A Paladin's War Ch. 04

Collapsing atop her, he panted as he caught his breath. His skin was slick with sweat, as was hers. When was the last time he'd exerted himself enough to sweat? Looking around, he noticed the light filtering through the forest canopy had gone. It was dark! Lifting his head, he looked down at his lover - the strangest he'd ever had - and met her brilliant green stare.

She smiled up at him and touched his face tenderly. "I am in your debt, child of Aros," she whispered softly. "To lie with one such as you was... truly remarkable."

Smythe shook his head. "There is no debt, Vayani. The honour was mine." After a moment, he asked, "Will I know the child?"

Her face split in a beautiful smile. "If you wish it, I will see it so."

Content with that answer, Smythe kissed her. "I must go, I regret to say. Will this happen again?"

"Perhaps," she replied. "If the balance wills it."

Regretfully, he withdrew from her embrace and stood. That was when he noticed this part of the forest had changed drastically since he'd lain down with Vayani. In a circle around their small area, running around the perimeter of fresh, lush grasses and flowers was a tall hedge laced with roses in reds and yellows and pinks that brushed against the lowermost branches of the oaks and elms and pines nearby. Those branches had grown longer, extending and intertwining over the hedge until they formed into a natural roof. Smythe stared in wonder. It was like their own private garden in the middle of the forest.

"This is our place, now," Vayani told him as she rose smoothly. "For you and I, and no other. Should you ever wish anything of me, come to this place, and I will come."

"It's beautiful," he said. "And yes, I will, if I am ever in need." She embraced him one more time, kissing him deeply before striding away. The hedge parted smoothly for her and knitted itself back together once she was through. Smythe thought he would be dreaming about that round, dark bottom for many nights to come.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, he dressed, buckled on his sword and walked to the hedge, which parted for him as it had for Vayani. Thunder came into view on the other side, waiting patiently for him. "Good boy," Smythe said to the stallion as he vaulted into the saddle. With one last look at the hedge, he started for the camp.

***

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4.2: Strategies

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Rodric Eames stalked the halls of the Maralon Cathedral, not noticing the high, vaulted ceilings and historical paintings as tall as a man hanging on the walls, illuminated by the mirrored lamps lining the corridors at ten pace intervals. Often, he stopped to stare at the glory depicted in those works of art, the moments of history that had defined the Heralds of Dawn captured by a skilled artist's brush, but now, he was deep in furious thought.

Word had come to him of Vesovar. It was troubling, but not a great loss; Vesovar was a hive of wretched filth such as Elves and Dwarves and even some Orcs, though the interlopers thought the Heralds didn't know - or at least didn't care - about their presence in the city. The truth was, Vesovar was on the fringes of Herald control in the west, and therefore not a priority as far as the High Council were concerned. As long as they have their precious Dawnguard, he thought bitterly, they do not care for what happens in the south.

The Dawnguard - the line of cities along the northern coast of Ekistair that shared an immense wall impossible to breach by any force known to this world - was important, certainly, but it could be defended with half, or even a third, of the men stationed there. A quarter of a million Heralds were garrisoned in Dawnguard cities, and these storms and tremors had the High Council shaking in their boots, ordering men to leave critical stations in the south to further bolster the north.

Eames cared about the persistent non-Human presence in Vesovar. He cared very much. The southern lands were home to secrets that if he uncovered, would shoot him to the top of the Herald ranks, and all would listen to his findings and wonder why they had not before. As it was, Vesovar was now gone, by all reports, swept away by a tide of darkspawn, no doubt called by the arohim that Eames knew were lurking down there somewhere in the Emerin, or perhaps in the Amarions.

Eames had stationed Blake and Finyar down there, two young initiates that had encountered the Paladins whom had had the audacity to enter the city - his city! - and steal away two young arohim that were on the cusp of giving Eames what he needed after long years of searching. Eames' scouring of Maralon for a hint of where they had come from, their bloodline, had revealed nothing. The records showed that the twins' parents were adoptive, and not blood related. Having offered up no useful information even after long days of being questioned, Eames had quietly made the parents disappear.

