“Hold her down,” he said.
Jerico took Sandra’s hands, lifted them over her head to the pillow, and leaned his weight on her forearms. Debra left, then came back with her oldest, ordering him to help her hold down Sandra’s legs.
“I’m sorry I have nothing for the pain,” Cobb told her.
“Wait,” said Jerico. He released Sandra’s arms and placed his palm against her forehead. He closed his eyes and tried not to tremble. Never the best when it came to the non-physical aspects of being a paladin, he still knew many useful prayers. Normally he focused on healing, but for now...
Numb the pain, he prayed to Ashhur. Numb the hurt. Give her strength.
A dim light shone across her eyes, and then Jerico nodded.
“Go ahead.”
He held her wrists and watched as Cobb’s knife pressed against Sandra’s skin. It pierced, drawing blood. Sandra tensed, and let out a whimper, but did not struggle much. Debra left her son to hold her legs, and instead took out a second cloth and used it to mop away the blood and pus. With grim determination, Cobb reopened the wound in a single smooth cut. Jerico watched, wondering what the famer hoped to accomplish. The foul smell in the room worsened, as if by cutting into Sandra they’d opened a rotten fruit.
Cobb stepped back and let his wife wipe away at the blood so he could see. He stared, and stared, and then grunted.
“There you are, you son of a bitch.”
He reached his fingers into the wound. Sandra let out a cry. Jerico stroked her face, and pressed his cheek against her burning forehead.
“Be strong,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re strong. You’re stronger than this. You’re Kaide’s sister, and he only wishes he was as strong as you. It’s almost over, I promise. Hold on, Sandra. Hold on.”
He heard a sound, like metal scraping against bone. When he looked up, Cobb held something aloft with his blood soaked hand. It was smaller than a pebble, metallic, and shone a soft red that immediately made Jerico feel ill in his stomach. Cobb looked around, then wrapped it with a bloodied cloth.
“Can you handle the rest?” he asked. “Otherwise, Debra has a way with stitches.”
“She needs more than stitches,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “Leave me be. Ashhur will make her well.”
The three left. Alone with her, Jerico knelt by the bed, put his hands across her stomach, and prayed. Healing light poured into her, and strength out of him. The minutes passed, but he paid no heed. His hands shook, and they were stained with blood, but he ignored that as well. For over an hour he stood vigil, watching as the vicious wound closed, and the purple flesh and red veins faded away. Her fever lessened. Her eyes closed, and sleep came to her.
At last Jerico knew he could not continue. His mind felt raw, his throat dry. He tried to stand and stumbled. Gripping the bed, he rose slower, took a deep breath, and then left the room. Darkness had fallen, and the family gathered in their thick blankets across the main room. Debra leaned back in the chair, softly rocking. Cobb stood by the door, and when he saw Jerico exit, he beckoned him over.
“Outside,” he said.
The cool night air felt good against Jerico’s sweat-soaked skin. He stretched his back, then leaned against the side of the home. Standing was a chore, but it felt good to no longer be on his knees. Cobb chewed on something tough and watched the stars. After turning to spit, he held out a small cloth bundle.
“Take it,” he said. “I don’t feel right having it around.”
Jerico accepted the cloth, then unwrapped it. Inside was the metal piece that had remained inside Sandra, poisoning her from within. Its red glow had dimmed, as if it were losing power.
“I believe it’s the tip of a dagger,” Cobb said, not looking at it. “But that’s thick metal. Don’t see how cutting through something soft as a woman’s belly would have broken it.”
“It was no ordinary dagger,” Jerico said, thinking of the strange magic that had possessed Valessa. Hearing this, Cobb chuckled.
“You’re telling me things I already know. There’s something foul about it. Stuck in her, it must have been killing her every moment.”
“It’s no wonder I couldn’t heal her,” Jerico said, staring at the metal as if it were a sentient evil. “I feel so foolish for not thinking to check her as you did.”
“Doubt you’ve ever needed to. Your abilities are amazing, Jerico. You probably could have stuck my son’s fingers right back on his hand if you’d been there, and had the time. But sometimes a good knife and a pair of eyes have their uses, too.”
