The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  “We don’t have the supplies for a lengthy siege,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “And I helped build those doors. We don’t have the time to build a sufficient battering ram, nor enough men to endure the archers as we try to pound through. Right now there’s only a hundred or so, and we need to retake it before reinforcements arrive.”

  “Are you sure they will?” asked Porter. “What if the priests in Mordeina deny any involvement for fear of angering King Baedan?”

  “They’ll still send men, even while they deny it,” Darius said, staring at the map as if he could bore a solution out of it with his eyes. “The priests always protect their own. Daniel’s right. We have to retake it now, before any more of Karak’s followers arrive.”

  “If we can’t retake the walls, why not go around them?” Gregory asked. He tapped where the outer wall met the river. “If all our boats beach at once, we might overwhelm them.”

  “How many men are at your disposal?” asked Darius.

  “We’ve got soldiers coming from the nearby towers, and if we leave a skeleton crew in the rest, that gives us about two hundred. I’m not sure it is enough.”

  “Two hundred against one?” Darius shrugged. “If we can get them on anything like open ground, how could we not win?”

  “The lions,” Daniel said. “You didn’t see them. They tore through our ranks like we were children. Robert shot them with a hundred arrows from his tower, and not one pierced their skin. We try to push in with brute force, they’ll eat us alive.”

  “No exaggeration there, either,” Gregory added.

  Darius frowned, and thought of his teachings at the Stronghold. He’d heard the occasional story of a priest summoning lions of the Abyss, but always it had been in the earliest days of history, during the anarchy that had followed the Gods’ War. No mortal blade was supposed to be able to kill them, no mere human fast or strong enough to defeat them. If even a third of the stories were true, two beasts guarding the river would be difficult to overcome.

  And what did it mean that Cyric could summon them? How great was the power given to him by Karak?

  “What keeps men from walking into the river and around the wall?” he asked, pointing to the same spot on the diagram as Gregory.

  “That wall goes out deep into the river,” Daniel said. “We rake the bottom every year, and add rocks when needed. Anyone trying to wade through will be in over their head, and risk drowning. Even if they make it around, they’d still be easy pickings for archers when they try to reach the shore.”

  “Again, it looks like boats are the best way,” Darius said.

  “You didn’t see what I saw, Darius,” Daniel insisted. “That priest wielded fire and lightning in his hands like it was nothing. If they spot us coming, and they will, then what happens if he destroys our boats before we ever reach them? And that’s ignoring the regular arrows the men on the walls will bury us with on the passage over. I won’t have my retaking of the Blood Tower end with half my men drowning, and the other half eaten by lions.”

  “You three are too focused on the tower,” Porter said, turning and spitting out the window. “Remember the man who rules it. What does Cyric hope to achieve? What’s he gain by owning some boats and a wall that guards nothing but empty fields and farmland?”

  Gregory and Daniel looked to each other, and they both shrugged.

  “He spoke of the old ways,” Gregory said. “I’m not sure what else, or what that even means. We were both preparing for battle when he performed his ritual that brought about the lions.” He turned his attention to Darius. “Do you know what he means by the old ways?”

  Darius rubbed his forehead with his fingers and tried to remember.

  “Study of such things is generally left to the priests,” he reminded them. “Our lectures on the faith were more practical, and devoted to winning over the hearts of the people. But I’ve heard enough stories that I think I know what he means. There’s a lot of old practices that the priests have deemed...no longer relevant. Too violent, really. They lasted as long as they did because the kings had not yet solidified their power over Dezrel.”

  “What type of practices are we talking about?” Gregory asked.

  Darius shrugged.

  “Ritual execution of murderers and thieves. Punishment of those who speak out against Karak. Conversion by the sword. That sort of thing.”

  “Shit!”

  All eyes turned to Daniel, who stood with his fists clenched.

  “The people of Durham,” he said. “Cyric wished to meet with them. He insisted he only meant to talk, but he was damn persistent. He must want to get back at them for taking witness against the prophet of Karak who attacked their village.”

  Gregory’s face paled, and Darius didn’t like the way the men-at-arms looked at one another.

  “Where are the survivors of Durham?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Robert gave them land a few miles east of the tower,” Daniel said. “There’s a town there, Willshire. We thought it best the people go there until we could be certain of Durham’s safety.”

  Darius’s blood ran cold.

  “Someone will talk,” he said. “One of the converted soldiers, or maybe even Robert himself. And when he finds them...”

  The old ways, the paladin kept thinking as the others stared him. Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, some tiny detail. What would Cyric do when he found them? Make them kneel, or be put to the sword? Sacrifice them? If he was so smitten with the old ways, wanted them resurrected...

  “A calendar,” Darius said, startling them. “Do any of you have a lunar calendar?”

  They looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “Of course not,” Daniel said. “We’re lucky enough to have food to feed our men.”

  “I have the blood of farmers in me, paladin,” Porter said. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “The blood moon,” Darius said, feeling feverish. “It happens once every four years. Do you know of it?”

  “Aye, I do,” Porter said. “It’s said to never lay with your lady on that night, for nothing good ever comes of a child conceived during the blood moon.”

