The Old Ways p-3

by David Dalglish

  She tried to not let him see her fingers brush the scar from time to time, each touch always more painful than the last.

  “Enough,” she told him as the sun dipped beneath the horizon on the third day after leaving her brother’s hideout. “I can’t…my legs can’t take any more.”

  Jerico nodded, and as she sat, he began preparing a fire. She rubbed her calves and watched him. It hadn’t been a lie. The constant walking was murder on her body, something she was far from accustomed to. Again, she’d hoped it’d improve with time, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Jerico looked spry as ever as he gathered kindling for a fire, and that was with him wearing armor and carrying their supplies on his back. Whatever the paladin was, Sandra was starting to believe he wasn’t human. He unwrapped a small strip of dried, heavily salted meat he’d bought from a town they’d passed through. Stabbing it with a stick, he held it over the fire, and its smell awakened Sandra’s hunger.

  “Kaide must not be tracking us if he hasn’t found us by now,” she said, staring into the fire. “We don’t need to use such haste, nor avoid every village we encounter.”

  “The northern folk are loyal to your brother,” Jerico said, turning the meat. “I’d rather he not know our every move.”

  She pulled her knees to her chest and curled her arms around them.

  “You speak as if he were an enemy.”

  “I pray he isn’t.”

  She ate her portion of the meal, surprised as always by how hungry she felt come nightfall. Jerico finished before her and began removing his armor piece by piece.

  “Why do you always wear it?” she asked him.

  “Easier than carrying it. Besides, ever since the Citadel fell I never know when the next fight will be. I’d sleep in it, if it were at all comfortable.”

  “And use your mace for a pillow?”

  He chuckled.

  “Help me with these straps, will you?”

  With the rest of his armor piled to the side, she made a show of waving her hand before her nose. In truth, the smell of leather and sweat didn’t bother her much, but the gesture always earned a smile from Jerico. She removed her own worn shoes, stretched out before the fire, and closed her eyes. It felt so good to be still, and if not for the pain in her stomach, she might have drifted to sleep. Instead, her mind wandered. She thought of the Irons twins; her niece, Beth; and most of all, her brother. With each day of travel, the Castle of Caves neared, and her friends grew that much farther away.

  Jerico sat beside her, and she shifted so she might rest against him. She felt his hand stroke her hair once, gently. His fingers were rough, calloused from his gauntlets and the constant training.

  “Do you wish you had stayed?” he asked her softly.

  A tear ran down her face, and she nodded.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I knew I would regret it when I left. Maybe when Kaide has finally won, and this whole damn fight is over…I just want my brother back, Jerico. I hope my leaving hurts him. I hope it eats at him, makes him realize just how much he’s lost because of it. Is it wrong for me to pray for his misery?”

  “I think your heart’s in the right place,” he said. “Though I’d prefer you pray for his vengeance to leave him, instead of misery taking its place.”

  “I just want to slap some sense into him,” she said, and she laughed to force away the rest of her tears. “Truth be told, this is the first time I’ve been on my own in years. We’ve always been so close…”

  “Sandra,” Jerico said, his voice still soft, but now with a barely contained urgency. “Sit up, right now. Don’t ask why.”

  He was looking beyond her, into the distance. His left arm was slowly reaching for his shield beside him. Suddenly afraid, she sat up, wincing at the pain in her stomach.

  “Who is out there?” she asked, ignoring his instructions otherwise.

  Before he could answer, Jerico shoved her hard with his right hand. His left clutched the handles of his shield and pulled it before him. As Sandra landed on her back, she let out a cry, and she heaved from the pain splitting across her stomach. Light flooded their campsite and illuminated the surrounding grasslands. An arrow pierced that light, struck the center of Jerico’s shield, and then ricocheted harmlessly into the dirt.

  “Stay down,” Jerico told her as another arrow sailed in, this one missing the mark. He moved toward the fire, where his mace lay beside their rucksack of things, but a third arrow flew in, and its aim was far better than the last. Jerico dropped to one knee, the bottom of his shield clipping the arrow just in time. Without his armor, he had only his shield to protect him, and their conversation earlier didn’t seem quite so entertaining now.

  “Where is he?” Sandra called out, still lying low. The grass was tall, but there weren’t any trees or large rocks for someone to hide behind. He had to be crouched down, standing only to fire.

  “Right here, girl,” a voice said, mere feet behind her. Sandra’s blood ran cold. She whirled, already kicking. A large man towered over her, his face unshaven and his left eye scarred over. He held a short sword in his left hand, raised to swing. Her kick caught him in the thigh, doing little. Down came the swing, but then Jerico was there, slamming in with his shield. The swing halted in midair. The man let out a cry, and then both continued out of the campsite and into the tall grass.

  Sandra rolled to her knees and watched as Jerico crouched, his shield constantly shifting. He kept the thug with the sword occupied, but she realized others were out there, at least the one with the bow. She looked, saw a shorter man standing in the grass thirty yards out, barely visible in the flickers of their firelight.

  “Jerico!” she cried as he nocked another arrow.

