A Paladin's War
Copyright© 2020 by Antidarius
Chapter 18: Thunderblade
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 18: Thunderblade - The Third Volume of The Paladin Saga
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Magic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Paranormal Demons Sharing Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Cream Pie Exhibitionism Oral Sex Tit-Fucking Nudism Royalty
Distant booms rang across the city as Mari hurried down a small side street between looming brick buildings. The lightning was falling again. That happened a lot, lately. Her shoes slapped on the wet cobblestones noisily, but she couldn’t afford to slow down. A light, misting rain was falling, just enough to wet her dress and make her feel the chill in the early evening air.
The invasion had begun three days ago now, when the Dawnwall was breached at Cathgard and soldiers had begun pouring through, inciting chaos all through the Northguard. Mari had fled Cathgard at once, only just making it through the gates of her eastern sister city, Laengard, before the city was locked down. It made her shiver; anyone who couldn’t get in now was at the mercy of the invaders, and she had seen things that had curdled her blood.
The invaders had not yet pushed beyond Cathgard, though it surely would not be long until they did. She took a right turn, down a narrower way, more an alley than a street, trying to avoid piles of refuse that gave off unpleasant aromas when she got too close. Rats scurried out of her way as she passed, skittering off into the darkness. She wished she could hide as they did, squirrel herself into some dark corner and go unnoticed until it was safe to come out.
But no, there was too much to be done. Aran needed her help, whether he knew it or not, and she had worked too hard to stop now. Two more turns and she was at her destination, a nondescript cellar door near a main street. She ducked behind a barrel as a Herald patrol passed, heart beating hard until they moved on.
Overall, Mari had been shocked at how easy it had been to avoid them, even for her, a middle-aged woman in a dress. She produced a key from her pocket as she approached the flat door and held her breath as she fit it to the sturdy lock holding a fat chain around the handles. She exhaled in relief when the lock clicked open; there had been no guarantee of this being the right key, but luck was with her tonight.
Carefully, she pulled one of the doors up, wincing as it squealed. She froze, but heard no boots approaching, no shouts of alarm. Slipping inside, she let it close over her head gently and descended a short flight of stone steps into the cellar, into pitch darkness.
Hurriedly, she shrugged off the leather pack on her back and fumbled around until she found the lantern and small bottle of oil she’d put in there earlier. She’d made herself practice this in the dark a few times before setting out tonight, and so with only a little effort, she got the oil in and the lantern lit quickly. Keeping the shield down to limit the light, she held it up and peered around.
It was a cellar like any other, stacked with boxes and barrels and crates and odd pieces of furniture, but the one major difference was the man chained to a stone pylon in the middle of the room. His dark-haired head was hanging down, his chin on his chest. He didn’t move as she approached. Kneeling down, she gingerly touched his forehead. Still warm; he was alive, at least.
So wrapped around with chains was he - enough to secure a Giant - she couldn’t get a good look at his condition. She thought he might be naked under all that metal. Fortunately, she had thought to bring some spare clothes with her.
“Wake up,” she said gently, patting his cheek. “Wake up.”
He started to rouse and managed to lift his head enough to blearily look at her. There was a good week of growth on his chiseled face. Mari was momentarily taken aback by his handsomeness, shining through despite his unwashed and unshaven condition. Her information had been solid, then. This man was arohim.
“Who are you?” he asked wearily. “You don’t look like the sort they normally send.” He took a laboured breath, the metal clinking around his body. The chains were making it hard for him to breathe. She had to get him out of them, and out of here.
“I am here to release you,” she said briskly as she produced another key, much like the first one.
“That ... Is a surprise,” the arohim said slowly. He sounded half asleep, which would not do. Mari would have to wake him up somehow. “Are you sure you are not here to beat me? Or peel off some more skin? Or stick more hot splinters under my fingernails? I do so enjoy our little torture sessions.”
Mari shivered. The poor fellow had apparently been through a lot. Not uncommon for a prisoner of the Heralds. There was obvious sarcasm in his tone, but also resignation, as if he was starting to accept the abuse. She had gotten here not a moment too soon.
