A Paladin's Journey Ch. 17

"Something significant did happen," Aran said slowly. "But that is for your Elders to tell. It is not my place."

She searched his face for a moment before nodding in acceptance. "Very well," she said as she got up from the bed. "I look forward to hearing that story very much." Aran eyed her bottom appreciatively as she walked to the fireplace. "Are you ready to eat?" She asked as she picked up the pot and took it to the table.

Aran's answer was apparent in the way he leaped from the bed and dashed to take a seat at the table. He barely waited for her to finish ladling hot stew into his bowl before tucking in, blowing on each spoonful before gulping it down. He moaned happily at the taste; Evoni was a great cook.

She took a seat opposite him and watched him eat with interest. "Do all Paladins eat like you?" She enquired curiously. "Or are you unique?"

Aran grunted as an uncomfortably hot mouthful slid down his throat. It wasn't enough to slow him down, though. "We get hungry," he explained simply as he accepted a huge hunk of bread from Evoni. "Our vala -- that's the power gifted to us from Aros -- gives us strength and stamina, yet we need to replenish ourselves with food. The more of our vala we use, the more we need to eat."

"How many of you are there?" The Giantess asked as she filled her own bowl.

"There are two more Paladins like myself," Aran answered while he scraped his bread around the now empty bowl. "And one Priestess. There are more Paladins and another Priestess in training, also." Stuffing the bread in his mouth, he stood to refill his bowl. The first bowl felt like it had vanished inside his stomach, but thankfully, there was plenty more in the pot. "I believe there are more of us out there, but I have yet to find them.

"We have a Temple in the west," he continued as he sat back down. "Our numbers are slowly growing, though they are a mere shadow of what they once were."

"You mean since the car'mori," Evoni said quietly. It was not a question.

"Yes," Aran confirmed, his spoon raised halfway to his mouth as he looked at his lover across the table. "The Darkening." Haunting memories belonging to his fallen brothers and sisters tried to push their way into his mind, but he forced them out. "It has different meanings to different nations. We were vilified by the Human countries, though the Elves and Dwarves seem to remember us well."

"As do the Giants," Evoni said encouragingly. "I do not believe you to be evil, Aran."

"Thanks," Aran returned gratefully. "I only wish more people felt the same."

Dropping her eyes to her food, Evoni stirred her stew absently for a moment. "You won't be staying long, will you?" It wasn't really a question.

"No," Aran replied honestly. "I cannot. There is much to be done. A threat looms in the north, poised to wash over Ekistair like a tide of shadow. I came east to gather those who would fight."

"Will you take me with you, when you go?" she asked him suddenly. "I don't know what it is, but I feel a... pull... inside me, when I'm near you, as if our fates are entwined, somehow." There was something in her gaze that was almost pleading. Aran thought she looked decidedly vulnerable, right then.

"Are you not happy here, with your people?" He said, forgetting about his dinner. "The village seems a fine place to live."

"It is," she agreed. "But I also want to see the world, and meeting you has changed something in me, Aran. Will you consider it? I am able, and I can fight. I will not slow you down." Her expression became determined.

Aran smiled. "I would not doubt that," he assured her. "For my part, I would love to have you with me, though it will be dangerous. I gave up long ago on trying to keep the women in my life out of danger, and I see no reason to treat you any differently. Will your people accept your leaving?"

"I believe they will," Evoni said. "I am of age, and I choose my fate. Many will claim I am too young, but they are the ones who have stayed in the village their entire lives."

"Very well," Aran said as he extended a hand. "We shall travel together." Evoni took his hand and beamed delightedly. Aran thought the entire journey might be worthwhile just for that smile. What he was feeling for Evoni was akin to how he felt about Sorla, or Rayna, or any of his meldin. Unconsciously, he checked on the melda inside him. They all felt well and happy, and as best he could tell, they were all together at the Temple.

Once their meal was done, Evoni pushed away from the table and announced she was going to find Verevendi. With a quick kiss for Aran, she hurried from the cottage. Aran decided to use the interval to try and contact his brethren on the Plane.

