Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  Once she had the sanctuary spell in place, it was easier to relax. Still troubled by the dream and the momentous events of the night before, however, she took a moment to splash her face and swallow a few mouthfuls of sweet, clear water.

  Thaydor could probably use some, too, she thought, so she carried the pitcher over to his bedside and poured some water onto a fresh bandage. With a fingertip, she parted his lips slightly, squeezing a few drops of water off the bandage and into his mouth.

  As she cleaned some of the dried blood and grime off his chiseled face, she pondered the two Thaydors that she had now encountered. The first was the same public image of the Golden Knight that everybody knew, the second, the brutal warrior she had seen last night.

  The first time she had ever seen him, he had been riding at the head of the army, leading the men home from the Krenian Wars in a victory parade that wound through the capital. Though just a young novitiate at the time, Wrynne had been as breathless as any young girl at the dazzling sight of the golden-haired paladin, with the sun glinting off his armor and the legendary blade at his hip with which he had felled a thousand foes. His white warhorse, Avalanche—who was almost as famous as his master—had pranced proudly underneath him.

  The flower of chivalry, the people’s champion had smiled modestly and nodded to the adoring throngs as they threw pink roses at his feet.

  The other Thaydor was the one she had met last night, the savage warfighter in all the awful truth of his calling, far from the victory parades. Mud and death, blood and sacrifice, unimaginable suffering, despair, and the constant prospect of dying alone, far from home.

  She was so glad she had been permitted to save him from that fate. If anyone had ever deserved it, Thaydor did.

  Deciding to make him more comfortable, she began carefully removing his armor. She needed to see how his other wounds were coming along anyway. First, she unbuckled his sword belt and then pulled off the tatters of his proud white surcoat.

  There were countless buckles and straps and leather lacings all over him holding the confusing harness of his armor in place. A knight could not do all the pieces by himself, which made her suddenly realize he must have been traveling with a squire.

  She wondered where his knight-in-training could have gone—and their horses, for that matter. She hoped no harm had come to them.

  As she slowly and carefully took apart the metal man, she piled all the form-fitted plates of steel over by the wall.

  Next came the chain mail. The hip-length coat of small metal links protected all the vulnerable joints between his armor plates. Her attempts to pull his deadweight upper body into a sitting position so she could then lift the chain mail up and off over his head were almost comical. She thought for sure the clinking noise of it would wake him, but he was still in a magic-induced slumber, his head flopping against her shoulder like a drunkard’s, his muscled arm resting across her shoulders, half his weight sagging against her.

  “Whoa!” She pushed him toward the bed when he nearly rolled right off it onto the floor. “Thaydor, cooperate, would you?”

  He slept on, deep in dreamland.

  Finally drawing the heavy coat of chain mail off over his head like a mother undressing her sleeping toddler for bed, she carried the coat of mail over to the pile by the wall and blew a lock of her hair out of her face. She marched back resolutely to her patient.

  Under his chain mail, Thaydor was wearing a very fine, red sleeveless gambeson over a loose linen shirt, black chausses, and simple black leather shoes. She immediately checked his broken leg and then rolled up his sleeve to see his burned forearm. Both limbs had been miraculously healed.

  She stared, amazed.

  Good show, Wrynne, she congratulated herself. But now for the real test—the body blows to his chest and the arrow in his side.

  She swallowed hard, as it was a good deal more personal undressing the warrior from his actual clothes rather than merely his tough metal shell.

  Fortunately, she was committed to virtuous principles and refused to think improper thoughts, no matter how beautiful he was. Or how many women in the kingdom would have liked to get their hands on him like this.

  Briskly reminding herself that she was simply a healer, she began unlacing his gambeson, a hip-length, vestlike garment of luxurious red wool. Its heavily quilted design was intended to help absorb some of the impact of armored combat.

  She winced at how all his clothes were stiff with the drying crust of heavy bloodstains. She tried not think too much about what would have happened if she hadn’t come along, and kept her hands busy with her task.

