the temple will facilitate your blessing.” Darius turned around and led the trio to a door at the back of the throne room that led to the caverns.
“Who knows,” Gideon mumbled, “maybe Vrysinoch would enjoy seeing me again.” The group made their way down the steep tunnels underneath the castle in silence.
After the long trek, the three arrived at the edge of the room that housed the statue of Vrysinoch. The interlocking wings that created the entranceway into the temple were too low for Gideon to stride through and forced him to duck to enter the cave. The priest was there, standing beneath the statue, waiting for the group.
The Goblin Wars Part One Page 3
