The Paladin

 

Sergeant Andrew looked up at the east tower, toward Ekaterina's apartment. He thought he saw the princess for a second, then the curtains dropped closed.

A horn blew. The drums started. "Rangers on the flank," Captain Velten bellowed. The captain dropped his steel visor and tapped his warhorse with one shiny spur. The small cavalry squadron followed him down toward the open field east of the castle.

Andrew let out a piercing whistle that warbled up and down in a specific way. His Rangers recognized the command for "Forward, Right Flank." He heard a distant whistle from the other side of the half-mile long line of fighters. Another Ranger squad was heading "Forward, Left Flank."

This was going to be a mess. Once the fighting started, it was always a mess. But, with wizards involved, something bad was always just around the corner.

"Sergeant," a young page ran up to Andrew. "A word, if you please." The boy was way too clean. He must have come from the castle.

"We are moving out. Come along," Andrew said. "Walk and talk."

"Uh, well, Sergeant, here," the page handed him an arm-length of green silk. "Milady Princess asks if you would wear her favor. Uh, for good luck."

Andrew grunted. Maybe he was forgiven after all. Hell of a time for her to decide. He tied the silk around his steel helmet, ignoring the lewd catcalls from his squad, some of whom also wore colored silks. It seemed that city girls just loved these untamed Rangers with their exotic tattoos.

"She said she wants you to bring it back. Unharmed." The page bowed and ran toward the castle.

Ahead, the sky was growing dark. There were no clouds, just darkness. So, this was magic? The real kind? He almost stopped. He almost turned around. Something in his bones jittered. He remembered when an old Ranger had showed him how a lodestone pushed and pulled with an invisible power. His bones, his guts, felt this invisible pushing.

He glanced behind, his squad was feeling it too. Some had stopped with confused looks. Ahead he heard new horn blasts and faster drumbeats. Andrew whistled for his squad to start jogging.

The jiggling in his bones grew stronger. It was almost like running uphill. The darkness ahead was pushing him back. He was sure of it.

"So, how ya feeling?" Andrew stopped abruptly, and a corporal bumped him. Where was that voice coming from? The trees?

"Up here."

Andrew spotted an owl, a barn owl in a branch above his head. The animal made a peeping, skweeing sound but Andrew somehow understood it's speech. What was this devilry?

"My name is Tengweerfanda, and I have been looking for you."

The owl drifted down and landed on his shield. Andrew felt the bone-jiggling magic subside a little. The noise of battle grew louder. The engagement was hidden just beyond a strip of forest.

"You can feel the darkness, I know. That is how I found you. Well, partly."

"What is this tomfoolery? I know little of the Owlspeech, yet I can understand you perfectly." Andrew held his shield out a little, not wanting the animal close enough to take out one of his eyes. What if it was a spy of the enemy?

"Only you can hear me this well. It's magic, of a kind. Got any meat?"

Andrew heard the distant ring of swords, more horns, faster drums, howls of pain and anger. He raised his head and let out a piercing whistle. Disperse, Right Flank. The squad spread out and immediately vanished into the woods. If needed they could communicate over long distances using the same ear-bleeding whistles known to all Rangers.

"What do you want of me?" Andrew fished around in a belt pouch for some jerky. "It's the closest I have." He handed the owl a bit of dried beef.

It swallowed the meat and said, "Terrible. Tough as an old troll's scrotum."

"What do you want? I have a battle ahead."

"You must withdraw. The darkness ahead is beyond our power." The owl stressed "our."

"My squad needs me," Andrew said, stressing "me."

"There is no 'me.' We are bound by my quest and the faery magic and your gift of meat. Our destiny has been twined."

Andrew heard a whistle from far to the left, the other Ranger squad a half mile away. "Archers, Left." Archers? Why do they need…

He heard a whistle from his own squad, closer, louder. "Archers, Right." Why archers? What was happening?

"I hear them too," the owl said with a tone of wonder. "Our bond has made their hoots clear to me."

"I must lead my men," Andrew said, jogging forward. "Get away!"

"You must retreat," the owl said, flapping its wings to balance on the shield's unsteady edge.

"Get away!" Andrew shook his shield, hoping to dislodge the irksome bird.

"Shit!" the owl cried. "Drop, now!"

The rattle in his bones became almost unbearable, he was vibrating like a plucked string. Ahead, the darkness seemed to expand. All sound was suddenly muffled, he felt as if he was underwater.

He dropped to the ground and, without a conscious decision, curled his arms around the owl, cradling it like he was protecting a child.

Sergeant Andrew felt his guts rumble ominously. It felt just like the morning after Captain Verten's wedding party.

He rolled off his elbows onto his back. The owl, Teng-war-something, was tucked safely under him. He hoped he didn't crush him. Or was it her?

"You alive?" he asked, breathing through the nausea.

"Yes," the owl said. "I feel sick."

Andrew did not answer. He looked toward his feet, toward the strip of forest hiding the battle. Hiding his squad. Get moving, sad sack.

