The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  Luther chuckled.

  “Always joking, aren’t you? But this is not a time for laughter. We must talk, Jerico, and you must hear things that will pain me to speak, especially to a child of Ashhur.”

  Jerico stretched his arms, trying to work out the knot in his back before sitting in the chair provided for him. His rage was subsiding, however slowly. He hoped within an hour or so the urge to throttle the priest with his bare hands would be minor.

  “Speak then,” he said. “Tell me whatever speech you have planned. Let me hear whatever justification you’ll use to go against your promise to Lord Arthur and take the lives of his men.”

  Luther shook his head, and he looked genuinely insulted.

  “There’s more going on in the North than this petty feud between brothers,” he said. “And I have no intention of keeping this castle, nor attacking Arthur’s army. My goals for a nation unto Karak must be put on hold, for both our holy orders face a threat greater than ever before.”

  Jerico scratched at his chin, struggling to believe what he was hearing. Ashhur granted him the ability to know truth from lie, and so far, every word the priest spoke rang true. Whatever threat he faced, he believed it as dangerous as he claimed.

  “What threat?” he asked.

  “A former pupil of mine by the name of Cyric. He has gone mad, and declared himself Karak’s mortal vessel come to conquer the world. Already he has overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and with an army of wolf-men he now marches south. His power is greater than mine, Jerico. I tried to stop him, and failed. The next time, I cannot fail, or a great many will suffer.”

  “What do you mean you tried to stop him?” Jerico asked, honestly baffled. “How can two servants of Karak battle? If this Cyric is claiming he’s a god, he’s speaking blasphemy. Why has Karak not struck him down, or denied him power?”

  “He hasn’t,” Luther said. “And he won’t.”

  “Then is he right? Is he really Karak?”

  “Of course not,” Luther snapped, and the sudden shout caused him to double over hacking. He coughed until blood was on his fingers, but at last he regained his breath.

  “No,” he said. “That is the great mystery, one I have long suspected and only now understand fully.”

  Jerico lifted his hands in surrender.

  “Then explain it, Luther, because I do not.”

  “I will,” Luther said. “But promise you will listen with an open mind. What I say may sound like blasphemy to you. Perhaps some of it is, but it is the truth, so far as I know it.”

  “Say it then,” Jerico said. “I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”

  “The rules of our gods are strange,” Luther began, his wet voice painful to listen to. “The power they grant us, be it the fire and light on our blades, or the spells we learn to cast, they are all granted by our faith. Our faith makes them manifest, and our faith decides their power. But it is faith, and only faith, that grants the power. I am beginning to believe that so long as there is faith, Karak and Ashhur will grant that power, whether they approve of the wielder or not. Perhaps they must. There is no way to know.”

  Jerico felt his hands tighten into fists. Luther was right. To claim either god was helpless against those who took power in their name…surely that was blasphemy.

  “What of Darius?” he asked. “He told me of Karak’s betrayal, and how he yearned for a restoration of his faith. Yet he was denied it because his beliefs no longer matched your god’s dark design. How does that fit into your ideas of gods being slaves to humans?”

  “Doubt is a cruel lion. Often it attacks without us ever being aware. From what I know, Darius spent many months in Durham with you, and even counted you as a friend. Your words affected him, though he might not have realized it at the time. His faith was shaken by discovering a second truth, which I will tell you now. He lacked wisdom to understand it, to reconcile with it as I have. You see, Jerico, our gods have changed.”

  It took all of Jerico’s willpower to remain silent.

  “I see your anger,” Luther said. “I understand it too, for you have forever seen Ashhur as the unchanging mountain. But when our gods first warred, Ashhur was not as you know him now. His tendencies to mercy, forgiveness, compassion…he did not practice these weak compulsions as you now preach. He was a god of Justice. Karak was a god of Order. In a way, their goals were the same. They both wanted a civilized world for Dezrel, a land where men did not murder, steal, and rape, and women did not sell their bodies for a scrap of coin. But my god was all about the ends, whereas yours kept focused on the means. That they warred is no surprise, as much as many in my order like to claim otherwise.

