The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  The world had not changed. People had not changed. Only their faith, their determination, had changed, and it was not for the better.

  “Place your blessing upon me,” Cyric said, lifting his dagger to the heavens. “Let it flow upon us, opening our eyes, our hearts, and our minds.”

  This was it, the only time Salaul could stop him. But he did not.

  Cyric stepped forward, into the circle, where Pat continued to pray.

  “Praise be,” whispered Cyric, and he felt a chill run up his spine at the words.

  He slashed open Pat’s throat, then grabbed his jaw and held him still. Pat’s eyes opened wide, and his arms convulsed, but he was helpless before the power that flooded into the runes. Blood poured down Cyric’s arm, and it splashed across the circle. The runes burst with fire that stretched ever higher, but the heat did not burn—at least, not him. Pat’s body flickered orange and red. The skin blackened. In Cyric’s hand, the sacrifice was consumed.

  The Lion roared.

  Cyric felt a force fling him to his knees. The stars were gone, replaced by a solid black sky that rumbled angrily. Red lightning crackled, though there were no clouds. The ground shook, and he realized it was from the approach of a great stampede in the distance. He saw their eyes, their molten skin. Lions, thousands of them, racing toward him. As one they roared, and it seemed all of Dezrel quaked with their fury. The pack grew closer, swirling about him like a river. He did not see Salaul, and in truth, hardly even remembered he had been there.

  What is it you seek?

  The voice came from everywhere, as if spoken by the sky, the earth, the lions, and his own mind. It overwhelmed him to tears. He struck the ground with his fists, crying out for strength. The voice was so deep, so cold, but he would not be afraid. He would not cower.

  “I am a servant,” he shouted, but his voice was lost in a sudden wind. It blew in from the west, and in its fury came fire, consuming the very air. Cyric closed his eyes as he felt his hair burn away, and his flesh peel.

  Whom do you serve?

  “You!” he cried. “I serve Karak!”

  The fire poured down his throat, igniting his insides. His tongue dried to dust. The ground beneath him turned molten, and he sank within. His legs were gone, his arms...

  What do you desire?

  He opened his mouth to scream, but he had no tongue, no voice. It didn’t matter. He cried it out with his heart, with the last vestiges of his strength. It was the truth, for he could not lie, not in that storm. Not with the fires of the Abyss consuming the chaos of his very soul.

  “To bring order to all I touch!”

  The wind blew again, and it left a shocking cold. He saw nothing, heard only the growls of the legion of lions. Their tongues licked at his flesh. Their teeth bit into his bones. Again he shrieked his cry for order. He would banish the chaos by blade and fire. He would take life away from the unfaithful, deny them the gifts their wretched, ungrateful souls did not deserve. All of it, he screamed, he would do all of it in Karak’s name.

  And then, in a sudden silence, he was given his wish.

  Then stand.

  The vision left him. The pain was gone. Cyric looked about, feeling tears running down his face. It was still night. The circle at his feet was gone, the runes smeared with dirt. They no longer shone with power. Before him knelt Salaul, his greataxe laid flat across his knee. Nothing remained of Pat, not even dust.

  “Blessed be,” said Salaul, looking up to him with nothing but admiration. “I am honored to serve.”

  Cyric lifted his hands, and as he looked at them, he felt the immense power dwelling within. Karak’s strength flowed through him, giving him a confidence he could hardly comprehend. Whatever he wished, he could make it so. He knew this, somehow. Overcome with a desire to test it, he told the paladin to stand.

  “How long was I...gone?” he asked him.

  “I do not know, milord,” said Salaul.

  “Lord? Why do you call me lord?”

  Salaul swallowed. Something had clearly shaken him, but what?

  “You disappeared among the fire,” he said. “But Karak spoke to me, and told me to remain. I did, for many long hours. I heard lions roaring, and then you were here, within the blink of an eye. I heard Karak speak one last time...I heard him call you beloved.”

  Salaul knelt once more.

