A Paladin's Training

Aran had just taken his third step into the pitch black tunnel when the rumble of grinding stone signaled behind him. He turned to see the archway closing, taking with it what little daylight penetrated the persistent darkness. Unable to see whatsoever, he gritted his teeth and moved forward, his booted feet treading carefully and his hands outstretched to feel for obstacles. There was no sound in the tunnel but for his footsteps and breath, both of which he kept steady and even. The tugging sensation in his belly had vanished as he crossed the threshold of the archway, leaving him bereft of its presence for the first time in days.

After a few moments of walking blind, he stopped, chuckling to himself. Why was he stumbling around in the dark when he didn't need to? He tapped into the Gift of Aros, instantly heightening his senses. He still couldn't see with his eyes, but now, at least, he could feel the space around him. He expanded his presence out to about ten feet, giving him a much better read on his surroundings and making him wish he'd thought of this while back outside the mountains; he could have travelled through the night easily!

He was indeed in a tunnel, smooth stone walls just out of arm's reach if he stood in the centre, displaying more carvings similar to those outside. The arched ceiling stood a few feet above his head, it too engraved with the strange symbols. Oddly, he felt some sense of recognition as he studied the glyphs, as if he should be able to understand them. The entire place bore a potent air of age; ancient wisdom exuding from the stonework.

The passageway continued in a straight line for maybe a hundred yards, finally opening into a great chamber, the boundaries of which were far outside Aran's current ten-foot sensory radius. He took a deep breath and expanded his Gift upwards and away from him until he could sense the entirety of the massive space. He was standing in the entry to a square chamber, hundreds of feet across containing a forest of huge stone pillars thicker than a giant that supported the vaulted stone ceiling.

Several other archways lined the chamber walls. One, in particular, caught his attention, the gentle flicker of torchlight emanating from it's depths. The light was coming from the archway directly across from the where Aran stood.

At that moment, the strange resonance he had felt outside flared into life once again, this time from beyond the archway, closer now, and much more powerful. It pulsed in time with Aran's Gift, blending with it, and with him. He gasped as it washed through his being, energising him, filling him with life. Just as suddenly, it vanished, retreating back to its origin.

Breathing hard, he let his Gift diminish back to the smaller radius, and began to walk through the chamber, passing through the massive pillars on either side. His path took him right through the heart of the space, where an enormous statue stood.

Carved of smooth marble, the twenty-foot high monument depicted a voluptuous nude woman of regal bearing, arms wide as if in welcome to those who beheld her. Aran marveled at the craftsmanship; she was all seemingly one piece, as if carved from a single huge slab of marble by an extremely skilled artisan. Aran doubted even Dwarves could produce work of this quality.

"She is beautiful, no?"

Aran's head whipped around, seeking the owner of the voice that had broken the silence. His mouth went dry as he regarded the smiling woman before him, his enhanced senses painting a picture clearer than the noonday sky.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She stood tall, almost as tall as he was, fair-skinned and statuesque with long golden hair framing a perfect heart-shaped face and cascading over slim shoulders. She wore a filmy robe -- one very similar to those that Aran and Elaina wore at the Chapel -- that was nowhere near opaque, failing to conceal a body that set Aran's heart racing. She was the epitome of grace and femininity with an hourglass figure and large, heavy breasts sitting proudly on her chest, her nipples clearly visible through the poor excuse of a robe. Her slim waist flared into child-bearing hips that in turn led down luscious thighs that seemed to go on forever. Even her sex was clearly visible through the fabric, hairless and smooth.

"Yes, she is," Aran murmured, having forgotten the statue completely. Suddenly he knew this woman to be the source of the power that had drawn him here. He dimly wondered how he had not sensed her when she had entered his radius.

The gorgeous woman laughed, a pure tone that made Aran's heart sing. "I will receive that as a compliment, Aran."

"You know who I am?"

She stepped closer, breasts shifting enticingly beneath the filmy robe, until she was less than a foot away. "I know you completely, Aran." Her voice was softer now, an intimate caress that made Aran's skin tingle. "But you do not yet know yourself."

Aran frowned, perplexed by the strange remark. "What does that mean? I don't know myself?"

The woman merely smiled and turned away, moving toward the archway which emitted the firelight. "Come," she said without looking back. "I have much to teach you, and our time together is not in abundance."

