Paladins 02 - Clash of Faiths

by David Dalglish

  “Identify yourself!” their leader shouted.

  Darius chuckled, wondering if he was supposed to be intimidated.

  “I am Darius of the Stronghold, paladin of our mighty god Karak. And who might you be?”

  The knight lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal his face. His hair was dark, and he had a scar running along the bridge of his nose.

  “Sir Gregane, knight of our lord, Sebastian Hemman. We’ve been tracking a group of bandits, and they struck not far from here.”

  “Do I look like a bandit? Put your swords away, before I am offended.”

  A nod from Gregane, and the men sheathed their blades.

  “My apologies,” said the knight. “We have been ambushed many times, and feared you were part of another.”

  “Bandits and rebels are men of chaos. You should remember that, knight, before you ever question the allegiance of a paladin of Karak.”

  As Gregane nodded again, a second knight leaned in and murmured something to him in a low tone.

  “Very well,” Gregane said, turning his attention back to Darius. “Our lord has been seeking one of your faith. I ask that you ride back with us to his castle.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Gregane glanced at the rest of the riders.

  “I would strongly recommend against doing so,” he said.

  Darius sighed.

  “Very well.”

  They had no spare horse, and could not carry two with how burdened each of them were with their heavy armor. One dismounted and offered Darius the reins.

  “Her name’s Esme, after my wife,” said the knight. “Treat her well. She has a temper.”

  “The horse, or your wife?” Darius asked as he adjusted the saddle.

  “Both,” he said with a grin.

  “I’ll send a rider for you, Isaac,” Gregane said. “Stay off the road. Bandits might still be near.”

  They rode north, Darius in the center of the formation. Most kept to themselves, for which the dark paladin was thankful. He had no desire for conversation, not while he pondered the reason for his audience. Never before had he been to the Castle of the Yellow Rose, and it didn’t seem that Lord Hemman requested him by name. No doubt he wanted some sort of religious guidance, though why no members of the faith would be with him at the castle seemed odd. Perhaps they were all hunting their new favorite prey…

  The thought reminded him of Jerico, and he wondered how the paladin fared. Had he fled north, as Darius had suggested, or turned about to head south? What of the dark paladins, had they found him yet? He hoped not. Deep down, Darius still felt the bloody conflict might end, that it was no true war. But the various lords, ladies, and kings would turn blind eyes to conflicts of faith, so long as it did not disrupt their people or bathe their streets with blood. Darius knew his brethren would be too careful for that.

  They emerged from the forest about an hour later, the castle not far in the distance. Its walls stretched out for a mile beyond the castle itself, sealing in several pastures with crops and cattle, along with numerous wells. Darius eyed the walls. They were short, and made of dark stone. Ladders would easily reach the top, and battering rams would make quick work of their gates, but that wasn’t their point. They were for holding off uprisings of peasants and raids by bandits, who lacked even the most basic of siege weaponry.

  The castle was equally unimpressive, save for one thing. As Darius entered through a gateway, following the knights along a beaten dirt path, he saw the great rose painted across the face of the castle. It drooped to one side, and a single petal fell, twirling in an unseen wind. Vines grew across the face of the walls, adding texture to the painted petals. Darius couldn’t begin to imagine how they painted it, nor kept its color vibrant. As a defensive foundation, it was basic, square, and crenellated along the tops.

  Sir Gregane announced their arrival, and the castle’s doors were flung open. Young boys appeared, leading away the horses once the knights dismounted. Darius kept an eye out for priests and paladins of either faith, but saw none. If lucky, he might appear before Sebastian, offer some vague advice, and then be gone.

  “Follow me,” Gregane said. “But first, your sword.”

  “I go nowhere without it, not even before kings and queens. I will not disarm myself before your lord, especially when I am brought here as a guest.”

  The other knights tensed, but Gregane seemed unoffended.

  “Very well. Keep it sheathed on your back. I cannot promise you safety otherwise.”

