Paladins 02 - Clash of Faiths

by David Dalglish

  “This the grumpiness talking?”

  “Common sense. Now where’s that blasted little brat, Kaide?”

  Jerico pointed toward the top of a hill.

  “Giving his best speech to the men.”

  Bellok rubbed his temples with his fingers.

  “I don’t have time for speeches. Let me just show you, then.”

  The paladin followed him to the wizard’s tent. Inside was a chest, its lid closed. Before Jerico even took a step inside, Bellok whirled on him, jamming a finger against his breastplate.

  “Whatever you do,” he said, “not even if Ashhur himself commanded it, not even if you thought your very life depended on it, do not bump that chest. Understood?”

  Jerico stammered, his jaw working up and down as if it might somehow figure out a correct response.

  “Um ... understood?”

  Bellok eyed him, clearly not believing, but then turned to the chest and carefully opened the lid. Jerico leaned forward, curious to see what the fuss was about.

  “Rocks?” he said. “I must confess, Bellok, I expected something a little more ... impressive?”

  The look the wizard gave him made him feel like a child, and he started to blush.

  “Rocks,” Bellok said, his voice flat. “I spent all night casting spells, turning these into our one slim hope of victory, and you come in and call them unimpressive rocks? Do you think me a loon that guards a few plain stones like they were Karak’s balls?”

  “But I—”

  “Did you not think for even a moment they might be hidden, or of a magical nature? A wizard’s stash of artifacts, after all, might just be magical.”

  “But—”

  “And did it not once ever occur to you,” Bellok said, now nearly roaring while jamming his finger an inch away from Jerico’s nose, “that just maybe, maybe, there is an inherent deception involved in the creation of certain artifacts, or that the plain might be infused with the magical, just like your miniscule little brain somehow manages to swing a giant mace to smash other miniscule little brains?”

  Jerico stared at him, torn between laughing and running in terror. He started to speak, stopped, watched Bellok narrow his eyes as if anticipating another stupid comment, and then spoke.

  “I just—”

  “Forget it. Would you like to see what they do?”

  Jerico sighed.

  “Yes.”

  Bellok knelt by the chest and delicately picked up one of the stones. They were about the size of his palm, and smooth on all sides. He gestured for Jerico to follow, and then left the tent with the chest lid still open. Jerico glanced within, saw about twenty more of the stones, and then hurried after.

  “Wands and staves are beyond anything Kaide’s men might use,” Bellok said as he led them away from the camp. “But I think even these are within their skills.”

  They stopped at the stump of a tree, cut down the night before for firewood.

  “Take off your gauntlet,” Bellok said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to die from too rough of a touch. Gods, how Ashhur puts up with you is beyond me.”

  Biting his tongue, Jerico removed his gauntlets and set them aside. Accepting the stone with his bare hand, he was immediately struck by how warm it was to the touch. Bellok pointed to the stump.

  “Throw it.”

  Jerico wound up and hurled the stone, and only as it left his hand did he realize Bellok had retreated a significant distance. The stone struck the stump, and instead of bouncing off like it should have, it broke into pieces. With a bright flash, the pieces burst into flame. The fire spread rapidly, as if the surrounding area were bathed in oil. Jerico let out a shout at the sudden heat, and he jumped backward. Nearly stumbling, he caught himself, then glared at Bellok’s far too pleased expression.

  “Rocks,” the wizard said with a smug grin. “Still unimpressed?”

  “Far from it,” Jerico said, looking back. The stump was already black, the fire spreading to the dead grass nearby. The paladin feared a wildfire, but then the wizard raised his hands and whispered words of power. The fire lessened, and then died.

  “These will certainly kill a man,” Jerico said, grabbing his gauntlets. “The surprise will be huge.”

  Bellok scoffed.

  “I would not have them used for something so brutish and simple. I show you a brilliant weapon, and all you can think of is to throw it at the enemy like a child? Think, paladin. Remember the terrain we are to fight on, and where Arthur plans to hold his defense.”

  Jerico paused, and then it clicked into place.

