“I have no words, no speeches,” Sebastian said to his escort. “All I have to say is for Luther’s ears. And like I said, find yourself a bow.”
The soldier called out a name, and then with two men as escort, Sebastian climbed the steps of the wall, and above his gate he peered over at the forces arrayed against him. Luther’s army had been gaining in number every single day. Sebastian knew he must have called for them long before arriving at his castle. Perhaps he had always expected a fight, perhaps he only wanted to increase his show of force. Guessing why was pointless, so he didn’t bother to try. At last count there were five hundred mercenaries in the temple’s pay. Far more worrisome, though, were the dark paladins, twenty in number. Sebastian could pick several of them out from where he stood, tall men in dark platemail walking like kings among the more ragtag ranks. Along with the twenty paladins were a handful of priests, each one possessing an unknown degree of power.
But Sebastian knew that power well. He’d heard the stories, and seen the rare example of it in use. His gates? His walls? They’d mean nothing to them. In fact, he was counting on it.
“Where is Luther?” Sebastian called out. He saw a younger man wearing the dark priestly cloth standing before the gate below him, but he had no interest in speaking to a whelp like that, regardless of the message he carried.
“I am to speak for him,” said the young man.
“Good for you, but I will be speaking only to Luther, and it is my answer he desires. Piss on your message. Bring me Luther. I will surrender only to him.”
Every word was carefully chosen. The young man bowed low, then ran back to the camp. Sebastian watched, and was not surprised to see how quickly they readied for war. Regardless of whether or not Luther expected him to surrender, he was still prepared for a fight. Catching him unaware would be a nightmare, yet that was exactly what Sebastian was hoping to do. A bitter smile crossed his face. By the gods, he must be going as crazy as his late father.
Several minutes later Luther arrived, a paladin at each side. He looked up at Sebastian with an expression unreadable at such a distance.
“Come now, Sebastian,” Luther said, “it is uncomfortable for a neck as old as mine to crane up at you in such a way. Can we not talk in your castle, or face to face at your gates?”
“I promise to keep this short to spare your neck,” Sebastian called back. “Not that I should. You wouldn’t spare my life if I went against your whims, let alone my neck. Tell me, why should I extend you the courtesy?”
“I have no desire for banter,” Luther said. “Just your answer.”
This was it. He could still change his mind. He could agree to the terms, and live out the rest of his life in relative peace. Did it truly matter what happened after his death? Did it matter who ruled his lands once he no longer walked upon them?
Sebastian glanced at his father’s castle and saw the rose replaced with a lion. It did matter, he knew. He might not leave much of a legacy, and little of it would be fondly remembered, but at least he’ll have done one thing right.
“No hesitation,” Sebastian said to the man with the bow beside him. To Luther, he shouted, “I will not surrender. I will not obey. I will not kneel. You can cross these walls, but my keep will delay you. By the time you drag my body out, the King’s army will be on its way to crush your squalid dreams. If you’re still alive then, Luther. I pray otherwise.”
The bowman drew an arrow and fired in a single smooth motion. Another was in the air before Arthur registered the hit of the first. The arrow punched into Luther’s chest, knocking him to the ground. The two paladins reacted with shocking speed, flinging themselves in the way so the second arrow struck armor and ricocheted off without causing harm.
Sebastian fled down the stairs before any of the other priests might retaliate with a spell. Deep down, he dared feel a spark of hope. The arrow hit had been solid, though he hadn’t caught where Luther had been pierced.
Be through a lung, he begged. Be through a lung, and kill that goddamn lunatic.
Feet back on solid ground, the men around him drew their weapons and readied their shields. From beyond the wall he heard war cries and the sounds of marching feet.
“Should we open the gates?” one of his men asked.
“Keep them closed,” Sebastian shouted over the din. “Let no one be seen through them, either. I want Luther thinking we’ve fled to the keep.” He looked to the gate and imagined the furious priests on the other side. “Besides, we won’t need to open it. They’ll do that themselves.”