  “You have been to the fires of the Abyss, and then returned. I cannot imagine being worthy of such a gift, but you are. You are worthy in Karak’s eyes. Speak the word, and I will obey.”

  Cyric looked back to where the Blood Tower rose high above the river, its lanterns shining bright amid the night.

  “Let us earn their faith,” he said, thinking of Sir Robert’s soldiers. “Let us show them miracles, show them power.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  “Lord...yes. There is no other lord but Karak, but you are right to call me that. He is here, isn’t he?”

  “Cyric...your eyes!”

  Cyric did not know what he saw, but he assumed it was another sign. Returning to the river, he saw their boat, then chuckled.

  “Take my hand, Salaul.”

  The paladin did so, and together they walked across the river to the other side, where the faithless waited to be converted.

  9

  Despite what he’d told Jerico, Darius was in no hurry to reach Sir Robert at the Blood Tower. He traveled east, through the forest, but spent plenty of time setting up traps and catching rabbits and squirrels for his meals. He even found a bush of crimsonberries, and stuffed himself to the edge of vomiting. He kept several pocketfuls more, and crushed them across the rabbit he cooked on the third night after leaving Kaide’s village. The stars were twinkling into existence, and he watched them through the branches as he ate.

  “Think I can just stay here awhile, Ashhur?” he asked, then chuckled. As nice as it might be, he’d grow bored with the solitude and lack of conflict. He was a man of action, always had been, always would be. Hopefully his actions might lead to a bit more substance than they had before.

  He closed his eyes to pray, and immediately opened them. An impulse echoed in his head, new to him, but he knew what it was. Ashhur crying out a warning. Darius stood and pulled his sword off his back. The soft light shone across his meager campsite. The stars were bright, and in the distance, he saw the approach of a man robed in black. He felt his throat tighten, and he prayed it be anyone other than him. But the man looked at him from across the distance, and his eyes shone like fire.

  “No,” Darius whispered. “It can’t be. I killed you.”

  Karak’s most fanatical servant...how was he alive? He’d cut his head off, watched his body burn. No one was immortal. It couldn’t be him. But who else was it? The man in black drew nearer, and with each step, Darius felt Ashhur screaming warning. It had to be him. His face shifted, each feature changing in the tiniest of ways. His hood dipped low, and then he smiled.

  “You failed me, Darius,” said Velixar, Karak’s prophet.

  “You’re dead,” said Darius.

  “You failed me, and you failed your god.”

  Darius shook his head.

  “Karak is my god no longer.”

  Velixar continued his approach. He stood at the edge of the campfire, the light shining over the black robes and pale white flesh.

  “That isn’t true,” Velixar insisted. Another step closer. “You can still turn back to him. You can still accept my embrace, and return to the one true faith.”

  “No closer,” Darius said, pointing his sword toward the prophet’s throat.

  “You do not need to remain a failure. You do not need to wallow in guilt. Lower your weapon, and listen to my words. I never lied to you. I would never lie...”

  Darius prayed for strength, for courage. His time in Durham flashed back to him, and he thought of the innocent family he’d butchered in Karak’s name. He used that anger, that shame, to keep his sword raised. Still, Velixar was there, smilin
g, stepping closer. Always there to discuss, to speak his truth. Darius would not listen. He would not!

  “Do not be afraid,” Velixar said. His throat was mere inches from the tip of Darius’s sword. “You have nothing to be afraid of...traitor!”

  Velixar lunged, his face locked in a horrific scowl. Darius started to thrust, but saw that the prophet wielded daggers. He almost didn’t block, for it made no sense. His instincts ruled in the end, and he pulled back, his sword whirling. He blocked the thrusts, parried another, and then retreated closer to the fire. Velixar remained back, but he was no longer Velixar, and no longer smiling.

  “You could never just die, could you?” asked Valessa.

  “I could say the same for you,” Darius said, trying to remain confident. The black robes were gone, as was the ever-changing face. She wore her gray cloak and plain leather armor. Two wicked daggers twirled in her hands. Darius felt like he was trapped in a nightmare. This hardly made any more sense than Velixar returning to walk the lands.

