An old man stabbed at him with a short sword, and Paladin slammed a fist into his wrinkled face. A beefy primo del duende man came at him with fists, and Paladin stomped the man’s kneecap, breaking it. “Please!” he begged. “I don’t want to fight! Por favor! Let me be on my way!”
“Death to evil!” the Viles screamed, and fell upon him, a single monstrous entity with scores of screaming heads and hundreds of thrashing limbs, all committed to his destruction.
He sidestepped a thrust from a spear even as he wrapped his fist around the hilt of the weapon sheathed at his side. “Por favor…” He drew. Lightning exploded from his fist. “… don’t make me kill you.”
The Viles moved as one, backing away, first startled and then awed. Paladin turned in circles, menacing them with Storm. “No one need die here today …”
“Death to evil!” someone in the mob shouted. Others took up the cry and they all came at him, a flood of raving maniacs, swinging steel or throwing stones.
Paladin fell into his dance, blocking and parrying. He blasted the weapons from the hands of his attackers, splintering their wooden cudgels and steel blades.
Still they came.
He danced harder, but maintained his precision strikes, noting that Storm’s voltaic properties reacted in accordance with his will and mood, throwing small bolts of precise lightning that repelled attackers without obliterating them. Time and again he wounded his attackers when the easier—and smarter—strategy would have been to kill them.
He blasted weapons from gripping hands, yet still they came. He sliced off fingers, the severed digits spinning kaleidoscopes of crimson as they wheeled through the ether, but still they came. He hacked off their fingerless palms at the wrist, but still they came, bludgeoning him with spewing stumps. He hacked off arms at the elbow, at the shoulder …
And still they came.
A wave of limbless maniacs, howling and biting and head-butting, crashed into him. A crimson veil of cold fury descended over his vision. Like a fever, the Battle Frenzy took him, filled him, leaving no room in his mind, heart, or soul for mercy.
Paladin destroyed them.
Snarling heads, severed limbs, and chunks of humans gusted through the ether in a crimson maelstrom of gore.
And still they came.
More Viles appeared in the road, hurling into the clash, heedless of the sludgy, stinking carnage they trod through, determined to destroy the infidel or join their holy brethren as meat at his feet.
“Death to evil!” they shouted. “Give your soul to the Prophet!”
Gods be good. They will never stop coming, Paladin realized. Not until they’ve killed me or I’ve killed every man, woman, and child clad in white.
Paladin was sick of killing.
So he ran.
Epilogue
The White Fox & the Fourteenth Paladin
“Revenge is sweet,”
said the fool.
—From The Kalaake, “His Words”
Translation by Buibui of Mji a Dhahabu
Winter squatted patiently on the eastern horizon just a few hundred miles beyond the arena walls, painting the late morning sky in grim shades of indigo and slate. Those somber colors were at odds with the vivid joy Fox felt over the day’s ceremony. Pía led a choir of clerics and Talentosa in a song of praise to The One God, her dulcet voice so enchanting he would have believed it to be magic had he not known better. Tens of thousands of faithful were packed into the Phoenix-Rising Amphitheater, and each swayed languidly to the flow of her hymn as if half asleep and dreaming. When she ended the song, Fox—and everyone else—startled to full alertness.
In the center of the arena, Prelado Scrupulous ascended the steps of a newly erected dais, stopping at the second of its three tiers. He turned and faced the formation of expectant paladíns standing before the dais, all at stiff attention. He cleared his throat and spoke with rehearsed solemnity. “Step forward, Pich za Swiftspear of House Harbuu of Simbadola.”
A tall, leanly muscled woman with coffee-colored skin stepped forward. Though Pich had performed well during past Torneo games, she had never received any honors, and because the adult trials had been canceled after the launch of the War of Judgment and Condemnation, she hadn’t competed at all this year. She received a smattering of polite applause from the crowd standing to the left of the paladíns, important nobles gathered as witnesses.
The prelado said, “Because of your valor on the field and your dedication to The One God and His Mortal Voice, the Venerable Prophet-Emperor, you have been chosen to serve as a paladín of the Holy Empire. Know that to wear the belt and spurs of a paladín is to hold a sacred trust, that the obligations of this office will demand your efforts every moment of your life. Do you still desire to serve?”
