Second Extract from Puppet-master's Marionette II (unedited version)

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This Second Extract derives from the first third of the First Extract (about the paladin commander Roland), so don't read it if you haven't read the First Extract! As before, this extract has not yet been edited by a professional proofreader. It is still raw and cannot be considered 'the final cut'.

All comments and suggestions are welcomed.

Captain Tarmin was a resolute soldier, hardened by years of intense military training. He had served many a master (from iron-fisted tyrants to spineless lordings), even beyond the borders of his native land... Although a hired sword by choice, he was foremost a Delmirian at heart, which explained his patriotic decision to return to Delmir and pledge his sword to a higher cause – resisting the paladin invaders and freeing his homeland.

A man of imposing physical stature, Tarmin had a talent of instilling fear into the hearts of his enemies and fortitude into his allies. Barrel-chested and quite tall (even for a Delmirian) with long raven hair that resembled a mane, Tarmin was most often compared to an ogre in chain mail. Many revered him, but many more loathed him and prayed for his untimely demise.

Despite being a formidable swordsman, Tarmin never wore a helmet, for he had a scorn for helmets, claiming they always got in the way of his dreaded bastard sword, The Paragon. The rebel captain had a myriad of scars on his face and wore them with pride; they crisscrossed his sun-burnt cheeks and cleft chin. Those 'war medals' spoke of survival. They spoke of bravery in the face of death. But most important of all, they spoke of countless slain foes.

The captain brushed a lazy strand of greasy hair from his placid forehead and surveyed the mirksome Fedran valley. Nightfall had come, chilly and unpleasant, turning shadows of the day into darkness and replacing sunlight with moonlight. All was quiet in the misty valley, yet such peaceful slumber was not to be found nestled at the heart of his dwindling regiment of twenty. Two soldiers had died a fortnight ago in a village - both had been buried in unmarked graves at the church cemetery (so their remains would not be defiled by paladins). Three more had been put out of their misery a few days after; rotting flesh would have claimed their lives in any case – a speedy passing was to be considered a blessing.

Has there ever been a tyranny fouler than that of the Paladin Church, Tarmin was left to wonder. The Church Law was the law of the sword, the law of the strong, but there was nothing soldierly about the way paladins waged war. On the other hand, there was definitely something fiendish. Tarmin regarded the paladins not as ordinary opponents, but as beasts to be hunted down and skinned alive; the knights of the Paladin Order deserved no honour in death, for they had shown themselves to be honourless creatures.

Tarmin had returned to Delmir only to find the fatherland in total disarray and his native village a mournful pile of ashes and bones. The Republic was overrun by paladins. No matter where the path of destruction took him, he found banners of the White Sun everywhere. They were in villages, towns, and in cities. Throughout the wounded land, shrines and temples, dedicated to the Four Spirits of earth, fire, water, and air, lay in ruins - torn down. No religion, save for the one endorsed by the invaders, was permitted. The white Sun of the Paladin Order cast a shadow of oppression over everything and everyone.

The captain's callous hand slipped lower to the ivory pommel of his sword; he gripped it tightly until his knuckles turned white (the memory of levelled villages made his heart ache like an open wound on a scorching summer day). What his patriotic soul really relished was to bury that very same sword of righteousness into the skull of some paladin dog. Alas, no dogs seemed in sight, though he suspected they were not to be found far.

Tarmin turned, his eyes letting go of the sleepy valley. He was not worried that enemies would sneak up on him, because he had posted enough sentries to avert any peril of being caught unaware, and so his serene eyes gazed upwards to trace the gigantic silhouette of old Fedran, wreathed in everlasting mists.

The mountain was the way and it lay ahead – it was a certainty, for there was no time to go around it, not with the paladin pursuit closer than ever before. The mountain passes would be treacherous and hard to navigate, but they had become all but a necessity. Tarmin was counting on winter snows to close off those very same passes and halt his persecutors, at the same time giving him a chance to regroup in the mountains and continue fighting in early spring. The autumn battles were lost, but not the war for freedom. War could still be won, at least that was what he kept telling his loyal soldiers to keep their spirits up. There were many villages and caves high in the mountains – foregone, lofty refuges the paladins had no knowledge of.

A hooting of an owl made the hairs on Tarmin neck give a salute. Within seconds he was running back to the nearest sentry; there were no owls in Delmir. The sentry had spotted someone or something.

'Speak,' Tarmin urged the man, out of breath.

The soldier did more than that - he pointed to a column of men marching in plain sight, in the direction of the camp. 'They are here, sir.'

The captain nodded and after one 'well done' he set off to meet the newcomers.

A nearby town had been sacked and put to torch a day ago, and Tarmin had sent one of his most trusted lieutenants to investigate and organize the survivors. Reinforcement would be most welcoming after the recent losses; more so, any town that had chosen fire over submission was worthy of looking into.

By the time he got back to the camp, the procession with only ten men, not counting his steadfast lieutenant, had arrived.

Captain Tarmin made no effort to hide the disapproving look on his face. 'Only ten? With the twenty men we already have, it will make a poor addition,' he reproached his lieutenant, eyeing the newcomers at the same time, scrutinizing them as though they were nothing more than assets. The majority wore ragged clothes and some were even hooded, but, despite this, they all appeared to be of commendable physical fitness – all tall and broad of shoulder. If they had not the skills of soldiers, they had good prepositions to be made into soldiers.

