“Cyric would view your resistance as blasphemy, worthy of punishment and purging with cleansing fire. He would threaten you with the Abyss, and escalate this into a conflict of wills and pride. I only hope that we might see eye to eye. You do not have to agree with me, Robert, only acknowledge who wields the greater power, and act as the pragmatic man I know you are.”
Robert swallowed. There was no doubt about who wielded the greater power. It took months of begging just to get King Baedan to send a fraction of their needed resupplies, yet meanwhile, the priests of Karak whispered into his ear day and night.
“You want the bounty changed to capture only, correct?” he asked.
“I do,” Luther said. He smiled, as if sensing Robert’s breaking resolve.
“I want you to make me a promise,” Robert said, “and swear to it in writing on the same parchment upon which I alter the bounty.”
“And what do I promise?”
“That your order will execute Darius for his crimes. I don’t care how, and don’t care when. I just need to know he will suffer for what he did to Durham.”
“He has turned his back on our god,” Luther said, rising to his feet. “The stars may fall from the heavens, and our sun dwindle and die, yet his suffering will continue amid darkness and fire. Never ending. Never relenting. If you wish, you may write so on your parchment, and I will sign it with my blood. Will that suffice?”
“It will suffice,” Robert said, but he felt no comfort. Cyric may have been a fanatic, but this man...he truly believed what he said, that he would capture Darius and force him to endure such tortures. But even amid the fanatic belief, he could still see through Robert’s eyes, understand his motives, and react accordingly. Luther had left him with no argument against accepting his request other than basic pride. Should he resist anyway, it would only take the time for a letter to reach King Baedan and back before he was reprimanded and overruled.
“Excellent,” Luther said, clapping his hands. “My men will stay here while we await word of Darius’s location, as well as plan our conflict with this rebellious Lord Arthur. Oh, and before I forget...”
He pulled out a scroll from one of his lengthy robe pockets.
“I know your provisions are low, so as a measure of gratitude, we have brought gifts from Mordeina.”
Robert accepted the scroll, unfurled it, and began to read. His jaw dropped. Bread, butter, caskets of ale, jars of honey, clothes, coats, furs, blankets...He could reinforce nearly every tower along the Gihon for the winter, just with what their wagons had brought.
“Thank you,” he said, stunned.
“No, thank you,” said Luther, “for your cooperation.”
Robert heard his meaning loud and clear.
“My men thank you as well.”
Luther smiled.
“I am glad. Do not worry about finding my men a place to sleep. They will bunk in our wagons and tents, to lessen our burden upon you. I must insist upon a room for Cyric and myself, though. Now, if you do not object, I must oversee my companions.”
He left, and Robert leaned back in his chair. His eyes flicked over the list, still stunned by the donated wealth. A rock built in his stomach as he thought of how refusing the priests would have kept him from receiving a single crumb of bread. His men would have found out, too. His blood chilled. They’d hear of the warm coats, the abundant food, and then hear how they’d lost it all because of a single criminal. As dissension spread, Luther would have remained outside his tower, surrounding it with his wagons...
“Damn it,” he said, tossing the scroll to his desk. It had never been an option. The result had never been in doubt. In time, Luther would have had his way.
Once more he felt the power of the priesthood arrayed against him, and knew how helpless he was before it. His only consolation was knowing that that same power had turned its focus to Darius. Deep down, he believed Luther would find him, and bring him back to the Stronghold in chains. It would only be a matter of time.
Valessa stood naked before the door of the farmhouse. She wanted to barge in, but knew she had to find out for certain. She had to know how much was left of her humanity. Her knuckles rapped against the wood, its solidity against her touch reassuring. At least there was that. As the door opened, she tried her best to act the poor, wounded girl. She held her daggers behind her back.
“Bandits,” she stammered to the heavyset farmer and his wife.
Her body shivered like she was cold, yet her red hair was singed in places as if by fire. The husband set aside the dagger he’d been holding while the wife reached for her, sympathy in her eyes.
