Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Suddenly, Ervistellan slumped on the bench. The man’s eyes reddened and dark rings appeared under them. Karro slid an arm under Ervistellan’s shoulder and helped the Student back to the tower of Carranos. His studious binge left him as drained as when Karro finished multiple healings with the aid of Auros.

  Karro met with the High Priest of the Temple, whose every word and gesture implied the belief of the priesthood held more value than the work of Knights, Students or any other of the Devoted. Their meeting was short and fruitless. The priest would release no Temple troops to follow Karro into the highlands in pursuit of Voskov.

  The priest did provide Karro with several sacks of coins from a chest full of similar sacks. In their parting prayer, Karro and the priest asked the True God to send men to take the Rites of Devotion, as none had done so during his tenure as High Priest.

  Before the next dawn, Karro left Tavma’s Cross, a pair of tightly rolled banners behind his saddle. Each banner had one of Qu’s charms painted on it. At his side rode Talodan with a repaired bow and ten broad-bladed hunting arrows with slivers of hematite wedged into the heads.

  They rode north toward the wildest part of the Macmar frontier. Bandits and worse laired higher into the Demon’s Teeth mountains. If necromancers could survive anywhere, it would be that lawless region.

  Chapter Six

  Voskov glanced at the noonday sun. Any time now.

  A score of war cries rang out as Hykori warriors rushed from their “ambush” and down the barren hillside. The first row of lightly armored, shield-bearing spearmen held together well. The following ranks were more ragged as the rest of Voskov’s infantry continued the charge.

  After the maneuver, some two hundred men stood in the valley below. An additional sixty archers milled in a loose mob between Voskov and the hilltop. Chenna snickered behind him and the sound bothered him more than noise from half-breed wench should. His back still itched from holly scratches.

  As he glared at her, Chenna put her hand out to collect a silver piece from Vishtanatar. The ancient Hykori, one of three remaining Demon Lords, slapped the coin into her hand and spat toward Voskov’s feet.

  Chenna’s smile warmed Voskov inside. “Thank you, Lord Voskov. I bet my last silver piece to Visht that you would move them better than could he. They’re no Tuskar company but they might win in a fight.” She chuckled, then added softly “The men are comfortable with you. Unlike their lords, you can only kill them.”

  The massive Hykori lord crossed his arms, brass arm bracers thumping on his bell cuirass. “You have more recent experience than I in handling warriors. I can only hope you’re more successful now than in your failed rebellion.” His lip curled in disdain.

  Of the three remaining Demon Lords, Vishtanatar retained the greatest amount of human appearance, making him the easiest to read. His dark eyes and pale, beardless face gave the impression of deep hunger. The other two Demon Lords displayed the look of simple animal predators.

  “I lost a battle, Vishtanatar,” Voskov said. “You and your peers lost an empire. Mallaloriva is playing her best bet.” When violence flared as red in the Demon Lord’s eyes, Voskov tensed inside.

  Vishtanatar turned away with a flourish of his threadbare cape and strode to the other Demon Lords. With their bronze armor and bat-winged helmets, the three could have stepped from murals on any of a score of ancient and ruined temple walls.

  Chenna squeezed Voskov’s arm and gave him another smile. “Good on you, Voskov. All of the dogs can’t lead the pack.” She sauntered to a spot between Voskov and the ancient Hykori nobles. Three more of Chenna’s vibrant kin joined her. The Hykori accepted these Macmar half-breeds without question. The four began pushing and capering around like a pile of puppies.

  As tired spearmen straggled up the hill, Voskov relaxed. When the warriors began mixing with the archers, he went down the dusty hillside to speak to his army. They silently opened a path for him. On reaching the middle, he turned a full circle.

  “Have any of you won a battle? I don’t mean driving off some goat thieves―a real battle.” The warriors shuffled and looked down. Most wore coarse-spun fabrics with bits of leather reinforcement and odd pieces of ancient armor. Their weapons were simple spears, modified farm tools or swords forged centuries ago.

