A Paladin's Journey Ch. 08

The beautiful witch of the woods that reputedly seduced men and ate them was actually Elaina. The ravenous beast-men that stalked in search of children to eat were the Druids, and the mythical ancient Elven city that was of course Ildernass.

For hours the weary group lumbered deeper into the woods until finally, Aran saw a most welcome sight. A seven-foot white stone wall so overgrown with chokevine that the stone was all but invisible. The wall was solid all the way around for about a square mile, Aran knew, and it was broken only by one set of tall wrought iron gates set with a bronze sunburst of Aros, if you didn't count the secret exits.

This wall meant that they were on the north side of the Chapel's grounds, and if they kept following this path, it would lead them to another that would take them to the gate.

"We're nearly there!" Aran exclaimed over his shoulder. There was little response, with everyone so exhausted. He looked up through the dense oak branches overhanging the small dirt road to see the sky beginning to lighten. Had they really been traveling through the whole night?

Another quarter-hour, and Aran reined Strider in before the gates. This was the first time he'd been here in over a year. He was both happy and sad; happy to be back and sad that Elaina would not be here to greet him. He checked on the melda he shared with her. Somewhere to the southwest, she seemed content, though there was an underlying sense of urgency in her feelings. Aran would visit the Plane tonight, and with luck she would be there too.

Aran turned Strider to face the long line of bleary-eyed faces looking back at him. "Welcome to the Emerin Chapel," he told them with a smile. "This was my home for a time, and this is your sanctuary." Dismounting, he gave the gates a shove, opening them wide and leading Strider through and off to one side to make way.

"There will be hot baths and somewhere comfortable to sleep for all of you," he assured the people as they meandered past him. Some of them gave him grateful nods or a polite thank you, while others said nothing, too weary to respond.

Aran caught Ari's sleeve as the rotund innkeeper shuffled by. "My friend, I will need your help, if you please?"

Ari's extra chin wobbled as he nodded his head. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, but he hid his tiredness well. "Whatever you need, Master Aran!"

"Good man," Aran said, clapping him on the shoulder. He gave Ari instructions for getting everyone settled in. The portly man nodded carefully to each one before hurrying off up the path.

Smythe was the last one through; he'd taken to bringing up the rear in the last few hours to make sure nobody was left behind. When the big Paladin had Thunder through the gates, Aran pulled them shut and picked up the thick, six-foot long iron bar that was resting against the stone frame on the inside of the wall. He dropped the heavy length into the cradles on the back side of the gate, securing it from the inside.

"Well," Smythe sighed as Aran turned back toward the path. "Let's go and have a wee rest, ey?"

Aran wanted that more than anything, but he would rest once the Heralds were dealt with.

***

***Berrigan Stallen, Sorral Plain, Ekistair***

The afternoon sun hung low in the west as Berrigan led his men into Rostin. He eyed the quiet streets and the empty windows suspiciously. "Prepare for an ambush," he whispered to Rohim, who rode at his left.

Rohim raised his left fist above his shoulder and whipped it quickly left and then right. A line of well-trained Heralds on either side of the column peeled away immediately, one east and one west to circle the village.

What had begun as a small party of twenty Heralds had grown as Berrigan crossed the plains, and now he led more than five hundred men and women. Some had been out scouting all the way down from Maralon, while others had been on recruiting parties. Some were farmers and village folk that had joined the Herald's cause rather than risk their ire. Smart people. They weren't full Heralds yet -- they hadn't passed the Cleansing -- but Berrigan would use them nonetheless. At the very least, they would make a useful distraction tool.

There was no ambush awaiting them in Rostin, Berrigan discovered once the men had completed their thorough inspection of the village and reported back. It was just quiet because there was almost nobody here. He reined in his horse in the centre of the village square and turned slowly, assessing. "Form up!" he barked, and his men organised themselves in neat ranks in the square, facing the inn, while the newer additions milled about in vain at the back, at least until Rohim snapped orders at them to tidy themselves up.

After a minute, four of his men appeared, each man pushing a terrified-looking villager ahead of him. They halted a few feet from where Berrigan sat his horse, holding the villagers in a line facing him. Three of them were men, and the one on the end was a woman.