“You poor dear,” said the woman. “Come in, please. Cale, go see what you can find for her to wear.”
The ceiling was low, but the house was large enough for several rooms. The walls were old wood, but clean, as the floor was meticulously swept. A fire burned in the hearth, and she fought an urge to sit beside it. As Valessa stepped inside, the woman reached for her. Both flinched at the contact, the woman’s fingers touching her shoulders only briefly.
“Oh my,” she said, pulling back and rubbing her hands together. Her face looked a mixture of sadness and fear. “By gods, you’re cold.”
Cale returned holding a blanket, and he made a point to stare at her eyes instead of elsewhere.
“Here you go, miss,” he said, wrapping it about her shoulders. As the blanket settled over her, she forced herself to concentrate, to remain calm. Part of her expected it to fall right through her, as if she were a ghost, but it did not. There was no warmth to it, no comfort, but at least she wasn’t standing there naked.
“Care to sit with me by the fire?” asked the woman. She gestured to two chairs carved of wood, each on opposite sides of the fireplace.
“I...yes,” said Valessa. She shuffled as if she had been wounded. In a way, she had been, though of her own volition. Every time she closed her eyes to rest, she relived the memory of impaling herself on Darius’s blade. Darius, the betrayer...
“My name’s Dora, and this is my husband, Cale,” said the woman, settling down in her chair. “Might I have your name?”
“Valessa,” she said, wrapping the blanket tighter about her. It wasn’t her nakedness she was trying to hide. It was how with every movement she made, her skin thinned, its color draining away as it became liquid shadow. She was darkness given form, and a soul. That she could hold the blanket gave her hope. Perhaps there was still a chance she might have some decency and normality, even in the form her god had cursed her with.
“Forgive me,” she muttered. Blessed, not cursed. She’d been given a chance to hunt down the traitor, to make amends for her failure. Never should she spit in the face of her god and his gifts.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” said Dora, misunderstanding her. “Truth be told, neither of us were sleeping. The older we get, the more the night seems to like us better than the day.”
Valessa settled in the chair, focusing on every inch that touched her body. There could be no give, no shift. There was still plenty she had to experiment with, but if she were to be the assassin she needed to be, simple acts like sitting in a chair needed to be mastered. So far, so good. Feeling confident, she set her daggers beside her, still hidden by the blanket.
Cale returned, a meager assortment of clothes in his calloused hands.
“It’s not much,” he said, holding them out for her to take. “But it’ll do until we can get you back to your family.”
Valessa tried to smile. As a gray sister, she’d been trained in a hundred different personas, from obedient servants to wealthy noblewomen. She tried to be the wounded victim, to keep her motions quick and startled, her eyes wide, her speech rare. Concentrating amid the pain, though...
“Thank you,” she said, reaching a hand out from underneath her blanket. Her reaction was too fast, despite it being appropriate to the persona she channeled. A wisp of smoke trailed over her skin. Cale didn’t seem to notice, and she thanked Karak for th
at. Grabbing the clothes, she felt the rough fabric, its touch almost painful. She set them on her lap, and assumed correctly the couple would understand if she remained there, still warming.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
Dora stood, and she motioned for Cale to take her seat.
“I think we still have a bit of soup from earlier,” she said, nodding to a pot set near the fireplace. Retrieving a wooden bowl and spoon from a cupboard, she knelt and scraped up a meager portion of soup. It was a dark brown broth, with hints of meat and vegetables floating inside. It looked appetizing enough. Valessa had yet to eat or drink a thing since her...what should she call it? Resurrection? Recreation? Salvation? It didn’t matter. That was over a week ago. She should have been dead, but she was not. Or perhaps she was.
She took the bowl, slowly. This was it, she knew. She dipped the spoon into the bowl, then brought it to her lips. Her hand shook, and its color faded. Opening her mouth, she slipped the spoon inside. She imagined the taste, heavy and meaty, but it was not there. No sensation, just the texture, and an awareness of its lukewarm temperature. The only thing she felt was pain. Every second, day and night, she felt a throbbing ache everywhere she once had muscle and flesh. The taste of food was just another sensation, without pleasure or satisfaction. She wanted to cry, but tears would not come. Her new form refused such a weakness.
