The man with the dark grimace turned his eyes upward, to the
opening in the rotunda, just beneath the golden dome of Valor's
fastness. The corpse of Fourth Sword Knight Oppian Nevilindor was
being tied to pitons by the Thrune wizard
Not 'Thrune wizard', the dour man thought to himself, Vindicus
Thrune. He has earned at least enough respect for his name to be
worthy of my remembering.
A groan from nearby caught his attention, and he looked to the
source. From beneath the body of a fallen Chellish peasant, a
grievously wounded soldier of the Reclamation had come to, and
was trying to crawl out from beneath the corpse but blood loss
had left him far too weak. He lay prone, on his belly, blood
beginning to pool around him, soaking into the grass.
Approaching the man, he kneeled, "You are badly wounded, soldier.
Ask it of me, and I shall heal your wounds."
The young man looked up, through his barbuta helm.
Young, maybe 20? Certainly not more than 25. Strong, too. The
grimaced man said, kneeling to look him in the eye.
The soldier looked up at him, the unmistakable vestments of a
cleric belonging to Asmodeus, Lord of The Pit.
"P-p-paladin. Iomedae." The man groaned out, trying feebly to get
out from under the body of the fallen enemy.
"It matters not to me. The battle is over, and the Crown is
victorious. I'll not ask you to break your vows to your goddess,
for vows are sacred. I'll not ask you to commit any heinous act
to violate your ethos, or to swear me any sort of allegiance or
fealty. All I ask, is to hear your request." The man offered, his
voice empty, devoid of feeling.
The paladin made one attempt to free himself, unaware of just how
much blood poured from his stomach wound.
"I...I..please. Please heal me." he said after just a moments
hesitation.
"As you request." The cleric responded, reaching into his robes
as the paladin dropped his head to the grass, taking a breath
that was part sigh, part relief. Pouring the smallest drop of
devil's blood onto the man's exposed neck, the cleric waved a
hand and murmured the prayer to Asmodeus, beseeching his master
to grant him the spell. It washed over the young man, part
healing magic of the the positive energy plane, part fiendish
magic of Hell. In that moment, the paladin realized he had erred.
"No! Not that magic!" he cried, even as his body began to mend
and repair itself, lending him back enough strength to kick the
corpse off the top of his waist and legs, and begin to rise to
his knees. "I...I did not..." he stammered, his connection to his
goddess waning, marking her disapproval.
The cleric rose to his full height, his stature less than that of
the youth, but his presence quantifiably greater.
"You did not specify. Asmodeus gifts to you your health, and I
will gift to him your soul." He spoke, his voice rising slightly,
and he swung his heavy mace against the side of the man's head,
not a skull cracking blow, but a resounding one none the less.
The man, midway rising to his feet, fell over, giving out a
gurgled cry as he fell onto his back. The scowling man hunched
over, and swung again, not entirely unlike a croquet mallet. The
man was once again quiet, knocked unconscious.
An armored woman walked up to stand beside him.
"You could have just manacled him." She offered, looking down at
the young man, who was still breathing.
"I didn't want to hear him cry.They always cry" The cleric
answered factually. "Have you found your offering yet?" He said,
turning to her. She turned, so that her one working eye could
meet his look.
"Not yet. I'm hoping the young initiate finds my armor in there
and tries to keep it for himself so that I have a reason to use
him."
The cleric turned away from the ebon-skinned woman, and pondered
the sentiment. "Well thought out." he replied after a moment.
"And if he should honor you by returning it?"
"Then I shall use him in a different way." she said, trying not to
smile, She looked up, as the body of Oppian Nevilindor was
securely put into place.
"Where are we setting off to after this place?" She asked,
admiring the handiwork of the group who aptly named themselves
the Hellfire Heathens.
"Emil will assuredly be restless at this point. We will need to
rendezvous with him soon, before he endangers his position. From
there, we will have our share of work to do to route out more
Reclamation troops. Left to their own, in time I think they might
turn to banditry, or rejoin the greater bulk of their movement.