Berrigan tilted his head slightly as he studied the woman. Slender and golden-haired, there was something about her that didn't belong here. With that colouring and that straight nose, he was willing to bet she was no local. Her light green cotton dress was also too fine, and the hem was neat and unscuffed, unlike the others he'd seen on simple village women. There were also her hands, clasped neatly at her waist; they were smooth and clean, telling Berrigan that this woman was not one for washing or cleaning or cooking.

No simple village goodwife, then. He pointed a finger at her. "You, woman. Who are you?"

Berrigan almost blinked in surprise when she bowed deeply, hands on her knees. "May the Dawn banish all shadows, my Lord." She straightened, but kept her eyes appropriately downcast. "I am Nameless."

Berrigan's eyes widened, and a ripple of nervous shifting passed through the Heralds closest to the woman. Those that were old enough to know what that title meant did, anyway. Was she telling the truth? Surely nobody would be foolish enough to claim that title if they weren't. Time would tell.

"Where did you come from?" Berrigan demanded of the woman. "Who issues your orders?"

"High Lord Commander Rodric Eames," the so-called Nameless replied politely. "He sent me down from Maralon to keep an eye on things in this region. I have no further orders at present."

The men standing next to the Nameless were looking at her as if she'd sprouted horns. "I told ye she was'ne right!" One of the men, a muscular, bearded fellow hissed to the smaller chap on his right.

There was a flash of motion from the Nameless, her right arm whipping up, the back of her fist striking the burly man's nose with a crunch. His hands came up to his face as he roared in pain.

"You will be silent in the presence of your betters," she told the farmer calmly as he tried to breathe through a ruined nose. Blood fanned down into his dark beard, already beginning to drip down onto his shirt. Furious eyes turned to the Nameless, and the bloodied man reached toward her with broad hands.

Heralds stepped forward to intervene, but Berrigan waved them down. If she was truly Nameless, she could handle this herself.

"You bitch!" The man snarled as he grabbed at her throat. Maybe he wanted to hurt her, and maybe he just wanted to scare her a little. If was truly Nameless, then it would not matter in a few seconds.

Berrigan watched as she moved like flowing water, spinning away from his outstretched hands and stepping to the left side gracefully. In the same motion she shoved at the outside of his left upper arm, turning his body away from her. A swift kick to the back of his knee brought him to a kneel, where she could easily wind her arms around his head. She uncoiled smoothly, and there was a snap as the farmer's head was twisted to an angle the neck could not support.

As the body hit the ground, the Nameless resumed her position in line, hands clasped at her waist and eyes demurely down. So, she really was what she claimed to be, then. It was said a Nameless could walk into a room of one hundred men and not one of them would leave alive unless the Nameless deemed it so.

It wasn't far from the truth. Berrigan had old records in his library that detailed the abilities of the Nameless, and what they had to go through to obtain those abilities. They were elite assassins, intelligent and educated and able to blend into any environment. Berrigan had never had the pleasure of having one in his service, however. The possibilities were staggering! How many more were there?

"Report on your time in this hovel," he ordered the woman. "We are searching for a small group of three Arohim. My information says they came this way."

The Nameless nodded. "They were here, Lord Commander. Three men. I believe two of them were full Paladins, and the third a student, or apprentice. They left not three days gone."

Berrigan wanted to grind his teeth. Three days was an eternity! He wanted Kedron now!

"But they will not be moving quickly," the Nameless added. "Most of the village left with them, and they have wagons and carts slowing them down."

"And did you have any orders from Eames concerning these Arohim, Nameless?"

"Only to report, Lord Commander. Lord Commander Eames issued instructions that he be informed immediately at the discovery of any Arohim, and that we watch them carefully, but refrain from engaging."

Berrigan couldn't understand that order. Why would Eames want Arohim watched rather than killed on sight? Surely one Nameless was a match for two Paladins and an apprentice. He very much wished to meet with this Rodric Eames. Then he could decide if the man was suitable to be leading the Maralon Heralds, or if he needed to be removed.

A shout from the back ranks brought Berrigan's head up, and soon the disturbance identified itself. Three dirty, disheveled men stumbled into his presence, breathing raggedly as if they'd been running for miles. They saluted wearily, but appropriately, awaiting Berrigan's permission to speak. He ran his eyes over them critically. Dressed in only their smallclothes, the men were unwashed and unshaven, but the spiked sunburst branded in the centre of their chests was obvious. These men were Heralds, though what had led them to running around dirty and half-naked was beyond Berrigan.

