Paladins: Book 03 - The Old Ways

by David Dalglish

  “No closer,” Darius said, pointing his sword toward the prophet’s throat.

  “You do not need to remain a failure. You do not need to wallow in guilt. Lower your weapon, and listen to my words. I never lied to you. I would never lie...”

  Darius prayed for strength, for courage. His time in Durham flashed back to him, and he thought of the innocent family he’d butchered in Karak’s name. He used that anger, that shame, to keep his sword raised. Still, Velixar was there, smiling, stepping closer. Always there to discuss, to speak his truth. Darius would not listen. He would not!

  “Do not be afraid,” Velixar said. His throat was mere inches from the tip of Darius’s sword. “You have nothing to be afraid of...traitor!”

  Velixar lunged, his face locked in a horrific scowl. Darius started to thrust, but saw that the prophet wielded daggers. He almost didn’t block, for it made no sense. His instincts ruled in the end, and he pulled back, his sword whirling. He blocked the thrusts, parried another, and then retreated closer to the fire. Velixar remained back, but he was no longer Velixar, and no longer smiling.

  “You could never just die, could you?” asked Valessa.

  “I could say the same for you,” Darius said, trying to remain confident. The black robes were gone, as was the ever-changing face. She wore her gray cloak and plain leather armor. Two wicked daggers twirled in her hands. Darius felt like he was trapped in a nightmare. This hardly made any more sense than Velixar returning to walk the lands.

  “You flung yourself against my blade,” he said. “You killed yourself rather than accept defeat. What magic lets you live again?”

  “Magic?” she said. “This is no magic. No blessing. No curse. This is vengeance.”

  When she moved, it was as if she became a shadow, her armor fading, her flesh a blur of darkness. Her daggers shone red, and he focused on them, nothing else. His greatsword had benefits of reach, but it lacked in speed. Protecting himself from her barrage involved a constant retreat, a step back for her every step forward. She twisted and struck with inhuman speed. Could he hurt her, he wondered?

  At last he saw an opening. His counter-riposte slashed across her arm. The blade passed right through her, as if she were only smoke. At first the lack of blood and flesh disheartened him, but then he heard her scream. She pulled back, clutching at the wound, which was a deep gray scar compared to the rest of her body. He gave her no reprieve, thrusting for her chest. He thought her helpless, for she’d pressed against a large tree to avoid the thrust. He swung wide, a chop that would remove her head from her neck...he hoped.

  But instead it thunked into wood. Before his very eyes, she’d sunk into the tree, as if it had been nothing but a mirage. He freed his sword just in time, for Valessa burst forth from the trunk, daggers leading. Darius blocked both, and he pressed against her crossed blades, strength against strength.

  “What are you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Your better,” she said.

  “Not a chance.”

  The light of his sword shone against her in such close contact. The flesh of her face peeled away, revealing the darkness beneath. She let out a cry, then retreated beyond the edge of the firelight. Darius did not chase; he was too busy catching his breath.

  “I do not sleep,” she told him, pacing along the camp’s edge. “I do not eat. I do not tire. Walls mean nothing to me, Darius. Nothing. What hope do you have? Your death is only a matter of time. I will send you to Karak’s Abyss, and enjoy watching you burn.”

  “You’re wrong, Valessa,” Darius said, watching her, his sword still held tight. “You won’t kill me, and even if you do, Karak won’t have me.”

  “You will go to the Abyss if I have to drag you there myself!”

  She attacked, her daggers arcing for gaps in his armor. Darius twisted so one scraped harmlessly against the platemail, then smacked aside the other so he could counter. His sword cut across her breast, white light shining. Again she shrieked, and fled out of his reach.

  “What was it you’d do to me?” he asked her, laughing despite his tired limbs. At first Valessa looked ready for another assault, but she pulled back further, shaking her head.

  “I endured death so I might kill you, Darius. I can wait a few more hours. You must sleep, and when you do, I will be watching. I will always be watching.”

  Valessa faded away into the darkness, her voice lingering in the night. Darius lowered his sword and took a breath.