  “Of course not! You’ve never seen a real battle. Neither have your enemies.” The men who had shown the greatest potential looked at him. The rest no longer stared at the ground. “I’ve seen you fight as individuals. If you couldn’t fight, your race would have vanished long ago. It’s my job to get you to the ground where you can fight the most effectively. I’ve done that with armies before. You know your part and I know mine. Tomorrow we march on Raven’s Crag. Together, we will teach those Macmar their role in the new Hykori Empire.”

  The score of real warriors shouted war cries and inspired the rest. When the men began shouting and dancing as if they had already won their battle, Voskov left.

  I lost a battle to a Paladin of Auros, but I still know how to make an army.

  He returned to the hilltop to where Mallaloriva faced the three Demon Lords. Vishtanatar’s voice didn’t carry, but his gestures were sharp and violent. The queen said nothing, but gave Voskov a slight nod of invitation.

  As Voskov joined the group, Vishtanatar pulled in a sharp breath―just for effect. The Demon Lord hadn’t drawn a true breath in centuries.

  Voskov bowed to his new queen. “The maneuvers went well enough. Your people have a great sense of discipline.”

  Mallaloriva smiled. “They are born to obey.”

  Vishtanatar growled, “Obey, yes. How can a plains barbarian lead our army? His kind know nothing of obedience. I must lead.”

  While Mallaloriva hesitated, Voskov broke in. “They will follow the man you appoint, Great Queen. I have the experience you need. You’ve seen they will follow my commands. I am your best chance.”

  Before Vishtanatar could respond, the queen held up her hand. “You’ll have your chance, Duke Voskov. You’ve proven your skills as a sorcerer. As such, you are incapable of giving orders to the undead. Vishtanatar, you will command them under Voskov and he will directly command the living Hykori warriors.” Mallaloriva flared her golden fan. “I will hear no arguments.” She turned and left her generals.

  Vishtanatar took a step to glower down on Voskov. Voskov met the rage-filled gaze, though fear rushed through him. If he turned away now, he would surely suffer an “accident” in the upcoming battle.

  He steeled himself and stood his ground. “I’ll survey the town before issuing your orders. I’m counting heavily on the undead and know you won’t disappoint your queen.”

  With the two other Demon Lords flanking him, Vishtanatar took another step forward, forcing Voskov back. “Upstart. The queen risks her fodder to your command, but don’t think yourself above us. If you push me too far, your damnable luck and toys won’t save you.”

  Voskov slipped his left hand into his trinket bag. Touching the magic items was a hollow hope. Most of his sorcerous devices were useless against such as the Demon Lords. “Is this the defiance that destroyed the Empire? Is obedience only a virtue of Hykori peasants?”

  Vishtanatar said softly, “Know that your life rides on this battle. Fail, and you are mine.” He turned, brushing back the other Demon Lords and strode toward the knot of undead lifting Mallaloriva’s litter.

  The two lesser Demon Lords backed away from Voskov. Behind him came the sound of a blade ramming into its scabbard.

  He turned. Chenna stood in a loose but ready stance, her hand cupping the pommel of her sword. Her nearby companions looked to Chenna for a signal.

  “The queen’s command was to keep you healthy. Against any who want it otherwise is how I take that command.” Chenna smiled grimly smile and gracefully settled on the ground.

  Viewed from a nearby volcanic spire, the town of Raven’s Crag barely rated as small pickings. Much of the interior appeared devoted to goat and sheep pe
ns for animals brought into the town each night. A seam of tin below the town provided the only other reason for its existence. The walls were twice a tall man’s height but in good repair.

  There was movement within the town―purposeful movement and the gates were closed.

  Voskov hopped down from the side of the spire. As the thrill of battle grew, the weight of his silver-washed mail felt like nothing.

  He approached Queen Mallaloriva where she waited with the Demon Lords. Despite the chill, she fluttered her golden fan. Her sheer, silken gown shone whitely in the morning light. The Demon Lords clustered around her like tattered moths around a flame.

  “They know we’re coming. Our scouts aren’t good enough to give us surprise.” Voskov sketched a bow toward the queen and repositioned Madman on his back.

  “It will not matter, my Queen,” Vishtanatar said. “They expect a raid, not an attack by all of our undead and the whole of the true Hykori people.”

