Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael (8 page)

8.

Rael sits on the West’s most comfortable mattress, the weight of his body and chain armor causing him to sink deeply into the plushness.  Pret paid him promptly, as always, and bid him farewell with a warm embrace.  “My door is always open to you,” the merchant had said.  Rael has not moved from his position in nearly an hour, lost in quiet consideration of his predicament.  He actually has no intention whatsoever of leaving Martherus.  He knows he has been led here by his blood for a purpose, and he’s sure that purpose is encased in glass in Lord Pagus’ chambers.  But what to do about it?  Rael knows that he has no right to the armor, and he is no thief to be certain.

A hard rapping at his door breaks into Rael’s thoughts, and he looks at it with some consternation.  He stands, and even before he opens it, he wonders if perhaps Lord Pagus has again invited him to dine.  As he cautiously cracks it, an armored soldier roughly pushes it all the way open.  The armed and plate armored man follows the door inside, and three more stand in the hall beyond.  Rael glances briefly at his sword; it still lays on the bed, his belt threaded through the sheath’s clasp.

“Lord Pagus desires your presence,” he says curtly.

“I have no business with Lord Pagus,” Rael replied in the same tone.

“Lord Pagus has commanded that I’m to take you by force if necessary, Master Rael.  My Lord is not used to people dishonoring his requests, and I promise that you will not reach your sword before we are upon you.”

Rael sees the lack of sympathy in his gray eyes.  It’s a color common to Westerners, but this man has the uncommon resolve of a professional soldier.  “Very well,” Rael assents, and he turns toward the bed, “Allow me to gather my effects.”

“They are unneeded for now, but one of my men will collect them,” the soldier replies.  He turns half way and motions toward the hall behind him.

Rael considers making a leap for his sword, but thinks better of it when he sees that all four soldiers are ready to attack.  As he moves past the leader, he asks, “Will I survive the night?”

“I’m not privy to My Lord’s plans, but I suppose that depends on you,” the captain says as he joins Rael in the hall. 

As promised, one of the rearguard gathers Rael’s sword, shield and purse and retakes his place at the rear as they march down the hall toward the inn’s common room.  The voices and commotion normal to such a place cut off immediately when Rael and his newfound company pass through the room.  Rael finds Pret in the crowd; it seems the merchant was drinking and laughing amiably with other merchants, but now he stares after Rael with concern.  Rael simply shrugs by way of reply, and the group leaves the inn.  Before long, they have returned to the very chambers Rael had left only a short hour or two before.

“Thank you for joining me on such short notice, Master Rael,” Pagus says crisply.

The lord, a priest of Garod, sits in his grand seat at the head of the table fully armored in a suit of beautifully polished plate armor.  The armor appears as silver with rose shaped accents of gold across the chest and up the arms, and it shines in the room’s white light seemingly more brightly than the sun.  A matching visored helm and set of plated gauntlets rest upon the table to Pagus’ left, and a four foot long mace leans against it to his right.  The head of the mace, instead of a large spiked ball as is the norm for such weapons, is shaped in the manner of a steel thorned rose.  The workmanship of both the armor and weapon captures Rael’s attention so fully that he ignores the diverse meal spread across the table and the fact that Pagus’ men do not leave the room.

“I beg you sit and feast,” Pagus says around a mouthful of quail, pointing with a small knife toward the empty chair to his right.

Rael takes the proffered chair but moves no food to his plate.  He silently watches the priest as he tears at his food, and Rael finds that his eyes wander to the imprisoned armor.  Its beauty captivates him, draws him in even though it is not nearly as ornate as Pagus’ own.  He realizes with a start that the priest watches him intently.

“Please eat something, Master Rael,” Pagus repeats as two of his soldiers close and bar the double doors from the inside.

“I am not hungry, My Lord.  Let us be honest, you did not call me here because you are in need of my talents.”

“Indeed that is true,” agrees the priest, and he returns his attention to his plate. 

Rael finds his eyes again pulled to –

“Do you know the story of that armor?” Pagus asks.  Before Rael can answer, he further asks, “Shall I tell you?  You seem enthralled with it.  Perhaps you have seen it before?  Or maybe heard of it in a bedtime story?  It belonged to my brother, a once great man who is now dead.  I keep it both as a reminder and in the hopes that one day his murderer would come to claim it.  Is that why you have come?”

