Death’s Paladin
By Christopher Donahue
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Death’s Paladin First Edition Copyright © 2019 by Christopher Donahue
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The Fantasy Writers Asylum, an imprint of Yard Dog Press
710 W. Redbud Lane
Alma, AR 72921-7247
http://www.yarddogpress.com
Edited by Julia S. Mandala
Cover art by Mitchell Davidson Bentley
Cover design by Atomic Fly Studios
www.atomicflystudios.com
First Edition February 2019
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my wife, Linda, constant and faithful throughout this process.
Acknowledgments
And special thanks to the writers' group for crucial inputs and adjustments across the years. I may not have been gracious about the critiques, but I have always appreciated the thought and effort.
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
Also Available from The Fantasy Writers Asylum
Chapter One
The downward-slanting eye slits in Karro’s helmet gave the hot wind plenty of room to drive grit into his eyes. He removed the bucket helm, dislodging fine sand from the steel rings covering his arms.
“Truly, this day is for Justice,” Karro whispered in time with the hymn of the Temple pike square formed at his right. Louder, he added his voice to the bass chanting. “This day we must triumph.”
Overhead, the morning sky rippled in red and purple waves as a foul sorcery shattered against the strength of their song of faith. Karro added a silent prayer for those victims murdered to create the sputtering sorcery and a curse for the men who crafted it.
Not far away, a burned patch of dry grass and a small column of greasy black smoke marked the spot where the emperor’s personal shaman unsuccessfully fought the same type of spell. Not all defenses against sorcery were equal. Another vile spell broke apart into gray-faced streaks against the fervent song of Temple guardsmen.
Vision snorted and dropped his head while gouging the dry grassland with a steel-edged hoof. Karro patted his blessed mount’s muscled neck. The late summer heat made them both suffer, even with the sun barely a hand-width into the sky. Tan dust pasted the massive stallion’s sweaty black hide.
Standing beyond the two hundred and forty Temple pikemen, a company of Temple arquebusiers, also armored in mail and flared-pot helms, lit their slow-matches. The real struggle would start soon.
With his latest stabs at sorcery failed, the rebel-sorcerer would have to settle the battle by paying the price in blood. Unlike his sweep across the Plains, this time Duke Voskov would not take a cheap victory through loathsome spells tossed against unprepared and godless Imperials. The core of Temple guardsmen at Karro’s side were of harder metal.
“Ho, youngster,” a familiar voice hailed Karro. Only one living man could honestly use that name for Karro―his teacher and friend for many lifetimes, Balanar.
Balanar led blocks of Temple pikemen and arquebusiers gathered from the western towns of the empire into position to support Karro’s men from the east. It required Knights of the Temple, like Karro and Balanar, to coax Temple guards to march in support of an unjust, foreign emperor.
Golden Balanar’s chariot rolled up even with Karro, his barded chariot ponies snatching up bits of mostly brown grass. His chariot, like his bearded axe and rack of short iron javelins, were centuries out of date, but deadly nonetheless.
“Youngster, I’m surprised. Looks like you left some of the fight for me and these good men. More like you to do all of the killing and leave nothing interesting for the rest of us,” Balanar shouted, sweat sparkling in his bristling red beard. With brass splints shining in his mail hauberk and his brass-faced helmet gleaming, Balanar looked like an ancient Macmar war god. He upended a wineskin as his men set their lines even with Karro’s smaller force, but leaving a forty pace gap.
“Enough left even for a bloodthirsty sot of a Macmar clansman. I wouldn’t dream of starting without you!” Karro wished they could leave the field and catch up on the years since he’d last seen his friend. Karro had been doing important work in the eastern hills where his people had thrown off slavery centuries ago. No doubt Balanar had been doing useful tasks of his own.
But Karro’s dreams from Auros led him to return to these Plains and crush another man who chose to recklessly play with ancient evil.