*

As was now normal, Aran's mind automatically shaped the Plane of Aros before conscious thought. This time, the Plane became a reflection of a place he missed dearly but rarely thought about; the Chapel training yard. Elaina had regularly beaten him to within an inch of his life -- or so it had felt at the time -- during his training here, and he smiled fondly as he walked around the hard-packed circle of earth at the rear of the Chapel.

The grounds stretched on beyond the training yard, of course, covering more than an acre of mostly flat land surrounded by the eight-foot high stone wall overgrown with mosses and vines. The grass was mostly clear of trees but for the odd elm or fig under which Aran had rested on breaks or rare free days.

The sky above had been dark, overcast with heavy black clouds as if a breaking storm was imminent, but upon his arrival, the clouds had parted to allow sunlight through. It was Maharad's touch that brought the clouds here, to amathani. That was the ancient name for the Plane of Aros, though the name was new to Aran; it had come to him just now, borne on a distant memory belonging to some long dead Paladin.

A replica of Oroth appeared in his hand as he assumed the Fire stance, feet shoulder width apart, left foot forward and pointed slightly inward. Blade held at head height on his right side, parallel to the ground and pointing forward, where his enemy would be, if he was using this stance.

Elaina's voice floated to him out of memory, a barked command that launched him into action. He hadn't used swords much, under her tutelage -- mastery of the blade had come later, under Smythe -- but it mattered not in this moment. He whipped through the quick, decisive forms of the Fire stance, spinning and pivoting like a flame being driven by a strong wind.

From there he moved into the Mountain stance, grounding his body through his feet as if he could take root into the earth itself and bringing his blade in close, hilt held in both hands by his head, point directed at the ground so the sword was parallel to his body. Mountain was a defensive stance, useful against multiple strong foes.

On a whim, he conjured four men from the ether of the Plane and gave each of them different weapons. One a heavy axe, one a quarterstaff, one a spiked mace and one a sword identical to his own. The men, of different shapes and sizes but all young, fit and strong, took up positions around him at once as Aran imagined them as skilled as possible; as good in a fight as Smythe or Elaina.

A single thought that this might be a foolish undertaking flickered through his mind and then vanished as the men attacked as one. Remaining in the Mountain, Aran waited until the last possible moment before he began to dance.

*

When Smythe appeared on the Plane, the first thing he sensed was that he was not alone. He had fashioned himself a reflection of his house in Ironshire; somewhere homely to wait for a while to see who else might visit the Plane tonight. Ripples echoed through and around him, however, and the house around him... wavered, like the surface of a pond after you threw a stone in.

"What the bloody...?" He muttered as he looked around. In all his years coming here, he'd never seen this before. Suddenly, he grinned. "I might've known." He vanished -- or perhaps the house vanished -- he'd never really understood how this place worked, exactly -- and reappeared in the Chapel's training yard, where Aran was apparently fighting four men to the death. All five men were dressed only in breeches, and they all bore cuts at various places on their chests, arms and shoulders. All except Aran.

Cursing, Smythe conjured a weapon instantly -- the closest he could get to Lightbringer, here -- but when he moved in to help, Aran halted him with a quick "No!"

"What the bloody hell are you doing, man?" Smythe demanded as he watched Aran spinning and weaving among his attackers. "You're going to-" Whatever he was going to say evaporated from his tongue as he watched Aran begin to move in ways Smythe had never seen before.

Aran was bending his body at strange angles to dodge strikes, using his hips and knees to guide his movements. His sword changed hands often, moving from his left to his right in a flash, then back to being held in both. His blade shifted and changed angles like a living thing in his hands. He flowed and coursed around every strike, evading sharp metal or hard wood by sometimes no more than a hairsbreadth.

It was like the man didn't have bones! Smythe recognised some of the moments from the stances he had taught Aran; Fire, Mountain, River and Wind, but this was something else entirely. Smythe wanted to ask where Aran had learned all this, but he hesitated to break the man's concentration.

Aran, however, seemed to sense Smythe's dilemma. "This is how they used to fight!" He shouted as he shifted the sword to his left hand with the blade held backwards, flat to his arm, and stepped inside a savage swing from the man with the axe. He spun with the man's momentum, guiding the swing with his free hand on the man's wrist before kicking the fellow forward into his allies.

