A Paladin's War Ch. 02

He didn't realise he was moving until he was picking up the jagged haft of his mace from the ground, a foot of wood against a three-hundred-pound animal. A scream was coming out of his mouth, a rage and wrath he'd never known. Primal, ancient, powerful. He threw himself at the wolf's side and plunged the splintered wood into its ribs with every ounce of his strength. The hardened ash sank deep, and Aran pushed until only an inch or two protruded from the black fur.

The wolf yelped in pain and released Jeira. She fell to the ground, shaking uncontrollably as she clutched a bloody, ruined arm. Aran went to her as the wolf stumbled a few paces off and collapsed, its chest rising and falling with laboured panting. Wasting no time, he tore a sleeve from his shirt and began to bind her arm above the wound. It was bad. Blood flowed from the gaping gashes in time with her pulse, seeping over her other hand and dripping down onto her dress. He doubted she would be able to keep the arm if she didn't get proper help soon.

"I'll get you to a healer," he promised as he wrapped the makeshift bandage. "I won't leave you." Her eyes met his, and he saw fear in them, but it was receding, replaced by faith that he would help her.

"Thank you," she whispered before her eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp in his arms, whether from shock or blood loss, he didn't know. At that moment, he felt himself being pulled away to somewhere else.

"No!" He shouted, trying to hold onto himself as he faded to mist. Jeira slumped from his suddenly ethereal arms onto the ground. "I won't leave her!" He didn't know why, but this woman was important to him, somehow. Crucial.

The world faded to blackness.

He was standing in a forest of oak and elm and poplar, ancient and tall, the afternoon sunlight dimmed by the dense canopy above, giving the wood an eerie, ominous feel. His boots sunk into on thick mulch, wet and earthy. Occasional thin shafts of light penetrated the canopy to illuminate spider webs hanging between some of the trees, though much larger than any Aran had ever seen.

A movement next to him brought his head around to see a stunningly beautiful Elf looking at him with startling green eyes slightly too large to belong on a Human. She was dressed in tight breeches and a tunic all in forest greens and browns, with a bow in one hand and a quiver on her back. A name brushed his mind as he looked into those emerald eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

"You said you would help me find my sister," the Elf said in a lilting, flowing accent. "Have you changed your mind already?"

Aran found himself shaking his head. "No."

The Elf looked relieved. "Then come. We must be getting close." She glided forward, barely making a sound even on the blanket of dead leaves that carpeted the ground. Aran did his best to mimic her, but beside her graceful, delicate steps, he felt like a bull in a potter's showroom. He must have been making too much noise, for she eyed him with irritation after the first few steps and raised a finger to her lips. Aran did his best to be quiet. He reached for something inside himself that he knew would give him the agility he needed to move like her, or perhaps even better, but there was nothing there. In fact, it now felt strange that he had reached for anything at all. 'What was I thinking I would find?' He asked himself silently. But that thought soon faded, too, lost forever as he followed the Elf. The spider webs grew larger and more numerous as they went, many of them more than large enough to hold three or four men, and the thick, silky strands certainly looked strong enough to do just that.

A short distance on, the Elf dropped to her belly and began to wriggle forward up a small rise. He followed, doing his best to copy her motions until they were side by side and looking down into a hollow thick with webs and large, white rounded shapes that could only be cocoons. Aran's belly tightened in fear as a massive spider as big as a draught horse skittered across the base of the hollow, tending to this web and that before hurrying to the next one.

The next few moments happened faster than Aran could believe. One moment, the Elf was lying on her belly next to him. The next, she was on her feet and loosing an arrow at the spider. Her shot flew true and struck it in the centre of its eight eyes. A piercing, shrill scream echoed around the hollow as it danced and writhed in pain before collapsing.

Another scream brought Aran's eyes up to the canopy directly above him, where another spider was lowering itself down, its gaze fixed on him. An arrow sunk into its fat, hairy body, making it cry out in pain, but it continued its descent. "Move!" The Elf cried as she threw herself to the side. Aran rolled instinctively, just clearing the spider's claw-tipped feet as the stabbed into the ground where he'd been. Scrambling up, he realised he'd drawn his mace and buckler. Another arrow suddenly protruded from the spider's side, but that did not stop its rush at Aran. He took the first thrust of a sharp leg on his buckler, but the second pushed past his block and raked his shoulder, tearing his shirt and tunic like paper and gashing the skin beneath. Howling in pain, he swung frantically, but hit only air. He went to raise his buckler as the spider thrust again, but the claw had cut something in his shoulder, rendering that arm useless.

