The Paladin: a story of Faith

Prologue

The king of the central plains looked moodily at the map spread before him on the desk. On three sides of his kingdom, the border was determined by steep mountains whose people had resisted all attempts at subduing them. The king's predecessors had failed at subduing them for five hundred years.

Fiercely independent, the mountain-folk came together when threatened but otherwise kept mostly to themselves. Occasionally, they visited the valley for trade, but the sight of a mountain-man was rare enough to be cause for much speculation when they did deign to descend from their lofty homes. Their speech was similar to that of Central Valley, but the mountain people chose to dress mostly in leather or rough wool, in stark contrast to the brightly colored silks, satins and fine cotton that the valley dwellers preferred.

Sneeringly referred to by the Central Valley as 'ridge runners', the elusive people of the mountains were also said to be rather lazy and looked upon as backward in their manners and thinking. They grew few crops and had very little industry to speak of, preferring to draw their living from the world around them and to live as simply as possible. They worshipped a God they were too lazy to build idols for or even name, beyond calling Him 'the God of the Mountains.'

Having been king for less than a decade, the king of the central plains greatly desired to be the one of his dynasty to rule not only the valley, but the mountains beyond. If nothing else, the mountains grew timber far superior to what his people could grow in the valley. That alone, would be worth the conquest! A scratch at the door of his study drew the king's attention from his ruminations. "Come," he acknowledged.

A servant poked his head through the door, but didn't actually enter. "My King," he said with proper deference, "the ducal advisors wish an audience with you."

The king smiled. "Very good," he assured the servant. "Send them in." His smile faded however, when he heard what the oldest duke had to say. "A tenth of my army? That's preposterous!"

"It is necessary," insisted the duke with an emphatic nod of his hoary head. "Every king must do so in order to ensure the continued grace of magic among the paladins and victory on the battlefield. No less than one in ten is accepted, and the tithe must be the best of them all."

"And my father?" challenged the king.

"He sent the bare minimum." One of the dukes answered without waiting for his elder, offering a slow glance at the map still spread before the king. "If I may, Your Majesty, sending more than required and the best of them would do you well, given your . . . ambitions for the troops."

"It's food for thought," the king conceded despite his irritation at the duke's forward manner. "I will consider this and revisit it later. Is there a time limit on the requirement?"

This time, the oldest duke answered. "Only that it occurs within your reign, My King."

The king nodded. "Stay," he said to the old man. "I wish to hear your account of my father's offering. The rest of you may leave."