Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  “My lady, I wish you would change your mind and go with them. You have a good eye with that pistol.”

  Her lips narrowed. She stared ahead for a moment before answering. “You said yourself that they will be safe. If Voskov and those … things are heading west toward Raven’s Crag, a whole town is in danger. If you are stopped, I may be able to get through with a warning. The greater responsibility lies there.”

  She threw back one side of her blue riding cape and held out her pistol. Beneath the cape, she wore the fine mail that had belonged to the smaller of the two Macmar nobles. “Perhaps Auros will keep my aim true.” She looked down at the pistol and said softly, “Please, I must do something.”

  It struck Karro again how much Lady Kestran reminded him of Ystret. Recalling Ystret’s laughter as they rode together across sunny fields, the chill and flurries faded away. Ystret was happy and full of life. His only care was mustering her bride-price. Her death and his entry into Auros’s service were so near and completely unimagined.

  A gust of cold air blurred his vision briefly. He drew a deep breath and looked over at Kestran. She was physically different from Ystret’s tanned litheness, but the spark was there. I can’t send her back.

  He took a final look at the burning inn that served as a pyre for Balanar, Talodan and the others. At this point, it would not die out and leave enough of the bodies to tempt the necromancers.

  Talodan, I’m sorry I doubted you even for a moment. Be with Borla again and know I will avenge you.

  He turned Vision onto the trail up to Raven’s Crag and glanced at the gray sky. Snow fell steadily but thinly. “We should get moving. We have a lot of ground to cover before the heavy snow comes.” The mixture of relief and gratitude on Kestran’s face cut deeply into him.

  As much as he wanted other for her, he would feel the same way. Stacking his life against stopping something truly evil had never been an issue. He could no more refuse to make that choice than he could refuse to fall if he stepped off a cliff.

  Loose shale slid down the hillside ahead of them. Kestran slid the cap away from her pistol’s priming pan. Karro’s gaze darted around. There were no trees or brush on the rocky hill to shelter attackers.

  They had been ambushed twice since dawn. Ragged runaway serfs and scarecrow Hykori had rushed at them with rocks and clubs. Kestran’s pistol and Karro’s sword quickly checked the insanity driving rabble to attack mounted warriors.

  He expected to reach Raven’s Crag by mid-morning. With Hykori clansmen acting so aggressively, the town could even be under a loose siege. He urged Vision to a canter, scanning the low hills on either side of the road.

  The damp hills funneled a strong, rancid breeze down the road. Kestran coughed and then called out, “Karro, what is that smell?”

  He slowed Vision. Let it be something else. But he knew the reek of a battlefield all too well.

  The empty road turned between two hills and ramped up to a walled town. Mining tackle and overturned carts ringed several open pits far to his right. Scores of scavenger birds drifted over the town. More of the dark birds clustered around fresher fare.

  Rage made his head pound to the beat of his pulse, briefly dimming his sight. Dozens of wooden statues carved whole from mountain bloodwood, each draped with rotting offerings, dotted the slope up to the town. The nearest totem bore rude likenesses of armored Demon Lords looking up toward a grinning woman. Three bodies were spiked to the statue. Wisps of white hair topped the picked-over faces. Marks from blades and hot irons peeked through shredded cloth.

  Beyond that statue stood another, fire blackened and bearing four tiny, charred bodies as grizzly fruit. Behind him, Kestran stifled a sob.

  Hykori clustered around a huge tree-statue near the wall. Fire blazed in their midst and cries of pain and fear cut through the excited roar.

  Karro estimated forty or more Hykori and serfs on their feet. Debris on the slope told of a much larger force recently departed.

  A shout rang out from the back of the crowd. Karro pointed to a pile of rocks flanking the road and said, “Climb into that niche and leave the horse blocking the entrance.” Kestran nodded and slid her pistol into her cape. She dismounted and pulled out one of the arquebuses taken from the inn. Keep your honor dagger ready, he thought but knew she would not allow herself to be taken.

