Fires of Justice

Part 11:  Paladin – Allies

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This guy is crazy! Kaylira of Geranett thought, as the worshipper of Alethanna who had promised to set her free stepped out into the clearing where she and those she traveled with were held captive.  Champion of Alethanna or no – he’s stark mad!

He stepped out into the clearing, wearing nothing from the waist up, plainly showing the silver tattoos that marked him as . . . as something special to the Goddess of Justice . . . .

Okay, Kaylira amended, mentally.  Maybe not crazy . . . but he is definitely not afraid of risks.  He’s counting on me for back up – and he knows nothing about me.

Then the Alethanna-worshipper was standing in front of her captors, demanding that they put down their arms, or face him in combat.

One against four, Kaylira thought.  With an unknown quantity for reinforcement.  Lady Alethanna, while I love all the Gods of Light, I worship no single one of them . . . but I beg that you let me be worthy of your Champion’s trust!

Then, Kaylira’s captors were moving, spreading out around the Lady’s Champion, and Kaylira felt that they were distracted enough.  She tugged, hard, on the chains that held her – and fell to the ground, as they snapped apart, far more easily than she had expected.

Cursing silently – there is little more undignified than landing on your face in the dirt, and a duelist must ever maintain the proper image (in which sprawling in the dirt is not included!) – Kaylira dove for her sword, the saber her father had given her, when she graduated her training, the saber that had once belonged to Lirobane of Geranett, the most famous duelist still living today.

Her hand closed around the hilt, and Kaylira was on her feet, and yelling her challenge.

“Master of the Whip!” Kaylira cried.  “Turn now, and face one whom you have wronged!”

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Altairen grinned, as the first man came at him, long sword weaving gently in his grip, in a fashion that Altairen recognized easily, as the most common of long sword combat methods.  There were four of them, or he would not be worried at all, if they were all of the same skill as this one.

Then the lady duelist was free, and crying a challenge to the one who had been whipping the Cleric of Arteneh.  As the whip-wielder turned to face her, Altairen felt a tinge of regret – but acknowledged that the duelist had a better claim on the man.

Then, his own opponent was closing on him, sword dipping for a low cut at Altairen’s knees, and he thought no more about Kaylira, and her opponent.

Altairen snapped his right arm down, the short sword in that hand intercepting the blade aimed at his knees, stopping the longer blade easily.  Even as the man attempted to recover, and jerk his sword up into Altairen’s arm, the bigger man took a sliding step sideways, away from the blade, and snapped the short sword in his left hand out, aiming for his opponent’s throat.

There was a gout of blood, and a burst of silver, as Altairen, and his blades, were surrounded in the Silver Fires of Alethanna – and he knew that these men were truly evil, not just misguided, or greedy.  It only made doing what needed to be done that much easier – as did one opponent dying, as he choked on his own blood.

The second and third men moved to flank Altairen, and he dove forward, tucking, and rolling, to come up outside that maneuver.

He could hear Kaylira and the whip-wielder battling, but could not see what was happening, couldn’t spare the attention to work it out.

The second man, wielding only a long sword, charged Altairen, snarling, and Alethanna’s Champion met the blade now coming at his head with crossed short swords, stopping the attack neatly, and snapping a kick into his attacker’s stomach.  As the man doubled over, dropping his sword, Altairen kicked again, shifting his weight and pivoting, driving a side kick into the man’s chest, sending him staggering backwards – to fall, headfirst, into the smaller of the two fires in the clearing.  His hair caught fire instantly, and he began screaming.

The last of the three moved closer, then, long sword in his right hand, short sword in his left – and Altairen hesitated.  He’d never seen anyone use that combination of weapons, before.  Oh, saber and dagger, surely – but, long sword and short sword?  There was no balance to it, no symmetry.

Yet his opponent moved confidently, and Altairen frowned.

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Kaylira lunged, attacking immediately, wanting to end this, and release her friends, to help with the others.  Most importantly, she needed to free the cleric – or they were all dead.

Whip-man wasn’t totally stupid.  He dipped sideways, taking a long step that pulled his torso low, and away from her questing blade.  As he moved, the whip-wielder pulled  a dagger from his belt, to better parry Kaylira’s attacks.