“What is your name?” she asked him as she went round the pylon and found the lock. It was going to take her a minute to unwrap these chains from him, so she may as well keep him talking.
“Uh...” he grunted as the lock came away and the chains shifted. “Bennak. Bennak Thunderblade.”
Mari’s hands froze on the chains. That was a Paladin name! “You’re a Paladin, Bennak?” She had expected to find arohim on her search, poor younglings who didn’t know what they were, or older ones who had learned to live with their power in secret, but not a full Paladin!
Bennak barked a laugh that turned into a hacking cough. “I suppose I am, at that. Though I do not appear to be much of one, do I young lady.” He breathed a sigh of relief when Mari unwound some of the chain around his chest. “Thank you.” He peered up at her before she rounded the pylon again. “You are not a Herald. Are you a Servant? I didn’t think there were any left.”
He was starting to sound more lucid, at least, though he made no effort to move yet. “No,” she answered honestly while she kept working. “I am just helping where it is required.”
“Not a believer in the Heralds, then?” he asked, some amusement creeping through the exhaustion.
“No,” Mari said curtly as she gathered more chain.
Bennak chuckled, but that turned into coughing too. “Then why do you help me, strange woman who is not a Servant and who does not like Heralds? Are you not afraid for your life?”
“Very,” Mari replied honestly. She wondered how old Bennak was. It was impossible to tell from looking at him; arohim could live for a thousand years and look no older than thirty or forty. “Do you remember the car’mori, Bennak?” she asked quietly.
Even sitting still against the stone block work, Bennak visibly stiffened for a moment, then sighed. “Yes, strange woman who is not a Servant and does not like Heralds, and also knows of something most people in the world do not. I do remember, if you must know.” He watched her curiously as she removed the last of the chain, dropping the final few links on the two-foot-high pile beside the pylon. “What is your name, woman?”
She supposed it was only a matter of time until he asked. Should she tell him now, or wait? He would know if she was lying, she was sure. “Mari,” she said softly. “Mari Sunblade.”
Bennak just looked at her for long moments, then a slow, wheezing laugh began in his chest, making his whole body heave. It dissolved into more coughing as he fell to the side, landing heavily on the floor. When he could speak, he did so into the dust beneath his face. “Oh, Aros, your sense of humour is most devious, my friend.”
Mari clucked her tongue and bent to pick him up. “Come on, we need to get you up.” She helped him sit while he kept up that wheezing laugh. She hoped he hadn’t gone mad from his time as a prisoner. “I need your help, Bennak,” she said firmly, holding him by the shoulders as she knelt before him.
He got his laughter under control and eyed her with a brilliant blue stare. She felt her heart flutter a little, but ignored it; she knew the effects an arohim could have on a person, even when they weren’t trying. “And what help would that be, Mari Sunblade?” Saying her name made him start up again, but it stopped short when she slapped him hard across the face.
“Come to your senses, Thunderblade!” she snapped. “You think you are the only arohim imprisoned by the Heralds?”
That seemed to get through to him. He blinked a few times and worked his jaw. “You have a strong hand, Mari Sunblade. That makes sense, I suppose.” What he meant by that, Mari had no clue. “There are others? How many?”
Mari rose and crossed the room, picked up her pack and came back. “Thirty-two more, as far as my information goes.” She produced a water skin and offered it to him. He pulled off the cork and drank deeply, draining the entire thing.
“That many?” he said, surprised. “How? I have walked this world for a thousand years and never met even half that many. I thought we were dying out, so few were we.”
Mari shrugged. “Times are changing, old man. Here.” She fished out a fat packet of dried meat and cheese, and another of flatbread. “You’ll need to eat. I doubt they fed you anything recently.”
“Thank you,” he said before eagerly taking the packets and tearing them open. He started wolfing down the food in big bites. Mari felt for him; the Heralds would not have been kind.
“How long did they have you for?”
“I do not know,” he said while chewing. “I have not seen daylight for some time. My best guess is a month, perhaps more.”
Mari cursed softly under her breath. A whole month? She would have gone mad after a week! She waited until he was done eating. “Can you walk? We need to be gone from here.”