Facing them, Voskov’s rebels came from every Shushkachevan clan on the Plains. The rebel army had men of substance, dragon-mounted lancers in mail or splint armor, minor nobles, as well as lesser men armed with powerful horsemen’s bows and riding tough steppes ponies. Rebels in their thousands faced the hundreds of Temple men. The rebel army even included the majority of the emperor’s own Marten Clan. Behind the Temple men stood the few hundreds of Shushkachevans loyal to their vain and corrupt emperor.
“Too bad it wasn’t Emperor Ulneriev who decided to dabble in sorcery instead of this too-stinking-clever Voskov, eh?” Balanar said. “I’d much rather tie Ulneriev to the burning tree right about now.”
His shout came loudly enough the emperor might have heard, but Balanar wouldn’t care about that.
True to his Tuskaran nature, Karro couldn’t take Balanar’s flippant view of things. Too few times did right versus wrong coincide with strong versus weak. Today they would fight the deep evil of sorcery in its overwhelming strength. Despite the heavy odds, a man who served Justice could only choose one side.
Instead of agreeing with Balanar’s accurate assessment, Karro opted to play on Balanar’s ego. “Where would you find bragging rights in being on Voskov’s side today? Those of us who shatter his army will be the only ones with stories worth telling. Think of the free wine and those adoring girls.”
The scarred Temple file-leader near Karro gave him a wink. “I’d trade some bragging rights and perhaps a tankard or two down the road for a few hundred more sturdy men on our side today, Holy Knight.”
Before Karro could answer, the file-leader turned and snapped at one of his men. “Who taught you to swing a pike around like that? I thought you Pledged to the Temple to get away from scythes and pitchforks.” Turning on a different victim, he shouted, “And you. You think it’s funny, you hoisting your shield like a sack of potatoes?”
Most of the Temple infantry had grown up working on small farms. Their faces and coloring were of mixed Macmar and Hykori blood, like the majority of peasants on the Plains. Scattered through their ranks were ruddy and tattooed full-blooded Macmar, clean-shaven, grim Tuskarans and even a few dark-haired, pale skinned H
ykori.
The rest of the emperor’s loyal forces cantered into position. Less than four hundred skirmishers gathered in a loose group to the right of Karro’s men. No one stood beyond them.
The skirmishers were typical Shushkachevan tribesmen, fine-boned men with dark brown complexions and blue-black beards. Some had bronze or steel caps. Most wore leather jackets―sufficient against spent arrows―over brightly dyed linens or silks. The majority of the Grassfire Tribe rode tough but ugly steppes ponies with yellow flames painted up their legs. The tribesmen’s leaders rode the pale green running lizards becoming common on the Great Plateau, lesser cousins of the dragons ridden by the Emperor’s Guard and the great nobles making the core of Voskov’s army. The few hired skirmishers who glanced toward Karro looked away quickly.
Karro felt it in his gut. These skirmishers would send an arrow or two at the enemy for honor’s sake and then scatter. He expected no better from morally insubstantial Shushkachevans.
Into the gap between Karro’s and Balanar’s men, more Shushkachevans formed up. Most were minor nobles who had crossed Voskov when the sorcerer-general was weak. Now they had no choice but to stand with Emperor Ulneriev. They looked like their poorer cousins, but wore mail and helmets decorated with metal horns, crests or mythical figures of lightning stags or winged dragons. Their teardrop shields and heavy lances were similar to Karro’s own gear. Like the Emperor’s Guard, they rode thick-limbed, heavy dragons into battle. Tough-scaled dragons like these, more massive than the largest warhorse, were the key to the Shushkachevans current mastery of the Plains. The easily irritated creatures hissed at each other, spiked tails lashing the ground.
Balanar started up another Temple chant. His fine, clear voice led the faithful in song to raise their spirits and blunt any more spells Voskov might aim their way.