  “The forest,” he said. Bellok grinned.

  “We’ll surround them with fire, leave Sebastian’s men with nowhere to run. With these stones, they’ll find themselves in the midst of an inferno before they even smell a whiff of smoke. Burning them alive may not be honorable, but Sebastian cast aside honor long ago.”

  Jerico bit his lower lip in thought. It could work, though he doubted it would be as simple as the wizard hoped. Of course, there was one other major flaw.

  “Promise me one thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Adam and Griff don’t get to carry one.”

  Bellok finally laughed.

  “Perhaps there is some shred of intelligence hidden under that skull of yours.”

  “Thanks,” Jerico muttered, following him back to camp.

  Once there, the paladin found Kaide grabbing a drink of wine for his parched throat.

  “How’d it go?” Jerico asked.

  “Were you not there to listen?”

  “Afraid not. Was getting lectured by the wizard.”

  Kaide shrugged.

  “I did my best. We’ll have surprise on our side. Won’t be able to ride our horses, though. Saddles aren’t right for it, and neither riders nor horses are trained. We’ll fight on foot, with knives, clubs, and a few stolen swords. To think this is what I wanted. Should Sebastian turn on us with any real amount of numbers, our line will break like water.”

  “Not all of it,” Jerico said, lifting his shield so its light shone across Kaide’s face. “I will be at your side. Your line will not break, so long as we stand.”

  Kaide smiled, and it lit his handsome face. It was the first true smile Jerico had seen from him.

  “As you say, we’ll make it be. Thank you, Jerico.”

  “My pleasure. Just don’t run on me. I’d hate for you to miss your own victory.”

  *

  Sir Gregane stared across the open field to the distant forest on the other side of the half-mile gap.

  “A fair place for a battle,” Nicholls said, looking at the smooth terrain. “Arthur chose well.”

  “They were here before us,” Gregane said as he glanced at his vanguard. “We must act carefully. There may be hidden ditches to break our horses’ legs, or tripwire laced between the trees.”

  “All that seems a bit low for one such as Arthur.”

  Gregane frowned.

  “Arthur consorts with brigands and murderers. We cannot assume he has gone unchanged.”

  He stared at the field, confident no ambushes lurked there. The grass was too short to conceal a man, and there were no hills tall enough to hide behind. He saw faint whiffs of smoke from the forest, and even at their distance, he could tell the entire army waited within.

  “Fighting amid trees,” he muttered. “We’ll need to draw them out.”

  “A minor advantage,” Nicholls argued.

  “Not if they flee. But first, let’s see if Arthur is willing to submit before any blood is shed.”

  Gregane’s vanguard, twenty knights and their mounts, all fully armored, rode with multiple banners waving the sigil of the Yellow Rose. From the forest Arthur rode out to meet them, with only five at his side. They too wore armor, and it shone in the afternoon light. When they were within a hundred yards, Gregane motioned for his vanguard to halt, and then he rode forward alone, as
did Arthur.

  “Greetings, Sir Gregane,” Arthur said, lifting the visor of his helmet. “Have you come to aid my rightful return as lord of the Yellow Rose?”

  “You forfeited that claim,” Gregane said. “Please, Arthur, I ask you to throw down your sword and go home. You can see our numbers. There is no hope for you here, only death.”

  “Are those your terms?” Arthur asked. “Disarm myself, and run like a frightened child to cower and hide for the next assassin to come? I will not live my life frightened of my drink and distrusting every shadow of my room. Sebastian tried to take my life. He failed. I will come for his, and I will succeed.”

  Gregane shook his head.

  “Very well. I have one last offer, this from Sebastian himself. Dismiss your army, and announce to the people of the North that Sebastian is still lord of the Yellow Rose. In return, milord will bear no grudge against you, ensure no assassins ever dare strike at you, and allow you the freedom to leave your Castle of Caves without fear. What say you?”

  Arthur grinned, and the wolfish gleam in his eye told Gregane the answer before the lord ever spoke.

