Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Several Macmar and Hykori warriors reached the entrance at the same time. The Macmar fought desperately, both to reach safety and seal the entrance against the rest of the Hykori.

  Voskov cut or thrust to keep any Macmar from gaining the doorway. The power of his blade fed on the lives he took. The lurking presence inside Madman delighted in the slaughter. The smell of hot blood had become a sensual pleasure. At the pounding of boots, Voskov. Macmar militia shepherds and townsmen rushed from either end of the street.

  Voskov kicked the door open, knocking Macmar and Hykori alike from its arc. He took Madman in a two-handed stance and waded into the nearest enemies.

  The first man down was a fat dyer. Bright stains on his hands and clothes matched the blood welling around the blade in his chest. Voskov jerked the sword free and felt a surge of power. All the spirits inside the blade poured strength into his shaking arms and dropped a red veil over his vision.

  Unlike the other times using Madman, Voskov felt himself completely losing control over his body. The need for blood overwhelmed all other concerns as he hacked down skilled and unskilled opponents alike. The only protection he had was his armor and the ferocity of his attack. He could not divert his killing blows even to block or parry the strikes of terrified Macmar.

  It was like riding a berserk horse. All he could do was grip his sanity as his hands and feet moved to the will of another.

  Clearly, this other was recklessly skilled. The bodies of his enemies tripped his next attackers and their blood slicked the packed dirt street.

  The Macmar fled before the issue was decided outside the wall. With no enemies in sight, Voskov forced himself to sheath Madman.

  Blood never stuck to that blade. The thick red coating seeped into the metal. As a grip on him grudgingly released, Voskov felt the claw marks on his soul.

  Voskov regained mastery of his own body and nearly collapsed with relief. The dominant force within the blade felt bloated by the lives it had taken. It will be stronger next time.

  The first Hykori through the doorway were covered in blood, theirs and the vanquished. They stared at him in awe and fear. Voskov looked around and quit counting his victims at fourteen. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, smearing sticky blood. His beard already felt crusted with the fluids of death.

  Inside the doorway, Chenna, now back in the face he recognized, rolled to her side with a groan. Her pack was among the first bloody Hykori through the door and they clustered around, helping her to her feet.

  Still shaking from his efforts, Voskov shouted at his men, “You’re inside the town now. Get to the wall and help finish off the defenders. Call out ‘Mallaloriva’ so those in the town will know they’re doomed.”

  The report of an arquebus rang through the air. It was far too late for one of those weapons, rare in the highlands, to turn the tide of this battle.

  His warriors ran off both ways down the street, their war cries echoing from the flanking walls. Voskov checked on Chenna, who had propped herself against the wall. In the late morning light, it was clear her pupils were at different dilation. She tried to stand, but instead slid along the wall retching.

  “Rest. Stay down. Try to gather your wits.” Voskov spoke softly as he ran his hand around the back of Chenna’s head. Matted blood knotted her hair over swelling bruises. He felt no softness of a break in her skull. He stood; satisfied Chenna wouldn’t die immediately from the wounds. She had saved his life, but he had no more time to spare in this side street.

  He looked around for more enemies, but Chenna’s hand clutched his ankle.

  “You didn’t leave me.” Her words blurred together as she sank back to the dirt of the alley. “You protected me. I’ll never…”

  More Hykori came through the doorway. Voskov waved them over. He left one man, too old and thin to be a warrior, with Chenna and the other injured.

  He took the remaining six and entered the town. One of the men was Durinetav, the most promising of the leaders Voskov had appointed. The man returned the saber Voskov cast aside earlier.

  The streets of Raven’s Crag were narrow and dirty. The ward-marked doors stood shut and barred. Plenty of time to force each door later.

  Ringing, bellowing sounds of combat came from the western wall. General chaos and screams echoed from all points inside the town as the first groups of Hykori randomly spread terror. Voskov’s band cut through several sets of wood-slatted sheep pens. A commotion erupted at a tall stone building at the center of town.

  An undead Hykori staggered toward them as if running from something. It fell drunkenly against the railing of a pen. Seconds later, a huge Macmar ran up and smashed the creature with a stone-headed hammer.

