Read The Paladin's Tale for Free Online

rampart.
    Though he supposed the guards on the rampart could simply climb down the wall and attack him from behind.
    The Mhorites crashed into him, and Arandar had no more time for thought.
    His sword blurred right and left, and two of the Kothluuskan warriors fell dead in the first seconds of the fighting. A sword stabbed towards Arandar’s face, and he jerked back, the blade cutting through the cloth over his armor and bouncing off the links of his chain mail. A Mhorite thrust a spear at him, and Arandar lopped the head off the weapon. Undaunted, the Mhorite raised the shaft and brought it down like a club, and Arandar tried to dodge. The staff bounced off his shoulder with numbing force, his left arm tingling with pain. The blow knocked him off balance long enough for another sword to strike his belly, though the mail stopped the edge of the blade. Arandar bellowed and hacked off the hand of the swordsman who had struck him, blood spurting from the stump. He wheeled and killed another Mhorite, but more of them came at him. There was no way he could hold this position for more than a few moments, and then the Mhorites would close the gate.
    The ground shook beneath his feet, and the guards upon the wall started shouting.
    Arandar realized what was about to happen, and threw himself to the left, his back slapping against the wall. He killed one Mhorite, and then a second, but a half-dozen more closed around him, weapons drawn back for the kill.
    He bared his teeth and raised his sword, daring them to come on.
    An instant later the first of the horsemen burst through the gate. The man-at-arms carried a mace, the red dragon sigil of the High King on his chest shining in the light from the bonfires. The momentum of his steed drove the horse through the ranks of the Mhorites, and the blow of his mace crushed the skull of an orcish warrior. For a moment the Mhorites reeled, and then three more mounted men-at-arms thundered through the gate, weapons rising and falling.
    Cassius and Crowlacht had come.
    Arandar threw himself into the fray, stabbing and slashing as he desperately wished for a shield. So far he had parried and dodged most of the blows aimed his way, but sooner or later a Mhorite blade would find his flesh. Qazamhor screamed commands, and the Mhorites roared and charged towards the gate, pushing the horsemen back. On an open field, horsemen had the advantage. Yet here, in the enclosed space of the camp, the Mhorites could crowd around the men-at-arms and pull them from their saddles.
    A howl rose over the fray. Crowlacht’s warriors darted past the horses’ legs and charged into the battle, striking with their axes and swords. The Mhorites’ momentum wavered, and the sheer weight of armored Rhaluuskan orcs and mounted men drove them back. Arandar glimpsed Crowlacht leading the charge, his huge hammer rising and falling. Arandar cut down a Mhorite that was grappling with a horseman. A little further, and they could…
    The color of the firelight changed, turning from the orange-yellow glow of a normal flame to an unnatural blood color. Qazamhor stood wreathed in bloody flame, his staff shining like a shard of molten metal. The glow within the menhirs pulsed in time to his rage, and the shaman raked his free hand before him. A bolt of blood-colored fire leapt from his hand and slammed into the battle. The magical fire washed over two of the men-at-arms and their horses, and both men and beasts withered into emaciated skeletons. The men collapsed motionless to the ground, while their horses disintegrated into puffs of dust and bone.
    Qazamhor laughed and began another spell.
    Arandar hacked down another Mhorite and forced his way through the press, making his way towards the stone circle. He had to stop Qazamhor. His men and Crowlacht’s warriors might have better numbers and better positioning, but that meant little if Qazamhor could bring his dark magic to bear. Again he wished a Swordbearer had accompanied his men