"Who?" Smythe asked. "Who fights like that?"

"The old masters!" Aran replied. He was grinning like a fool as he played out a few attacking strokes, scoring two of the men and leaving fresh red streaks on their chests. Smythe's stomach went cold as Aran suddenly lowered his weapon and bowed to his opponents as they were charging in for the kill. They vanished just before their steel could touch him.

"For Aros' sake, Aran!" Smythe bellowed, not knowing whether to be impressed, or furious. He thought he might be both. "I thought you had gone mad! Perhaps you have! Or perhaps I have, and this is all just some fool dream!" He let his sword vanish and sat down on the ground.

"Ah, relax, old friend!" Aran said casually as he walked over. "I wouldn't have let them kill me. I was just testing some moves."

Smythe snorted as Aran took a spot on the grass beside him. "I know what a real fight looks like. Those men wanted your head, whether you conjured them or not."

Aran offered no counter. He sat staring at the place where he'd just been fighting, his arms propped up on raised knees. "It's funny, you know," he said after a minute. "There's a universe of experiences and memories out there, left behind by all the arohim that ever lived, and it's all connected by the vala. The thing is, I can't reach for it; it only comes to me at random times."

Smythe pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the point." He suggested. He really had no clue how to help Aran with this, but he had to offer the man some reassurance. "Perhaps this is the way it's supposed to be. I imagine having all that crammed into your brain at once would probably have broken your mind." He said the last bit with a chuckle, but still couldn't suppress the tinge of concern for his friend.

Aran nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"Is that what happened, just now?" Smythe asked the younger man. It felt strange now, knowing that Aran was the younger of the two of them. The way he carried himself, and the way he spoke about the world made him seem much, much older. Possibly on a level with Amina. "Was it the memories? I've never seen anything like that, and I've studied fighting all over the world."

"It came to me in the moment," Aran answered slowly as he flexed his hands. "I thought about doing some forms while I waited here, and suddenly I had this idea to create some sparring partners. Next thing I knew I was in the middle of it, fighting in a style completely alien yet somehow so familiar, like I've done it a hundred times before."

Smythe blew out his moustaches, unsure what to say. He was relieved of trying to find something appropriate, however, when Amina appeared before them, clad in what suited her best: absolutely nothing.

The Priestess beamed when she saw them, and Smythe wondered if she did that on purpose, the way the sunlight caught in her golden hair and highlighted her pale skin, giving her a holy aura, or if she was just naturally perfect.

"My two favourite men," she said coyly as she approached. She walked normally rather than shifting herself directly to them, and Smythe's throat and loins tightened as he watched her hips and breasts sway. She knew exactly what effect she was having on him -- and Aran, too, no doubt -- but Smythe was happy to allow it. Just being in Amina's presence was a grace akin to possessing the vala.

Aran stood, and Smythe followed suit. The Priestess gave each of them a deep kiss in greeting, starting with Smythe. Just having her touch him made him feel like the entire world made sense again. His excitement leaped to new heights when she moaned softly against his lips.

"If only there were more time," she sighed, touching his face. Smythe fell into the deep pools of her sapphire eyes and saw the infinite love there.

"It is truly a tragedy," he agreed with a grin, wanting nothing more than to make love to her right here and not stop for days.

After she greeted Aran in a similar fashion, Amina stepped back a little to study the two Paladins, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. "You have both seen much since leaving the Temple, I think."

Aran and Smythe exchanged glances, but Aran nodded to Smythe, giving him the chance to speak first. "Much indeed, Priestess," he began.

"Don't start without me!" Elaina's voice arrived before her body did, and she appeared a moment after. The first thing she did was throw herself at Aran and cover his mouth with hers. Aran returned the sentiment readily. Smythe watched with an amused smile at the display. Anyone would think they'd been apart months, if not years.

When she was finished with Aran, Smythe got his own kisses in greeting, which he received most graciously. He made sure to give her ample buttocks a firm squeeze in the process; there was just something special about the way Elaina was put together; the woman was basically all curves. He'd always felt that way, and he would never stop.