  “Almost there, my friend,” she whispered.

  Parting the gambeson at last, she was finally down to his loose, ivory shirt—though the natural color of the linen was now mostly stained a brownish red.

  “Now, let’s have a look and see how you’re really doing, shall we?” With that, she lifted his shirt and cautiously touched his skin.

  She held her breath as she inspected his side where the arrow had pierced him. Nothing. Pushing his shirt higher, exposing his sculpted abdomen and powerful chest to the morning air, she marveled. How many broken ribs and injured organs had he sustained last night? And yet now there was no more sign of damage than some light bruising around his ribcage.

  She rested her hand on his muscled stomach and gazed in wonder at his face, wishing he would wake up so she could tell him what a miracle this was.

  That handsome face arrested her for a moment. Tilting her head, she granted herself the indulgence of a moment to study the comely specimen that he was. He had a rectangular face, clean-shaven, with strong, gentlemanly features; deep-set eyes under thick, tawny eyebrows; a crooked nose that alone kept him from being too pretty, having been broken a few times; sculpted lips that bespoke an unexpected softness; and rather a large chin that gave his face an air of implacable determination.

  It was a very nice face, she decided. And a quite impressive body to go with it. But she shoved off that wayward thought, merely glad he was in one piece and on the mend. What a shame it would have been to lose him.

  She cupped his cheek with a fond, thoughtful smile. “You are really lucky I was there,” she murmured, but on second thought, recalling the Urmugoths’ killing spree, she added, “And we’re all really lucky you were there. Thank you, Sir Thaydor.”

  She bent and pressed a light kiss to his forehead, wondering how she could already feel so close to a man she barely knew. It must be the result of all they had been through together last night—or that mysterious, bonding side effect of the Kiss of Life spell that she’d heard about. Even so, she anticipated his waking with a certain degree of shyness. He was the Golden Knight, for pity’s sake. Scores of women fainted when he smiled.

  As she slowly sat down on the stool beside the bed, she wondered how long the Urmugoths’ orgy of destruction would have lasted if Thaydor had not shown up. Why was he the only one who’d come to the aid of their province, though?

  Why had the king not sent troops?

  Everyone around here had just assumed that help was on the way, though, obviously, there was some sort of delay. Maybe word of their plight had not yet reached Veraidel’s capital city of Pleiburg.

  No one had dared ask whether King Baynard was purposely letting the barbarians run rampant through their midst.

  Why would he?

  But when she recalled the dream from which she had just awoken, a dark hypothesis began forming in the back of her mind. The man in her dream had not moved like some ordinary brigand, but with the expertise of long military training.

  Was it a dream, just some random concoction of her brain, or something more? Premonitions were not her main gift, but what if Ilios had sent along her first official vision, revealing to her actual events that had taken place?

  But why would someone, especially the king, purposely allow the Urmugoths in through the gates? Who would do such a thing?

  She looked at Thaydor, wishing he
would wake up so she could ask him. He knew a lot more about dealing with evil than she did. Including evil in high places.

  Thanks to regular letters from her mother reporting on all the society gossip from the capital, Wrynne had heard something about how Sir Thaydor had fallen out of favor with the court. According to Mother’s letter, the king’s longtime champion had been sent off from the palace and back out into the world again on various quests as a wandering knight-errant, for the great crime of speaking the truth in these dark times.

  Word had it he had looked King Baynard right in the eyes and rebuked him for his recent lawless behavior. Putting his wife, Queen Engelise, aside and taking his new mistress under the very roof of Lionsclaw Keep was bad enough, but more importantly, he’d been ignoring the Earls’ Assembly and certain basic tenets in the kingdom’s Charter of late, making up laws as he pleased.

  It had got to the point where somebody had to say something. Not too surprising, Wrynne mused, that it should have been Sir Thaydor who had finally taken it upon himself to speak out. He was, after all, descended from one of the illustrious warlords who had founded Veraidel centuries ago, and his father, Lord Clarenbeld, held his rightful place in the Earls’ Assembly, as one of the kingdom’s noble peers.