Sure enough, the spell hit before he could even finish the sentence. The gates were hurled inward, torn from their hinges and accompanied by the sound of shrieking metal. A solid beam of shadow continued through the gap, and the few men caught in its path died, the bones in their bodies crushed by the force. With a shout to Karak, the mercenaries charged. Sebastian looked to his army, split evenly between the two sides of the entrance, and hoped they would carry far less regrets to their graves than he.
“Crush them!” he cried to his men. “Tonight we bathe the Yellow Rose in blood!”
The first of the mercenaries rushed through the entrance, and then Sebastian’s men charged. There were only about fifty through at the time, and caught on both sides, they were overwhelmed. Sebastian watched from the rear of the fight, wearing no armor and not even bothering to carry a blade. He would take no lives with him, other than those who already bled and died at his orders.
The ambush couldn’t have been more perfect. The mercenaries fell, many trying to turn back around to flee. They had no room, the rest of Karak’s men pushing forward with only a vague idea of the combat on the other side. As Sebastian watched, his men merged into a single line, bowed at the middle, completely enclosing the gate entrance. Hopelessly outnumbered, the mercenaries slowed their rush, until at last they were beaten back.
“Build a wall of their dead!” one of Sebastian’s commanders cried.
Despite the victory, Sebastian felt a pall settling over him.
Not enough, he thought. Still not enough. Where are their paladins?
With another cry, a second wave hit, and this time the dark paladins accompanied it. Their blades burned with black fire, and when Sebastian’s men tried to lock shields against them, they beat them back with flurries of blows that tore their shields in twain. Mercenaries swarmed around them, letting the paladins spearhead the assault. Where the initial ambush had Luther’s men dropping like flies, now they died in equal numbers, and outnumbered nearly four to one, equal numbers was not something Sebastian’s men could keep up for long.
Luther’s men surged forward, and despite their heavy casualties, the dark paladins themselves would not go down. Their push was unstoppable, until at last they were free of the gateway entrance. With more room to fight, and greater numbers of mercenaries rushing in, Sebastian saw the turning point had arrived at last. His men died, and there were many who saw the end and flung down their blades. They were not spared. Sebastian stood tall, and he stood alone. Those before him died, and then a dark paladin towered over him, ax in hand. The fire on its heavy blade was hot enough to feel from where he stood.
“On your knees, dog,” the dark paladin said, striking him across the temple with the hilt of his ax. Sebastian collapsed to his side, and he felt blood running down his face and neck. As the screams of the dying slowly faded, he looked up with blurred vision at the rest of Karak’s forces surrounding him. They kept a wide berth, and Sebastian knew they planned to torture him somehow.
“All this, just for me?” he asked the paladin with the ax. His remark earned him a boot to his teeth.
“Damn coward,” the paladin muttered.
Sebastian laughed even as he spat blood. Despite everything, despite the loss and death, he could at least die knowing that the paladin was wrong. He might have lived as a coward, but he wasn’t dying as one.
The crowd of mercenaries parted. Sebastian rubbed his eyes, craning his neck up f
rom where he lay to see who approached. It was Luther, held in the arms of two other priests so he might walk. The arrow was still embedded in his chest. By his guess, it was a mere two inches from his right lung.
“So close,” Sebastian said, laughing despite his terror. Luther lifted a hand. He said nothing, no mocking words, no bitter remarks. Any desire the priest had to lord over his victory was gone. Luther’s palm flashed with darkness, and within it Sebastian saw fire. Pain flooded his body, a great pressure swelled within his skull, and then the darkness took him far, far away.
12
All throughout the preparations for departure, Valessa accompanied Darius. She said nothing, and whenever he asked her a question she refused to respond. Perhaps it was childish, but Valessa didn’t care. The paladin had certainly earned a cold shoulder, at least for a single day. The combined people of Willshire and Durham reacted with a numb calm when hearing of their need to flee. They’d been through too much to react otherwise, Valessa knew. No one argued. The memory of Cyric’s initial attempt at subjugation was far too recent.
