The Paladin's Tale (4 page)

The Mhorites were all watching Qazamhor. The guards upon the wall were watching the ravine, but looking towards their shaman from time to time. Just as well, since the firelight would ruin their night vision. That meant Arandar could sneak around to the western side of the ravine, make his way down the slope and into the camp, and open the gates.

Or so he hoped.

Step by careful step he made his way as Qazamhor continued ranting, the Mhorites roaring their approval. At last he reached the western edge of the ravine. The Mhorites had their backs to him. Arandar supposed the shaman might see him, but he hoped the fire would disrupt Qazamhor’s vision.

Arandar climbed down the steep slope inch by inch, his fingers digging into the loose earth and scrabbling for purchase against roots and boulders. A steady stream of dirt hissed down the slope, the pebbles rattling against the ground below. Every noise sent a jolt of alarm down his spine, and every second he expected to hear a cry of alarm. Yet Qazamhor’s booming oratory did not falter, and Arandar heard no other shouts. Step by step he descended, until he was nearly two-thirds of the way down.

Then he felt the slope shift beneath him.

For an awful instant he feared an avalanche. Then he realized that his boots were shifting beneath him, that his feet were resting against a boulder.

A boulder that was sliding its way free beneath his weight.

The noise of its impact would almost certainly draw the notice of every Mhorite in the camp.

Arandar gritted his teeth, his arms straining, his legs trying to hold the boulder in place. Qazamhor’s oratory rose to a crescendo, his voice thundering with rage, and Arandar pulled himself up, drawing his legs beneath him. The boulder slid loose from the earth, bounced down the slope, and crashed to the ground at the exact moment the Mhorites shouted their approval. Arandar hung motionless, waiting for the cries of alarm, but the Mhorites kept cheering.

God had been merciful - the Mhorites' cries had drowned out the crash.

He scrambled the rest of the way to the ravine and ducked behind a tent. His arms and legs ached from the effort of his descent, and he took a moment to catch his breath. It would be darkly amusing to have survived the climb only for his loud breathing to draw attention.

At last he swallowed and started moving, trying to keep the tents and crude wooden buildings between him and the gathered Mhorites. He plotted out the map in his head. If he moved behind the captives’ pen, he could make his way to the wall. From there he could open the gate and summon Cassius and Crowlacht.

Then Arandar would have to hold the gate and remain alive until the men arrived.

He took a step forward, and a Mhorite orc moved from behind a nearby tent.

Arandar froze, his hand falling to his sword hilt. Fortunately, the Mhorite hadn’t seen him yet. The orc looked around, his skull tattoo and scarring ghastly in the bloody light of the moons, and then drew a knife from his belt. He slit open one of the tents, pulled aside the torn flap, and slipped inside.

Arandar stifled a laugh. Every army had its scoundrels, and it seemed the orcs of Kothluusk were no different. This warrior was robbing his comrades while they listened to Qazamhor’s preaching. He hurried forward until he saw the captives’ pen. A pair of Mhorites stood guard around the corner. Arandar paused to consider his course…

The thief emerged from the back of the tent, holding a sack, and headed towards Arandar.

He had only a moment to decide. If he turned towards the thief, the Mhorite would sound the alarm. If he tried to get past the guards, they would see him. Arandar dashed forward, gripped the fence, hauled himself up, and rolled into the pen.

He landed with a grunt, the smells of blood and waste and fear assaulting his nostrils. Around him sat dozens of captives, most with their heads bowed, some curled up on the muddy ground. Nearby stood an old man, the left half of his face covered with a mottled bruise, three women ranging from twenty years to forty standing near him. Their clothes were tattered and covered with grime and blood.

The old man stared at him, his good eye widening with astonishment. The three women cringed back in fear.

“For God’s sake,” whispered Arandar, “do not shout.”

The old man nodded. “Who are you?” The bruises and split lip had left his voice a slurred whisper.

“I am Arandar of Tarlion,” said Arandar, “a Decurion of men-at-arms in service to the High King of Andomhaim. I have come with armed men to rescue the captives of Novindum.”

One of the women raised her hands to her mouth, her eyes going wide.

“Truly?” said the old man. The Mhorites roared again outside the pen. “I had given up hope. Where are the rest of you?”

