The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  “Not yet,” Grevus muttered, staggering forward even as blood ran down his armor. Instead of swinging with his blade, he extended a palm, and a blast of energy shot forth, its essence circling with stars and the deep shadows of space. It was the greatest Luther could muster. Keenly, Grevus felt the wounds his priest battled, and how great the strain was to strengthen him. The blast hit Cyric’s extended hand. When it broke against his shield like water against a stone, Grevus gave him no time to recover. He lunged forward, sword stabbing for his neck.

  Cyric stepped to one side, then reached out with his hands. One grabbed ahold of Grevus by the throat, the other clutched the extended blade. The fire did not burn his fingers, nor did the edge cut his skin.

  “How long will you doubt me?” Cyric said, his face inches away. “Will it take death to teach you the truth of my claim?”

  “In death we will know all things,” Grevus said, and it was his words this time. Already he felt Luther retreating. “But I’ll learn nothing of you, save the nakedness of your lies.”

  Even as the spell enacted around his neck from Cyric’s hand, Grevus still reached forward. All he needed was a touch. Fire burned his throat, and he dared not try to breathe. His free hand touched Cyric’s chest, and then he unleashed it all, his full fury against the sinful and unrighteous. Ashhur’s paladins could cleanse the wounded with their hands. Karak’s could destroy the wicked.

  Grevus dropped to the ground, Cyric’s hand releasing him. Lightheaded, Grevus tried to remain upright on his knees, but his muscles were starting to betray him. His throat was charred shut, and he could not breathe. His lungs burned like fire, but he forced himself to watch, to see the results of his ability. Cyric had staggered back, as if struck in the chest by a mallet. The dark power washed over him, and on a normal man it’d have killed muscle, exploded blood, and shattered bone. But Cyric still stood, and when he looked at Grevus, it was with a smile on his face.

  “You would use my power against me?” he asked. “You’re a fool, both of you, damned fools.”

  Forgive me, Grevus, Luther whispered into Grevus’s mind. I wasn’t strong enough. You are a good man, a faithful man. Greet me when my own time comes.

  Cyric knelt before him, cupping his face as if he were a loved one.

  “Not yet,” the mad priest whispered after kissing his forehead. “You’re not done serving just yet.”

  Grevus could not see him anymore, his vision overwhelmed with red and yellow as his lungs strained repeatedly, desperate for clean air. Blessed darkness started to take him, coupled with a strange lightening of his body and a vanishing of his pain. That sensation suddenly halted, and the wrongness of it left him screaming in his mind, for his lungs could not scream of their own accord. The terrible swirl of colors dissipated. His eyes could see once more, but it seemed they no longer functioned as they should. He could not look anywhere but directly into Cyric’s smiling face.

  His legs pushed him to a stand. They did so against his will.

  “I gave you every warning,” Cyric said. “But I will not punish a puppet of Luther. I was similar once, and so I shall show you mercy.”

  Grevus’s lungs did not breathe. His heart did not beat. He felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, coupled with a claustrophobic certainty of imprisonment within his own body. No matter what he tried to do, his arms and legs refused to obey.

  And then he was walking.

  “You’ll serve as a loyal man should,” Cyric said, staying at his side. “Whenever the sun rises or sets you’ll kneel in prayer. With your own eyes you’ll witness the unveiling of Karak to the world. I hope that, in time, you will open your heart to the truth. I’m trying to save you from an eternity of fire, Grevus. You may not believe me now, but I have time, paladin, so much time…”

  Deep inside, Grevus screamed and screamed as he joined the ranks of the other hundred, and to his horror, he realized he could hear their screams as well, pleading for freedom, for forgiveness, for death.

  15

  Jerico stood before the crumbled remains of the Citadel. He saw the broken stone and billowing dust with a clarity and certainty of his dreaming status that he knew himself in no ordinary dream. The sun was high, the grass green and blowing in a smooth summer wind. The stables were crushed, thick sections of stone wall having collapsed on top of them. Toward the river was the rest of the former structure, toppled as if the very foundations had been thrown up from the dirt. A deep crater remained where the Citadel had once stood, like a wound on the land.

