The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  As one blow struck his head, he collapsed, his vision swirling with red and black. More blows rained down, most hitting his armor, but some still bruising his flesh. All sound came as if from a distant room.

  “Enough,” someone said. Jerico looked up, the effort nearly beyond his abilities. He saw a young man in a ponytail frowning down at him.

  “You’re a paladin, aren’t you?” asked this man.

  “Why…does it matter…?”

  His head hit the ground, lying on a bed of pine needles. Blood trickled from his ear, along his chin, and down his neck.

  “What you thinking, Kaide?” asked the old man.

  For a long moment, silence. Then came the voice of the second man.

  “We have no choice. Take him.”

  Arms grabbed him, lifting him up still wrapped in the net. As Jerico stared through the gaps, he saw a wrinkled hand wave before his eyes, and then he saw no more.

  A Note From the Author:

  Welcome to the bit at the end, where I ramble, and you either wish there was more to read, or reflect on how you just wasted your time and money. Hopefully it is the former, but hey, if you're the latter: sorry man, I tried.

  My original attempts at novel writing (serious attempts, not counting my blatantly plagiarized bastard combination of Chronotrigger and Final Fantasy 2 I concocted in the 5th grade) began in Creative Writing in High School. I've always been a big fan of paladins, and I created a lengthy set of stories throughout my senior year involving Lathaar of the Citadel, last of his kind. I still have those stories in a shoebox, where they'll probably stay considering how painfully written they are. Still, I've always wanted to tell their stories, Lathaar and his newly introduced fellow survivor, Jerico, and this series is it.

  I'm starting out with Jerico. People seem to enjoy him more. He's humorous, different, and has a big glowy shield. What's not to like? The main goal of this series is to showcase these paladins. I'll bounce between them, and back and forth through time (but don't worry, the next book will finish up Darius and Jerico; I won't leave you hanging). We'll see the fall of the Citadel, Lathaar's battle with the demon Darakken, his meeting of the demi-goddess Mira, and maybe another here or there when the ideas come. These books won't be as sequential as the Half-Orc novels were, so consider this an experiment on my part. Will it succeed or fail? That's entirely up to you, dear reader. If you're entertained, I'll consider said experiment a success.

  Thank you, Daniel, for the inspiration for Jerico and his shield. Thank you Derek for the edits, Peter Ortiz for the sexy cover, and T. M. Roy for the overall design. Last of all, thank you reader for sticking with me to the end. The nights got a bit dark, and the wolves had their time to feast, but the day's come, and the Paladins of both Karak and Ashhur still stand. If you want to contact me, feel free to email me at ddalglish@yahoo.com. You can also become a fan at www.facebook.com/thehalforcs or also visit my website at ddalglish.com.

  David Dalglish

  May 31, 2011

  Clash of Faiths

  Prologue

  The murmurs of the crowd were a welcome relief to Darius as he sat in the corner, his greatsword leaning against the wall beside him. The rest of the tavern seemed boisterous enough, the occupants receiving plenty of attention from the serving girl. He, however, had received only a single glare upon his request for water. Perhaps he should have ordered some ale along with his bread to win her over, but he would not pretend to nurse a drink forbidden to him. He was a dark paladin of Karak, and lost faith or not, he would still act like it.

  “To Kaide!” one of the bigger men shouted, raising his glass. The rest took up the cry and then drank.

  The name was familiar enough to Darius, though he wondered what the man had done to earn such drunken admiration. No doubt he’d filled their pockets with coin. Such lawless men in the North, they wanted money, alcohol, and women. Give them any of the three, and you were a better god than Karak or Ashhur would ever be …

  “Temaryn, come to join us in our merriment?” called out someone at the bar.

  Darius glanced at the door, and he felt his heart jump. Dressed in the black platemail of his order was another paladin, a longsword sheathed at his thigh and a heavy shield on his back. His hair was long and brown, perfectly matching his hazel eyes. Darius recognized him at once.