"I have to go," Andrew said. But his body moved like a cow was sitting on him. He put the owl beside him, grunted, and rolled to hands and knees. "I have to go."

He felt like he had been run over by an oxcart, but he finally struggled to his feet. Only then did he notice the uncanny silence. His ears were fine; he had heard the owl speak.

He took a deep breath to whistle for his squad, but the nausea stopped him. Then the sickness finally crashed over him, and he dropped to his knees and emptied his belly into the grass.

"Can you fly?" Andrew said over his shoulder.

"Maybe."

"I need to find my squad," he said. He rose again, wobbly and sick. Where was his sword? He found it in the grass nearby.

"I can't move yet," the owl said.

"I have to go," Andrew said again. He took a few steps, then the dry heaving started. By the fates, was he poisoned somehow? He felt sweat popping out all over his body, but the air was cool. He took a few more steps, fighting dizziness now.

Then the paladin appeared.

Had the massive armored knight been there all along? Had he been watching the Ranger wobble along like a newborn colt? Andrew blinked. How had he missed the arrival of this mountain of metal standing a stone's toss away?

Andrew felt his whole body deflate. It was hard enough to defeat a paladin on his best day. He couldn't defeat a blind duck right now.

The knight was armed with a mace, and spattered blood glistened on his shiny armor. Andrew snorted. The cost of all that metallic artistry would have fed his squad for a year. His squad. Whatever had happened to them, the news was on the other side of this foe.

"Hey, Sir Richboy. You'll have to come to me if you want to do this."

The paladin did not move. A cool wind blew the scroll hanging from his belt. Probably a favor from a holy man. Or magical protection from half-dead Rangers. Andrew remembered his own favor from the princess. He hoped she could not see what was about to happen.

Andrew glanced back to the castle, trying to spot Ekaterina, imagining her looking out her east tower apartment. Instead, his eyes went to the owl. He, or was it she, was lying still. "You still alive?"

"It's the magic. The darkness," the owl said weakly.

Andrew looked back at Sir Richboy. He was still motionless, but now he was only a few feet away. "Bloody hell!" Andrew cried and stepped back, bringing his sword to guard. How had the paladin covered this distance without a jingle or squeak?

Andrew stepped to the right without conscious decision. The paladin did not move. What was this devilry? He took another step, and another, circling slowly behind the knight.

"You must save your squad," a voice came from close behind him.

"Ahh!" Andrew cried out, heart pounding. He spun to see Ekaterina standing close enough to touch. "What!"

"You must go," she said. But she sounded strange. Almost like she was talking in her sleep.

"I can't hold him much longer," the owl said.

Andrew turned, facing the paladin's back. The knight had not moved. Andrew lowered his sword tip and tapped him on the shoulder. "Turn and face me!"

"You must go," Ekaterina mumbled. "Your squad..."

"Face me, coward!" Andrew suddenly felt purified. The nausea and dizziness was gone. "Stand and deliver!" It was his last warning.

"I can't hold..." the owl said.

Andrew gripped his sword and swung like he was taking down a tree. An instant before he made contact the paladin raised his mace to block the blow.

Andrew's sword bit into the wooden haft and held. The mace came down, and snapped his blade in half. The paladin had not even turned around.

"Hurry," the owl said. Its voice was fading.

"If you love me," Ekaterina said dreamily behind him, "you will go."

He swung again. Again, he was blocked. It was as bad as fighting a troll in rut. Then he remembered his old Sergeant of Arms telling him a story years back, "Yes, trolls are big. Yes, they are fearless. Yes, they're almost unkillable. But they ain't quick."

"I can't..." the owl said. "I'm sorry."

The paladin was animated for the first time, turning and raising his mace. This was more like it! Andrew had been fighting like a recruit, flat-footed like we was trying to chisel a rock. Now, he became a whirlwind, fighting like the seasoned, blooded Ranger he was.

All the old instincts came back, suddenly un-dulled. It was as if he had awakened from a long sleep. He breathed deep and let loose a joyous whistle that echoed across the silent battlefield. "Single Combat."

The knight raised his mace overhead, and Andrew darted in to thrust the broken sword at his face. The ragged tip went into the visor slit and kept going, unimpeded by flesh and bone, all the way to the hilt.

The paladin jerked back, uninjured, and shook his head so hard that his helmet and Andrew's embedded sword spun ten feet away.

Andrew's eye flew wide. The knight was headless! Empty air sat behind a dented throat guard. How can this be? It was like the huge foe was a metal puppet. A puppet. Who was pulling the strings?

Andrew dodged aside as the bloody mace came down. Who was the puppeteer?

Then he knew.

He rolled away from another killing blow, drew his dagger, and threw it at Ekaterina.

The blade landed true and sunk to the handle into her alabaster throat. A great fountain of crimson spouted from her neck, and a wet gurgle was her only protest.

Andrew dodged again, but the blow never came. In unison, the paladin puppet and the puppet master toppled. As she hit the ground, Ekaterina transformed into an old man with a long white beard.

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