“Yes, Prelado,” she said. “Sí. And with all my heart.”
The prelado held out a beautiful leather-bound copy of El Libro Sagrado de Verdades, lettered in gold. “Then speak your oath.”
Pich za Swiftspear raised her right hand to her heart and placed her left on the Santos Creadorian holy book. “I do solemnly swear by The One God, and in free and voluntary desire, to serve as a paladín of the most holy Order of the Imperial Fist. By the power of the Blessed Specter, and upon my eternal damnation, I swear to be a true and virtuous paladín, to obey my emperor, and to aid my fellows. I also swear, by all that is holy and dear to me, to aid those faithful souls less fortunate than I, to smite evil, and to fulfill my holy obligations. This oath do I give of my own free and independent will, so help me, Creador.”
On the top tier of the dais stood the Prophet, His Excellency the Venerable and Most Revered Emperor Regio, The One God’s Mortal Voice. He wore a long flowing cloak of white silk and a scarlet tunic embroidered with gold and blazoned with the Santosian Ira de Dios. Pride and weariness shared quarters in his dark eyes. But there was no fatigue in his voice. He spoke with the authority of a man touched by The One God. “Is there a sword you will offer to the service of your emperor?”
Reverently, Pich dipped her head of long, thick lionlockes. “Yes, Excellency. It is in the care of your servant Prelado Scrupulous. He has seen that it be blessed.”
Prelado Scrupulous signaled for Pich’s squire. A nervous-looking Kusini Watu girl of about fifteen years strode forth and girded the paladín with a curved blade of the Nchi ya Kusini style.
While the Prophet-Emperor watched from his higher tier, Prelado Scrupulous said, “The sword represents the paladín’s right to administer the emperor’s justice. As the steel of the sword must be tempered in fire and water, so must the soul of the paladín be tempered by adversity and compassion. You must never draw your weapon but in the cause of justice.”
The Prophet-Emperor nodded to Prelado Scrupulous. “Let the belt be brought forward.”
Dame Pich’s squire brought forward a white belt and strapped it on her mistress.
“The white belt symbolizes the purity of the paladín’s purpose,” Prelado Scrupulous said. “Avoid scandal. Choose death over dishonor.”
“Bring forth the spurs,” the Prophet-Emperor commanded from his high perch.
As spurs were placed on Dame Pich’s heels, Prelado Scrupulous said, “With these spurs, the paladín may ride unhindered through the lands, dispensing the emperor’s justice. As the paladín’s spurs goad the warhorse, so should they goad the paladín to valor, service, and faithfulness. In the wearing of these golden spurs, the paladín displays disdain for worldly things. They should be worn with honor lest they be hacked from your heels in shame and disgrace.”
It took a moment for Dame Pich’s squire to finish with the spurs. No doubt the girl was nervous. Fox couldn’t blame her for that, but if his squire was so clumsy, he would clout the boy when the ceremony was over. When the spurs were fitted, the Prophet-Emperor commanded, “Bring forth the totem.”
The squire presented a round-shield, first to Prelado Scrupulous, then to the Prophet-Emperor. It was painted with Dame Pich�
�s totem, a leaping gold leopard upon a field of red with a purple border, and inscribed with the motto Daring Is the Cause of Virtue. When the Prophet-Emperor gestured his approval of the shield, the squire handed it to Dame Pich. She knelt at Prelado Scrupulous’s feet, the shield displayed before her.
“This totem ensures that all might know this paladín from afar,” Prelado Scrupulous said, “and judge her fair or foul. Let your deeds bring honor to your totem, your order, your emperor, and your god.”
Prelado Scrupulous blessed the shield and signed the Ira de Dios over it. He stepped to one side, and the Prophet-Emperor descended the pulpit carrying Maximiliano, the magnificent great-sword of his House. The double-edged blade was engraved on one side with the Bernardo motto, Resiste el mal aún hasta la muerte. It meant, “Resist evil even unto death.” His Excellency touched the flat of the blade to Pich’s right shoulder. She did not flinch, though Fox knew well the seared flesh beneath her white robe pained her greatly.
