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*All characters are over the age of eighteen years*
**Author’s Note: Hey guys, thanks for the awesome feedback on previous chapters! This is the first chapter in the newer volume of Aran’s story, A Paladin’s Journey. I would strongly advise reading A Paladin’s Training first, otherwise you probably won’t really know what’s going on. Either way, please enjoy and vote and/or leave a comment! – Anti**
***
A PALADIN’S JOURNEY — CHAPTER ONE
***
***RODRIC EAMES – Lord High Commander of the Heralds of Dawn***
In a small stone chamber deep beneath Maralon, the only sounds that could be heard were the ragged breathing of the young man and woman suspended from their wrists by thick chains that hung from the ceiling. Torchlight played over their naked bodies, their skin adorned with a multitude of bruises, burns and welts. They were twins, these two, and had the same fair complexion and dark hair and eyes. Eames supposed they would be considered attractive to many people — despite being a little well-fed — but there was no place in his own mind for such things. Fleshly pleasure was the gateway to weakness, and weakness was not a trait Rodric Eames had time for.
Eames had almost developed a grudging respect for the boy and girl; three days of intense torture and still they had refused to give up their secrets. Had he made a mistake? Were they telling the truth about not being what he thought they were? No, that was impossible; the reports from his men had been unmistakable. Eames just had to find the right place to press to make them unravel.
In all his forty years of serving the Heralds, Eames had never had the honour of killing one of the elusive Paladins. Twice one had slipped through his grasp, many years ago, and the humiliation had haunted him ever since. He suspected there had been at least one Paladin in Maralon recently, and the heathen had released two women Eames had captured, and killed three Heralds before somehow disappearing. What Eames wouldn’t give for a device that detected a Paladin’s power, but unfortunately, no such thing existed.
He studied his two prisoners, hanging there with their chins on their chests, left unconscious after the last application of burning rods. It would seem that pain wasn’t working; there was not much more Eames could do to hurt them short of removing fingers and toes, and for now, he wanted them whole. Physical pain was only one way to break a person, however. Emotional pain was often far more traumatic, and had produced confessions for Eames on more than one occasion.
The creaking of the door opening brought Eames’ head around. Ah, Brend and Lora had returned, leading three of the roughest looking men Eames had ever seen. A scrawny fellow with more teeth missing than present, a fat man with a double chin covered by a three-day growth, and a tall, dark muscular fellow with a leather patch over one eye.
Whip-thin and graying Brend led the men into the now crowded room, while stout, hammer-faced Lora stood by the door. “These fellows are the sort you requested, Lord Commander,” Brend said respectfully. He was a good man, Brend, loyal and faithful and as hard as nails.
Eames’ nose twitched at the distasteful smell wafting from the men, but they wouldn’t have seen it, for all three of them had their greedy eyes glued on the bloodied young woman suspended from the ceiling.
“Is this the one?” Fat-man asked, jerking his head toward the girl.
“It is,” Eames said curtly. “Do what you were paid to do, and no more, understand?”
“Aye,” said scrawny, a truly awful grin splitting his ugly face.
The muscular man seemed to be having second thoughts, however. “This looks a bit twisted, m’Lord, even for me. Think I’m gonna get goin.'”
“Then return the coin you were given, and be on your way,” Eames said softly, meeting the bigger man’s one eye evenly.
The dark fellow touched the leather pouch at his belt and seemed to experience a moment of conflict before grimacing and turning back to the hanging girl. “Let’s be about it, then,” he growled, and without further ado, shoved the other two aside and began to attack his belt buckle.
Right then, the boy began to awaken, struggling feebly to lift his chin off his chest. As his eyes focused, he saw the big man pushing his breeches down to his knees and unlimbering a thick phallus that lengthened as he slowly tugged on it while raking his eye over the girl. “No!” He screamed — or tried to; his voice was a barely audible rasp — as he realised what was about to happen to his sister.
The girl remained unconscious as the burly vagabond stepped forward, but Eames surmised she would be rudely awakened soon enough.
“Leave her alone!” The boy continued, struggling against his chains in vain.