I have to stay close, deny the whip, Kaylira thought, shifting, and beginning a baffle, spinning her blade slightly in her hand, to confuse the eye.  If he hits me with that thing, I’m in trouble.

For a long moment, Kaylira danced with the whip-man, as he tried to open a distance between them, and she tried to close it.  Then, he dove away from a simple lunge-and-cut, and Kaylira saw a chance to do the other thing that needed doing, soon.

As the whip-man dodged sideways, his dagger deflecting her blade from his throat, and skipped a couple of steps backwards, Kaylira found herself staring at the back of her cleric friend’s head.  The leather gag that they had strapped around her head (complete with a peg, to hold down her tongue, further insuring against spell-casting) laced in the back, and Kaylira was now staring at the laces.

Two long steps brought Kaylira within blades length of the cleric, and her sword flashed out, with a deceptively casual grace, and severed the leather strap at the back.  Kaylira’s blade also cut hair – but did not touch the cleric’s already-abused flesh.

Even as the cleric spat out her gag, and began chanting a spell, the whip-wielder attacked Kaylira, howling in fury and fear, at the idea of the cleric getting loose.  His whip arced in, and Kaylira barely raised her blade in time to prevent it’s metal-tipped end from hitting her in the face.

Then the whip was coming again, and again Kaylira blocked with her blade – and this time, Kaylira’s blade was snared by the whip, and its wielder yanked hard, jerking her arm out of line, and pulling her toward him.

She was in trouble, and she knew it – and then, she remembered her chains.

They still dangled from her wrists, about three feet of solid steel chain on each side.  There hadn’t been time or method for the Alethanna-worshipper to remove the shackles that bound wrist to chain – and that might well save her life, now.

Her left arm snapped forward, the chain still attached to it snapping almost like a whip, and the heavy metal cracked across the whip-man’s lower face, shattering his lower teeth and jaw.

Even as the man shrieked, and dropped both whip and dagger to clutch at his ruined lower face, Kaylira saw a flash of white from behind herself, and knew that the cleric was free.

Now, if only she has the strength to defend us! Kaylira thought, as she snapped her saber sideways, clearing the business end of the whip away from the blade.

As soon as her blade was clear, Kaylira performed a flawless full-extension lunge, one that would have made her father proud, sword extended, body a perfectly straight line from right wrist to left heel.  Her saber passed into the whip-man’s chest on his left side, below the ribs, and exited his back between the 2nd and 3rd ribs up. Somewhere along the way, it passed through his heart. He fell, quite dead – and Kaylira turned, to see that the Champion of Alethanna was having a difficult time with his last opponent.

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Altairen was pleased to note that the cleric was free, thanks to Kaylira, and was beginning a second spell, possibly to heal herself.

Altairen decided in very short order that he did not like the combination of long and short sword.  He wasn’t exactly in trouble, but . . . he wasn’t causing any, either.  His opponent was very good with his weapons, and knew how to use each for either offense or defense.  Altairen was used to the longer of two weapons being for offense, and the shorter strictly defensive.

It was rapidly becoming annoying, and a little dangerous, the way Altairen was having his assumptions turned against him.  So, Altairen changed the rules.

Even as he stepped back, quickly, from a back-handed long sword swing, Altairen saw Kaylira, the duelist, dispatch her opponent, and start for him.  Wordlessly, he glanced at her, and shook his head.  She froze, as he’d thought she would, then turned and began looking around the camp, warily, as though she suspected someone else to show up.

Altairen turned his attention back to his opponent, and did as he intended to do, changed the rules.

Casually, Altairen straightened from his swordsman’s crouch, and sheathed both of his short swords.  His opponent stared, for a moment, suspecting a trick, then grinned, and closed.

It was a trick, of sorts – just not one of hidden weapons, or ambush by additional opponents.

With no weapons in his hands, Altairen would stop thinking about the other man’s weapons – and start thinking about the man himself.

Two-swords lunged, long sword extended, reaching for Altairen’s chest, short sword back, ready to come forward, and gut Alethanna’s Champion, should he dodge the long sword.