His Excellency knew of her pain as well, and seemed pleased by her stoicism. “You have fulfilled the requirements, taken your oath, and been clothed in your vestments. I name you Dame Doña Pich Harbuu the Shrewd. Rise, Dame Knight.”
“Whom do you wish to administer el Puño?” the prelado said.
“Señora Doña Agota the Moonhunter of House Lupina,” Dame Shrewd said. “She was the first to attest to me of The One God’s truth, and exemplifies all that is gallant and virtuous.”
The crowd to Fox’s left stirred and shifted, allowing Doña Moonhunter to come forward. Her long, rust-colored hair was pulled back into a warrior’s tail. Over a polished hauberk, she wore an expensive surcoat blazoned with a baying black wolf silhouetted against a silver moon on a field of crimson. She wore a black mourning cloak and her face seemed more creased than when last Fox had seen her. He noted streaks of silver in her hair he had not seen before. The days since Urbano’s death had taken a heavy toll. Still, she carried her grief gracefully and with dignity. She nodded to Dame Pich and managed a weak smile as she cocked her fist. “Let this blow remind you that a paladín’s service comes with pain as well as honor.”
She slammed a powerful jab into Dame Shrewd’s jaw, rocking the new paladín back several steps. When Dame Shrewd found her balance, she laughed and nodded her appreciation to the doña. The two women embraced, Doña Moonhunter grinning with pride for the new paladín.
The prelado signaled both women to return to their places, and then, in the same over-rehearsed voice, called, “Step forward, Viktoria Von Axemaid of House Ulrike of Winterewiger.”
And the ritual was repeated. Each of the paladíns was awarded the title “Don” or “Doña” as well as “Sir” or “Dame,” and each was named after one of the Santosian virtues. Viktoria Von Axemaid became Viktoria the Mighty. Followed by Akio the Knowing, Juanita the Just, Tadeo the Devoted, Yutaka the Defender, Nao the Steadfast, Quique the Pious, Usagi the Humble, and Monifa the Generous. There was even a paladín from House Kamau, though Jelani the Noble was a pura-sangre Kusini Watu, and looked nothing like his cousin, the pagan, Del Darkdragón. Pía’s Matriarchy produced a paladín as well, Carmelita the Righteous.
It was a long ceremony, but Fox did not find it indecently so. These were important rituals, monumental honors. It was not every day one received an accolade of this weight, and the formalities should reflect that. The actual rites had begun the day before, with a bath and branding. After the paladíns had scrubbed the sin from their bodies in a tub of scalding sanctified water, the Ira de Dios had been seared into their flesh, a permanent ward against corruption of their mortal shells and a divine sanction of their sword arms. No Healers were allowed to treat the burns or dull the agonies inflicted by the branding. The only medicine for the wounds was a greasy, sweet-smelling balm to prevent infection. The brand and the pain of its application were everlasting reminders that the cost of salvation was sacrifice, and sacrifice meant suffering.
After the branding, the paladíns had received instruction from a small army of old clerics, knights, and nobles in the Code of Gallantry, the Santosian Virtues, and a host of precepts they would be expected to uphold. After that, the paladíns had stood in the castle’s chapel and prayed silently for thirteen hours. Fox had not resented the many hours or the pain and discomfort. The suffering had brought him closer to the Prophet-Emperor and The One God.
“Step forward, Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line of Eisesland,” Prelado Scrupulous called.
Fox just managed to keep the smile from reaching his mangled mouth. He and his squire, Humberto del Sweetfrost of House los Custudios, strode forward. As his fellows before him, Fox received his blessed sword, spurs, belt, and shield. He had chosen a leaping white fox on a field of scarlet with a gold border as his totem, and Courageous Forever as his House motto.
His branded shoulder shrieked when the Prophet-Emperor rested Maximiliano upon it. He almost swooned, though from joy as much as pain. It was the sweetest agony he had ever known.
