The Old Ways p-3

by David Dalglish

  “Do strange men and women attack you often?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “More than I’d prefer. Can you stand?”

  Sandra nodded. He stood, gently took her into his arms, and lifted. Her feet were unsteady beneath her, but he kept her still. She looked like she might vomit for a moment, but it passed. Her whole body trembled as if she were cold.

  “Who was that?” Sandra asked, glancing about the forest.

  “Someone with a grudge.”

  “Is she dead?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  She tried to step away, but it was too much. He caught her, and looked back to Kaide’s camp, torn. Could he really take her with him, wounded as she was? A day or two of bed rest was what she needed, not rough travel.

  “Sandra,” he started to say, but she cut him off.

  “I’m going,” she said. Her fingers clutched his arm in a vise-like gripe, and her other hand pressed against her stomach. “If not now, I never will.”

  Jerico couldn’t believe her strength. If that was what she wanted, what she was capable of, then who was he to deny her?

  “So be it, but we rest whenever you cannot go on. If your brother gives chase, he will catch us, no matter how much we hurry. Are you prepared for the consequences?”

  She smiled a delirious smile and pulled her hand away from the hole in her dress.

  “How could he do any worse to me than what he already has done?”

  Jerico chuckled, then patted his shield.

  “We’ll just have to be careful. Take my hand.”

  With the rest of her things tucked away on his back, she accepted his aid, leaned much of her weight against him, and followed him out of the forest.

  K aide stood before the dwindling campfire, hands clasped behind his back. The stars were out, but they’d soon vanish, the morning sun only an hour or two away. He should have been asleep, but one of his scouts had woken him, fearful to say what he’d discovered. Kaide had had to badger it out of him.

  “It’s Jerico,” said the scout.

  Now Kaide waited as several men searched the surrounding area. He’d known Darius was leaving, but he thought Jerico would stay to ensure his friend’s safety. It seemed that was not the case. Was it a bluff, a reproof? Or perhaps Jerico’s pride was injured? It didn’t seem to matter. After twenty minutes of searching, he knew for certain Jerico was not just sleeping in the distance. He’d left for good.

  “Damn you, Jerico,” he said, sadly shaking his head. The paladin had meant so much to him, but that was his fault for putting his faith in a man who valued gods above all else. Ashhur couldn’t care less for his plight, couldn’t care less for his quest of revenge. Where had the god been when the deep snows piled up around Ashvale after Sebastian’s knights had ransacked every bit of their food and livestock? Where had Ashhur been when they threw the first of the dead upon the fire? When the smoke wafted up, and their stomachs growled, and their children cried in hunger?

  Adam approached, looking tired and angry for the disruption of sleep. His lips were still swollen, and he had done a poor job cleaning off the blood from his chin.

  “You’re not gonna like hearing this,” Adam said.

  “Out with it.”

  “It’s your sister.”

  He started to ask what about her, but Adam’s look was enough. A stone shifted in Kaide’s stomach, and he looked to the dying fire.

  “Do we go after them?” Adam asked. “You did say…”

  “I know what I said.”

  Adam shifted, his arms crossed.

  “Then what do we do?”

  Kaide drew his dirk, and he twirled it before his eyes, staring into the multitude of reflections cast by the light of the dying embers before him.

  “Let them go,” he said, jamming it back into its sheath. “Call off the search. Bellok should be back soon, and we’ll need to be rested. We’ve wasted enough time. Tomorrow we march, and we’ll bring the Abyss to Sebastian and his men.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Adam left, and once more alone, Kaide cursed the paladin’s name.

  “Take good care of her,” he whispered, looking up to the night sky. “Otherwise I’ll kill you myself.”

  He returned to his cabin, hoping for a few more hours of sleep. After tossing and turning for an eternity, he gave up hope, and only stared at the ceiling until at last daylight streamed in through a window.