  Darius gestured for him to move along. They stepped into a short hallway, past several doors leading to the lower and upper floors of the castle. Then they were inside the grand room, with rows of tables for feasting at the foot of a single throne made of stained oak. A man sat on it, thin and wiry, with his dark hair reaching far past his neck. Flecks of gray shone in the black.

  “Sebastian Hemman,” Darius said, not waiting for introductions. “I am Darius of the Stronghold, faithful paladin of Karak, and I bring with me his blessing.”

  Sebastian sat ramrod straight in his chair, and at the announcement, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to a table that had a meager offering of food.

  “You may eat and drink, if you’d like,” said the lord. His voice was soft, calculated.

  “Perhaps when business is done,” Darius said. He remained standing, even when the other knights bowed in reverence. Darius would bow to no one, nor call them lord; his kind served Karak and Karak alone. “I have never been fond of empty pleasantries, nor stalling words to feel out another’s true thoughts. Let me state this plainly: I have come because you have summoned me. Let me know why, so I may perform my function, and then go on my way if I so choose.”

  “Impatient words,” Sebastian said. “But I’ve found your kind often is. Sometimes I think Karak sends those gifted with golden tongues to his priesthood, and the blunt muscle to the Stronghold.”

  Darius grinned.

  “No one will ever accuse me of a bronze tongue, let alone golden. I have my sword, and that is enough. Tell me, Sebastian, why am I here? Are there no others of the faith to counsel you?”

  “We once had a priest here, but he has left, with business he swears is most urgent.” Lord Hemman took a drink of wine from a cup at his side, still in no hurry to move things along. “But the seventh day approaches, and we have no one to administer the offerings, nor have we had for several weeks. Would you preside over this for my people tomorrow?”

  That was it? Darius tried to contain his temper. He’d basically been kidnapped and brought before their lord, all so he could perform a function even the youngest of the faith could handle?

  “If that is what you require, I accept, but I have matters I must attend, and cannot stay long.”

  “Yes, of course. Now that that is settled …”

  Sebastian clapped his hands, ordering everyone out. Gregane opened his mouth to protest, but the lord silenced him with a glare. The servants vanished, shutting the door behind the knights. When they were alone, Sebastian stood, and he seemed to visibly relax.

  “Forgive me that tedious business,” he said, eagerness bleeding into his voice. “It has been weeks since any worshipper of Ashhur was here, but I thought it best to hide the reason for your arrival just in case. Castle walls have ears, after all, and mine are no exception.”

  “I see,” Darius said, though he didn’t. If not for the morrow’s service, why was he here? A ball of lead formed in his stomach, for of all the ideas he had, none were pleasant. The lord moved to a door behind his throne, and he opened it with a key wrapped around his neck. Taking a nearby torch, he stepped inside, beckoning Darius to follow. Heart in his throat, he did.

  The air was heavy, and the floor damp. They descended into a dank dungeon, the only sound that of the flickering torch and a distant dripping of water. At the bottom of the stairs was a cell, and inside that cell was an older man strapped upright to the wall with iron.

  “Who is
this?” Darius asked, already dreading the answer. “Answer me.”

  “It is a brave man who will make demands in a lord’s dungeon,” Sebastian said. “But that is your nature, I suppose. I have always been a faithful supporter of Karak. Ashhur appeals to the peasant folk, the simple minded who need promises of greatness in death, who need a doctrine that elevates them as equals to gods. Karak knows better. It is Order the world needs, a king, his lords, and their subjects. That is the divine sequence.”

  “Enough,” Darius said, wishing to hear no more of the man’s simplification of a doctrine he knew better in his sleep. “Answer my question.”

  “His name is Pallos,” Sebastian said, opening the cell door. “My men captured him along the road, and have brought him here. Before he left, Laius, one of your priests assigned to be my counsel, spoke whispers of a war. He told me of the Citadel’s fall, and of the great cleansing that sweeps across Dezrel. Of course, I would not dare steal from you a rightful execution. Besides, if the priests of Ashhur received word, they might make my life … difficult.”