  While he once might have felt fear or despair walking toward such a scene, Jerico now only felt a timid sadness. Was this what awaited him should he finally have the courage to travel south? Was this the scene that would confirm his earlier dreams?

  And then the clouds swirled, and Darius stood before him. He wore the same armor as always, except now made of gold, and with a silver symbol of the mountain carved into the chestplate

  “Darius?” Jerico asked.

  Darius smiled, and did not confirm nor deny.

  “You’ll soon be betrayed,” the dream apparition said. “Show no fear, no anger, and no surprise. Into the hands of the enemy you must go.”

  “What?” Jerico asked. “Why? If I’m to be a martyr, just say so, and I’ll do it gladly.”

  “Not a martyr,” Darius said, shaking his head. “Just remember, you are never alone. Even among the lost there are men of faith. Do not hate them. Let go of your sadness and pride, and above all…trust me.”

  Darius turned and began walking toward the river, his royal blue cloak billowing behind him.

  “Wait!” cried Jerico.

  Hearing him, Darius turned, and he gave the paladin a smile.

  “Go easy on Kaide, too,” he said. “There’s hope for him yet.”

  A white dove flew over him, and its feathers billowed in the wind, multiplying with unnatural means until all Jerico saw was white.

  And then he woke to the warnings of a rider approaching from the Castle of the Yellow Rose.

  Two hours later, long after the rider had left, Lord Arthur summoned Jerico to his tent. Jerico, left uneasy by his dream, made sure he was in his full armor, his shield on his back and his mace clipped to his side. Getting to the tent involved traveling through a large group of Kevin Maryll’s troops, and the icy glares they gave him made him wonder. The guards at the entrance looked tense, but they let him in without attempting to take his weapon.

  Inside, Jerico found Arthur and Kevin waiting for him. Arthur sat at his small desk, and he looked greatly troubled. Kevin, meanwhile, had a smile on his face that made Jerico want to punch him. No reason in particular, other than to see his fist wipe away that smirk and replace it with shock. But that was a juvenile thought, and Jerico chastised himself for it.

  “I saw the rider,” Jerico said when neither seemed ready to start the conversation. “What word from Sebastian?”

  “The rider was not from my brother,” Arthur said, leaning back into his chair. “No, it seems that priest, Luther, has done what you feared. He defeated Sebastian and his men and then seized control of the castle.”

  “Then your path is clear,” Jerico said. “If Luther’s claimed control, send word to all the other lords of Mordan, and to the King himself. This outrage will not…”

  “There’s more,” Arthur interrupted. He glanced to Kevin, whose smirk grew.

  “Sebastian’s still alive,” Kevin said.

  Jerico frowned.

  “I don’t see how that changes things.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes, all too eager to make the paladin seem unintelligent.

  “Luther has offered a trade,” he said. “He’ll turn over control of the castle, as well as spare the life of our lord’s brother. In return, he asks for only one man’s life.”

  Jerico felt his breath catch in his throat. No matter how unintelligent Kevin might think him, it took very little imagination to know who Luther requested. Kevin realized it too, and his hand dr
ifted down to his sheathed sword. From all around the tent, Jerico heard the movement of armor. They were surrounded by men loyal to Sir Maryll, no doubt. Again the words of the dream haunted him, and he looked into Arthur’s eyes. A dozen things he wanted to ask, but instead he kept his voice calm.

  “Will you say yes?” he asked.

  Arthur met his gaze despite his obvious guilt.

  “Leave us,” he ordered Kevin.

  “Milord, he is a dangerous…”

  “I said leave!”

  Kevin bowed low, and then he left, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. Arthur mumbled after his leaving, then grabbed a cup of ale and downed it all in one gulp.

  “Damn it, Jerico, couldn’t you at least yell at me?” he asked.

  Jerico remained silent.