  Mallaloriva snapped her golden fan shut with a loud crack. “Yes, it will matter. More of my people will die. If I didn’t care about this last pitiful few, I wouldn’t have hidden the children and bearing women. I’d have let Bringer kill all the warriors and raise them to serve as undead. This must be a Hykori victory, not merely proof our necromancy remains potent.”

  Vishtanatar rocked back from Mallaloriva’s fury. The other Demon Lords slid away from him. “Of course, my queen. The undead will be in the first rank and will attract the arrows of the defenders. If your new favorite has a plan to spare Hykori lives, I give him my full support.” Vishtanatar favored Voskov with a smile that chilled far more than the raw highland air stinging his cheeks.

  Voskov cleared his throat. “If I’m still the warlord, I have a plan.” As he waved over the natural leaders he had found among the Hykori warriors, Vishtanatar’s gaze bored through him.

  Voskov glanced at Mallaloriva’s approving expression. He felt taller, broader and in full command. The cold part of his mind warned of her glamor spell. It didn’t matter. Hate pouring like a mist off Vishtanatar didn’t matter either.

  The four living Hykori warriors gathered with Chenna between them and the Demon Lords.

  “The townsmen know we’re here and will be ready at the walls,” Voskov said. “The Demon Lords will lead the undead and the archers to the western wall. It is the lowest point and folds in the ground will shelter any archers wounded in the approach. Half of the spearmen will come behind them with ladders, prepared to scale the wall if the archers can clear it. The picked men will stay with me.”

  Chenna took her position at Voskov’s back and one of the leaders gathered the best warriors to join them.

  Vishtanatar turned on his heel and stalked off, his brothers following.

  Complying with Voskov’s orders, the Hykori army sorted itself out. A wide empty zone surrounded the patch of ground where Bringer roused the undead to order. Vishtanatar and his fellows spread out before the undead. Voskov watched closely as the Demon Lords made hand gestures and started a low chant. The undead moved into ranks as smart as anything on a Tuskaran Temple parade ground. The breeze shifted and reminded Voskov of a vital difference.

  The Demon Lords led their one hundred undead troops over the hill. The archers and the rest followed. Scattered within the archers were drummers and a pair of priests spinning bullroarers. Common spearmen carried the notched trees to serve as ladders.

  At the sight of the approaching Hykori force, the Macmar on the walls trailed off their traditional taunts and whistling. The sheer numbers of attackers would upset the defenders. The heartbeat pulse of drums and the nerve-thrumming hollow sound of bullroarers would only shake them more.

  Voskov spared little further attention to the advance of the main force. He studied the town, sure a sally port lay hidden near the wall.

  The scout’s dark form flew over Voskov’s picked band of warriors and landed on Voskov’s shoulder. The scout’s tiny claws slid along the polished side of Voskov’s lobster-tail helmet as it attempted to find a comfortable perch. “Nobly Born, the place you seek is on the south side, an opening in the rocks above the mine. It is as you predicted. Two Macmar came from the opening and spied out the advance of your army. If the wall is assaulted, they can follow a gully that will place them behind your army.”

  Voskov grinned.

  Shouts and cries drew his attention back to the town. Hykori archers sent volleys of arrows and the undead ran toward the wall carrying ladders. The Macmar missiles aimed all their missiles at the approaching undead. Only one of the necromantically driven creatures fell under the storm of arrows, javelins and stones. The undead planted ladders at the wall’s base and rushed up, though several Macmar used poles to try and push the ladders away.

  The undead swarmed over the parapets. Shrieks of pure terror mixed with the sounds of battle.

  Voskov signaled for his picked band to follow. He led the warriors to a point above the gully his scout circled. Noise of movement rattled up from the unseen fold in the ground. Voskov waved for his warriors to lie down. Beside him, Chenna drew her blade and licked her lips. Rough Macmar voices drifted up from the gully.

  At the wall, the combat raged on. Voskov couldn’t see the top from his angle, but none of the undead moved up the ladders. Good. If Visht wins without me, I’m a dead man.

  Amid the confusion in the gully, a Macmar voice shouted for order. They’ll strike soon.