This was, of course, assuming that Altairen dodged away from the long sword, and into the short sword’s arc of attack.  Altairen wasn’t that dumb.

As the long sword came in, reaching for his chest, Altairen went the other way, his own left, the swordsman’s right, and outside of the reach of both swords.

As he went sideways, Altairen’s right arm drifted up, and over the incoming long sword – then slammed forward, his forearm taking the swordsman across the face.  The man’s scream was double, and his nose shattered, his eyes blackened – and the Lady’s Silver Fire burned him, searing his eyes.

Altairen followed the man to the ground, snatched up the sword the fool dropped, and quickly beheaded him.  Then he stood, and turned, and saw Kaylira, the duelist, standing over the cleric, trying to help her to her feet, while trying to watch in all directions at once.

He went to them, and pulled the cleric to her feet, while Kaylira bent to gather the woman’s robes, pull them to her shoulders, and fasten them.  Altairen saw that her back was still wounded, the bleeding merely stopped, and minor healing done, to prevent it from starting again, by whatever spell she had cast.

“We have to get out of here!” Kaylira said.  “Heal yourself, all the way!”

“I dare not,” the cleric said.  “He is still nearby, I feel him.”

While she spoke, the cleric knelt, and felt on the ground, until she came up with a cord, and a pendant on it, which she tied around her neck, while saying, “I dare not waste energies on healing, when I shall have to fight a Priest of Jaranaset!”

“Jaranaset!” Altairen said.  He noted the white-gauntleted hand on the cleric’s necklace, and said, “Lady, no Cleric of Arteneh shall have to face a Priest of Jaranaset alone, not while I live!”

“My thanks, Cleric,” the woman said.  “And your help is welcome.  Alethanna has always been our most worthy ally!”

“As Arteneh has ever been ours,” Altairen said.  “And I am not a cleric, my Lady – only a warrior in Alethanna’s cause!”

“Then let us – ”

“Heretics!” a voice cried, from one edge of the clearing.  “Murderous simpletons!  I knew you should have been granted no amnesty!  And now I shall kill you myself!”

Altairen spun around, even as Kaylira dived towards the cage of now-clamoring prisoners, and the cleric moved to stand to Altairen’s left, and slightly in front of him.

Facing them was a man in his fifties, wearing a black robe, and a necklace with the symbol of Jaranaset, a mailed fist clutching a lightning bolt, all in black, on a red background.  The man’s hands were up, and beginning to glow, as he spoke the words of a clerical chant, to focus the power of his god that he contained within him.

Altairen’s clerical ally began a chant of her own, one hand clutching the symbol of her God, the other making a warding gesture.  Even as she finished, both she and Altairen were covered in a ghostly white plate mail, that had no weight, and did not hamper movement.

“Help Kaylira, please” the cleric said.  “I cannot armor her, she is out of range.”

“But the priest – !”

At that moment, a wave of flames rolled off of the priest’s hands, and swept over Altairen and his ally – and did no harm at all, the ghostly armor reducing deadly flames to merely uncomfortable heat.

“The priest is mine,” the cleric said.  “It was he who ordered me whipped – and then left, as his delicate stomach could not take the sight!  And . . . and he ordered them to rape me, later!”

Altairen could not argue the justice of her arguments.  Still . . . he moved off to get between the evil Priest and Kaylira, but stayed facing the conflict between the two clerics.

The battle was fierce, and violent, and loaded with magics that Altairen had never seen before, as well as many that he had seen.  Kaylira, who had been aiming to free the prisoners, stopped, and watched the battle in worried fascination.  Soon, she was standing beside Altairen (and slightly behind, to take advantage of his magical armor, should it become necessary), watching with the same mixture of worry and awe that he showed.

The cleric of Arteneh, who was, by appearance, in her early or middle twenties, wielded the magics of her God with a skill and assurance of a significantly older, and presumably more experienced, cleric.  For all the raw power that the Priest of Jaranaset was throwing around, Arteneh’s cleric was using subtlety, and gentle redirection, rather than direct force, and raw power.  The spells cast at her were deflected just enough to miss her, or interrupted at a critical moment, and caused to fail that way.