Jerico put the metal piece into his palm and clenched his fist. Holy light shone through his fingers, and he directed every bit of his anger toward the metal. When he reopened his fist, nothing but dust remained. He lifted his hand and blew it on the wind, let it carry far beyond the farm. Cobb nodded in approval. Silence stretched between them, until Cobb turned, spat, and began again.
“Forgive me if I’m prying,” he said. “But what is Sandra doing with you, and not her brother? Last we heard, he’s still fighting Lord Sebastian. He set her out on a task? Are you some sort of bodyguard?”
“Why she is with me is her own affair. But I’m on no task from Kaide.”
“Then where are you headed?”
“To the Castle of Caves, to help Arthur.”
Cobb sighed.
“Not surprised, though I was hoping a good man like you had seen the senselessness of it all. All lords are the same. I told Jeb that when he rode off to fight, kill, and die like a bloody fool. They all want their taxes, all demand our worship, and all see us as nothing but cattle. The sooner this ends, the sooner the North returns to peace.”
“I’ve spoken with Arthur. He’s a good man, a better man.”
“Those not in power always seem so,” Cobb said. “Funny how all that fairness and honor vanishes once they’re the one sitting on a throne.”
Cobb turned and spat out whatever he’d been chewing on, then wiped his lips on his sleeve.
“Forgive me,” he said. “You’re a good man yourself, and I’m sure you’re doing what you think is right. I’ve got a few more years on you though, and I think they’ve hardened me like leather over a fire. Seeing Jeb get caught up in it didn’t help none, either. Reason why I ask...I doubt Sandra’s going to be ready to travel anytime soon. If whatever you’re doing is dangerous—and it sounds like it is—she can stay here. We could always use another if they’re willing to work hard, and she’s a pretty lady to boot. If she wants a normal life, I’m sure I could find a dozen men eager for her hand.”
“I’m not sure that’s what she wants.”
“Then what does she want?”
Jerico chuckled.
“I’m not sure I know that, either.”
Cobb shrugged.
“Just giving you the option. It looks like she’s already been hurt once traveling with you. I’d hate for it to happen again. Promise me you’ll think on it.”
“I will.”
Cobb stretched, and his back popped several times.
“I should join my family.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor in Sandra’s room, if that’s all right with you.”
“I thought you might,” Cobb said, and he smiled. “And Jerico...if it’s you she’s wanting, you might consider just how important taking down Lord Sebastian really is.”
He went inside. Finally alone, Jerico looked to the stars. He wanted to pray for guidance, but he was too damn tired.
“Tomorrow,” he promised the stars. “And thank you.”
Jerico returned to Sandra’s room. He put his hand against the side of her face, checking there was no fever. She slept deeply, with no appearance of pain. For that, he was thankful. Cobb’s words came to him, but he pushed them away. He had no energy for that. Beside her bed he found a blanket laid out for him, when and by whom, he could only guess. Wrapping himself in it, he closed his eyes and fell asleep within moments.
11
Dari
us was stunned to be awake. His back hurt like the Abyss, his left arm was asleep, and the red mark on his forehead would probably never vanish...but somehow, he was alive.
“Huh,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned.”
Well, maybe not quite, he thought with a chuckle. That was, after all, the entire point of what he was fighting against.
He ate his meager breakfast, always with an eye out for Valessa. It made no sense, really, why she hadn’t killed him in his sleep. How she’d mocked him, taunted him with that fate. She could wait, she’d said, yet Ashhur had commanded him to sleep, and no dagger had found his throat. It was a miracle, one he felt woefully unworthy of. Not that he’d complain. It was still vastly better than the alternative.
Darius caught sight of her only once as he gathered his things, watching from behind a distant tree. She looked like herself, plain-garbed and furious. When she realized she’d been spotted, she vanished. Darius saluted her direction, then continued east, toward the Gihon River. Once he reached it, he could follow it north to the Blood Tower. Sir Robert Godley, issuer of the bounty on his head, would be there. As he’d told Jerico, he’d explain everything and demand that the bounty be removed before anyone got hurt.