Bennak shifted his legs around, testing them. “I can.” She stepped back, giving him room to stand. He did so gingerly but got up on his own. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a waist somewhat narrower than she suspected it normally was, due to his malnourished state. He was a beautiful man, but then, all arohim were so.
She tried not to look too hard at his nudity. “Alright,” she started to say, but was interrupted when Bennak kissed her firmly, right on the mouth. Warmth flooded her body, and she made an involuntary noise before she could stop herself. There was nothing quite like being kissed by an arohim. Well, there were a few things better, but there wasn’t time for any of that now.
“Thank you,” he said again when he pulled back. A loud boom shook the city, sending dust raining down on them from the ceiling. “I believe that means we should go.”
Mari hurriedly pulled the bundle of clothes from her pack, her legs a little unsteady from the kiss.
“I’ll need my sword,” he said as dressed. “The Heralds will have it somewhere.”
Mari sighed. “I was waiting for you to say that. Are you up for a little sneaking about?”
He winked at her as he pulled his breeches on. They were a little too small for him, and fit his legs in a most appealing way. “Always.”
Aran was back in the command tent at dawn the next morning, after reluctantly dragging himself out of the warm pile of sleeping bodies made up by his meldin. It was wonderful having them all together, in one place. With them so close, they were living bundles of sensations inside his head as they moved about the camp in the early morning, attending to their duties while he pored over maps and markings and proposed strategies beneath the light from the lanterns hanging about the tent. He was alone here, for now, but that wouldn’t last long. Important decisions were to be made today.
Not for the first time this morning, Aran wondered where Smythe was - he should have been back by now - but no sooner had the thought entered his mind than Smythe’s vala approached out of the northwest at speed. Two minutes later, the tent flap blew in and the big Paladin was standing there, breathing hard.
Aran cast a quick eye over him, but apart from the sweat and dirt on his face, he was as hale as he’d been when he’d left. Well, except for the exhaustion apparent on his drawn features. “You alright man?”
Smythe sagged, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He nodded. “Right as rainwater,” he replied a little raggedly. “Just need a minute.”
Aran almost smiled. Smythe would admit to feeling tired when the sun rose in the west. He went to to a long table along one side of the tent where some servants had left a selection of fruits and cheeses and breads. Piling up a plate, he took it back to Smythe, who eyed it hungrily before almost snatching it from him. He murmured a hurried ‘thanks’ before tucking in right where he stood, shoving food into his mouth with his fingers.
Using the vala took energy from the body. The best and fastest way to replenish it was with food, which was why Paladins had such famous appetites. He waited patiently for Smythe to clear his plate, refill it at the table, and come back to Aran. The pace of his eating slowed to something a little more relaxed.
“The Heralds have left Maralon, as far as I can tell,” Smythe said around a mouthful of red grapes.
Aran was surprised. “They haven’t fortified the city?” When Smythe shook his head, Aran frowned. “Trap?” The last time the Heralds had done something like this, Smythe had lost his leg.
The hawk-nosed man shrugged and wiped some crumbs out of his moustache. “Maybe. Hard to say, really. They were clever, last time. There were plenty of people still in the city, though not as many as I expected, and none of them Heralds, best I could tell.”
Aran turned to the table and frowned at the map of Maralon there. What were they up to? Had they just up and moved their entire Maralon force to the Northguard?
“That tunnel runs right beneath the city,” Smythe went on, coming to stand beside Aran. He ran a finger from the south of Maralon to the north, straight through the centre of the roughly circular city. “But from what I could sense, there’s no damage within the walls.”
Aran grunted. It would have been easy for Vasuda to collapse the roof of the tunnel beneath the city, effectively destroying it, had he wanted to. So why didn’t he? Unless he’s waiting.
That tunnel bothered Aran deeply. If he was Maloth, he would have lined it with traps and ambushes every hundred yards. Know your enemy, he heard Smythe’s voice in his head, a memory of his early training. And when he expects you to be in the south, be in the north. When he expects you in the north, be west.
The tunnel had to be for moving large numbers of ulunn to the Northguard undetected, so why hadn’t Maloth collapsed it behind him, cutting off access for Aran’s forces? He’d likely done so further north of here, hoping that Aran sent men inside to find a dead end, then he could simply drop it on their heads, burying them.