Aran followed willingly, unable to keep his eyes from her peach-shaped bottom as it bounced beneath her robe. The fair-haired goddess led him through the archway, the firelight bright enough that he could now see normally.

The archway was the opening to a tunnel identical to the one that had brought Aran in from outside. In this tunnel, however, the carvings were of slightly different shapes and pictures, and torches lined the walls, stationed every twenty feet or so and cradled in elaborate metal sconces. The passage opened into another chamber, much smaller than the first, but still sizeable, perhaps fifty feet across.

The room was well lit with torches and stand-lamps, displaying comfortable-looking living quarters, complete with a large bed, an armchair, and a fireplace so large it occupied almost the entire opposing wall. The walls that were not occupied by furniture or artwork bore bookshelves crammed with dozens upon dozens of volumes. Plush rugs covered much of the stone floor, giving the place a lived-in, homely feel.

His beautiful guide entered the room and turned, regarding him gravely. "This is my home, Aran. Few have visited here, in recent years. What do you seek?"

Aran had not forgotten his purpose for coming here. "I seek the Truth."

She eyed him for a moment, her lips quirked in the beginnings of a smile. "Perhaps you do, and perhaps you do not. I, for one, know very well what young men seek." She pulled a string on the shoulder of her robe, the entire garment whispering softly to the floor as a golden nimbus surrounded her, rapidly expanding and enveloping him.

Aran's mind lurched as he beheld this creature. His heart was thumping in his chest, his blood racing, his breeches painfully tight with his immediate hardness. Lust and utter reverence for this goddess were sweeping over him like a wave, threatening to carry his mind away and leave him a brainless husk.

No! He would not succumb to this! Gritting his teeth, he dug deep into his Gift, drawing on it, relying on it. Gradually, he felt the tempest lessening, the sweeping waves of lust and awe diminishing, until there was nothing, just himself and the frighteningly powerful woman who stood naked before him.

"You are as strong as I had hoped," she said calmly. "This is good."

Aran was still trying to get his breathing under control. "Who are you? Are you a Paladin?"

She shook her head. "I am called Amina. I am the last remaining High Priestess of Aros."

High Priestess? But the High Priests and Priestesses were all long dead! Aran knew them only from legends and stories.

Amina must have sensed his confusion. "All will be explained in time, young Paladin. I ask you again, what do you seek?"

"The Truth," Aran replied, steeling himself for another onslaught, but thankfully none came.

"Very well," Amina replied, leaving the robe on the floor and walking gracefully to a large glass orb that was balanced on a thin metal stand that Aran had not noticed before. She stood behind the strange ornament, looking at him expectantly. Aran crossed the intervening space to stand opposite Amina, putting the orb between them.

She fixed him with a blue-eyed gaze, placing her hands on either side of the sphere. "There are many truths, Paladin, told by many mouths. Ultimately, most are lies, spoken too freely and heeded too easily. The Truth, however, is often dismissed, as it is the most difficult to hear. Paradoxically, it is also the most valuable to heed. Therein lies the struggle for much of the world."

She paused for a moment, her crystal blue eyes never leaving his. "Will you receive the Truth, Aran? No matter how dark, how terrible it may be?"

Aran forced himself to meet her gaze levelly. "I will."

"Then place your hands on the Stone, Aran, and know the Truth." Amina removed her hands, allowing Aran to replace them with his. Pulse quickening, he looked into the glass sphere. Before, it had been transparent like ordinary glass, offering a clear reflection, but now, a pale smoke began to fill the orb, roiling and writhing, entrancing him, drawing him in...

***

He galloped down the grassy hill on a white horse, wind streaming through his golden hair and the steed's silver mane alike. To either side, a long line of Men and Elves on horseback charged with him, his banner bearing the Blade & Sun held high and proud by the bannermen.

Ahead, at the base of the hill, lay the enemy; hordes of creatures of darkness that had slain and pillaged their way across Ekistair.

He was Darius Sunblade, and he was leading the first cavalry charge. He planned to shatter their ranks with a full-forced charge, breaking them into -

What? Where am I? Who am I?