That was frustrating enough to boil his blood, but add the fact that his extensive searches for those whom had helped the arohim enter and exit the city unseen - there must have been assistance from inside Maralon - had also yielded nothing except for three empty houses, one belonging to a Sorla Kargen, another to an Erik Gorian, and the third to an Elf and her half-blood daughter. His mouth twisted with distaste at the thought of non-Humans living in his city - but they were gone, now, vanished into the wind for all he could find. The fact that Maralon was home to any but Humans had since been rectified; as soon as Eames had taken control of the Council here, any citizens of non-Human origin had quickly been disposed of.

There had not been much work in it, really; once word had gotten around that all non-Humans were being evicted from the city, most of them had quickly left, slinking away like the rats they were. Those that had refused to leave, well... They had been dealt with accordingly.

A passing Herald delivered a respectable bow when he saw Eames, his youthful face paling when he saw the look in his commander's eyes, but Eames brushed by the fellow without seeing him, too occupied by his thoughts. Lightning flashed through a tall, arched window on his left, illuminating the wet tiled roofs of the buildings outside. He sneered at the sudden brightness. The High Council were afraid of these storms, but Eames knew that there was no force powerful enough to challenge what the Heralds were, what they stood for. Any day now, the High Council was going to order a complete evacuation of Ironshire and any town north of it, leaving Eames with drastically reduced options. He had to act now, before the orders came.

Reaching the tall, polished oak doors - iron strapped for good measure - that led to the Cathedral's command room, he waited impatiently as the guards standing to either side hurriedly pushed them open for him. Striding through, he added further rigidity to his straight-backed pose and lifted his chin, furthering the impression he had not spent the last three days bent over his desk reading reports and writing orders.

The command room was a high-ceilinged space with windows that looked out over the city on all sides. Brilliant flashes illuminated those windows frequently, diminishing the lamp light and the candlelight from the elaborate chandelier hanging from the ceiling, holding a hundred candles in its elegantly-worked bronze frame. A wide, round table sat in the middle of the room, a solid oak piece that looked as heavy as twenty big men. A dozen faces turned to regard Eames as he strode down the thick red-and-yellow carpet that ran from the door to the table, showing the sunburst of the Dawn every few feet along its length.

At the table, Eames stood and eyed the other Heralds there, each one in turn. All in their tabards and tunics displaying the blazing sun, they were good men and women, hand picked by him. They would follow him and do what he asked without question. Or at least, little argument. Questioning one's orders could be healthy, at times. On the table's polished surface was an array of maps, many of them marked with small pieces of smooth stone in black or brown or white, or miniature figurines of varying design, from animals to trees to people.

"What have you come up with in my absence?" He asked them without preamble or pleasantry as he glanced at the maps. There were many stones and figures centred around Ironshire, as he had expected.

"We believe," a stout man began, rising from his high-backed chair, "that the darkspawn will be moving on Ironshire next. Our best chance to turn them is to meet them there with a strong force." Torm was his name. A devout Herald, and a solid captain with a decent military mind.

"But we would need to draw from our garrisons here in Maralon," added a greying woman with her hair tied back in a severe bun. "Which would weaken us in the event of attack or rebellion." Edith was as good a captain as Torm. More so, perhaps. She was also brave enough to speak of rebellion in Eames' presence.

"The scouts we left in the southern plains villages have reported no activity coming from the Emerin, Commander." This from Jaken, a slender young man Eames had picked out early in his career as a candidate for leadership. He had not disappointed.

"That is good," Eames said thoughtfully as he studied the maps. "But this is not the action we will be taking." No one protested, but Eames saw a few raised eyebrows, especially from those who knew him well. Always do what is not expected. He placed his hands on the table and leaned in slightly, capturing all eyes. "Withdraw from Ironshire completely and immediately," he ordered. This time, mouths opened, but he raised his voice to speak over them. "The darkspawn want that flyspeck town, they can have it.

"But it's the gateway to Maralon!" Torm blurted, looking surprised at himself for speaking so. "They take Ironshire, they will be on our doorstep within a week!"

"What about the mines?" another one said. "We will lose the resources! If this becomes a war, we will need the ores!"

