Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Karro led his force west along the Etronier River toward its meeting with the Heart. Every day or two, the Etronier route took them to a city with a closed Temple. Recruiting went well.

  The route allowed regular breaks in the march to take the entrumas down to the river for a splash and wallow.

  “They’re like children, Holy Knight.” Allundinar, the healer, quirked a grin and pointed at the river. Some of the troops splashed water and mud onto the entrumas. The animals dove under the surface and rose with playful blasts of air and water. The large beasts moved smoothly in the water. On the road, they moved at a pace that pressed the footmen to match. The faster pace of the entrumas more than made up for the extra care they required.

  Karro and Allundinar laughed as an entruma surfaced, tossing a man into the air. “I meant the men, Holy Knight. But the beasts seem no more mature.”

  A clattering sound drew Karro’s gaze back along the road. A few peasants pushed carts loaded with hay. Beyond them, an armored rider kicked up dust with his pace. As he neared, his dusty cape flew open to reveal a white lining. His armor was Tuskaran.

  The man slowed as he drew close. The riding cape settled into place, revealing black stitching in the shape of a forward-curved Tuskaran sword.

  The rider removed his open-faced helmet. Dark brown hair topped a severe face. The man’s brown eyes fixed on Karro. “You are the Knight, Karro?”

  Karro nodded. “Where does Auros send you? May I help your journey?”

  Loud honking in complaint announced the end of the entrumas’ midday watering. The lancer’s eyes grew wide as he noticed the entrumas, but he said nothing. “You are the destination. I will return for Baron Lokhaz and the rest. We are here to join your army. Auros has been kind. My lord, many noble Tuskaran houses have sent men to ride with you. The baron leads them, as is right for your kinsman.”

  As the lancer galloped away, Allundinar asked, “Holy Knight, Temple troops and Tuskaran lancers to dig a pack of Hykori from a swamp? How many times-over can we kill a sorcerer?” The old man chuckled while mimicking raining blows on Voskov.

  Karro patted Vision’s shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he felt confident of not only killing Voskov but surviving. Karro had two more towns in which to recruit before reaching HighGround.

  A crashing of harness and wheels drew his attention to the first entruma-drawn wagon reaching the road.

  Grinning footmen prodded other entrumas past Karro. Vision was not bothered, but other horses bucked and bolted when the animals came near. He had one of those rare feelings of well-being. The years taught Karro to savor them.

  The column formed and marched west. At HighGround, Karro expected to find some Macmar rallied to avenge Raven’s Crag. The priest of Sivek would have a consecrated band of Mist troops waiting as well. Karro sighed.