  Two more undead rushed from an alley to grapple with the man. The first took a hammer blow to the chest and bounced off a wall. The second creature used that time to move around the Macmar. Before it leaped, its body went slack. It stared at something behind the stone building and simply stood there while the Macmar smashed its head into its chest.

  With a shout, Voskov’s band ran across the pen and scrambled over the wooden slats. The first Hykori received a blow from the deadly stone hammer as a reward for his swiftness. The next warrior perched atop the fence and jabbed his spear at the Macmar. Voskov walked up to the fence and thrust his saber through the slats and into the Macmar’s side.

  From the fence, Voskov looked down the street at the stone building. Perhaps twenty Macmar warriors and an equal number of armed townsmen stood in a loose battle array.

  Hykori, living or undead, charging from side streets in pairs and trios and were cut down before they realized what they faced. The undead ran in like pale, bone cyclones. But within heartbeats, they fell or spun around as if dazed and were swarmed by the Macmar.

  Voskov observed three of these attacks. At first, his men were anxious to fight, but after seeing the results of the undead attacks, they were content to wait on his command.

  Amid screams and shouting, a major Hykori band forced their way from an alley to face the last Macmar defenders. At the head of the attacking force strode a blood spattered armored giant.

  Visht. He would survive.

  The Demon Lord looked beyond the Macmar and saw Voskov’s band. A second Demon Lord appeared at Vishtanatar’s side. The lesser Demon Lord hefted an axe and led six undead in a rush as Vishtanatar looked on.

  This time, the undead did not become disoriented. The Macmar defenders fell like grain before the sickle. Each time the attack slowed, the Demon Lord moved to the place of greatest resistance and the advance continued. The main entrance to the stone building opened and a huge Macmar warrior, twin to the man dead at the fence, stalked forward bearing another of the huge stone hammers. An obese, blue-robed man with only a thin remnant of blond hair waddled beside him.

  The robed man made hand movements in the air that left a faint white glow following them. The Hykori undead stopped as if frozen. The axe-wielding Demon Lord shouted a command and the undead made slow, painful-looking movements forward. Meanwhile, the remaining Macmar chopped at the defenseless undead.

  The Demon Lord called out another chant. Voskov almost recognized the words when the chant cut off abruptly. The fat Macmar made another elaborate series of hand passes and the Demon Lord stood as still as any of the undead.

  The giant Macmar swung his hammer at the Demon Lord. The blow dented the cast bronze cuirass and shattered the hammer’s head.

  The Demon Lord startled from his enchantment. The ancient Hykori grabbed the Macmar warrior’s head in both hands and, with a violent twist, broke the man’s neck.

  Casting the body aside, the Demon Lord grabbed his axe and strode toward the Macmar spell weaver. The victim stood his ground and made another series of hand passes.

  With a shoving motion, the Macmar sent the glowing pattern to strike and wrap around the advancing Demon Lord. The spell weaver waddled up to the ensnared Demon Lord. Calmly, he drew a knife of veined, polished stone and cut
the ancient Hykori’s throat from ear to ear. The a Demon Lord’s armor collapsed, empty.

  Vishtanatar almost made it back to the alley when another glowing pattern wrapped around the leader of the Demon Lords. Most of the undead were down.

  The Hykori warriors in the square outnumbered the Macmar, but the sight of their champions being slaughtered like sheep had shaken them. The spell weaver stepped over Macmar and undead Hykori bodies to close on Vishtanatar. Voskov hesitated only a heartbeat.

  Drawing a deep breath, he leaped from the fence. Crying “Mallaloriva!” Voskov led his band into the square and cut down three of the remaining Macmar before the rest broke.

  He moved warily against the obese spell weaver. By his dark blue robe embroidered with an open book, the man had to be a Devoted of Carranos.

  Voskov’s first instinct was to hack down this brother of Karro. He resisted the emotion. Without Madman’s tainted influence, Voskov could use caution.

  Chenna charged into the square, more graceful injured than any warrior Voskov had seen. She seemed unaffected by the blow she had taken earlier.

