Fires of Justice

Part 10:  Paladin – The Next Level

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Altairen of Kavendale, Champion of Alethanna, Guardian of the Silver Star, knew that he was almost certainly going to his death, when he assaulted the fortress of Jaranoris, the Son of Darkness.  He was afraid, and ashamed of his fear – but he went.

It was his duty, to his Goddess.

He knew that he would face Jaranoris, and almost certainly be forced to do so hand-to-hand.  He knew that no mortal could hope to stand against a creature of divine blood, and live.  Yet, he had to try.

It was a battle straight out of legend.

In the end, Altairen, wounded mortally, locked his hands around his enemy’s throat, and said a heartfelt prayer to his Goddess, as he summoned the last of her Silver Fires from within his breast.

Oh, Goddess, let it be enough! he prayed.

You will not live, Altairen, if I grant you power enough to destroy Jaranoris, Alethanna said, in his mind.

I swore an oath, Lady, to live and to die in your service, Altairen prayed.  If now is the time to die – so be it!

He clenched his hands.

Alethanna heard the prayers of her favorite son, felt his love burning her, as hers burned him  – and answered his prayer with raw power.

Oh, my child, Alethanna said, as she granted Altairen her power, you honor me – and you will be remembered.

There was an explosion of black and silver, evenly mixed, at the start – but the silver quickly overwhelmed the black, and burst forth with a vibrating shrill of power –

And when it cleared, Jaranoris’s withered body was resting before the Throne of Onyx, from which he had intended to rule the world.

Of Altairen’s body . . . there was no sign.

He was remembered.  The fortress of Jaranoris was torn to the ground, and a memorial erected there, to Altairen of Kavendale, Champion of Alethanna, Guardian of the Silver Star.

A year after his death, Jenara, High Priestess of Alethanna, came to that place, bringing her nine year-old son, Varen, with her, that he might see what his father had looked like.

For a long time, the boy studied the statue of his father, whose stamp was clear upon his own features, though his hair was his mother’s, black as a raven’s wing, and wavy.

“This was my dad?” the boy asked, a bit overwhelmed by the idea that his father had been a hero of such stature.

“That is your father, Varen,” Jenara said, swiping absently at the tears that streamed from her eyes.  “Never has my Goddess had a more faithful servant.”

“Was he . . . was he nice, mother?” Varen asked.

“He was,” Jenara said, smiling, as her son cut to the things that mattered to a boy.  “He was courteous, and kind, and thoughtful.  He . . . he could make you laugh, when you needed to laugh.  He . . . when there was a need to fight, he was there, the first in line, usually, to defend those who needed it.  And after a battle, he would work to exhaustion, to comfort the wounded, and those who had lost friends or family in the battle.  And when it was time to make merry, he danced with the rest of us, or laughed, or told stories.

“Your father, Varen, was a good man, not just a hero.”

For a long time, the boy was silent, staring up at the face of the father he had never known, could never know, now.  Finally, he turned to look at his mother, his grey eyes solemn.

“Can I be like him, mother?”

“In many ways, you already are like him, Varen,” Jenara said.  “You make me laugh, when I am sad.  You are not afraid to stand up for what you believe.  And . . . you are a good boy, Varen.

“Yes.  Yes, you can be like your father.”

“I’d like that,” Varen said.  He was silent for a moment, then sat down in the shadow of the statue of his father.  He looked up at his mother, and she took the hint, and sat with him, looking at the statue.  She was snapped out of her reverie by Varen’s voice.

“Tell me again of how you met father, please?” Varen asked.

Jenara looked at her son, smiled, and began to speak.

“The Goddess had need of a Champion,” Jenara said.  “She knew that the world would need him, soon, and so she set out to find a man of strong will, and good heart, who would serve her faithfully.

“After searching the world, she came back to a man who, at first glance, could not have been more poorly suited to her needs.  He was cursed, by his father, a creature of pure evil, to carry the seeds of evil within himself.

“And yet, he resisted that evil, with a will that impressed even a Goddess.  So, with the subtle magics of the Gods, she turned his feet towards her Temple at Kerannus . . . that I might administer the final tests, to see if he was truly worthy of bearing Her marks . . . .”

Jenara talked until long after the sun went down, and Varen devoured every word.

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Altairen felt the burning of his Goddess’s power slam through him, burning up his being – but, before his life ended, he was granted the satisfaction of feeling the coldness that was Jaranoris . . . end.

Then the world went out.