  “His promises are nothing. One last chance, Gregane. The men will listen to you. Join my side. I am the eldest son, and I have come for my birthright.”

  Sir Gregane saluted, even as he felt sadness pang in his heart.

  “Ready your men,” he said. “It comes to bloodshed, then.”

  Arthur saluted in return.

  “I pray we do not meet in battle,” he said. “For no matter the victor, I will always offer my hand to you in friendship, should you ever choose to accept it.”

  They rode back to their escorts.

  “Well?” Nicholls asked.

  “Prepare the archers,” Gregane said. “I want the whole damn woods buried with arrows.”

  Nicholls shouted the order, and then the army began marching. As expected, Arthur vanished into the forest behind the many trunks and naked branches. No troops came out to meet them as they marched. It looked like they wished to fight amid the trees, but Gregane had no intention of doing so.

  Once within two hundred yards, Gregane called a halt. Archers rushed to the front, forming three lines of a hundred each. Sir Gregane lifted his arm, and he looked through the trees at the line of soldiers. Somewhere in there, an honorable lord would die. Such a shame.

  “Let loose,” he said.

  Volley after volley sailed into the air, and in the silence following the twang of bowstrings, Gregane sighed.

  The arrows hit the forest like rain. Even from their distance, Gregane could hear the sounds of pierced trunks, snapped shafts, and the screams of the wounded. Of all, it was the third that was the least. Frowning, he ordered another volley. Again the arrows fell, and Gregane struggled to see. The trees were too much cover, from what he could tell, and the men on the front lines bore heavy shields.

  “What now?” Nicholls asked.

  “Arrows are replaced easier than men,” Gregane said. “Empty every quiver.”

  The twang of the bowstrings became a discordant chorus, the archers letting loose as fast as they were capable. Gregane did not even watch, instead turning to his troops and planning strategy. His knights would lose most advantages navigating their horses through the trees. If only he could draw Arthur’s men out somehow, and then send his knights crashing through their sides ...

  “Advance slowly,” Gregane said. “Tight formations, no charge. Let us see how disciplined our enemy is. And watch for traps.”

  The archers fell to the back, and then the squads of footmen began their approach. Only a third were equipped with shields, and they would be the ones on the frontlines. The rest carried heavy swords and axes, the killing men that would break through once the initial clash was done. Gregane stayed back with his knights, watching for the perfect moment to send them crashing in.

  The yards between them shrank, and Gregane found himself holding his breath waiting for the collision of bodies, the communal yell of a charge. It did not come, for behind him he heard the sound of an inferno unleashed.

  “What in Karak’s name is that?” Nicholls shouted. Gregane spun his horse, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest at the sight.

  The woods behind them were ablaze. Not just burning, not just smoking, but full ablaze, every tree consumed, every inch of the sky blotted out above it. As trees collapsed and branches fell, the grassland caught.

  “The wind,” Gregane said, fighting off panic.

  “It is with us,” Nicholls said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “The fire will not catch us. It’ll burn west instead.”

  At such a sight, it was hard to believe. Swearing, he looked back to the fight. Most were unaware of the inferno, no doubt focused on the battle. His squads had reached the forest, which remained at a standstill. Shields locked against shields. Those with the longer swords stabbed over, and Gregane knew he was killing just as many, if not more, than Arthur. But that fire ...

  He glanced back, and this time saw a disturbing sight. Running low to the ground were several hundred men, racing ahead of the fire. Amid the smoke they were difficult to spot, but luck had been with him, a heavy gust pushing the smoke away so he might see. Cursing, he took stock of the new threat.

  “It must be the bandits,” he said.

  Nicholls turned, for a moment confused. Following Gregane’s point, he saw the group and frowned.

  “I see no heavy armor,” he said. “I think you’re right. What do we do?”

  The fight was not yet theirs, but they could not afford to be pressed from two directions, no matter how weak that second force might be. It seemed overkill to use his knights, but the bandits were on open ground.

  “Take half,” he told Nicholls. “Wipe them out quickly, then return.”

