The Dark Paladin Read online

  She counted all the organs she would puncture. Then an arrow buried into his heart, and she saw his eyeballs turn back into his head.

  She howled in frustration as yet another kill was taken from her. The ground shook violently as fifty more orcs stomped toward her. More arrows rained down, and her despair grew. She had only felled twenty with her arrows. If she didn’t kill at least thirty, she felt she wouldn’t be able to face herself in the mirror. These kinds of opportunities were few and far between.

  She turned quickly toward a brown-skinned orc female with a nailed club. Liritmear dodged a sideways swing and flicked her daggers upward, slicing the woman’s elbow through the tendons. Liritmear charged the much larger female, applying just enough force to knock the orc backward. She drove a dagger deep into the orc’s esophagus before rolling away from a male orc’s swing. He cursed at her as only a mate of the one Liritmear had just killed might.

  She ended his suffering with a knife through his temple. As the knife came out, a fresh spray of blood caked her hair, face and chest. She cried triumphantly at her twenty-second kill of the day. She yelled even more jubilantly when she saw the third wave of orcs breaking from the pack.

  She kicked an orc hard in the kneecap, shattering it. As he fell forward, she ran a dagger into his forehead and then snarled as she drove it downward to his chin. More blood spray. This time she kept her mouth open to accept the metallic taste.

  She pointed both daggers at a rampaging orc woman who challenged Liritmear by beating her bare chest above a thin shirt with two dagger-filled green fists. The orc was all muscle. Liritmear nodded in appreciation at the challenge, but her competitive spirit gave no quarter to a bold woman. She would not be spared.

  “You dare?!” Liritmear yelled. “You filthy Ittee!”

  The female orc was smarter and nimbler than most. She stabbed rather than slashed, relying on more precision than strength. Liritmear dodged with her body twice from left to right, and then quickly parried, cutting the tendons in the woman’s wrist during her last thrust. The orc panicked and attempted to bring a dagger down on Liritmear’s head, but the elf was too fast and bloodthirsty to feel fatigue. Liritmear could see her dagger’s glimmer through the woman’s mouth, thrusted upward through her prey’s jaw. A torrent of blood rushed through the opening and down the woman’s breasts. That was twenty-four.

  Two more men charged her, trying to overwhelm her with brute strength channeled into axes. The first carried a massive two-hander. The second a set of two one-handers. Both died with daggers in their hearts.

  The twenty-seventh man managed to knock her off balance with a fist to her shoulder. She screamed in defiance and kicked him in the chest, accomplishing next to nothing with the force as he was twice her body weight. Still, the cleats dug in and ripped flesh from his chest and cleaved off one of his nipples. As he yelled in pain, she plunged both blades into his chest. She pulled them downward into a grisly ‘V’ and felt the strangest arousal at the hot blood pouring down her forearms.

  “Jukkete!” she exclaimed, turning her back briefly to three orcs and smiling to her compatriots who still shot arrows at the advancing line.

  Belegcam struggled with a large yellowish orc. Her rival grimaced and growled as the orc spat in his face. Liritmear could tell that Belegcam’s grips on the sweaty orc’s biceps and triceps were loosening, and the orc might be free enough to swing one of his two war-axes at any moment.

  She closed the distance effortlessly. Behind her, heavy footsteps closed, and she knew they would try to attack her with her back turned. She would need to dispatch this axe-wielder quickly.

  Ten yards. The black hair of the orc turned white in her mind. His long yellowish ears were dark instead. Five yards. None. She drove a dagger through the orc’s spine and into his heart.

  “Lenk,” she whispered in the orc’s ear as he died. “Traako.”

  She did not have more time to relish in her twenty-eighth kill. She whirled just in time to dodge an overhead smash that rammed into the lifeless orc behind her. It fell onto Belegcam, who shoved the male off.

  “I was fine!” he complained before picking up his bow and firing off a quick arrow at one of the three attackers who pursued Liritmear.

  The arrow buried itself into an eye socket of an orc male with a five-foot club. He clawed at the arrow as he stumbled backward, too dumb to know he was already dead.