"Lord Commander," Rohim whispered from Berrigan's right side. "That's Eldric on the right. I know him. He's a good man."

Berrigan waved a hand at the new arrivals impatiently. "Speak, then. And it had better be good." As one of the men -- Eldric -- began to speak, Berrigan's mood darkened, then did the opposite. From their story, these fools were stupid enough to be captured by the Arohim here in Rostin, and then dragged off along with the rest of the villagers! But Berrigan found himself smiling when he heard about the Goblin attack on their camp, which had inadvertently freed the Heralds. Although Eldric didn't know the outcome of the skirmish, a hundred Goblins would have torn apart a handful of farmers like chaff in the wind, and maybe the Arohim as well.

Berrigan held out a hand, stalling Eldric mid-sentence. "Bring the girl!" he barked at nobody in particular, and there was a flurry of movement as Heralds scrambled to obey. A minute later, the cart with the cage atop it was wheeled into the square, complete with the girl huddled inside. Berrigan had still not offered the dignity of clothing to the little slut. If she was so eager to use her body to entice men, then she could display it all day and all night for all he cared.

He kicked Pride a little closer to the cart, so he could stare the girl in the eyes. She looked back fearfully, shaking. "Point to him," Berrigan said softly.

Immediately, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed almost due south.

"If you had to estimate," he began, heeling Pride closer to the cage. "How many miles away would you say he is?"

The girl kept her eyes down as she answered in an almost imperceptible whisper. "Twenty or thirty." A tear cut through the grime on her cheek, probably a mark of her shame at giving up Kedron.

So, Berrigan had gained ground on the Paladins despite gathering such a large force, and now they were a day's march away. Excellent.

"Heralds of Dawn!" He roared at the ranks filling the square and the surrounding streets. "Our quarry lies less than a full day's march to the south! Shall we rest, or hunt the Arohim?"

The answering cheer was thunderous in support of the latter. Berrigan turned back to smile at the caged girl, who began to weep softly, her forehead pressed against the knees she was hugging to her chest.

It had been years since Berrigan had felled a Paladin, and now he would get two with one stroke, as well as the apprentice. This would surely make him the most famed Herald of Dawn in a thousand years.

***

***KYRA LIGHTWING -- Amindaer City, Palistair***

"Mmm, your cock is wonderful, my King!" Kyra purred as she rode Marcos' massive, brawny body. His enormous tool was buried deep inside her pussy, and she was extremely grateful for her vala, as it gave her the power to adapt her body to accommodate for such things.

The Barbarian King lay back on the huge bed, his broad hands clasped behind his shaggy-haired head as Kyra pleasured him with all her considerable skill. She'd been making love for over two hundred years, and knew how to keep a man happy.

Marcos' hands left his head and came up to envelop her modest breasts. He squeezed them firmly, and despite herself, Kyra shivered as pleasant tingles travelled down her spine and into her lower belly.

While it was not unpleasant fucking Marcos, Kyra would rather be elsewhere. Unfortunately, however, tying herself to the nine-foot half-Giant had been a necessity. The sacking of Amindaer had been swift and brutal, and Kyra had had no chance to flee. Foiling the subsequent attempt on his life had been easy, and Kyra felt no regrets at killing an assassin sent by one of the corrupt former leaders of the city. Those men and women were now all Marcos' toadies anyway, though they secretly plotted against him.

Marcos was a brute, a savage, and a murderer. He was also vain, egotistical, but conniving and clever. That made him a very dangerous man. By keeping him preoccupied with sex, Kyra was doing Amindaer a service.

She touched her vala briefly to enhance Marcos' pleasure, and he uttered a bass groan of approval. Kyra allowed herself a small climax then, her hands gripping the dense hair on his massive chest as she ground her hips down with more force. If she had to do this, she might as well enjoy herself.

"You see?" Marcos rumbled, turning his head to either side of the bed, where three naked women stood obediently on each side. They each wore the collars that Marcos demanded of his concubines -- all except Kyra, of course; she was not a regular concubine -- and chains connected the collars to the thick, elaborately carved posts at the King's bed head. "This is how you please your King. I hope you are all paying attention."