For a time out of mind, the blackness was all he could see. And then, very suddenly, there was a burst of silver light – and Altairen relaxed, completely, recognizing the flame of his Goddess.

And then she was before him, the Goddess Alethanna, Lady of Justice, burning with the silver fire that had made him whole, wings outspread, sword and shield raised in salute.

Greetings, my champion, Alethanna said, her words ringing in his head.  And well fought, my son!

“The threat is ended, then, my Lady?” Altairen asked.  She nodded, and he sighed.  “It is well, then.  But . . . I had hoped to fight for you longer than this. I have barely begun to repay my debt to you.”

No, Altairen, Alethanna replied.  This is not the time of your true death. It is only the time of your removal from one arena – and placement in another.

“I don't understand, Lady,” Altairen said softly, delighted, as always, to hear his given name from her lips.  “Is it for me to know what you mean?”

Yes, my child, Alethanna replied.  I would not ask of you to go to this world without knowing what you will face.

There are worlds other than the one into which you were born my Champion.  And in many of them, I am a force, a figure of responsibility, as I was on the world into which you were born.  And in none of them am I so weak as I am in the world into which you are being sent.  It is a world with little justice, Altairen, and in which I am little worshipped.

And it is a world in need of justice, as few have ever been.  For here, the Dark Gods are ascendant.  They are winning the Great War that we Gods fight, there.  In many places, where the Dark Ones rule, it is illegal to worship those of us who oppose them, even.

The people have seen only darkness, in many parts of the land, for  so long that they forget what the Light looks like.

They must learn to love the light again, or I will cease to exist, there – and all hope of an end to darkness will be extinguished, as the loss of a single ally may well tip the balance too heavily against the light.  Should this happen, the flames of freedom will cease to burn, my Champion.  Unless you, and those who will travel with you, can start the battle to reclaim freedom for the common man.  Will you take this burden, my Champion?

“I will,” Altairen said. “And never so willingly have I accepted a burden, Lady – save when first you asked of me to be your Champion!”

You will not see an end to the darkness in your lifetime, my child, Alethanna warned.  But you can make a difference.

“And so I shall, my Lady – on that you have my oath,” Altairen said with quiet sincerity.

Very well then, my Champion, Alethanna replied, smiling.  Then hear me, and hear me well; in this place, you will be weaker than you were before – for I am weaker.  The powers I granted you will still function, but more weakly than you are accustomed to.

Your enemies will be many, my Champion. Chief among them will be the priests of the Dark Ones – and I must tell you, Altairen . . . in the world I send you to, there are more Gods and Goddesses than you are perhaps accustomed to.

Unlike the world of your birth, where there are nine of us . . . on the world of Quelannas, there are 18 gods and Goddesses, and one more to come – as the Gods of the Dark are over-confident, and have agreed to let us add another player to the game.

And remember as well – you will encounter many things that you do not understand, and many of them will be dangerous.

But, my son . . . you will not walk alone.  Not for long, at least.  You will be joined by many, as your word of the deeds that I know you will perform spreads.  And . . . you will have more than companions, Altairen.  I know, though you never admitted it, or complained, even to yourself . . . I know that you were lonely.

You have been my faithful servant, my good right hand, for too long for me to allow that state to continue, my son.

You will have more than companions.  You will have friends.

And, perhaps, you will once again know love.

Farewell, for now, my Champion. Do your duty, Altairen. And take my love, and my pride, with you.

And then he was standing in a forest clearing, under an unfamiliar sky, tears streaming down his face, in his ecstasy at being in Her presence for so long.

With no hesitation, he fell to one knee, in the position of deep respect.

“Lady Alethanna,” Altairen prayed,  “I thank you, for my life, for my continuation in your service, and for . . . for the promise of an end to being alone.

“That is the one boon I would have asked of you, Lady, had I felt free to push my way of life off on another.

“I will strive to be worthy of the task you have set me.”

He stayed for a moment, silently, wordlessly, continuing his prayers, before finishing aloud, with the prayer that had once been uniquely his, until other Disciples of Justice had begun reciting it, during the war against Jaranoris.

“I will bend to the will of the Lady Alethanna. Hers is the way that lights the darkness. I will be true to her dictates, and walk on the ways of Justice. I will not fear death, for death is not failure. I shall stand beside those of strong faith in the Justice of the Gods. I shall be courageous . . . for without courage, there can be no Justice.

“I shall bear the fire of her Silver Star into the darkness, that those lost within the darkness might see that there is a way out. In the name of Alethanna, I shall do these things, for hers is the hand that made me whole.”

Then he stood, and took a good look around.

