A Paladin's Journey

CHAPTER EIGHT: Heart of the Storm

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***ARAN: Sorral Plain, Ekistair***

The hollow turned from peacefully quiet to utter madness in mere seconds. Just as Aran and Smythe started shouting at the top of their lungs, shadows began to pour over the ridge that surrounded the hollow; small, humanoid shapes no taller than Aran's waist.

'It's a band of bloody Goblins!' He thought to himself incredulously as he whipped Oroth free of the scabbard at his waist. According to Smythe, Goblins hadn't been seen for decades, at least not this far west. Cunning and rapacious, the diminutive creatures were notorious for attacking travelers in the night and dragging off the women.

Numbering in the dozens, the Goblins screamed and hooted as they surged down the hill toward the ring of wagons, waving spears and clubs menacingly as they ran. Pointy-eared and long-nosed, they were garbed in naught but a loincloth that did little to hide their privates, which looked overly-large on their small bodies. Aran supposed that's where their carnal reputation stemmed from.

Smythe was almost at the wagons, Lightbringer glowing like a star in his hand, but he wouldn't be able to hold them all himself. He would need Aran's help. The big Paladin was still bellowing, and most of the villagers appeared to be up, but they were milling in confusion, hardly ready to defend themselves.

Aran bolted in the direction of that first scream, expanding his vala as he did, until he could feel everything in the hollow, and a good two hundred paces around it. Why couldn't he sense Kedron or Lena in camp? Had they sneaked off somewhere?

Worried, Aran spread his vala out further in an attempt to find the apprentice, finally locating him a short distance east of the camp. He could sense Lena, too, and half a dozen Goblins. Mid-run, Aran turned and charged in that direction, right at the advancing line of Goblins. Two or three of the pointy-eared, long-nosed Darkspawn faltered as they saw him coming, Oroth flashing to life in his fist, but the rest of them loped forward, raising spear or club or scythe.

Aran threw himself at them with a roar, and five broke away from the line to attack him, hacking and stabbing at him savagely, their mouths showing pointed teeth as they snarled. They fought with shocking speed, surrounding him and attacking as a unit. Had Aran not possessed the vala, they would have killed him, but he could sense their every motion, feel their muscles tensing before each movement. He knew what they intended perhaps even before they did.

Oroth flashed in the night, illuminating horrified surprise on the faces of the Darkspawn as the vala-forged blade found her mark five times, leaving as many dead Goblins on the grassy ground.

Behind him, Aran could sense Smythe surrounded, sweeping Lightbringer around in wide horizontal arcs in an attempt to keep the creatures at bay. Some of them had found their way into the wagon ring. Aran didn't have long. Pushing as much energy as he could into his muscles, he raced up the incline and leaped over the ridge, placing one hand on the rock and throwing his body upwards and over, landing on his feet and hitting a dead run in two strides.

Aran ran faster than he ever had, using more of his vala than he had planned on in order to lend his body the speed it needed. His enhanced senses painted the picture for him before he laid his eyes on it. Kedron was down, lying flat on his back with his sword nearby. Aran couldn't be sure, but he thought the par'vala may have a head injury.

As for Lena, she was surrounded, screaming wildly and flailing about with her arms as the Goblins tore at her dress, ripping the cotton away in shreds as they laughed with hedonistic delight. Obscene bulges tented the fronts of their loincloths. Their erections -- too large for their small bodies -- were revealed as they tore their scant garments away in their eagerness to violate a Human woman.

The Goblins pulled Lena to the ground easily, but as they began to grope and prod at her, Aran was upon them. He roared with a rage as hot as Oroth's blade as heads, arms and legs were removed in a whirlwind of searing light.

His cry of anger died in his throat as the last Goblin met the earth, his bulging member still clutched in his fist despite the fact that he had no head. Aran turned to Lena, who was lying on the ground with her face in her hands, sobbing. Her dress was in tatters, torn open from neck to hem.

"Lena?" he said gently. "Are you hurt?"

After a moment, the pretty barmaid lowered her hands and looked up at him, shaking her head. Her eyes widened suddenly as she realised she was effectively naked before him, and she sat up quickly, trying to pull the remains of her dress around her.