  “Bloody Abyss,” he muttered, looking for a way out of the tavern.

  “You know I can’t,” Temaryn called back, approaching the drunkard with a grin on his face. “But I hear the mad thief left a pot of gold at our doorsteps. I take it every lesson I have ever taught will soon be thrown to the swine?”

  “Course not!” said the drunk. “You’ll get your share of tithes, but until then, we’ll drink ourselves … hey, what’s the matter?”

  Temaryn was no longer paying him the slightest attention. Darius sighed and waved the other dark paladin over. His elbow bumped his greatsword, tilting it so the hilt lay across his lap. Just in case he couldn’t talk his way out …

  “I don’t believe it,” Temaryn said, pulling a chair opposite him and sitting. “What brings you here of all places?”

  “I take it this is your assigned village?” Darius asked, avoiding the question.

  “One of several. Never enough shepherds for the sheep, as I’m sure you know. The Stronghold has me run a loop here in the vale. Have you tried the bread yet? Nothing special, but they have some fantastic honey to go on top.”

  “Only butter,” Darius said, his voice barely a mumble.

  “Betty,” Temaryn said, snapping his fingers. The serving girl came over and smiled. “Honey please, and some bread for myself.”

  “Of course,” she said, giving him a smile Darius could only dream of getting.

  “I don’t know what they do to it,” Temaryn said. “But you’ll never get honey anywhere else in all of Dezrel like right here in Helmshire.”

  Darius felt his nerves relax, but only slightly. Temaryn remained at ease, the grin on his face never faltering. But his hand, though, stayed near the sheath of his sword. Habit, or conscious thought? The Temaryn he remembered from the Stronghold was an easy-going but faithful man. It could be either.

  Temaryn leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to relax even more.

  “So how are things in … what was that little place called? Durham?”

  Darius thought of the two dark paladins and the priest that lay dead, slain by his hand at his false Tribunal.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine? That’s it? I’m hearing stories of a thousand wolves held at bay by two paladins, amazing warriors of both Karak and Ashhur allied together against the entire might of the Wedge. Surely you don’t mean to tell me the simpletons around here are exaggerating your fantastical exploits?”

  There was something calculated about his laughter, something insidious about his question. Darius tensed, but he forced himself to remain calm.

  “You know the people as well as I,” he said as Betty arrived with a second plate of thick bread slices, along with a small cup filled with golden honey. Darius refused the offered honey, earning himself a frown.

  “We’re allowed few indulgences in our lives,” Temaryn said as he drizzled the honey across his bread. “You should learn to accept them.”

  “If you say so.”

  Temaryn took a bite.

  “You still haven’t told me about Durham.”

  Darius shifted, his hand inching closer to his greatsword.

  “Wolf-men crossed the river, not a thousand, only a few hundred. We stood against them, myself and the rest of the village. Nearly two-thirds of the people died, so I doubt too many are singing our praises.”

  “What of this paladin of Ashhur?”

  Darius swallowed.

  “His name is Jerico. Yes, he helped as well.”

  Temaryn fell silent for awhile, instead focusing on his bread. When the first slice was down, he sucked the honey from his fingers, then leaned back in his chair. />
  “I must admit, I was sent to Durham to find you. We’d heard a pretty outlandish story, and the Stronghold wanted me to look into the matter. Supposedly you had turned against Karak, and abandoned your faith. Needless to say, I found this hard to believe. I remember you from our training. The world would turn upside down sooner than you abandoning Karak.”

  A grim smile crossed Darius’s face.

  “To my shame, I must admit my faith in Karak is less than it was,” he said. “But it is still strong.”

  “Good,” Temaryn said, taking another bite of bread. “So was it difficult killing this Jerico?”

  “No.”

  “No difficulty at all? Well, not much of a surprise—”

  “He’s not dead.”

  Temaryn put down his meal and pushed it away.