Neither are acceptable options." He spoke, his voice monotone.
Around him, the Chellish forces cheered at the defeat of the 4th
Sword Knight, roars of shouts and applause echoed off the
Fastness' stone walls.
"Agreed. And the Queen's Hand?"
"Important, but not a task for us." The cleric knelt down,
placing manacles on the paladin, and beginning to tie a drag rope.
"We have a stop to make before Emil, though. Longacre."
"That little backwater village?" she questioned.
"Sadly, yes. The Archbaron needs to be checked on, and I suspect
the Heathens will return to receive orders from him. He would
have no need for them to remain stationed here. Someone from the
Narikopolous House will be sufficient." He said, hoisting the
tied rope over his shoulder, and testing it's strength.
"I don't like Fex." The armored woman said plainly.
"No one does. That's why he governs Longacre, and not Corentyn."
"He bid for Corentyn?" Asked the dark skinned woman, a look of
mild surprise on her face.
"Yes. Thrice times, as damned as House Thrune. When they refused
him, he was out of bids and ordered to Longacre. It was all a
punishment for his outspoken views on the merits of sorcery
versus wizardry. Foolish of him to believe such a difference of
source mattered in the least. Even more foolish of him to think
the Queen wouldn't hear of his strong opinions."
The cleric began to pull the sleeping paladin behind him, making
his way to the throng of soldiers and armed peasants, the armored
woman following beside him.
"They don't?" She asked, inquisitively, having rarely heard the
cleric give his own opinion on anything. "The source of magic,
that is."
"The Arcane? No. Books, or blood, makes little difference to those
who wield the power of Gods." He grunted, dragging the soldier,
his armor and helm making the occasional metal thunk noise as it
clanged against the cobblestone.
The woman with the blind eye smirked. "Careful. The Queen might
hear you."
"Let her. I am not within her hierarchy to command." the cleric
spoke, either oblivious to the humor, or choosing to ignore it all
together.
"I have such a fondness for you Asmodeans. I wonder sometimes if
you don't follow the code of law more dedicatedly than we
Hellknights." She said, her smile wide, a contrast against her
midnight skin.
"We do. I assure you, our punishment for transgression is more
severe." He said through clenched teeth, the strain of the
unconscious youth heavy on his muscles.
Knowing it would be fruitless to argue, the woman changed
subjects. "I could pull that for you, if you'd like."
"My offering. My responsibility." the man said.
"You could at least remove his armor. Chain is heavy." She
offered.
"I bring him to Asmodeus as he is." The cleric said, his words
strained through heavy breathing. Understanding the burden he
bore, the woman kept pace with him and remained silent, to allow
him focus as they walked past the corpse of Facetess, and out of
the grounds of Valor's Fastness.
Sometime later, they arrived at their wagon outside of the Little
Uskwood, The cleric paid the young boy they had paid to wait with
their horse. The boy eyed the "sleeping" soldier, but he had
enough sense not to ask questions.
The scowling man had nearly exhausted himself, his vestments
stained with sweat. "I carried my burden well, but I will need
your assistance lifting him into the cart."
"Certainly." The woman said, easily lifting the lion's share of
of the man's weight into the wagon.
Removing the papal crown he wore, he withdrew a cloth rag and
mopped his brow and pate. "I admire your ability to lift such a
heavy load with such ease so soon after combat."
"Why, I do believe that is the first time I have ever heard you
compliment any of us." She said, expressing honest surprise.
From within the wagon, the soldier began to groan as he came to
from the recent jostle of being loaded into the wagon.
"I suppose it was. I hope I'm not getting sentimental and
vulnerable in my old age." The cleric replied, looking in on the
soldier, and then sending his mind back into blackness with a
slap from his armored hand.
"You rest, old man." The armored said, taking the driver's seat
and reins of the horse. "I'll get us to where we need to be."
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