Through it all, Daniel kept their spirits high. He hollered and shouted, acting like his soldiers were incompetent sods while the villagers were the bravest of heroes. Boat after boat filled, as many crammed in them as possible without capsizing. And then, while the sun was beginning its final descent, they left without fanfare or goodbyes. Only Daniel made the shortest of speeches to Brute and his seventeen volunteers.
“Bloody their noses for me,” Daniel said. “And I’ll make sure the king builds you a memorial right here at the tower engraved with the names of every last one of you. And then we’ll grind Cyric’s bones atop it, put them into a bowl, and fill it with my own piss before tossing it to the Wedge.”
“An elegant hope,” Brute said, grinning. “Now get out of here, you old bastard.”
With that, they were alone, twenty total to guard the walls of the Blood Tower. Valessa looked to the sky, saw the steady approach of the black star. Twenty soldiers, when they’d need two thousand to stand a chance. What was the point, she wondered. What gave the men the jubilance they showed? What allowed them to laugh and joke as they prepared their armor for battle?
Only Darius looked bothered by his fate, and even then she wasn’t sure. He sat atop the northwestern section of the wall, staring into the distance. Waiting for Cyric, she knew. Was he nervous about the meeting? Valessa shook her head, berating herself. Of course he was. The thought of meeting Cyric, of hearing his voice speak her name, filled the center of her blasphemous body with terror.
“Hey Darius,” Brute called from down below, having finally found the paladin. “Time’s getting short, so come join us, be sociable.”
Darius chuckled, and his gaze flicked over to Valessa. She kept silent, refusing to offer any input. Being there at all was lunacy. What did it matter if they drank themselves stupid or remained sober and at attention?
“Be right there,” Darius said.
He climbed down the stairs, and Valessa followed.
The seventeen volunteers gathered in the mess hall of the tower, drinking to their heart’s content. Brute waited in a far corner, and he had two cups ready, along with a pitcher.
“Forgive me if it seems I am a poor host,” he said to Valessa. “I’d have prepared a drink for you as well, but far as I know, you’re not much for that type of thing anymore.”
“I tried to drink once,” she said, standing beside Darius instead of sitting. Sitting was actually more difficult, since she had to keep more of her body solid than just her feet. “The liquid ran through my jaw to the floor.”
She’d killed the couple who witnessed that spectacle. Their faces flashed before her, and she wished to think on anything else.
“I’ll drink double for her then,” Darius said, grabbing his cup.
“You’re my kind of paladin,” Brute said. The drink lifted to his lips, Darius paused just before, as if something was wrong. Realizing they were watching him, he laughed, and his neck flushed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Weird feeling. Still thinking this might be against our code or something.”
Brute laughed.
“If a cup of ale’s the worst sin on your shoulders when you die, I dare say you worry too much.”
Darius drank the liquid, then set it down. As the wood tapped atop the table, Valessa stared at it, feeling a mad jealousy. What she’d give to eat, to drink, to experience sweet fruits and bitter ale. In this undeath, she had an existence cruel enough to know how much she’d lost, yet an inability to do anything about it. Meanwhile, Darius was worrying Ashhur might flick him on the nose for a stupid drink. What she’d give to trade problems…
“So why are you really staying?” Brute asked, pouring more of the dark liquid into his cup. “Every one of the men here knows they’re to die. They’re doing it for family, for honor, or because they’re old and tired and don’t want to spend the next few weeks running just to die anyway. But you…you strike me as a man who has no intention of dying. So why?”
Valessa had heard his reasons, his inane sense of honor in replicating an act he assumed Jerico would perform in a similar situation. Shaking her head, she wondered just what this Jerico was like. He wasn’t even human, if she went by how Darius talked of him. He was more a caricature of godliness, a walking shield of good deeds and sickening perfection. Perhaps she should remind him that it was Jerico who had killed Claire, her companion?