  For his strange army, he certainly had the right draft beasts. An entruma began its weird honking. The rest soon joined. Karro hummed in time.

  ~~~~~

  Kestran hummed an old song as she guided her horse toward the burned-out shell of a farm. Broad-leafed growth waved in the doorway. Voskov’s hellish army had passed this way over a month ago.

  Zamkrik paced his mount at her right. His posture appeared relaxed as he surveyed the ruins. It would make a good place for camp. She waved at her maid, horse groom and two Macmar arms men to join them.

  Zamkrik would see the camp set up safely, as he had since Kestran caught up to her lastman and the others at Wasp Hill. Their journey into the Delta to deliver word of King Chuvrek’s promise of aid would be circumspect as they avoided Voskov’s army.

  It gave Kestran time to reflect on her new direction in life. That she had a direction was a blessing she had never hoped to see again.

  Thinking of Karro on his recruiting journey, she couldn’t help but chuckle. Whenever he spoke of Chuvrek’s support, he spat low, ancient and foreign curses. While he fumed over how inadequate eight hundred silver pieces would be, Kestran had taken the opportunity to straighten out his saddlebags.

  Inside, she found dozens of gold coins with only a few recognizable letters or faces struck into them. Karro’s bags also revealed jewels including a ruby as wide as her thumbnail and several exquisite rings. She was certain he’d forgotten having them.

  Satisfying as those finds had been, some of the other things he had carried with him for centuries fascinated her. There was a piece of bone carved like a hand of fidelity, with a dozen strands of long auburn hair tied around it. The token was nearly brown and rounded smooth from handling.

  He also carried high quality bowstrings and a set of jeweler’s tools. Honing oils and cloths lay at the top of his saddlebags along with the fidelity token. The rest, coins and jewels, had settled toward the bottom of the bags, forgotten.

  Tana, her maid, scoured the overgrown garden for herbs to liven the meal―yet another worthwhile skill the girl had picked up on this journey.

  Looking for other signs around the ruins, Kestran hoped for a better feel for how close Voskov’s army might be. Blue Harbor was over a week away by trail or three days by barge.

  Kestran decided to send all her servants but Zamkrik back to the Silver Temple. Risking their lives further would be irresponsible. Zamkrik was her lastman. He would stay with her to the end.

  Zamkrik paced his warhorse into view. With the sun setting, he became more alert. The danger from skulking swampies would be greater after sundown. Kestran would trust Zamkrik’s eyes. Surely the True God had a better end for them than a forgotten death in the swamp.

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the only hill near Blue Harbor’s north side, Voskov watched as the morning swamp mist burned away. Before he could see most of his own army, the spires and walls of the city were revealed. In the distance, they appeared like a child’s toy rather than a fortress. The red and gold enameled face of the Riverine’s mechanical clock tower above the Chutaroo Ward seemed to frown at him. A true marvel, a full sweep of its polished copper arm divided day and night into ten equal segments.

  The night’s insects had fled. After a short respite, the day’s levies of insects and the relentless heat would arrive. Voskov felt at peace. The frantic preparations for battle were done and all that remained was the killing.

  Or dying. The steely voice of the Other within Madman spoke to Voskov although he had no flesh in contact with the sword. Its presence drew closer to him, interrupting thoughts or peering out through his eyes. After this battle, Voskov vowed to give the sword to Visht as a reward. The souldrinker had a crucial role to fill today and all knew what a powerful artifact Madman could be. Visht and the malign spirit lurking within Madman deserved each other.

  Swamp mist faded. Blue Harbor’s army formed up just as Voskov’s spies had promised. To his left, Riverine pikemen formed under intricate banners, red being the predominant color.

  Facing Voskov on his right were more Riverines, shield-bearing spearmen under austere banners with green fields.

  Some dispute in their distant homeland kept the Riverine forces in the Delta split. Between those forces from across the sea stood a mass of spearmen who were a double for Voskov’s own serfs three years ago—refugees from countless Macmar and Shushkachevan farms and plantations driven to Blue Harbor by Vishtanatar’s sweep of the outlaying parts of the Delta.

  Cavalrymen sat behind each block of infantry―Reds in garishly enameled plate armor on fine-limbed horses, Shushkachevan lancers and a few score mailed Riverines in green tabards.

  Nearly half of the Shushkachevan lancers were mounted on war dragons. Generally smaller than the dragons Voskov had owned on the Plains, these splay-footed lesser cousins were better suited to the swamps than the handsome-looking horses the Riverines rode.

  In the center, the Shushkachevan lancers made way as Tuskaran lancers opened lanes for a quartet of cast-iron cannon. More Tuskaran infantry, five hundred all told, formed around the guns.