"The outpost is too important-"

"The Maralon Road-"

"We'll never dig them out-"

Eames' hand slapping the table cut them off short. His icy-blue stare pinned them where they sat. Those that were standing took their seats again hurriedly. Most satisfactory. He pointed to a large map in the centre of the table, the biggest one there. It showed a huge stretch of land from the Dawnguard in the far north, south to Maralon, then further south to the vast Sorral Plain and all the way down to the Emerin Forest. Vesovar lay to the east, just southeast of the Heartlake, and almost due west of Vesovar was Ironshire.

"What we are going to do," he told them quietly. "Is let the darkspawn through, onto the Plain. Then they will go north, to the Dawnguard. That is the direction they have been travelling, is it not? They took Vesovar because it was in their direct path, else they would have ignored the town completely. Something is drawing them north as a lodestone draws iron filings. Does this not match your reports, as it does mine?" Around the table, heads nodded reluctantly.

"We withdraw from Ironshire," he repeated. "Then, once the darkspawn have moved through the plain, we march south, for the Emerin." That will be the last thing they expect. He was proved right by the outright incredulity on their faces. He continued before they could start up their arguments again. "There are arohim down there. I am certain of it. How many, I do not know, but the ones who were in Maralon those months ago went south, for that was when we began to lose men on the plain. We destroy them, and their darkspawn army falls apart, leaderless, and while we are there, we can cleanse the Emerin of the Elves. From there, we can form a strategy to route the Dwarves out of Dun'Arghol." Let them chew on that for a minute.

Nobody said anything, but Eames saw the considering looks on the captains' faces. It was bold, but fortune favoured the bold. "It could work," Torm offered slowly. One by one, the others all agreed.

"With fifty thousand lances," Eames said assuredly, "we can do most anything. There cannot possibly be anywhere near so many Elves and Dwarves as this, else we would see more of them, or they would have ventured out of their filthy lairs by now, but for years they have hid from the world, afraid of our power, our righteousness! You heard the wild stories that floated up from the plain just as I; that two or three Paladins were taking down entire bands of our men on their own, but these stories were naught but tales passed on by scared, weak men, and they have been punished for their lack of faith." More nods. Eames suppressed a glimmer of excitement. He was close, now. The Emerin had been in the back of his mind for a long time, an endless void of possibility where he knew he would find what he sought - true knowledge of the arohim, their deepest secrets. There had to be old arohim structures in that forest, perhaps many of them, and relics and tomes that had escaped the Purge.

"Berrigan Stallen made the mistake of underestimating his foe," Eames continued. "But we will not. We will take every available lance and roll over the south like a tidal wave!" He let his composure slip on purpose in one of his rare displays of zeal. He needed them behind him completely, fully committed to this path. "In one timely sweep, we take the arohim, the Elves, and the Dwarves. What say you?"

Around the table, shouts and cheers erupted.

***

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4.3: A Newcomer

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Under a morning sun shrouded by a light blanket of grey cloud, Jeira watched Amina's cloaked back as the Priestess rode at the fore of the party, her posture as alert and rigid as it had been since leaving the Temple. According to Erik, they were now approaching the eastern edge of the Sorral Plain. If they kept on as they were, they would soon reach rougher terrain that would eventually become the foothills of the Amarion Peaks if they angled south. If they angled north, they would hit Sarresh, the city on the western shore of the Heartlake.

Having ridden away several times over the last few days to scout for dangers or whomever she was looking for - Erik seemed to know, but whenever Jeira asked him, the man simply told her that that was Amina's business, and she would reveal it if she saw fit - the Priestess was the least weary of the group except perhaps for Ayla; the girl - once pasty and overfed but quickly becoming a ravishing, voluptuous beauty - had really come out of her shell the last few days, smiling gaily and laughing at jokes and flirting with Erik for all she was worth, at least until Amina shot her a disapproving stare or a surreptitious throat-clearing.