  Part of the Hykori mob ran down the slope toward the Tuskarans. At their head danced a skinny man―a priest―in a bloody cape. He brandished a long knife while the men near him had wooden spears with fire-hardened tips.

  Karro drew his sword and kicked Vision into a canter that became a gallop as he neared the Hykori. The mob slowed in confusion that a lone man charged them.

  A man near the Hykori priest fell back, clutching at a large red hole in his chest. Karro then heard the report of Kestran’s arquebus.

  An instant later, Vision crashed into the priest. They hit chest to chest and the man hurtled through the crowd, knocking several “warriors” down. Karro struck left and right, snapping crude spears and severing arms. A stone flew past his unprotected head.

  After a brief flurry of clumsy spear thrusts, the mob tried to scatter. Karro continued hacking at them, splitting skulls and chopping into backs when none stood to face him. Vision’s steel-edged hooves struck out, taking a heavy toll among the unarmored Hykori.

  Karro drove the survivors back toward the fire. He cut from side to side, keeping the mob from scattering. Those who hadn’t joined in the attack stood numbly as one Knight subdued a score of their comrades.

  He reined Vision to a trot and circled the mob several times in silence, the Eye of Justice emblazoned on his shield boring into them. By his third pass all had dropped their weapons, and many fell into serf-bows.

  In an open spot near the fire, the mob’s latest Macmar victim lay on a board. His skin had been the priest’s cape. Three women were tied over barrels for convenient violation. Beyond the barrels struggled a tightly trussed group wearing the remnants of Macmar finery.

  “Release them,” Karro ordered. The cowed Hykori scrambled to carry out his command.

  As soon as his bonds were cut, a badly bruised Macmar pushed through the mob. The man had one eye swollen shut, but the other darted from face to face in the crowd. He grabbed a serf by the collar and dragged the man to Karro. “This one. He knows where the rest are locked up.”

  Before Karro could ask the man what he meant, another freed Macmar picked up a makeshift spear and slammed it into a serf’s belly.

  “Stop!” Karro shouted.

  The Hykori and the newly released Macmar froze.

  From his vantage point atop Vision, Karro pointed to each of the Macmar and motioned them to his side. “The rest of you, on your bellies. I will render judgement soon.”

  Karro dismounted as Kestran rode up at a trot, the arquebus laid across her saddle. He put a hand on the shoulder of the bruised Macmar. “What others are you talking about?”

  “These bastards have hauled in every lone traveler and small group they could find. That one”―he pointed at the serf he had grabbed earlier―“led a band of runaways who fell on my party last night. We were escorting the daughter of the Alentar of clan Alentar. The serf will know where she is.”

  Karro motioned for the serf to rise. The man obeyed, shaking and gripping his hands tightly. Karro looked into the man’s face and said, “You heard him. Where is the Alentar’s daughter?”

  The serf’s face went even paler. His gaze darted toward the barrels and the shallow graves beyond. “Some are in the mines.”

  Karro gripped the bruised Macmar’s shoulder tightly. Still addressing the serf he said, “Stay on your feet. Lead this man to all of the others.”

  The Macmar brushed red hair out of his good eye and breathed slowly. “I am Yuromar of clan Alentar. We’ll speak more when I have all of my people.” He strode to the serf. Taking the man by a handful of hair, he forced the serf in the direction of the mines.

  Kestran
dismounted and gathered up rough blankets from the ground. She draped these around the shaking Macmar girls cut loose from the barrels.

  Karro remounted in case any Hykori decided to run. He called down to his prisoners, “Who was with Voskov’s army?”

  None answered. He kept his rage in check. “You may buy your life with information.”

  An injured Hykori came forward.

  Karro poked at the fire. A final bite and he finished his chewy hunk of bread. Across the fire, Lady Kestran stared up at the stars. She sat with her back toward the overloaded, makeshift gallows. The abused Macmar girls huddled up against her, but they regularly stole glances behind them.

  Beside Karro, Yuromar snapped another stick and added it to the pile at his feet. “She was my niece, as well as my charge.” Unlike a Tuskaran man, he cried freely. “With her marriage, Alentar and Vesmar would have ended our feud.”