  “Right,” said the knight, drawing his sword. Calling out orders, he trotted ahead, two hundred and fifty men riding behind. Gregane turned his attention back to the forest, trusting his fellow knight to deal with the distraction. At first he smiled, for Arthur’s line had clearly broken, but then he saw his men remained in tight formations just within the tree line. They certainly didn’t look like an army giving chase.

  “Find out what’s going on,” he told one of his riders. The man shot off, rode a half-circle behind the lines, and then returned.

  “They built themselves a ditch,” said the rider. “Fell back, and now are killing any trying to climb across.”

  Sir Gregane swore, then spurred his horse onward.

  “To me!” he cried, and several nearby took up his cry to ensure he was heard over the chaos of the battle. “To me, fall back!”

  His men did as they were told, and Gregane clenched his teeth as Arthur’s men launched an assault. Gregane’s footmen, torn between standing their ground and retreating as ordered, suffered terrible casualties before reforming their lines outside the trees. Those that chased turned back, vanishing into the forest. Gregane rode past his lines, estimating numbers. Hundreds dead already, if not a thousand. Still, he outnumbered Arthur, but such brutal losses ...

  “Get the archers,” he told his vanguard. “I want them shoving every last body into the ditch. We’ll charge across the dead, both theirs and ours. Rob, Ash, ride to either side and find out just how far that ditch goes. I want them flanked come our next charge.”

  The two knights saluted and obeyed. As the archers rushed forward, and his men reset their lines, he glanced back to see how long until Nicholls returned. Instead, his mouth fell agape at the sight. The fire had spread, ignoring the wind as if it were possessed. Already a quarter mile of grassland burned. Gregane swore at whatever sorcery had to be involved. A second fire appeared to have erupted at the feet of his charging knights. Every which way he saw horses sprinting, some with riders, some without. The leather of their saddles, and sometimes their very bodies, burned. Those that had survived appeared locked in combat, though he was too far to know how that went. Amidst all this strangeness was a strong blue li
ght. No matter where his knights rode, no matter who struck at it, the light never faded, never broke.

  “Sir,” said Rob, returning from his side. “It goes on for at a tenth mile, though most of it appears unguarded.”

  “They’ll shift over should they see us moving,” Gregane said, but he eyed the stretch of forest with a thought. “We have numbers, though. They can’t cover it all.”

  Ash returned, the young knight telling of a similar setup. It seemed in what time they had, Arthur had done nothing but build the enormous ditch, hoping to use it as a killing ground. With the trees to hide them from the arrows that could break them, the strategy was simple but sound.

  “Pull back two squads,” Gregane said. “Send one to each side. March until you see no one guarding the ditch, then wait for my signal.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the two knights before riding off to do as they were told. Gregane watched the forest a while longer, until it was clear little combat occurred. Steadily the archers grabbed bodies, and guarded by his shielded footmen, hurled them into the ditch. Outnumbered, and with their own ditch between them, Arthur’s men couldn’t dare charge. Body by body, their only defense vanished, and from three sides Gregane would strike.

  Assuming the fire didn’t come to consume them all. Another glance back showed it getting closer, though it’d still take an hour to reach them. He shuddered to think how quick it might have spread if the wind had been toward them instead. As for his knights, he found himself stunned at how few their numbers had become. More stunning was how they turned and bolted in retreat. Anger grew in his chest, and when Nicholls came leading, Gregane let out his fury.

  “Armorless bandits?” he roared. “My best-trained, defeated by mere peasants with clubs?”

  “They hurled fire like sorcerers,” Nicholls said, refusing to lower his head or show weakness at the outburst. “And armorless or not, they wielded heavy weaponry, and struck at our horses. The fire alone spooked them, and they had a wizard whose very words sent our mounts running at random. We could not control them.”

  “The blue light,” Gregane said, trying to calm down. “What of that?”

  “Shield of a paladin,” Nicholls said. “A skilled man. He stands like a mountain, and nothing moves him. I saw Oren ram his horse straight into that shield, and it was the horse that fell.”