Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Ungrateful Emperor Ulneriev refused to lift the pension restrictions against the Temples in the Plains cities. Those Temples not taxed into penury were forbidden to buy land for retirement gifts. It would break the Temple’s ability to recruit men for lifetime service. To that extent, Voskov had been victorious.

  Adding short-sightedness to Ulneriev’s many physical and moral weaknesses seemed trivial.

  Lokhaz smiled warmly. “Of course, cousin. I’ll leave that to the seneschal. He’s done an excellent job. He said that it is easy to manage the Hold since Damsel Undkara came here to learn the skills needed to run a holding. I hope she’ll consider my offer to make this permanent.”

  Karro suppressed the urge to leave the two as alone as they could be in the hall. The pair stood in silence, as close as decorum allowed. After a moment, Lokhaz turned toward Karro, his brow furrowed. “Cousin, you speak as though you’re leaving soon and without me. If nobles, even just horse-thief Shusk nobles, are practicing sorcery, you’ll need my help.”

  Karro held up a hand. “Lokhaz, you’ve done your part on the field. I need you to guard this land and carry on the line.” He glanced at Undkara, who looked down, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I need to know that there is a place where evil won’t be tolerated, a place where I can rest.” Lokhaz opened his mouth to protest. “No, Lokhaz. If all the good men spend their lives fighting, nothing will be built and no one born to pass it on to. I’ve faced Voskov and worse. That’s my task the same way your task is here.”

  A commotion rose from the back of the hall. Karro and Lokhaz faced the crowd. The vassals parted for a messenger An older boy, in tattered farm clothes wiped his grimy cheeks and swept thick blond hair from his heavy-featured Macmar face. The boy bowed to Lokhaz. “Lord, it’s Southdell. Somethin’s attackin’ ’em dere. My pap sent me to fetch help. He says it’s more than freemen can handle and we need the lord’s men. My pap’s no man’s coward. If he says he needs sojers, it’s bad.”

  Lokhaz looked at Karro.

  Karro gave a slight bow. “You are lord here. I’ll ride as your kinsman, but you must lead.”

  Lokhaz stood straighter. “Castellan, send for my gear and call out the men. I’ll take six men from the garrison and all of the Temple soldiers. Keep the rest alert until we return.”

  Karro leaned forward in his saddle to whisper into Vision’s ear. “Sorry, I thought you’d have a few more quiet days in the stables. We all live to serve.” He had equipped himself and Vision in less time than it took the garrison footmen to get ready.

  The chosen spearmen were tough-looking yeomen of mixed Macmar and Tuskaran blood. Lokhaz didn’t risk having the whole party as arquebusiers, when the sudden showers common in the hills could leave them weaponless. The armsmen wore steel bowl helmets with mail neck guards and a variety of studded or ring-covered leather hauberks. Most had straight, broad Macmar swords belted at their waists.

  As Lokhaz rode up, the old gateman pushed open the heavy wooden gate. Lokhaz turned his horse to block the damp wind as Undkara rushed to his side. She tied a scarf around his arm and spoke earnestly. Karro and the rest of the men looked at the walls and ground.

  Lokhaz trotted confidently through the gate. The men marched after him, torches held high. Lokhaz led them along a path winding up into the hills east of the manor. As the young noble absently waved for his men to hurry along, Karro shook his head. The farm lad trotted near Lokhaz, dancing impatiently around the slow-moving warriors.

  Karro spurred Vision to pace Lokhaz and halted him so the footmen could catch up. Lokhaz stared back at the stone manor. As they moved away from the hold, sparse brush and small gray trees grew closer to the path.

  “Lokhaz, what can you tell me about Southdell? It’s been a long time since I’ve passed through there.”

  The love-struck expression left his thin face. “It’s not much. Southdell is the only active hamlet along this path. The Macmar clans to the north and east of the Hold have had troubles lately with something worse than bandits. You know how excitable the clansmen are, but they claim these attackers are wantonly destructive beyond normal bandits. They also make them out to be huge and invulnerable. The Macmar have any number of stories about strange creatures lurking in the night.”

  The seven Temple men formed the others into good marching order. Two of the Temple men trotted ahead to scout for the party.