  “Damn.”

  He thought to put his back to a tree, then realized how foolish an idea that was, given that he faced an opponent who moved through trees as if they were not there. He stood in the open beside his fire and scanned his surroundings. He didn’t see her, but that meant nothing. His instincts told him to flee, but where? If he pressed hard, he might reach the edge of the forest, but what did that gain him? Where might he sleep in safety, assuming she did not ambush him while he stumbled along? Not even castle walls could protect him. No amount of guards might keep her away.

  And she was right. No matter how strong he was, he had to sleep eventually.

  “Could really use you here, Jerico,” Darius said, settling down beside the fire on his knees. Ashhur would warn him of any danger, he knew, but would it be enough if he were asleep? If only Jerico were there. They could spend the night in shifts, one awake, one asleep. But he was alone, and days away from civilization.

  “This isn’t how it should end,” he whispered. It didn’t seem fair. Didn’t seem just. He had but one idea left, and that was to bait Valessa into combat. If he could kill her, assuming she could be killed, then that removed the threat of her ambush. He stood again, lifting his sword above his head.

  “Is that it?” he cried to the darkness. “You’re going to run? You’re going to play the coward? What does that prove? You were weaker than me in life, and even with Karak’s strength, you’re weaker now. With every moment you hide, you accept Ashhur’s greatness!”

  Darius tensed, expecting her to launch at him with those blasted daggers. But instead, he heard her laughter from amid the trees.

  “Do you think I am a fool to be baited?” she asked, momentarily appearing at his right before vanishing. “A child to be made reckless? You bear the gifts of Ashhur, and I of Karak. Your training may be better, your armor superior...but we still bear our gifts. And mine will send you to your grave. Lie down, Darius. Let Ashhur protect you. You’re his beloved, aren’t you? We’ll see how much he cherishes his children...and make no mistake, Darius, you are the last of his children, you and Jerico. For such a victory, I can wait. And wait. Can you?”

  Darius swallowed.

  “Damn.”

  He stabbed his sword into the earth, grabbed its hilt, and knelt before it. He was already tired from the several days’ journey, and the fight with Valessa had only worn him out further. His eyelids felt heavy, worse with each moment now that the excitement of battle was fading. No solutions came to mind, no matter how much he tried to think. Despair threatened him, but he refused it. This was the life he had chosen. When Jerico had offered his hand, and a hope for something better, he’d taken it, and he would not question the decision now.

  “You won’t win,” Darius said, closing his eyes and trusting Ashhur to warn him if she were to attack again. “Even if you kill me, you won’t win.”

  The night droned on, silent but for the crickets and the rustle of nocturnal birds. He clutched his sword, gripping the hilt hard enough to hurt his hands. He couldn’t sleep. If he made it to daylight, perhaps he would think of something. Retreat back to Kaide? No, they’d only kill him as well. His mind couldn’t focus. Everything about him was too calm, too quiet. Valessa no longer made her presence known, did not speak to him. Part of him wanted to believe she was nothing but an illusion, a terrible dream he’d slipped into as he lay beside the fire.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Maybe dying wouldn’t hurt at all.

  He slapped himself to push th
e thoughts away. Another hour passed, dreadful in its tedium. His nerves could no longer take the wait, the constant anticipation of an attack from the shadows. He had no ideas, no solutions. The metal was cool against his skin as he pressed his forehead against the hilt of his sword.

  “I have nothing left,” he prayed. “No way to go. What do I do, Ashhur? Tell me, and I’ll do it. Don’t let me die here, not like this. Surely I have something more, something better to achieve. Tell me what to do. Just tell me.”

  Expecting nothing, he shuddered when he heard Ashhur’s voice.

  Sleep, it said. And he did.

  Valessa watched from the branches of a tree, always conscious of where her feet pressed against the bark. She had to keep it solid, lest she fall. The hours passed, but she did not tire. Everywhere within her she felt pain. How could one sleep through that? Several times she thought Darius had lost focus, but knew that damned god of his would warn him of her approach. The last thing she wanted to do was break the monotony, to give his body a bit of danger to wake itself up again.