A strange voice interrupted his thoughts, muttering in the back of his mind, but he dismissed it, focusing only on the enemy. Trolls, Giants, Goblins and Gnolls, among many others, all milled in masses at the base of the incline, mixed in with scores of the unholy Risen that Wardens of the Dead had conjured, and the twisted dire beasts corrupted by the dark druids of Shadowglen.

This was all that was left of the demon's army, this battle the culmination of years of bloody conflict. The dark army would surely break, today, and victory would finally be upon the forces of the light.

He drew Firesong, the blade bursting alight with flames as it neared the creatures of the night. The enemy ranks were close now, individual faces distinguishable among the masses. Here a snarling Troll, there a hideous Goblin, here a massive dire bear rearing on its hind legs, roaring like the thunder. Several Giants stepped out beyond the pikes, hefting clubs the size of trees and squashing underfoot any of their own allies that failed to move in time.

Darius felt no fear; the Gift of Aros pulsed in him, guiding him, lending him strength. The cavalry line swept down the hill, hooves thundering, meeting the forward-marching Giants head-on.

With a roar, Darius ducked his head close to Strider's mane, barely avoiding being taken from the saddle by a huge club wielded by a grey-skinned Mountain Giant. He swung Firesong as he ducked, the blade taking the Giant's hand effortlessly. The huge creature screamed as dark blood sprayed, misting in the afternoon sun.

Darius tried to ignore the cries of his men as some of them inevitably went down to the fierce Giant assault. A glance to either side showed him -- thankfully -- that the majority of his battalion had survived and were pushing through. Good riders, all of them, hand-picked by his best captains. Giants were big and strong, but also clumsy, and experienced riders knew how to navigate them.

The next challenge was the pikes, being held steady in place by a multitude of hulking Trolls, Gnolls and several creatures even Darius did not recognise. He braced himself as Strider charged forward into the forest of spears, as fearless as his rider...

*

The battle was done. Darius was on his knees, head bowed and more exhausted than he'd ever been. He was bruised and bloodied, but alive, Firesong still flickering in his fist. Sadly, Strider had not survived, the noble white stallion had fallen shortly after the first charge. All around him, Men, Elves, Dwarves and the other forces of the light rejoiced, cheering one word again and again; "Sunblade! Sunblade! Sunblade!"

He wished he could be as cheerful. Raising his head, he surveyed the battlefield. Creatures of the dark littered the bloody ground, contrasting sharply with the intermingled corpses of his own soldiers bearing their pure white tabards. The next part was always hard, perhaps harder even than the fighting itself.

He waited patiently for the cheer to die down, before raising his hoarse voice. "Sweep the battlefield! Gather the wounded! Kill any surviving enemy! No prisoners!"

His army, standing as they were, saluted as one, then began carrying out his orders. Darius walked with them, carefully stepping over the dead, keen eyes scanning for survivors. He could have used his Gift to sense life in the area, but he was simply too exhausted. Instead, he trusted Firesong, which would flare into life when in proximity to darkspawn.

A weak cough sounded nearby. He rushed toward the sound, as fast as his weary legs could carry him, almost stumbling over the corpse of a troll, it's belly impaled by a spear. The cough had come from a jumble of bodies made up of a direwolf, a dog-faced Gnoll, and several of his own comrades.

Grimacing, Darius knelt and began dragging corpses away, searching for the survivor. After a moment, a woman's face appeared, bloody and battered. She was barely breathing, pinned down by the direwolf, coughing up blood. He called over a nearby soldier -- Remen, Darius thought his name was -- to help, and they dragged the body of the heavy wolf aside, uncovering the woman. She bore the Sun & Blade tabard, the white fabric almost entirely stained with blood.

"Gods, Commander, she's lucky you heard her," Remen said with wonder, looking down at the poor soldier.

As Darius knelt to check her injuries, Firesong flared, flames roaring along the blade. A split second later, a spearhead thrust through Remen's gut, skewering him from behind. Remen dropped to the ground, eyes wide with shock, mouth bubbling blood. Behind him, a Troll rose to its feet, a visible hole in its belly where the spear had been embedded.

Darius cursed himself for a fool for not checking the Troll's body. He had been rushing toward this woman, ignoring the troll, and now Remen was dead.

