The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  To his left a priest gathered shadows on his fingers. Feathers from his wing lashed out, and to the ground fell those same fingers. Another beat of the wing, and the priest fell with them. Blood pounding in his ears, Darius turned and turned, his sword cutting down all who would face him. A single beat of his wings and he leapt on those who tried to flee.

  And then, quick as it began, it was over. Only one remained, and the tip of Darius’s sword hovered just shy of his throat.

  “Tell them what you saw,” Darius ordered Luther as he felt the rage in his chest slowly subsiding. Luther had not moved, had only stood and watched from the moment the wings had burst through the armor on Darius’s back.

  “I will,” he said, taking a careful step backward, then another. When it was clear Darius would not kill him, he turned and ran from the forest as fast as his old bones would allow.

  Darius stood there watching until he was gone. The moment lingered, and he did his best to enjoy it. It was the calm after a storm, the peace of a quiet morning. The light of his wings dimmed, and with each beat he felt them losing their luster. The moment gone, the presence of Ashhur vanishing at last, Darius turned and began to walk. The wings faded from his back, shimmering away like soft white smoke upon the wind. His direction was not aimless, and he passed through the fire without a thought to its danger. With each step his exhaustion returned, the rage he’d known slowly draining into an emptiness in his chest that refused to fill.

  “Was it right?” Darius asked as he felt the wound in his side reopen. “Was it right to let him live?”

  Luther would return to Mordeina and inform the rest of Karak’s faithful about Jerico’s death. If they hunted for anyone, it’d be him now. Jerico was free. He could go and live, wherever, however, and perhaps make a life for himself. But was it worth letting such a terrible man like Luther escape? He didn’t know. But he’d killed enough that day, and he’d made Jerico a promise.

  Jerico…

  “Let him find some happiness,” Darius said, feeling a fever starting to burn in his face and neck. “Let him find some peace. Can you do that for him? If that’s possible. If you’re even in this world anymore. It’s so dark, Ashhur. So terribly dark.”

  His breath grew weaker. Blood trickled down his face and neck. Step by step he pushed onward. The sword he’d held, once light as a feather against Luther’s neck, now felt like it weighed a thousand stone. It dragged behind him on the ground, the tip bumping against the dirt.

  “Will she be waiting for me?” Darius asked, forcing his body to move forward. “Will Valessa…”

  He screamed as he felt the bones in his right arm shatter and break. His sword fell to the ground, and he left it there. Staggering, he screamed again as the torn muscles of his chest pulsed with fresh pain.

  “Please,” Darius said, his voice ragged. “Please, Ashhur, please. I don’t want to die.”

  Another scream, this time when the bones in his left leg snapped, just as they had from the dark paladin’s mace. Every cut, every break, he felt them returning, the pain fresh as it had been when first inflicted upon his body. Unable to walk, he collapsed onto his stomach, his blood painting the grass below him red. But he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t there. With shaking hands he dragged himself along.

  “Was it enough?” he asked, straining to look ahead. Before him was the river, and he crawled to it on his knees. “All those people. Oh god, the family. The town. I watched them die. Was it enough? Will they be waiting too?”

  Another inch closer he dragged his broken body, even as he felt the stab of a dagger through his stomach. He thought of their faces, of the terror he’d brought them. A family praying to Ashhur, killed to prove his faithfulness to Karak. The prophet’s words were poison, but he’d believed them anyway. He’d stood in Durham and watched it burn. Why? What madness had possessed him? Again and again he saw their faces, frozen in pain and fear.

  “Will they be waiting?” he asked. “Will they forgive me? I slew your faithful, Ashhur. I slew them. So many…”

  His fingers dipped into the water. It was cold, and he splashed some across his face, wiping away the blood. With that same water he washed away his tears, and then he rolled onto his back, his hands above him, still in the river. Could it really be that easy? Could he just kneel and plead for forgiveness, and it’d cleanse it all away? But it didn’t wash away the death. It didn’t erase the damage. The pain he’d caused would always be there, festering in the lives of others, sown like seeds that would sprout only thorns.

  Unworthy, thought Darius, and he dreamed of meeting those pained faces in a shining land. He dared hope they would greet him with smiles, and when he fell to his knees before them, they would reach out and tell him to stand. It would be a poor eternity spent in a place that could harbor bitterness and blame.

  “What’s it like?” he wondered aloud, his tongue so dry it was starting to burn. Would it be streets of gold as they said? He hoped not. For some that might be their vision of beauty, but Darius liked to think himself a simpler man. He wished for fields of grass, for tall mountains capped with snow, for forests and animals. There’d be large gatherings of friends, maybe a cool lake where he could wait for Jerico to join him, where they could embrace and forget the torment they’d suffered on Dezrel. More than anything, he wanted peace. He wanted there to be no more need for someone like him, no more need for the sword he’d left behind.

  The river flowed across his hands.

  “I hope she’s waiting,” Darius whispered with lungs slowly starting to fail him. “I hope she’s…”

  The wind blew across him, and a smile blossomed on his face.

  “I see,” he said.

  And then he died.

