A Paladin's Journey Ch. 02

"Where is my sister?" Tavish asked, frantically trying to look around despite his restricted movement.

"Relax," Elaina said gently, pointing to the bundle slung over Willow's saddle nearby. "She is right here. She is alive, but she has not yet woken."

Tavish closed his eyes and exhaled in relief. "Who are you?" He asked again, this time in a less demanding tone.

"We are the ones who pulled you out of that hellhole you were in," Aran replied. "And just in time, by the looks of things. Those were bad people that had you, Tavish."

"You and Ayla are safe, at least for now," Elaina said, smiling kindly, unperturbed at the way Tavish's eyes kept floating back to her notable chest.

Aran moved to Strider's other flank and began to loosen the straps securing Tavish's legs to the saddle. "Can you ride?" He asked the young Gifted once he was loose.

"I think so," he said with a grimace, working limbs that hadn't been moved for some time. Holding his robe close, he went to check on his sister, pulling her covering back so he could see her face. Aran noticed she was looking better than yesterday, though only slightly. He doubted Tavish could see much in the dark, which was probably a good thing, considering the condition she was in.

Tavish tenderly kissed the top of her head. Her dark hair was still matted with blood; they hadn't had a chance to bathe her yet. "They will be punished for this, Ayla," he whispered. "I will see it done if it takes the rest of my days." After tucking her covering back in place, Tavish turned to Aran and Elaina. "Thank you for saving us from the Heralds, Aran and Elaina," he said formally, even offering a small bow. "I feel you do not intend us harm, but I wish to know; who are you?"

Aran eyed the young man appraisingly, admiring the way he so quickly adapted to the circumstances. "We will tell you all, my friend, I promise," he assured Tavish. "But for now, we must be moving. We are maybe a day away from safety, and we're still being hunted."

A minute or two later, Tavish was seated safely behind Aran on Strider's back, and the small group were headed back out onto the plain. Smythe soon joined them, cantering Thunder from the western edge of the copse as they rode past. Needing to hasten their journey, some adjustments were made so that all were ahorseback, with Elaina now riding in front of Smythe's saddle, while leading Willow by the reins.

With the horses moving at a quick trot, they covered ground quickly, and the sky soon began to lighten in the east. Aran kept a wary eye in all directions, and Smythe and Elaina, riding a few feet to his right, were doing the same. Elaina had wrapped her cloak around herself for some semblance of covering, though Aran suspected Smythe's right hand was beneath that cloak, as only his left gripped Thunder's reins, and Elaina's side of the Bond was giving off telltale signals of pleasure and arousal. She glanced over, and seeing him looking, gave him a sly wink and a cheeky grin, which Aran returned.

The eastern sky slowly changed from a dreary grey to a brilliant gold, and eventually the sun appeared, bathing the vast expanse of grassland in morning light. Suddenly, for the first time since leaving, Tavish spoke. "I like your horse," he commented. "What is his name?"

"Strider," Aran replied, smiling as Tavish patted the stallion's neck fondly. "He is a loyal horse. He's well trained, and clever, too."

"How long have you owned him?"

"Not long," Aran answered. "Only a few weeks. He used to belong to a Herald, but now he's mine."

Tavish turned his head slightly to eye Aran inquisitively. "I am curious as to how that came about, Aran," he asked in that refined manner he had of speaking. Being a country boy, Aran found it slightly amusing to listen to, though he would never tell Tavish that.

"Well," Aran began, not wanting to give too many grim details. "I was arrested by Heralds, and some city watchmen, and they tried to hurt my friend. I got loose and stopped them, and after that, I needed a horse, so I grabbed the best one I could find, which was Strider, here."

The boy was silent for a moment. "Did you kill the Heralds that meant harm to your friend?"

"Yes," Aran said quietly, remembering that night. "I did."

"Good."

Suddenly, a thought came to Aran. "Tavish, what of your parents? Do they live in Maralon?" Tavish and Ayla would have inherited their Gifts from their mother or father -- or both -- and so there was a high chance the Heralds would be taking them in, too, if they hadn't already.

Tavish nodded. "They do, though they aren't our real mother and father. We were orphaned at a very young age, but we were taken in by a well-to-do couple who raised us. They loved us as their own and gave us everything we needed. Do you think they are alright?"