  “But the Karak I read about does not quite match the Karak our paladins profess. Ever since our brother gods were imprisoned by Celestia, what we preach has slowly evolved. The miracles change, the demands of our gods shift, and suddenly these two deities of Justice and Order are so very different than they began. What I wonder, Jerico, did our gods change, or did we change our gods?”

  Luther believed it, all of it, but that didn’t mean it was true. Jerico tried to understand, to know what it was he himself believed. It’d take time to think on these things, time he didn’t currently have.

  “You said Cyric is our greatest threat,” Jerico said. “Tell me why.”

  “Because the Karak I worship, the Karak I teach to my pupils, is not the Karak others would have him be. No doubt Darius realized this as well, and his faith was broken for it. Can the same god have multiple faces? No, one must be true. One must win out, and the history of our order is full of men in conflict about our god’s true nature. The worst of them is the prophet, the man with a hundred names and a thousand faces. Over the centuries he has always been. His words drip with war, and his fingers are stained with the blood of sacrifice. There have been those of my order who have mistrusted his presence from the beginning, for death refuses to claim him. The Council of Stars even denied his authority over us. I was just a young man then, but I was one of the loudest speakers there. So often I’ve felt myself fighting a losing battle, but never did I think it would come to this.”

  “Cyric is like the prophet,” Jerico said, piecing it together. “Like him, but worse. He doesn’t think he’s just a prophet.”

  “Far worse,” said Luther. “He thinks he’s a god. His faith in Karak is unbelievably strong, for his belief is now in himself. An older man might doubt or know his limitations, but Cyric’s young and inexperienced. With each passing day he’ll trust his power more, and wield it with greater skill. Should the North begin to fall to him, he’ll be unstoppable. And with him he’ll bring about a faith in Karak that I have long attempted to quash. He’ll bring back the blood sacrifices, the rituals, the destruction and unbending rules of the old ways. The ideas of choice and free will mean nothing to him. Faith will be little more than chains, and he’ll use them to enslave all of Dezrel if he can.”

  The thought was a horrifying one, even worse than the idea of the priesthood having control of the North’s lands and laws.

  “You wish for my help,” Jerico said when Luther lapsed into silence. “But why give up the castle? You destroyed Sebastian’s army, then took the Yellow Rose from him. Did he refuse to play a part in your game?”

  Luther chuckled, but there was a furious bitterness to it that made Jerico slide his chair away from the bed.

  “No, Jerico. My victory here was a heartbeat away, but I could not continue. I will not be a hypocrite. I will not condemn Cyric for attempting to create a kingdom sworn to Karak while I do the same. My wayward pupil has ruined everything, all because I am not strong enough to stop him. My last best chance failed. That is why I need you, Jerico. I want you at my side, Karak and Ashhur, together crushing a man who would render faith in either of our gods irrelevant. Because if our gods can change, and all of Dezrel comes to worship the cruel god of Cyric, then I fear I will have no place left in this world.”

  It was such a strange propos
ition at first, but Jerico remembered when he and Darius had stood side by side defeating the wolf-men threatening to destroy their village. Was it so crazy to think something like that could happen again?

  “I don’t how much of what you say I believe,” Jerico said. “But what you say of Cyric is true. He must be stopped, and if it is within my power, I will stop him.”

  Luther nodded.

  “Very well. Consider yourself no longer my prisoner, but my guest. Open the door. Xarl should be waiting on the other side. I trust him to have heard every word.”

  Jerico opened the door, and sure enough, the old paladin stood before the door, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

  “Follow me to your room,” Xarl said. “You can stay there until we march.”

  Jerico did, but not before looking back to Luther, who lay on his bed, coughing profusely. Even among the lost there are men of faith, he’d been told in his dream. Do not hate them. Jerico knew he shouldn’t hate, he didn’t want to, but lying there was the man who had killed the only woman he’d ever loved.

  And yes, he hated him.

  “What does the old Karak think of you killing Sandra?” Jerico asked him as Luther continued coughing. “And would Cyric agree?”

