Cold Fusion - A Sci-fi, Fantasy, and Fusion Short Story Anthology

Chapter 1

Paxon Grey, knighted paladin champion of the Light demigoddess, the Veiled Lady, and Lord Captain of Her Order Militant, the Knights of the Veiled Path, felt a brow lift when the first fat drop of rain plonked onto his helmet. It was swiftly followed by another and another, until he was being liberally pelted. Frowning, he looked up at the swirling storm clouds, churning as they crested the mountains that reached into the sky on his right.

The storm had paced him for three days, always threatening but never following through. Only when he was back down in the flats did it finally decide to unleash its fury on him. Was it coincidence that the storm was breaking now that he was leagues from cover? 'Coincidence?' he sourly thought as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his helmet. 'Hardly!'

There was a dark presence guiding that storm. He could feel it every time he glanced at the steel grey and charcoal painted clouds. Something fel and menacing was watching him as he traveled.

The veteran paladin wasn't surprised. It wasn't the first time he had garnered the attention of darker powers, nor would it be the last. Not if his patron, the Veiled Lady, had anything to say about it. A fervent opponent of the Shadow and its followers, she took every opportunity available to thwart their designs before they could come to fruition. And that kind of effort had earned the Shadow's watchful eye landing on her paladin knights as they moved about the known world, doing her bidding.

Paxon's current quest was yet another attempt to do that bidding. He was to strike deep into the northern mountains to take possession of an ancient artifact stolen from the Vault of Light. The Vault was a repository for items of great power left over from the legendary Shift War, fought between demigods of Light and Shadow.

In typical demigoddess fashion, Her Holiness wouldn't say what the item was. Only that he needed to recover it. And he was to do so without a phalanx of knights of the Order riding behind him.

A trickle of icy water down past his sodden collar was enough to return Paxon's attention to his current dilemma.

"We need to find somewhere to ride out this storm, Troika," he said, leaning over to pat his horse on the neck. "Got any ideas?"

The big charger immediately pulled to a halt, forcing Paxon to pull his cloak tight with a gauntleted hand to keep the deluge from sluicing forward over his shoulders and down his front. Then she was moving to the right and off the road towards a jumble of stone twenty paces away.

As it usually was, the charger's instincts were spot on: in the jumble's lee there was a jagged overhang that offered some shelter from the storm's fury. As they approached, he took quick measure of it. Good, it was big enough for both he and Troika to take cover in. It was also an opportunity to be thankful that his patron had sent him alone; the space was enough for them, but not an entire company.

Letting his mount work her way closer for a moment, Paxon scouted out their surroundings as best he could through the pouring rain, looking for any signs that the rain hid any sort of menace. The last thing he wanted to do was put them in the middle of something nasty, if he could help it.

Then the rain was lessened by Troika stepping into the lee. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Paxon dropped his gauntleted hand from the hilt of his sword and swung out of the saddle. As soon as his metal-shod boots hit the ground, he was turning to remove his equipment and Troika's saddle. Nothing like a soggy saddle on a wet horse to annoy a mount to no end.

Moving further under the overhang, Paxon expertly spread out his things to dry then fished out his flint and some tinder he kept dry in a sealed pack.

"Stay put," he directed his horse quite unnecessarily as he climbed back to his feet. "I'll find us some wood for a fire." With that, he strode back out into the steadily strengthening downpour.

It took longer than Paxon wanted to find enough wood to last through the night. By the time he was ready to return to their makeshift shelter, his cloak was soaked through, and his clothing under that. That meant his armor was now wet and he'd have to break out the oil and grease in the hopes of staving off the rust.

With a double armful of weathered wood, he carefully made his way back through the downpour. He was nearly there when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that sent a thrill of alarm racing up his spine.

Tossing the wood to the side, he spun towards it, drawing his sword as he did.

"Hark, stay your place," he growled at the shape barely seen through the sluicing grey. "Or I'll cut you down where you stand!"

"I believe you," the shape responded in a low, cultured voice, "Lord Captain."

Paxon's grip on his sword tightened at hearing his title spoken by a stranger. No one from his Order knew he was out here, or any allied force. Which left only, ...

"Come to kill me in this foul rain, agent of the Shadow?" he hissed as he limbered up his sword arm. "You'll not find me easy to fight."

"Yes, I am an agent of the Shadow," the shape unashamedly admitted. "But I'm not here to kill you, Lord Captain." It held up empty hands to show that it wasn't prepared to fight. "I'm just looking for shelter."

"Looking for shelter?" Paxon snorted. "You just happened to be on this road, in this storm, and close enough to seek shelter in the lee of this particular jumble of rock at this precise moment in time?"

"Indeed," the shape replied and Paxon could hear the smile in its voice. "Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't, actually," Paxon bite out, preparing to charge. If this assassin wasn't going to attack, then he would.