Weekly Drabble #98: One drop, one duty (Patreon)

This week's prompt is 'slow down' from WindFox, though this story is somewhat of the opposite of that... hope you all enjoy!

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One drop, one duty:

Faster.

Markus urged Celebrant on, the warhorse crashing through foliage, smashing through saplings and leaping over fallen logs as rider and animal both raced onwards at a dangerous speed through the woods.

He prayed to God that he would get there in time.

The orcs are fast over land. They don’t tire easily, they can run at speed for far longer than humans or elves and even outpace horses in the long run, and they had a head start. He knew where they were going. Not to Coromec; the human township had strong walls and many militiamen to protect it. They were going to the imp encampment, and they were going to raze it to the ground in a final act of spite.

The assault on the orc bivouac went better than expected. The raiders never imagined that they’d be the ones under attack. They were holdovers from the last war, refusing to acknowledge the armistice between their clans and the human realms, though they were little better than bandits and slavers. Raiding outlying settlements, sacking caravans and taking prisoners to be sold or used. This band had infiltrated this distant province of Eshtaba and had begun their predations anew here. The primary target had been the small village of Tabrel, an encampment of imps. Unwanted in the nearby human town, the half-elf, half-humans made do with what they could, but they had neither the numbers nor the ability to protect themselves from orc raids.

Being only imps, no one had cared. No one but Markus. not yet a Paladin of Mother Church. Six vows of seven fulfilled, he and Samyra had come to this region on his pilgrimage. The first and oldest church of Eshtaba was in Coromec, and many Paladins-in-training ended their trials in the border town. Markus had been intending to do the same for his seventh vow, only to be drawn into the conflict between orc, imp and human.

Coromec’s militia was skilled and numerous, but they only cared about their own safety, and that of the trade caravans passing through the region. The imps’ problems were their own. It took Markus to shame them for their inaction before they did more than a token effort. In Eshtaba, the nation united under Mother Church, there was the Writ of Law. Upon the Writ was the rule of one drop: a single drop of human blood was all that was necessary to seek, and be granted, protection from the Church. Imps were half-human. All too often though, that law was creatively applied or outright ignored, even by those who spoke for, and fought in, Mother Church’s name, but Markus held it as sacred as any other.

His duty was to enforce the Law upon all those who would violate it, from the raiders and bandits that plied the wilds, to corrupt priests and incompetent magistrates. Many of his brothers might even dismiss the problems of imps, but Markus did not. He was not yet a full Paladin, but he fought for all God’s children, not merely some of them. The imps of Tabrel had heard the rumours of a Blood Knight who fought for them, not merely offered lip service and they’d come to Markus, hoping that what they’d heard was true.

It was.

Faster.

The first time he’d seen Samyra, she’d been in a cage on the back of a wagon, being pulled towards a gallows as a crowd of enraged villagers screamed curses and threw old fruit and rocks at her, demanding she die for the crime of murder and her many burglaries. They’d quieted as he’d approached, but the small imp had gone nearly white with terror. Among non-human and half-breed peoples, Paladins were not seen as soldiers who upheld the laws of Man and God. They had another name, whispered around campfires, in taverns and encampments: Blood Knights. The imp had thought her situation had gone from bad to worse, but Markus had proven her innocent of the murder, exposing the real killer in the doing. She had still been an imp, and a thief in a town of surly, humiliated people. Many would have left at that point, their job considered done, but Markus had known the instant he was out of sight, she would have been hanged regardless. So that she could repay her debt to society, he’d taken her as a servant and squire. 

Leaving her behind had broken his heart, but despite the many months of training he’d given her, she would still be one imp against more than a half-dozen orcs. He’d heard her call his name as he’d rode Celebrant away from the smouldering orc bivouac, her anger and despair still ringing in his ears. One man, even one trained in war by Mother Church, against a squad of orcs would fare little better than one imp, but he had to make the effort. His duty required no less of him.

Faster.

Samyra had been sullen and suspicious of Markus at first, thinking he had salacious intentions, but she’d warmed to him and he to her. In fact, it had turned out that she had been the first one to have those intentions. As Markus’s trials progressed, he and Samyra had become closer than soldier and squire. Even when her parole was over, she’d stayed with him. She’d fought by his side, aided his investigations, patched his wounds and shared herself with him. He’d never been prouder of anyone than when she’d become a sworn squire of Mother Church.

He would miss her.

The imps’ encampment was close now. Markus didn’t hear the sounds of battle, screaming or see the orange haze of burning buildings. He might make it there in time.

The attack had caught the orcs by surprise. Markus had led a coterie of imp archers and human guardsmen against the raiders’ bivouac and overrun the surprised savages. He’d personally cut down the band’s heathen shaman and set their profane altar alight. As always, Samyra had covered his back. She was small and no match in size or strength for any human, elf or orc, but she’d learned how to use two short swords and she was very quick, ducking, weaving and striking from unexpected quarters. There were few things as fine as the stupefaction on a foe’s face as an imp, barely four feet tall, brought them to their knees moments before the coup de grace was delivered.

The battle had been won, but in the fighting, the orc’s leader and a squad of his troops had slipped into the forest. They hadn’t been noticed until the battle was over and all the bodies were laid out, and prisoners accounted for. It wasn’t in an orc’s nature to meekly retreat. During the war, orc armies on the defensive had burned, salted and despoiled the land as they fell back. Soldiers about to be captured shattered their own weapons, set fire to their own train and fortifications. Even in defeat, an orc would seek to deny his enemy a victory, and these were orcs that had refused their nations’ call to stand down.

That was how Markus knew the war-chief and his underlings were not fleeing. Not yet. They had one last bloody task to complete. They couldn’t strike at Coromec, so they would go Tabrel and slaughter its inhabitants. None of the guardsmen or imps had horses of their own. None of them could hope to arrive before the orcs did. Only Markus could.

Samyra had told Markus she would ride with him, as she always did. He’d told her to gather as many arrows as she could and when she had turned away, he had spurred Celebrant into the forest. This was one battle she couldn’t fight with him. 

Faster.

The encampment was so close. Celebrant was panting and frothing, near collapse, but Markus urged his dutiful horse onwards. He had to make it there. Man or imp, full-blood or half-breed, they were children of God and citizens of Eshtaba. He would stand between them and harm, as a Paladin should.

No matter the cost.