That was for the scouts to discover. Finya and Serefi would see it done. Aran wished the whole situation didn’t make his skin prickle. He made a decision. “We need to get those people out of Maralon,” he told Smythe. “If that tunnel collapses, thousands will die. Tens of thousands.”
“Who do we send?”
“I’ll go,” Kedron said as he entered the tent. “I’ll take a legion and evacuate the city.” Aran and Smythe turned to look at Kedron, and he met their gazes levelly. “It’s a Herald city; I can speak to them in a way they’ll understand.”
Aran nodded after a moment. It was the right choice. “Very good. Take Erik and Sylvia too, and Sorla if she wants to go” - she likely would - “they know the city inside out.” Aran remembered the secret passages they’d showed him beneath Maralon so long ago. Perhaps they would prove useful.
“As you command,” Kedron said with a formal bow.
“Do not go within the walls,” Aran told him. He pointed to the map on the table and traced the line the tunnel ran from Senna to the city. “Or anywhere near this line. This entire situation is screaming “trap!” at me, but we can’t leave those people in the city to die.”
“And if the people won’t come out?” Smythe asked quietly.
“They will,” Kedron replied firmly. “I’ll get it done.”
“Good man,” Smythe said. “I believe you will.”
Aran nodded. “Thank you, Kedron. Stay to the east of the city when you approach and bring the people out that way. It should be safest. Go at once, we have little time to spare.” He and Smythe took turns clasping forearms with Kedron before be left. They stared after him for a moment, neither man speaking.
“He’ll do well,” Smythe said finally, notes of pride in his voice.
“Yes,” Aran agreed. “He will.”
Smythe looked to him. “Now what?”
Aran sighed. “We have to get the main force up north. Let’s start with that.”
They spent another hour or so planning, summoning the other commanders to the tent and bringing them all abreast. Aran had never been in charge of something on this scale before, and he was glad to have the experience of the others at hand.
By mid-morning, the army - which some in the camp were calling Anar’nore - the People of the Sun - was well into preparations for the long march to the Northguard. The main force was to stay east of Maralon, well away from the walls as the massive force moved north. By midday, the march was underway.
Aran spent the afternoon visiting the different factions, starting with the Orcs, the newest addition to the army. Favouring their long legs over horses, the Ash’goth kept pace easily with the rest of the army, the bulk of their numbers making up the rightmost column, a long snake of tall, muscular figures with skin in shades of browns and deep greens, clad in simple cloths and furs instead of leather or steel more common to soldiers of other races. An Orc’s skin was about as hard to puncture as cured leather, and their fighting tactics favoured speed over protection.
Aran returned the nods of respect he got as he wove through the ranks, looking for Hegra. He found her near the centre of the column, as strong and beautiful as ever with her pale green skin, morning-grey eyes and long black hair in a multitude of thin braids that swayed as she walked. She wore simple wraps across waist and chest, and his eyes scanned her bare midriff, looking for the sign of her pregnancy, though none showed yet.
She beamed when she saw him, and came to meet him, reaching him in three long strides and folding him into a crushing hug. More than a foot taller than him, this would have looked comical to anyone watching, though he heard no laughter from the other Orcs.
“I hoped you would come to me soon,” she told him when the hug ended. “The days have been long for missing you.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. “I know. I am sorry. There has been much to do. May I walk with you a while?” She nodded, and they continued side by side. “How is Sen’dara?”
“The city is all but empty,” she replied. “Almost every Orc wanted to come, though some were ordered to stay to protect the city in our absence.”
Aran was both happy and sad about that. It was wonderful to have so many Orcs come to fight, but many would never return home. “And you?”
She smiled down at him. “I am well.” She touched her flat belly. “And Masha says all is well with the babe.”
“It is still a little difficult to fathom,” he told her honestly. “I mean, we barely know each other, and yet we have a child coming.”
Hegra nodded. “I feel the same, sometimes, though I do not regret doing this with you, Karneshi. It is a great honour.”
“The honour is mine, Hegra,” he replied warmly. He meant it, no matter how strange circumstances were. Hegra was a good woman, brave, strong and kind. Still, he wondered what his mother would think of him having three babes on the way with three different women.