  Karro leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Were any Vesmar men in your party? Were any from that clan killed here?” Macmar feuds dragged on long after the original cause was forgotten. One way to end a feud was with a marriage. The most lasting way was to find a more hated, common foe.

  Yuromar nodded. “Oh, aye. Several Vesmar died here.” He lifted his chin and pointed toward the wall behind Karro. “Raven’s Crag was home to most of the Vesmar weavers and dyers. Tomorrow I’ll go into yon open crypt and see if I can find the Vesmar’s heir. I can at least bury him with his bride.” The last brought tears of rage. Yuromar struggled to his feet and grabbed an iron bar to beat the hanging bodies with―once again.

  Thirty prisoners, most travelers snatched up by runaway serfs, had been retrieved from the mines. They came from many different highland Macmar clans. The exhausted survivors crowded near the fires and shared the few blankets for warmth. Half of these people are feuding with the other half.

  “When you get home, remember who you should really fear,” Karro said. Understanding dawned in a few faces.

  Kestran stroked the hair of one of the girls. The young redhead sat staring blankly into the fire. Karro crouched next to Kestran and spoke softly in Old Tuskaran. “I’m sorry that you had to see this. I know you’ve seen battle before, but the dispensing of Justice can be difficult to watch.” A gust of wind made the gallows groan under its load.

  “Karro, I understand all too well. In the Delta, I was the victim of a witch,” Kestran said in the same language. She looked at the backs of her hands as she smoothed her skirt. “Her crime was such that I executed the punishment myself.” Her voice trailed off to little more than a whisper. Her fists were clenched; she released them slowly, palms upward.

  Karro clamped down on his emotions. Under Tuskaran law a woman carried out the sentence for only one crime. Witchcraft against a child! He put a comforting hand on her arm. She leaned forward into him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She stood and he followed her away from the fire. Frost-crusted mud crunched under their feet.

  Abruptly, Kestran turned and slid her arms inside his cloak. She pulled close to him, her hands on the small of his back. He spread his cloak around her and held her as she buried her face against his chest and cried.

  Yuromar stalked over, breathing heavily and still carrying his bar. When he drew near, he opened his mouth to speak. As he spotted Kestran, his good eye widened. He snapped his mouth shut and rejoined the other Macmar by the fire.

  Kestran leaned back. Slight impressions dented her cheek where her soft skin had conformed to his chainmail. She said, “I’m sorry, Karro. I thought I could detach myself from the horror. But seeing the statues and those tiny burned…”

  She took a deep breath. The muscles flexed along her jaw. After a moment, she continued, “What you did here was more than Just. It was necessary. In the Delta I saw things like those carvings and bloody altars―vile things made by people who are less than human. But they never had the power to destroy a whole town. You must let me come with you and help you.”

  He considered the hard trail he and Talodan had followed in pursuit of Voskov. The creatures and spells the sorcerer used cost the tracker his life.

  A trick of the flickering firelight played a stripe of red across Kestran’s throat. For an instant, it resembled Talodan’s throat after the beastman struck.

  “I’m pledged to Auros,” Karro said. “It’s my duty to destroy Voskov and all this evil. You still have a life to live. You shouldn’t spend your years wandering the land.”

  She stepped back and crossed her arms. “I’m a noble. I can spend my life as I see fit. I can do more riding with you than spinning and weaving in some widow’s tower.”

  He nodded. “Yes, you are a noblewoman. It isn’t right for you to roam the land. Do you wish to be known as a ‘traveling companion’?” He was glad he stood with his back to the fire so Kestran could not see his blush from even hinting at such rumors. If embarrassment saved her life, then the borderline insult was justified.

  Kestran’s eyes grew round, but immediately narrowed as she gained a crafty expression. “It would look bad for us both even if I don’t wear a yellow skirt.” She pointed a finger at him. “You’re right. We should marry first.”

  “What!” Karro wanted her, but he gave up that kind of life a long time ago. “I have no home, no way to care for you now, let alone when you grow old.”