  She whined at losing another kill but managed to down the middle orc with a slippery dagger throw to the chest. She dodged a sideways axe swing, rolled to the body of the middle orc, retrieved her knife and cut the tendons in both elbows of the remaining orc in that party. It kicked at her but missed. She rewarded the fiend with five quick stabs to the kidneys, liver, and lungs in less than four seconds and a final stab to the heart. She lingered there, hovering over him as she watched the lights go out in his eyes—satisfaction clearly written on her face.

  Twenty-nine. One more and she could sleep well tonight. Just a few more and people might talk about her around one of the dinner fires.

  A massive reddish orc screamed defiantly, approaching her slowly. He deflected four arrows from her regiment in quick succession with his massive two-handed axe.

  “Mine!” she declared. “Shoot something else! Do not take him from me!”

  The creature seemed to understand her challenge and snarled. They both charged, with the orc delivering a powerful strike with the butt of his axe to her shoulder. She tumbled to the ground but recovered just before his overhead smash landed. She felt the reverberations of its slam into the ground just inches from her head. She rolled and sliced his calf as she tumbled clear.

  He howled, more in humiliation and frustration than pain, and she grinned at him. By now, her face was caked in a sheet of sticky crimson. Her cream-colored teeth were themselves dripping with the blood of orcs. She knew she was an intimidating sight, even if she was a foot shorter than this cursed orc.

  She beckoned him toward her, and he slashed diagonally. She could not take advantage and had to hop backwards to avoid it. She managed to land a few slashes against his bare forearms over the next few strikes, but only with enough force to redden him. His skin barely filleted against the muscles. He was a big man.

  An arrow dug into his shoulder, and she cursed whoever had done it. Panicked, she charged at him. He counter-charged, hitting her squarely in the arm and numbing it with the impact. She managed to use her free arm to pierce his ribs, but she didn’t hit any major organs. It was enough for him to yelp in pain and retreat briefly, though. She shook her numb arm and rubbed it until she regained some feeling.

  A crudely-made arrow landed at her feet, and she realized that their own archers had arrived. Any strong orc worth his salt carried melee weapons. Orc archers were always the smallest and slowest of the bunch, which is why they showed up last.

  The orc brute swung heavily and awkwardly because of his wounds. She cut his throat and didn’t stay to watch him bleed out. She instead looked toward the archers to make sure she wasn’t surprised by a runt of the litter.

  Besides, if they wanted an archery contest, she’d happily oblige them.

  She pulled her bow back out of its holster and tried to grab one of her normal-headed arrows from her left quiver. Unfortunately, she’d already used all forty of those. She cursed at her poor accuracy, caused by her companions felling her targets before her arrows had arrived. She reached for her right quiver and pulled out six of her armor piercers. Eight of their archers now pressed her company from around 150 yards.

  Belegcam downed one of them, but she didn’t feel pressure. This was not her first competition with him. As he fidgeted and fumbled with his second arrow, she let loose two of her own. They found their marks, both protruding from the chests of two six-foot orcs. Thirty-two.

  The other five archers retreated back to the horde of hundreds that continued on to Dragonpaw.

  “Damn it,” Liritmear said. “Only thirty-two.”

 
“Yeah, yeah,” Belegcam said, waving at her dismissively.

  “Oh, you didn’t get that many?” she asked, grinning as they picked up their arrows and walked back toward the forest. “Was anyone counting for him? You know he’s kind of dense.”

  “Shut up,” Belegcam complained.

  “Did you manage to get ten this time?” Liritmear asked. “They were packed pretty tightly. Even a lucky person could have fired twenty into that crowd and downed ten.”

  “I had more than ten,” Belegcam said. “Probably twenty.”

  “Maybe fifteen,” an elf named Ainast said as he scaled a nearby tree with his cleats.

  Belegcam grumbled. “Probably,” he finally admitted.

  “Definitely,” Liritmear said, still grinning at him though he refused to look at her. “Still, you should be used to second place by now. Fifteen’s not bad—not bad at all. Maybe next time.”

  He grumbled the whole way back to Nylelthalas. Liritmear did too. Not loud enough for the others to hear though. She wanted a hundred. Maybe fifty, at the very least. Thirty-two just wouldn’t do. Next time, she promised to take out the entire war party.