  Twenty paces before she reached the spell weaver, the Macmar wizard pulled out a bone whistle and blew into it. Chenna hit the ground, writhing in agony.

  Voskov was on the man in four strides and swung his saber. He shattered the whistle and nearly severed the Macmar’s hand.

  Voskov drove his sword into the ground. I must have his knowledge.

  The terrified spell weaver drew his strange stone dagger.

  Voskov slapped it from the man’s good hand. “Your fight is over. Now you will be my tutor.”

  The Macmar spell weaver stared at Voskov while clutching his ruined hand. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. As a breeze brushed Voskov’s cheek, the spell weaver’s dazed look fled. A knife, its hilt in the shape of a bronze and silver serpent, buried itself in the Scribe’s throat.

  Vishtanatar stepped past Voskov and bent to retrieve his knife. “You’ll learn nothing from this dabbler.” The Demon Lord’s red eyes narrowed. “You could have waited for this”―he kicked the round body―“thing to kill me. I hate it, but I acknowledge my debt.”

  The Demon Lord quit the square. A handful of badly battered undead struggled to their feet, pushing broken bones into position before staggering after Vishtanatar or back to Bringer for repair.

  Voskov plucked the stone knife from the dead spell weaver’s hand. The grip was the sweat-dirty skin of some unfamiliar animal. The blade itself was a single piece of bloodstone. “You’re wrong, Visht. I learned a lot.”

  Voskov left the town for his victorious army to plunder. The noise and smells inside Raven’s Crag disturbed his concentration. He moved back to the tent he had pitched well up the slope above the town. Outside his tent, he felt the raw evening breeze and enjoyed being clean after the battle.

  Durinetav, the best of his Hykori warriors, stitched repairs into captured armor. The uninjured young man regarded Voskov with wide eyes.

  It has been a while since anyone has considered me a hero.

  On the ground by Voskov’s stool, Chenna rewrapped the dressings on her leg. She seemed nothing more than a healthy mixed-breed woman now, incapable of the bestial rage she had shown in battle. His emotions must have heightened during the fight, distorting his senses. She was a woman, no more.

  Voskov returned to a fascinating page in his Book of magic. As a victorious sorcerer-general with a town of expendable captives at his disposal, nearly every page offered him spells.

  He looked over the notes he had made over the past hour of evaluating spells. He broke a piece off his curl of parchment. “Durinetav, I have a shopping list for you. Go into our town to the pen where the women with young children are kept. Separate mothers with only one child from their children. Most will scream or wail. Get me four who fight. Bring them and their children to the workshop I showed you near the center of town.”

  The lanky Hykori set aside the new armor he was piecing together and scrambled to his feet. He made the Hykori bow with arms forward, his broad smile showing a willingness to serve rather than mere docile obedience. He was too intelligent to be one of Mallaloriva’s living fodder. I need a few like him bound to me.

  Something tickled at his memory. “Oh, yes. While you’re down there, find me three healthy young women for other experiments. Virgins would be best.”

  At Chenna’s wry expression Voskov’s face flushed with the mixed embarrassment and anger that comes from looking foolish in front of a servant.

  Virgins, after the taking of a town.

  “Get what you can and secure them behind the workshop. I’ll be in town tomorrow. You can amuse yourself there tonight if you wish.”

  Durinetav left with a smirk.

  Another battle and I’m alive. The Book is brimming with offers and Visht owes me his life.

  Moving into the tent, Voskov poured and drained a goblet of fair honeyed wine then laughed, his first laughter in over a month. It felt good. He closed his eyes and rolled his head to release the kinks from his neck. He sat on the ground near the low table. With a relaxed hand, he reached for the pitcher to get some more wine.

  “Allow me to pour.” Chenna’s voice sounded softer than Voskov had ever heard it. Her rolling highland speech had a soothing tone. Things were different now. Each had saved the other’s life.

  With his eyes still closed, he smiled. “Of course, my guardian.”

  She placed the goblet in his hand and caressed his forearm.

  Her breath moved up his arm and tickled his ear. “Today you were my guardian. I owe you my life twice over … my lord.”