  The look of determination stayed on her face.

  “I have no place for you to go when it is time to bear and raise children.”

  Her fierce look vanished and she pressed against him again. With her head down, he could barely hear her say, “The witch killed the child within me and left me barren. Karro, I cannot have my own children. Let me help you protect others.”

  He was chilled to the core. Mechanically, he patted her head as she huddled against him.

  When they returned to the fire, the others made space for them. Yuromar rose and several men followed suit. “We all know that a Knight of Auros has the right to give justice. Why do we wait to hang the rest of the runaways? Have them done with and we can return to our lands.”

  Karro pushed back his cloak. The cold rushed in, but he wanted the men to see the Eye of Auros on his chest. “Only the ones who harmed these girls were hanged. We will return the serfs to their masters. If we find any of the masters dead, we’ll hang that serf and move on.” The band of mixed clansmen would learn to work together. As they went from burned out farm to looted hamlet, each would see that all their lands were threatened.

  Yuromar grimaced but gave a short bow of assent. “At least we can make the Hykori dance on some rope. That yellow bastard admitted that they gathered here to join with that Shusk magicman. They have no masters to go home to. Set them free and they’ll join Voskov’s army.” He gripped his hands together as though a thin throat lay between them, growing thinner as he spoke.

  “I doubt it matters to you, but the man lied. If Voskov wanted them along, he would have taken them. The recent tracks from here go farther into the mountains. These remnants have no place in the army and no place to return to. We’ll take them down to the king’s mines, where they’ll be watched and pay for their crimes.”

  Yuromar was not pleased.

  A hand rested on his shoulder. Kestran leaned in and whispered, “And what of us?”

  “We’ll see the Macmar and the criminals back to more hospitable lands and then go to the king. If he raises a force to go after the sorcerer, the clans will send men too.”

  Kestran gave a tight-lipped smile. He had not answered her real question.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Duke Voskov, I am well pleased with your work,” Mallaloriva said, sitting at the head of the long table. “The living troops look as good as auxiliaries during the days of the Empire. You’ve developed tactics simple enough for the Macmar undead to be useful in battle.”

  Voskov felt no need to share the credit, however well-earned, with Vishtanatar. Turning the queen’s mob into a real army had been difficult. Voskov kne
w cavalry tactics and Vishtanatar learned war during a day when his empire had unlimited resources. The queen’s army was now suitable for large-scale bludgeoning battles; before, it had only been ripe for its own slaughter. Voskov counted on the queen’s people in the Delta supplying him with skirmishers and light infantry to protect the flanks of his blocks of undead spearmen.

  A cold wind blew down the pass, chilling Voskov again. His head ached and his eyes burned.

  After the hard winter’s march, the queen’s tent was one of the few shelters intact. Yet it did little to block the steady, icy gale coming down the Pass of Oblivion. He shivered in silence.

  Before Mallaloriva could resume her praises of Voskov’s work, Vishtanatar strode through a side panel and spoke into the queen’s ear.

  She motioned a swamp dweller to her side and whispered instructions. Voskov sat forgotten.

  Voskov was one of the few living lowland born people in the queen’s army. Solitude compounded his misery during the march through the Demon’s Teeth mountains. Even Chenna viewed his taking her into his tent as more for recreation than a need for warmth. When she shifted during lovemaking, it was still a shock, but a pleasant one when he realized how warm she became in that form. After being branded a traitor and servant of demons, “pervert” seems a trivial label.

  The past two days had been even worse than the constant freezing weather he had endured for months in the high valley. Inside the pass, Voskov still suffered from the cold winds. But scouting beyond the base of the pass took him into the already sweltering spring heat of the Delta. His trips between the Delta and the icy cold inside of the Pass added a head and chest cold to his other pains.

  He blew his nose. After a few moments, it was apparent the queen had no further use for him. He stood to leave and bumped into Bringer.

  The skeletal necromancer gave Voskov what had to pass for a grin. “Your pardon, noble general,” Bringer said in a dry voice little above a whisper. “I need to speak with you on a topic which may impact your campaign.”