  After the force lost sight of the manor, Karro reined in close to Lokhaz. “I’m glad you’re so pleased with Damsel Undkara. But the men need your full attention, even if it’s only for bandits. Next time, just kiss the girl and get about your business. She’ll be happy and you’ll clear your head for what needs to be done.”

  Lokhaz ran his fingers across the scarf on his arm. “Kinsman, I appreciate your help in a fight. But I’ll take advice on women from someone other than a three hundred-year-old bachelor.”

  Karro clutched at his chest. “A true shot.” Grinning, he continued, “It’s probably as well you’re staying here to grow the Hold and a family. I’ll stick to the work of Auros.”

  As they neared the hamlet, Karro smelled wood smoke mixed with a stench like burned pork. Light glowed, far too bright for lanterns, through the trees. The Tuskaran noblemen exchanged glances and reached for their helmets. Without orders, armsmen tossed their torches into the creek flanking the path. Arquebusiers blew on their slowmatches to get the glowing tips bright and improve the chances of sure firing.

  The scouts trotted back to join their fellows. Spearmen led the way into Southdell, followed by the arquebusiers. Karro rode on the right side, Lokhaz on the left.

  The hamlet had ten or twelve low wood and thatch buildings. Some were ablaze, lighting up the bodies scattered around. The light proved to be too good. The fallen peasants had been gutted and was missing mouth-sized chunks from the fleshy parts of arms and legs. One body cavity lacked both heart and liver.

  The brush around the party erupted. A dozen children rushed to the warriors. A few women followed, each carrying at least one infant or toddler. The steady Temple veterans checked their fire in time. An incoherent jumble of sound assailed Karro’s ears as he frantically searched the burning hamlet for signs of the attackers. The children pointed back at the burning buildings, but Karro couldn’t understand what they said.

  Karro and Lokhaz walked their horses into the main pathway. Karro’s sharp eyes picked out reflections off metal at the hamlet’s far side. A moment later, several armed villagers ran down the path toward the mounted warriors. As the men ran, they stumbled with exhaustion and glanced over their shoulders.

  Behind them, six men ran quickly but with an odd, stiff gait. They wore the leathers and coarse cloth of highlands dwellers. The cut was definitely Hykori―forward-curved, peaked caps and loose jackets over long tunics.

  Karro offered a short prayer for the dead peasants and the tortured creatures before him. The attackers’ pale skin had a bluish tinge. Long, straight black hair framed narrow Hykori faces. Great patches of both hair and skin were missing.

  Barely breaking stride, the farmers ran past the nobles.

  As the Hykori neared, Karro noticed their eyes. Some had a film over dark eyes. Others moved surely even with holes where their eyes had once been. The leader, taller and thinner than the rest, had eyes that gave a view of hell.

  The arrogant creature stared at Karro. The Knight of Auros felt the undead thing’s contact like a slug sliding down his spine. The five blood-covered Hykori ghouls halted in the middle of the hamlet.

  Six arquebuses roared as one. Two Hykori undead staggered back under the impact of the heavy slugs. None fell. No blood came from the wounds.

  “Carranos refused this knowledge.” Lokhaz whispered the semi-prayer beside Karro. The young noble leveled his prize pistol. The spring pulled flashing metal across flint. The pistol discharged. The ball struck a Hykori squarely in the forehead. The creature fell and stayed down.

  The rest of the undead lurching forward with c
onfidence stopped. The leader’s head craned up and to the left as if receiving inaudible commands. He and the ghouls scattered between the burning buildings and into the night.

  The Temple veteran’s eyes were as wide as those of the garrison spearmen. The warriors clutched their weapons, but made no move to chase the running creatures. Karro didn’t blame the men.

  A villager grabbed Karro’s stirrup. “My father knew you, Karro the Avenger. He told us Auros would take you from your vengeance on the old Masters only if darkness or demons were on us.”

  Another villager spoke up. “Is it true? Did Auros send you to drive away demons?”

  Karro suppressed a shrug. The folk crowding around him needed reassurance. “I go as Auros directs me. Auros carries out the will of the True God.”

  The armsmen gathered the villagers together. One directed some of the men to pile the bodies into a wagon while others attacked the fires with wet blankets.