“Will the child be like you?” she asked, her big eyes searching his face.
“An arohim?” He frowned, looking at her belly again. He couldn’t feel a vala, but it might be too early to tell. He’d sensed the light in Induin and Liaren’s babes, but they were further along than Hegra. “I don’t know. There’s a chance, but this is a new thing. Arohim have always been Human, as far back as memory goes.”
Hegra pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think I would like it to be like you, an arohim.”
Aran took her hand and squeezed it. “Whatever happens, the child will be destined for great things, I think.” Hegra seemed pleased with that, and squeezed his hand in return. They walked in silence for a bit, until it was time for Aran to leave. He would have happily stayed with her all day, but he had much to do. He often wished he could split himself into ten copies in order to get to everything that needed doing.
He dropped in on the Elvish contingent of the army next, meeting briefly with Andil and Elessir, who looked even more impressive than usual for the fact they were riding on magnificent deer, Andil on a great stag, his wife on a doe, smaller let no less majestic. The Lord and Lady of Ildernass politely dismounted when he approached, the tight ring of defenders surrounding the couple parting to let Aran through.
“Greetings, Anarion, ” Andil said with an incline of his head. His mount walked along beside him obediently, as did Elessir’s.
Elessir’s brilliant jade eyes looked Aran over. “You have changed much, Anarion, since last we met.”
Aran bowed to them both in turn. “I suppose I have,” he replied. “It was inevitable, I believe.”
“Such change is required by those destined to lead,” Elessir said wisely. “I myself resisted the change, refusing to give up my maiden years,” she glanced at Andil beside her, “until I was convinced there was a greater path for me.”
Andil chuckled richly. “I recall as if it were only years ago, rather than centuries.”
Aran could not imagine Elessir being anything but how she was now, yet everyone was young and immature before they grew up. “You are loved by your people,” he told her. “I think Ildernass would have been lesser without your influence, my Lady.”
“I agree,” Andil said, smiling at his wife. “Well said, Anarion.”
“The two of you do me much honour,” Elessir replied graciously. “Now, to what do we owe this visit, Anarion? I am sure you did not come simply to shower me with compliments.”
Andil chuckled again, and Aran grinned. “Sadly, I did not, Lady Elessir, though it seems a pleasant enough way to spend time.” It was true; the Lady of Ildernass was perhaps the most fair and beautiful woman in the world, almost mythical to behold, seven feet of creamy pale skin, lush womanly curves and golden hair like the finest silk. “I come today because I will have little time for it later, and I wanted to meet with you both before the days become truly difficult.”
Andil nodded, understanding. “Yes. Thank you, Aran. Your consideration is noted.”
“Have you everything you need?” he asked them as they walked.
“We do,” Elessir answered smoothly.
“We are well equipped and organised,” Andil elaborated. “The Eryn’elda will fight hard when the time comes.”
“I have no doubts,” Aran replied with full certainty. He’d seen them fight before. The Elves were unmatched archers, and deadly in the forests.
“It is an auspicious time,” Elessir added after a moment. “Despite the coming darkness, I am hopeful for the future of Ekistair and all her people.”
Aran looked around, past the ring of Elvish defenders to the ranks of marching Elves, bows slanted across chests at precise angles, every step in perfect time, but it wasn’t just Elves. Dwarves and Humans and Orcs moved up and down the ranks, running errands, carrying messages, delivering items in need. It made him smile; they were all working together. At the front of the moving army, companies made up of all races marched, formed in ways to best utilise their individual skills. What better way to support an Orcish charge than with Elvish bows from behind, or a follow-up by Human or Dwarvish cavalry to sweep away the remnants?
He left Andil and Elessir a short time later, finishing his afternoon with a visit to the Dwarves, and then the Humans. All in all, things were about as organised and efficient as they could be for an army this size. Of course there were a thousand problems to be solved, but none that couldn’t be dealt with. The Dwarven farriers needed more metal for horseshoes, the Human fletchers needed goose feathers by the wagon load to keep up with demand for more arrows, there wasn’t enough game around to maintain a good supply of meat for the soldiers. Aran was quickly learning that these problems were simply day-to-day bothers of campaigning, ever-present when on the march.