A deep rolling of drums from across the field caught Karro’s attention. Rebel skirmishers trotted from the ranks and shook themselves into clumps around their tribal standards. Archers mounted on ponies painted with bright blue flowers, the Death-Blossom clan, took the lead.
“So it begins,” Karro called out to his men before settling his old-fashioned bucket helm in place.
Temple pikemen readied their positions, the first four ranks setting their weapons to strike any cavalry coming near, the rear ranks angling and swaying their pikes above the front ranks to disrupt arrows soon to be sleeting toward them. Past the pikes, Temple arquebusiers prepared a more active reception for the approaching rebel skirmishers.
Hearing a clatter of steel-shod hooves behind him, Karro whirled to see what new treachery Voskov may have called up. Expecting a surprise strike or another of the desertions so common to Ulneriev’s cause, he wheeled Vision around.
Under a cloud of dust, Karro’s distant relative Lokhaz and his lancers rode up, their teardrop shields painted in simple designs or the Kulkas family cougar’s head. Lokhaz raised a hand to halt his forty man troop. He slid his modern-style visor up and called out, “Well, cousin, it looks like the sorcerer’s men will come and fight before we melt.”
“Go back to the camp, Lokhaz. Load up the camp followers and escort them back to Druena Crossing.”
Lokhaz stared at Karro, his mouth opened to protest.
Karro cut him off. “You’re here at Temple hire and under my orders. If Voskov wins the field, he’ll slaughter everyone in camp. I won’t hand him craftsmen and healer-priestesses to use in his sorceries.”
“Cousin, you shame us. We took Temple silver to fight. You would send us away like so many innocents. You’ll need lancers more than these arquebusiers. Let them guard the wagons. They’re better suited for it.” Lokhaz looked younger than his nineteen summers while pleading for a chance to die. The young Kulkas lancers in the front rank mirrored Lokhaz’s expression of outrage.
More horns and drums sounded from Voskov’s force. From four bowshots away, their racket carried above the shouts and whistling arrows of the skirmisher battle.
“Are you refusing my order, Lokhaz?”
“An order to ride away from battle and leave your men with no reliable cavalry to guard their flanks?” His voice quivered, but his eyes locked with Karro.
Karro struggled with the urge to send those men back. His desire to leave some warriors alive to defend his family’s lands could be nothing but selfish. “Form to our right. Only charge on my order, do you hear me?” He shouted the last as Lokhaz and his men whooped and began to move.
The last Imperial skirmishers trotted past Karro to meet their rebel counterparts. Ulneriev’s herald cantered his horse before the Imperial forces. “Cheer our brave skirmishers,” he shouted in a clear, court-trained voice, his Shushkachevan accent only slightly slurring his Macmar words. Temple troops and Shushkachevans alike gave a healthy cheer for the skirmishers. It was the traditional opening to any Plains battle and Karro gladly cheered their outnumbered skirmishers moving against the rebels.
“A cheer for our Glorious Emperor Ulneriev!” When only the hundred dragon-mounted men of the Emperor’s Guard cheered, the herald winced.. Karro almost felt pity for Ulneriev, seeing his grimace at the near silence.
Thinking quickly, the herald called out, “A cheer for the emperor’s decree to treat the Temples of the Macmar gods equal with the shrines to the Winds.” While Ulneriev’s Guards and the Shushkachevan nobles gave a half-hearted voice, the Temple troops roared out their approval. To this, Karro’s and Balanar’s shouts were no less sincere than those of their footmen.
With a flourish, the herald cried, “Death to Voskov!” All of Ulneriev’s force could shout this with enthusiasm. The cheer echoed as the Imperial skirmishers emptied their quivers at the rebels, taking arrows in return. Ulneriev’s hirelings did better than Karro expected but eventually broke and fled. Voskov’s skirmishers reorganized.