"I would think so," Aran said carefully. "The Gift you and Ayla have inside you is passed down through family lines, so the Heralds probably wouldn't be interested too much in your adoptive parents." Aran hoped he was right, otherwise Tavish's folks would be at the mercy of the vindictive Heralds. "Do you remember using it? Your Gift?"

"A little," the younger man replied slowly. "When those men came in, and they were going after Ayla, something just snapped, and a power welled up inside me. Is that this Gift you speak of?"

Aran smiled. "Yes, that sounds about right. You saved her, you know. It's the first of many great things you'll be able to do once we train you."

"I want you to teach me how to kill," Tavish said darkly. "So that I can return to Maralon and destroy the Heralds." Aran felt for him; in Tavish's position, he would probably want the same. "Did you kill the ones that hurt us, Aran?"

Aran looked over at Elaina and Smythe, who were watching him and Tavish with sympathetic eyes. "I killed two Heralds that night, Tavish," Aran answered truthfully.

"Which ones?" The young man asked, his voice hard.

Aran took a deep breath. Despite feeling like he'd done the right thing -- what decent person could willingly mutilate another? Especially children barely old enough to be adults! - he still didn't like killing, no matter who it was, or how much they deserved it. "A man and a woman. He was thin, and grey. She was solid, with a hard face." Aran's mind flashed back to that basement room where he'd found the two Heralds standing before Ayla and Tavish with burning, red hot pokers in their hands. He could still smell the stink of burning flesh. It made him want to vomit.

"They were the ones that hurt us," Tavish whispered, barely audible over the soft clopping of hooves on grassy ground. "But they were just following orders. It was the other one, the one with the cold eyes. Eames, they called him."

Eames. Aran had heard that name before, from that fat Herald. What was his name? Tevin? Yes, that's right, Tevin. Aran had spared Tevin's life and sent him back to Maralon, but not before Tevin had disclosed the name of his Lord Commander; Rodric Eames. It would appear this Eames had a hell of a lot to answer for.

Tavish continued in a quiet voice. "He didn't touch us, he just gave orders and watched, taking notes the whole time. I don't know why, but he scared me more than the ones with the whips and the rods."

Aran placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Easy, now." A stab of sorrow through the Bond brought his gaze to Elaina, who was looking at Tavish, a tear running down her cheek. She was the toughest woman he knew, but she also had a soft, kind heart, and Aran loved her for that. "We will deal with him in time, Tavish," Aran assured. "For now, we need to get back home, and see you and your sister safe."

The Karvanis were looming ever larger with every step, and Aran guessed they would be back in the foothills by nightfall, and home in the Temple shortly after.

***

***MALOTH -- The Ergar Plain, a few miles north of Amindaer City, Palistair***

The now familiar rumble of thunder echoed across the Ergar Plain, chasing the forked lightning that skittered beneath the roiling clouds above, rending the darkness with an eerie purple flash. The storms had been consistent of late, rolling through from the north every second day, lashing the land before continuing southward. Maloth had deduced that these storms were somehow connected to his growing strength, as they seemed to increase in frequency and intensity when he Bound a new soul. That, and no matter how they raged, the tempests never seemed to affect his camp as they did the surrounding land.

He sat Shadow's saddle on the crest of a wide rise that overlooked the rolling plain, awaiting the arrival of Beshok, the Chieftain of the Gor'dur Orcs. He had chosen to dress for a show of power and strength that the Orcs would appreciate, wearing a pair of black breeches with scales that dully caught the light and a cloak of the same colour, cinched round his neck with a golden skull clip. The breeches were made of something called dragonscale, some blend of leather and scales, though Maloth suspected the scales were from a snake rather than a dragon, the latter of which he doubted existed. He wore no shirt or coat beneath the cloak, leaving his crimson chest bare as a sign of primal dominance.

Shenla waited on his left, also mounted on her sleek black mare. She was dressed provocatively, as usual, though with a touch more class than the eye-popping garments she normally chose. She was garbed in a complicated white silk piece which contrasted with her rose-red skin pleasantly, as it did her lustrous jet hair. The garment was all flowing narrow strips that covered her privates well enough while still giving tantalising glimpses of what lay beneath. It was almost like someone had taken a perfectly good dress and ripped it in strategic places to show skin, but rather than looking tattered, Shenla made it look alluring.

