Allaine leaned forward over her charging mount’s thickly muscled neck and urged him on toward even greater speed with a barely perceptible tightening of her legs against his corded flanks. This was an unnecessary gesture since Ch’dar, the Paladin’s ever faithful and tireless mount, had long since sensed her urgency and responded with his own excitement. With his sharp senses he could smell the acrid smoke on the air, mingling with the less pleasant smells he associated with death and battle. The smell of War.
The faint sounds of fighting reached Allaine’s ears as they crested a knoll in the forest and in the distance the fires from the burning village rose and danced among the trees like dervishes gone mad. Allaine’s fingers tightened their grip on Ch’dar’s flowing mane as if already tightening around her sword hilt, an unconscious prelude to the bloody justice that this day would witness in Helm’s name.
She had spent the last three weeks traveling through the hills and mountains, riding from one ruined, raided village to another, always too late to prevent the death and horror strewn in the wake of the goblin raiders. At last she had caught up to them and was determined to make this the last village to suffer at the greedy goblin hands.
In truth, she did not anticipate any great battle. By all the signs and reports, the goblins only numbered about twenty and were, for the most part, crudely armed and armored. Such an undisciplined foe hardly called for the attention of a Paladin of her rank and station, but she had asked leave to see to the problem personally and the request had been granted. The entire Church of Helm knew of her loathing for goblin-kind and they rarely refused to indulge her requests to pursue the vile race and mete out justice in Helm’s name.
The flames grew brighter as Ch’dar rushed forth, the smoke darkening the air as it wafted between the trees. The stench of death and fear grew stronger and the sounds of fighting and screams of terror grew louder. She muttered an oath against all the conspiring forces that prevented her from being there now to protect the dying and the weak.
Her rage was a white hot ember expanding within her with every thunderous hoofbeat. Her blood was fire in her veins and her mind screamed to her over and over, “just like my village . . . just like my village . . . just like my . . .”
She was near enough now to see one of the village’s defenders dragged down to the unyielding earth by three attackers (Father. No!) and she could only watch as they hacked at him mercilessly until the light faded from his eyes. A woman rushed from the undergrowth nearby, anguish escaping her in a long wail, and the goblins turned small, bright eyes in her direction.
(Mother!)
Long, grasping fingers were halted even as they reached out toward the bereaved woman and malevolent gazes were refocused on the charging Paladin bearing down on them. Allaine’s war cry and the hiss of her cold steel, glinting with firelight and enchantment, had spared the woman’s life. And condemned the raiders to their fate.
The nearest goblin’s head sailed through the air in a gentle arc, its grace belying its grotesqueness, and Allaine was already nearing the end of her charge and rising from the saddle to dismount before it finished rolling on the mossy earth. All around the village baleful eyes turned toward her as she vaulted to the ground, her heavy full plate armor seemingly weightless, her grace and poise an unearthly beauty.
Brutal and stupid, relying more on numbers and vileness than upon tactics and discipline, the goblins immediately attacked en masse. Allaine’s long sword swept in broad, death-dealing arcs in answer to the goblin charge, decimating their leading ranks.
Inferior blades bounced harmlessly off her finely crafted full plate armor, failing to find a chink that would let the goblin’s weapons taste her blood. Her attackers were in a frenzy, reckless and wild and savage. They were as likely to attack with gnashing teeth as with rusty dagger. The real danger to her was in being overwhelmed by their sheer numbers and driven to the ground. Allaine was not overly concerned by this possibility. She had faced goblin raiding bands many times and had learned through battle how best to defeat them.
As if to illustrate this point, she whirled, bringing her keen edged long sword around in a smooth backhand slash that brought down three of the smaller humanoids. She let her momentum carry her around and swept her bloodied blade upward across the midriff of the next nearest attacker. The ground beneath her feet was growing slick with goblin blood and her fallen enemies were piling up around her. She judged that half of the raiders were fallen already and that the battle would be over in another moment or two. A deep, feral satisfaction rose in her, a feeling that she had never been proud of but could not deny. She exulted in the destruction of goblins, relished the feel of her blade biting deeply into their bone and flesh, sought actively to be the instrument of their violent demise. She sought retribution for the murder of her parents, the burning of her village, the nightmares of her childhood, and could only pray daily that Helm would understand.