  By now, Voskov had an almost superstitious
fear of Tuskarans. Thankfully, few had abandoned their small farms for the city.

  According to Voskov’s sources, the general for this array had been chosen last night in a strategy session that came little short of a brawl. Inevitably, the command fell to the highest ranking noble of the Reds, as they were the main political power in the city.

  Voskov would have felt more confident had the Blue Harbor force not outnumbered him so heavily in reliable troops. They chose to face him now rather than wait on the army assembling under that damned Paladin. Queen Mallaloriva would not consider missing the chance to deal with Blue Harbor on its own.

  The defenders amassed over five thousand infantrymen and nearly eight hundred horse and dragons. The latter represented a major feat in the swampy terrain. Voskov had fewer than five hundred cavalrymen of all qualities, mounts and loyalties.

  Voskov waited behind nearly four thousand infantry, mostly fresh undead. Less than one hundred living Hykori remained of the force which had stormed Raven’s Crag. Those guarded the queen’s pavilion. The undead and mobs of rudely trained swampies were no match for the professionals filling the Riverine ranks.

  Voskov had confidence in his own mercenary cavalry under Marotan Suvlochin. They were hard men who would earn their pay. Other small bands had come in, bringing his mercenaries to over three hundred, half on dragons and half on skirmisher ponies or riding upright lizards.

  He had less confidence in those Delta Shushkachevans who had allied with him in order to keep their plantations and wealth. Those men would turn on him in a heartbeat. He kept the fifty plantation lancers nearby where he could keep an eye on them.

  Denevia’s brother, Yazvaz, commented loudly enough for his voice to carry, “I’m glad my dragon is rested. Those walking corpses will be pounded into the mud before the sun is up three hands. If the Unogovpi are forced to chase us far in this heat, they may give up and let us go.”

  Yazvaz looked Voskov in the eye, a defiant set to his shoulders. The comment bothered Voskov even more as his horse had not adapted well to the thick Delta air and might not bear him to safety if Yazvaz’s prediction proved correct.

  The other nobles in Voskov’s band of Delta “allies” were less bold with the lives of their families. They doubtless hoped Yazvaz would prove right but said nothing.

  Voskov signaled toward Marotan Suvlochin. The mercenary captain led his two hundred cavalry forward, skirmishers on the wings with bows out and strung. The peacock feathers on Suvlochin’s lobster-tail helmet bobbed as he led the dragons in the center at a trot.

  The cavalry maintained an easy pace as they moved through a lane left in the middle of the phalanx of undead. The pike-carrying corpses filled the neck of dry ground between the eastern branch of the Blue River and the stagnant body known as Fever Lake. Hykori necromancers closed the undead ranks behind Suvlochin’s mercenaries.

  Suvlochin shook his men out into two ranks. The plainsman skirmishers prepared to start the battle with harassing missile fire. They trotted across the farmed-over ground between the armies.

  All four Tuskaran cannon blasted in succession from left to right. Polished stone balls struck the exhausted earth well short of Suvlochin’s skirmishers. The soft ground kept the shot from bouncing on to hit any of Voskov’s other troops.

  Around him, Voskov’s plantation allies shifted nervously. “Yazvaz,” Voskov said casually. “This is how a real battle begins, not one of your little village-burning raids.”

  As they approached the Blue Harbor army, Suvlochin’s men spread out, shifting gradually to their left. The whole force stepped up to a canter and turned to face just the Red pikemen. Beyond the range of the few Red arquebusiers, Suvlochin’s men, skirmishers and lancers alike, let arrows fly from their recurved bows.

  The shieldless Red pikemen took few losses from the first volley. Most of the first rank of Reds wore hardened leather breastplates, metal helmets and broad forearm bracers. The second volley, likewise only dropped a dozen or so men. After the fifth volley, arquebusiers were flogged from the Red ranks to offer some return fire. Suvlochin’s lancers cased their bows.

  After an uncoordinated volley from those Reds, Suvlochin led his riders in close. The Shushkachevan skirmishers sent three or four arrows each while the Red arquebusiers struggled to reload their spindly weapons. The threat of Suvlochin’s dragon lancers kept the Red cavalry behind their infantry for the moment. In minutes, the few surviving arquebusiers fled the uneven exchange, running back through the still-steady ranks of their pikemen.

  Suvlochin’s skirmishers danced their painted ponies in complex patterns while shouting insults at the retreating Reds.

  Voskov’s spies said the Reds arquebusiers were hirelings from their society’s lowest tier. Among the Red group of Riverines, only pikemen and horsemen held any rank or respect.