  6

  Daniel put on the last of his armor, then left his room. The morning was young, and he had men to train. His mood was foul, but not because of the training. He’d had a horrible time avoiding the two priests and their men. It seemed every hour they came to Robert with new demands or expectations, and it seemed every time Robert conceded. The idea of pandering to Karak’s fanatics burned his gut. He’d warned Robert of the Stronghold’s strength, yet he’d gone ahead with the bounty on Darius’s head. Now look what it’d gotten them.

  He turned a corner, approaching the bottom door to the Blood Tower, when he encountered one of the priests. It was the young one, Cyric. The way he leaned against the door with his arms behind his back made it seem like he’d been waiting for him.

  “Morning,” Daniel said, hoping to barge right past without conversation.

  “Morning,” Cyric said, stepping in the way. “A word, if you please?”

  Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  Cyric rubbed his knuckles against his robe and then looked at them, as if oblivious to Daniel’s impatience.

  “Something has been bothering me. Luther insists I not worry, but perhaps you might indulge me anyway. I would like to speak with the witnesses of the attack on Durham.”

  The young man looked up and smiled. Daniel felt his blood chill. It was a serpent’s smile, a killer’s grin.

  “For what reason?” he asked. “Sir Robert has already judged they speak truthfully.”

  “I do not mean to doubt Robert’s decision,” Cyric said. “Only to hear with my own ears what happened. I find it hard to believe that just one man caused such destruction. Don’t you?”

  Daniel swallowed. The townsfolk had spoken of another man that came after Darius’s warning. Fire had leapt from his hands and demonic words from his tongue. They’d given no name, and among them all, couldn’t even agree on a description, other than the color of his eyes: a deep red that shone as if the fires of the Abyss burned behind them. With so little to go on, Robert had restricted the bounty to the one person whose blame no one could deny: Darius.

  “A paladin of Karak can be a very powerful foe,” Daniel said.

  “Indeed,” Cyric said, his smile growing. “I am not ignorant of their power. Five traveled with Luther and me from Mordeina, after all.”

  Daniel sensed the implied threat and did his best to pretend he hadn’t.

  “That’s fine, but I don’t think it appropriate you speak to the townsfolk. They have suffered enough without you bringing up bad memories.”

  “I am afraid I must insist, Daniel.”

  “Then insist to Robert. You have my answer.”

  He grabbed the handle to the door. Cyric remained leaning against it, as if daring Daniel to pull it open.

  “We’ll be holding a service tomorrow,” said the fledgling priest. “You should attend.”

  “The Abyss will freeze over before I do.”

  “Careful,” said Cyric, stepping out of the away. “The time of judgment approaches on the backs of lions. I would hate to be caught unaware.”

  Daniel stormed outside, glad to be away. He’d hoped to take his frustration out on his men in a grueling training session, but it seemed one of the gods was conspiring against him, and it took little wit to guess which one. Normally they held practice in a wide area of trampled dirt, within the small courtyard that stretched between the tower and the outer walls. That morning, Luther stood in its center, a book in hand.
A tenth of the Blood Tower’s fighting men stood about, listening as Luther preached in a firm, steady voice. The mere sight sent Daniel’s blood boiling.

  “What is going on here?” he asked, pulling one of his men aside.

  “Just listening,” said the man, though he looked away, as if guilty of something. Daniel bit his tongue as he realized Luther was in mid-prayer. He felt awkward interrupting it, especially when he realized several others were praying along. Karak or Ashhur, Sir Robert had never cared, so long as it didn’t interfere with his soldiers’ duties. Despite his anger, Daniel tried to honor that, and let the priest finish.

  “…and may we always abide by the strength and wisdom of the Lion,” said Luther. “And all those with wisdom say amen.”

  Five or six echoed the word ‘amen’, and for whatever reason, it set the hair on the back of Daniel’s neck to standing. The prayer over, the men scattered, all shooting glances toward Daniel, who approached Luther.

  “A word,” he said, grabbing Luther’s robe by the shoulder.