  “So Pheus was right when he spoke of your friendship with the enemy? He wanted your head on a platter, Darius, and I’m not exaggerating by much.”

  Darius chuckled at the word ‘enemy’.

  “Yes, he did want that. That is why I killed him.”

  The humor finally left Temaryn’s face. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and Darius did likewise.

  “I never believed it,” Temaryn said. “You, fallen? It made no sense. Even worse, slaying priests and dark paladins of your own faith? Nonsense, I thought. But Pheus vanished, as did Nevek and Lars. I hoped it wasn’t you. You were never my friend, but you were an inspiration, an example of how much strength one could gain through the power of faith. Now look at you. Do you have any excuses, you wretch?”

  “No excuses,” said Darius. “Only a warning. Keep your sword sheathed. You were never as good as I, Temaryn. Never were, and never will be.”

  Temaryn stood, flinging his chair back. His shield and sword were in his hands, the blade consumed by dark fire.

  “Karak has abandoned you!” the paladin cried. The rest of the tavern went deathly silent. “You are nothing without him, but he is at my side at all times. Draw your sword, Darius. Show me your lack of faith so I may kill you in good conscience.”

  Darius stood, grabbed his greatsword, and hefted it high above his head. No black fire consumed it. Karak’s gift, a fire burning with strength equal to that of their faith, was absent from him. Seeing the mocking superiority in Temaryn’s eyes, Darius tensed, knowing he had no choice. He didn’t want to kill a brother in faith. But he would not die, either.

  “Is that the proof you need?” he asked quietly.

  “It is.”

  Temaryn lunged, his whole body extended to maximize the reach of his thrust. Darius smacked it aside, pivoted, and sent his sword crashing into his opponent’s shield. At the sound of their collision, the rest of the tavern erupted with noise, people knocking over chairs and jostling one another to get out of the way. Such a battle was beyond them, and none wanted to be caught in the middle.

  Temaryn took back the offensive. He knocked aside the table between them and closed the distance, his sword slashing and cutting with mechanical precision. There was no surprise to it, no fluidity. Darius’s enormous sword positioned perfectly to block every time. With Karak’s strength, Temaryn’s sword hit his with a jolt, but he would endure. Temaryn had no innate sense of battle, no real talent for it. Darius, however …

  He stepped closer, feinted a thrust, and then swung for the dark paladin’s knees. Temaryn’s shield dropped, and though it blocked the swing, it gave Darius the opening he wanted. His elbow smashed into Temaryn’s face, hard metal armor shattering his nose and splattering blood across the dark steel. Temaryn fell back, screaming, and Darius swung again. His greatsword slashed through the exposed underarm, tearing tendons and causing him to drop his shield.

  Blood dripped to the tavern floor.

  “It is not too late,” Darius said. “Turn back. Don’t make me add another sin to my burdens.”

  “Why?” Temaryn asked, his wounded arm clutched against his side. “If you know this is sin, then why?”

  “Because I will not go to Karak as I am. I will not be a sinner for him to burn for an eternity. I must find a way to make amends. My faith will not go unheard.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “And you’re wounded. Go, now.”

  Temaryn lifted his sword.

  “I will not run from you,” he said. “I will not go to our god as a coward. You may have lost your faith, you may have turned your back upon Karak, but I will not. I will not!”

  He charged, and Darius cut off his head with a single swing. As the body collapsed, Darius sheathed his blade and turned to the tavernkeeper.

  “Take whatever price needed to clean this up,” he told him, gesturing to the bag of coins tied to Temaryn’s waist. “Give what is left to the next servant of Karak who comes.”

  The tavernkeeper, an overweight man who was sweating with fear, only nodded. Darius retrieved the head and put it back atop the body, using the weight of Temaryn’s shield to hold it in place.

  “The next you see me, I will not be the shamed, lost paladin,” he whispered. “I will be a prince of Karak, a wayward son returned home. The Stronghold has twisted what we know of him. It has lied, and tricked me out of his blessing. My faith is strong. I will fight the chaos of this world, until Karak himself must speak my name and acknowledge my deeds. Pray no more brethren try to stop me.”