The girl came awake as the big brute positioned himself behind her, placing large hands on her hips and preparing himself to do what Eames had paid him for. The blood drained from her face as merter escort she saw the two other men standing before her, both of them with their breeches pushed down and their filthy members in their hands as they watched. “Tavish!” She wheezed in panic, her dark eyes wide with fear. “Help me!”
“Ayla, no!” The boy cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Fuck you!” He spat in Eames’ direction. “I will murder you for this, you hear me!”
Eames cared not for the boy’s threats; they were empty and desperate. Yes, emotional pain was often a far greater tool.
The big man had his dirty hands over the girl’s plump breasts, and was sliding his member between her bruised thighs, which were held together by her bonds.
“Hurry it up!” The scrawny one said, furiously fisting his tiny phallus.
“Shutup, fool!” One-eye replied, grunting as he enjoyed himself with the girl’s body.
The girl was now weeping uncontrollably. “Tavish, please!” She sobbed, her head hanging down in defeat.
Eames looked at the boy, who was staring back levelly, looking Eames in the eye as if he could see right into him. What had happened here? A moment ago, the lad had been equal parts scared and angry, but now he seemed as calm as the morning sea. Something inside Eames suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable, as if something intangible were brushing against him, but on the inside rather than out. Was it the boy doing it? Or was it Eames’ imagination?
“Sorry about this, girl,” one-eye said, the apology almost believable as he reached down to adjust the angle of his member, obviously preparing to penetrate her. “I been paid to fuck you, and I gotta do it.”
Without saying a word, the boy turned his head to regard the brawny man that was about to rape his sister, that serene expression still on his face. Immediately, the fellow screamed and clutched his head in his hands as he dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor.
This was it! The boy was showing his abilities! Eames gave a quick nod to Brend, who moved up behind Tavish, producing a small jack from beneath his robes.
Before Brend could knock the lad out, that peacefully still gaze moved to the other two ruffians, who were standing there like fools with their trousers down and their fists frozen on their members as they watched the dark man cowering on the floor, clawing at his own skull while he bellowed like a wounded bull.
This time the reactions were different. Scrawny simply sat down on the ground and began sobbing into his hands, while fatty screamed as if burned by hellfire and charged toward the nearest wall, striking it headfirst with a sickening crack before collapsing limply to the ground.
A moment later there was a dull thud as Brend’s jack struck the boy’s head, rendering him unconscious once again.
“Get them out,” Eames ordered, indicating the three men to Brend and Lora whom immediately jumped to task. Stepping around the weeping fellow on the ground, Eames approached the boy to study him more closely. He looked more or less the same bar one noticeable difference; some of his more serious cuts and bruises looked less severe, while many of the minor ones had disappeared completely.
Fascinating. Fishing his notebook from a pocket inside his robes, Eames began documenting what had just transpired in this small room beneath Maralon.
***
***ARAN***
***
Aran lurched bolt upright in bed, staring wildly around the room for a few moments before realising it had just been a dream. He sat there in the dark for a time, visions of what he’d just seen replaying themselves in his mind. He hadn’t been himself, in the dream, but someone else; a young man, chained up and tortured in awful ways by Heralds, but what far outweighed that pain had been having to watch his sister endure the same. At the end, men had entered, and right before they’d raped her, the Gift inside the boy had revealed itself, and the girl had been saved.
Aran touched his temple as he processed his thoughts. Had it been a dream? Or had he seen something real happening somewhere else?
“Aran?” Came Elaina’s voice from next to him. “Are you well?” She placed a concerned hand on his arm as she sat up next to him.
They were sleeping in the bedchamber Aran and Elaina had chosen for themselves; a modestly-sized room with a bed big enough for half a dozen people — which was rather small by Order of Aros standards, really — and some simple furnishings. Dormant Sunstones were fixed to the walls; he could have expanded his Gift to light them, but he chose to leave the room dark, for now.
Larger, more communal bedchambers were abundant throughout the sleeping quarters of the Temple, especially since the Servants had been repairing damaged rooms with sunstones, but Aran and Elaina had felt best with their own small room, and anyone who wished to join them, could.
“I had a strange dream,” he said quietly. “Which may not have been a dream at all. It bayan escortlar was so real.”
“What did you dream about?” She asked, kissing him affectionately on the shoulder.