  He followed Xarl down the steps, letting his hatred and anger hang in the air of Luther’s room.

  16

  Sebastian’s arrival at the camp was full of raucous joy. To Kaide’s ears, it was the jubilation of betrayal. He’d not been consulted on the offered agreement, nor been informed of the coming trade. Only now, from the whispers of soldiers closer to Arthur than he, did he hear of the proposal. The loss of Jerico was unpleasant, but with it ending the war, Kaide understood. But what of Sebastian’s fate? He knew what should happen. He knew that Arthur should thrust a dagger into his brother’s chest and put a worthy ending to their battle. But that wouldn’t happen. Deep down, he knew Arthur had a weakness in his heart. His reluctance to openly war against his brother for so long was proof enough of that.

  So Kaide gathered his men together, those who had been with him from the beginning, and gave them his orders, to be followed whether he lived or died. And then he marched into Arthur’s tent, just behind the escort that brought Sebastian.

  Arthur stood before his brother, his hands at his sides. Kevin Maryll was also there, with several of his men. At Kaide’s entrance he was given a cursory glance, then ignored. Something hidden was going on between the brothers, a dialogue of long looks, met stares, and twitches of the face. It’d be settled by the first words either spoke.

  And then Sebastian kneeled.

  “I wronged you,” he said. “I put our kingdom at risk. Whether you believe it or not, I sacrificed my life, and the life of my men, to save it. I don’t know why they let me live. I don’t know who that man was they traded me for. But if the North is now yours, I rejoice. Forgive me, Arthur, if you feel it right to do so. Take my life if that is right as well. I will accept either without protest.”

  Kaide held his breath as the moment lingered. This was it. Sebastian had cast his life at Arthur’s feet. Would he find succor, or a blade?

  Arthur stepped forward, and he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “By your bent knee, I am now ruler of the North in name and deed. I will not have my first act be the spilling of my own brother’s lifeblood. Stand, Sebastian. By gods it’s been too long since I looked upon your face.”

  Sebastian did, and Arthur embraced him. That embrace sealed Kaide’s actions.

  “Forgiven by you,” he said, turning their attention his way. “But not by me.”

  Unchecked by the guards upon entering because of the fervor around Sebastian’s arrival, Kaide still had both his dirks tucked into his belt. He drew them, and like an arrow he lunged forward. One of Kevin’s men managed to draw his sword in time, and another flung his body in the way of the two lords. Kaide spun around the man, and the dirk in his left hand parried away the desperate chop. His feet touched the ground, and then he lunged again.

  The tip of his dirk slid into the flesh of Sebastian’s throat, and as the blood poured across Kaide’s hand, the relief was everything he could have ever dreamed of. He imagined the souls of his parents, his siblings, his poor dear Sandra, all settling deeper into their graves, satisfied at last with death. Kaide twisted the dirk, then yanked it out. The blood splattered with greater ferocity, and when Arthur grabbed his brother it splashed across the front of his shirt.

  Soldiers reached for him, pinning his arms and tackling his legs. Kaide gave into them willingly. They forced him to his hands and knees as Kevin drew his sword and pressed it against his neck.

  “Let me have the honor,” Kevin said.

  “Do it,” Kaide said, “and all of you will die.”

  The blade at his neck tensed, and Kaide closed his eyes, waiting.

  “Wait,” Arthur said. “If any man will kill him, it shall be me.”

  The blade vanished, and then a hand grabbed Kaide by the hair and pulled up to expose his throat. He looked into Arthur’s eyes, saw the sadness there. Was it for him, or his brother? Kaide didn’t care. He’d warned the man. There’d be no mercy, not from him.

  “Not brave enough to take your brother’s life, but you’ll take mine?” Kaide said. “Of course. Who would weep for the loss of a vagabond rebel without a home? Oh wait, I think I know.”

  As if on cue a soldier barged into the tent. He stopped, stunned by the sight before him.

  “What is it?” Arthur asked, barely containing his anger.