Sheathing Oroth, Aran unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders, which earned him a grateful smile. "We don't have much time," he told her quickly, squatting down to look her in the eyes. "I must check on Kedron first, but then I have to get back to camp. There are more Goblins attacking there."

Lena nodded, understanding. She got to her feet, holding the cloak close, and stayed near to Aran as he walked a few paces away and knelt next to Kedron. He was out cold, but Aran could sense his heartbeat, strong and steady.

"Good lad," Aran murmured. "They'll find we Arohim are not so easy to kill, ey?" There was a lump on the side of Kedron's head the size of a plum, though. His vala would speed the healing, but it would be a day or two before he was right again. "Lena, I need you to stay with him until he wakes."

The girl's eyes widened. "But what if there are more coming?" Her voice trembled.

Standing, Aran took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I will make sure it's safe." It had been so long since he'd opened himself to his fullest and let his vala flow outward without restraint. He had not wanted to chance that his enemies may somehow sense his power. Lena gasped as his vala exploded, catching her up in its torrents.

His mind was bombarded with details as he reached out to about a five-mile radius. Ten miles, fifty miles... It was so easy, now. He could remember barely being able to sense more than a few feet around himself not so long ago. There was Rostin to the north, empty save for a few who remained, their souls shining like distant stars, bright but small. Korrin, to the northeast, where he had grown up. Strangely, he couldn't sense his mother. Where was she?

There were countless farms on the plain, quiet in the night, their occupants sleeping soundly. A herd of wild horses, galloping through the tall grasses under the moon, trying to outrun a pack of hungry wolves. Wildlife was a good sign; most animals would attack or flee at the sight of Darkspawn.

The Emerin beckoned no more than twenty miles south; so close yet so far, and what from what he could feel, it was quiet, with no sign of Darkspawn. His eyes came open as he withdrew his vala and he saw Lena looking up at him, her dark eyes shining in the faint moonlight.

"There are no more Darkspawn within about fifty miles of us," he told Lena.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "What are you?"

Aran smiled at her and touched her face gently. "We are the Arohim," he said softly. "And we are returning." At that, he turned to head back to Smythe, gathering his vala for the run.

***

***Smythe -- Sorral Plain, Ekistair***

High-pitched, weaselly hoots and hollers filled Smythe's ears as he was pressed back against the wagons. He swept Lightbringer before him in wide arcs, keeping the little devils at bay. His blade was the only light, illuminating the pointed, fanged features of the creatures surrounding him, their small, wiry bodies taut with muscle, their fists brandishing cudgel or dagger or spear.

There was a scream as a Goblin got too close to Lightbringer and lost an arm, dark blood spraying over its fellows.

'There must be a hundred of these damned things!' Smythe thought to himself. 'Where in the hells is Aran? And Kedron?'

Frantic cries came from the villagers behind the wagons, and Smythe didn't have to use his vala to know that Goblins were getting through. With bellow, he surged forward, spinning his glowing great-sword in a tight arc to either side of him, and the Goblins leaped back warily. He pushed into them, whirling Lightbringer with all the skill of a swordmaster who had borne the title for seventy years. The creatures surrounded him on all sides, cutting him off from the wagons, though none could get close enough to score him with their jabs and thrusts, and more than one lost a limb or its head for trying.

Suddenly Smythe was fighting two battles; one against the Goblins, and another to keep his focus as a blazing beacon hove into his mind, a vala so powerful that it expanded for miles in every direction. At its heart was Aran, standing peacefully in the centre of a storm of power.

The Goblins backed off a bit, staring around uncertainly and chittering in their harsh language. Had they sensed Aran? Was that even possible?

With a roar, Smythe dug into his own vala, allowing it to flow freely. If Aran was putting out that much power, then it would matter not if Smythe added a little to it. Lightbringer hummed a deadly song as it carved into the hesitating Goblins, creating a path that brought Smythe close to the nearest cart. Putting his back to it, he vaulted into the air, flipping backward to land smoothly atop the barrels on the cartbed.

Spinning, he leaped into the wagon ring, where the men were trying to protect the women with anything they could take to hand. Pots, knives, tools. Several men were down, including the three men with bows that had been out hunting earlier. A dozen Goblin corpses littered the trampled grassy ground, skewered with arrows; the archers had not gone down easily.