  “Of course,” Luther said, nothing but calm. “Though remember whose robe you grab, and perhaps show wisdom the next time you would act in anger.”

  Daniel accepted the rebuke, and forced his temper in check. Their situation was no less precarious now than it had been at the priests’ first arrival.

  “My apologies,” Daniel said dryly. “But this place is for my men to train every morning, and I cannot have you occupying them with speeches and sermons.”

  “Does the soul not need training as well?” Luther asked as he led him toward the gate to the outside. “What good does it to teach men how to kill if they know not when or why to use those abilities?”

  “That’s why we have a chain of command, why we teach them to follow orders.”

  “Exactly,” Luther said, sounding pleased. It made Daniel feel like he was just another of the old priest’s students, and he didn’t like it. “Chain of command. Such a good term to describe what we do. Imagine the Blood Tower represents our world. You are to your men as I am to my flock, a teacher. Above you is Sir Robert, just as above me are the old masters in Mordeina and the Stronghold. And as the King is above Sir Robert, so is Karak above us all. We are in the same field of work, Daniel, and I would hope you appreciate my difficulties.”

  “I’m training men to defend all the West from the bloodthirsty creatures in the Vile Wedge.”

  “And I’m training men to defend their souls from the evils of the world. I dare say that my task is more important, wouldn’t you?”

  They stepped out the gate. Across the lush field fed by the Gihon was Karak’s encampment, formed of several dozen tents. Over five hundred men were there, well armed and armored. Their very look made him uneasy. They were like private mercenaries, only worse. The Stronghold might pay them with gold or jewels, but they viewed their service as a religious duty. They served no king, only Karak. The very notion made Daniel nervous. Once a man invested his loyalty in something other than his own king, it made him unpredictable and dangerous.

  “What is it you’re here for?” Daniel asked as Luther stopped to view his camp. He kept his voice low, as if they were discussing secrets. “You have what you wanted. We’ll take Darius alive, and deliver him to you. Why do you stay?”

  “There is the matter of the two Hemman brothers.”

  “Lord Arthur is trapped in his castle, and will starve in the next few months. You have nothing to fear there.”

  “Do we not?” Luther turned to face him, and with those eyes staring into him, Daniel felt naked. He tried not to meet his gaze, but was powerless against it. “This is more than a mere squabble between brothers, more than a war between fellow lords. I have long heard of the North’s faith to Karak. We believed it, for the tithes were great, and Lord Sebastian was ever eager to please. But now that I walk these lands, I find myself doubting. So few of your soldiers practice any religion, let alone the truth of Karak. In the villages we stayed in during our journey here, many harbored hidden sympathy for Ashhur. When most spoke of Karak, I heard no love, no loyalty. A sickness grows in our most faithful of territories, and I must find out why.”

  “Fascinating, but why should we give a damn?”

  Luther smiled.

  “You’re much like Sir Robert, and if you would trust me, we might get along well. You are a practical man, as am I. Perhaps I deal with spiritual matters, but I understand we will never achieve perfection, and there will always be men like you who, as you might say, don’t give a damn.”

  Luther gestured to the three hundred. Daniel watched them closely, and realized they were preparing their things to move out.

  “Where will you be heading?” he asked. “To the Castle of Caves?”

  “You are correct,” Luther said. “Most of them will leave tomorrow. They’ll go to ensure victory for the lord that is most obedient to Karak, at least on the surface. I now wonder how faithful Sebastian is, but even if he is false, his actions and tithes are real enough. My student will stay here, for there is still much work to be done.”

  Daniel didn’t like the sound of that, but he feared to say so. If the three hundred men were leaving, then at least he might walk about Robert’s tower without fear of an impending coup. But what work remained? Would he proselytize the rest of his soldiers? Or would they strike out for the nearby villagers in an attempt to root out the reason for the ‘sickness’, as Luther put it?

  “For all your gracious gifts, we will try our best to accommodate your student,” he said, bowing slightly. “For now, I must go train my men.”

  “Of course.”