When it came, the pain was a searing explosion in her left side. She reacted instantly and without thought, her warrior’s instinct guiding her hand and blade, felling the goblin who had somehow pierced her armor and flesh. She knew from experience that the wound would be painful but was not a mortal blow. She would simply ignore it and fight on. Only seven goblins remained. This battle was already won.
From behind her came a crashing in the forest and she launched another whirling backhand so that she might safely discern the source of the racket. What she saw caused her brow to furrow in confusion as her mind shouted a thousand answerless questions.
Rushing toward her through the trees was another goblin raiding party, this one easily twice the size of the first, a much more serious threat. Had she been ambushed? By goblins?
Another stabbing pain brought her full attention back to the goblins remaining before her. She felt the trickle of warm blood flowing from the fresh wound in her right thigh and cursed her carelessness. Not every goblin weapon was incapable of breaching her defenses, nor every goblin too stupid to take advantage of the openings she left them.
Reaching down deep inside she harnessed the full power and glory of her warrior’s spirit and attacked. The long sword was as intimate to her hand as a lover and her every movement was calculated to bring death. The last few goblins fell as easily as huts of straw in a high wind. Allaine spared her handiwork barely a glance before turning to face the new threat that was almost upon her, flowing from the forest as if they were an evil tide, coming to drown her.
Ch’dar snorted his defiance and rent the earth with a massive, metal-shod hoof. Allaine knew that her mount would bring down his share of goblins in the coming fight and could not help but smile grimly at his display of ferocity. Together, they would rid the land of an entire goblin tribe in the space of an hour.
The first goblins reached her and she met them with an explosion of violence and skill at arms, cutting them down like stalks in a field. Ch’dar crashed into the goblin mass, rearing and bringing down his mighty hooves with bone-crushing accuracy, his armor protecting him from the worst of the goblin attacks, his training allowing him to ignore the few minor hurts he took. Allaine was proud of him, inspired by him and grateful for so stalwart a companion.
Her sword flashed and danced and the goblins fell in droves, but still they kept coming. Blood now ran freely from half a dozen wounds beneath her armor and her steps were not as light beneath its weight as they should have been.
As if sensing her vulnerability, the goblins attacked with ever greater zeal, throwing themselves upon her recklessly and with burning eyes. Her cuts and scrapes were now too numerous for her to count but her heart and her resolve were still strong and unyielding. She tried to call upon her Paladin healing gifts but could not focus her thoughts and the attempt failed.
It was Ch’dar’s scream of pain and rage that proved her undoing. The Paladin spun to see that the magnificent war horse had been gravely wounded by a Goblin spear, its point having pierced the horse through the throat just above his powerful chest, penetrating deep. Her cry of shock and disbelief echoed among the trees as Ch’dar went down and was swarmed by battle-maddened goblins.
The Paladin was spared witnessing what came next. Her change of focus had allowed the raiders to reach her in numbers too great for her to withstand and she felt herself being dragged down and overwhelmed by their weight. Her swordarm was pinned to the ground and the weapon ripped away by a dozen grasping sets of fingers. She felt the blows raining down upon her armor, some of them punching through to feed on her blood and flesh. She fought on as best she was able, punching and kicking, her gauntleted hands searching for throats, but she knew that this would be her final battle. All that mattered now was that she remove as many of the murderous raiders from the world as she could before going to Helm’s embrace.
The world was becoming a tunnel, a long cylindrical place that was dark at the edges and growing narrower, tighter. Sounds seemed to come from farther away than they really were, as if spoken from beneath piles of silk. It was really quite beautiful, a place of stillness and calm, the eye of the storm that had been her life.