  Alas, such honesty on the son’s part was not quite politic.

  His thanks in exchange for his concern for their country was to be sent on a string of increasingly dangerous suicide missions. Almost as if someone was trying to get rid of him… But the Paladin of Ilios feared no one, and thankfully, his polite banishment from court had left him free to come to the rescue of the people of Mistwood.

  Staring at him sleeping so peacefully, she remembered last night when she had reached his side, how he had been entirely surrounded by the Urmugoths. As if the whole thing were all a trap arranged expressly for him—a man too powerful in the army and too popular with the people to be allowed to live…

  At that moment, she heard a sound that jerked her head up sharply. Tearing her gaze away from Thaydor, she scanned the woods beyond her bower, her heart in her throat.

  To her astonishment, a handsome, black-haired knight came walking up the forest path. He was looking around in all directions as he climbed the hill, his armor clanking as he neared.

  “Thaydor?” he called. “Thaydor, man, where are you? Are you out there? Answer me! Are you hurt?”

  His deep voice sounded concerned. So why, then, was she suddenly sensing the presence of something darker? Perhaps not evil, outright, but a dark, cold ruthlessness.

  She studied the newcomer, a powerfully built knight, tall and rangy, with midnight hair and charcoal-gray armor trimmed in black and red. The white surcoat draped over his armor was adorned with the head of a crimson ram.

  Wrynne gulped.

  The emblem of Xoltheus, the war god.

  Well, you’re rather a scary fellow, aren’t you?

  But when he reached the top of the path and turned toward her, scanning the woods, her eyes widened. She went stock-still, holding her breath when she saw his angular face.

  The black-clad assassin from her dream!

  She stared at him in shock, her heart thundering so hard she was sure he must’ve heard it as he ambled closer. She prayed the sanctuary spell held, but she was not taking any chances.

  If she was right—if all this was a plot designed to murder Thaydor—then she had to protect him. Unconscious, he was easy prey. Her dream had warned this man knew no mercy. If her sanctuary spell failed and he detected their presence, she had better be ready with something.

  With a hard swallow, she rose silently from the bed and picked up Hallowsmite. She could barely lift the longsword, but gripping the hilt with both hands, she crept over to the edge of her bower.

  She stood guard in front of Thaydor as the red knight came even closer, glancing all around with a scowl on his face. She could see the annoyance in his coal-black eyes.

  “Thaydor!” he called again.

  Shaking his head in disgust, he finally gave up. He turned around, confused, and headed back down the path.

  Wrynne stood there trembling. She did not exhale until the black-haired man was out of sight.

  Her heart was still pounding as she slowly lowered the blade.

  * * *

  When Thaydor opened his eyes dreamily, soft morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy bed hangings and flooded the whimsical room in which he lay.

  Where am I? he wondered, but he felt too good, and frankly too lazy to care. He sensed no threats. Well, that was different. Huh. Then he closed his eyes again with a sound of pleasure and, for a moment, simply listened to the birdsong and the lilting waterfall outside, and savored the luxurious bliss of not being in pain.

  His body felt lead-heavy and so very comfortable, but for a twinge of hunger. Probably a good sign. As waking cleared his mind bit by bit, he realized he not only wasn’t in agony anymore, he felt fantastic.

  Like he’d just had one of the best night’s sleep of his life.

  He let himself doze a little longer in lavish self-indulgence, then gradually stirred. When he finally opened his eyes once more, he found himself in some sort of enchanted bower, possibly of elven design.

  The bed in which he had slept like the dead had a partial canopy above him, draped with gauzy lavender veils. Sunlight streamed through windows framed by tendrils of ivy. As his leisurely gaze traveled around the room, he saw his armor piled by the wall and suddenly gasped, remembering his horrific injuries.

  At once, he curled upward, cautiously touching his middle. He lifted his shirt and looked at himself. Not a scratch! He touched his head and felt the crust of dried blood in his hair, but his searching fingers did not find any wound.

