The Dark Paladin

by Rex Jameson

  Valedar sighed deeply. He looked up at Aethis. His eyes were shimmering more than usual. He showed no other emotion.

  “That’s when we built the gate beneath Balahambria,” Valedar said.

  “What gate?” Aethis asked.

  “The gate to their worlds,” Valedar said, tears beginning to streak down his face. “An opening for her to walk through. We met, and she was as glorious in person as she had ever been in the projections. Golden hair. Pale skin. White dress. She looked like goodness personified, but her creatures were dark. They weren’t fire, not like we expected. They were like living shadows. We now know that there’s a difference, between the creatures she brought and the ones that arrived after her—the ones she prepared us for.”

  “Something else came through the gate?” Aethis asked.

  “Not right away,” the dark elf said. “Back then, Cronos the Creator walked our world. Everywhere he went, valleys grew greener. Fae forests sprouted between his toes. Where there was drought, he would cut his veins and rivers would flow to the Small Sea. He came to Balahambria, and he went down into the caverns to meet our guests. He fell in love, much like we had. She seduced him, and they went to bed down in the underworld. When she came out, she was a creature of darkness. We thought Cronos had corrupted her, but he did not return. We think he slumbers somewhere beneath the world, and she revisits him, keeping him from the surface. We visited with her for twenty years. We learned much. The Creator vanished for all that time, and we did not worry because she was there. Sometimes light. Sometimes dark.”

  Aethis shook his head. This story was far too fanciful for his tastes, but the elf appeared to believe his own legends. He didn’t appear to be lying or trying to deceive the King. Valedar’s eyes met with Aethis’ own and a frailty and vulnerability resided there in the elf. The King felt instantly sorry for him, whether he believed Valedar or not.

  “That’s when the others came,” Valedar said. “That’s when Orcus was upon us. He was… scaled… fat… and so large. The gateway’s portal bulged and swelled to fit his grotesque body. Rows of teeth and sharp claws. He had these leather wings that flared out and fingers on them that grasped elves and threw them into his maw. The fire demons came and then the undead. These creatures fought with the shadowy ones. She grappled with Orcus, but he was so much bigger. She called to us as we watched our people being devoured by claws, fire, bone and fangs…”

  “What did she say?” Adviser Jurgen asked, leaning in like everyone else in a huge circle of people just waiting on bated breath for every word of a story that might explain the undead.

  “Seal the city!” Valedar yelled, mirroring the woman’s loud command.

  “What did you do?” Aethis asked.

  “We did what she told us to do,” Valedar said. “We still trusted her. For the longest time, we thought that she was not the one we were fighting. We came out of the caves, losing so many, and we had so many meetings. Then we found out what really happened…”

  “What happened?” Aethis asked.

  “Lots of things,” Valedar said. “A new race of creatures appeared to the southeast. A corrupted race. King Calenanna’s people, some of them had been deformed.”

  “Calenanna,” Jurgen said. “You mean the wood elven king?”

  Valedar nodded absently. “Their muscles had grown so large that the weight of it hunched them. They couldn’t take to the trees without breaking the limbs. They talked strangely, and they were vicious and feral. They killed the King’s own nephew and did grotesque things. Made trophies.”

  Valedar sighed and put his head in his hands.

  “We didn’t know that she had created them until she told us,” he continued. “She claimed that once Orcus had arrived, it was inevitable that Demogorgon would follow him and contest this world. She claimed they were necessary to fight him.”

  “What?” Aethis asked.

  “What are you saying?” Jurgen added.

  “I’m saying that she created the creatures that have attacked you ever since,” Valedar said. “These creatures who roam the southern mountains and pour into your kingdom. The cause of the death of Prince Valens 7,000 years ago, where a castle now stands. The very construction of Mallory Keep, the Pillar of the East, which keeps the devils at bay. Her creations—the corrupted wood elves.”

  “These are all fables,” Aethis said. “Wives’ tales.”

  Valedar chuckled and shook his head. “If the wives of men tell the tales, then it’s only because they’re true. We built a gate that brought evil into this world. That evil has drowned my people in a sea of our own blood and bones. And now, after 20,000 years, our blood is spent. We hold a single city only because Demogorgon and Orcus have not claimed it yet. They’ve fought each other, and she has stayed in the shadows, corrupting Creator knows what else… Lusting after power or whatever she’s come here for.”

  Aethis gulped hard. “So… these demon lords… They’re worse than what attacked my keep? The one with fire for hands who melted our masonry at Mallory Keep?”

  “Your Majesty,” Valedar said, “these demon lords are the doom of our world.”

  16

  Challengers Appear

  Clayton, the undead best friend of Ashton Jeraldson, stumbled down a dirt path that led through the forests east of Perketh. Cedric and Jayden had left him in the dust in their pursuit of Ashton’s kidnappers, and Clayton had no idea who had done it or if his friend was safe. He felt a connection to Ashton though, and it pointed him north toward the capital.