Suddenly, there appeared a creature of light in the darkness, glowing above her with celestial radiance and beauty. The apparition fought for her, coming to stand over her and defend her with broad sweeps of his gleaming sword. The blood of her enemies rained down upon her like a sweet spring shower and she rejoiced that her final mission would be completed. Perhaps this shining warrior had been sent by Helm to win the day and carry her home to him.
“Paladin, heal yourself,” came a deep resonant voice that she seemed to hear only in her mind.
She closed her eyes and tried to gather her wits, blocking out the sounds of war and death around her. She had begun her training as a cleric, a short-lived career for the war-like daughter of murdered parents, and had been granted the gift of healing by her god. Later, as a Paladin, Helm had shown her other ways to mend a battle-broken body. She concentrated on what she had learned, her lips forming Helm’s name, beseeching him for his aid so that she might yet serve him. Warmth spread outwardly from her center as if a flame had been kindled in her heart and the tunnel widened as her wounds began to close. Distant sounds grew cacophonous.
As her sight cleared she realized that the warrior above her was no celestial being, but a man. His radiance was sunlight reflected from his highly polished full plate. Still, she was uncertain that any mere mortal could possess such breathtaking beauty. Perhaps, she thought, he was something . . . more.
As if he knew her mind, he reached down a strong arm, sword never faltering in its dance of death, and pulled her to her feet at his side. Allaine took in the mountains of dead and seas of blood that surrounded them like ramparts and was humbled by the martial skill and prowess displayed here on this lonely battlefield.
She was immediately aware that she was weaponless and began to cast her eyes about for her long sword. All around her goblins thirsted for her life and sent their weapons questing. Her savior’s sword was everywhere, spinning and whirling, intercepting every blow intended for her. He was magnificent.
With dazzling speed and balance, he thrust forward, driving his sword through the body of a goblin and dipping low, his free hand coming up with Allaine’s long sword as he withdrew from the powerful attack. He held it back to her without looking and she readily accepted the well-loved weapon. She launched herself into the battle with renewed vigor, her wounds mostly healed and her spirit alive with the song of war.
The two of them fought back-to-back for several long moments, their swords twisting in the patterns of the martial dance. Before all was finished, there lay about them more than sixty goblins, three times the number Allaine had expected to find. How could she have been so wrong in her assessment?
When the battle was over they turned wordlessly toward each other, tending their wounds and armor. Together they stood over the fallen Ch’dar and he comforted her as she grieved for the irreplaceable warhorse. They gathered the few remaining villagers and helped them to rebuild their homes and reclaim their belongings. Allaine carefully watched these people for whom she had nearly given her life as well as the man who had come like an Avenging Angel and snatched her away from death. She treasured every single word they spoke and noticed even their tiniest gestures, inwardly celebrating their survival and justifying the sacrifices she had made on their behalf. Ch’dar had passed beyond for them, fighting her battle, and she had to know that those he had died saving would honor him by truly living, always remembering the name of Mighty Ch’dar, servant of Helm and beloved companion of the Paladin Allaine.
After twenty days of work and rest, she and her new companion had recovered and returned much of the treasure stolen by the goblin raiders. They had also fallen very much in love.
Allaine had never felt so close to another living soul, at least not since the brutal destruction of her village so many years ago. She learned that her rescuer was from Cormyr, a nobleman’s son and an officer in the elite Purple Dragons. Like herself, he was granted a certain amount of indulgence by his superiors and often ranged far abroad lending his prowess where it was needed. An adventurer. A knight errant.
His name was Sorren and he was the most handsome man she’d ever beheld. Her hair was red and gold, his as black as night. Her own eyes were the vivid green of springtime while his were the blue of the coldest lake on the highest mountain. They were each the perfect counterpoint to the other and neither of them ever chose to deny it.