Marcos liked variety in his harem, and so to Kyra's left stood a voluptuous, heavy-breasted Tar'elda, a nubile Mor'elda with midnight skin, and a statuesque, pale green Orc that put the High Elf's curves to shame. On the right there were two Human women, one golden-haired, creamy-skinned and curvy, the other tall and willowy, with skin like honey, straight black hair and eyes shaped like almonds.

The sixth woman was the most exotic of all, and the most beautiful, in Kyra's eyes. Fine, petite features graced her strangely angled face, and large, bright eyes shone as they flicked up to meet Kyra's. Those golden-green eyes had small vertical slits for irises, which reminded one of a snake's. Fine, silvery hair fell down around her shoulders, and her alabaster skin glittered with a sheen that no Human could hope to achieve.

She was a rather womanly figure, well-rounded and generously endowed of breast and bottom and thigh. On the outsides of her arms and legs, and down her spine, shiny scales in narrow strips of red and black glittered in the room's torchlight. Her name was Lissitha, and she was no snake, Kyra knew. She was an Andrakin, a descendent of Dragons. Her people were thought to have died out long years ago, but Lissitha was living proof that was not the case. Those red and black scales adorned her forehead, too, resembling a narrow, glimmering tiara, catching the light.

Lissitha's lush lips curved just a whisper before she dropped her eyes back down. She and Kyra had spent many a night together since Kyra had attached herself to Marcos. Lissitha did not know the truth about Kyra, but Kyra enjoyed being with the Andrakin nonetheless.

To a woman, the concubines surrounding the bed were all hairless but for their heads, as Marcos liked his women bare down there. Elves and Orcs and Andrakin didn't grow hair on their nethers, so it was just the Humans that required shaving. Kyra herself was bare, too, though as an Arohim, she couldn't grow anything down there even if she wanted to.

Her senses were suddenly assaulted by a force, distant but more powerful than anything she had ever felt. The bedroom, the concubines and Marcos all faded from her vision as she tried to comprehend what she was feeling. A storm of light had exploded somewhere far to the south, a vala of such power that Kyra was sensing it even on the other side of the world!

Who? How? Why? Kyra was not weak, but she felt like a twig in a raging river against this! Somehow, she could tell there was a man at its heart, though not much more than that. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she tried to close herself off from the beacon, and found that she couldn't. There was something about it that drew her forward, pulled at her. Whoever this man was, he needed her, needed all surviving Arohim at his side. Somehow, she knew this with complete certainty.

Kyra exhaled sharply as the surge of power winked out as quickly as it had come, and she collapsed forward onto Marcos' chest, breathing hard. Dimly she was aware of him laughing, the bass sound vibrating through his ribs and against her cheek. He was saying something about her being overwhelmed by the power of his cock, and she didn't bother correcting him.

A few seconds later, the huge man between her thighs began to buck his hips, but Kyra was hardly aware of the thick shaft inside her flexing violently and spewing its hot contents forth, quickly filling her and forcing its way out, making a gooey mess where their bodies met.

She would have to change her plans, expediate some and discard others in favour of new ones. She would find a way to this man with the monstrous vala, one way or another.

***

***ELAINA -- Ildernass***

Trees whipped past as Elaina kept pace with the small horde of Wood Elves surging through the Emerin. It felt good to be back in her regular clothes. A stout white shirt, good brown breeches and solid leather boots were better for travelling than the lasselath, though she did miss the way the soft, scanty vines caressed her most intimate places like a seasoned lover. Gladly, the Elves had made her a gift of the one she'd been wearing, and the seed was tucked safely in the pack slung across her back. She couldn't wait to show it to Aran.

Her boots thudded on the mulchy forest floor as she ran. Induin and Liaren flanked her, and ahead and behind Elves bounded nimbly, weaving through trees and underbrush as if they were in a fast-paced dance.

Occasional shafts of weak moonlight penetrated the canopy, though it wasn't much. The moon was barely a sliver of a crescent, almost completely waned. Unconsciously she checked her melda, noting that Aran felt somewhat relaxed, for the first time in a while.