  Darius stepped into the cell, his throat dry. The paladin’s name was so familiar. Pallos … that was it. Darius had promised Jerico that he would warn Pallos of the silent war should he encounter him again. It seemed such a warning was no longer necessary. The older man looked up at him, his eyes still lucid despite the thinness of his body and the darkness of his cell.

  “Leave me,” Darius told Sebastian. “I wish to have words with this man, of things you’d best not hear.”

  “Of course.” The man bowed and stepped back, keeping his torch high so its light might still shine on them both.

  “Who are you?” Pallos asked, his voice cracking.

  “My name is Darius … of Durham.”

  At the name, Pallos tensed against his shackles.

  “Have you turned against me?” he asked. “Has the entire world? I warned Jerico, but did he listen? He counted you his friend.”

  “And he still does,” Darius said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I had not the heart to kill him. He lives, Pallos, at least last I saw him. The world is dangerous, though, so I cannot know for certain.”

  Pallos’s mouth dropped open, and he looked torn between hope and distrust. Darius knew the man had no reason to believe him. Everything he said could be a trick, or a cruel torture to be later revealed as a lie.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said at last. “I thought for certain … Karak would call you to kill him.”

  “He did.”

  “And you refused?”

  Darius sighed. This was hardly something he wished to go over again, for the wound still stung.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Praise Ashhur,” Pallos whispered.

  “I doubt Ashhur deserves much praise. His paladins are being butchered day by day, and now I find you here, chained to a wall and starved half to death.”

  Pallos’s eyes twinkled, but he refused to argue.

  “What now?” the older man asked.

  Darius glanced back at the lord. What now indeed? Here he was, before a man declared to be his enemy by the highest members of his faith. Could so many be wrong? Even Karak’s very prophet insisted the followers of Ashhur were an enemy, and that Darius would only know Karak’s strength when he embraced that reality.

  He looked to Pallos. The man’s skin hung on his bones, and his fingers shook without ceasing. Sweat dripped from his head—or was it water from the ceiling? He tried to decide what was right. He thought to pray to Karak, but he suddenly felt afraid of his deity. It wasn’t that he would receive no answer; in fact, the opposite. What if Karak called him to kill? What if Darius still stubbornly clung to an image of his god that was untrue?

  “You will die, no matter what I do,” Darius whispered. He pulled his greatsword off his back and held it in his hand. “They will leave you here, starving, chained, until another priest or paladin comes along. They will torture you, make you scream and beg. They might even force you to denounce your faith, to cry out in pain that all your beliefs are a lie. I cannot save you, Pallos, but I can grant you death here, now. It will not be done in anger. I will lessen the pain as much as I can.”

  “Your blade,” Pallos said, acting as if he never heard a word. “It does not burn.”

  “My faith is still strong,” Darius said. “Will you accept my mercy?”

  “You hold faith,” Pallos said, a smile covering his face. “I do see that, but is it in the god you think you serve?”

  “Enough,” Darius said, his voice rising. “Karak is my lord, my protector, my strength. I offer you this in kindness. Give me an answer. I will not murder you, only save you. Let me hear the words.”

  The old paladin let his head fall.

  “I hear you,” he said. “Do what must be done. I know what fate awaits me in the hereafter.”

  Darius stepped to the side, closing both hands around the hilt of his sword. He heard Pallos whispering a prayer to his god, and the sound knifed through his heart.

  “I do no wrong,” he whispered. “I perform no sin. In this, I take no joy.”

  He swung. His greatsword cleaved through Pallos’s neck and struck stone on the other side. As it did, Darius saw a black flame burst from his sword. It terrified him, and he refused to think of it, and locked it far away inside his mind.

  “A single cut,” Sebastian said, grinning. “Well done, Darius.”

  Darius did not bother to contradict him.

  “I must go find lodging,” he said, distracted.