  25

  Away from the forest staggered Luther. He felt baffled by the display, and in awe of the strength that had humbled him. Over and over he thought of that moment, when Darius had lifted his sword high above Jerico’s neck.

  “His life is not yours,” the paladin had said. “You will not have him. You will not kill him. He is beyond you now.”

  And then the sword had fallen. The moment left Luther sick. He’d hoped the two would listen. They could have joined him, come back to learn. Why would they do such a thing? Why were they so willing to die? In stabbing Darius, he’d taken pleasure in punishing Jerico’s murderer. But then Ashhur had shown his presence, and what a presence it was.

  The smoke billowed into the sky behind him, the fire slowly spreading along the riverside. Luther saw none of it. Instead he saw a man waiting for him, his two dirks in hand. The land beyond the forest was smooth grass, and it rippled in waves as the wind blew. Without fear Luther approached, even though his strength was sapped and his head ached. All around them were the corpses of men and monsters.

  “I see you survived,” Luther told Kaide, stopping ten paces away and standing to his full height.

  “And you as well. It will take more than a few wolf-men to lay me low.”

  The wind howled. Their eyes met, and they shared a stare that dragged on and on.

  “Is Jerico dead?” Kaide asked.

  Luther nodded. The motion made the brigand’s whole body tense. An attack was imminent. Luther knew he would not survive.

  “Did you kill him?”

  Kaide’s voice was like ice, and there was no disguising the loathing.

  “No,” Luther said. “No, I did not. I would have had him live. The choice was taken from me.”

  The dirks lifted. Luther closed his eyes, and he prepared himself to meet his god. But the hit did not come. He heard a slow exhalation of air, and when he looked, he saw Kaide jamming the dirks into his belt.

  “I do not understand,” Luther said.

  Kaide shook his head, and his eyes swept across the bodies of the battlefield.

  “No,” he said. “I doubt you would.”

  “This is the promise I made to you. Here I am. Strike me down.”

  “I want to,” Kaide said. “But I wi
ll not honor Jerico’s memory that way.”

  He turned to leave, but Luther had to know. He called out, stopping him.

  “Tell me first, do you honor the man, or what he believed?”

  Kaide turned his head to the side. His gaze remained firmly on the ground, as if ashamed of what he needed to say.

  “He begged me to let you live,” said Kaide. “He loved Sandra as much as I, yet still he begged. It wasn’t to protect you. I hope you realize that, Luther. He didn’t put himself in the way of my dirks for your sake. He did it for mine. I honor Jerico for everything he ever was, and you’re a fool if you think you can separate the man from what he believed.”

  With that he trudged off. Luther watched him go, his bafflement growing. This was a man prone to murder first, a man who knew only hatred. Yet now he let it all go, and for what? To honor a dead man? Men didn’t change like that. He’d seen it a thousand times before. A man was what a man was. To put his back to him, to walk away…

  Luther looked to the burning forest, and he heard Jerico’s words echo in his ear.

  We save this world by healing it. Not with fire, not with destruction. I pray you one day realize this, and believe.

  Kaide had been a man of fire. He’d been a man of destruction. No longer.

  Luther’s eyes, for the briefest moment, dared open to a world of possibilities that frightened him. On his knees he fell, and the lion named Doubt roared and roared.

  Epilogue

  In the morning light Jerico approached the grass-covered remains of the fallen Citadel. Wind blew through his hair, and it felt good. Alongside the river he saw scattered remnants of the boats that had once patrolled both the Gihon and the Rigon, keeping the lands beyond the Vile Wedge safe. It looked like many had been scavenged over the past few months. The heavy stones, though, they remained. As he neared, he saw the bulk of the tower had collapsed upon its eastern side, and the pile of stones there was enormous. Drifting through, he found bits and pieces of clothing, beds, broken hilts and templates for shields. No doubt people had scavenged their remains as they had the boats.

  “We protected you,” Jerico said aloud, thinking of the people coming in from the south. “And when we fell, you came to pick our corpses clean. Did you weep for us? Did you shake your heads and mutter as you walked among the bodies?”

  Now he made his way over the uneven terrain of the foundation. In its center was a great crater, and a crack in the earth as if the very world had deigned to break the building. What could have caused that? A man of Karak had led the attack, that was all Jerico knew. He’d seen the collapse many times in his dreams, and what he saw before him matched perfectly. But lately the field before it was barren. No fighting, no siege, no demons or prophets or last stands for his dead brethren. Just the Citadel shaking, crumbling, then falling on its side. What did it mean? Jerico wondered. Long they’d been told the destruction of the Citadel would herald the ending of the world, a ceasing of all things good and pure. But he knew that wasn’t true. His order was not yet done, and there were still many good and pure things left in Dezrel.

  “What is it you want from me now?” Jerico asked aloud. The empty field was so quiet, so serene, he could almost imagine Ashhur standing there, listening. “I’ve done everything I thought was right, and it resulted in death. Must I watch more of my friends die? Must my very presence put them in danger?”

  He felt a pain stab him in the chest.

  “Is Darius with you?” he asked the rubble, and the only answer he was given was in the blowing of the wind.