  “It is this year, isn’t it? How long until then?”

  Porter scratched at his beard.

  “Five days, I believe.”

  “Then that’s how much time we have,” Darius said, turning his attention back to the diagram of the tower. “Even now, Karak’s paladins will sacrifice a man guilty of murder at the steps of the Stronghold. That is how sacred the blood moon is to our...their god. If Cyric wishes to return to the old ways, I can only imagine the tribute he has devised for that night.”

  “I’m not sure I want to imagine it,” Gregory said. “What do we do? How do we stop him?”

  “Well,” Darius said, nodding toward Porter. “Now we know the man, and I do know him, or at least men like him. Young, stubborn, seeing history through diamond eyes, yet seeing the lives of those around them through mud and contempt. Karak’s gift of the lions will only increase his pride, his certainty of his ways. If he succeeds, he’ll move on, slowly increasing his numbers. He’ll bring the old ways of faith to the North until someone stops him.”

  “No one will,” Daniel said. His whole body trembled with rage at the thought. “Arthur and Sebastian are too busy killing each other to pay attention to the lands they’re sworn to protect.”

  “Then that leaves us,” Darius said. “The tower might cause us problems, but we know where Cyric will be five days from now, don’t we?”

  “We do,” Porter said, pushing off the wall and slowly walking over to the diagram. “And that means a far smaller guard at the tower, too. I’ve learned a few tricks in my time, and my gut says if we’re to save Robert’s life, we’ll do it quick, do it quiet, and most importantly, do it my way.”

  “And what way is that?” Darius asked him.

  The old man grinned.

  “The least honorable way possible, so long as
it works.”

  Jerico knew he’d only been out a moment or two, given that they were still dragging him toward the tents and wagons. A man held each arm, hoisting him from his armpits. His toes dragged across the ground.

  “Morning,” he told them, still feeling groggy. They ignored his remark. Jerico wondered why they didn’t make him walk on his own, then realized his ankles were also bound with rope. Not much likelihood for escape. He looked to either side, but the soldiers holding him blocked his view. Where was Sandra? He thought to call out to her, but worried the guards might strike him again. His head already felt like it had split in half. Adding another few bruises sounded like a terrible idea.

  But he called out for her anyway. Since when did he let a little unconsciousness get in his way?

  “You still alive, Sandra?” he asked.

  Sure enough, they beat him, but he heard a muffled ‘yes’ to his right, and he smiled through the pain.

  They took him to the blank space between the third and fourth wagon, then looped another rope through his bindings and tied it to a wheel. The soldiers guarding Sandra placed her opposite him and bound her to the fourth wagon, this one by the gate across the back. A man slapped her face after she was tied, and she spat at him in return. Jerico saw the fear in her eyes, lurking behind the defiance, and tried to comfort her best he could.

  “Such kind hosts,” he said, smiling at her, knowing with his bleeding lip and bruised face he must have looked a wreck. “Why’d you stay?”

  She smiled back, and her lips trembled.

  “I didn’t want to be alone.”

  The revelry resumed about them, with even greater cheer. They’d caught a paladin of Ashhur, perhaps the last of their kind. Seemed a rather pathetic end to his order. He’d rather have gone out in a blaze of glory, slaughtering paladins of Karak by the dozens while the common folk cheered his name. Dying without his armor in empty wilderness after failing his heroic task of breaking a few wagons felt a little too far from that for his tastes. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

  Jerico leaned against the wagon and closed his eyes.

  “Good thing there’s room for failures in the Golden Eternity,” he muttered to himself.

  “Will they kill us?” Sandra asked, having heard him.

  Jerico started to answer when a dark paladin arrived. His weapon remained sheathed, but Jerico could see his desire to draw it.

  “I thought we would have to scour all the dark corners of the world to find the last of your cowardly kind,” he said. “To think you came to us, instead.”

  “Hate to be an inconvenience.”

  The paladin smirked, then turned his attention to Sandra. He released her from the wagon, then dragged her to her feet.

  “Luther will speak with you once he is done,” said the dark paladin. “We’ll see if your tongue is still so glib then.”

  Sandra remained proud and said nothing, even though she was clearly frightened. Jerico wanted to comfort her, to prevent anything from harming her. But his arms were bound, and he had nothing but words.

  “We are here only a little while,” he told her as the paladin cut the cords about her ankles so she could walk. “Close your eyes and pray. The pain will pass, I promise, it’ll pass...”

  The dark paladin struck Jerico across the face, then grabbed Sandra’s arm.

  “Save your words for when you have something useful to say,” he said to Jerico, then led Sandra away.

  Jerico spat a glob of blood, leaned back against the wagon, and looked up at the stars.

  “I messed up, didn’t I?” he asked them. He didn’t need Ashhur’s voice in his ears to know the answer to that one. Time crawled on, and he prayed that Sandra escaped torture and pain. She’d killed two of their soldiers, though, and traveled at his side. Whatever fate awaited her, he did not trust it to be kind.

  When she returned, he sighed with relief. He saw no marks across her hands or face, and no blood on her clothes other than from the men she had killed. Death might await her still, but at least she was not yet tortured.