  “Nonsense.” The lord beckoned him to follow. “You will stay with me here, in the castle. I’ll not have you go seeking an inn, as if I turned away an honored guest. Consider it another part of my service to Karak.”

  “If you wish.”

  The keeper of the dungeon, a heavy-set man who had remained hidden in the shadows, stepped out at their departure. Darius glanced back once, saw him unhooking the body for burial, and then looked away.

  *

  Valessa hated the wilderness. She felt exposed without the comforting crowd of the city to blend in and vanish. Every noise seemed louder, every footfall breaking a twig or leaf. When in cities, though, she yearned for the outdoors, to be away from prying eyes that were ever watchful. In truth, she was generally unhappy wherever she went, though she was reluctant to admit it.

  “Must he have fled to the North?” she asked, ducking her head underneath a branch. The top of her hood rustled its leaves, and she felt several break off and fall upon her and her horse.

  “Wouldn’t you, if you knew the might of Karak chased after?” asked her companion, a smaller, slender woman named Claire. They both wore heavy gray cloaks over their outfits, plain clothes hiding tightly interwoven leather armor.

  “I wouldn’t bother running,” Valessa said. “I’d at least be willing to face my Tribunal and die with honor.”

  “Dying in betrayal to Karak has no honor, no matter what manner of death.”

  Valessa drew a dagger and stared into its perfect sheen. True, there was nothing honorable about the deaths they brought. They were the gray sisters, and they killed in secret, and in silence.

  Claire pulled back her hood and shook her blonde hair loose.

  “Day’s warm,” she said. “The most in two weeks, at least.”

  “Just means winter’s about to arrive in force,” Valessa grumbled.

  “What, you hate winter now?” Claire laughed. “I’ve always thought blood looks beautiful spilled across white snow. That, and it’s easy to blame a death on the frost, if we’re careful enough, and don’t use a blade.”

  “Keep your wire and poisons to yourself, Claire. My knife is enough to … shit!”

  She hadn’t been paying attention, only trusting her horse to follow the road. At the last moment, she saw a thin coil of rope hidden beneath an unnatural pile of leaves. Yanking on the reins, Valessa reared her horse back, trying to avoid it, but it was too late. The rope snapped, its knot clos
ing in on her mount’s front two legs. The horse shrieked as its body was brutally jarred to one side, its legs unable to properly balance. Valessa leapt clear to avoid being crushed underneath. She rolled, spun, and drew a blade in each hand, her eyes already surveying the area for assailants.

  “Show yourself!” Claire called out, still mounted. So far, no one revealed their presence.

  “An unwatched trap?” Valessa asked.

  “We’re not far from Sebastian’s castle. Bandits have been making his life miserable, from what I hear. This may be just a nuisance.”

  Valessa kept her body in a crouch, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Her curved daggers never wavered in her hands. Her horse continued to make noise as it struggled to stand. Tiring of the distraction, Claire pulled out a small crossbow that had been attached to her belt and fired. The bolt sunk into the horse’s throat. Valessa watched, knowing it would not take long for the lethal poison to end the creature’s pain. Its breathing turned heavy, its head fell, and finally they could hear.

  The forest was eerily silent around them. If there were critters about, they remained low and hidden. Valessa felt the hairs on her neck rise, and she knew she was being watched. But from where?

  “My horse can bear two,” Claire said, spinning her mount in place so she could check all directions. “We can race along, or flee back south.”

  “Traps might be set in either direction,” Valessa said, her voice low. She took a careful step toward Claire, then another. What were they waiting for? Two women, riding alone, and they were smart enough to treat them as dangerous prey? Whoever these bandits were, they were either cowards, or too intelligent for their own good. Valessa certainly hoped for the former.

  “Stay still!” a man’s voice shouted to her right. She spun. A man camouflaged with mud stepped from around a tree. He held a bow in hand, an arrow notched but not pulled at ready. Another man followed behind him, holding a heavy club.

  “Only two?” Claire asked.