It almost felt routine, at this point. The battlefield was choked with the screams of the dying, torn by the boots of a thousand soldiers fighting over a pointless scrap of land. Gemma’s mount kept her high above the blood-soaked mud, but she had to force herself to keep her gaze even. She knew if she looked down, she’d see a soldier she knew, one she had trained personally, mortally wounded and gasping their last breath, reaching a hand up for mercy- and gods above, she could not afford to give it. No matter how many battles she fought in this horrific war, she never became numb to the look in a dying soldier’s eyes, pleading with her for one last chance at life. And yet she could not stop for them. She could not allow herself to be distracted in her hunt. She knew he was here somewhere. He always knew which battles she’d lead, somehow. She did not know whether it was a spy within her ranks, her reputation preceding her, or else some horrific strand of fate that bound them inextricably together in this awful dance of hunter and hunted. He had returned to his horrible unlife- tales of the black rider’s return had been circulating for weeks now. It was inevitable that she would meet him today. She would find him, and she would duel him, and one of them would die.
The soldiers on both sides knew better than to get in her way by now. A sea of fighters parted before her divine steed’s shining hooves as she cut through the battlefield, intent on her goal. She could already feel the pricklings of the Graveknight’s dark aura at the edge of her senses, attuned as she now was to its particular stench. As it grew stronger, she leaned close to her horse’s neck, almost flying as they raced towards her fated foe. The evil miasma intensified, and with it came the screams of the dying and the acrid reek of burning flesh. She could see armor melted into slag and skin melted off of bone littering the battlefield. Her empty stomach heaved. She continued on.
Gemma found the Graveknight in the center of a charred circle, laughter booming from his dark helm. He saluted her when he saw her, and she gave him a terse nod. The expected pattern was this: she would dismount, offer a verbal challenge, and they would begin. Instead, she jerked on Sen’s reigns, wheeling him around, and began galloping towards an outcropping of rocks. For a moment, she was worried he would not follow her, and considered turning around. But a bark of laughter rang out from behind her, and she heard him summon his hellish black unicorn mount and charge after her. Good.
She led Darius to a flat, sandy plain she had found earlier. It was surrounded on all sides by high walls of rock, and there was no way that anyone on the battlefield could see them. It was just large enough for a proper fight. It was more than large enough for what she intended to do. She dismounted and laid her hand on Sen’s flank in a silent farewell. He whinnied, uncertain, before she dismissed him and squeezed between the rocks into the secluded plain.
As she stepped onto the ashy sand, she could hear Darius catch up with her. “Where are you leading me, Gemma? Into a trap? That isn’t terribly heroic of you, you know.” She winced, but kept striding forward until she heard him push between the rocks and join her on the plain. “Come now, old friend, don’t ignore me like this. Are you still mad about that squire? I told you, she needed to be taught a lesson. It wasn’t anything personal. Let’s leave that in the past and have a good clean duel.”
In answer, she turned to face him, hefting her axe in her hand. She heard his booming laugh as he raised his greatsword in salute and shifted into the two-handed stance he favored. She looked at him, standing before her as her enemy for what felt like the hundredth time in somany years. There was still a choice before her. The hero’s path, or the coward’s path. She knew which she should walk. She knew also that she could walk it no longer.
Gemma tossed her axe aside and sank to her knees before Darius. The gray ash beneath her flew up, settling on her shining armor as she hung her head. She could not see Darius, only her own hands, clenched into fists in the sand. Her voice, when she managed to get it out, was hoarse and raspy, and seemed far away from her ears.
“I cannot do this anymore, “she said, tears streaking through the ash on her face.”It is not worth it anymore. There are others who will stand against you, Darius. I can no longer.”
Only silence greeted her, but she could not raise her head to see how her enemy responded. It felt too heavy for her shoulders to bear any longer. “This is what you want, is it not?” she continued, choking out the words.”To defeat your greatest enemy? To bring glory to your god? The opportunity is here. Take it, and let us be done with this game.”