The spider stepped over him, baring fangs that dripped with steaming venom, and Aran stared his death in the face. Tightening his grip on his mace, he prepared to swing it one last time. As the fangs descended, he roared in fear, anger and defiance as he brought the heavy steel ball forward in an overhand arc. At the same time, the Elf appeared, flipping through the air to land nimbly on the spider's head. Standing on the beast as if it were solid ground, she calmly angled her bow down between her feet and drew and loosed in one smooth motion. Her arrow pierced its skull just as Aran's mace buried into its mass of eyes. There was no scream, this time. Aran scrabbled clear as the spider dropped dead.

The Elf stepped calmly off the corpse and offered him a hand. "Your arm?"

Aran shook his head with a grimace. "Doesn't seem to want to work." He tried lifting it again, but gave up with a pained groan. Hot blood was running down his arm, darkening his clothes.

She peeled back the torn tunic and shirt carefully, then withdrew her hand. "Perhaps you should not come any further. I tracked three spiders this far, and we have killed only two."

Aran found himself shaking his head. What was wrong with him? He should be running as far and fast as he could! "I said I would help, and I will stay until we are done." He raised his mace, the spikes glistening with sera from the spider's eyes. "This arm still works."

The Elf's gaze took on a considering look. "I will accept your help, Human. I would do anything for Induin." That name nagged at Aran for a second, as if he should know it. "We should check the cocoons, but be ready for the third spider. It could be anywhere." Her eyes scanned the trees for a moment, then she dashed over the lip of the hollow and down the other side. Aran hurried after her as best he could.

Liaren was considerably faster than him. She reached a small cluster of four cocoons at the bottom of the hollow and began to carefully split one with her belt knife. Aran watched, holding his breath as she gently parted the white silk to reveal an pale Elf's face. Male, his brown eyes stared at nothing through the glaze of death. Liaren muttered a prayer in Elvish and touched his forehead with her fingertips before moving on.

Aran was just drawing his own knife to help when the third spider - half again as big as the others - came charging from a dark hole in the side of the hollow. In a flash, Liaren had her knife sheathed and her bow unlimbered, nocking, drawing and loosing almost faster than Aran's eyes could follow. The arrow flew true, but took the spider on a forward leg before it could reach its target. Liaren only had time for one more shot before the spider was on them, rearing with sharp-tipped legs and baring fangs that dripped with poison.

Aran awkwardly threw himself to the side to avoid a stabbing thrust, and cried out when he landed on his bad arm. Rolling onto his back, he sat up an pushed himself up using his mace as a prop. The spider was turning as Liaren circled it, but a rear leg suddenly lanced out at him. This time he swung his mace in time to catch the leg with a crunch, making the spider scream and hold that leg off the ground. If it made the creature any less dangerous, Aran couldn't tell. Liaren was leaping and whirling and dodging, unable to get a clear shot. Aran needed to do something.

With a cry of equal parts fear and anger, he dropped his mace and rushed forward, wrapping himself around a coarse, hairy leg and clinging on for dear life. With only one arm, he managed to hold on for a few seconds before the spider kicked him free, sending him sailing across the hollow to land thirty feet away in a pile of bones. Pain lanced hot and sharp in his right thigh, darkening his vision for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he sat up to see the jagged end of a bone sticking out of his leg, stained red with his blood. Nothing had ever hurt so much in his life.

"Watch out!" Liaren called from somewhere nearby. Raising his head, he saw the spider coming for him. Somehow, he pushed himself erect, though it wasn't easy. Arrows began to sprout from its hairy hide as Liaren finally let loose shot after shot, though the creature hardly seemed to feel them. An arrow also jutted from one of its left eyes, though it looked to be buried only shallowly; enough to take out the eye, but not enough to pierce the brain behind. The shaft wobbled with the spider's gait as if it might fall out. Struggling to stay upright, Aran grimly stared down the eight-legged death that filled his vision. 'Well, if I'm going to die, I'll do it on my feet.'