Then, the Priest of Jaranaset lost his temper, completely, and made a foolish mistake.  He began a long, powerful, violently destructive spell, and his younger opponent recognized it for it’s violence – and the inordinately long time it took to cast.

With a smile that was, to Altairen’s eyes, conflicting, in its gentle ferocity, the young cleric of Arteneh said a short, simple spell of her own – and the Priest of Jaranaset was suddenly bombarded by small, glowing, magically created birds, that darted around his head, and hands, stabbing with sharp beaks, ripping with tiny, but equally sharp, talons, and generally destroying his concentration.

While he was trying to summon the necessary concentration to dispel the simple, but hugely distracting, spell that his opponent had cast on him, she was not idle.  Moving swiftly, the young cleric of Arteneh grabbed up one of the long swords dropped by one of Altairen’s opponents, and charged at the Dark Priest.

The Priest finally dispelled the annoying little magical birds, and looked up to re-target his opponent – just in time to see her swinging a sword at his neck.

He tried to block, raising his hand – and the sword simply cut off his fingers, on its way to his neck.  His head didn’t come off – but the gout of blood left no doubt that he would die, and shortly, as he couldn’t speak to cast a spell of healing.

The lady cleric took no chances – he might have a potion or salve of healing, that, if he acted quickly, could save the Dark Priest’s life.  She didn’t risk it.  Instead, she yanked the sword free – and swung it back the other way, cleaving the neck from behind, and sending the head tumbling to the ground.

Then, Altairen saw that one of his opponents, the man he’d simply knocked into the fire, and forgotten about, was still alive – and ready to attack the Cleric of Arteneh, standing, charging with his own long sword back to strike.

Altairen didn’t risk her knowing how to use the sword she held.  Her movements spoke of little to no training with the weapon; she had used the sword like an axe, not a sword.

With a cry, he leapt between the cleric and her attacker, the Silver Fire bursting into being around him.  He drew both short swords as he moved, blocking the attacker’s sword with his left hand, and striking with the blade in his right, shoving the sword into his opponent’s belly.  The man screamed, and fell to the ground, and Altairen ran him through the heart, ending his cries, his suffering, and his life.

The cleric stared with wide eyes, for a moment, then gathered herself visibly, and spoke a word of magic, dismissing the armor that surrounded both herself and Altairen.  Then, she spoke to Altairen.

“Warrior, you called yourself, my friend,” the cleric said.  “And I cannot deny your skill as such.  But, you were modest!  Warrior is not sufficient to describe a man who wields the Fires of Alethanna.

“You are her paladin!”

Then she staggered, and nearly fell, before Kaylira caught her, and eased her down to sit on the ground.  Altairen was there immediately, checking the lifebeat in her throat, and finding it fast and thready.

“Lady Cleric,” Altairen said, “If you have the energy left, you should heal yourself, before you faint.  You have lost much blood, and your exertions have been extreme.”

“I cannot,” she said.  “The others – ”

“None are injured gravely,” Kaylira said.  “I know this.  Heal yourself, or you shall do no one any good!”

Sighing, the young lady did as she was bade.  She spoke a spell of healing, stronger than the last – and suddenly, she was obviously much better.  Her posture changed, as the pain from her back and shoulders went away, and her eyes brightened, as the worst of her fatigue was driven out.  Altairen offered a hand, and she stood.

“I thank you, both of you,” she said, as she straightened.  “And I apologize, sir, for not introducing myself earlier.”

“You’ve been busy,” Altairen said, with a grin.  “I think even a noble would forgive a small breech of etiquette like that, under these circumstances.”

“My thanks, Paladin, for your understanding.”  She smiled, and offered him her hand, smiling widely, the smile lighting up her face, making her even more beautiful than she already y was.  “I am Kayleen of Pelinar, Cleric of Arteneh, sir, and this is my sister, Kaylira of Geranett.  I thank you for you aid, and our lives.”

“I am Altairen of Kavendale,” he replied, bowing over her hand, briefly.  “And I am Alethanna’s Champion.  You are welcome to my aid, at any time, Lady Kayleen!”

She smiled her thanks, then turned and pulled Kaylira into an embrace, hugging her, and kissing her cheek.  “Sister mine, we should free our friends.  Can we break the cage open?”