Jeira didn't really understand what had happened beyond Sara having done something to the girl's vala, making it more powerful without her having to train for it as was normal. The Priestess took the girl aside every evening for secretive lessons which no one else was allowed to attend. Tavish - Ayla's twin brother - was keeping to himself mostly, though sometimes Jeira caught the young man looking at her, or Sorla, or Lynelle. Well, he cast hungry eyes at all the women in the party, really, though that was no surprise; the boy was in training to become a Paladin. Sex and love were going to be a big part of his life. He had changed, too, since arriving at the Temple, less the pudgy, pale boy and more the strapping young man he promised to become, though his changes were not as dramatic as his sister's.

Jeira wondered if he was resentful of this fact. Each evening before taking Ayla off for those closeted sessions, Amina would give Tavish some instructions and then leave him to work on his sword forms with a wooden practice blade, or practice the mohar - the unarmed style of fighting that Paladins learned - or simply sit with eyes closed, his legs folded and his hands on his knees, apparently doing nothing for long periods of time. Jeira had seen Aran do that a lot.

Thinking of Aran brought her attention to the melda inside her. It was behaving strangely of late, sometimes raging with violent emotion and then just as suddenly disappearing completely. It had her on edge. The melda had always been consistent, comforting, but now... The others felt the same too. Sorla, Rayna and Bella all had a certain tightness around the corners of their eyes, much as Jeira suspected she herself had. Their nights had been largely sleepless, and as for their days... Sneaking across the Sorral Plain from copse of trees to thicket of brush to stay out of sight, and hiding behind ridges and hills or in shallow valleys, sometimes for hours at a time while waiting for Amina to return from one of her forays was all beginning to take its toll.

Still, the Priestess had kept them well away from any more bands of darkspawn, and the Heralds appeared to have abandoned the villages scattered across the plain altogether. Just yesterday Amina had led them through a village of no more than two dozen houses surrounded by farms. The whole area had been deserted, window shutters left open and doors swinging in the breeze. The odd dress or shirt or scarf lain discarded on a front porch or in the street as if the residents had left in a hurry. Jeira had been glad Amina had not chosen to sleep the night there; that place had given her the chills. She didn't know what the village was called and nor did anybody else; the plains were home to dozens of tiny villages, none of which she knew.

Hamlin would know, she thought sadly. She often thought of him. She missed his smile, his laugh. His solidness. When she'd been in his arms, she'd felt as if nothing in the world could ever harm her. Suddenly angry, she dashed tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. He's gone, she told herself firmly. Crying about it will do no good. You've grieved enough, woman. She knew that for true, though it didn't stop the occasional thought or memory sneaking up on her, taking her back to a time not so long ago that Hamlin had been alive and hale.

Wanting a distraction from the pain in her heart, she took stock of the party around her. Amina still rode ahead as always, while Erik took up the rear. Sylvia sat behind him, her slim arms around his waist while she whispered things in his ear that made him chuckle softly. Jeira couldn't help a small grin at the sight; those two were good together, and she thought they knew it, too. Lynelle rode abreast of Jeira. The pretty Elf was keeping to herself mostly, as she had been of late. It wasn't out of rudeness, Jeira knew; Lynelle was gracious and accommodating always, but she'd been staring inwardly all day, her fine brow lightly furrowed. Jeira had opened her mouth several times already to ask Lynelle what troubled her, but every time she'd been distracted by something else, or drawn more into her own thoughts.

Around Jeira's horse, Sorla, Rayna and Bella formed a tight knot with her in the middle. The other three women had taken to staying close to her after that night with the bad dreams, and Jeira had found herself caring for them as an elder sister might to her younger siblings. She wasn't sure exactly how this had happened, but it felt right, somehow. They came to her for comfort, consolation or just to chat amiably, and Jeira received them readily. In fact, the nurturing of her friends gave her her own comfort, and helped with the twisting in her belly when she thought of Aran, or the storms, or the earthquakes, or the darkspawn, or Hamlin, or- Stop it! Taking a deep breath, she looked to her right and shared a silent smile with Rayna, who returned it. The buxom redhead was really quite ravishing. Before meeting Elaina, Jeira had never been interested in women - Hamlin had been her entire world for so long - but these days she was often as attracted to women as she was men. Well, almost, anyway, but a mouse could starve on the difference.