“Outside the wall,” hissed Arandar, looking around to see if any of the guards had noticed their conversation. So far Qazamhor’s ranting and the cheers of the Mhorites had drowned out their words. “I have come to open the gate and let my men inside.”

“That will be difficult,” said the old man. He looked at the horn on Arandar’s belt. “You shall sound a blast when the gate is open, yes? The minute you do, every Mhorite in the camp will try to kill you.”

“My men are not far,” said Arandar. “They have crept closer under cover of darkness, and the Mhorites are distracted with their ritual. When I sound the horn, I will have to hold the gate for only a few moments.”

“That is still too long,” said the old man. He thought for a moment. “I will create a distraction while you approach the gate.”

Arandar frowned. “The guards might kill you.”

The old man’s bloodied lips stretched in a humorless grin. “They will kill us anyway, but they want to save us for the shaman’s bloody sorcery. Unless we try to escape, they will not kill us. Short of escaping, there are many things we can do to create a distraction.”

“Thank you,” said Arandar. “What is your name?”

“Stephen of Novindum.”

Arandar blinked. “Is your wife named Cora?”

The old man flinched. “You have news of her?”

“Aye, we found her as we followed you here,” said Arandar. “She was badly hurt, but our Magistrius was able to heal her.” It was the one useful thing that Orlan had done.

“God and the Dominus Christus be praised,” said Stephen. “Hurry. The Mhorites will begin their butchery at midnight.”

“If all goes well,” said Arandar, “we will have decided this one way or another long before midnight.”

“Go,” said Stephen, pointing at the far end of the pen. “Climb over the fence there. Once you do, wait for the distraction. That will be your chance to open the gate. God be with you, Decurion.”

“And you, Stephen of Novindum,” said Arandar, and he hurried across the pen. He reached the fence, pulled himself over, and dropped to the other side. He found himself in a shadowy corner between the outer wall and the pen. Ahead of him he saw the glowing edge of one of the dark elven menhirs, and the gate beyond that. He had a clear path to the gate, but unfortunately that path had no cover, and it would only take one Mhorite glancing at the gate to reveal their danger. Arandar waited, calculating the risks. If he ran for the gate now and sounded the horn, could Cassius and Crowlacht arrive in time?

Then he heard Stephen shouting.

“Your demons will not save you!” said the old man, his voice cutting into Qazamhor’s tirade. “Your wicked magic will not defend you! Your god is a lie and a devil! The true God will defeat you and bring you low!” The other prisoners started shouting as well. Arandar hoped the captives would not suffer too much for their impudence. Likely Qazamhor would not kill any of them, not when he needed them alive to work his spell.

Arandar hurried forward, moving as quickly and as quietly as he could manage. The Mhorites were torn between Qazamhor and the prisoners, their attention wavering back and forth. A dozen orcish warriors strode towards the pen, bellowing threats and brandishing weapons. Stephen and the others shouted for a few moments longer, then retreated back into the pen, falling silent as they did so.

Qazamhor resumed his sermon, and the orcs’ attention turned toward him, though some guards remained to watch the prisoners.

Arandar darted forward, lifted the bar on the gates, and pulled them open. Despite the rough nature of the camp, whatever carpenter had assembled the gates had done his work well. The doors revolved easily upon their hinges, revealing the darkness of the ravine beyond. Arandar shoved the bar behind the hinges of the left door, jamming it open. Even if he was overwhelmed and killed, it would hinder the Mhorites when they tried to close the gate, perhaps long enough to allow Cassius and the others to storm the camp.

A cry of alarm went up.

Arandar had been spotted.

He snatched the horn from his belt, raised it to his lips, and blew a blast. It was louder, far louder, than he would have expected, and the echoes rebounded from the slopes of the ravine. A stunned silence fell over the camp, and every single Mhorite orc turned to look at him.

That wasn’t good.

Arandar returned the horn to his belt and drew his sword, the steel reflecting the light of the bonfires. The Mhorites snarled and drew their own weapons. For a moment they stared at each other, and Arandar wondered why they didn’t attack. Perhaps they were shocked by his boldness. One man standing in their opened gate? Surely he was the harbinger for a larger attack.

“Kill him!” roared Qazamhor, his deep voice booming over the camp.

