The Paladins (2 page)

“Of course!” cried Kern. “But how do we find the Lady once we’ve arrived in the Utter East?”

The wizard reached into his robe. This time he drew forth the crystal pendant he’d taken from the Open Lord. “I made this for Aleena’s father. The closer you get to the Lady Eidola, the brighter it glows. Piegeiron wanted it to light his lady’s way. I found the sentiment rather romantic, so I indulged him.”

Aleena reached for it, then pulled back her hand. “Give it to Kern,” she said. “He is renowned for having sought and found the legendary Hammer of Tyr, which was lost for years. He must be a great seeker, so he may be the best finder.”

“Aleena!” protested Blackstaff, but she held up her hand to silence him. For a moment, she looked just like her father.

“The paladins must lead the team, Khelben,” she reminded him. She pointed at the chain dangling from his hand. “With that, they can lead the way to Eidola.”

Khelben frowned at Kern, who stood and gravely reached for the pendant. The wizard hesitated a moment more, then with a grunt of assent handed it to the paladin, who put it over his head and tucked it under his chain mail. “I’ll keep it safe, Lady Paladinstar. You can count on me.”

Khelben stood looking from Miltiades to Kern and back. “All Waterdeep depends upon you, and all the Lords thank you for consenting to undertake this quest. I must, however, insist upon three things, and I expect as paladins you’ll honor your oath to abide by my demands.” The paladins glanced at each other and then assumed positions of attention.

“One. You are to avoid all discussion of and involvement with the trade pact that the Lords of Waterdeep are negotiating with Kara-Tur. Your mission is to locate Lady Eidola, not to seek justice against those whose political motivations may well have prompted her kidnapping.

“Two. Your orders are to locate Lady Eidola and report her whereabouts, not reclaim her from the kidnappers. I do not—I repeat—do not want you to boldly go forth and fight for her freedom. If necessary, we have thousands of knights who can do that, but such an action on your part could get her killed! Should you be captured, the Lords of Waterdeep will not acknowledge your mission or your association with them.

“Three. Destroy the source of the magic inhibiting my scrying. If you’re successful, I might be able to locate her, myself, and bring her back magically.”

“Agreed!” blurted Kern. “That is, if Miltiades has no objections,” he added. The elder paladin nodded.

“Aleena Paladinstar, a wizardess of the first rank and our lord’s daughter, joins this rescue attempt,” continued Khelben. “I expect you to defer to her authority.”

Miltiades rose to stress his words. “I agree this mission must be conducted discreetly. Hence, Kern, the four other followers of Tyr who came with us from Phlan, and I are all who should go. I am against including Lady Paladinstar. With all due respect, the members of my delegation can get the job done more efficiently without outside help or interference.”

Khelben stared at Miltiades. “Outside help? Outside help! This is a Waterdeep matter! There’s much more at stake here than your honor as followers of Tyr!”

“Indeed, my honor may not be the only thing at stake, Mage Lord Arunsun, yet my honor is sufficient to assure the mission will be undertaken with as much success as anyone of Waterdeep,” replied Miltiades evenly.

“I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the situation. You’ve been requested to aid Waterdeep agents in the recovery of Lady Eidola.”

“Kern and I are to lead the team. Was that not what Lord Paladinson decreed? Did not Lady Paladinstar say so just moments ago? As a leader of the quest, I choose the team.”

Khelben leaned over the table, his eyes flashing with magical fire. “Look! You’re going to be surrounded, not by monsters or thugs but by smiling liars who may or

may not be the kidnappers! You won’t find necromancers in black robes or stinking ores standing against you! You probably won’t even know the difference between someone who’s trying to help you and someone who’s leading you to your own death.”

“If your simple three objectives are the whole of our quest, then Tyr will guide us surely and swiftly.”

“Simple objectives!”

“Miltiades, Kern,” interjected Aleena before Khelben exploded, “you are wise and courageous, both, yet will you deny me this quest? This matter involves my father and future stepmother. Waterdeep’s interests should be represented, but my personal interests should be even more compelling.”

Aleena looked deeply into Miltiades’s eyes. “Please,” she pleaded. “I love my father, and I can’t simply stand by while his beloved is missing and he lies in a coma. For the sake of justice,” she said, stressing the word, “let me offer my humble assistance in all things magical. I must do something to help or 111 go mad with worry. I am a talented spellcaster; I can help your group.”