  Jerico shoved away another thrust, then spun, his shield intercepting the arrow just in time. The other thug’s sword slashed in, and it cut across Jerico’s arm before he could turn. Furious, he struck the man’s jaw with his fist, then pressed in, punching and slamming with his shield. He was trying to take out the one opponent so he could deal with the archer, but the man with the sword knew they had numbers and remained on the defensive, always retreating.

  “Shit,” muttered Sandra. She wouldn’t sit by and watch him die, nor let him protect her on his own. Kaide had raised her better than that. Near the fire was Jerico’s mace, and she ran for it. Another arrow flew, but it was for Jerico, not her. She heard a cry of pain and prayed it wasn’t the paladin. Clutching the mace, she lifted it, surprised by how light it felt. Holding the handle with both hands, she looked for the archer.

  This time he had noticed her movement, and the bow swiveled toward her. She dropped to her knees, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The arrow flew past her head, the wind of it tugging against her hair. And then she was up, sprinting as fast as her aching feet could manage. Gasping for air, she crossed the distance, feeling interminably slow despite all her efforts. The archer readied another arrow, and he pulled the string tight as she closed in for a swing. She saw his size, his long hair, and the slenderness of his body.

  Not a man, Sandra realized. A woman.

  The mace pushed the bow aside, the arrow releasing just above her left shoulder. Then the flanged edges struck the flesh of the archer’s face, tearing holes. The weight of its center hit bone, and the woman’s jaw cracked. Sandra saw this in the span of a single breath, such a quick moment, but the sight burned into her, a memory that hung before her eyes like a brutal painting. The body collapsed and lay still. A smell hit her. The dead archer had shit herself.

  Footsteps behind her. She swung again, but a strong hand caught the hilt. She pressed harder, then saw it was Jerico, his shield slung across his back. Blood covered the front of his clothes, but it wasn’t his blood. She released the handle, glad to be rid of the weapon. Her arms shook as she stood there, feeling dazed and confused.

  “It’s all right,” he said, clipping his mace to his belt and then holding her against him. This smeared the blood from his s
hirt against her arms, and she pushed him away. “The shakes will go away in time,” he told her. He looked down at the body and shook his head. “Are they with Kaide?”

  Sandra glanced at the woman, then shook her head.

  “No. I don’t recognize her, nor the man.”

  Jerico sighed, and he sounded relieved.

  “Good.”

  He knelt down and pulled the corpse into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, and instead walked back to their campfire. She followed, still trembling. It was as if her pulse refused to slow despite the battle ending. Back at the fire was the body of the man who had attacked her. She saw no outer wounds, but the way his throat was bruised and misshapen told her enough of how Jerico had killed him.

  “I had to,” Jerico said, putting the woman’s body down next to the man’s. “I feared you might not reach the archer in time, might be…I had no time to be careful.”

  “You won’t receive any judgment from me,” she told him.

  “It’s not you who I fear judgment from.” He pointed to a distant cluster of trees several hundred yards out. “Grab a branch, biggest you can find.”

  She did not ask, only obeyed. The walk there helped calm her down, and the last of her shakes faded. As they did, though, she felt the pain in her stomach flare. Reaching the trees, she stopped to press her hand against her abdomen. She felt blood. Was it from Jerico’s embrace, or herself? She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Finding a half-broken branch, she tore it free and carried it back. Jerico took it, lit it in their fire, and handed it back.

  “Go start another campfire,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it will take all night and day to dig a grave for them, time we don’t have. I won’t leave them here for the carrion.”

  She thought of the look the man had given her before he’d tried to take her life with his sword.

  “They don’t deserve it,” she said, crossing her arms, feeling very cold.

  “They were bandits, probably husband and wife. I don’t know what family they have, what life they’ve led. Children may starve now because we killed them. If only they’d asked, I would have given them what little coin I had. If only they’d asked…”

  Jerico sighed.

  “I hate this world sometimes. Now go on, before that branch burns too low and hurts your hand.”

  Sandra nodded, but couldn’t go just yet.

  “You really hate this world?” she asked him.

  Jerico grinned despite his apparent exhaustion.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I do. But I love the people in it. Now go.”

  She set up camp farther away, near the cluster of trees, so she might have ready kindling. When finished, she looked back, saw Jerico tending the pyre. Her stomach heaved, and she turned to vomit. In the light of the fire, she saw it was a deep red. Blood. She felt like crying. Instead she lay down, closed her eyes, and waited for Jerico. The paladin returned long after, though she could not say just how much time had passed.

  “Sandra?” she heard him ask. His shield thudded into the ground beside her, and then his palm was against her forehead. “Sandra, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t know,” she murmured. She felt very tired. Jerico carefully lifted her shirt so he might examine the wound on her stomach.

  “Oh god,” he whispered.

  She was scared to look, to see what frightened him so. All she knew was that it hurt like a blade driven deep in her belly. Eyes closed, she thought of the bandit woman as her mace struck her face.