The Mhorites charged in a screaming wave of snarling faces and tattooed red skulls, and Arandar took his sword in both hands. He took a quick step back into the arch of the gate itself, which would force the Mhorites to come at him two at a time and shield him from any arrows from the rampart.

Though he supposed the guards on the rampart could simply climb down the wall and attack him from behind.

The Mhorites crashed into him, and Arandar had no more time for thought.

His sword blurred right and left, and two of the Kothluuskan warriors fell dead in the first seconds of the fighting. A sword stabbed towards Arandar’s face, and he jerked back, the blade cutting through the cloth over his armor and bouncing off the links of his chain mail. A Mhorite thrust a spear at him, and Arandar lopped the head off the weapon. Undaunted, the Mhorite raised the shaft and brought it down like a club, and Arandar tried to dodge. The staff bounced off his shoulder with numbing force, his left arm tingling with pain. The blow knocked him off balance long enough for another sword to strike his belly, though the mail stopped the edge of the blade. Arandar bellowed and hacked off the hand of the swordsman who had struck him, blood spurting from the stump. He wheeled and killed another Mhorite, but more of them came at him. There was no way he could hold this position for more than a few moments, and then the Mhorites would close the gate.

The ground shook beneath his feet, and the guards upon the wall started shouting.

Arandar realized what was about to happen, and threw himself to the left, his back slapping against the wall. He killed one Mhorite, and then a second, but a half-dozen more closed around him, weapons drawn back for the kill.

He bared his teeth and raised his sword, daring them to come on.

An instant later the first of the horsemen burst through the gate. The man-at-arms carried a mace, the red dragon sigil of the High King on his chest shining in the light from the bonfires. The momentum of his steed drove the horse through the ranks of the Mhorites, and the blow of his mace crushed the skull of an orcish warrior. For a moment the Mhorites reeled, and then three more mounted men-at-arms thundered through the gate, weapons rising and falling.

Cassius and Crowlacht had come.

Arandar threw himself into the fray, stabbing and slashing as he desperately wished for a shield. So far he had parried and dodged most of the blows aimed his way, but sooner or later a Mhorite blade would find his flesh. Qazamhor screamed commands, and the Mhorites roared and charged towards the gate, pushing the horsemen back. On an open field, horsemen had the advantage. Yet here, in the enclosed space of the camp, the Mhorites could crowd around the men-at-arms and pull them from their saddles.

A howl rose over the fray. Crowlacht’s warriors darted past the horses’ legs and charged into the battle, striking with their axes and swords. The Mhorites’ momentum wavered, and the sheer weight of armored Rhaluuskan orcs and mounted men drove them back. Arandar glimpsed Crowlacht leading the charge, his huge hammer rising and falling. Arandar cut down a Mhorite that was grappling with a horseman. A little further, and they could…

The color of the firelight changed, turning from the orange-yellow glow of a normal flame to an unnatural blood color. Qazamhor stood wreathed in bloody flame, his staff shining like a shard of molten metal. The glow within the menhirs pulsed in time to his rage, and the shaman raked his free hand before him. A bolt of blood-colored fire leapt from his hand and slammed into the battle. The magical fire washed over two of the men-at-arms and their horses, and both men and beasts withered into emaciated skeletons. The men collapsed motionless to the ground, while their horses disintegrated into puffs of dust and bone.

Qazamhor laughed and began another spell.

Arandar hacked down another Mhorite and forced his way through the press, making his way towards the stone circle. He had to stop Qazamhor. His men and Crowlacht’s warriors might have better numbers and better positioning, but that meant little if Qazamhor could bring his dark magic to bear. Again he wished a Swordbearer had accompanied his men instead of a Magistrius. A soulblade could deal with Qazamhor’s dark magic with ease. Arandar had only his steel and his wits.

Hopefully that would be enough.

Arandar reached the circle and crouched behind one of the menhirs. Qazamhor stood a few feet away and thrust his staff, more blood-colored fire bursting from its length. A half-dozen men and orcs, Rhaluuskans and Mhorites both, screamed and crumbled into dusty skeletons. Apparently Qazamhor was not unduly concerned with the lives of his followers. Arandar circled around the base of the menhir, his every muscle tensed. To kill a man from behind was dishonorable, but Qazamhor’s sorcery would decide the battle unless he was stopped.