On the morning of the twenty-first day, the two left the village they had saved and traveled west until they reached a shrine to Helm. It was there that she took him to be her husband.
For the next three months the two were inseparable, living and loving and fighting side-by-side, always there to lend aid should the other stumble and to laugh and lay beneath enchanted stars. It was then that Allaine announced she was carrying Sorren’s child.
The Purple Dragon swept her into the air and whirled her about as if they were mere children, his triumphant laughter infectious. Allaine had never imagined such happiness could exist.
Sorren expressed concern over the safety of their child and convinced her to return with him to the nearest city. He purchased a small manor at the edge of town and hired a staff to see to Allaine’s comfort. They each sent messengers to their superiors explaining their absence and, as always, he was never far from her side.
For the first time in her adult life, she found herself immersed in the mundane duties of running a household. In the beginning, she approached this new responsibility with a good deal of apprehension, fearing that her warrior’s life had left her woefully unprepared for her role as lady of the house. Surprisingly, she found that domesticity was less galling than she had imagined. This was due in large part to the organizational skills of Malorna, the chamberlain. After the first week, the household seemed to run itself with almost military precision, thanks to the two of them.
The months she spent awaiting the arrival of her child went surprisingly fast. Those months of peace and the love of her husband had gone far toward healing her of the wounds her soul had taken when she had lay hidden and watched her parents die. The babe within her was a soothing balm, a wonderful mystery, proof that life is always renewed and that love is eternal.
So it went until the time that the blessed event arrived. That was when things changed.
Allaine awoke with a gasp, pain racking her body as the child made known his or her desire to enter the world. She was in her own bed and turned quickly toward the place where Sorren had slept beside her every single night since their arrival. He was not there.
An inexplicable feeling of dread descended upon her and the warrior in her began searching for its source while the mother in her placed a protective hand over her stomach.
The air in the chamber was chill and dark and had an ominous feel that she had never encountered there before. Rain and wind beat furiously against the window panes and thunder boomed in the sky above. Lightning flashed, illuminating the shadowy corners of the room, yet she remained unconvinced that she was alone here. The feel of hateful, watchful eyes upon her was overpowering and the sense of a baleful presence too real to deny.
As her feet touched the icy cold flagstone, another rippling pain shot through her, nearly doubling her over and causing her to lean heavily on the bed for support. Where was Sorren? Malorna?
She stumbled across the room to the place where her sword rested in its scabbard and grasped its hilt in a trembling hand. Whatever evil lingered here would feel the bite of her blade should it threaten her family.
The pain was too great to allow her to think and all her many questions remained unanswered. All she was certain of was that she was alone except for some unseen, malignant force that would certainly not aid her when the moment of her child’s birth came. The babe would be born on a stormy night in this haunted place as its mother gripped the hilt of her sword. A tragic beginning or a fitting one, Allaine was unsure.
No longer able to fight back the pain she collapsed to the floor and screamed. It was obvious to her that something was wrong. No normal birthing had ever felt like this.
From someplace far away she heard a hollow booming that was different from the thunder, all but drowned out by her screams. There was no time to investigate, however, because her child was coming.
With no midwife in attendance, she was thankful for her clerical training and struggled to remember all that she had learned. The agony made thinking nearly impossible but she managed to do what was necessary, even as the screams tore loose from her throat to fill the chamber.
After what felt like a lifetime, but had truly only been moments, another voice joined hers— a strong, demanding cry. The cry of her son.
She fought to rise, the need to look at him as powerful as the storm outside.
The hollow booming she had heard ended in a sudden crash. It was the sound of splintering wood and she knew that the thick banded oak doors of her home had been breached. Her fist tightened upon her sword and she prayed to Helm for the strength to defend her child.
He was big for a newborn, glowing with health and strength, but this observance was made by the mother and the cleric. What her heart saw, what the Paladin saw, were the tiny, bony protrusions on the tiny forehead, the rough, reddish patches on the child’s skin, the black tips of leathery skin that enfolded the child like a swaddling cloth, the jet black eyes.