  Daniel started to hurry back, but Luther spoke his last parting words of wisdom.

  “You are a good man, Daniel, but you must soon bring your mind to the things beyond this world. The hour comes when a war will bathe Dezrel with blood, fire, and death. I would hate to see you caught on the wrong side.”

  Daniel couldn’t help himself.

  “And what side would that be?” he asked, glancing back.

  “There is safety in Karak’s arms,” said Luther, his smile kind but his eyes glinting with danger. “Good day, lieutenant.”

  Daniel snorted and pulled at the collar of his shirt as he returned to the Blood Tower.

  “Safety,” he muttered, thinking of those cold eyes. “Bullshit.”

  V alessa had thought she knew pain. She thought she understood torment. But she’d never known this. In the light of the moon, she knelt on her hands and knees and prayed for death. It didn’t matter if it was a blasphemy. It didn’t matter if she cursed the gift her god had bestowed upon her. She wanted the agony to stop. That was all that mattered. To make it stop.

  Her form shifted and twisted, and she felt every interminable inch. It throbbed, unending, with pain and failure. She felt knives twisting inside her, felt fire burning outside her, felt hatred within her non-existent veins. The light of Jerico’s shield had left her weak, and nearly broken whatever essence kept her together. It had taken all her focus to flee, and in the shadows of the forest she waited for her strength to return.

  “Damn you,” she whispered. She felt her lungs solidify by her thoughts so that air might press through, felt her tongue gain form so that it might speak the curse. Each moment was torture. But she said it anyway. “Damn you, Jerico, damn you to the Abyss a thousand times.”

  This was her failure, of course. She’d been given a second chance at taking down Darius, not Jerico, but she had ignored the wishes of her god. She’d thought to impress him, as if that were possible, using a life and form granted by his hands. She was nothing without her deity, and despite the hatred and agony, her confrontation with Jerico had helped her remember that. She tried to be thankful. It was better than crying out her fury against Karak. She worshipped him, loved him, accepted his authority over her, but never before had she hated him so. Not like this.

  It was no longer a matter of pride, revenge, or faith. She needed to kill Darius for her freedom
. The fires of the Abyss surely would not burn her so. She was a child of Karak.

  Valessa focused her prayers, begging for forgiveness, begging for his touch. Day and night swirled over her, but she was aware of it only distantly. She did not sleep. She did not eat. She did not live. With each minute, each prayer, she felt herself growing whole. Her skin regained its color, and her naked form assumed the clothes she once wore. Her daggers, having never left her hands, started to glow once more. The pain in the center of her being faded, becoming only the constant ache she had learned to accept. Looking to the sky, she hoped Karak had not yet abandoned her, had forgiven her for her weaknesses.

  Seeing the red star, she smiled. An even greater surprise, she felt liquid running down the sides of her face. Valessa touched her cheek, and when she pulled her fingers away, she saw them stained red. Tears of blood. Perhaps grief was not yet lost to her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the night. “I will make you proud.”

  It had been several days, though how many she did not know. But darkness was about her, the red star above her, and with a single-minded purpose she ran.

  7

  The days had not gotten any easier, despite Sandra’s hope otherwise. The flesh around the wound in her stomach had tightened and scarred. After mere minutes of walking it would start to ache. Teeth grinding together, she’d fought on, and it wasn’t until the second day that Jerico noticed how badly it hurt her.

  “You should have told me,” he berated her as she lay down on a soft patch of grass. His hands pressed against her waist, and she shivered.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Worry?” said Jerico as his hands began to shine white. “I could have helped you, Sandra. Besides, worry’s what I do.”

  His healing prayers subdued the pain, but when he finished, she saw the look on his face, the trepidation. Something was wrong, but he wasn’t telling her what. Night after night he had to pray over her so she could sleep without sobbing from the pain. The scar continually flared red, as if trying to reopen. She’d seen Jerico close the most brutal of wounds. This shouldn’t have been beyond him, yet, somehow, she sensed it was.