And if Robert refused...
Darius tried to not think about that.
Valessa bothered him little as the next days passed. Several times Darius felt a tingle in the back of his mind, and he’d turn, readying his sword. If she’d been planning to attack, she backed down at his reaction. At no point did he feel safe, nor relinquish his weapon. Even when he took a piss, he held the hilt in one hand, his dick in the other. Valessa might not think it honorable killing a man while he relieved himself, but he’d seen the madness in her eyes. As long as he died, he felt pretty sure she’d be content.
Every night he knelt in an open space or field, for he’d left the forest long behind him. He stabbed his sword into the dirt before him, closed his eyes, and slept. Every night, he expected death, and prayed Ashhur would take him. Every morning, he awoke shaking his head and chuckling.
It wasn’t until the fourth day that Darius encountered another human being. He walked a dirt path between great fields stretching north to south on either side. Gold wheat blew in the wind, and he ran his hands across their stalks. Half a mile beyond the Stronghold there had been a field, and a long time ago Darius used to play in it, weaving hidden from the world through the wheat when he was supposed to be performing his daily prayers. He’d been caught once, and that once was enough to ensure he never did it again.
His hand dropped to his side. Karak had stolen away his childhood. Surely that alone proved the destructiveness of the Stronghold. Lost in memories of rigid canings, forced prayers, and constant reaffirming of the chaos in his heart, he barely noticed the approaching wagon until it was right on top of him.
“Hold!” Darius called out, waving his arms at the approaching driver. A wagon meant supplies, and food, both of which he was running low on. What little coin he had should get him to the Gihon, and from there it was just a matter of time until he spotted one of their patrols along the river.
Two men sat at the front of the covered wagon, which was pulled by a pair of heavily panting oxen. Their clothes were the color of dirt and toil, their faces unshaven. They said something to one another, then issued a command with the reins. Darius knew nothing of how to drive a wagon, but he could tell when one wasn’t slowing. Frowning, he waved his arms again, making sure to keep his sword sheathed.
“Hold, I wish to trade,” he shouted. “I am a paladin, and mean you no harm!”
The men appeared unwilling to run over a champion of the gods, and finally slowed, close enough for Darius to reach out and touch the noses of the oxen.
“Could you move?” the driver asked Darius.
“Certainly,” Darius said. “Though I’d prefer we talk first. I’ve run low on supplies, and wonder if you have any to spare?”
The men exchanged a look.
“I can pay,” he insisted.
“Not got much to trade,” said the larger man beside the driver. “I suggest you move on. Town’s not far back behind us. Buy your fill there.”
Darius tried to show no insult for their inhospitable nature. While at times he’d received preferential treatment for his allegiance to Karak, he also knew there were plenty who wished nothing to do with the gods’ champions, or any matter of faith. With dark paladins hunting those of Ashhur all across Dezrel, they also might not wish to traffic with either side, lest they be caught in the middle.
“Just a scrap of food,” Darius said, doing his best to show he posed no danger. “I will pay fair prices, and be grateful for your kindness.”
Still they looked at one another, neither saying a thing.
“It’s that, or you run me over,” Darius said, his patience wearing thin. “I’m not moving.”
“Fine,” said the driver. “Grick will see what we can spare, if you’ll curl around to the back.”
“Much appreciated,” Darius said, bowing. He walked past the wagon, smacking one of the oxen across its muscular side. Grick vanished into the covering. For a brief moment Darius thought the driver might resume now the road was clear, but he did not. At the rear of the wagon, Darius peered inside. Various bags and crates were stacked to either side. Many of them were already open. Grick wandered around them, as if unsure of what he was looking for.
“On the way to market?” Darius asked.
“Huh?” Grick looked over at him, then shrugged. “Yeah, right. Been lean, so me and Gacy thought to take some things to sell down at Murkland. Now where...”
Darius watched him search as a cold feeling settled in his stomach. When Grick turned aside, Darius stepped closer, and peered at the visible boards of the wagon.
Dried blood.