  “Luther’s messenger said they’ll kill Sebastian by the end of tonight,” Arthur continued. “There’s no time to send word to anyone, no time to rally an army large enough to storm the walls. They claimed to have a thousand men loyal to Karak, and after what I saw at my own castle, I find that believable enough. My brother’s life may not be worth much, but he’s still family. And more importantly, Luther’s promised to hand over the castle. I can retake all the North without a single drop of blood spilled.”

  “Other than my own, of course,” Jerico said. “Why tell me this?”

  “Because I want to know if it’s the right thing to do,” Arthur said. “You’d follow your conscience, and I’d follow mine, is that not what we promised? And right now, my gut screams this is wrong, screams it loud enough I’m surprised the rest of my army can’t hear it. But you know how strong an army we face. This isn’t just Sebastian’s pathetic remnants. Luther’s men could storm out of those gates and kill every last one of us, without need for towers and ramparts. We have no hope here, none. Kevin practically threatened treason if I turned down this deal, saying he wouldn’t risk the lives of his men just to save yours. What choice do I have, Jerico?”

  Jerico closed his eyes, and he begged Ashhur for calm. No fear, he thought, no anger. When he opened them, he saw Arthur watching, waiting. He was on the edge, he knew. A single word, even a harsh look, and he would cancel the entire plan, even at risk of his brother and his soldiers.

  “Your brother’s a scoundrel,” Jerico said, and he forced a smile. “But your men aren’t. Promise me you’ll be a good lord for the North, and I’ll go.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep,” Arthur said, standing. “Would a good lord hand over a man who’s been faithful to him without reason, and whose courage has saved his life numerous times?”

  Jerico stepped close and accepted the man’s embrace.

  “I go willingly,” he said.

  With that, he turned and exited the tent, where Kevin and his men waited. Jerico unclipped his mace and tossed it at Kevin’s feet.

  “Shield too,” Kevin said. “I’ve heard what you can do with it.”

  Jerico did so, and one of Kevin’s men scooped up both. Lifting his hands high, the soldiers grabbed him, yanking his arms so they could bind them behind his back.

  “Your life for the life of a lord and the control of a castle,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Such strange games you men of gods play.”

  They were two miles out from the wall surrounding the Castle of the Yellow Rose, and they made Jerico walk it, the rest of them mounted. There were over fifty of them, their chainmail rustling with each step of their horse. Kevin himself held the rope that wrapped around Jerico’s chest before looping through the knot binding his hands. At one point he ushered his horse to a trot, and Jerico ran behind, his heavy platemail rattling. Annoyed, Kevin raced faster, so that Jerico had to sprint. At last he lost his footing, and the rope dragged him along. The hard dirt jostled him in his armor, and his face scraped against rocks that left him bleeding.

  When the horse slowed, Jerico stumbled to his feet, spat a bit of blood, and then grinned at Kevin.

  “Always enjoyed a good run,” he said.

  Kevin only shook his head in disbelief.

  At the gates of the wall waited a group of dark paladins, all with their weapons drawn. The sight of the fire made the men around Jerico nervous, and he felt an odd compulsion to calm them.

  “Just keep me alive, and you’ll be safe,” he said.

  A few gave him bewildered looks, and Jerico just shook his head and chuckled.

  “Greetings,” Kevin said as they rode up before the paladins. “I am Sir Kevin Maryll, and I bring the prisoner your priest and master requested.”

  One of the paladins strode forward, sheathing his sword to show he meant no harm. Maryll’s men parted to give him way. The paladin was a hard man, his face wrinkled and his eyes a crystalline blue. He took Jerico’s face in his hand, lifting him so they might get a better look.

  “Are you him?” the dark paladin asked.

  “Probably not,” Jerico said, still grinning. “Just Jerico.”

  The man struck him across the mouth, then nodded to Kevin.

  “Your master has upheld his end of the bargain, so we will uphold ours.”

  Waving his finger in a circle in the air, he strode back toward the gate. Curiously, the stone around it looked old and burnt, as if it’d been struck by fire, but the gate itself looked new. With a rumble of metal it opened, and from it approached two priests and a paladin. A haggard man walked between them. His wrists and ankles were bound together with chains, and he shuffled with what little slack they gave. His eyes were blackened, as if he’d been beaten, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Jerico looked to him, saw the pathetic remnant of a man that had been Sebastian Hemman.