  “It doesn’t matter the wait,” she whispered, watching the way his eyes remained shut for longer with each closing, and how his head drooped ever further. She knew men could stay awake for lengthy periods of time, but it usually involved actual combat, arduous travel, or constant danger. She’d give him nothing. Already she felt foolish for not waiting for him to be asleep before she attacked in the first place, but her pride burned inside her belly. She wanted to prove to Karak she was the superior, and Darius’s challenge had stirred shame and fury. Still, what would it matter if she beat him in combat, or forced a dagger through his eye while he slept? He was a traitor, a coward, and deserved an eternity of torment for his betrayal. What did honor or fairness matter compared to that?

  And then his eyes remained closed for too long. Her body tensed, and she clutched the branch with a shadowy hand. Already? He’d fallen asleep already? She’d expected him to last the night, and perhaps much of the following day. How could someone so weak have defeated her?

  “Accept this blessing, my glorious Karak,” she whispered, slinking to the ground. She passed over leaves without making a sound. Her daggers shook in her hands, not from fear but from excitement. This was it. A single thrust, and she’d be free of her torment, of a form that knew only cold and agony. Darius’s head dipped lower, his hands still clutching the hilt. His breathing was deep, rhythmic. Forcing herself to be calm, she waited, watched. She would not be tricked, not so close to victory.

  But another ten minutes passed, and he did not stir. Lifting her daggers, she stepped into the dim light of his fire. The kill was hers.

  And then the sword flared.

  The pain overwhelmed her beyond words. She could not even scream. The blue-white light around his blade shone brighter than any torch, any sun, any star. It flooded the forest, washing over it in waves. Valessa tried to flee, but it held her prisoner. The illusion of herself burned away, until she was only darkness, only pain. Her thoughts scrambled as her form weakened with every passing moment. The Abyss awaited her, she knew, and she would go there a failure. Her punishment would be beyond reckoning. That terror gave her strength, and she stepped away, dimly aware of her frantic, jerky movements.

  And then the light diminished, became once more the faint glow that barely lit up Darius’s armor. She fell to her hands and knees. It was hard to describe, but her body felt loose, barely hanging together by threads of shadow. Every shift, every twitch, elicited pain far beyond the constant ache she had grown accustomed to. She’d felt the glare of Jerico’s shield as it pressed against her, but this was nothing compared to that. Whatever she’d witnessed, it wasn’t the same. She didn’t want to imagine the torment if she’d been beside the blade when the light erupted.

  “Damn you, Darius,” she said, struggling to stand. “You’ll bleed by my hands. Ashhur won’t protect you forever.”

  Deep down, she could feel Karak’s anger growing. Thrice a failure...how long until he revoked his gift from her completely? She didn’t want to know—to ever know—but glaring at the dimly glowing blade, she feared for the first time that she might actually fail. Looking to the sky, she hoped for comfort in the shining red star. It was there, but another star was beside it, one she had never seen before. The sight of it filled her with fear, and she swore not to look on it again, nor think on what it might mean.

  10

  Jerico woke before Sandra did, both of them covered with a fine, cold layer of dew. He shivered, then carefully pulled his arms free of her. She stirred, repositioned her head atop her hands, and continued to sleep. Jerico rubbed his eyes, glancing once at the rising sun. The clouds were thick, yet the sun burned a deep red. A bad omen, Jerico knew. Had another of his brethren died in the night? Or perhaps Karak moved again, further sealing his victory.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Jerico’s task was to worry about himself, and those with him. Glancing at Sandra, he felt hesitation building in his chest. Better to pray first, he thought, or prepare breakfast. He knew that would be stalling, though, and let out a sigh. He was hardly perfect, and the last thing he wanted was to see what he feared most: an angry red scar, the skin about it darkening purple. He’d cured disease, venom, and wounds of battle...but could he defeat Karak’s own curse?

  “Just normal skin,” he prayed while she still slept. “Normal skin. Not too much to ask, right?”