  “On your feet, paladin,” said the man escorting her. “Luther would speak with you, and if you have any sense, you’ll treat him with respect.”

  Jerico shifted onto his heels, then pushed himself to a stand. The dark paladin cut his ankles free, then led him to a large tent at the front of the caravan. Luther sat atop several cushions in the center. A small meal lay beside him on a plate.

  “Hello Jerico,” Luther said, smiling as the dark paladin cut the ropes around Jerico’s wrists. “Yes, I know your name, for Sandra has told me much. Would you care for something to eat?”

  “Not much in the mood for poisons,” he said.

  “I’d ask if you truly thought I would stoop so low as to poison my own prisoner,” said Luther, setting aside the plate. “But then again, I am the vile, evil servant of Karak. I sacrifice infants and have sex with the dead. Is that not what you’ve been told your whole life?”

  Jerico shrugged.

  “Everything but the sex. Common knowledge at the Citadel was that all your priests have their testicles removed the first time they say an ill word about Karak.”

  Luther dismissed the dark paladin and then gestured for Jerico to have a seat.

  “Indeed, and at the Stronghold, the dark paladins talk often of the games your elders play with the orphans taken under their wing. But surely you can understand the lack of truth in these insults, the childish desire to turn a man with an opposing view into an inhuman enemy?”

  Jerico sat, trying to keep his guard up. It felt odd having a priest of Karak treat him so...humanely.

  “You’re unlike most priests I have met,” Jerico said. “And I think I will accept that plate.”

  Luther handed it over. On it was a potato, already chopped into pieces and smothered with butter, along with a small assortment of boiled vegetables.

  “No knife?” Jerico asked.

  “Try not to insult my intelligence, paladin. Our meeting will progress better that way.”

  “Had to ask.”

  He popped a piece of potato in his mouth, licked the butter off his fingers, and then closed his eyes. It tasted so good, his hunger awoke with a fury.

  “You say I am unlike the priests you have known,” Luther said as Jerico wolfed down the food. “But how many is that?”

  Jerico paused a moment to think. The only priest of Karak he had actually known, for however brief a time, was Pheus.

  “Just one,” he said. “I know that’s not a lot, but to be fair, he did try to kill me.”

  “One man, yet you judge hundreds by him. That is your way, I suppose. But yes, there is a large portion of my sect that wishes nothing more than to eliminate your kind. I feel it largely unnecessary, for we were already taking the hearts and minds of Dezrel away from you. Sadly, I am in the minority.”

  “You’re not helping your argument much,” Jerico said, finishing the plate.

  Luther gave him a patronizing smile.

  “Perhaps. But I say this so you know I do not lie, nor try to hide the failings of my order. The North is ours now, Jerico, and I will do everything in my power to keep it so. Lord Sebastian will prevail over Lord Arthur. You know this as well as I. Your presence here is simply...irrelevant.”

  “Then why capture me?” Jerico asked. “Why speak to me, instead of putting a blade through my brain?”

  Luther leaned closer, his hands together as if he were to pray.

  “Because I am one who lives by what he believes. Did I not just say I thought our hunting of you unnecessary? I have no desire to create martyrs, Jerico. It is a funny thing, trying to eliminate any people or race. No matter how weak as a whole they are, the strong will emerge. There comes the rare survivor who cannot stop even unto death, and he is the most dangerous. Men who might have accomplished nothing in life are suddenly declared precious and heroic in death. I have no desire to kill you, nor do I fear for myself if I let you live.”

&
nbsp; “Perhaps you’re right,” Jerico said, the tent suddenly feeling far colder. “But how do you know I’m not the strong that endures, the rare survivor who cannot stop even unto death? Because my friends often tell me how stubborn I am...”

  Luther shook his head, just a little. Jerico sensed the mockery in it, the superiority. To the priest, Jerico was a child, foolish and rash, nothing more.

  “I think you just might be, Jerico. But I also know I captured you with hardly a thought, and only a few casualties to my men. If you are the greatest threat Ashhur poses to us, then our war is already won. Like I said, Jerico...you are irrelevant. You can stop nothing. Destroy nothing. You hold faith in a dead god, and that faith blinds you to what this world has become.”

  He stood, and Jerico did the same.

  “And what is that?” he asked. “What has this world become?”

  “Ours.”

  Guards stepped in and took Jerico by the arm.

  “Stay away from Arthur Hemman,” Luther said. “Go anywhere else, and try in vain to find meaning in the last years of your life. The damage you’ve done to our wagons will delay us for a few days at most. If you interfere again, I will not be so kind as I am tonight.”

  “A priest of Karak, threatening to kill me?” asked Jerico. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “Take him to the road,” Luther told the guards. “Kill him if he tries to return.”

  “Wait,” Jerico said, pushing against the guards as they tried to remove him from the tent. “What about Sandra?”

  Luther lifted an eyebrow.

  “She stays with us. I know her full name, Jerico, who she is. Kaide Goldflint is the last player in this farce, and with his sister’s life on the line, it should be easy to manipulate him as I so desire.”