Horns. Scales. Wings.
The marks of a devil.
The chamber door burst inward and Allaine raised her sword with a strength and steadiness that surprised her, her left hand dipping to gather her son to her. In that instant she knew her maternal instincts had won, that she would defend her babe to the last regardless of what he might be.
Rushing into the room were a pair of familiar faces and she let her sword point lower as relief flooded her. They were speaking to her but their words made no sense and she understood that she was losing consciousness. With a last glance at her son, she let herself slip down into a painless, dreamless place where she could finally rest.
* * *
Allaine awoke to the sounds of familiar voices outside the chamber door. A sense of déjà vu washed over her as she regained consciousness to hear these voices that had been the last sound she’d heard before the darkness had reclaimed her.
She was in her own bed, lying upon fresh linens. Sunlight streamed in through the window. She had been cleaned and healed. It appeared to be a normal morning on a normal day and she might have believed that the events of the previous night were only a dream except for Sorren’s absence and the words being spoken outside her chamber door.
“She will recover, Darrius, the wounds I am fearful of are not of her body,” proclaimed Janek, High Priest of Helm and friend of Allaine.
“She has always been strong, Janek,” came the reply of Lord Falcor, Commander of Helm’s Paladins at Allaine’s temple, the nearest thing to a father she had known since her eighth summer.
“How did this happen?” Falcor asked, his question conveying his need for some answer that would give his wrath direction.
“She was deceived, Falcor. Isn’t it obvious from the letters we received?” Janek replied, his voice even, calm, and wise, as it always remained.
“All of this to dishonor a Paladin of Helm? To cast a shadow upon Helm’s Church?” Falcor stated, his questions not really questions at all.
Janek didn’t respond.
“What of the child, Janek?” Falcor continued, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic hint of softness.
“The boy was intended to be a blight upon the Church and Helm’s servants, Falcor, but that has not yet been decided. He is Allaine’s child, after all,” Janek replied.
“He carries the taint of Hell,” Falcor proclaimed with a hard edge that made Allaine flinch.
“He is a child, Falcor, a half human child born to us of a faithful and true Paladin of Helm. Would you so easily abandon him to darkness?” came Janek’s quiet but unmistakable reprimand.
Falcor was silent for a long moment.
“What, then, shall become of him?” he finally asked the Priest.
“He will be raised in the fold of the Church, taught to use the powers he has inherited for the side of goodness. We will love him and teach him to love in return. The Pit Fiend who fathered him will rue the day of his creation and the world will see that good is more powerful than evil. Helm’s light will shine in him.”
“Will he be a cleric, then? A Paladin?” came Falcor’s uncertain reply.
Janek’s heavy sigh preceded his answer. “No, Falcor, he will not. There are certain lines that cannot be crossed, certain consequences of his blood that cannot be erased or ignored. Precisely what he will become is something I do not know, but I will devote myself to ensuring that whatever it is shall be good and noble. Beyond that, I do not know.”
“Very well, Holiness, I will vow to aid you in this cause,” Falcor intoned formally. “It is the least that I can do for Allaine and her son.”
The tear slipped silently over her cheek and she was filled with gratitude. Where she may fail, she knew that Janek and Falcor would not. Her son would be taught the ways of Helm and of goodness, would make her proud and be worthy of the towering love she already felt for him.
The Priest and the Paladin were now speaking of the trip home to the Temple but Allaine was no longer listening. She slid quietly from her bed and hurriedly dressed, quietly gathering her few possessions. Once she was ready she paused long enough to write four simple words on parchment and then she departed upon her final quest.
A few moments later when Janek and Falcor entered the chamber, they found her bed empty. Two sets of eyes stared fixedly at the open window that seemed to mock them.
Falcor reached down to the bed and lifted the piece of parchment from Allaine’s pillow. Upon it were four words written in her flowing hand.
His name is Anar’rath.