The Paladin's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page A

his men searched the village. The patrol came back from the far side of Novindum and reported a trail heading west, towards the higher foothills and mountains of Kothluusk. Arandar had expected nothing else. Shortly after that, a pair of his men-at-arms rode from the village, carrying a corpse between them.
    “What have you found?” said Arandar.
    “No one left alive in there, sir,” said one of the men-at-arms. “Checked the cellars and the wells, anywhere someone might hide. Some dead bodies. Looked like village militia. Put up a devil of a fight. Didn’t seen any dead women or children. My guess is that the raiders carried them off as prisoners.”
    “Is this one of the raiders?” said Arandar.
    The man-at-arms nodded and dumped his burden upon the ground. It was an orcish man, killed by an arrow through the heart. He wore leather armor and a ragged fur cloak, and to judge from the loop upon his belt, had gone into battle with an axe. His head had been shaved save for a warrior’s black topknot, and his face had been marked with ritualized scars around the eyes and mouth. The scars themselves had been tattooed the color of blood, making it look as if the orcish warrior’s face had been covered with a stylized skull.
    “An orcish warrior of Kothluusk,” said Arandar, “a follower of Mhor, the old blood god of death and war.”
    “Likely they raided the village for slaves,” said Cassius, squinting at the mountains of Kothluusk in the distance. “Or for sacrifices. Mhor is a thirsty god, and demands his tribute in blood.”
    “Well, Decurion, you have your answer,” said Orlan. “Mhorite orcs raided Novindum and carried off its people into captivity. We can report this to Dux Kors when we arrive at Castra Dorius.”
    “Your orders, sir?” said Cassius.
    “How long ago would you say this attack happened, Optio?” said Arandar.
    “No earlier than dusk yesterday, sir,” said Cassius, rubbing a thumb over his jaw. “Knowing the Mhorites, they likely attacked in the dead of the night.”
    “It’s a little past noon now,” said Arandar. “Rounding up captives would have taken time, perhaps even until dawn. We might be no more than six or seven hours behind them.”
    “I concur, sir,” said Cassius.
    “You cannot possibly be considering this!” said Orlan. “The High King commanded us to ride to Castra Durius and Dux Kors, not to gallivant off into the foothills of Kothluusk! We cannot save these villagers. If we do this, we shall be killed. We shall be worse than killed. We’ll be overwhelmed and surrounded, and taken captive ourselves.”
    “Optio,” said Arandar, “prepare the men. We pursue.”
    Orlan started to rant some more, but the men-at-arms formed into a column. Soon the horsemen rode around the base of the hill, and Orlan had no choice but to follow unless he wanted to remain behind.
    Given the dangers of the foothills, no sane man wanted to remain alone this close to Kothluusk. For that matter, perhaps Orlan was right. Perhaps Arandar was leading his men to their doom. Certainly no one would blame him if he rode to Castra Durius to report the raid to the Dux.
    The High King had sent them to help defend the people of Durandis. It was Arandar’s duty to defend the people of Novindum, and he would not turn back from that task.
    He would not act as people expected a man of his birth to act.
    They rode further into the foothills.
     
    ###
     
    “There’s someone up ahead, sir,” said Cassius.
    For the last three hours they had followed the trail of the Mhorites. The scouts suspected that around two hundred orcish warriors and two hundred captive villagers had left that trail behind, and Arandar agreed with their assessment. The growing roughness of the terrain troubled him. On an open field, his horsemen would have no trouble sweeping away the Mhorites. On rocky hills and ravines, though, the Mhorites could easily set a trap. For that matter, if the Mhorites found reinforcements,