With a roar, he leapt forward, over the corpse of the direwolf, ignoring his exhaustion, Firesong spinning in his hands. First, he took the beast's leg, toppling it over before he took the sickly green arm that reached for him as the creature fell. Finally, he took its head as he should have done when he first saw the monster lying on the ground. Before it had killed Remen.

Wasting no time, he sheathed Firesong and gently picked up the fallen soldier. She awoke, staring up at him with the clearest emerald eyes he had ever beheld. She uttered one word, "Sunblade," before going limp in his arms.

*

Miraculously, the soldier had survived. Her wounds were closing quickly, and she looked to make a full recovery. Darius had spent much time at her bedside, back in the forward camp while she healed, finding himself drawn to her, unable to forget those eyes that had stared at him so adoringly on the battlefield.

The healers had been keeping her asleep, for the most part, as they said it helped the body to heal faster. She had opened her eyes once or twice, briefly, before falling back to sleep. Darius still had not learned her name, and oddly, none of his captains could place her, either. Not for the first time, he wished his Gift extended to being able to heal others.

He placed a hand on her forehead to feel for fever despite the fact he had seen the healers do this several times over the past days. He carefully kept his Gift suppressed, so as not to accidentally bond with her. It was frowned upon for a Paladin to bond a person without permission, and Darius had never bonded a woman who had not specifically asked for it.

The moment his callused palm touched her smooth forehead, his Gift lurched inside him, unbidden, spasming wildly. He felt it reach out of it's own accord, towards the sleeping woman. Shockingly, he felt an answering resonance from inside her, a darkness, an abyssal maw that eagerly drank up his light, sucking it from him.

Unable to move, Darius could only sit and watch in shock as his Gift gradually began filling up the dark void this strange soldier possessed. The two forces struggled, each vying for domination, until finally, they merged, intertwining, veins of darkness and light entangled in an intricate, complex web.

She opened her eyes, clearest green gazing into his sky blue. Her name was Morgeth, and she was a demon. A very powerful demon he had somehow just bonded with, a demon he now knew down to her very core, as she surely knew him. Looking into her eyes, he saw surprise, as well as felt it through the Bond.

So, she had not expected this was possible, either.

The Bond also carried another sensation; deep, primal, undeniable desire.

For long moments, they stared at each other, reading each other, knowing every intimate detail of each other's lives. One truth stood clear; whatever happened from here, they were in it together.

***

With a gasp, Aran was back in Amina's room, hands clutching the orb, the swirling grey mist roiling fitfully inside. "Who was that? Darius Sunblade? I was him!" Hearing no answer, he frantically looked around, finding the room empty. Somehow he had experienced this Darius's memories, as if they were his own. He'd felt the heat of battle, cried out at every wound taken, wept for the dead who fell at his side. More unsettling was the feel of the bond he had created with Morgeth, the wrenching desire he felt for her, and her for him.

He tried to release the sphere, but found himself unable to remove his hands. Panicking, he pulled harder, but his hands held fast. The smoke in the orb spun faster, whirling into a maelstrom, inexorably drawing him back in...

***

Under cover of night, Darius and Morgeth fled the camp, stealing horses in the process. Somehow, the Bond had accelerated Morgeth's healing far beyond the normal pace, quickly rendering her fit to ride. Similarly, Darius's wounds had also completely vanished, obviously some mysterious benefit of the Bond.

Morgeth laughed as they raced through the night, her dark hair streaming behind her as they sped across the moonlit plains, a rapturous smile on her fair face. Gods, she was beautiful.

This is wrong! I'm bonded to a demon! How is this possible!

Again, Darius heard the strange voice in his mind, and again he dismissed it, concentrating on what was important; getting Morgeth to safety. If the Paladins had the slightest inkling of what had been recuperating in their camp... Well, he chose not to dwell on that, nor what would become of him if the Order ever discovered what he had done.

A flash of rage echoed from Morgeth, who had sensed his thoughts. Rage not directed toward Darius, but at anyone who tried to harm him. Knowing what she was capable of, Darius pitied anyone who tried.

Morgeth was an ancient demon, centuries old and possessing -- among other abilities -- the power to overcome any male of any race with pure, unbridled lust. Her power grew whenever a man gave her his seed, and she had had countless men over the centuries. Thousands, if not more. She was presently assuming a human form, for obvious reasons.