Miltiades gazed back at the beautiful spellcaster, and for a moment he spied a passion he often saw in the eyes of his own beloved Evaine. “All right, I wave my objection and you shall join the team.”

Khelben quietly sighed in relief. At least one person he trusted would be there. “And you’ll swear to strictly abide by my three conditions?” he prodded.

“Upon our honor as paladins of Tyr.”

“Then good luck, all of you,” concluded Khelben. “I just hope this isn’t a mistake,” he added under his breath.

“Let’s gather the team!” cried Kern, beaming. “We’re going to rescue a princess!”

“She’s not a princess,” said Aleena, glancing at Khelben with a slight grin and shaking her head.

Interlude 1

It’s not whether you win or lose that counts, it’s how much pain you inflict along the way.

Lightless fire shrouded the ground in a hypnotic, tumbling blur on the sixty-fifth level of the Abyss. It obscured jutting razors of flint, erect and barbed, like swarms of devil’s-grass. Unwholesome blackness swallowed and choked the plane, and a constant echo of wind blew through the barren chasm, carrying upon it

the distant wail of futile death. The reek of curdled blood hung like hot sewage in the bitter-cold air.

General Raachaak inhaled deeply and flexed his bony wings while the trace of a grin played across his toothy maw. The towering tanar’ri fiend crossed his muscular arms and tucked jagged claws under massive biceps, against his bare, crimson torso. A serpentine whip of manifold tails, studded with whetted shards of obsidian, coiled and hung from his belt of baatezu hide. Faintly glowing steam curled along his leathery red, oily skin, enveloping the pointed-eared balor in a miasma of evil.

Before him, three vulturelike vrock tanar’ri stood reluctantly, casting their avian gazes from side to side, as if they sought some escape. Their long, pointed talons sank into the hard stone, crushing flat the keen blades of Abyssal flint like crusty sand. A slime oozed from glands beneath their wings, spreading a film over their thick coats of black and gray feathers. Their wide collars of pinfeathers, shining with mucous, stabbed outward like filthy, curved needles. The skin of their scrawny necks and knobby heads folded and cracked like mildew-ridden leather, but their curved, pointed beaks were glossy and fierce. They hunched like scavengers devouring the dead, masking their thoughts from the telepathic greater fiend, concealing a desire to kill and consume him. The central vrock extended a hideous pair of shriveled humanoid arms from beneath his wings and wrung his craven hands together in a gesture of humility.

“You’re to go to the Prime Material Plane,” the general’s bass voice boomed in their scaly heads, making them wince and flutter nervously. “To a feeble world called Toril by the miserable primes who live there— humankind and its ilk. There, in an ancient city newly resettled, the primes have unearthed a most delightful contrivance, one that conjures countless warriors out of thin air! When I acquire the dark of this device, this

bloodforge, I’ll raise an army large enough to overrun stinking Baator in a single roll of the Sisyphus Stone!”

The balor laughed aloud, filling the plane with terrifying glee as he spread his wings wide and unclasped his arms. The vrocks shrieked and capered in agony and delight. Abruptly, Raachaak stifled his merriment. His eyes widened, and he bared his pointed teeth, clenching his thick jaw while his amber eyes burned gold. His slimy lips curled into a sneer.

“But… there is a problem. The sniveling low-life berks who brought me this information first tried to take the prize for themselves, and they failed! Now, the primes have warded the city of the bloodforge against all tanar’ri. That’s why I’ve summoned you.”

General Raachaak glared at the servile creatures before him. “Shaakat, Rejik, Morbaat, obey or die as larvae in a swarm of ravenous chasme!” he bellowed into their sinister brains. “See the city and its place on that world as I picture it in my mind, and go! Discover a way into that city and return to me with the answer! A portal to Toril awaits on the third strand of Lolth’s Web, on the next layer! Now go!”

“Shall we not capture this bloodforge… and bring it to you, General?” thought Morbaat, impulsively.

In a blur, Raachaak seized the vrock by the throat and lifted her over his head. “You dare turn stag on me?” he roared. He hurled Morbaat to the ground with crushing force, scattering Shaakat and Rejik, and drew forth his whip. With facile and wicked grace he unfurled the scourge, twirled it over his head with a long sweep of his burly arm, and brought its glistening, obsidian-laden strands down like tenebrous lightning. They rent the air and sliced through the lesser fiend’s feathers, driving deep into her wretched body. Morbaat went rigid, convulsing in torment. She began to screech again and again, in an ever-rising pitch, dragging herself along the ground toward Raachaak’s taloned feet as the whip rose and cracked. At last she crawled and screamed no more.