Small groups of Goblins had managed to separate a few women. Smythe tried to block out their screams and focus on the ones who needed him most.

He swept Lightbringer upwards, right to left as he passed a Goblin standing on a man's chest, its arms raised above its head, poised to drive a spear down into the fellow's heart. He took the head of another that leaped from a wagon to his left, cleanly decapitating the perverted wretch.

"Light!" He bellowed into the cacophony. "We need light!" Hoping someone had heard him, he rushed toward the closest cluster of Goblins, whom were standing in a circle around a woman on the ground. Smythe recognised her as one of the farmwives. Her dress had been removed completely and her pale thighs were apart. A Goblin was kneeling between them, lining his too-large cock up to fuck her.

Strangely, Smythe thought he could hear moans of pleasure from the woman, and to his shock, she had each of her hands wrapped firmly around a Goblin cock and was stroking them insistently. Her eyes were lidded, her face and chest flushed with arousal.

Smythe had fought Goblins before, but he'd never seen this...

"Don't let them touch you!" Smythe yelled to anyone who could hear, though it was fruitless. All around him, men were being knocked down and women were being overwhelmed. Suddenly, the sounds of the fighting took on a different tone. Indeed, the men were shouting and grunting as they fought, but the women's screams were changing to squeals and moans of pleasure, rather than fear.

'What in the bloody hells is happening?' Smythe thought wildly as he stared around. 'Are they enchanted, somehow?'

Suddenly, at the opposite end of the wagon ring, a light blazed to life, orange-red against Smythe's pure white Lightbringer. The madness in the camp fell dead silent, and every eye turned to see Aran standing atop a wagonbed, Oroth shining in his fist. His blue eyes were hard, his face implacable as he cast his stare down onto the creatures that threatened his people.

Aran's vala pulsed and roared like a summer tempest at sea. Feeling it, Smythe was reminded of the way the giant waves pounded against the rocks on the Crown Coast during a typhoon. He had felt Aran's power several times before -- all Arohim could sense the strength of another -- but this was different again. Before, Smythe had felt the sheer magnitude of Aran's vala and been awed by it. Now, Smythe was a little ashamed to admit he felt a small measure of wariness. Maybe even fear.

Smythe had always been strong, but against Aran, he felt like a candle beside a raging forest fire.

***

***ARAN***

Aran looked down from the wagonbed to see every eye fixed on him, Darkspawn or otherwise. Stillness and silence settled on the scene, apart from the few men groaning where they'd been knocked down or wounded.

Smythe was there, dark blood on his face and hands from the Goblins he'd killed, the shining liquid illuminated by Lightbringer. Aran could sense them all as his vala flared and stormed around him. He felt a measure of surprise, somewhere in the back of his awareness, when he spotted the several women around the camp who seemed to be trying to get the Goblins to continue having their way. Here one grabbed at a turgid shaft, there one got to her hands and knees and presented herself to be taken.

Aran knew what this was. He'd read books on Darkspawn at the Temple; Goblins secreted a fluid from their skin that rendered their victims overwhelmingly aroused. Aran must have gotten to Lena before they could infect her with the stuff.

He found himself sneering as he stepped off the wagon and dropped to the ground. His boots touching the earth shattered the stillness. The Goblins bolted as one, dropping their weapons and haring over the wagons, wailing something in their shrill, harsh language.

"Callibosh! Callibosh!"

Aran let them run, though the sheer mountain of power flowing through him would have made it easy to crush them. He breathed it in, reveling in the glory of it. So long, since he'd truly allowed himself to feel the vala, reach into its furthest depths. In this place, with this power, he no longer feared the arrival of the Heralds. In fact, he desired it. They would not survive him like this, even were he alone.

A dim voice penetrated his awareness, growing louder. "Aran! Aran!" He realised Smythe was standing before him, his strong features concerned. Was that fear in the bigger man's eyes? Surely not.

"Are you well, Aran?" Smythe asked cautiously, his voice lowered for Aran's ears alone.

Aran exhaled, letting most of the storm dissipate, the torrent reducing to a light drizzle. "I am," he told Smythe as he looked around the camp. "We should help them, my friend," he gestured to the fallen, and the delirious women scattered about in various states of undress, a couple of them completely nude.