Behind Maloth and Shenla, the rest of the party was gathered. The five women in his harem were all present and waiting obediently; there was plump, Dwarven Glinda, with her raven-hair and monumental tits, standing alongside Elven Ellerion, also very generously proportioned, with hair like spun gold and eyes like chips of sapphire. Pale and slender Kreya stood by Ellerion, her pretty Human head shorn bald and her skin inked all over with magic runes, while beside her, voluptuous Adelain's Dark Elf complexion blended with the night, her pure-white tresses in sharp contrast with her ebony skin. Lastly, the darkly beautiful and buxom Giantess Mali towered over the others, gazing adoringly at Maloth as he turned his head briefly to view his pets.

Maloth had deliberately only pursued not just beautiful females, but important ones, for the weight they added to his influence, as he hoped it would with the Orcs. It had worked with the Giants, showing off Ellerion, an Elven Matriarch reduced to waiting on Maloth's beck and call. Now, he had five women Bound to him, all of them from places of high station. Glinda was sister to the Dwarven King in Ekistair, while Ellerion had been High Matriarch of Laefandell before Maloth had dominated her soul. Kreya was heir to the throne of Angavar, while Mali was the Seeker of the Hill Giants. Adelain -- his newest acquisition -- was sister to Berenor, the King of the Dark Elves of Eredor. There was enough royal blood in Maloth's harem to supplant rulers and reforge nations across entire lands, which is what he intended to do.

For maximum effect, he had garbed his pets in nothing but a leather collar from which dangled a small medallion bearing his sigil, marking these women as his property. They stood proudly nude, their hands clasped behind their backs and their chests thrust forward. All of them except Kreya were very well endowed, and it made for an impressive display. The Orcs respected power, and Maloth would show them the meaning of the word.

Maloth had gone all in with his show of force, and so had included his Morgai in the party. Both over six feet tall and devastatingly attractive, they stood side-by side nearby, not far from Maloth's harem. Baelor and Shaelor, both former wedded Humans that had been killed and Risen by Maloth's Wardens, then further altered through an amalgamation of Maloth's and Kreya's magics. Now, they stood with arrogant pride, their naked bodies adorned with black runes that slowly pulsed with a fiery glow, as if their skin was cracked in patterned fissures of lava. Both Morgai were supreme specimens of sex and power, Baelor with rippling muscles and a long, thick phallus hanging between his broad thighs, and Shaelor all appealing curves and deadly grace, her fit, shapely body with its spectacular breasts merely a dream for most women.

Behind Shenla were her own three pets; eight-foot tall, Orcish Barrog stood with his thick arms folded, his heavy brow furrowed as he waited for his brethren to arrive. Dark Elf Peldin, tall and lithe, studied the plain below intently while fingering the hilt of the sword at his hip. Short, muscular Torvin completed the trio, his head shorn as Kreya's was -- they were both Wardens of the Dead -- and his skin inked in similar fashion. All three men wore boots and breeches, and were armed, but they were shirtless, their chests bare. Shenla liked them that way, apparently.

Further back, Maloth's legion of Dark Elves waited with bows in hand, along with a full company of Wardens and their Risen dead minions, just in case things went sour. The Wardens had been busy in recent weeks, raiding poorly defended villages and outposts to further bolster their army of the dead, which now numbered over three thousand. The legion of Risen -- most of them dressed scantily or not at all, in the fashion of Angavar -- stretched back into the night in several deep columns of grey-skinned, white-eyed bodies, the black-robed Wardens scattered among the ranks.

Kreya herself had picked up three more Risen; pretty young Human women that currently occupied one of the columns. They were the most attractive spoils of the last raid, and Maloth had seen that Kreya chose only women, as one could never have too many pleasing females around. He had decided not to change Kreya's new Risen into Morgai as yet, though Baelor and Shaelor certainly seemed to have no problem with obedience, despite their arrogant attitudes.

A distant rumble reached Maloth's ears, and soon his eyes picked up a swarming mass rolling across the plain toward them. Lightning illuminated the grassland fitfully, revealing several thousand Orcs, their skin tones ranging from a deep brown to a pale green, loping in two wide columns, spears in hand and varying weapons strapped to their backs. They wore little; the men wearing only a cloth to cover their nethers, while the women wore the same, as well as a band of cloth around their chests to hold their prodigious breasts in place.

"Nothing quite like being charged at by all that Orc cock," Shenla murmured from beside Maloth, her eyes glued to the impressive force that approached.