  “I’ve never killed anybody before,” Sandra said, feeling as if she’d drunk too much of Griff’s personal stash of hard liquor. “I’ve seen people die; saw plenty after the Green Gulch…but never killed before.”

  “Don’t dwell on it,” Jerico said as he pressed his palms against her abdomen. She screamed, but wasn’t sure why. All she felt was a sharp pressure.

  “Can’t…help it,” she said. White light shone, and she relaxed. The healing magic would flow into her, banish the pain like it had the past several nights. She was safe with Jerico. Safe…

  “Sandra,” he said after several minutes. Sweat lined his forehead, and he wiped it away with his wrist. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m not sure I can heal this.”

  She swallowed, tried to remain calm. Panic swelled in her breast, coupled with anger.

  “You’ve healed worse,” she said. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it! Why me? Why this?”

  Jerico grabbed her hand and clutched it with both of his.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I can do this, but I need you to stay with me. Can you do that, Sandra? Talk to me, Sandra. Sandra!”

  A river ran through her mind, softly swaying side to side, and in it she was free of the pain, the fear, and the anger. She closed her eyes and let it carry her away.

  Sandra!

  Sandra…

  She opened her eyes, that river suddenly gone. She knew time had passed, dimly aware of it in some instinctual way. Jerico knelt over her, and she saw his hands pressed against her stomach. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Guilt washed over her, for she realized he was praying, and it felt wrong to be present in a moment so private. But his words struck her, and she realized he was crying as he spoke.

  “Don’t let me fail her,” Jerico said, his jaw trembling. It seemed like every part of him was fighting against losing control. “Don’t do this to me. I don’t know what I’ve done, where I erred, but don’t let her suffer for it. I can be stronger. I can do better. Please, your strength, not mine. Your strength, not mine…”

  She reached out and touched his face. He stiffened, then looked to her, eyes red. He smiled.

  “Sandra,” he said, and it seemed as if her very name swept away his sorrow.

  She kissed his lips, then held him tight against her as the pain in her stomach slowly returned, and she was once more aware of the chill of the night, the soft cries of the crickets, and the way his strong arms kept her close.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. I think you were stabbed with a cursed dagger. I’ve done what I can. Everything else is in Ashhur’s hands.”

  “Am I cured?”

  “I don’t know. I’d need to examine the wound to be certain.”

  She kissed him again.

  “Not now,” she said. “Let me sleep without knowing.”

  He gently lowered her back to the grass, then lay beside her, his arms carefully wrapped about her chest, his face pressed against her neck. The heat of the fire washed over her face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave no answer, only kissed the back of her neck. She fell asleep not long after, the rhythmic warmth of his breath against her ear.

  8

  Cyric helped his master and teacher prepare for departure, and did his best to hide his excitement. It wasn’t that he bore any ill will toward Luther-far from it. But this meant a chance to finally be on his own, to have a measure of trust placed upon him. With it came expectations, but he felt confident he could handle whatever the world threw at him. His faith in Karak was strong, after all.

  “Remember to keep your patience when speaking to Daniel and Sir Robert,” Luther said as he folded together similar colored robes, then cinched the container tight. “They will never be faithful to Karak, but they can still be of use in our crusade against chaos.”

  “They should be replaced if they will not bow to the true god,” Cyric said, hoisting a trunk of Luther’s things onto his shoulder.

  “In time, my student. In time, all the world will bow. But it does not yet, and expecting perfection from this chaotic world will only lead to disappointment.”

  Cyric led the way down the stairs to the outer wall, where the wagons waited.

  “What you say sounds like defeat,” he said. He didn’t like arguing with Luther, but today he felt confident, pr
oud. Luther was to leave fifty men in his care. He had every intention of using that gift to its utmost potential.

  “Defeat and acceptance are not the same thing,” Luther said. Cyric could not see him, but he heard the impatience creeping into his voice. “You’ll understand one day, when you have walked across Dezrel as much as I.”

  Cyric put the chest into the wagon and shoved it into place, then took Luther’s bag and gently tossed it in as well. That was the last of it, and all around them the armed men of Karak prepared to leave. Luther crossed his arms and looked Cyric over. The younger man held down a shiver. He hated when his master analyzed him so.

  “What will you do?” Luther asked. Cyric stood up straight, and did not hide the pride in his voice.

  “Continue to spread the faith. Weaken Sir Robert’s control over the Blood Tower until he acknowledges our right to rule over him. With that done, I will find the remnants of Durham. They will learn the folly of accusing a paladin of Karak of causing chaos and destruction.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  Luther’s voice had grown quieter, more guarded. Cyric knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but didn’t care. He’d put much thought into this, and it was time to reveal the truths he’d uncovered.

  “I’ve read the older tomes,” said Cyric. “There are spells in them, rituals of such power and strength it overwhelms the mind. That strength will be mine. With it, I will renew the faithful, and crush those that worship the false god, or deny Karak’s power. It is time to bring the old ways back to the North.”

  “I told you to avoid those tomes,” Luther said. “Our council has deemed them too dangerous to the cause of Karak.”

  “But why? With them, I can force the will of Karak upon all chaotic life!”