  “There’s fires spreading along the eastern camp,” the soldier said. “The people are chanting for Sebastian’s head.”

  “So many men pledged to me,” Kaide said, their attention turning back to him. “How do you think they’ll react when it’s my head you present to them instead of Sebastian’s? You might win, Arthur, but you’ll have a riot on your hands. Hundreds will perish. In the chaos of a riot, anything can happen. Anyone can die…”

  Arthur stood there breathing heavily, his hands shaking with rage. He put his sword below Kaide’s neck, using it to lift his head higher so they might stare eye to eye.

  “I once counted you as a friend,” he said. “No longer.”

  Arthur turned to Kevin, and he handed him his sword.

  “Take the head,” he said. “Use it to quell the riots. Sebastian died by my order, do you understand?”

  “I do,” Kevin said, kneeling down to begin the grisly work. Kaide watched, thoroughly satisfied with the sight of that skinny, pompous asshole having his neck chopped apart, his stiff face lifted into the air by the hair. Better than he ever thought possible. Jerico had filled his head with unreasonable ideals. Mercy? Forgiveness? Better the cold corpse and a severed head.

  Arthur put away his sword and knelt before him. Reaching out, he grabbed Kaide’s right hand and took one of his fingers. He said nothing, only wrenched it back until it was out of place. He moved onto the next finger, and the next. Kaide felt his fury rise, not because of the terrible pain, but because the pain ruined his pleasure of watching Sebastian’s body mutilated. Somehow, he knew Arthur also realized it, and again and again his fingers were wrenched and twisted, until his hand was a horrible mess of bruises and swelling flesh.

  “Look at me,” Arthur said, grabbing Kaide’s face with his hand. Kaide struggled to focus through the pain. “Look at me, you bastard. Sebastian tried to escape, and when he did, he broke your hand. It is then I ordered his death, and it was my sword that took his life. That is the story you’ll tell, no matter how drunk you get around the midnight fire. If you ever say otherwise, to any man or woman, I’ll have you executed for treason. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear,” Kaide said, a grin on his face.

  “Good.” Arthur stood. “Return to your camp, and make sure the rabble spends all day and night celebrating. Tomorrow, when I move into my brother’s castle, you’ll disband them. You’ve found your revenge. I hope it s
ates you. Return to your forest. Find a place to call your home. It won’t be Ashvale, either. Step within twenty miles of there and…”

  “…and you’ll hang me for a traitor,” Kaide said. “I’m not an imbecile. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me before I go? Any other promises you’d like to break?”

  Arthur reared back, and his fist struck him in the face. Tears ran down the lord’s eyes, but the sadness did not reach his voice.

  “My brother also punched you before he died. Now get out of my sight.”

  Kaide stood, and then struggling to hide the pain he felt, he bent down to retrieve his bloody dirks. Cleaning them off on his shirt, he shoved them into his belt, then bowed low while the rest of the soldiers tensed.

  “Such a great day for a party, wouldn’t you say?” Kaide asked before stepping out.

  He pushed his way through the guards surrounding the tent, not caring for their glares. Winding his way east, he found Adam and Griff waiting for him at one of the fires, the two burly twins standing with their arms crossed over their beefy chests.

  “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” asked Adam.

  “Sebastian’s,” Kaide said, and the words put a grin on their faces.

  “Hot damn,” Griff said. “Arthur’s got balls after all.”

  Kaide drew out a dirk and stabbed it into one of the logs set before the fire, then sat down beside it.

  “No,” he said. “He doesn’t. I killed him against his wishes. We’ve been ordered to celebrate today, then disband. Someone will soon come parading around Sebastian’s head, and we’ll toast to his roasting in the Abyss. But come tomorrow…”

  “Tomorrow we do nothing,” Bellok said, joining them from the mob. “For what else is there to do?”

  Bellok was Kaide’s wizard, though his skill was marginally higher than an apprentice at the craft. He was cranky and bitter, but often Kaide’s most trustworthy advisor. The only person he’d trusted more was his sister, but Luther had taken her from him.

  Luther…