Smythe immediately began to move through the camp, helping people up and assessing their injuries. Aran did the same, noting with sadness that two men and one woman had been killed in the fighting. Aran tried to block out the screams as their loved ones found them, but he was unsuccessful, and their pain filled his heart. Oroth winked out, no longer fueled by Aran's wrath, and he sheathed the slightly curved blade gladly. He had seen enough killing for one night.

The women affected by the Goblin's toxin were gathered up by other women and bundled in cloaks or blankets. Aran gave instructions for them to be watched until the poison wore off. They would be embarrassed enough once it did, and they didn't need to add any more to it.

Scared folk were consoled and cuts and bruises were dressed. Commiserations were given to those who grieved over the fallen, and ground was broken for graves. All in all, there were over a dozen wounded; some would need to ride in the wagons from here, Kedron included. The young par'vala had stumbled back into the ring of wagons shortly after the fight, leaning heavily on Lena.

The wagon that had held the captured Heralds was now empty, with no sign of the zealots anywhere. Aran called Smythe over to see what could be made of their tracks, and the big Paladin said he thought they had run off north.

'Good,' Aran thought grimly. 'Berrigan will most likely think we've been weakened by this.'

Half an hour after the battle, Aran leaped back up onto a wagon and addressed the people. "My friends, if I may have a moment?"

Nobody responded vocally, but faces turned to him, tired and haggard. "The time has come for us to move again. I know you've been through a lot, but as well as the Heralds, another darkness stirs in the world, as you have just seen with your own eyes. Our haven lies twenty miles south, and while I would not normally risk travel by night, I believe it now necessary."

Now that he had let go of his vala, Aran once again felt that creeping tiredness leaching along his limbs. When was the last time he'd gotten a good night's sleep? A week? More?

"Just a few more miles, my brave friends," he assured them. "And we'll be safe."

"Very well, Lord Aran!" Portly Ari piped up from among the villagers. A woman was trying to tend to a cut on his balding head, but he kept waving her away. Dark blood glistened on the front of Ari's tunic, and he still clutched a stout kitchen knife in his fist. The blade was darkly wet, too.

"Tend your wounds, first," Aran told them. "And offer last rites for the fallen in whichever way you wish. We will leave right after."

At that, Aran hopped down with more alacrity than he felt; it would not do for the villagers to see him tired or weak, not when they needed a leader. Without looking up, he strode to a cart where he'd seen tools the day before. Sure enough, there were several shovels and rakes and picks under the oiled canvas. Pulling a shovel free, he walked a short distance off and began to break ground, tapping into his vala for the extra strength needed to penetrate the tough earth.

Graves took a long time to dig, and it would be faster and easier if he did them himself, tired or no. Besides, the dead were his responsibility, were they not?

***

***ERIK -- Temple Sura, Western Ekistair***

Erik walked alongside Amina through the stone corridors of the Temple. Some of the Sunstones from the walls in these parts had been taken for other uses, but Amina seemed not to be affected by the lack of light. She led him confidently through the darkest stretches of the passages deep beneath the mountain, until they reached a familiar section of the Temple, though Erik doubted he would remember this particular route.

Amina's hand held his, and his skin felt electric where it touched hers. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but he found himself trying to stare at her from the corner of his eye. She had that effect on him; she was just that beautiful.

As well as her beauty, however, Erik admired her knowledge, her long years of experience and learning. What secrets did she know that had been lost to everyone else? How long had she been alive? Liddea said hundreds of years, while Lynelle thought thousands was more accurate. Erik wanted to ask, but he dared not risk offending the Priestess.

The passages became lit once again by the warm glow of Sunstones, and the intermittent etchings on the walls and ceiling changed in shape and form. Amina said the glyphs were from a language long since forgotten by all but the most ancient beings, and even she herself knew little of it.

The Priestess slowed and stopped at an archway that led into a well-lit room lined wall to wall with tall shelves carved into the stone, all of them crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Erik stared in wonder at the countless volumes, his mouth agape and his heart racing with excitement. He was a scholar through and through, and there were few things that pleased him as much as getting lost in old texts, even if the writings were as dusty and ancient as the pages.