By the time the sun disappeared, the army was camped again after a good day’s march. Aran thought they might have done as much as fifteen miles today. It was an agonisingly slow pace for him, but for a force this size it was nothing to sneeze at.
Almost weary from a long day, he pushed open the flap to the big tent he shared with his meldin, already smiling, for they were all there waiting for him, except for Sorla, who had gone with Kedron’s company to Maralon. Seven pairs of pretty eyes looked at him as he entered, each as different as the next, but all captivating.
Jeira was sitting cross-legged on the pile of furs and pillows that served as a bed, darning something. Evoni sat beside her, watching her working with interest, the Norothi towering over Jeira’s smaller, slender form.
Induin was sitting on the floor by the bed, brushing Rayna’s brilliant red hair, while Bella and Liaren sat in a small circle with Elaina, making Aran wonder what they’d been doing before he arrived.
“Now, this is what a man likes to come home to,” he said with a contented sigh as he undid his sword belt and placed Oroth on top of a chest near the entrance. “How was everyone’s day?”
He was immediately barraged by several voices all trying to give him reports at once. Perhaps he should have asked a different question. “Alright! Alright!” he said after a minute, raising his hands. “One at a time, maybe?”
Jeira, still holding her darning, watched him with amusement, her dark eyes twinkling. She had kept silent, knowing better than to try and get a word in. Elaina had the same look on her face. They were similar in many ways, Elaina and Jeira. They had known each other before Aran, back in the Emerin Forest.
“Elaina’s teaching us how to centre ourselves,” Liaren said, her emerald eyes bright in her face. She had a glow about her since falling pregnant, as did her twin sister Induin.
“And she taught us some fighting today,” Induin added, her voice almost identical to her sister’s.
“Induin and Liaren are teaching some of us how to use a bow,” Rayna added.
Aran sat down on the floor, listening as they went on. It sounded as if they’d been productive indeed. “And you’ve been doing all this around your other duties? How have you found the time?”
“We make it work,” Jeira replied, setting down the darning. She put a hand on Evoni’s knee, and the Giantess put an arm around Jeira’s shoulder, as if they’d been friends for years. “Together.”
Aran smiled. “Together is good.”
For the next hour, he simply sat and enjoyed conversation with the loves of his life, relishing every minute he got with them. The only thing he would have changed was to have Sorla there too, but he would take what he could get, tonight.
After dinner, they relaxed together and made slow, leisurely love, Aran making sure he got around to everyone before finally succumbing to sleep. He had one more task to do tonight, but thankfully he could do it without leaving the tent.
Waves crashed and churned against the rocky shoreline, whipped into furious frenzy by a howling, blustering wind from the north. Spray sailed into the air and was whisked away by gusts strong enough to knock a man down, though Aran stood firm, untouched by the elements as he watched the pounding surf. Above, the sky boiled with heavy black clouds that showed an eerie green tinge, as one might see beneath a storm threatening twisters and hail. Both were possible at any time, now. Even here.
Amathani was this way all the time, now, not spared by Maharad’s touch. Aran could push back the tempest, if he wished, push the clouds away to feel the warmth of the sun, but it took a certain effort of will, and he was content to save his strength, for now.
Behind him, a hundred yards up the beach, an enormous stone wall stretched east and west further than the eye could see. Sixty yards high and ten deep, the crenelated Dawnwall protected the five cities behind it from invasion from Palistair. At least, that had been its intended purpose. Now, a gaping hole broke the smooth surface of the wall, where Vasuda had torn through it like paper, creating a gateway for Maloth’s hordes to enter the Northguard.
Aran was unsurprised when a figure appeared on the beach next to him, a foot taller than he and well-muscled, with skin the colour of blood. He wore fine black boots of polished leather, and black trousers that looked to be made of serpent’s scales, shining dully. He wore no shirt, leaving his upper body bare but for a black cloak that hung from his shoulders, as undisturbed by the wind as Aran’s. A slightly curved sword hung at his hip, the hilt and scabbard as black as everything else he wore.
It was only a matter of time before Maloth discovered the ability to find Amathani.