  Her calloused hand stroked the back of his neck as she moved behind him. Powerful, thin fingers kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck and across his shoulders.

  He let his head roll back against the hard leather of her armored chest. Rocking his head slightly, he remembered how her breasts swelled the martial gear in a pleasant way.

  Chenna slid her hands across his chest under the loose shirt. Then her hands flowed up his neck and into his freshly washed and oiled beard.

  “No man would have stood over me and fought so many foes as you did. You slew as no warrior I have ever seen.” She stroked his cheek and kissed the top of his head. “Even the queen’s order will not send me from your side.”

  Voskov opened his eyes a crack. Long shadows from the peak behind the tent had brought an early twilight. Chenna’s thumbs worked the back of his neck, melting his will to stand.

  He reached up and followed Chenna’s arm to her shoulder and on to caress her cheek. She kissed his palm.

  As he stood, Chenna moved into his arms. Her leather jerkin was loose, offering him easy access.

  In the dark tent, only Chenna’s spicy smell and her ardor mattered. His throat felt rough. “We saved each other’s lives today. It’s the way of battle if we’re both to survive. It’s just another way we can do things for each other.”

  She rejected me before. Now she wants me for who I am, not for my title or wealth.

  Chenna’s moans at his touch brought Voskov a satisfaction he had never known. This woman wanted to be with him. She wanted his touch. The women he had taken before this were serfs, captives or nobles trying to manipulate him.

  Voskov kicked a stool and cursed the dark. “Let’s clear some space.” He picked up his small table and put it outside the tent. Below, small fires illuminated the town.

  He nearly tripped over his piled armor. Growling, he pushed it aside. Remembering the tome, he patted the ground near the entrance. He found the Book and laid it on his armor—face down.

  Chenna cleared more space―without stumbling or kicking piled debris inside. Voskov crawled onto a spread fur and found Chenna. He ran a hand over her torso. She now wore only a light arming shirt. She laces her armor too tightly. Unbound, Chenna was a buxom woman. He grinned in the darkness.

  They embraced, kneeling on the large fur Chenna had unrolled. Voskov
kissed her lips and met a hunger matching his own. His blood raced. He leaned her back to the point where they fell the rest of the way to the fur.

  Instead of waiting for him, Chenna pulled him to her. As they kissed again, Chenna rolled Voskov to his side and then onto his back. She broke their kiss and licked his neck before kissing him there and pressing against him.

  Voskov put his right hand on her left shoulder and rocked Chenna backward. She struggled while he positioned himself. As he slid on top of her, she pushed him back.

  This unexpected resistance fired his blood and he pressed down on her. He pushed her shirt up and squeezed a soft breast.

  They struggled in silence as Chenna’s refusal to submit confused but encouraged Voskov to greater passion. The rest of their clothes were torn or pushed aside as limbs entangled with the bunched fur bedding.

  Tightly grappled, Voskov finally took Chenna. Even at that point, she didn’t submit. The line between lovemaking and battle remained blurred, but the difference only encouraged him.

  She raked sharp fingernails across his back. He thrust deeply into her in response.

  Voskov pinned Chenna’s wrists above her head and held them down with his left hand. Still thrusting into her, he ran his right hand down to cup an ample breast. A thick fold of fur had gotten between them, but Voskov didn’t care.

  By Chenna’s panting and the accommodating movements of her hips, she took as much pleasure in the struggle as he did. She didn’t speak, but her breathing was an exciting, feminine panting.

  He had never enjoyed a woman like this before. Thrashing together in the darkness, Voskov felt himself building toward a long-delayed release―

  Torchlight flooded the tent. Voskov looked over his shoulder to see who had the arrogance to invade his privacy.

  Vishtanatar held back the tent flap with one hand and extended the torch into the tent with his other. At his side, Queen Mallaloriva looked down with a grin of sheer delight. “I see my general is enjoying the spoils of victory in the manner of a living man.”

  Beneath him, Chenna gave a petulant groan. Voskov turned to glare her into silence. Ice doused his passion. Her face was the softly furred, feline one he had seen in the morning’s battle.