The Paladin's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page B

they might turn and attack. Orlan might have been a coward, but his counsels were not baseless.
    Yet they had encountered no one else. Arandar kept scouts ranging around the column, and so far they had found neither friends nor foes.
    “Where?” said Arandar, looking over the wooded hills. The raiders had headed towards the mountains, the path winding its way through a broad, wooded valley.
    “There, sir,” said Cassius. “Lying at the base of the tree.”
    Arandar called for a halt and then steered his horse off the path, Cassius, Orlan, and a few other men following him. A crumpled shape in brown fabric lay at the base of the tree. It was an old woman, thin and gaunt, her dress stained with blood, a bruise marring the right side of her face. Arandar dropped from his horse and knelt by her side, Cassius following suit, while Orlan scowled down at them.
    “Likely too old to keep up,” said Cassius. “Mhorites killed her and left her to rot, sir.”
    “They haven’t killed her yet,” said Arandar, resting a finger upon her neck. “She’s still breathing. Magistrius! Heal her, please.”
    “What?” said Orlan. “Do not be absurd.”
    “She yet lives,” said Arandar. “Heal her.”
    “You expect me to take that old woman’s pain into myself?” said Orlan.
    “I know you have to take a person’s pain in order to heal them,” said Arandar, “but that pain lasts but a moment, while she could suffer for days before she dies.”
    “It is not worth the effort,” said Orlan.
    “The famed compassion of the Magistri,” said Arandar, trying to keep his temper under control. “Consider this, then. The woman can tell us about our foes and their composition. Without her knowledge, we might walk into an ambush. We might even be defeated and taken captive. I wonder what the Mhorites might do to a Magistrius.”
    “Fine!” Orlan let go of his reins, slid out of the saddle, and managed to land without injuring himself. He knelt next to the old woman, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. White fire, the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, blazed around his hands, and the men-at-arms backed away in fear. Orlan put his hands to the old woman’s temples and whispered under his breath, and the light sank into her head. The Magistrius flinched, gritting his teeth. A Magistrius had to take on the pain of a victim in order to heal wounds, though Arandar suspected some pain would do Orlan good.
    The old woman’s eyes, gray and bloodshot, opened wide, and she sat up with a gasp, looking around in panic. Orlan heaved himself to his feet, rubbing his head.
    “God and the saints,” he muttered, “that hurt. She had a skull fracture. Some broken ribs and bruising. Her right hip’s a mess, but that’s just old age, I am afraid.” Likely that was why the Mhorites had discarded her. She’ll live.” He heaved himself back into the saddle with a sigh, crossed his arms, and glared at them in sullen silence.
    “Thank you,” said Arandar.
    Orlan only grunted.
    “What has happened?” said the old woman, clutching at Arandar’s arm. “You…you have the badge of the High King. They took the others.” She shook her head. “How did I get here?”
    “I was hoping you could tell me,” said Arandar. “My name is Arandar, and my men and I are in service to the High King. We were coming to reinforce the Dux’s men and saw the smoke rising from Novindum. What is your name?”
    “Cora, my lord,” said the woman.
    “I am not a lord,” said Arandar. “I am not even a knight, but that is not important. Tell me what happened.”
    “This is Qazamhor’s bloody work,” said Cora.
    “Qazamhor?” said Orlan. “Who is this Qazamhor?”
    “I know the name,” said Arandar. “When I last served at Castra Durius, the tribes of Kothluusk spoke of a powerful shaman who dwelled among the high places of Mhor, a shaman who was growing stronger than the shamans of the other tribes.”
    “He came to our gates,” said Cora.