Valessa swallowed. Instead of traveling down her throat, the liquid passed through the bottom of her chin and neck, dripping across her blanket.
“Careful dear,” Dora said when she saw the mess. Cale had not seen at all, too busy staring into the fire with a half-asleep expression on his face. Fighting down her fury, Valessa offered the bowl back to Dora with one hand. Too fast, her hand became shadow and smoke. The bowl fell right through her, hitting the floor with a dull thud. This time Dora saw, and her mouth dropped open.
Valessa moved before she could scream. She grabbed her daggers and shot from her chair. She didn’t cast aside the blanket, for she passed right through it. In a single smooth motion, she slashed open the woman’s throat, then turned to Cale. The man was still trying to get up from his chair when she jammed a dagger into his chest and twisted. He coughed once, his knuckles white as he clutched the arms of his chair, and then he died. Blood poured across the handle of her dagger, but when it reached her quivering flesh, it slid past and down to the floor.
She dropped the dagger, and naked on her knees, she howled out in mindless fury. Softness, pleasure, comfort, a loving embrace...all denied to her. And why? Because she had failed her duty, failed to kill that bastard, Darius. Hatred seethed in her heart at the mere thought of his name. He’d suffer, oh, how she’d make him suffer. Her new form might be a penance imposed by Karak, but there would be no penance for Darius, only torment. When finished, she’d use her daggers to send him to Karak, and let her deity deliver for an eternity all the suffering Darius deserved.
Stop it, she told herself even as she continued to shriek. Karak was not a god of love. He was a god of order. Darius had broken that order, as had Valessa in failing to kill him. She couldn’t be angry. Not at Karak. No, that wasn’t fair. It took all her willpower to choke down her fury at her beloved deity. Now was not the time for weakness. It was time for revenge.
She looked down at her naked form. Valessa was not ashamed of exposing her body in any way (and in truth, had seduced many in the name of her god, all to execute the unfaithful), but trying to go about unnoticed would be impossible. She needed clothes. Returning to her chair, she grabbed a shirt and slid it over her head. It was too big, and left much of her breasts exposed, but it was better than nothing. Pausing for a moment to focus her thoughts, she took a single step. Every inch of fabric brushing against her shadowed flesh itched in her mind, but she remained solid. Another step, still good. But she could not waddle everywhere like a lame animal. The real test came as she lifted her arms above her head and twirled in a half-remembered dance that had been common in court.
The shirt fell through her to the floor, her body a whirling creature of shadow and smoke.
“Why?” she shrieked. Her fists pounded against the floor until her hands began to pass through, striking nothing. It made no sense! How could she perform her god’s will when saddled with such difficulty? How could he expect her to stroll naked through open streets in a hunt for his fallen paladin?
“Please,” she prayed. Her body might not create tears, but she was sobbing anyway, her grief overwhelming her. “Please, help me, Karak. Show me the way.”
She heard no answer, which perhaps she deserved. Trying to overcome her grief, she looked at her naked body and began to think. Her body was not real, only an illusion. She could make parts of it solid, particularly through concentration. Was her skin not also an illusion? As she stared at herself, she tried to see what she truly was, not what she remembered. Before her eyes, she became darkness. The sight terrified her, but in it, she found hope. Perhaps there was more to it than that. Closing her eyes again, she imagined her old leather armor, covered with dull plain clothes, and a long gray cloak wrapped about her shoulders. She’d worn such an outfit so often it was natural to her. She could still imagine the way it felt, and how her cloak would billow in the wind.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer naked.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She moved her arms, watched the sleeves fade along with her skin. Her body was just an illusion, a projection of how she imagined herself. Which meant...