“Holy Knight, your orders?” The gray-bearded captain of the eastern Temple troops waited patiently. Like the scarred file-leader, he knew a losing battle on sight. Even with two Knights of Auros to lead them, these Temple soldiers knew no force was invincible. The Holy Books were very clear about the temporary nature of all things. Even the undefeated record of Temple troops serving under Knights of Auros had to end one day.
“We’re here for blood today. You break those rebel skirmishers and I’ll see to the sorcerer.”
“Shusk raiders are easy, Holy Knight. That sorcerer’ll have something nasty up his sleeve,” the captain said.
“Our task from the True God is unchanged. We came here to kill Voskov. Ulneriev is no friend of the Temple. His victory or even his survival aren’t our concern.” Some of the men nearby nodded. For them, Ulneriev’s life held no interest. “Voskov’s sorcery proves he is a servant of demons. He must drive the Temples of the True God from the Plains in order to rule.”
Karro looked into the faces of the Temple men near the captain. They knew what Karro meant, but waited for him to say it.
“We fight after the minor clans have run. We fight after Ulneriev has run. We fight until Voskov is dead or we all are, because it’s our duty to the True God.” Karro hadn’t given a pre-battle speech since before these men were born, but he knew what had to be done and said it plainly. They deserved nothing less.
Every man wearing the shroud-gray Temple tabard accepted death as part of the Rite of the Pledge. Only a few, like Karro and Balanar, agreed to the near-immortality of the Knight’s Pledge and the duty to carry the heaviest burdens. It combined the strength and the penalty of the Rite of Devotion.
The captain and nearest men bowed. They had their answer.
Karro turned back to study the rebel line as their victorious skirmishers rushed across the field. The rebels with the strongest bows sent arrows at the Temple blocks in evil, black clouds. Mail, broad helmets and waving pikes turned most of the steel-tipped, whistling death, but not all.
As the skirmishers pressed in to shoot weaker bows or flat-shoot powerful arrows, Temple arquebuses returned fletched death wi
th lead shot and the skirmishers failed this test of battle.
Twice more, Voskov’s captains forced his skirmishers across the field and each time, they broke against Temple fire. As they streamed past Voskov’s army the third time, neither their captains’ exhortations nor fear of Voskov’s power could bring them back.
But skirmishers didn’t matter. Voskov still had nearly two thousand heavy and light lancers, the pride of the Shushkachevan clans. They might fear the history of undefeated Temple troops under Knights, but this could be their day to change history.
To steel his men, Voskov had to destroy the Knights leading the Temple troops. If Voskov planned to break the faith the Plains peasants still held in the Temples and the True God, he had to achieve this crucial early step
The rebel battle line trotted forward. At their center, Karro noted the Smoke-Fox banner of Voskov’s family. Karro spotted the sorcerer surrounded by scores of personal retainers,.
Karro had met Malron Voskov years before at the eastern edge of the empire. He remembered a studious young man, quiet, but passionate about the imagined virtues of the early Shushkachevan invaders. Young Voskov had given no hint he would resort to sorcery in order to rule, or Karro would have gutted him on the spot.
“Fire-sergeant,” Karro called out to the leader of the nearest arquebusiers. “That’s Voskov in the silvered mail on the cobalt war dragon, to the left of the Fox banner. Send a runner to Balanar’s arquebusiers to tell them. Voskov’s beyond range now, but if you can hit him, do so.”
Trotting out before his eastern pikemen, Karro shouted, “Faithful ones, Voskov is our goal. If he dies, the True God is served. Nothing else matters today.”
Karro turned back to face the inevitable Shushkachevan charge. Only one man moved out from the rebel army―the sorcerer-general Voskov.
Voskov paced his hissing, mottled dark blue dragon nearly a bowshot ahead of his line, but just past extreme range for Temple arquebuses. He guided his black-clawed mount near a clump of his own skirmisher’s bodies. Nearly eighty bodies of men and mounts lay tangled in a bloody pile, the fruit of a Temple volley.
Death's Paladin Page 1