Amina was next, and the two women put on quite the show as they said hello in their own special way. "There are few things," Aran murmured, almost as if to himself. "That transcend this earthly world in figure and form, grace and beauty, but I stand in witness of one such."

Smythe raised his eyebrows and looked at Aran quizzically as the women ended their embrace. "Have you become a poet, then, since we last met?"

Aran laughed. "No, my friend, but if there is poetry to be had," he gestured to the women, whom were now facing him and Smythe, though they each had an arm around the others' waist. "Then here it is."

"Can't argue with that," Smythe said. It was good to see them both again, Amina and Elaina. Not to mention Aran. It felt like a family reunion after long years apart, though in truth it had only been a week or so.

Introductions done, Elaina, Amina and Aran looked to Smythe to continue where he had left off. "Well, it's been quite a week," he said. "Let me start at the beginning..."

***

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CHAPTER 17.3: Marooned

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Kyra sat up with a gasp, her eyes wide. She was on a beach, being buffeted by the wind and rain. In the sky above, grey-black clouds boiled and writhed in a fashion she'd never witnessed before. Angry waves crashed against the shore a short distance away, some of them reaching her legs and swirling around them before receding. Her breeches were torn in several places, and her shirt was shredded to the point of uselessness, dangling off her like strips of rags. The white fabric was streaked with red where she had been bleeding, but the cuts beneath appeared to have healed while she slept.

She winced at a sudden pain as she turned her head to look up and down the beach. Had she hit her head? That would explain the loss of consciousness. When had she blacked out? The last thing she remembered was falling and holding tightly to Tessa and Lissi. Then the sea had swallowed them all...

Queasily, she pushed herself to her feet and tried to open her vala, to locate anyone else who might have survived. Pain split her head and she fell to her hands and knees in the sand before vomiting violently. Seawater streamed from her mouth in amounts she would not have believed her stomach could hold.

Gritting her teeth, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and forced herself upright but remained on her knees. Instinctively, she felt at the small of her back for her knives and found nothing but tattered cloth. Their absence made her want to weep. Over seven hundred years had she carried Anar'e'isil, and now, for the first time, she was without them.

A sliver of despair wormed its way into her chest, but she squashed it ruthlessly. Feeling self-pity would not help her, nor anyone else. Squinting, she stared up the beach in the opposite direction to the sea. She thought she could see trees with long, bare trunks and fronds at the top being whipped by the wind, but it was difficult to make anything out in the deluge, and her vala was no help to her at the moment.

Pushing herself back to her feet, she called for her friends. "Lissi! Tessa! Berten!" Her voice sounded small and insignificant as it was snatched away by the gale. With no idea which direction they could be, or if they were even alive at all, she began to stumble up the beach, parallel with the water. If they'd washed up like Kyra had, they might be near the shore.

Please be alive, she prayed silently as she leaned into the wind to keep her balance. Sand stung her face and hands, and any part of her that was exposed by her torn clothing. Please be alive, Lissi. She cared about Tessa, too, but Lissi had been with her since Amindaer, and had been a comfort while living with Marcos.

A vague shape in the distance became what appeared to be a mound in the sand as Kyra got closer. Heart racing, she hurried as fast as she could. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a body, though it was too short to be Tessa, or even Lissi. Sand covered most of the body, concealing the identity, though it appeared to be wearing only pants and no shirt. When she saw a grey hand sticking out of the sand, however, Kyra fell to her knees. Only Berten had skin that colour. Brushing sand away from his neck, she checked for a pulse; it would be impossible to feel for his breath in this wind.

She waited for long moments with two fingers pressed against his jugular but found no heartbeat. "Looks like you'll never get to call in those favours, old friend," she said softly as she gently wiped sand away from his face. "I never told you this, but I thought well of you. Most of the time, anyway." A tear leaked from her eye, its warmth quickly taken by the elements.

When Berten groaned, Kyra jumped, startled. "What was that?" He asked groggily as his eyes came open. Sitting up, he looked around, wincing against the wind and rain. "What bloody happened?" He eyed Kyra up and down. "You look worse than I feel!"