  A shift in movement drew Voskov’s attention back to the wall. Undead Hykori backed down a ladder. Before the last one reached the ground, one of the Demon Lords scrambled up the notched tree trunk. Near the top, the armored creature drew a sword as long as Voskov’s arm and moved beyond view. But flurry of ringing sounds, like maniac working a forge, reached Voskov’s ears.

  With the howls of hunting wolves, Macmar warriors boiled from the gully below Voskov. Thirty or more men in studded leather jerkins, strap iron caps and brightly painted round shields rushed out waving swords and axes. They shouted to strike fear into the attacking Hykori and to strengthen their comrades on the wall. The surprise flank attack would deliver an impact beyond their numbers. Voskov rose and waved his own attack forward.

  With cries of “Mallaloriva!” Voskov’s force turned the surprise on the Macmar. For this battle, Voskov avoided Madman in favor of a more conventional Shushkachevan blade. Voskov swung his heavy saber and cut down a warrior from behind. The man fell forward with a cry of shock and rage.

  Another man turned to face Voskov. Before he could bring up his shield, the Macmar took a cut across his tattooed face. He rolled forward and slammed his shoulder into Voskov’s chest. The stunning blow then the hard ground drove the air from his lungs. Mail rings punched his ribs.

  As Voskov reached for his lost saber, the bloody-faced Macmar lifted his single-bitted axe. Chenna pounced on the man―at least Voskov recognized Chenna’s armor.

  The face that lifted from the Macmar warrior’s throat was as much feline as human. Battle had transformed his bodyguard from a half-breed wench into a ravening beast. It confirmed Voskov’s worst fears of taking women into battle.

  She sprang up from the messily dead Macmar and glided to Voskov’s side. Chenna wiped away some of the blood but would certainly be a more fearsome opponent than Voskov appeared. Fine. My enemies will concentrate on her.

  As Hykori warriors speared or grappled with their enemies, the Macmar attack became an immediate rout. The numbers were roughly even, but the Macmar broke before their own attack really began.

  When Voskov bent to retrieve his saber, Chenna hissed at him. Bodyguard or no, he would not be kept out of his own battle.

  His scout swooped in and landed on his back, staggering him. “Duke Voskov!” Its arm shot into view from over his shoulder, pointing at a doorway opening in the southern wall. The small, irregularly shaped slab of stone had blended with the wall. A dozen or more Macmar raced for the safety the door offered. Voskov ran for the portal without thought. Chenna scree
ched with anger. He assumed she followed.

  Three Macmar beat him to the opening. Two frightened young warriors looked beyond Voskov and began pulling the door shut. Chenna shot past and dove into the men at the door. One of the young men wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. As she struggled and bit him, the screaming warrior held on. The other doorkeeper smashed the back of Chenna’s head with his sword pommel.

  As Voskov sprinted to the door, he glanced behind. Four more Macmar ran only steps behind him. The nearest Hykori warriors were too far away to help. He gritted his teeth, hurled his mundane saber at the nearest Macmar behind him and drew Madman.

  Rage and hunger flared along his arm, through his chest and into his head. He turned this hunger into a war cry and called out to the spirits trapped in his weapon.

  The psychotic spirits awoke within the blade and rushed to join with him in carnage. Three more steps and Voskov reached the doorway. With the strength surging inside the blade, Madman was a deadly piece of steel. Voskov hacked down the surviving door guard, shattering his shield, arm and head in one blow. The other young warrior lay with his face and neck shredded and his arms wrapped around Chenna’s still form.

  Voskov spun inside the doorway and thrust Madman into the chest of the Macmar running closest behind him. He kicked the corpse off his blade and into the next warriors as they tried to pull the door back open.

  He turned to check his back. The warriors who had run through the doorway before him were not in sight. He stood in a narrow street between the town’s wall and a long sheering shed. Chenna lay at his feet and no enemies at his back. He wouldn’t leave her and couldn’t carry her back outside.

  Voskov chopped at the next warrior. The tattooed man took the blow on his ward-marked shield. The wood split and bones in his arm snapped with a sickening crack. The man screamed