"Indeed," Maloth said wryly, his own eyes taking in the attractive physiques of the Orc women. They were a little shorter than the men, standing at roughly seven feet, and their bodies were a pleasing blend of muscle and curves. Where the men were all rippling and bulging with their brawn, the she-Orcs were more rounded; softer, yet giving no appearance of weakness. The males bore tusks that jutted from their square lower jaws up to their cheeks, level with their broad noses, while the females' tusks were smaller, more petite, only just visible above their lower lips. The facial features were far different between the two sexes, with the males bearing wide noses and mouths, while the females bore softer characteristics; defined cheekbones, slim jawlines and narrower noses.

Maloth found several of them rather pleasing, and he noted that he had not yet acquired an Orc pet.

Leading the columns were two Orcs; a male and a female, both of them garbed in the same manner as their army. Chief Beshok and his mate, Morana, no doubt. Deep-olive of complexion, Beshok was shorter than almost any other Orc in sight, and lean, though the way he ran spoke of grace and agility rare for his kind. The appendage banging around in his loincloth, however, seemed disproportionate to his small stature. Morana was a true beauty; a lighter shade of green than her mate, and tall and well-curved, with an ample rump and a bosom to match. Her thick thighs rippled with power as she ran, and her black eyes were fixed on Maloth.

The wave of Orcs surged forward and began to climb the rise as if it intended to sweep through all before it, and Maloth sensed nervous shifting from the ranks behind. He sat Shadow calmly, and the stallion twitched not a muscle at the advancing tide. Three hundred paces away, the Orcs were, and still closing. Two hundred... Surely Beshok was not foolish enough to try and wipe Maloth out in one charge?

Raising a crimson hand, Maloth prepared to give the order for the Dark Elf archers to begin cutting the Orcs to shreds with arrows. Stupid Orcs! They would ruin months of careful planning!

At the last moment, right before Maloth's hand began its descent, Beshok slowed to an easy trot, the rest of his people falling into step behind. A small smile touched the Chieftain's dark green lips as he jogged forward. "Lord Maloth!" He growled as he approached, his bass voice belying his size.

"Chief Beshok!" Maloth greeted as he dismounted smoothly. He adopted a cordial smile. "Chieftess Morana. It is an honour."

The Orcs stepped closer, and Maloth took the opportunity to get a better look at Morana, who boldly eyed him up and down in turn. The pretty, pale-green Orc stood with a cocked hip and her arms folded beneath her breasts, which rivalled Shenla's in size. Thick black tresses fell down to her shoulders, shifting in the fitful gusts of wind.

There was intelligence in Morana's intent gaze, but Maloth dismissed it as he reached out to lick at her with a tendril of dark lust. Only a brief flicker of her eyelid told him she'd felt anything, though it was enough; he would bring her around slowly. Too much too quickly, and she would grow suspicious.

Shenla had also dismounted, and moved up beside Maloth, her purple eyes locked onto Beshok, who returned her hot look. "Hello again, Chieftain," she purred, licking her black lips. The light breeze tugged at the white strips of fabric adorning her lush body, flashing glimpses of the rose skin beneath.

"Shenla," Beshok grunted, raking his dark eyes over her body. "It pleases me to see you again."

"Ha!" Morana barked, her voice lighter and softer than her mate's, though strong and used to command. "He has been like a rutting warg ever since you left, Shenla! Fucking me several times a day, and any other female he can get his hands on!"

That didn't surprise Maloth; his sister had confessed to fucking Beshok while in Gor'dur, and most men who tasted Shenla's charms could barely think straight until they got their hands on her again, which only strengthened her hold on them.

Beshok, however, looked largely in control of himself." And how is that different from any other time?" The Chieftain retorted, cocking an eyebrow at his mate.

"I suppose it isn't, really," Morana purred.

"Precisely," Beshok returned, his gaze moving from his mate to Maloth. "But we are not here to talk about our night with Shenla. We have important matters to discuss, Lord Maloth."

Maloth nodded, a touch impressed at the Orc's ability to ignore his impulses and focus. "Indeed, we do. If you'll walk with me?"

Beshok raised a hand. "In time, Maloth. But first, you must earn not only my trust, but my mate's. We have run many miles to see if your sister speaks truly of you, and I would see your efforts for myself."