Finding that it helped to talk about it, Aran explained in detail what he’d seen. Once he was done, Elaina opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t get a chance, for Amina’s presence was rapidly approaching.
For the last three days, the Priestess had been preoccupied with Sara’s training and had not left her quarters at all. Now, the golden-haired goddess glided into the room through the arched opening — there were no doors in the sleeping quarters, as they were only a hindrance — her lush, pale body covered only with the short, diaphanous robe that members of the Order wore when at home. There was a brief surge from her Gift, and every Sunstone in the room burst to life, bathing the room in a homely, warm glow.
“You felt it?” Was all Amina said as she approached the bed, her ample breasts swaying enticingly beneath her filmy robe.
There was no question as to what she was referring to. “I did,” Aran replied. “What was it? Was it real?”
Amina nodded, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, which lifted her robe up over her hips, revealing the smooth, bald cleft between her luscious thighs. Even in his current state, Aran felt desire shoot through him, and unsurprisingly, he felt he same through his Bond with Elaina as she regarded the older woman; the Priestess was sex personified, even when it was unintentional. It was laughable; a woman who had walked the earth for over five centuries inspiring such passion, but then, she looked not a day past twenty-five, a woman in her physical prime.
“It came from the direction of Maralon,” Amina said absently, staring off to the north as if she could see right through the stone wall. “It would seem there is at least one Gifted there in danger.”
Exhaling, Aran allowed a moment for his thoughts to organise themselves. “We can’t leave them. I know it’s dangerous, and the place is full of Heralds, but we need to at least try.”
“Aran’s right,” Elaina agreed. “We can’t afford to leave any Gifted behind, not when there are so few of us.”
Amina looked at them each in turn and took a deep breath. “This is not how I would have wished it to happen,” she began. “But Aros works in His own way. No, we cannot leave our kin to their grim fate. The two of you will leave immediately, and you will take Smythe with you.”
Aran leaped out of bed, followed by Elaina. “What about Kedron’s training?” He asked Amina.
“He will be fine,” the Priestess assured. “I will keep him busy in Smythe’s absence.”
“Right, then,” Aran said, determined to get moving. “We’d best be off, ey, Elaina?”
Suddenly Amina’s lips were on his, and her ripe body was pressed up against him, inciting an instant erection that wedged itself in the cleft between her thighs. All too quickly, she moved to Elaina, and Aran watched with rapt interest as the two women kissed passionately, one of them naked and the other the next thing to it.
“Both of you, take great care,” Amina advised them after releasing Elaina.
“We will, Priestess,” the two Paladins said in unison. At that, Amina turned and sashayed from the room, leaving Aran and Elaina to admire her lush bottom before it disappeared from sight.
Aran met eyes with the woman who shared a piece of his soul, and his fate, whatever it was. Elaina was so beautiful that even Amina’s perfection couldn’t overshadow her. Shoulder length, straight fair hair framed a gorgeous face with sparkling emerald eyes, full lips and a petite nose. Her body was a work of art; somehow both fit and voluptuous at the same time, with generous thighs, round hips, a full bottom and large, pale breasts of a size that Aran could never capture in a single hand, no matter how often he tried.
She pressed herself into his arms for a brief but full-bodied hug. “No stupid stunts,” she commanded, looking up at him. Before Aran could ask what she meant, she added; “I heard about you jumping off rooftops last time you were in Maralon.”
He’d forgotten all about that. He’d leapt off a rooftop to knock out a Herald so Sara and Sorla could escape. Elaina was right; he could have broken his leg, or even his head, but desperate times had called for something drastic. “No stupid stunts,” he said seriously. “I promise.”
Satisfied, she kissed him briefly but firmly. “Good. Now let’s wake Smythe and get out of here.”
*
Less than an hour later, Aran, Smythe and Elaina were walking their horses through the massive archway in the side of the mountain that housed the Temple. The night was clear and the moon low, and the myriad stars dotted the indigo sky undiminished by bright moonlight.
Aran was careful not to let his black stallion — Strider — too close to Smythe’s Thunder, as they tended to try and challenge one another. The proud steeds were an identical shade besiktaş escort of black, almost indistinguishable from each other except for Thunder being a little taller, and larger in the chest and rump than Strider.