  Suvlochin ordered his skirmishers in close for three volleys, sent from just beyond striking range of the pikemen. The Reds wouldn’t break ranks to chase the skirmishers but accepted their losses from deadly bow fire and kept their formation. Voskov had to admire their discipline.

  Finally, the Blue Harbor Shushkachevans advanced from behind the center of their army. Suvlochin already had his force returning along the river’s edge to splash around the left side of Voskov’s undead phalanx.

  “It seems your sell-swords lack the stomach to face their equals.” Yazvaz flicked his horsetail crop in the direction of the retiring mercenaries and their slowly pursuing Blue Harbor counterparts.

  “Use your eyes, boy,” Voskov snapped at the young noble. Unwilling ally or not, a Shushkachevan noble like Yazvaz had the duty to understand the details of a battle. That understanding had given their people mastery of the Plains. With a twist in his gut, Voskov realized he would have to use men such as Yazvaz to shore up his place in the Delta after they won here.

  “How many Red pikemen and arquebusiers did Suvlochin’s attack kill? Forty? Maybe another sixty injured badly enough to be out of the fight? I see two empty saddles in his force.” Voskov felt satisfaction at Suvlochin’s well-handled maneuvering against a dangerous enemy. Suvlochin always had a fine sense of timing.

  Yazvaz shrugged. “They still seem to outnumber you, er, us.”

  “Numbers don’t matter. I have another ten thousand swampmen waiting in the reeds across the Blue River. Most of them are only good for slaughtering the defenseless. No, it’s discipline that makes those Riverine formations so dangerous. We just hurt the Reds and gave them no chance to strike back. Those men will be harder to control the next time they’re used.”

  Again, Yazvaz shrugged. “So they’re mad. How does that help you?” The other Shushkachevans turned to glare at their comrade taunting the man who held all of their families hostage.

  “Isn’t their leader a Red?” Voskov asked.

  Several of the band nodded. One said, “Old Rumsotho is more Red than most, some kin to their emperor back across the sea.”

  “If your own troops were hurt, who would you send in a head-on attack, the same men or fresh troops?” Voskov answered himself before Yazvaz shrugged again. “You send in fresh troops. These new men will feel like they’re dying only to protect their general’s favorites.”

  Blue Harbor skirmishers trotted their drably painted light horses toward the undead phalanx. Most of these skirmishers were Shushkachevans, but more lightly armored than Suvlochin’s professionals. They swept across the front of the undead phalanx. Their unarmored targets were much less susceptible to arrows than the Red pike had been. As the skirmishers rode in closer to take better aim, a few undead dropped with arrows embedded in their skulls.

  The emboldened skirmishers rode in closer to expand on their success. Fifty arquebus-armed swampmen stepped out from behind the undead and gave back a volley. This fire panicked the skirmishers far more than the ten emptied saddles warranted.

  Swampmen ran back through the undead phalanx to reload and congratulate themselves. The Blue Harbor skirmishers trotted back thr
ough the levy spearmen separating the Green and Red formations. The Riverines jeered their passage. The Red commander’s shouted curses at his fainthearted light horse carried across the field.

  A thunderous roll sounded from huge Riverine kettledrums. A mounted man in glittering red plate paced his brightly barded mount at the head of a score of bannermen. Blue Harbor’s elected commander shouted grandly in the Riverine language and pointed his ribbon-draped lance at the undead phalanx.

  At the pace set by their giant drums, Blue Harbor’s Riverine infantry marched toward Voskov’s phalanx. The Red pikemen closed ranks in a manner revealing years of drill. The Greens, mostly refugees from their plantations, tried to match the maneuver. Blue Harbor’s armed Shushkachevan serfs fell back around the few hundred Tuskaran infantry protecting their guns.

  By closing their ranks, the combined frontage of the Red and Green formations could cross the narrowest strip of land between the river and the lake. That strip was where Voskov’s undead pike phalanx had to stop the Riverine attack.

  Suvlochin’s skirmishers had pulled fresh quivers of arrows and took up position behind the left flank of the undead. Voskov waved the best of his partially-trained swampmen up to support the right flank of the undead phalanx with their spears and blowguns.

  The Riverine force closed in step with the beat of their booming drums. A few arquebusiers ran ahead of the spear and pikemen to fire into the waiting mass of undead. Voskov’s arquebusiers returned fire from within the ranks of the undead. Once again, only a few skirmishers fell, but none of the undead.

  As the Riverine formations gathered themselves for the charge, Voskov signaled to a pair of Hykori priests.

  The feather-cloaked men spun their bullroarers to alert Ice, Redbeard and a handful of Bringer’s acolytes. The time for sorcery had arrived.

  Thirty strides separated the Riverine and undead formations as Voskov prepared for the clash. As Ice broke the first of his passion amulets, Voskov felt the sorcerous force released