She closed her eyes again. Thinking of her former partner, Claire, she tried to imagine Claire’s blonde hair falling down to her shoulders over her more slender form. And then she opened her eyes, saw the hair, saw the subtle shift of her hands. The true power of Karak’s gift came to her then, and she might have wept for joy. Yes, she would have to endure pain, but all gifts came with a price. She could be anyone, limited only by her imagination.
Valessa retrieved her daggers. Only they would remain in her grasp when she moved at full speed, somehow blessed by Karak during the process of her...revival. One last thought came to her, one she had to finally test. Turning to a wall, and without any time to think, and therefore frighten herself off her course of action, she ran straight at it. No slowing. At the last moment, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was outside, daggers still in hand.
She laughed.
“Where is he?” she asked, looking to the stars. “Where is the traitor?”
When she lay down to sleep, she relived her moment of death, thrusting her neck upon his blade. But when she focused on his name, his face, she could always look to the sky, day or night, and see a red star burning, showing her the way. Sure enough, she saw it, and forgetting her hunger, her pain, her sorrow, she left the corpses inside the farmhouse and headed southwest.
Toward Darius.
3
As the two paladins walked into Stonahm, Jerico did not wonder about linking back up with Kaide, or worry that the villagers might hand Darius over for coin. All he cared about was finally getting himself a decent meal.
“You sure they won’t try for the bounty?” Darius asked as they passed the nearby homes. “I’m not too eager to repeat what happened at Wilhelm.”
“Neither am I,” said Jerico as he glanced about. “But this is Kaide’s home, his family.” The last time Jerico had been in Stonahm was not long after Sebastian’s army had come and pillaged it. Much of the damage had been repaired over the past two weeks, and as faces peered at them from windows and doorways, he saw no anger, only fear. “I’ve helped them, fought for them. To go against me, and turn over an enemy of Sebastian, wouldn’t even cross their minds.”
He stopped in the center of the village, with not so much as a word spoken to them in greeting. Everyone seemed eager to either avoid them or pretend they were not there.
“I think,” Jerico muttered as a group of men came around a corner and approached. He recognized their leader, the elderly Kalgan, the closes
t person the village had to a healer.
“I see you survived,” Kalgan said, hardly sounding pleased by that fact. Jerico tried not to feel angry with him. Jerico’s protection of a woman from one of Sebastian’s knights had caused the lord to send his army down to punish them in the first place. As much as he tried to convince himself he was in the right, it did little to sway his guilt, and he well understood Kalgan’s ire.
“We’ve come for shelter,” Jerico said. “We’ve traveled far, and are hungry.”
Kalgan eyed him and Darius, and the other men with him shuffled nervously.
“Follow me,” he said. “We need to get you out of sight.”
Jerico glanced at Darius, who only shrugged. They followed the elderly man back to his empty hut. Opening the door, he gestured for them to enter. Once inside, Kalgan waved away the others, then joined them, shutting the door after them.
“You have a lot of nerve to return here,” Kalgan said, his voice more tired than angry.
Jerico sat on the bed, glad to be off his feet, while Darius remained standing in the corner, clearly on edge.
“I never fled the battle, if that is what you’re thinking,” Jerico said. “I was there to the end, but Sebastian had too many. It was Kaide who called for the retreat, not me.”
“It’s not that. I’ve heard what you did. You are a two-faced blessing, Jerico, sometimes bringing joy, sometimes sorrow. Sebastian has sent knights to all corners of the North looking for, as they put it, ‘the man with the god shield’. His reward is substantial, though I wouldn’t worry about any of the villagers here turning you over. Should you travel beyond Kaide’s influence, however...”
The old man looked to Darius, and his frown deepened.
“And you. You look like the man Sir Robert is searching for, the one who supposedly burned Durham to the ground. Are you Darius of the Stronghold?”
When Darius nodded, Kalgan rubbed his eyes and swore.
“Two wanted men appearing in our town. Ashhur help us. Sebastian already fears us rebelling. To have both of you out in the open...damn it, do neither of you have any sense?”
The Paladins Page 40