General Raachaak looked up for the other two vrocks, but they were already gone, probably through Lolth’s Web and halfway to the Prime by now. The balor threw back his head and howled in potent self-exultation as he deftly coiled his leather and hung it at his hip.

Fret not if you fall, yet lie in disgrace if you choose not to rise again.

“Before we all rode together to the wedding of Lord Piegeiron and Lady Eidola, we did not know well these other good followers of Tyr, who came with us from Phlan, mlady,” explained Miltiades as he introduced her to them.

“We know Able best,” said Kern, presenting a warrior-cleric with iron-black hair, deep chocolate eyes, and a clean-shaven jaw that remained shadowed despite the daily razor. “He’s revered in Phlan for both his puissant skill with the warhammer and his great clerical war magic.”

The massive fighter in sturdy banded armor bowed gravely, eyes focused on the floor, and said nothing. But Aleena detected within him a great sadness, that of someone who has begun to question the precepts by which he has lived all his life, and who now feels himself adrift in a hostile world.

“If I am not mistaken, you have already made Jacob’s acquaintance,” continued Miltiades. “He has often quested in the Western Heartlands and, I understand, has occasionally gone monster hunting with Lord Paladinson.”

“And Piegeiron slays dragons with the best of ‘em!” said Jacob, capturing and kissing the wizard’s slender hand with a wink and a grin. “It’s good to see you again, Aleena, and it’s great to serve Tyr, Piegeiron, and these two paladins of legend, all at the same time!”

Aleena grinned down at the charming, curly-haired blond. I see you’re still carrying that two-handed sword,” she observed.

“Aye,” said Miltiades sourly. “And not a warhammer, though that is the true weapon of the followers of Tyr. I will say, though,” he conceded, “Jacob has demonstrated nimble adroitness with the blade in a joust. Both Kern and I have challenged Jacob to spar. Not only has he acquitted himself well in swordsmanship, but he often quotes Tyr’s proverbs between blows.”

The paladin gestured and Trandon, a leather-clad fighter of some fifty winters stepped forward. His long silver-streaked hair was tied behind him, and he leaned upon a fat, ashen quarterstaff.

“I’m not bad with a staff, myself,” Aleena told him as they shook hands.

“I would prefer to wield the warhammer as befits a warrior of Tyr,” the man answered. “But I’ve seen many battles and haven’t always emerged unscathed.” Trandon held up his right arm. “A close encounter with a vampire permanently drained the vitality from this arm, normal as it might appear to you, and left me unable to lift and wield the weapon of my faith.”

“I’ve a magical ointment that I think could heal you,” volunteered Aleena.

“Nay, Lady Paladinstar,” said Miltiades. “I have called upon Tyr himself to heal Trandon, but his arm remains too weak to swing a hammer. There is no cure.”

Trandon nodded sadly. “Tyr’s will be done.”

“Trandon has spent many years wandering Cormyr, recruiting servants for Tyr,” said Kern. “He is highly trusted by the Hammers of Tyr, a prestigious order of paladins.”

“I’m not one of the Hammers,” added Trandon hastily. “I’m not even a paladin, although I do follow Tyr’s way. I was merely asked to represent the Hammers’ good wishes to Lord and Lady Paladinson, as they are forever busy serving almighty Tyr.”

“And this is Harloon,” said Miltiades, introducing the last of the Phlaness group. “He is but nineteen years of age. yet he has already seen more than his share of dungeons and dragons.”

“True enough, your Ladyship,” said the tall, dark young man. “I’ve been a sellsword since I was nigh fourteen.”

“Until you found Tyr?”

“You could say that, I guess. A few months ago, a complete stranger saved my life and lost hers in the bargain. I wanted to know who she was, but she died before I could ask her, and the only mark she carried was the scales of Tyr on her warhammer.” Harloon looked at Kern and smiled. “I met Kern in Phlan, learned about Tyr, and decided I wanted to become a paladin.”

“And I never met a more persistent student,” said Kern drily. Much to the merciless amusement of his beloved elvish wife, Listle, Harloon followed the paladin around like a puppy dog.