It took Darius a moment to answer, and when he did, he failed to be convincing.
“Because it’s what I should do,” he said.
“I beg to differ,” Brute said. “No, what I’m thinking you should do is get into that little rowboat I kept here and row like a dragon’s teeth are nipping at your ass. But then again, I’m no paladin, just a simple soldier.”
“Sometimes I think the simple soldiers know more than us educated paladins,” Darius said, and he smiled. The smile was clearly forced. Valessa wondered if his nerves were starting to get to him.
Brute shot her a wink.
“We know more about killing and dying, and that sometimes lends clarity. I spiked your drink, by the way. Just want you to know for when you start passing out. Would hate to scare you.”
Valessa lifted an eyebrow, and she looked to Darius, who was gripping the table edge tightly. His skin was turning pale, and sweat trickled down his neck.
“No,” he said, and his head bobbed as if he were suddenly dizzy. “Not your…not your place to…”
Brute was up from his seat in a heartbeat, catching Darius as he fell. With a whistle, two other men came over, helping him lift Darius from the table.
“Where are you taking him?” Valessa asked, following after.
“To the rowboat,” Brute said. “Weren’t you listening?”
They dumped Darius unceremoniously into the rowboat, which was tethered to the southernmost dock. It rocked back and forth, the old wood looking dangerously insufficient compared to the heft of the paladin and his armor. One of the soldiers carefully set Darius’s large sword beside him.
“Get in,” Brute said when that was done. “You’re going with him.”
Valessa opened her mouth to protest, but Brute gave her no chance.
“You can row a boat, can’t you?” he asked.
“Water and I don’t get along,” she said.
“Then don’t fall out. We’ve all volunteered to stay, and not a one here is willing to appear a coward by helping Darius get out safely. That leaves you, and truth be told, woman, I think I’ll feel safer once you’re off with him. You raise the hairs of my neck. I’ve already loaded the rest of his things, and there’s a bit of food too, in case it takes you a bit to catch up with the others. Not that you will need to eat much.”
Valessa bit back her retort. She eyed the boat, thinking of what had happened the last time she tried crossing a river. The water had torn at her being, tried to sweep her along without any true form. Her body had shifted and changed
with the current, incredibly painful and beyond disorientating. But if she were careful, she could stay within the boat, though she wondered how long until the thing sprung a leak, and down to the bottom of the Gihon they went.
Slowly, carefully, she lowered a foot into the boat, followed by the other. She pulled out the lone oar as Brute untied the boat.
“Why?” she asked him.
Brute shrugged.
“No matter what he says, he’s not supposed to die here. Elsewhere, perhaps, and at a later time, but not here. Not when he’s got no chance to change anything. Row as fast as you can. He’ll wake in a few hours. I suppose we’ll all be dead by then.”
The boat shuddered once as it drifted out into the heavier current. Valessa guided it with the oar best she could. Her experience with them was limited, but she was strong, and that helped immensely.
“He’s almost here,” Valessa shouted to them as the Blood Tower started to drift further and further away. “Don’t let him know you’re afraid, and don’t you dare bow your knee.”
“We won’t,” Brute shouted back.
He and the others turned their backs to her, and just like that, they were alone on the river, drifting south in a sudden calm that felt almost threatening. Valessa looked to the sleeping Darius in the center of the boat. A sensation came over her, like a tightening of her focus. If she still had a body, it would have been akin to the speeding up of her heart.
Darius lay alone, unguarded, and without his sword in his hand.
Dropping the oar, she picked up the blade by the hilt. It had once been consumed with the dark fire of Karak, a cleansing flame to burn away the weakness and filth of the world. It had been replaced with the holy light of Ashhur, pushing away the shadows, revealing the ugly nakedness of man. But now it was neither, just a heavy hunk of metal with one side sharper than the other.
The Paladins Page 72