  “You flung yourself against my blade,” he said. “You killed yourself rather than accept defeat. What magic lets you live again?”

  “Magic?” she said. “This is no magic. No blessing. No curse. This is vengeance.”

  When she moved, it was as if she became a shadow, her armor fading, her flesh a blur of darkness. Her daggers shone red, and he focused on them, nothing else. His greatsword had benefits of reach, but it lacked in speed. Protecting himself from her barrage involved a constant retreat, a step back for her every step forward. She twisted and struck with inhuman speed. Could he hurt her, he wondered?

  At last he saw an opening. His counter-riposte slashed across her arm. The blade passed right through her, as if she were only smoke. At first the lack of blood and flesh disheartened him, but then he heard her scream. She pulled back, clutching at the wound, which was a deep gray scar compared to the rest of her body. He gave her no reprieve, thrusting for her chest. He thought her helpless, for she’d pressed against a large tree to avoid the thrust. He swung wide, a chop that would remove her head from her neck...he hoped.

  But instead it thunked into wood. Before his very eyes, she’d sunk into the tree, as if it had been nothing but a mirage. He freed his sword just in time, for Valessa burst forth from the trunk, daggers leading. Darius blocked both, and he pressed against her crossed blades, strength against strength.

  “What are you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Your better,” she said.

  “Not a chance.”

  The light of his sword shone against her in such close contact. The flesh of her face peeled away, revealing the darkness beneath. She let out a cry, then retreated beyond the edge of the firelight. Darius did not chase; he was too busy catching his breath.

  “I do not sleep,” she told him, pacing along the camp’s edge. “I do not eat. I do not tire. Walls mean nothing to me, Darius. Nothing. What hope do you have? Your death is only a matter of time. I will send you to Karak’s Abyss, and enjoy watching you burn.”

  “You’re wrong, Valessa,” Darius said, watching her, his sword still held tight. “You won’t kill me, and even if you do, Karak won’t have me.”

  “You will go to the Abyss if I have to drag you there myself!”

  She attacked, her daggers arcing for gaps in his armor. Darius twisted so one scraped harmlessly against the platemail, then smacked aside the other so he could counter. His sword cut across her breast, white light shining. Again she shrieked, and fled out of his reach.

  “What was it you’d do to me?” he asked her, laughing despite his tired limbs. At first Valessa looked ready for another assault, but she pulled back further, shaking her head.

  “I endured death so I might kill you, Darius. I can wait a few more hours. You must sleep, and when you do, I will be watching. I will always be watching.”

  Valessa faded away into the darkness, her voice lingering in the night. Darius lowered his sword and took a breath.

  “Damn.”

  He thought to put his back to a tree, then realized how foolish an idea that was, given that he faced an opponent who moved through trees as if they were not there. He stood in the open beside his fire and scanned his surroundings. He didn’t see her, but that meant nothing. His instincts told him to flee, but where? If he pressed hard, he might reach the edge of the forest, but what did that gain him? Where might he sleep in safety, assuming she did not ambush him while he stumbled along? Not even castle walls could protect him. No amount of guards might keep her away.

  And she was right. No matter how strong he was, he had to sleep eventually.

  “Could really use you here, Jerico,” Darius said, settling down beside the fire on his knees. Ashhur would warn him of any danger, he knew, but would it be enough if he were asleep? If only Jerico were there. They could spend the night in shifts, one awake, one asleep. But he was alone, and days away from civilization.

  “This isn’t how it should end,” he whispered. It didn’t seem fair. Didn’t seem just. He had but one idea left, and that was to bait Valessa into combat. If he could kill her, assuming she could be killed, then that removed the threat of her ambush. He stood again, lifting his sword above his head.

  “Is that it?” he cried to the darkness. “You’re going to run? You’re going to play the coward? What does that prove? You were weaker than me in life, and even with Karak’s strength, you’re weaker now. With every moment you hide, you accept Ashhur’s greatness!”

  Darius tensed, expecting her to launch at him with those blasted daggers. But instead, he heard her laughter from amid the trees.

