“Very well,” he said, wondering how in the world he’d ended up in such a predicament. “I’ll behave.”
“Good.”
The tip vanished, and he saw her eyes peer at him through the door. He could tell she was smiling.
“You better not tell anyone about this,” he said.
“Everyone who will listen. Don’t worry, you’ll even make it outside in this tale, before I wrestled you to the ground and beat you unconscious with my bare hands. Should earn a few chuckles around the campfire.”
Jerico laughed, deciding he easily liked her most of all his jailors so far.
* * * * *
To prepare himself for bed, Jerico knelt and began his prayers. Barely a few minutes in, he heard distant shouts. Stopping, he went to the small window and tried to see. Torchlight flickered through the trees, and a crowd of men appeared, walking along a path. A couple veered his way, and he stepped back from the window. A short while later, the door opened, and in stepped Kaide. A wicked bruise bled across his brow. Blood stained his clothes.
“Outside,” he said. “There isn’t enough room in here. Shit, it’s bad, Jerico. I hope you can handle it.”
Jerico gestured for Kaide to lead the way, and then followed the outlaw. Around a large, central campfire he saw ten bodies, lying in a circle to keep them near its warmth. They all had various wounds, some minor, some severe. Jerico circled them, taking in the damage. Surrounding him were the rest of the men, talking quietly to themselves and watching him intently.
“You assaulted armored knights,” he said, turning to Kaide. “All of these are by swords. They injured themselves breaking the law, and attacking innocent men.”
“Innocent?” one of the ruffians asked, and two others had to grab him to keep him from attacking Jerico.
“Will you heal them?” Kaide asked.
“Should I?”
They exchanged a look. Jerico didn’t know what to think, or what to do. Part of him just wanted to alert Kaide to the reality of his situation. In the end, it didn’t matter. The bandit leader stared him in the eye and called his bluff.
“If you are who I think you are, you would never sit back and watch a man die. Do not argue with me, risking my men death, just to waste my time and satisfy your pride. Do your duty, paladin.”
Jerico’s stare hardened, but then he turned away. Kaide was right. It didn’t matter if these men were murderers or thieves. He would not watch them suffer needlessly. Circling the fire once more, he sought out the worst of the wounded, and knelt beside a bearded man with a cut across his belly. The man held his fists pressed against it, keeping his entrails from spilling out.
“Let go,” Jerico said, putting his hands atop his fists. “Close your eyes, relax, and let go.”
The man reluctantly obeyed. Jerico closed his own eyes and gave himself to Ashhur in prayer. Light shone from his fingers at their contact, pouring across the skin. It knitted the flesh together, healing the wound. Done, Jerico stood, took a deep breath to steady himself, and then went to the next.
Two of the ten were already dead by the time he could go to them. Several others had mortal wounds, wounds he sealed with his faith. The rest, with minor cuts or broken bones, he treated last. Torn muscles he mended, and broken bones snapped together amid the cries of their owners. At last, Jerico collapsed to his knees and stared into the fire. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, and his head pounded. Nearby, Sandra went from man to man, wrapping what remained of their cuts with bandages, and giving slings to the men who’d broken arms or fingers so they might not strain their tender appendages.
“Well done,” Kaide said after chatting with a couple of the men who had, only minutes before, been at death’s door.
“Thanks,” Jerico said, still not opening his eyes. He felt ready to vomit, though he didn’t know if he had anything in his stomach to empty. Something slapped his shoulder, and he opened an eye to see a waterskin. He took it and drank, then turned to the side and vomited it all back up. Coughing, he prayed for the dizziness to stop. At Durham he’d handled worse, but that day felt centuries away. He was tired from the road, nursing bruises and desperate for food and drink. An empty shell, he lay on his back and stared at the stars through the naked canopy of branches.
Kaide sat beside him, acting unbothered by the vomit nearby. He took his own drink from the waterskin, and then offered it a second time. Jerico weakly waved it away.