  Karro knelt to inspect the fallen ghoul. A flash of movement at the edge of the hamlet caught his eye. Ghouls rushed from the darkness and dragged down Lokhaz and a spearman.

  Karro pushed through screaming villagers and chopped his sword through the shoulder and deep into the lead ghoul’s chest. Pale blue fire outlined the blessed weapon’s entry.

  The ghoul gripped the blade, slicing its fingers to the bone. No sound escaped its lips as it looked from the wound and into Karro’s face. Wide eyes in its ravaged face showed more surprise and betrayal than pain. It slid backward, dry flesh not gripping the metal as a normal wound would.

  It toppled to the ground. The other ghouls hopped away in confusion and into the darkness.

  Karro hurried to his cousin. Lokhaz rolled onto his side, clutching at his right forearm. Blood leaked through the broken mail links. Beyond Lokhaz, the spearman lay with his throat ripped out.

  “The damned thing bit me, cousin.” Lowering his voice, Lokhaz said, “I hope its bite isn’t poisoned.”

  Its existence is poisoned. How could its bite be clean?

  “Lokhaz is injured and none of you are safe here,” Karro said to the crowd. Gather your people and the fallen and follow me to the Hold.”

  Once more, Auros had placed Karro where needed.

  Chapter Two

  Duke Malron Voskov cursed softly as the afternoon wind shifted again, blowing his long leather cape open. Sleet drove in and soaked the bandages around his left thigh and the wrappings around his ribs. Wound fever made him shiver. Cold made his horse shiver as well.

  The use of his only healing trinkets had saved him from bleeding out after the Paladin rode him down. One spell fused his thigh bone back and the last one renewed his blood. They didn’t repair the ripped muscles in his thigh or prevent the slow rot spreading from the wound.

  Just ahead, two of Voskov’s remaining men reined up. The shorter one, Bors, one of Voskov’s two surviving bondsmen, raised a hand in warning. The rest of Voskov’s band drew up. Voskov looked around and counted twenty-four men. Three more slipped away. They must think the hill clans will accept any mounted warrior who comes their way. Good riddance. I’ll see them in the Darkest Pit and they can whine about how their hosts cut their throats. Most of his men stared at the mud, avoiding his gaze. A few glared their hate at him. This cheered him.

  Bors kneed his horse through the knot of mounted nobles and spoke softly. “The trail is clear off to the east, nobly born. That Tuskar peasant told the truth before he died. A road of sorts follows the slope to a bridge then cuts straight to a hillside manor. We can camp here and be out of sight until sundown.”

  Still in his saddle, Bors betrayed neither anxiety nor impatience on his round, peasant face. Hykori and Macmar blood made him as common as grass, but grass could be useful. He certainly didn’t resent trading an expensive war-dragon for a horse the way the others did. But dragons, irritable, carnivorous and sluggish in the cold, would be worse than useless to fugitives in these damp hills.

  Darev, at Voskov’s immediate right, coughed rawly. His lace handkerchief came away spotted with blood. “This is insane, Voskov. We could kill the Paladin, all his kin, and still be under sentence by Emperor Ulneriev. We can’t stay there to rest and recover. Most likely, more of us will die.” Darev broke into another coughing fit. The soaked blue feathers along the top of his helmet flicked drops onto Voskov’s cape.

  The rest of the men stayed silent. Most were of the Marten clan. They had turned on their kinsman Emperor Ulneriev at his time of greatest need. Voskov’s other political allies could negotiate amnesty with the emperor; these last few could only look forward to impalement on a low, blunt stake with fire at their feet.

  Voskov smirked. “If any fear facing a few swords for a hot meal and a dry bed, I’m sure Ulneriev would offer you something warm and filling.”

  The nobles growled curses on him or gripped saber hilts but did nothing.

  “I want that place tonight, Bors. Take Darev and see if the Paladin is there.”

  Eyeing the foppish noble, Bors frowned.

  “And Bors, if Darev makes too much noise, silence him.”

  Voskov struggled to dismount, careful to not reopen his infected wounds. With each step, the stab of sorcerously healed bone shocked the whole side of his body. Even dragging the leg didn’t help. Blood pounded in his temples as he bit back cries of pain. He settled for cursing.