“I came because you commanded your men to bring me,” Rael replies with no small amount of disdain.  “I am no murderer, so it is not I you seek.”

“Oh but it is, Dahken,” Pagus disagrees with a small smile at Rael’s stunned reaction.  “Yes, I know of your kind.  The Cleansing was not so long ago that the Paladins of Garod have forgotten your kind.”

“I do not understand, Lord Pagus,” Rael says.  “Paladins?”

“Paladins of Garod,” Pagus repeats.  “We led the charge against the Loszians hundreds of years ago.  We taught our people to fight the darkness, and We Cleansed the land of your vile kind as well.”

“You are one of these Paladins?  What does that mean?” Rael asks.

“I am a priest, but I am also a warrior, sworn to battle the foes of Garod wherever I find them,” Pagus explains.  He then says with an air of haughtiness, “My compatriots call me the Rose Knight.”

Rael nods slightly as if this bit of information has value.  “I still do not understand why you have demanded my presence.  Even if you feel the Dahken have wronged you, I am innocent of such accusations.”

“Are you?  Are you really?” Pagus asks with a slight sneer.  “I had a brother once, and he was taken from me, murdered.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“My brother was one of the greatest men I had ever known.  True, we were born of different mothers.  We were brothers in that we fought alongside in the name of Garod.  He was the most pious, humble of men even though he wielded great strength both with his sword and his spirit.  He healed the sick and wounded, gave his own boots to the destitute and rent great wounds upon the foes of Garod.”

“I killed no such man,” Rael interrupts, drawing a look so sharp from Pagus as to make one think the man’s eyes are daggers.

“He had a wife, a beautiful yet unassuming maid,” Pagus continues.  “It is not forbidden for Garod’s priests to take a wife, though it is uncommon.  Most find marriage to be too much of a distraction from Our Lord.  She came to be with child.  It was one of my brother’s happiest days, and I was happy for him until the babe was born.”

“I would think that would have made him even happier,” Rael states flatly.

“Perhaps it did, but the child was an abomination.  She bore a baby boy with skin as that of a corpse, no different from yours as you sit before me,” Pagus explains. 

Rael’s stomach turns upside down, but for anxiety or excitement, he can’t be sure.  “What was your brother’s name?” the Dahken asks.

“I am sure that by now you know, and do not speak again until I am finished with my tale,” Pagus again sneers.  “I knew what the child was, as did my brother.  I told him what must be done, that it must be as if the boy died during the birth.  The Dahken are evil, born of the charlatan blood god, and he could not be allowed to live.  My brother would not hear it, even though I begged, pleaded with him to hear the truth of it.  I appealed to his wife and found her to be even less receptive.  To this day, I believe she laid the seed that would eventually poison him.  After a week, I explained to him that it could go no longer, that I would have to apprise our betters of the child’s existence, and they would act.  One morning, I arrived at his chambers to take him and the babe into Garod’s custody for trial.  I found him gone, and only his armor remained.

“You took Jame from me,” Pagus concludes.

“You forced him to choose between you and his family,” Rael argues.  “Have you considered that you drove him away?”

“A priest’s duty, especially a Paladin’s, is to Garod over all things.  It was your evil that drove him away.”

“My evil?” Rael returns, and his face grows hot.  A Westerner might have appeared flushed, but not a Dahken.  “My father chose the love of his family over the hatred of Garod.  That was your evil, not mine.

“Pagus,” Rael says, battling to calm himself and his tone, “my mother and father were murdered some years ago by a man whom I myself have killed.  Both revenge and justice have been served, and I have but one quarrel with you.  I will take what is rightfully mine, my father’s armor and sword, and leave you in peace.”

“You will do no such thing,” Pagus replies, his voice hard and uncompromising as granite.  “That armor belonged to a Paladin of Garod, and I will not have it soiled by you.”

Rael stands from his chair defiantly.  “It belonged to my father, and by all rights it is now mine.”