  He kissed Temaryn’s forehead, placed a coin atop it to pay for his meal, and then left the tavern.

  1

  A sharp pain woke Jerico from his restless slumber. Delirious, he looked about, confused as to where he was and where he was going. The ground was in motion below him, but he felt unable to move. Tied? Not tied, he realized. He was in a net made of thick rope. That was a strange place to be.

  “Why am I in a net?” he asked aloud.

  Something hard struck his head, and he screamed. Colors danced before his eyes, and someone spoke, though the words were just a jumble compared to the ringing in his ears. Shaking his head, he tried to remember. He’d been traveling in the North, alone on the road, when he’d met an old man. Except it hadn’t been an old man, he’d been …

  “Hey, Bellok, he’s awake again.”

  Jerico twisted his head to stare through the gaps in the net. There was the older man, though not as old as he’d first looked. His hair was nearly white, but he walked with his back straight, and his skin wasn’t wrinkled. He carried a staff in hand, and he waved it at Jerico.

  “Another sleep spell and he might be out for a day or two. We best not risk it.”

  A dull tingle alerted Jerico to the uncomfortable position of his arm beneath him. He shifted, pulling his weight off it. The movement earned him a kick in the side, which his platemail thankfully absorbed. Worse was the pain that awoke in his once-sleeping arm, feeling like a thousand ants crawling through his veins, biting him.

  “Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” he asked. His head pounded, and his stomach lurched with every bob of the net. From what he could see, the net was attached to a thick branch, carried on either side by two large men.

  “Shut up,” said the big lug behind him, kicking again. This time the boot connected with his head. The world spinning, he vomited. Much fell through the gaps of the net, but some stuck to the rope, and it smeared against his cheek.

  “What a mess,” the not-so-old man named Bellok said. “Don’t worry, the sickness is just a residual effect of the spell. You’ll feel fine soon enough.”

  “Wonderful,” Jerico muttered. “Can I speak, or will I get kicked again?”

  “Let him talk,” Bellok said. “He’s no wizard. His words can’t hurt you.”

  “I just want him to stop moving,” said the man at Jerico’s feet. “He’s too damn heavy.”

  “If I’d known I was going for a ride, I’d have taken off my armor.”

  No one seemed amused by Jerico’s joke, which disappointed him. If he could get them to laugh, he could get them to like him. Instead he saw two brutes carryin
g him, neither cracking a grin, plus Bellok walking beside him. Jerico turned his attention to Bellok, figuring him the most talkative of the bunch.

  “So … Bellok, right? Where am I going again? I heard rumors of Kaide being a cannibal, so before anything else, please tell me I’m not about to be roasted over an open fire.”

  Bellok rolled his eyes and made a loud scoffing noise.

  “Please, disgusting rumors with hardly a grain of truth. You will not be eaten, paladin, if hearing so puts you more at ease.”

  Jerico relaxed. Well, if he was going to die, at least it’d be in a normal, sane way. He really didn’t want to meet Ashhur having just been someone’s substitute for dinner.

  The net shifted. What had been a flat dirt path below suddenly became heavy vegetation. They passed through bushes, the thorns scratching him through the net. He thought to ask his two captors to lift him higher, then thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was for them to decide to drop him even lower instead. Bellok vanished for a minute, then returned, picking burs from his robe. Wherever they were going, it was no longer on a standard road.

  “Damn forest,” the man muttered.

  “So where is Kaide?” Jerico asked, more of his memory returning. Someone had spoken the name, and Bellok had confirmed it when he mentioned the cannibal rumor. If he interpreted his blurry past correctly, it had been Kaide who told the rest of the men to take him after they’d flung nets atop him and beaten him senseless. Of course, where they were taking him was another good question he doubted he’d get an answer to.