  His feet were raw from the constant movement, and his muscles ached all over. He hadn’t tried to sleep in days. He hadn’t really slept in weeks. If he closed his eyes and drifted off, there was only darkness—a reminder of his short time falling through the terrible, endless Abyss. And as he dropped into the blackness, he called for Riley. He called for Ashton, but in the Void, there was only darkness and silence. His mind struggled with the infinite and the lack of perspective and landmarks. All that was left was the terror of an endless, uncontrolled drop. And that’s why, despite his aching sides and jaw, Clayton struggled onward toward his friend Ashton, who had saved him from the perpetual darkness.

  Still, he couldn’t catch a pair of riders going full speed. Even if he could run normally, which he couldn’t, Clayton was no match for raw horsepower.

  He slowed down and then stopped. He swayed in the breeze and unwound some of his wrappings that covered the lower half of his face and the damage to his jaw. He hunched over and put his hands on his knees. He breathed hard, trying to catch his third or fourth wind.

  A rustling in the nearby woods distracted him from his mission. He looked north down the road and then over at the disturbance to his right and found a deer staring at him. He smiled briefly, but the simple act hurt his jaw. In the daylight, the animal’s eyes appeared to reflect a bright green from the forest canopy.

  Clayton grunted in recognition to the creature. He started to walk north again, but then he noticed more green eyes along the edge of the forest. He gave a more alarmed grunt as a family of possums and a wolverine sniffed at him through the air. Their faces were gaunt and their skin sunken. They looked dead, and some more decomposed than others. He began to wonder if he might have fallen asleep somewhere and that this was some new nightmare.

  A man stumbled across the path ahead of him. His bones were showing through his skin. Further ahead various critters scampered westward.

  Clayton grew more anxious. The only towns west were Alefast and his own hometown of Perketh. He lowered his head and limped westward, falling in line behind the other man who labored stubbornly through the forest. Within a few minutes, he came across a feeding frenzy. Dozens of putrid animals tore into an elk that was still in its death throes. Its lips moved in protest as an undead wolf growled and ripped flesh from its kicking hind legs while rodents in various stages of decay tore at its throat.

  Clayton grunted again as the man ahead of him joined the carnage. He paused bri
efly to process what was going on. Then, he looked west, toward his hometown but five miles away, obscured by forest. He stumbled over a log and through thick brush, picking up speed. These creatures seemed on a warpath, hungry like he was for the flesh of the living, but more feral.

  He pushed Ashton’s welfare out of his mind. Cedric and Jayden had a better chance of reaching him than Clayton did. There were friends and family closer at hand, and he needed to make sure they were OK.

  Master Nathan hammered away at a pair of horse shoes for Farmer Albertson at the forge in Perketh. It was the first normal order Nathan had done in weeks. All along the ground were war hammers, axes, swords, pikes and spears. The town had expected retribution and vengeance for their mobilization against the Red Army and the death of Lord Mallory. Not even the most naïve of children in Perketh believed the King would accept the presence of undead in his kingdom.

  He thought of the way he and his long-time friends and family had mindlessly followed Ashton to Mallory Keep, driven by anger and outrage and his old apprentice’s promises to right the wrongs done by the Red Army. It wasn’t until Nathan had seen the fires consuming people he knew, that he finally snapped out of his dream-like lust. And when the demon tore through the heart of the King’s Guard, he and the other undead knew their march for justice was over. Now, he and the people of Perketh waited for retribution from the royal family or the local lords.

  However, no King’s Guard had come to harass them. No strange monks from Mount Godun. Not even a visitation from the Necromancer Ashton Jeraldson.

  And so, the people of Perketh did everything they could to return life or un-life to normal. The arson fires had long ago died down, so there was nothing left to put out. Wooden doors and thatch roofs had been replaced. In the market, two village elders and accomplished carpenters cleared away the remnants of Riley’s pyre and set about building a grand theater. Mayor Seth Collins already had the first play commissioned: The Siege of Mallory Keep, to be staffed by undead children.

  The sun had risen in the east, and the smell of fresh grass and morning glories filled the air. Birds had returned, which was both a blessing and a curse. The cardinals and blue jays competed for best bird song. The ravens and crows rested on the poor denizens of the town, confused by the scent of the recently deceased and opportunistically nibbling on the bare shoulders and necks of the undead. Up until that morning, these scavengers had been the worst of the problems the town had faced since returning from the siege.

  A strange sound carried into his open-air shop over the heavy clangs of his hammer against iron. At first, he paid no attention to it because the noise was so far away, but it was persistent. He stopped banging against the horse shoes to listen.

  Mayor Seth happened to be nearby.

  “What is that?” Seth asked.

  “A sheep, maybe,” Nathan said.

  If it was a sheep, it was startled and screaming, and it grew louder. A commotion arose in the north of town, where the affluent of Perketh still resided. A crowd was coming. Nathan grabbed a pike and threw it at Seth, who caught it but looked startled.

  “What do you think it is?” Seth asked as citizens left their homes and warily walked toward the northern part of the market square.

  Nathan grabbed a simple, heavy war hammer from his stockpile.

  “Nothing good,” Nathan said. He pointed at the weapons hanging along the walls and piled against the wooden columns of his shop. “Make sure our people are armed.”