“The cage, yes,” Kaylira agreed.  “The manacles, and collars . . . I doubt it, not without hurting someone.”

“And I cannot help, if you do,” Kayleen said.  “Not until tomorrow, at least, when I am recovered.”

“Well, they can wait that long, anyway,” Kaylira said.  “Knowing that they will be free.

“Unless . . . Paladin Altairen, can you help?”

“No, I fear not.”  He shook his head.  “I am no good with locks.  However . . . .”  He turned to face the cage of prisoners, and called, “Do any of you know anything of locksmithing?”

There was a chorus of denials, from inside the cage – and over it, a single voice, from one of the wagons.

“Actually, perhaps I could help you!”

The voice came from the front wagon, and Altairen walked towards it, signaling Kaylira to begin opening the cages.  He checked the wagon doors for any obvious traps, then opened them, and stepped in.

There was a lantern lit, and by it, Altairen saw a sight that was, somehow, hilarious.

Propped in one corner of the wagon was a man, who was so thoroughly wrapped in chains that he couldn’t even sit down – he couldn’t bend that much.  His hair was brown, and disheveled, just brushing where his collar would have been, if it hadn’t been covered by chains.  His eyes were blue, and his face unremarkable, save for the cheerful smile that lit it, now.

“Hello, good sir!” the chained man said, quite cheerfully.  “As you can see, I’m having a bit of restraint exercised for me, right now.  If you could see your way to freeing me, I believe I can get those poor people outside free, for you.”

Altairen chuckled, then laughed out loud, as he moved to help the man free.  To be chained in such a way, and be cheerful about it, indicated a man of marvelous disposition, or total madness.  And he didn’t look like a madman . . . !

The chain was secured with a padlock, the key hanging high on the wall, in the corner opposite the one where the man was propped.  Altairen fetched it, and freed the man, taking the couple of minutes necessary to unwrap him all the way, rather than letting him do it himself.

“There you are, friend,” Altairen said.  “Take a moment, let your circulation restore itself.  I am Altairen of Kavendale, Champion of Alethanna.”

“Ah, a man of justice,” the fellow said, straightening.  He was maybe five feet, eight inches tall, and average of build, dressed in browns and grays.  As a matter of fact, he was average, period, save for his smile.  “I am Terel of Pelinar, and I am at your service.”

“Then tell me truthfully, Terel,” Altairen said.  “Are you a thief?”

“I am a rogue, sir, and a thief by profession,” Terel said, drawing himself up.  “Though I am a man of scruples, still!”

“How so?”

“I steal only from those who can afford the loss,” Terel said, beaming suddenly.  “And, when possible, from those who worship Sebek, or another of the Dark Gods.  And much of what I steal goes to the temples of Fareel, Arteneh, and Mysarra, though that last only through my own excesses.”

“You speak the truth,” Altairen said, offering his hand.  “I like that, friend Terel.  I know not of Fareel, or Mysarra, but I gather from your words that they are not Dark Gods?  And that Sebek is?”

“You know not of Fareel?” Terel said, shaking Altairen’s hand.  “Or Mysarra?  Oh, I pity you sir – to have led such a boring life, as to not know of two of my favorite deities!  Were you raised in a monastery – or a barrel?”

“A good question, friend rogue,” said Kayleen, from the door to the wagon.  “How is it so, Paladin?”

“I was not born or raised in this world,” Altairen said.  “I was sent here, only today, by my Goddess, to aid the Gods of Light, and their servants, in whatever way I can.”

“An Outworlder!” Terel cried, sounding excited.  “I’ve never met an Outworlder!  They say that great things happen, around those the Gods have seen fit to draw here from other worlds!”

“And they say rightly,” Kayleen said, her eyes lighting up with hope.  “They say rightly, friend rogue.

“Come help free our companions, and then we shall see what the Paladin has planned to do next . . . .”

Terel followed Kayleen outside, and Altairen stood in the wagon, staring after them.

“Why do I feel as though they know more about why I am here than I do?” he asked the air.

There was no answer – so he followed them outside, to help with freeing the captives.

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