  Another memory struck. My leg! He whipped the coverlet aside and looked down warily at his legs. Both were present and accounted for, yet he felt no pain. He wiggled his toes to make sure everything still worked.

  Sweet Ilios. How is this possible? He distinctly remembered taking a crushing blow from an Urmugoth mace to his left lower leg. The instant fracture had knocked him off his feet, but it didn’t even hurt now.

  Furrowing his brow, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, placed his bare feet on the cool flagstone floor, and stood. His left leg was just a little stiff but seemed perfectly able to carry half his weight, as it ought.

  Then he was confounded. What is this place? Where am I? He had a vague memory of a woman…or an angel? A shocking thought suddenly struck him. Am I dead?

  Is this Elysium?

  It felt like it, what with the rosy sunlight and the waterfall…

  He scanned the bright, airy chamber, noting shelves on the walls laden with books and vials and colorful apothecary jars. The dainty table under the shelves held a lavish offering of food and drink. His mouth watered at the sight.

  But as his gaze traveled around the room, he finally spotted her.

  You.

  He had seen her in his dreams. A silver-eyed beauty with skin like cream and long, thick hair, dark as blackstrap molasses, cascading over her delicate shoulders.

  He remembered her, her gentle touch. He remembered her gazing into his eyes and telling him everything would be well, and even though he knew he was already dead, he had believed her.

  Whoever she was, she was presently fast asleep in a large, pillowed, cocoon-like chair that hung from the ceiling on woody, braided vines. Sleeping in a little bird’s nest on the shelf near her was a tiny sylph—or wait, was it a fairy? He could never tell them apart.

  The fairy stirred, her eyes widening to find Thaydor on his feet. He lifted his finger to his lips, requesting silence with a smile. He did not wish to wake his pretty doctor.

  That he was alive told him she must be a healer of great power. She had obviously waged a mighty battle to save him. Let her rest, he thought.

  But he wanted a closer look. He had no memory of how he had got here and could not fathom how he was alive, but one thing was certain.
This sleeping beauty was the one responsible.

  Sitting up in the bird’s nest, the fairy watched him cross the room toward the girl without a sound. Crouching down in front of her, Thaydor gazed reverently at his fair savior, reliving some very difficult memories. What little he recalled from the night of the battle…

  With death breathing down his neck and the open portal to Elysium shining before him, he had seen her and thought she was an angel at first. The mistake was understandable. She was as lovely as the dawn. But then, in his half-dead state, he had noticed that she wore the necklace of the sister order to the Sons of Might, the Daughters of the Rose. This had immediately told him that Ilios had sent her, and from that instant, he knew that he could trust her.

  She was still wearing it now.

  For a long moment, he could only stare in fascinated wonder at her beauty, though, for his part, he was still covered in dried blood and mud like a corpse that had fought its way out of the grave. If she woke now and found this reanimated, undead creature gawking at her, she’d probably scream, he thought. But, then… No. Not this one, he decided with a faint smile. She had proved as brave as she was beautiful.

  He recalled her cool-nerved courage when she had come to his side in the horror of that night. Most of all, though, he remembered her kindness. Strange… He didn’t even know her name, yet for reasons that he could not explain, he felt deeply and mysteriously bonded to this stranger. The sight of her, so innocent and defenseless in her slumber, moved him.

  Thaydor dragged his stare away from her, startled by the desire stirring in his veins, considering what he had just been through. Glancing at his armor by the wall and seeing the dents and scars and bloodstains all over it, he went very still. Verily, it seemed he had done nothing but fight for so long, until the metal death suit had become him.

  But this fair stranger had freed him from it. He looked at her again in deepening speculation.

  Keenly aware of her beauty, he could not deny the hunger to touch her and affirm the life and strength that still flowed in his veins. He shook his head. Alluring as she was, he usually had expert control over such impulses, much to the annoyance of the many temptresses who crossed his path.