The Prophet-Emperor offered him a warm, paternal smile. “You were the first Santosian to prove yourself paladín. You are the only Santosian to carry the Black Spear, and thus I have saved your naming till last that it may linger long upon the lips of all who hear it this day. You have earned great honor, but such glory is a weighty burden. Because of your renown, all the paladíns will be judged by your deeds. Bear this responsibility with valor and bring pride to your order, your empire, and your god.”
“I will, Excellency,” Fox said.
The Prophet-Emperor’s grin widened. “Then I name you Sir Don Fox the Fearless of House el Zorro Blanco.”
Prelado Scrupulous stepped forward. “Whom do you wish to administer el Puño?”
“Señor Don Efraín the Spicebringer of House Próspero,” Fox said. “He is strong, and wise in the Code of Gallantry.”
The don stepped out of the gathered nobles, and Fox instantly regretted his choice. Don Efraín had not weathered his grief nearly as well as Doña Moonhunter. Perhaps it was because Urbano had been his only heir, while the doña had three daughters to carry on her Matriarchy. Whatever the reason, he looked as if he had not slept at all since Urbano’s death. He was disheveled and unwashed. If he was not drunk now, he had only recently sobered. He reeked of strong whiskey. Fox feared the don’s el Puño would be insultingly weak. Even if Don Efraín wanted to throw a strong punch, the bereaved man seemed to lack the strength to do so. The don stared at him with the dull, glassy eyes of a dead man.
Fox whispered just loud enough for Don Efraín to hear, “If Del Darkdragón lives, I vow upon my honor to kill him and avenge Urbano.”
A flash of vigor sparked in Don Efraín’s swampy green eyes. His fist flew like a hurled hammer and Fox’s world shattered into blinding shards of crimson. The don’s blow lifted him from his feet, and he thought it would take his head from his shoulders. Had he not crashed into the other paladíns, he would have surely shamed himself by tumbling to the ground. As it was, he just managed to stumble around long enough to gain some semblance of balance. Though he thought his jaw might be broken, he managed a wide grin and mumbled, “Gracias, Don Efraín.”
The don nodded, the light ebbing from his eyes once more, his voice pitiful. “Let this be the last blow you take unanswered.”
Don Efraín left quietly, but music and celebration began right there on the field. The spectators roared from the benches, many spilling down upon the arena floor to mingle with the esteemed paladíns. The revels would take place all over the city, or what was left of it. Pía pushed through the celebrants and wrapped him in a hug, giggling girlishly. “I am so proud of you, Sir Fearless of the White Fox Patriarchy.”
He kissed her lips. He was proud as well. He was a new paladín at the beginning of his adventures. His heroic exploits would be compiled into song and swell into legend and soar into myth. In two thousand years, children would speak of Fox the Fearless with the same reverence he had once held for Wotan Steinhund
of Eisesland or even Maude Bluthammer of Winterewiger. But there was one annoying notion floating through his brain, tainting his joy like a spot of muck on a new white coat. He had just vowed to Don Efraín to scour that muck from the face of the world.
It had not been for the don’s benefit alone that he had spoken the oath to avenge Urbano. Though no one dared say so to Fox’s face, behind his back there were those who whispered of him as a false champion with unearned honor, a Black Spear by appointment. They claimed the pagan had beaten him and was the true winner of the Black Spear. There was only one way to silence those whispers. Paladin Del Darkdragón had to die by Sir Fox the Fearless’s hand. This truth was as clear to him as the holy doctrines preached by the Prophet-Emperor.
Though the world once again had hero paladíns to protect it, it was a changed place. The Thirteen Kingdoms was no more. Now began the Age of Unity, a new era of divinity and glory. Now began the age of the Holy Empire, and in that righteous world, fourteen paladíns was one Paladin too many.
About the Author
CLEVE LAMISON is an award-winning writer, director, and actor who began his career with Shenandoah Shakespeare, receiving international acclaim for his portrayal of Othello. His writing has won or been a finalist for the Mary Roberts Rinehart National Drama Award, the Pilgrim Project Playwriting Grant, Scriptapalooza’s TV Drama Award, the American Accolades Award, and the New York Theatre Workshop’s Van Lier Fellowship. Of his short films, The Story won first place at the Denver World Film Festival and Jack for President was a runner-up in the New York City twenty-four-hour filmmaking contest.
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