  15

  A Loss of Confidence

  King Aethis Eldenwald rested his head against his open hand, his elbow propped against the arm of the marble throne. His sons lined the wall behind him and to the right. His daughters to the left. His wife and adviser flanked him, and all of the assembled lords and ladies from Julian Mallory’s lordship ceremony were also present. None had left since rumors of the undead came to Kingarth. His Lord General had joined the room in full armor, washed but unshaven since his return from the field. Down the carpeted steps, two ambassadors stared up at him.

  The tan-skinned Visanth ambassador Garshasp crossed his arms within his black-and-gold, ornate robe. His eyebrows rose frequently as he sometimes removed his hands from their resting place in the soft cloth folds and stroked his black beard and mustache below his high, richly-jeweled turban.

  Beside the Visanth Ambassador, the dark elven Etyrian ambassador Valedar knelt as a show of respect, waiting to be addressed. He wore purple-and-black robes, likely as a tribute to the late Prince Magnus, whom Aethis and Shea still mourned, as did the rest of their kingdom.

  “Do you know how extensive the threat is?” Garshasp asked.

  Adviser Jurgen stepped forward beside the King, and Aethis appreciated the intrusion.

  “The undead surround Foxbro,” Jurgen said. “We have reports that they have also branched south toward Alefast and Perketh.”

  “And where, pray tell,” Garshasp demanded sarcastically, “did this new undead force come from? Is this the same undead army you claimed not even a week past had dispersed?”

  The dark elf Valedar cleared his throat. “May I speak, King? I believe I may shed some light here.”

  “By all means,” Aethis said.

  “This army attacks from Xhonia,” Valedar said, standing and nodding toward the Visanth ambassador.

  “The dead city?” Garshasp asked.

  Valedar sucked his bottom lip in. He was obviously perturbed at the word choice, but he let it slide.

  “We believe it’s an undead city now,” Valedar said. “We believe a group of thieves removed our magical barrier at Xhonia. What we had been holding back in the underworld is now loosed upon this world.”

  The entire room went silent.

  “This is not the work of the Necromancer?” Aethis asked.

  “No,” Valedar said. “I believe the Necromancer is on our side.”

  “You think the Necromancer fights for Surdel?” Garshasp asked incredulously. “Was it not him who attacked Mallory Keep?”

  “We believe he fights for the living,” Valedar said. “We humbly request Surdel cancel the bounties on his head and rally what allies you have to your side. Whatever magical abilities are available to your Kingdom, you must call on them right now.”

  Valedar gave Aethis a hard look. The dark elf didn’t have to elaborate. Aethis knew exactly who the elf was speaking of.

  “The paladins,” Aethis said. “You mean the paladins…”

  “I mean everyone,” Valedar said. “Do not repeat our mistakes. Do not try to fight these legions alone.”

  “Any man, woman or child,” Jurgen said, “who calls themselves a paladin lives at the base of Mount Godun. If an army has poured out of Xhonia and now attacks Foxbro, that army had to go through the paladins.”

  “You mean to imply that the paladins are likely dead,” Valedar said.

  Jurgen rubbed his balding head. “How else would the undead have reached Foxbro? If you claim the paladins can stop the undead, and they haven’t, then…”

  Jurgen shrugged weakly.

  “I cannot speak to the paladins and their motives,” Valedar said. “I only know that their number is significantly reduced.”

  “Perhaps they are under siege too,” Garshasp said. “Like at Foxbro.”

  “I came through the undead army as it arrived at Foxbro,” Lord General Ross said, his hands crossed over his belt. “I did not see any paladins. If they are still alive, they must have fled southwest or southeast.”

  “If they’re retreating from the undead,” Aethis said, “then what do we need them for? You want me to re-legitimize a traitorous sect of magic wielders who flee from the very threat we need them for? Don’t I need people who will fight the undead?”

  Valedar looked around the room with his lightly glowing green eyes. He seemed to struggle to express his thoughts in the appropriate words. Aethis realized that the ambassador may have been trying to find a politically correct way to express or recommend something.