“So are you and Gacy brothers?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“Brothers?” Grick chuckled. “Yeah, we’re brothers. Ain’t we brothers, Gacy?”
“Just shut up and sell him what he wants,” Gacy shouted from the front.
A strange sensation hit Darius, though it was less of a sensation and more of a certainty. He knew, without a shred of doubt, Grick had just spoken a lie.
“Poor wagon looks like it’s been through plenty of hard winters,” Darius said, making casual conversation. “Had it long?”
“Yeah,” Grick said, pulling out two loaves of bread from a sack. “Had it forever, it seems.”
Another lie. Darius knew that Jerico had always possessed the ability to detect truth, and now it seemed Ashhur had granted him the same gift. Darius slowly pulled his sword off his back and rested it across his shoulder.
“Where’d you get it?” he asked.
Grick was about to offer the bread, but paused. Something in Darius’s voice must have set him off, for he pulled back.
“Asking a lot of questions, mister,” Grick said. “Why you care about my wagon?”
“I don’t. I care about what you and Gacy did to the original owners.”
“Go!” Grick shouted, ducking further into the covering. Darius climbed after him. On his knees amid stolen goods and atop wood stained red with blood, he felt his anger rise. Before he could take to his feet, Grick was back, knife in hand. He lunged, the small blade aimed for Darius’s throat. It was a meager weapon, suitable for robbing peasants, not combat with an armed professional. Darius smacked it aside with his gauntleted hand, then kicked himself forward. The headbutt knocked Grick to his rear. The ensuing kick sent the knife flying.
The wagon shuddered as it started to move, and then Gacy was there, climbing over the divider between the front seat and the rest of the wagon. He wielded a heavy club, and swung it overhead with all his strength. Darius blocked it with his sword, kicked Grick again when he tried to get up, and then swung. His sword slashed across Gacy’s arm, severing tendons. Howling in pain, Gacy leapt at Darius, his hands reaching to strangle him.
Darius reacted as he’d been tra
ined to a thousand times. Stepping back, he put the tip of his sword between them and let the man impale himself on the blade. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the man away and pulled his sword free. The body collapsed on the floor beside Grick, arms and legs sprawled atop various crates. Grick’s lower lip quivered, and he pushed at the corpse.
“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Take it. Take the wagon; it’s yours, all of it, yours. Just don’t kill me!”
Darius pressed the tip of his blade against Grick’s throat. Blood trickled down the sword, obscuring the blue glow beneath. His pulse pounding in his ears, Darius tried to think, tried to decide what Jerico would do.
“You’re thieves, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Grick.
“You stole this wagon, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I...I didn’t want to, it was Gacy’s idea, I swear.”
“Shut up!”
Darius felt his jaw begin to tremble, so he clenched it tighter. He ground his teeth as he fought for calm.
“What did you do to them?” he asked. “What did you do to some poor farmers on their way to market? Tell me, Grick.”
“We just roughed ‘em up,” Grick said. “I swear, roughed them up, but they’re alive. We left them alive.”
Again came that certainty. The man spoke a lie.
“They’re dead,” Darius whispered. The tip of his sword pressed harder against Grick’s neck. “That makes you a thief and a murderer.”
“Please, no,” the man said, barely understandable between his sobs. He was a wretched man, poor, uneducated, without a shred of courage. His skin barely clung to his bones. Yet he had taken a life. Many lives, most likely. Gacy was already dead, and Darius could only imagine Jerico’s unhappiness at that. But what was he to do? Turn them over to the law, and risk capture himself? Let them go free, with an easily broken promise to do no wrong?
Mercy over vengeance, Jerico had said. Grace over condemnation. But what of justice? Grick continued to sob, and in Darius’s mind, he became the wounded stranger that Karak’s prophet Velixar had brought him to on a dark night. Velixar’s lesson was that killing could be done for good, that the ending of a life was a mercy. How could Darius reject Karak’s teachings, yet desire nothing more than to shove his sword right through Grick’s throat? He would not be a hypocrite. Darius would rather be a failure—or a weakling—than a hypocrite.
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