  The rest of the company dismounted, but none offered to help. They had their own wounds.

  Voskov grimaced as he limped, leaning on his horse and guiding it through the sparse pine and brush. He positioned the horse between him and the men before pulling out his Book.

  He placed the Book’s spine on his stirrup and wedged a corner against his saddle scabbard. The rough-covered tome, longer than his forearm and a handspan thick, weighed less than a similar sized loaf of bread.

  Even after years of possessing the Book, Voskov could feel the evil boiling and shaking inside. It no longer crooned promises of power. Now it bargained or demanded.

  He drew his dagger and cut his hand. Pressing the wound against the leering face tooled into the cover, he felt a cold draining sensation. The slash itched and burned, but he barely noticed the sensation over the pain in his leg. The tough leather cover of the Book remained unstained. But now it opened for him.

  Voskov flipped through the pages. Many were blank to his eyes now. Though all contained knowledge, the pages only revealed themselves at some whim of the Book he still didn’t understand.

  The sleet had stopped, but there was no danger of water damaging these pages. He laid the Book on a sawed stump.

  One page unblurred. Its spell offered a year’s service of a bat-winged, talking monkey for the sacrifice of a loyal man. Voskov could only think of two he considered loyal and he couldn’t spare either now. A few pages later came a spell he could use.

  “Scribe in blood the symbol of Zhumak at the point of the injury. The Master of Corruption will draw this sweet unto himself and take a year from the host’s life for this favor.”

  Voskov opened the bandages and nearly fainted as pus and black blood forced the wound open. The stink of his approaching death gagged him.

  Even as his head reeled, the cold part of his mind suggested this rot had to be what drew out the spell. His previous readings had never turned up this particular magic.

  He picked up a twig and dipped it in the sticky blood near the festering wound. He copied the symbol from the page to where the skin pulled most tightly around the jagged thigh wound. Beneath that skin, torn muscle still bunched where bone had splintered.

  With growing rage, Voskov filled his mind with pictures of that accursed Tuskar Paladin―his lance driving at Voskov’s face, the crash as their mounts collided. The Paladin’s dispelling the demon, Gykiro, cost Voskov his rebellion and the Scepter of the Plains. As his men carried him away, delirious, Gykiro’s cold voice in Voskov’s head explained other costs. One more enemy waiting for him after death.

  After a pull li
ke the air being sucked from his chest, the swelling dropped away from his leg. The tendons in the back of his leg twisted as the shape of his leg returned true, but this sensation hurt less than the burning wound.

  Fouled blood and stinking pus flowed from the wound. Muscle and skin pulled together as though forced into place by a red-hot iron. Voskov cried out once and then clamped down on the cry; of course, the Master of Corruption wouldn’t be concerned about doing his business gently.

  Voskov wiped the stinking mess from his leg. Only the thick, pale ridge of a long-healed cut remained.

  He flipped through more pages of the Book, but nothing came into focus. Of course not, I have nothing to barter. When I had land and vassals by the thousands, nearly every page offered a spell or trinket. He closed the Book and returned it to the saddle bag. He flexed his leg a few times and shook his head.

  He checked his trinket bag. If possible, he would avoid using any of the magic devices in the coming fight. Few could be used more than once. At least none had been lost while he suffered the wound fever.

  He drew Madman partially out of its sheath. The sword, his greatest magical item, was a well-made heavy curved saber, an elegant slashing weapon. At a glance, it appeared just a finer version of what every Shushkachevan noble carried. Forging the blade involved the deaths of six homicidal maniacs and the distillation of their spirits into the sword. When awakened, they linked with him, giving great power and burning fury.

  The blade had no rust from the days of rain and inattention. Voskov would need the weapon soon. He shuddered and slid the blade home; something beyond those damned souls also inhabited the weapon.

  Later, as the sun sank behind the hills, Voskov rejoined his men. Bors handed Voskov a bowl of thin broth. If the vassal noticed his duke moving easily, he said nothing. “It’s like the captive said. The land around us is Kulkas Hold. The walls are stout, but less than a score of men guard the manor.” He looked into Voskov’s eyes. “I saw Karro inside.”