  “He is battered, but will live,” said the old paladin as one of the priests took out a key and unlocked the chains.

  Sebastian said nothing as he walked unescorted to Kevin. Meanwhile the dark paladins pushed Jerico forward to the gate. As he and Sebastian walked past each other, their eyes met, and Jerico hoped the man might realize the incredible fortune granted to him. They’d ridden to the castle to take his life, yet now he would find safety in their arms.

  “Keep an eye out for Kaide,” Jerico said, unable to hold back completely.

  A fist struck his cheek, but before it did, Jerico caught a bit of fear in Sebastian’s eyes, and it made him grin through the pain. Not that he wanted to see Sebastian afraid. It was that he finally saw a sign of life in the man for whom he was giving his own.

  They did not chain him, nor take off his armor. One of the paladins accepted his shield and mace from Kevin’s men, and another held the rope that tied his arms and hands. They walked in silence through the gate, and as it shut behind him, Jerico winced against his will. Despite the grin on his face, he knew that sound was a death sentence. Whenever Luther abandoned the castle, assuming he even did, Jerico knew he would not be coming with him. Not alive, anyway.

  “At last I see fear in your eyes,” the old paladin said, who walked beside him.

  “Not fear,” Jerico said. “Guilt. You realize how many of you I’ll have to kill to escape? No man should have that much blood on his hands.”

  “Stupid words. Brave, but stupid. I’d suggest keeping your tongue in check when you stand before Luther.”

  Jerico expected another smack to his face to punctuate it, but was proven wrong. Instead one of the other paladins jammed the hilt of his sword against his side. The pain was searing, and he stumbled along, refusing to fall.

  They crossed the rest of the distance between the wall and tower in relative silence. To Jerico, it felt like a strange sort of ritual, all of Luther’s men staring straight ahead without talking to one another. Jerico wished he could know what they were thinking, then decided he’d rather not. It might crack whatever resolve he had left.

  “Ready the army,” the old paladin said when they reached the castle doors. Several of the others departed for the rows of tents pitched about the commons, shouting orders to the mercenaries. Jerico quickly counted their nu
mbers, and from what he saw, Luther had not exaggerated in his letter when he claimed a thousand followed him.

  Into the castle they took him, tugging on the rope as if he were a reluctant dog. Passing through the great hall, they hooked a right, climbing stairs that wound up one of the castle towers. Jerico knew right there was his best chance to escape, but just as he thought of it, he saw the old paladin had his hand on the hilt of his sword. The moment he resisted, he’d have that blade shoved through his throat. Trusting Ashhur’s command, he kept still. At last they reached a door, and after knocking, they entered.

  Within sat Luther on a bed. Instead of his robes he wore a thin tunic, which had been cut to give easy access to the many bandages wrapped around his chest. Seeping through them was a hint of red. Before the bed, waiting for him, was a plain wooden chair. Luther started to stand, then thought better of it.

  “Untie him,” Luther said.

  The old paladin hesitated at first, then obeyed. As they cut the ropes, Jerico glanced around the room. It was small, quaint, with but some books, a bed, and a washbasin. More befitting a librarian than a lord, thought Jerico. Seeing Luther there, Jerico felt his pulse increase with his growing rage. Here he was, the man who had killed Sandra without a second thought, the man he had sworn vengeance upon.

  “I would have your word,” Luther said to him. “Promise you will not escape, nor attempt any harm against me.”

  His response burned his throat. More than anything, he wished for his mace so he could crush Luther’s skull.

  “I promise,” he said.

  “Good.” Luther looked to the others. “Leave us.”

  Reluctantly they filed out, until only the two of them remained, Jerico standing, Luther sitting on the bed. With a sigh, Luther leaned back against the stone wall.

  “I trust you to understand the harm that’d befall you if you tried to escape.”

  “You look like you can barely stand,” Jerico said. “I understand, even if I don’t believe it. But I gave my word. Consider yourself lucky for it.”