  Knowing time was short, and Sandra would wake soon, he carefully knelt beside her and grabbed the bottom of her shirt between his fingers. He didn’t want her to see his reaction if it was bad. He needed to be strong. At least, that’s what he thought she needed.

  Realizing he was stalling again, he swallowed, then slowly revealed the skin of her stomach.

  The sight hit his gut like a club. It was worse than he’d expected. The wound wasn’t even scarred. It looked like it was still trying to heal, swollen flesh leaking pus. The skin around it was a dark purple, with red veins snaking through the bruises.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Jerico?”

  Sandra was awake, and lying very still. Her jaw trembled, but there were no tears in her eyes.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Jerico licked his lips, and begged for strength.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  She laid her head back on the grass and closed her eyes. Her hand clutched his, and it held him tight.

  “I thought so,” she said softly. “It hurts so much, Jerico. So much.”

  “Lie still,” he told her. “Let me do what I can.”

  He prayed over the wound, and watched the healing light about his hands plunge into the skin. He did this again and again, refusing to let anything of Karak’s defeat him. Not now, not when a life was at stake. The purple faded, and the wound closed back to an angry scar. Each time drained him, laid an extra layer of exhaustion across his mind. He’d endured worse, especially after the wolf-men attacked Durham, but he knew there was little more he could do for her. Standing, he let her examine the wound.

  “The pain’s mostly gone,” she said.

  “Mostly? It should be gone completely. Dark magic must have been in that dagger, Sandra. It is the only way to explain why I can’t heal it.”

  “You’re keeping it under control though, right? Maybe it just needs time...”

  Jerico bit his tongue and nodded. It was getting harder every day to heal it, but he didn’t want to tell her that. He could see the way she looked at him. She was grasping at hope, and if there was anything Jerico was supposed to represent, that was it. Arguing with her about it seemed beyond childish.

  “Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  After they’d eaten and prepared for travel, Jerico pondered their destination. He’d originally meant to go after Lord Arthur, and do what he could to break the siege. But now?

  “We need to find a stronger healer,” Jerico said as he scatter
ed their fire with his foot. “A priest, maybe even a wizard. Whatever has infected that wound, be it a curse or spell, might be familiar to someone with a better background in the arcane.”

  Sandra put her hands on her stomach and nodded. He’d wrapped it tight with clean bandages, but it still looked like it bothered her. He felt so helpless. How was it he could heal broken bones, but a single stab wound defeated him so?

  “I thought you were heading toward the Castle of Caves,” she said.

  “That was before.”

  “I told you, I’ll be fine. I just need some time. I promised to be no burden, and I won’t have you changing your plans now.”

  Jerico shook his head.

  “I won’t...”

  “Won’t what?” she asked, stepping face to face with him. “Watch me die? Is that what you think will happen?”

  He looked away, and that was answer enough.

  “We could go back the way we came,” he offered. “Bellok might know a way...”

  She was crying, but she let none of it affect her voice as she shook her head.

  “I’d be dead already if not for you,” she said. “I’m not going back. You may doubt, but I trust you. I’ve seen what you can do. Whatever this is, you’re stronger. We’re going on, to where you’re needed most. All right?”

  “Yes milady.”

  She smiled, stood on her toes so she could kiss his lips. Jerico smiled back, but there was little joy in it. He’d seen the grimace that flashed across her face when she stepped away. He saw how blood was already starting to seep through the bandages around her waist.

  “Let her live,” Jerico whispered as she led the way west. “Otherwise you’re going to have one pissed off paladin to deal with when I walk through your gates.”

  Jerico followed Sandra, wondering what his teachers at the Citadel would have said upon hearing him issuing threats to his own deity. He had a feeling they would have been amused.

  They walked for several hours, often stopping to rest. When they ate at midday, Sandra only nibbled on the hard bread. The lack of appetite worried Jerico, but he said nothing. They continued on, their pace growing slower with each mile. Jerico prayed over Sandra’s wound, and when it showed only marginal improvement, he said nothing, only accepted her thanks with a smile.