The Paladin's Tale by Jonathan Moeller

The Paladin’s Tale
     
    In the Year of Our Lord 1468, smoke rose from the burning village in the foothills of Kothluusk.
    Arandar reined up, his horse dancing beneath him, and stared at the village. This close to the mountains of Kothluusk and the tribes of the Mhorites, every village possessed a stout wall of stone and a keep. 
    The fortifications had done little good for this village. The gate had been smashed, and Arandar saw corpses in the leather and chain mail of militia lying scattered below the wall. The smell of burnt wood and spilled blood filled his nostrils, made his hand twitch to the hilt of the sword belted at his waist.
    “Orders, Decurion?”
    Arandar turned his head as his Optio, his second in command, approached. Like Arandar, Cassius wore the chain mail and plate of a man-at-arms of Tarlion beneath a blue tabard bearing the High King’s red dragon sigil. Arandar had served in the High King’s men-at-arms since the age of sixteen, but Cassius was twenty years his senior, had seen a score of campaigns and fighting from Durandis in the west to Caertigris in the east. The man was a capable soldier, but preferred to follow the orders of another.
    Which mean it was up to Arandar to decide what to do.
    “You know this place?” said Arandar.
    “I do, sir,” said Cassius, squinting at the smoldering ruins. “Village called Novindum. Good inn. Served decent beer.”
    “Send in men to scout,” said Arandar. “The village burned last night, I deem. Likely it was attacked just after dark. I want to know who did it.”
    “Sir,” said Cassius.
    “What is the meaning of this delay?”
    Arandar turned his horse. Behind him waited his command, one hundred men-at-arms in the colors of the High King of Andomhaim, sword and spear at the ready. A doughy young man in a white robe with a black sash rode towards him, his face spread in a thunderous scowl.
    “Magistrius Orlan,” said Arandar.
    “Your orders were to take me to Castra Durius at once, Decurion,” snapped Orlan, his stout face reddening. He looked at the smoking village, flinched, and looked away again. “Not to gawk at every…every rural brawl.”
    “Our orders, Magistrius,” said Arandar, forcing patience into his voice. “Our orders were to report to Kors Durius, Dux of Durandis, at Castra Durius in order to help him defend his lands from the Mhorite orcs.” He gestured at the ruins of Novindum. “Clearly, his lands are in need of defense. Optio, check the village. See if there are any survivors.”
    Cassius went to work, and a group of men-at-arms rode for the gates of the village, while another squad circled around Novindum’s hill, scouting for any trace of the attackers. Orlan glowered at them, as if expecting the men would quail under his gaze, but the High King’s men-at-arms were too well-disciplined to obey anyone but their commander.
    “Dux Kors shall hear of this,” hissed Orlan.
    “One would hope so,” said Arandar, a pleasant fantasy of driving a mailed fist into Orlan’s face flickering through his mind. He dismissed the thought. They might have need of the Magistrius’s magic soon enough. “The High King sent us to help the Dux defend his lands. I am sure the Dux would be glad to hear of it.”
    Orlan’s scowl turned to a contemptuous sneer. “Do not think to rise above yourself, bastard. Your blood will not save you.”
    Arandar’s hand twitched into a fist before he could stop it, but fourteen years of discipline in the High King’s men-at-arms stopped him from doing anything rash. “You are quite correct, Magistrius. Neither your blood or mine shall impress the orcs of Kothluusk if they come for us.”
    He had the satisfaction of seeing the sneer turn to a flicker of fear.
    “Rather different out here, isn’t it?” said Arandar. “Not quite like Tarlion.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Orlan, and after that, thank God and the saints, the Magistrius shut up.
    Arandar waited as