Paladins: Book 03 - The Old Ways

by David Dalglish

  “Don’t look like there’s any patrols,” said the oldest of the seven, a long-haired man named Zeke.

  “Why would there be?” Gregory asked. “Why would Cyric think we knew his plans? He was an overconfident bastard the few times I met him, and I doubt he’s gotten any better now he thinks he’s a god.”

  “He ain’t a god,” said Zeke. “He ain’t even much of a man. Just wait. I’ll shove my sword in his gut, and we’ll see how proud he is then.”

  The rest laughed, all nervous chuckles and sideways glances. Darius made sure to grin wide, and let none know of his private fears. A priest claiming he was Karak returned in human form? The rest of the priesthood would flay the flesh from his skin when they learned of such blasphemy. So why hadn’t Karak denied him his power? Why send lions of the Abyss? Was there a grain of truth to it? Darius had killed a prophet with his blade, but could he kill a god?

  The road widened as they neared the village, and the ground was markedly flatter. By now they could see torches, mostly gathered around the village center.

  “Close enough,” Darius said. “Time we split up.”

  “Darius with me,” Gregory said. Darius could sense the young man assuming leadership, and was glad to let him do it. He knew the men better. “Zeke, go with Reb and Thomas. Stay at the farthest edge of town, close to the road. I want us to always know who leaves and who goes from Willshire.”

  The three men saluted, lowered their backs, and ran toward one of the homes. Gregory turned to the final two, lowborn brothers who’d enlisted at the same time, and been considered unworthy of anything other than a station at the towers. Darius had rarely spoken to them, learning little more than their names. They both had short red beards, making them even more identical.

  “Something’s going on in the center,” Gregory said. “Think you two can find a home close enough to see?”

  “Finding one’s the easy part,” said Gavin, grinning. “It’s sneaking in unnoticed that’ll be tricky.”

  “Can you?”

  “We can,” said Kris, the younger. “And no tiny village door is going to be locked or barred, not well enough to stop us.”

  “You certain?” Darius asked.

  “There’s a reason Daniel picked us for this,” Gavin said. “We might have been a bit ... troublesome before being sent to the towers. Come on, Kris. I promise, come tomorrow night, we’ll be ready for Cyric’s little game.”

  “Stay low, and don’t do anything stupid,” Gregory told them.

  “You mean besides our whole damn mission?” Kris asked, grinning.

  Darius looked at Gregory and shrugged.

  “He’s got a point.”

  “Thanks for the confidence,” Gregory said, gesturing to the quiet village. “Where are we to go?”

  Darius analyzed the homes, then shook his head.

  “To the other side,” he said. “Maybe we will see something from a new angle.”

  He led the way, his body crouched and his head low. So far they had yet to see soldiers, or any sign of Cyric, but he refused to believe the priest had not begun preparations for the blood moon. Someone watched over the city, and kept them in line. As they circled Willshire, they reached a space where they could see through a gap of homes to the center. Both stopped, and Darius felt his heart stutter.

  “What is that?” Gregory whispered.

  “It’s an altar,” Darius whispered back.

  “It can’t be. It’s too big to be one.”

  The paladin shook his head.

  “Blood will spill there,” he said. “Trust me.”

  Surrounded by torches and watched by soldiers bearing the standard of Karak was a massive table, built of five carved slabs of stone. Tied to the stone were twenty men and women. They sat with their backs to it, their heads sagging as they slept. Darius felt fury burn in his gut, and time slowed as he saw the man lording over it all: a priest dressed in black, standing atop the stone with his head bowed and eyes closed.

  “We can attack them now,” he said. “We have surprise, and I count only thirty or so guards.”

  “No,” Gregory said. “We follow the plan.”

  “But the people...”

  “...will die if we fail.” Gregory put a hand on his shoulder. “They will endure. Now come, I think I see a place for us to stay.”

  He pointed to a large barn, far from any torchlight. The two of them could stay the night there, and come the morning, they’d just be two more villagers native to Willshire, eager to work the fields and participate in whatever ceremony Cyric had planned. Darius gave one last look at the priest, let his face burn into his memory, and then followed.

  The barn itself was not quite as empty as they had expected. Instead of silence, they heard snores, and shuffling. Peeking inside through a crack, Darius saw at least thirty people sleeping amid the hay. Gregory snuck around to the front, then hurried back.

  “Six men guard the entrance,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Those from Durham must be inside.”

  “Cyric fears they’ll flee. I can’t imagine why.”

  “What do we do?”

  Darius looked up, saw a high window. Too tall to climb. Other than that, there was the front entrance. The paladin scratched his chin, thinking. He looked at Gregory and frowned.

  “How good a liar are you?” he asked.

  “No one will play dice with me anymore. That good enough?”

  Darius pulled the sword off his back and lay on his stomach. The wood on the barn was old, and carefully he checked board after board until he found one that was loose. It didn’t have much give, but when he pulled, it opened up enough of a crack that they could slide their weapons inside. Gregory looked unhappy doing so, but he trusted him. That done, Darius stood, wiped a bit of dirt into the sweat of his face, then did the same to Gregory.

  “The men at the front are just mercenaries,” Darius explained in hurried whispers. “We at the Stronghold never liked them, nor respected their faith. They’re in it for the money and power. While they praise Karak, they think like men, not priests. And like men, they assume other men are just like them.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Just stay with me, and say as little as possible. We’re going to get ourselves some women.”

  “What?”

  Darius ignored him, and stepped around the corner of the barn and into the light of the guards’ torches, pretending to have come from further inside the village.

  “Stay where you are,” one of them said upon seeing him. Several drew their blades, and Darius let a heavy drawl enter his voice, as if he’d downed too much liquor. Gregory stood behind him, looking nervous, which was exactly how Darius wanted him to look.