Silence, again, and then a sigh of disappointment. “Well,” he said, after a long pause, “this is embarrassing. Here I thought I was about to do battle with the great Paladin of the Platinum Scale, savior of the lands, and the only person who has been able to best me.” Gemma could hear him pacing back and forth before her. “And instead I get this: A sniveling child, crying on her knees because she’s finally beginning to understand what it means to do battle with the forces of Hell. I will not kill you this day, Gemma. It would bring me no glory.” The harsh sound of metal on metal rang out as he kicked her axe back to her, and she flinched. “You have no idea what I want,” rasped the hollow voice of Valdreth, “and you are better than this. Find me again when you’ve realized it.” She could hear his boots crunching out of the plain. Then the scrape of infernal armor on stone. Then the thundering hooves of a hellish steed, growing quieter with distance. Then silence. Then nothing at all.
Gemma stayed there, kneeling alone in that dusty plain, for an eternity. She could not raise her head. She could not stand. She could not think of returning to the battlefield. Her shame held her down, crushing her with the weight of her failure. Failure to defeat Darius. Failure to save her squire. Failure to save her friend. Failure to die. Her body was wracked with silent sobs as she knelt, and only the strength of her armor kept her from collapsing.
But all rest must come to an end. She knew her duty, and now that she had failed, she could not continue to do so. Gemma took the handle of her axe and leaned on it, levering herself into a standing position, and trudged out of the plain. She had a responsibility, and she could ignore it no more.
Sen carried her weary body back through the battlefield, now quiet and still. The battle had ended at some point while she had been on that ashy plain, and now there were not even the last groans of the dying to break the terrible silence. The sun had just begun to slip below the horizon when she made it back to camp. Immediately, a crowd swarmed around her, hundreds of hands reaching up to touch her. She swung out of her saddle and smiled at her people, hoping the despair in her eyes didn’t show. The babble of the crowd, constant questions swirling around her, quieted as a white-robed figure approached her.
“Fan’hedor,” Gemma greeted the elven cleric, one hand still on Sen’s saddle to steady her.
“Milady Protector,” Gemma had to stop herself from flinching at her lieutenant’s words, well-intentioned as they may have been. ͞"There’s… something you need to see.”
Gemma followed the cleric through the camp. She could hear the murmurs following them, hushed voices between the tents. She forced herself to keep her gaze even, focusing on the white robe of her lieutenant. It felt as if there was a fog over her vision, dulling her perception and slowing her movements. She felt separated from her body, as if she was watching herself walk from afar, as if her actions were automatic. She could feel her boots hit the ground, could hear the sound of wind in nearby trees, but it all seemed… distant, somehow. Like she was residing in a plane pressed up against this one, able to see and hear but never touch. She wondered, in a corner of her mind, why Fan’Hedor was not talking to her.
The answer came all too soon. As they reached the edge of the camp, the tents and banners fell away to reveal a sickening display. On a hill before her loomed three wooden poles with what looked like lumps of rags tied to them. Crows circled the poles, cawing throatily. As she got closer, her vision focused, and she could see why Fan’Hedor had brought her here.
What she had thought were bundles of cloth resolved themselves into the battered bodies of three humans. Their faces were shattered beyond recognition, eyes gouged out and flesh a pulpy mass of blood and bone, but on top of the poles their helms were fastened. Gemma recognized the plumes and crests of three paladins- Erasmus, Letitia, Dray. Their own swords had been used to pierce their hearts, pinning them to the poles, and cruel ropes were tied around their hands and feet to ensure that their corpses held fast. Bile rose from her stomach.
She felt a tap on her shoulder, and jumped, realizing that she had been staring at the sight openmouthed with horror. “This was pinned to Erasmus’ body,” Fan’Hedor said, extending a blood-stained scrap of parchment. Gemma took it, her hands shaking.
None but your champion can stand before me, read the note. Many have tried, but all have failed. Do not attempt to challenge me again.
Gemma folded the note carefully and tucked it inside her armor. She asked Fan’Hedor to leave her, and the cleric withdrew silently. She stood for a long time, looking at the paladins’ bodies. She watched the crows peck at the faces of her former comrades. She watched the sun sink below the horizon. She watched until she could see no more. Then she turned, her face set into a hard line, and went back to camp.
Author's Notes:
Posted 1/11/21. Things go pretty bad for Gemma for a long time.