  “Ambassador,” Aethis said. “Time is short. Speak plainly and speak quickly.”

  Valedar straightened and nodded. His purple and black robes dropped to his sides.

  “Your Majesty,” Valedar said. “Your people have hunted these men for centuries, over five hundred years. My people have more reason to distrust them than you do, and yet, it is not my people who continue to deny these people a place at your side.”

  “What would you have me do?” Aethis asked.

  “Whatever you have to do,” Valedar said, “while you still can.”

  Julian Mallory stepped from behind the Ambassadors. “We fought the undead with fire at Mallory Keep.”

  “Did it work?” Adviser Jurgen asked.

  “In time,” Julian said. “As they burned, the undead fought against our walls, but the fire took effect. The undead burn like anything else.”

  “Your Majesty,” Ambassador Garshasp said, twirling his mustache. “If it’s fire you need, we can provide that. We have dragon tamers in the south of Visanth. We would just need—”

  “Fire is good,” Valedar agreed. “At least, against the undead.”

  “Well,” Garshasp said. “That’s what’s needed, right? Aren’t we fighting the undead?”

  “The passage of your dragon tamers is granted,” Aethis said. “Like the Etyrian ambassador says, we must accept aid against the undead wherever we may find it. I’ll have the order relayed to our fleet in the Small Sea.”

  “The undead,” Valedar said, “are the least of your problems.”

  “You said there’s an army of them besieging a walled town not two days ride from here,” King Aethis asked. “What else should I be worried about?”

  “Demons,” Valedar said, “and demon lords.”

  “Demon lords?” Aethis asked.

  The dark elf grew silent again. His head drooped downward, and he slowly kneeled. After he had reached the floor, he looked around again with his glowing eyes. He stared at Julian Mallory. There was a deep shame in the elf’s eyes, like he was about to confess every sin he had ever committed.

  “My Queen believes it is time to share with you our story,” Valedar said. “We believe that you will hear it now and truly listen to it. It is the story of the fall of the world. It is our history with the demon lords of the Abyss. If you would listen
this time, I will share it.”

  The Lord General approached, as did other lords around the room. People came so close that they could hear him whisper. When the shuffling had finally ceased and a hundred men surrounded the throne and the Etyrian ambassador, the dark elf finally spoke again.

  “20,000 years ago,” Valedar said in a broken voice, “Our greatest astral projectionist Selenor the Seer found someone, a great woman from another world. The two women bonded, but Selenor, a wise elf, did not trust this alien thing. She was filled with light, which seemed like an illusion. She spoke too sweetly. She promised too much. Knowledge. Power. Glory. A spot in the pantheon of the gods of this entire universe. An eternal garden created here on Nirendia. Selenor believed this woman was hiding something, but she was also curious. They continued to project to each other.”

  The elf stared at the ground. He began to sway slightly and his mind seemed to drift like flotsam in the ocean as he recalled more of this history.

  “The woman wanted to visit our world. She said… she wanted to see our people and to walk the lands. She said she was looking for something, and she thought our world might have it. Selenor probed the woman for information about her kind. The woman divulged that her people hated the cold, and that they were made of fire. Then, this woman, who claimed her name was Queen amongst her people, revealed that she understood Selenor had misgivings. She proceeded to reveal how a proper meeting place could be arranged. Because her people were made of fire, a great building of ice was required.”

  “What did you do?” Aethis asked.

  “She knew things about our planet and our people that even we didn’t know,” Valedar said. “She told us that ancient rocks had fallen from the heavens and made the valleys that contain the Surdel, Nomintaur, and Etyrian peoples. She said that underneath their craters was a pocket of frozen earth so thick that it could contain all of her fiery people. We would only need to seed the earth above with water and ice magic, which she offered to teach us how to make stronger. This would ensure the creatures that came here to this world, which she called Nirendia, would not break free to the surface. It took us 10,000 years to prepare the world for our doomed experiment. Thousands of acres sowed with magic to contain fire, but we did not listen to her. Not completely. The magics were destructive things, and our elders decided not to destroy our cities with ice. It turns out that our pride in our accomplishments was more destructive than the ice magic.”