  Slowly Jerico put his back to the broken pieces of his order and began walking across the tall grass fields. He wondered about the children there, if they’d been destroyed with the rest. Perhaps they lived? Or maybe there were still more paladins out there, cowering in cellars and temples in the far corners of Mordan and Neldar. So much he didn’t know, and as he walked he left the one place he’d hoped would give him answers. But now he knew. He was alone, all alone.

  He stepped on something hard and uneven. Glancing down, Jerico found the hilt of a weapon hidden in the grass. Reaching down, he lifted up a splendid mace. The flanged edges shimmered with power, and the balance of the weight was perfect. Inscribed along the shaft in gold was the weapon’s name, Bonebreaker. Jerico remembered the man who had wielded it, a faithful paladin named Jaegar.

  “Is this a gift?” Jerico asked, and he laughed despite himself, laughed until the laughter was replaced with an impotent rage. “The lost weapon of a dead man…is this all you would have me do? Kill? Slaughter? Is the pain worth this, the murder, the loss, all in vain hopes of hearing your voice? Is that what I am to this world now, just a way to shed blood? What would you have me do, damn it, what? What?”

  I would have you live.

  The remembered words struck him with their softness, their simplicity. Jerico fell to his knees, and before the ruins of the Citadel he wept, the weapon still in his hands. A noise startled him, and he looked up to the see the landing of a dove, her feathers white and pristine. The left wing, however, was withered and uneven, yet still the creature flew, and still it was beautiful. The message was clear, and with a heavy heart Jerico stood.

  “I will,” Jerico said. “I promised Darius I would. But I’m not strong enough just yet. My faith is shaken, and I would not have it break. Permit me an exile, Ashhur. I think you’ll understand.”

  Casting aside his old mace, Jerico clipped the new one to his belt and then began walking north. Not far from the Citadel was a shallow crossing, one he would use to leave the mortal kingdoms of men and instead venture into the wild lands of the Vile Wedge. In there, he would hurt no one. In there, no dark paladin would come to kill him, and he would kill none in return. Perhaps it was cowardice, but he knew his time there would only be fleeting. Live, commanded his lord, and so he would live.

  And just perhaps, when death came for him, he might meet it with a shred of the bravery Darius had shown.

  The sky was clear and blue, and the wind through his red hair felt like an affirmation.

  Still amid the ruins, the dove with a broken wing watched him travel north, head and shoulders bent with a heavy burden, yet his step lighter than when he first arrived.

  “Live,” said the dove before flying away.

  Note From the Author:

  Normally I write this section after some separation from the novel, most often the day before they are published. Not this time. I’m writing this immediately after finishing the last chapter and the epilogue, so I can try to keep whatever emotions I’m feeling about it fresh. It only seems appropriate enough for Darius.

  Speaking of…for three novels, whenever I expected him to die, he lived. Now, when I fully expected him to live (and anyone who’s read the endnote in Blood of the Underworld knows this), he goes and does…that. Is it an ending befitting him? I don’t know. But it’s his ending. I’ve killed plenty of characters before, even some very beloved ones, but I’m not sure I’ve ever given them such a death, if I’ve ever stripped them so bare in their final moments. There’s a lot of me in Darius, and a lot in Jerico as well. When it comes to their doubts, their questions, their desperate hopes, they so often mirror mine. If I’m given such a moment, I also hope I have the same courage. I also hope I have a few people waiting for me with open arms.

  This is pretty much the end of the Paladin series. If you’re curious about Jerico, he’s re-introduced in the third book of the Half-Orcs, Death of Promises, while he’s still in exile in the Wedge. Luther will be causing trouble in Blood of the Father, the next up on my agenda. I have a feeling Valessa might be there as well. As for the events Jerico’s hinting at, I do think at some point I will write that novel. The Fall of the Citadel was the first full novel I ever wrote and completed, and it’s still in a shoebox in my closet. Should I rewrite it, it’ll be a standalone, or perhaps just Paladins #0. Either way, it’ll be awhile. I’ve got some half-orc brothers to get to before that.

  I hope y
ou all have enjoyed this series. I’ve poured my heart into it, be it dark or light, and more than anything I’m proud of this particular book. It might not sell as well as the assassins, but that’s okay. A smaller audience means more intimate stories, right? I wanted an uplifting ending to this series, a nice triumphant moment for these paladins. I don’t know if I gave it to them. Right now, I have no clue. I can’t tell if they’re exultant, happy, depressing, lost, hopeless, what. But it’s the right ending, damn it. It’s an honest one.

  If you’d like to send me an email, fire one off to ddalglish@yahoo.com. I promise to get to it eventually, though I’m falling behind, so consider this a plea for patience. You can also check out my website at ddalglish.com, and if you want to keep up on whatever bizarre project I’m planning next, you can find nearly every update at www.facebook.com/thehalforcs.

  Again, thank you for making it this far. Thank you for your time, your patience when I screw up, and your sharing with others when I do something awesome. God Bless.

  David Dalglish

  July 5th, 2012

  Table of Contents

  Night of Wolves

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

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