Reaching him, the spider reared back and began to descend, fangs first. With a snarl, Aran grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pushed forward, letting the spider's weight drive the arrow home. He was pushed to his back, but held on, gritting his teeth as his wounds were torn open further. Liaren was yelling something, but he couldn't make it out; his eyes were going dark, and his hearing dim. His last thought was that it was important for Liaren and her sister to live. Somehow, he knew it.

He awoke in a small clearing in the forest, a shaft of sunlight touching his face as the leaves of the oak tree above him shifted in the breeze. He felt a moment of panic before he realised there were no spider webs in sight. His whole body hurt, especially his leg and shoulder. A creeping, burning pain was pulsing in him, too, as if there was something hot in his veins.

A soft sound coming from nearby made his raise his head. Liaren was there, crouching next to a small fire. Next to her was a body, slender with Elvish ears and hair like silver. Liaren was resting her head on her arms and sobbing quietly.

'Oh, no. She didn't make it.' Aran felt something inside him die, though he couldn't say what. "Liaren," he said weakly - or tried to say; his voice didn't seem to work properly. His head fell back as he lost the strength to hold it up. His vision swam at the sudden movement. 'What's wrong with me?'

Liaren's pretty face was above him, then, emerald eyes misty and tears streaking her pale cheeks. Aran thought she looked beautiful even in the throes of grief. Visions of him kissing her filled his head as if he was remembering them, but that couldn't be right; he'd never seen her before today. She was saying something to him, and she touched his face tenderly. He couldn't hear her properly; her voice sounded muffled, far away. He felt her fingertips touch his forehead, and then he slipped into nothingness.

Smythe's heavy boot collided with the solid door, splintering the frame and sending the thick slab of wood crashing to the ground. Aran slipped through first, Oroth in hand, into the dim, torch-lit chamber beneath Maralon. Elaina and Smythe followed closely behind. The smell of burned flesh assaulted his nostrils as his eyes fell on a young man and woman hanging by their wrists from thick chains attached to the stone ceiling. They were unclothed, but it was hard to tell from the blood, both fresh and dried on their skin. Aran's stomach twisted at the sight, and Elaina gasped behind him.

A man and woman turned from where they were standing in front of the captives, both in yellow robes emblazoned with the golden sunburst marking them Heralds of Dawn. The man, greying and lean, and the woman, stout and hard-faced, both held hot pokers in one fist, the tips glowing orange-red.

Oroth blazed to life in Aran's hand as fury filled him. How dare they torture innocent people like this! To his shock, the blade winked out again almost immediately, returning to ordinary steel. Surprised, he drew on his vala, but found it draining away from him like water through a hole in a bucket.

"Aran?" Elaina sounded concerned. "Are you alright?"

Aran put a hand to his head, suddenly confused. What was he doing here? There was something he was supposed to do, wasn't there? Why couldn't he remember? "I-" Whatever he was going to say was lost as the Heralds advanced with their pokers held forward. He moved forward to meet them, but almost lost his eye to burning metal as he stumbled at the last second. He felt awkward, clumsy, as if his body suddenly weighed an extra fifty pounds. Something was very wrong about all this.

A hand seized his shoulder from behind and yanked him back. It was Smythe. The big Paladin pushed him up against the wall next to the door as Elaina engaged the Heralds, flowing forward and swinging Shatter in a horizontal arc that crumpled the woman like her bones had melted.

"What is wrong?" Smythe asked hurriedly, his face close to Aran's. "I cannot sense your vala!"

"My... What?" Aran replied, blinking. It was hard to think.

"Fire and fury!" Smythe cursed. "Focus, man! Are you ill? You need to pull yourself together! The younglings need us!"

"Henley! Aran!" Elaina called. "I need help!" Aran looked past Smythe's shoulder to see two yellow-robed bodies on the ground. Just past them, Elaina was working on freeing the captives. Smythe left Aran to hurry over and help her, and Aran followed. He couldn't remember what he was doing here, but no one should be put through what these two poor souls had endured. Not even the worst of humanity.

In short order, they had the younglings cut down and wrapped in the robes of the dead Heralds. Elaina kept shooting Aran worried glances as they worked, and he tried to ignore them. They left the dungeon with Aran leading Elaina and Smythe up the winding stairs. Elaina had the girl over her shoulder, Smythe the boy. Aran's legs burned as the stairs went on and on, and he found himself running out of breath after a few minutes. He felt tired, and for some reason, he knew that was wrong.

