Vagabond Paladin
By the time I reached the edge of civilization — a place where farms and tiny hamlets dotted the landscape like freckles — most of the clay had dried and fallen away, leaving only stains where once I was coated in muck. If you think it’s ridiculous that I had done as bidden and not stopped to rest at an inn, then you aren’t the only one, but here was my dilemma: I had with me a dog possessed by a demon. I dared not leave him anywhere, so that left inns out — the inns of Northwark were not inclined to let their rooms to people who bring beasts within their doors.
Though I followed instructions on taking no rest, I broke the precept on disdaining supplies. Look, I could only go so far on the few things that the village men and messenger offered. They lasted me a whole seven-day and then I’d paused at a small hamlet and spent all of my paladin superior’s gold coins on hardy supplies — mostly dried meat and oats, a few slabs of trail bread, and a thick fur robe. I’d never been so far north before, but I was aware that cold could kill.
A thoughtful person watching all of this might wonder how a sensible and generally cynical person like me had become a follower of the Rejected God in the first place — much less a dedicant intent on the role of paladin. After all, a life renouncing all wealth and living out of saddlebags and on the road is hardly the choice most people would make.
Those people have misunderstood me. They do not know what commitment and dedication are. They do not realize that I am subject to them every day. I know my place in the world and that place is serving the God in this way — the way of the Vagabond. Without it, there is no point to me at all.
I had left Sir Branson’s mount in the first town we came to — the God gives and he takes away and we give back with open palms. The friar there promised me he had the means to keep a horse well.
I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I already miss sweet Dandelion.
Cough. So do I, demon. As she was my horse. Keep on trying to imitate my voice all you like, but you won’t fool Victoriana long. She’s a skeptical girl with a skeptic’s caution.
When night had fallen once more, I had looked at the moon and my mouth had gone dry with the certainty of what I saw.
The scholars call our moon “The Great Mirror,” and she does, indeed, reflect. Some would say she reflects the sun. But others say she reflects the surface of the land, and from my earliest infancy, the adults around me would point to the sky when the moon was full, and trace out Tiberia to the south and the great Madriiveran Plains to the west, all right there reflected on the moon’s surface.
“There,” they would say, “is the Opal Sea, and just there is the Sea of Storms to the north. See how the Spine of the Forest ends abruptly at the edge of the moon? That is the Rim of the World, made entirely of ice. Impenetrable by even hammer and chisel, blade, axe, or fire. It awaits the turning of the age.”
And I would say what every child was taught to say: “And that will be the beginning of the next age, when the wisdom and follies of our forebears will be unhidden and the secrets of another age laid bare.”
And everyone would “hmmm” their agreement. It’s easy enough to agree with a story when it is only a story with no relevance at all to you. After all, who would believe that in their lifetimes the ice of the Rim might recede and open new places, while it advanced in others to cover whole cities in ice too thick to break through? It is hard to accept that you are about to see the results of the turning age with your own eyes. I had not yet quite made peace with it.
Some paladin aspects put their squire supplicants into many years of training in which they stoop low over scrolls and books. My aspect believed in action, so scholarly knowledge was passed through oral traditions from paladin to supplicant. I found I wished I’d had more book training for this quest. It felt awkward indeed that those others who set out on this journey would know the lay of the land much better than I, and all from their books.
Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there to tell you whatever you need to know, one of the spirits possessing Brindle told me that first night as I rode deep into the darkness, mulling on what I had read in the letter. Book learning isn’t very attractive in a beggar anyway. People don’t give freely to those who seem superior to them. It feels wrong. Makes their palms itch. They want that warm feeling of having blessed a lesser person. The demon — I hoped it was the demon — paused for a round of mad laughter before he continued. Do you know anything about the Aching Monastery?
It had been mentioned to me once, grimly, in a long list of those places lost with the turning of the second age, long ago.
And?
And I’d been told little else that I recalled.
The Aching Monastery was a place renowned for its ability to impress upon men the holiness of the God and their own insufficiency.
Well, thank you for that, Paladin Superior.
The hollow laugh that sounded told me I’d guessed wrong again.
One day I entered that place — I recall little except I made a monk speak in tongues until he was thrown from the top of the highest tower. He was tasty, but not as tasty as you, snackling. I’ll be feeding off your drama for years.
A wave of sickness washed over me. That did not sound like a thing monks would do to one of their own. Even if speaking in tongues could be … hard to interpret.
I think it was how I demanded he take the tongues of anyone who didn’t speak in tongues that sealed his eventual fate, the demon said casually. But I remember that — ahem — monastery being an opulent warren of puzzles and holy smells. We’re going to have some fun, little snackling. The kind of fun you tell about for years to come. Well — the kind of fun I tell about. You’ll likely be dead well before that. Your kind is delightfully fragile.
Well. That settled it.
I leapt from my horse, caught Brindle by the scruff of his neck, and brought his doggy face up to mine under the light of the moon. His eyes were glowing again. They didn’t do it all the time, only when the spirits were in full ascendency, but it lit the darkness in an eerie way that called to mind stories of fairy rings and magic trickery.
“We need to talk,” I said firmly as the dog tried to lick my face. “I cannot bring you as you are to a place where other humans dwell. Not for supplies, and most certainly not on the task given us by the Aspect of the Rejected God.”
Brindle whined, his huge doggy eyes rolling up into mine trustingly and sending a pinch of nerves through my heart. He put a paw on the arm holding him by the scruff and I sighed.
“I have told you already that I am no dog murderer. But what shall I do? I dare not risk this demon jumping to a poor, innocent soul.”
I believe I have the other soul under control. I just need to tweak a few things …