'Is there someone who will speak for all of you,' Tarmin asked.

One of the hooded stepped forward. The man removed the cowl with his left hand to reveal a shaved head – he could not have been more than thirty years of age. Rather flatly he stated: 'I will speak for them.'

'Your name?'

'Resien', the newcomer answered, and Tarmin was granted another moment of silence. Evidently he was not a very talkative person, even though the others had chosen him to act as their spokesman.

'What foul fate has befallen your hometown, Resien?'

Upon hearing the question, Resien bowed his head in surrender. 'Once we refused to let the Paladins inside the town temple, knowing that heathens such as them would desecrate it, they laid siege to the town and then began bombarding it. We are the sole survivors.'

Tarmin nodded but kept his distance, not offering any comment or showing a shred sympathy. Most of the other newcomers had already scattered about the camp, foraging for food and dry clothing. Tarmin knew that his own men would be more than willing to share what little they had. Unlike paladin knights, his soldiers were not without heart or compassion.

After a few minutes of dry conversation, Tarmin decided to break his usual, cold demeanour. He offered his hand to Resien, but the man seemed bent on ignoring the friendly gesture, going as far as to avoid direct eye-contact with the captain. Following his impeccable military instincts, Tarmin backed away, drew the dreaded Paragon and compelled the leader of the newcomers to extend his right arm. Much to Tarmin' bewilderment, the leader had not been hiding a weapon at all, but rather his entire left arm, for it was made of metal.

'I know of only one man who has a metal hand,' Tarmin growled.

Roland just smiled a wicked smile. 'And you shall die by that very same hand, rebel!'

No replies were needed, because the death cries of Tarmin's men spoke louder than anything else.

Paladins, previously disguised as ragtag newcomers, fell upon Tarmin's unsuspecting soldiers, plunging daggers into their bodies, breaking necks and arms. Minutes after, the bewildered captain was the only rebel left standing – no longer anyone's captain.

With his heavy sword flying in a wide arch, Tarmin lunged at the smug paladin commander, but the skilful holy knight neutralised the blow easily enough by grabbing the blade of the sword with his metal hand. Contrary to Roland's expectations, Tarmin did not try to dislodge the sword, but grabbed Roland by the throat, instead. Strong as an ox, he lifted the commander off the ground and threw him a dozen feet away, like he was a mere child playing war. Other paladins would have charged the brute captain, but Roland had signalled them not to interfere at any cost, and so they stood their ground.

Like a maddened bull, barehanded, Tarmin kept taunting his reluctant attackers, roaring at them to do battle; he had nothing else left to lose and was hoping to take a few of them down before he died.

From the corner of his eye Tarmin saw Roland get up; the paladin commander could take a beating. Roland took off the ragtag garment and revealed a black tunic crested with the White Sun of the Paladin Order. Underneath it was a mail shirt.

After tossing back Paragon to Tarmin, Roland unsheathed his own long sword; the blade was now completely bare and glistening in the moonlight. Roland approached the foe and their deadly duel began.

Despite being a foot shorter than the captain, Roland was more than an equal opponent – an opponent who knew how to wield a sword with perfection.

The two combatants were spinning faster and faster – so fast that it soon became impossible to tell who was actually in advantage. Blades brushed against each other and sang hundreds of times, metal screeched and a rain of sparks flew all around.

It was becoming too fast – a battle too fast for Tarmin to keep up. He had heard of such a skill, but erroneously thought that very few paladins had ever mastered it.

Tarmin's eyes frantically watched for Roland's blade as it danced around his head threatening his life. He should have kept better watch on Roland's metal arm, for the nails on those 'dead' fingers were of metal too (as long as bear claws). In one sudden blow Roland managed to knock the sword out of Tarmin's hand. In the second that followed, the clawed metal hand severed the neck artery of the valiant captain. Tarmin's eyes widened as he reached to plug the gushing wound on his neck. Not a moment after, he toppled down, drowning in the pool of his own blood.

Preferring the silence of death over that annoying gurgle the dying captain was making, Roland placed his boot just above Tarmin's shoulders and snapped the captain's neck. Once the dead silence had been restored, the ruthless paladin commander surveyed the camp-site. All the rebels lay dead or dying.

With not a moment to spare, Roland summoned several golems to him and dispatched them to take care of the scattered patrols and sentries.

The paladin commander turned to old Fedran and gazed up at the mountain peek, much like Tarmin had done an hour ago whilst still one of the living.

Something was terribly wrong about the whole war campaign in Delmir. Although the situation in the occupied Republic was not rosy, it was neither apocalyptic as High Priest Balthazar had led him to believe. Surely the presence of a paladin commander, the second highest official of the Paladin Order, was not required!? But why then did Balthazar dispatch him to Delmir?

Roland's eyes looked to northwest, toward the land of Nordin, in the direction of Tara, the Nordin capital. He knew that all answers lay there, with Balthazar. Surrounded day and night by his ever-growing Golem Army, the High Priest of the Paladin Order had wanted him out of the way. But the real question was: whatever for? After short deliberation, Roland signalled one of the paladins to come forth. The man knelt and whispered: 'Sir?'

Roland barely acknowledged the soldier's homage. A nod was all Roland had to spare.

'I need to speak to the Grand Master in an hour from now. Make it happen!'

The paladin knight nodded soldierly and rose to carry out the commander's bidding.