"Aran, we need to hurry!" Elaina urged from behind him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed on, stuffing down his exhaustion. He would help nobody by resting. Finally, they reached the corridor lined by the holding cells, just below the street. Aran shambled on ahead, forcing his legs to keep moving. Smythe and Elaina were still close behind him, not even breathing hard despite having more than a hundred pounds slung over their shoulders. A figure standing before the ladder to the street made him stumble to a halt. Tall and garbed in the same style of robe as the Heralds, but in white with red lining instead of yellow, the man stood with arms crossed, blocking the way. His hood was pulled low, hiding his face, and there seemed to be more shadows at that end of the corridor, as if they were clumping together around him.

"What in-" Smythe started to say at the same time Elaina said, "I can't sense him!"

Aran didn't know why, but he thought the man was smiling inside his cowl as he lowered his arms and began to walk slowly toward them as if he had all the time in the world. A knife appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he twirled it lazily through his fingers as he approached. Something in Aran screamed at him to run, but he couldn't make himself do it.

"Go!" He found himself yelling as he charged at the man, not even bothering to draw his sword. "Get them out of here!" The hooded man stopped and gripped his knife firmly, ready. From the light of a nearby torch, Aran saw thin lips curved in a wicked grin beneath that hood. Aran felt the knife enter his body just beneath his ribs, and pain like he'd never known wracked him, attacking his very soul. He screamed, but wrapped the man in a tight hug, pinning his arms to his sides. The man cursed in a gravelly voice and struggled, but Aran held on. Dimly, he heard Elaina crying out his name, but Smythe was dragging her to the end of the corridor and pushing her up the ladder.

The knife withdrew and went in again, almost in the same place. Aran gasped as the steel scraped along his bottom rib, but still he held on. "You cannot have them," he rasped into the man's ear. "Maharad." Who Maharad was, he didn't know. He only knew that the words were right. The hooded man shook him free as he lost consciousness, but Aran thought that maybe, just maybe, he had given his friends enough time. He smiled as he died, knowing he'd made the right choice.

The visions came again and again, and each time Aran found himself facing the dangers of his past, or entirely new dangers, all without his vala, and each time unable to remember the previous times, or even his real past. Again and again, facing darkspawn, Heralds, Druids, Orcs, Elves, Giants, Titans, and even Maloth and Shenla. He took wounds, sometimes small, sometimes great, sometimes fatal. He was shot, stabbed, hanged, drowned, executed, crushed, mauled, and on and on. Sometimes he won, and sometimes he lost. Sometimes the Heralds captured him and put him under their horrific interrogation methods, or he was publicly executed for meddling with 'unnatural forces.' Sometimes he led entire armies, and other times he was a soldier in the army with someone else leading. Sometimes he was a captain, or a bannerman, or simply a piper playing a tune as men and women marched to their deaths.

Sometimes he helped people in trouble, and sometimes he failed. Some of those people he knew were important to his life, and sometimes it felt like he should know them, or got a strange feeling when he spoke to them, as if he'd had the same conversation with them before.

On and on the visions went. On and on and on...

***

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2.3: Dreams

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Jeira woke up with a start in the darkness, heart pounding and eyes wide. 'Just a dream,' she thought with no small measure of relief. 'Just a bloody dream.' It had been so real, though. She'd been back on her farm and the wolf had been coming at her, but Aran had appeared to save her just in time. This time, however, something had gone wrong and the wolf had attacked her, tearing her arm to shreds before her eyes. Shivering, she clutched her arm to her bosom, almost surprised to feel it whole, the skin unbroken.

Lying on her back, she watched the branches of the elm she was laying beneath shifting gently in the wind. Sitting up, she looked around at the other sleeping bodies nearby, rolled up in their cloaks against the cool night. All appeared peaceful enough, but something felt... off. Thinking it may just be the nightmare still fading, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. A few feet to her left, someone else sat up sharply, hands clutching at their throat. Sorla, Jeira thought it must be, from her height and her long, flowing hair. She couldn't make out much else in the lack of moonlight, and Amina had forbidden fires or lanterns this night.