  “Do you think I am a fool to be baited?” she asked, momentarily appearing at his right before vanishing. “A child to be made reckless? You bear the gifts of Ashhur, and I of Karak. Your training may be better, your armor superior...but we still bear our gifts. And mine will send you to your grave. Lie down, Darius. Let Ashhur protect you. You’re his beloved, aren’t you? We’ll see how much he cherishes his children...and make no mistake, Darius, you are the last of his children, you and Jerico. For such a victory, I can wait. And wait. Can you?”

  Darius swallowed.

  “Damn.”

  He stabbed his sword into the earth, grabbed its hilt, and knelt before it. He was already tired from the several days’ journey, and the fight with Valessa had only worn him out further. His eyelids felt heavy, worse with each moment now that the excitement of battle was fading. No solutions came to mind, no matter how much he tried to think. Despair threatened him, but he refused it. This was the life he had chosen. When Jerico had offered his hand, and a hope for something better, he’d taken it, and he would not question the decision now.

  “You won’t win,” Darius said, closing his eyes and trusting Ashhur to warn him if she were to attack again. “Even if you kill me, you won’t win.”

  The night droned on, silent but for the crickets and the rustle of nocturnal birds. He clutched his sword, gripping the hilt hard enough to hurt his hands. He couldn’t sleep. If he made it to daylight, perhaps he would think of something. Retreat back to Kaide? No, they’d only kill him as well. His mind couldn’t focus. Everything about him was too calm, too quiet. Valessa no longer made her presence known, did not speak to him. Part of him wanted to believe she was nothing but an illusion, a terrible dream he’d slipped into as he lay beside the fire.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Maybe dying wouldn’t hurt at all.

  He slapped himself to push the thoughts away. Another hour passed, dreadful in its tedium. His nerves could no longer take the wait, the constant anticipation of an attack from the shadows. He had no ideas, no solutions. The metal was cool against his skin as he pressed his forehead against the hilt of his sword.

  “I have nothing left,” he prayed. “No way to go. What do I do, Ashhur? Tell me, and I’ll do it. Don’t let me die here, not like this. Surely I have something more, something better to achieve. Tell me what to do. Just tell me.” />
  Expecting nothing, he shuddered when he heard Ashhur’s voice.

  Sleep, it said. And he did.

  Valessa watched from the branches of a tree, always conscious of where her feet pressed against the bark. She had to keep it solid, lest she fall. The hours passed, but she did not tire. Everywhere within her she felt pain. How could one sleep through that? Several times she thought Darius had lost focus, but knew that damned god of his would warn him of her approach. The last thing she wanted to do was break the monotony, to give his body a bit of danger to wake itself up again.

  “It doesn’t matter the wait,” she whispered, watching the way his eyes remained shut for longer with each closing, and how his head drooped ever further. She knew men could stay awake for lengthy periods of time, but it usually involved actual combat, arduous travel, or constant danger. She’d give him nothing. Already she felt foolish for not waiting for him to be asleep before she attacked in the first place, but her pride burned inside her belly. She wanted to prove to Karak she was the superior, and Darius’s challenge had stirred shame and fury. Still, what would it matter if she beat him in combat, or forced a dagger through his eye while he slept? He was a traitor, a coward, and deserved an eternity of torment for his betrayal. What did honor or fairness matter compared to that?

  And then his eyes remained closed for too long. Her body tensed, and she clutched the branch with a shadowy hand. Already? He’d fallen asleep already? She’d expected him to last the night, and perhaps much of the following day. How could someone so weak have defeated her?

  “Accept this blessing, my glorious Karak,” she whispered, slinking to the ground. She passed over leaves without making a sound. Her daggers shook in her hands, not from fear but from excitement. This was it. A single thrust, and she’d be free of her torment, of a form that knew only cold and agony. Darius’s head dipped lower, his hands still clutching the hilt. His breathing was deep, rhythmic. Forcing herself to be calm, she waited, watched. She would not be tricked, not so close to victory.