The clearing was small, and a twenty-foot-wide stream passed through it, on the edge closest to the . . . rising? – yes, the rising sun.  Many of the trees were familiar.  Oak, maple, elm, and the few pines he saw, he recognized.  The tree with the huge, bright green leaves, he did not recognize, though.  The leaves were as long as his forearm, and half that in width, at their widest point.

And there, against a giant old oak, Altairen spotted a pile of his belongings.

There were several of his weapons, and his trusty old backpack, on it’s frame of tent poles.

Altairen looked down, and realized that, for a dead man, he was well dressed.  He wore his usual grey tunic and trousers, a short cloak of darker grey, and grey boots.  And his hair was bound back, as he usually wore it, the tail hanging just below his shoulders.

He grinned, and belted on his weapons.

First, his twin short swords, worn low on his hips, the bottoms of the scabbards tied off just above his knees.  Then, his saber, at his waist, hanging at an angle that allowed him to reach his short swords.  And last, he fastened his favorite club – a straight piece of ironwood, with one end hollowed, and weighted with lead – at his belt, on the back-right side.

His pack contained his one-man tent, a bedroll, his “good” clothes, jerky and dried fruit enough for two or three days, his whetstone and oil, flint and steel, some string and pegs for snares, his cooking set, a hundred feet of fine silk rope, a rolled up sack, two blank pieces of parchment, a quill and small bottle of ink, two empty flasks, two cakes of soap, and a small steel mirror.

And there was a waterskin, next to his pack.  He filled it from the stream, drank, and filled it again.

Then Altairen shouldered his pack, and turned to follow the narrow stream, moving downstream, which, experience told him, should eventually bring him to a town.

He walked all day, filled with a nearly boundless energy, delighted simply to be alive, and more delighted to be on a mission for his Goddess.  He ate jerky and dried fruit on the march, and never stopped until sunset.  As the sun touched the horizon, he set up his tent, and set a couple of snares, in bushes that looked likely to have a rabbit hole hidden in them.  He built a fire, and, as he finished, heard thrashing in the bushes.  Already, he had caught a rabbit, and he ate well, that night, dining on roasted rabbit, seasoned with wild onions and carrots that he found on the banks of the stream, and with a handful of some delightfully sweet, bright purple berries that he’d discovered that afternoon, for dessert.

He’d finished, and washed up, and was contemplating taking a bath in the stream, cold though it would be, when he heard what sounded like a faint, muffled scream, from some distance off.

Altairen was on his feet before he’d even really decided to move.  He stood, one hand on his short sword, and listened – and soon, heard the sound repeated.

And, only seconds later, he heard a woman scream, “Leave her alone, whoreson!”

He started moving in that direction, going as stealthily as he could, and still move quickly.

Then he heard the muffled scream again – preceded by the crack of a whip.

His speed increased, without a conscious decision.

Then he saw flickering light, ahead, and slowed, almost against his will, being more careful to make no noise, now.

He soon reached the edge of a vast clearing, some two hundred feet across, and stopped, to examine the situation.

There were three wagons in the clearing, two plain, one of ornately decorated wood, trimmed in what looked to be gold.  That wagon, the fancy one, was parked between the other two, and appeared to have runes carved all over it.

At the far side of the clearing, behind the last wagon, was a huge cage, of what appeared to be several portable sections of bars, held together with big iron locks.  In the cage were some thirty or forty people, hands manacled together, and fastened to a metal collar at their throats.

And near the front of the first wagon, a woman was chained to a tree.  She wore tight black trousers, showing off her small waist, and nicely-shaped hips, and a loose blue shirt tucked into the trousers.  The billowy sleeves of the shirt were wrapped, at the forearms, most of the way to her elbows, with strips of white cloth, to keep them out of her way, presumably.  Shoved into the ground in front of her, less than a foot out of her reach, was a fine-looking saber.

And in the center of the clearing, were two thick stakes, shoved into the ground.  Chained between them, facing Altairen, her robe pooled around her feet, was a woman in her early twenties.  She wore nothing, save the robe that had been stripped from her, around her feet, and a gag, which had muffled her screams.  Her hair was black, and hung just to the tops of her breasts, and her eyes, bright with pain, were an electric shade of blue.

And he could see the blood from her whipped back, curling around the insides of her thighs, running over her hips, and down her legs.

She was quite beautiful, despite her situation, and the sweat and blood that dripped from her body.

Standing near her, watching with intent expressions, were four men, one with a whip in his hands.  The other three wore swords, all long, by their looks, though one had both a long and a short sword on his belt.