“Unacceptable!” Pagus thunders, and he too stands.  He leans forward against the table, the knuckles of his fists turning white under the pressure.  “You have no claim to it, just as your kind has no claim to life.  We stamped you out of existence once, and we shall keep it as such.  I offer you but one chance to live – renounce your claim to this armor.  In fact, renounce your willingness to ever again wield a sword.  Renounce your evil god, and serve me under Garod.  This is the only way you leave here alive.”

“I serve no god, evil or otherwise,” Rael argues, but he then realizes his words mean nothing to this man.  “What if I refuse, Pagus?  Will you have your men cut me down, unarmed, in cold blood?”

“We Paladins made your kind extinct once, and I shall do it again personally.”

Rael steps back and to his left, clearing the table by several feet.  He lifts his empty hands before him and says with no small amount of withering sarcasm, “Very courageous – threatening an unarmed man.  Garod’s Paladins are clearly men of valor.”

Pagus pulls on his gauntlets one at a time, and before he lifts his helm to his head, he nonchalantly flips one hand towards the Dahken.  One of the soldiers comes forward and drops Rael’s sword belt and large shield on the floor at his feet with a clatter.  The shield is round and wooden; over two feet across, the wood is unpainted and reinforced by bands of black iron.  Rael bends and retrieves both, buckling the belt about his waist and strapping the heavy shield to his left arm.  Rael draws his longsword even as Pagus holds the impressive rose mace before his face in a manner of salute.

“Let me take what is mine and go,” Rael tries one more time.

“No,” Pagus replies simply, “you will have to slay me to do such.”

“As you will,” Rael agrees, and he attacks.

Pagus bats away Rael’s first blows with ease, and he returns them with huge two-handed swings of his own weapon.  Rael avoids the first, but he finds the mace’s reach is substantially longer than that of his own longsword.  He deflects the second attack with his shield, but he feels power behind even that glancing blow.  He feints to the left and attacks the Paladin with a head high stroke expected to split a foe’s head from top to neck, but Pagus is not fooled.  He quickly splits his hands, keeping one on the mace’s handle and sliding the other up next to the rose, and blocks the attack with the weapon’s long handle in front of his face and parallel to the floor.  Rael’s sword rebounds off the polished wooden handle as if it had struck well forged steel.  He backs up with the momentum.

“You have some skill,” admits Pagus, though his words do not sound complementary. 

The priest launches a flurry of two-handed attacks, and it seems to Rael that the rose headed mace comes at him from all directions.  His sword is useless for the other weapon carries so much force that it simply knocks the blade away to the extent that Rael has to fight to keep ahold of it.  He hops backward or to the side with each attack, simply trying to avoid the weapon, and it seems to the on looking soldiers that Pagus chases Rael around the room.

Rael cautiously chooses when to attack, finding openings as the priest recovers from missed blows, but his sword only caroms off of Pagus’ armor.  He cannot seem to penetrate or even scratch the plates.  Rael aims his strikes at the joints of Pagus’ arms and legs, where the plates come together leaving just enough gap to allow movement, but he finds the chain mail underneath to be just as solid.  Pagus brings the mace around in a massive stroke that would no doubt crush every bone in a man’s body.  He just narrowly misses, and Rael takes the advantage for just a moment.  His sword clangs loudly off of Pagus’ visored helm, and the priest seems no worse for it.  The two stand off for a moment, and Rael clearly hears metallic laughing emanating from the helm.

“Your weak steel cannot penetrate this,” Pagus denigrates.  “I wrought it myself as Garod’s strength flowed through my limbs.  You combat the power of the King of Gods.”

Rael glances around the room in the hopes of finding something of use, and as he brings his attention back to his foe, the steel rose flies at him again.  He barely lifts his round shield in time to feel the wood splinter and hear the iron bands protest with the impact.  The force knocks him backward, and while he backpedals off balance, Pagus lands another blow, more terrible than the first.  The shield completely shatters, Rael’s wrist with it, and the Dahken turns his face to keep a thousand tiny wooden daggers from showering his face and eyes.  He lands hard on his ass, his legs having given out under the strength of the attack, and he blinks up at his attacker.