“They were ready for us,” Kaide said. His voice was soft, and it lacked the hard edge it’d had before. “Only reason we lived was because we came at them from both sides. Don’t think they realized just how many have sworn to my name. Still, they wore heavy armor, like yours. Half my men have nothing but clubs, tree branches. Do you know what it takes to bring someone down with only that? Gods damn it all, the gore we left inside that armor…”
He fell silent for a moment, took a drink.
“Left twelve men back there, dead or too far gone to survive the trip back. Couldn’t even bury them. Didn’t have the time. Could only burn them.”
“I’m sorry,” Jerico said. He wasn’t sure if he was, but it felt like the right thing to say.
“You need to be there with us,” Kaide said, still not looking at him. “My sister’s told me who you are, what you’ve done. Those knights … you could have taken out half of them by yourself. And my friends, my wounded…”
He wiped at his eyes, quick, subtle.
“There would have been time for them.”
Jerico rolled onto his knees, waited for his stomach to settle, and then stood. Ashhur help him, was this all he would ever be good for? Healing the wounded and presiding over the dead?
“I don’t know what god you worship, if any,” he said. “But I will pray over your dead, if you would allow it.”
Kaide nodded.
“It’ll do a lot of the men good. You have my blessing.”
There were about sixty of them gathered around the two graves, nearly all sporting cuts and bruises. Four men had taken turns shoveling, and another had whittled down stakes to place above them, with a single letter cut into the wood to mark their names. When the bodies were in place, and the dirt ready to fall, Jerico stood before them. He felt their eyes watching him, felt their confusion, anger, and doubt.
“Let us pray,” Jerico said, beginning the burial ritual.
When he was done, they shoveled the dirt back into the grave, and Kaide led Jerico back to his room. When he laid down on the bed, he heard muttered talking, then nothing. Curious, Jerico forced himself back up and to the door. A slight push was enough to confirm what he thought. The door was unlocked. Stay or go, he wondered. What is right?
In the end, he returned to his bed and slept. Ashhur had guided him there for a purpose. He had to believe that, for all other possibilities frightened him, left him alone and adrift in the land of Dezrel. As sleep came to him, he vowed to find out the reason, and attack it with all his might. But his dreams were not of duty, or vengeance, but of Sandra, smiling at him with her sad smile.
CHAPTER THREE
For several days Darius saw no sign of Velixar, and this heartened him greatly. He always felt his lowest in the prophet’s presence, as if he stood before a standard that he could never hope to achieve. Velixar had the faith of a man who spoke with deities, while Darius could only wander the wilderness road, glad for the moments of silence.
On the third day, he heard the heavy sound of hoofbeats coming from the south, and he stopped to await their arrival. They might be bandits, knights, or riders from the Stronghold. No matter what, he would neither run nor hide, only face them in the open and meet any challenge issued.
Ahead, the road curved, and around that curve came six knights in worn platemail. They were not of the Stronghold, that was obvious enough. Darius saw the symbol on their shields, that of a yellow rose, but didn’t recall its significance. He raised his hand in greeting, expecting similar in kind. Instead the horsemen encircled him, their sw
ords drawn.
“Identify yourself!” their leader shouted.
Darius chuckled, wondering if he was supposed to be intimidated.
“I am Darius of the Stronghold, paladin of our mighty god Karak. And who might you be?”
The knight lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal his face. His hair was dark, and he had a scar running along the bridge of his nose.
“Sir Gregane, knight of our lord, Sebastian Hemman. We’ve been tracking a group of bandits, and they struck not far from here.”
“Do I look like a bandit? Put your swords away, before I am offended.”
A nod from Gregane, and the men sheathed their blades.
“My apologies,” said the knight. “We have been ambushed many times, and feared you were part of another.”
“Bandits and rebels are men of chaos. You should remember that, knight, before you ever question the allegiance of a paladin of Karak.”
As Gregane nodded again, a second knight leaned in and murmured something to him in a low tone.