As the man with the whip drew it back to strike again, Altairen caught the gleam of metal at its split tip.  There were four tiny metal beads at the tip of the whip.

He was forced to watch, as the woman endured another strike to her back, arching and tensing every muscle, and trying not to scream, failing, and making horrible sounds, around the gag in her mouth.

“Stop it!” the woman chained to the tree cried.  “Damn your souls, we were leaving, as we were promised we could!”

The man with the whip turned, then, and addressed the chained woman.

“The amnesty ended today,” he said in an oily, pleasant tone.  “And you are not out of the kingdom of Teraam, yet, so you are subject to the justice of the Royal Priests.

“And besides, Kaylira of Geranett – the amnesty does not apply to wanted criminals, or those who consort with them!”

“I did nothing wrong!” the chained woman – Kaylira – cried.  “I killed a man who would have forced himself on me, and that is all!”

“No, little duelist,” the whip-wielder said.  “You did far more than that.  And the reward for you, alive, will make us all rich.

“For you killed the nephew of the High Priest!”

Kaylira paled, and sagged forward, against her chains.

“He tried to take me!” she sobbed, after a moment.  “He had cast a spell of sleep on me, and when I awoke, he had removed my pants, and his robes, and was on top of me – what was I supposed to do?!”

“Submit, of course,” the whip-wielder said.  “Submit to your better, to one who does not consort with the weak Gods.”

“Rot in HELL!” Kaylira shrieked.  “Rot, you filth!  No one touches me, without my permission!”

“So you say,” the whip-man said.  “Tonight is for this snobby bi*ch, this cleric of the ‘Greater Good.’  Tonight, we make her docile – unless she enjoys what we do to her, and is as wild a lay as I hope!

“But tomorrow night, Kaylira . . . the reward is greater for you, if you live – but it doesn’t say you need be . . . unused.

“Tomorrow night is your turn, little duelist!”

Kaylira shrieked wordlessly, in her rage, and struggled uselessly against the chains that held her.

Altairen had heard all he could bear to hear.  He could probably learn more, if he listened longer – but he couldn’t.

Rapists, he thought, as he moved silently around the clearing, to where he could approach the chained duelist from behind.  They die.  But, I cannot be sure of taking them all, alone.  And it sounds as though the duelist has a just score to settle.

It took only a few moments, to get around behind her, and approach the tree she was chained to, from a direction where he could not be seen.

As soon as he was close enough, he spoke.

“Be silent, or at least very quiet, m’Lady,” Altairen said, softly.  “In moments, I am going to set you free – but, you mustn’t let them know, until I can provide a distraction of you.

“Do you understand?”

“How do I know I can trust you?” the young woman asked, softly.  “You could be thinking to collect the reward on my head for yourself, and not have to share, that way.”

“Look down to your left.”

Kaylira did as she was bid – and her heart leapt.  Now she was sure that she would be free, and that these monsters would pay for their crimes.

What she saw was a man’s forearm – tattooed with the shield of Alethanna, the Silver Star that was her symbol almost seeming to flicker, as a real star might.

“I beg your pardon, Cleric,” Kaylira said.  “I shall do as you say.”

“Your distrust is understandable,” Altairen said, working on the chains that held her.  “And I am no cleric, m’Lady.  I am Altairen, and I am her Champion.”

The chains were held together, behind the tree, with a pair of cunningly made rings, gapped and twined together.  Without someone holding them just so, they would never come off, through struggles.  He slipped one ring free, and set the other so that a simple tug would free Kaylira.

“There,” Altairen said.  “When their attention is on me, simply tug, duelist, and you shall be free.  And then I think we two can make these creatures regret their actions – don’t you?”

“Yes, but – ”

“No time,” Altairen said.  “The lady they torture has borne enough.”

Then he was gone, before Kaylira could warn him of the danger he did not see.

Altairen worked his way back around the clearing, then stopped, near the place he had originally come here, and took off his tunic, laying it aside.  Drawing his short swords, he stood, and walked, bare-chested, into the clearing.

He stopped, as the four men saw him, and drew their swords, and stood, waiting, the firelight flickering on the silver tattoo of Alethanna’s Star upon his chest.

“I will say this only once,” Altairen said, in a voice that fairly dripped scorn.  “Lay down your arms, and kneel, and you will live.

“Refuse, and I will perform the justice of the Lady Alethanna upon you.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the man with the whip laughed, and said to his friends, “Kill this fool!”

They moved, and Altairen moved to meet them.

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