Elaina had arrived at the Temple on foot, and so she’d secured one of the mounts that Aran had brought with him; a sleek chestnut mare that she’d fondly named Willow. She had a soft heart for horses, Elaina did, and the loss of Star back in the Emerin Forest — when the Druids had briefly captured her — had hurt her deeply.
The three Paladins descended the long stairs in silence and took to their saddles once back in the foothills of the Karvanis. Strider frisked a little, eager to get going, but Aran gently reined him in. “Not yet, boy,” he whispered softly. “Soon.”
“So, Aran,” Smythe asked, his dark eyes intent above his bold nose. “What’s the plan?”
Aran eyed Elaina and Smythe in turn as he answered. “We ride for Maralon as hard as we can without harming the horses,” he began. “We’ll alternate a mile on foot with a mile in the saddle if we need. We stay off the roads and avoid absolutely anywhere with people. When we get close to the city, I know a place we can enter undetected as long as the Heralds haven’t discovered it already.”
Getting firm nods from the others, Aran wheeled Strider around to face north and dug his heels in, and the restive stallion leaped forward with vigor. Aran quickly expanded his Gift so he could sense any coming hazards that might trip Strider; the horse would not be able to see so well in the night. Behind him, he felt Elaina and Smythe do the same.
Soon, the only sounds Aran could hear were from three sets of hooves and the jingle of reins and harnesses as the three Paladins raced through the night.
***
***RODRIC EAMES***
***
Eames sat at his desk in his simply-furnished study reviewing his notes from the day’s experiments on the heretic twins. The hour was late, and despite his discipline, tiredness was beginning to creep in on him, making it harder to focus on the words he’d been scribbling in his notebook all day.
So far, it was just the boy — Tavish — exhibiting signs of this ‘Gift,’ as the Order of Aros called it. Eames hated that word; ‘gift.’ A power that could bend and destroy minds as well as promote perverted behaviour, and the Order had the audacity to consider it a gift? If anything, it was more of a curse! Yes, henceforth, Eames would refer to this power as a curse; it was a far more accurate label.
The candles in the candelabra on his desk were running low; he would need to change them again soon for the second time this evening, but for now he had light. Eames found it interesting that the boy and girl were twins; is it possible that the curse was hereditary? Indeed, some writings did tell of known cursed ones siring more of their own. Not for the first time, Eames regretted the fact that the Herald of Dawn’s policy regarding any Order of Aros paraphernalia was to immediately burn it. What deep knowledge of the cursed ones had been burned over the last few hundred years? Surely, it was better to know your enemy, their strengths and weaknesses, their ambitions, than to burn all knowledge of them from existence.
Shaking his head ruefully, Eames continued reading. Since the boy had displayed inarguably that he bore the curse, his body had begun healing itself rapidly, far more quickly than would be considered natural. His demeanour had changed somewhat, too; he was calm and peaceful now, where before he had been jumping between scared and furious. Further ordeals of pain had produced far less effect on him than they had earlier, though it still bothered him greatly when they did the same to his sister. Another interesting observation had been the boy’s physical shape; where he had been a little pudgy from a life of plenty, he was now starting to appear slightly leaner and fitter. The changes were small, but they were there nonetheless. Eames had learned a long time ago the importance of noticing small, seemingly inconsequential differences; even the most insignificant change could become life or death very quickly.
With a sigh, Eames closed the notebook and rose stiffly from his chair, refusing to admit that he was feeling his age. Tomorrow he would organise a new series of tests for the cursed ones down below, and see what came of it. He was about to extinguish the candles on his desk when a sharp rap came at the door, bringing him out of his fatigue. “Come!”
The door opened to reveal Lieutenant Latham, who saluted stiffly with a fist to his chest.
“What brings you up here so late, Latham?” Eames asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. “I trust it’s important?” Despite Eames’ annoyance, he considered Latham a good Herald; young and keen, and able to follow orders without being told twice. He would go far if he kept applying himself.
“Sergeant Tevin is back from his patrol, Commander,” Latham said quickly. “He is demanding to speak with you, and only you. Says he has some information you’ll want to hear.”
Eames frowned. Tevin; he knew that name. The image of a fat fellow with piggy eyes floated into his mind. “Information regarding?”
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