“Very well,” Gregane said, turning his attention back to Darius. “Our lord has been seeking one of your faith. I ask that you ride back with us to his castle.”
“And if I refuse?”
Gregane glanced at the rest of the riders.
“I would strongly recommend against doing so,” he said.
Darius sighed.
“Very well.”
They had no spare horse, and could not carry two with how burdened each of them were with their heavy armor. One dismounted and offered Darius the reins.
“Her name’s Esme, after my wife,” said the knight. “Treat her well. She has a temper.”
“The horse, or your wife?” Darius asked as he adjusted the saddle.
“Both,” he said with a grin.
“I’ll send a rider for you, Isaac,” Gregane said. “Stay off the road. Bandits might still be near.”
They rode north, Darius in the center of the formation. Most kept to themselves, for which the dark paladin was thankful. He had no desire for conversation, not while he pondered the reason for his audience. Never before had he been to the Castle of the Yellow Rose, and it didn’t seem that Lord Hemman requested him by name. No doubt he wanted some sort of religious guidance, though why no members of the faith would be with him at the castle seemed odd. Perhaps they were all hunting their new favorite prey…
The thought reminded him of Jerico, and he wondered how the paladin fared. Had he fled north, as Darius had suggested, or turned about to head south? What of the dark paladins, had they found him yet? He hoped not. Deep down, Darius still felt the bloody conflict might end, that it was no true war. But the various lords, ladies, and kings would turn blind eyes to conflicts of faith, so long as it did not disrupt their people or bathe their streets with blood. Darius knew his brethren would be too careful for that.
They emerged from the forest about an hour later, the castle not far in the distance. Its walls stretched out for a mile beyond the castle itself, sealing in several pastures with crops and cattle, along with numerous wells. Darius eyed the walls. They were short, and made of dark stone. Ladders would easily reach the top, and battering rams would make quick work of their gates, but that wasn’t their point. They were for holding off uprisings of peasants and raids by bandits, who lacked even the most basic of siege weaponry.
The castle was equally unimpressive, save for one thing. As Darius entered through a gateway, following the knights along a beaten dirt path, he saw the great rose painted across the face of the castle. It drooped to one side, and a single petal fell, twirling in an unseen wind. Vines grew across the face of the walls, adding texture to the painted petals. Darius couldn’t begin to imagine how they painted it, nor kept its color vibrant. As a defensive foundation, it was basic, square, and crenellated along the tops.
Sir Gregane announced their arrival, and the castle’s doors were flung open. Young boys appeared, leading away the horses once the knights dismounted. Darius kept an eye out for priests and paladins of either faith, but saw none. If lucky, he might appear before Sebastian, offer some vague advice, and then be gone.
“Follow me,” Gregane said. “But first, your sword.”
“I go nowhere without it, not even before kings and queens. I will not disarm myself before your lord, especially when I am brought here as a guest.”
The other knights tensed, but Gregane seemed unoffended.
“Very well. Keep it sheathed on your back. I cannot promise you safety otherwise.”
Darius gestured for him to move along. They stepped into a short hallway, past several doors leading to the lower and upper floors of the castle. Then they were inside the grand room, with rows of tables for feasting at the foot of a single throne made of stained oak. A man sat on it, thin and wiry, with his dark hair reaching far past his neck. Flecks of gray shone in the black.
“Sebastian Hemman,” Darius said, not waiting for introductions. “I am Darius of the Stronghold, faithful paladin of Karak, and I bring with me his blessing.”
Sebastian sat ramrod straight in his chair, and at the announcement, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to a table that had a meager offering of food.
“You may eat and drink, if you’d like,” said the lord. His voice was soft, calculated.
“Perhaps when business is done,” Darius said. He remained standing, even when the other knights bowed in reverence. Darius would bow to no one, nor call them lord; his kind served Karak and Karak alone. “I have never been fond of empty pleasantries, nor stalling words to feel out another’s true thoughts. Let me state this plainly: I have come because you have summoned me. Let me know why, so I may perform my function, and then go on my way if I so choose.”