  “Right,” Seth said.

  As Seth called to the people of Perketh, Nathan grimly approached the main street that fed into the market square from the north. He set his feet in the stone squares of the plaza and firmly held onto the two leather grips along the shaft. He inspected the four-foot weapon and the blunt and sharp ends of the hammerhead, readying himself for whatever came around the bend.

  Thirty or forty people pushed a small group of men forward, one of whom was manhandling one of the women of Perketh. The woman’s shrill screams had been what Nathan had confused with a sheep at slaughter.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mayor Seth demanded as the five men approached, hounded by the crowd and still holding captive the protesting woman.

  As the men came within a hundred paces or so, Nathan knew something was definitely wrong. These five men were long decayed. Their smell was especially awful and gangrenous. Their eyes were glowing green, not luminescent like the dark elf who had come to Perketh when Ashton had visited. Their eyes were like green fire. This was not some lynch mob demanding justice for a simple robbery or mundanities like that.

  “Who the devil are you?” Seth asked.

  The undead man squeezing the woman’s neck tilted his head toward the mayor.

  “Let go of my wife!” Howland Davidson screamed as he pushed one of the foreigners forward.

  The lead foreigner buried an axe into Howland, startling the crowd. They gasped as Howland stumbled backward.

  “Have you lost your damned mind?!” Howland screamed.

  Howland, a burly six-foot man, pulled the axe from his shoulder and drove it down into the offender’s skull. The undead man fell to the ground and stumbled back to his feet.

  The lead undead foreigner struggled to breathe. He had obviously been in the ground as his skin was greasy, bloated and dark. He wheezed and seemed to be working himself up to talk. He seemed annoyed by the screaming that still came from the woman in his hands. He slammed a fist against her head, and she dazed.

  “You bastard!” Howland screamed, throwing himself against the line of protectors around his wife’s captor.

  “Who…” the large, grotesque undead man said, “is your master?”

  Seth stepped in front of Nathan. He held a pike with the butt against the ground, perpendicularly raised into the air.

  “I am the mayor,” he said.

  The fiery-green orbs blinked and a look of confusion spread amongst the five undead foreigners, one of whom still had an axe sticking out of its skull.

  “I’m in charge here,” Seth said firmly.

  “You raised?” the undead man asked. “You… lead?”

  “No,” Seth said. “That’s someone else. Who am I talking to?”

  “Servant,” the man said simply. “Like you.”

  “Servant?” Seth asked.

  The man nodded, still holding the dazed woman.

  “Orcus,” the foreigner said. “Lord of Undead… Doom of this world.”

  Nathan growled. He had heard enough. He closed the distance to the large, bulbous man quickly and wordlessly drove his war hammer downward, cleaving the man’s skull and torso down to the groin. The oily, pungent mess fell to the ground, still squirming.

  The woman named Sarah fell to the ground and scooted through the crowd, into the arms of her husband Howland, who cried unabashedly.

  “I thought you were a goner!” he said as he cupped her chin.

  “I’m already dead!” she said.

  Nathan grunted again as he heaved his war hammer high above the man with the axe in his skull. The foreigner shook his head in protest and tried to raise his hands to catch the shaft, but Nathan’s might was too much. The second foreigner fell and the crowd surged into the three remaining men. Nearby pikes pierced brittle bone and extinguished fiery green sockets.

  Someone doused the invaders with oil, and a torch was thrown onto the squirming bodies. Hisses and screeches protested their end.

  To the north and northeast, fresh screams rang out. Smoke appeared behind the shale roofs of the rich and affluent.

  “To arms!” Nathan screamed.

  “Fight for your town!” Seth commanded.

  Cedric Arrington and Prince Jayden rode their mounts hard into the forests just south of Xhonia. The trail of the Lord General and Ashton was not hard to follow. In fact, it grew alarmingly easier the more they traveled north. Cedric followed the faster, lighter prince on his own mount. His helmed head was down to keep the lowest profile—not just
for speed but to avoid the low hanging branches that might unhorse him and maybe even disable him at this galloping speed. His hammer was securely fastened to his back and did not jostle. Because of the foliage, he had taken the spear out of its holster along the flanks of his horse and held it under his arm in a low profile, pointed straight ahead.

  “Wait,” Jayden called, stopping to inspect nearby tree limbs and tracks, “there’s something wrong here.”

  “What?” Cedric yelled as he yanked on the reins of his horse.

  Jayden jumped down, and Cedric pulled alongside him. He watched the forests, very aware of the rustling of large beasts in the forest.

  “Something’s not right,” Jayden warned again.

  The dark elf sniffed at the leaves on a broken limb. He recoiled and brought out a red-handled whip with a long black fibrous core from his belt. Jayden spun around, checking the forest around him as the flailing black line twitched along the ground like a cat’s tail.

  “What is it?”

  “Undead,” Jayden said. “The leaves are coated with their smell.”

  Cedric’s horse whinnied, and Cedric patted Isilme’s mane and coarse fur to calm him down.

  “We’re not too far from Perketh,” Cedric said. “Probably just one of Ashton’s people. Maybe they’re looking for him too.”