“Impatient words,” Sebastian said. “But I’ve found your kind often is. Sometimes I think Karak sends those gifted with golden tongues to his priesthood, and the blunt muscle to the Stronghold.”
Darius grinned.
“No one will ever accuse me of a bronze tongue, let alone golden. I have my sword, and that is enough. Tell me, Sebastian, why am I here? Are there no others of the faith to counsel you?”
“We once had a priest here, but he has left, with business he swears is most urgent.” Lord Hemman took a drink of wine from a cup at his side, still in no hurry to move things along. “But the seventh day approaches, and we have no one to administer the offerings, nor have we had for several weeks. Would you preside over this for my people tomorrow?”
That was it? Darius tried to contain his temper. He’d basically been kidnapped and brought before their lord, all so he could perform a function even the youngest of the faith could handle?
“If that is what you require, I accept, but I have matters I must attend, and cannot stay long.”
“Yes, of course. Now that that is settled…”
Sebastian clapped his hands, ordering everyone out. Gregane opened his mouth to protest, but the lord silenced him with a glare. The servants vanished, shutting the door behind the knights. When they were alone, Sebastian stood, and he seemed to visibly relax.
“Forgive me that tedious business,” he said, eagerness bleeding into his voice. “It has been weeks since any worshipper of Ashhur was here, but I thought it best to hide the reason for your arrival just in case. Castle walls have ears, after all, and mine are no exception.”
“I see,” Darius said, though he didn’t. If not for the morrow’s service, why was he here? A ball of lead formed in his stomach, for of all the ideas he had, none were pleasant. The lord moved to a door behind his throne, and he opened it with a key wrapped around his neck. Taking a nearby torch, he stepped inside, beckoning Darius to follow. Heart in his throat, he did.
The air was heavy, and the floor damp. They descended into a dank dungeon, the only sound that of the flickering torch and a distant dripping of water. At the bottom of the stairs was a cell, and inside that cell was an older man strapped upright to the wall with iron.
“Who is this?” Darius asked, already dreading the answer. “Answer me.”
“It is a brave man who will make demands in a lord’s dungeon,” Sebastian said. “But that is your nature, I suppose. I have always been a faithful supporter of Karak. Ashhur appeals to the peasant folk, the simple minded who need promises of greatness in death, who need a doctrine that elevates them as equals to gods. Karak knows better. It is Order the world needs, a king, his lords, and their subjects. That is the divine sequence.”
“Enough,” Darius said, wishing to hear no more of the man’s simplification of a doctrine he knew better in his sleep. “Answer my question.”
“His name is Pallos,” Sebastian said, opening the cell door. “My men captured him along the road, and have brought him here. Before he left, Laius, one of your priests assigned to be my counsel, spoke whispers of a war. He told me of the Citadel’s fall, and of the great cleansing that sweeps across Dezrel. Of course, I would not dare steal from you a rightful execution. Besides, if the priests of Ashhur received word, they might make my life … difficult.”
Darius stepped into the cell, his throat dry. The paladin’s name was so familiar. Pallos … that was it. Darius had promised Jerico that he would warn Pallos of the silent war should he encounter him again. It seemed such a warning was no longer necessary. The older man looked up at him, his eyes still lucid despite the thinness of his body and the darkness of his cell.
“Leave me,” Darius told Sebastian. “I wish to have words with this man, of things you’d best not hear.”
“Of course.” The man bowed and stepped back, keeping his torch high so its light might still shine on them both.
“Who are you?” Pallos asked, his voice cracking.
“My name is Darius … of Durham.”
At the name, Pallos tensed against his shackles.
“Have you turned against me?” he asked. “Has the entire world? I warned Jerico, but did he listen? He counted you his friend.”
“And he still does,” Darius said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I had not the heart to kill him. He lives, Pallos, at least last I saw him. The world is dangerous, though, so I cannot know for certain.”
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