  “Them people in there,” he said, pointing at the door. “They’re nothing but trouble. No good, that’s what they are.”

  “You should be in bed, farmer,” said the man directly before the entrance. Darius saw the markings on his armor and knew him the highest ranked of the six, so he focused his attention on him.

  “Sun’ll rise no matter whether I sleep or not,” Darius said, and he grinned as if what he’d said was the most brilliant thing ever. “But my friend here, Greg, you see, Greg ain’t never been with a gal, and that’s a damn shame. Damn shame. But I’m thinking some of them women in there, well, they ain’t too proud, know what I’m saying? Durham girls, they’re loose...”

  The guards shared a look, and it took all of Darius’s self-control to hide his anger. The soldiers knew what he asked, and it amused them, for they had done the same. They’d taken the women inside, no doubt while their husbands watched. The question was...would they let them in?

  “Those whores in there won’t be much for a first time,” said the guard, and he laughed. “What’s wrong with your friend? Why ain’t he porked one of the local gals, instead of harassing us in the dead of night?”

  Darius tried to think of a reason, but Gregory beat him to it. He opened his mouth, closed it, t
hen made a slashing motion over his throat. Darius bit his tongue to prevent a reaction. He’d told the man to talk as little as possible. Leave it to him to pretend to be a mute.

  “Can’t sweet talk a lady when you got no tongue to do it,” said one of the other guards, and they chuckled.

  “Lots of things you can’t do to a lady with no tongue,” said another.

  “Least if the lady’s got a tongue, she can still be of use.”

  Darius’s sword was inside that barn, and it was probably a good thing, too. Fantasies of cutting off all six of their heads turned his vision red. But he smiled, shifted side to side as if he were still drunk out of his mind.

  “So you fine men understand,” he said. “Care to let us in? Anyone asks, we’re just there to talk. Right?”

  “Talk?” said their leader, grinning at mute Gregory. This sent him to laughing again. “Aye, we’ll tell Cyric we let a mute fucker inside to talk.”

  Darius stretched his grin, and acted as if he didn’t understand why it was so funny.

  “Let ‘em in,” said the guard. “Worth it for the damn laugh.”

  They stepped aside, and Darius grabbed Gregory by the shirt and pulled him into the dark barn.

  “Greg don’t know what he’s doing,” he said just before they shut it. “So we’ll be ‘ere all night.”

  “Fine by me,” said the guard. “But if they cut off your balls while you’re asleep, don’t expect us to do shit about it.”

  The door closed, sealing them in darkness. The two stood there, letting their eyes adjust to what little light streamed in through the cracks of the walls. Darius could hear people shuffling, and knew their conversation had awakened many. They might have overheard why they were there, or deduced the reason, so caution was of the utmost importance. As his sight improved, he saw many lying in piles of hay or under blankets, staring at them with wary looks. Two thirds appeared to be women, and many of the men looked old or frail. One man looked healthy, and Darius recognized him all too well.

  “I don’t see no sword,” said Jacob Wheatley, standing before two young girls huddled behind him. “No armor, neither. You think you’ll have fun just like the others?”

  “No, I don’t, Jacob,” Darius said. “I expect to hide, and pray, and hope that come tomorrow night I cut off Cyric’s head and present it to you all in penance.”

  Jacob’s jaw dropped. He took a step closer, and squinted in the darkness.

  “Darius?” he wondered aloud. Before Darius could answer, Jacob clocked him across the face with his fist. As Darius dropped to his knees, Gregory flung himself in the way, just barely keeping the farmer from latching about his throat.

  “Enough,” Gregory hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “We’re Sir Robert’s men, and we’ve come to help!”

  “Help?” asked Jacob. He pushed Gregory away, then pulled at his shirt to fix it. “You got a lot of nerve coming here, Darius. Thought you’d be out there with that fucking priest, singing praises and sharpening your sword.”

  Darius took a deep breath and rubbed his sore jaw. He deserved worse, he knew, and did his best to keep his temper in check.

  “I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said, walking around him while giving him a wide berth. “I’m not going to explain myself, for I’m getting tired of finding a thousand different ways to say I’m sorry I was a fool.”

  He reached the far wall, found his greatsword, and lifted it into the air. Soft light enveloped the blade, and it shone upon the people of Durham, all of whom were now awake.

  “But I’m here to protect you,” Darius said, his voice falling. “Will you let me?”

  Jacob grunted, and he sat down next to one of the women.

  “Don’t mean we’re even,” he said. “But if you can kill Cyric, I think it might be a damn fine way to start.”

  21

  Before they came for him that morning, Jerico already knew the battle had begun. He stood before the bed Arthur had given him, wearing his armor. On the bed lay his armaments. His fingers ran along the symbol of the golden mountain painted across the front of his shield, but his god was far from his mind at that point. All he could think of was Sandra held captive by the priest, Luther, and what his promise had been.

  ...should I see you again, even hear rumors of your approach, I will sacrifice that whore to Karak.

  He had no reason to doubt him, no reason to believe he lied. There’d been such intensity in his eyes, such loathing...

  The door opened. Jerico kept his back to it, his head low.

  “Jerico?” asked a soldier he did not know.

  “Yes?”

  “They’re...they’re rushing the gates. We need you.”

  She’ll die naked, alone, and screaming in pain.

  “I know,” he said, glancing back. The soldier opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “Right. Arthur wished you to know, that is all.”

  He closed the door as Jerico picked up his mace. The weight felt reassuring in his hands.

  Think on that the next time you would play the hero.

  By aiding Arthur, he was killing Sandra. He picked up his shield, slung it over his back. By fighting Sebastian, he ended the life of the first woman he’d ever loved. Closing his eyes, he thought of her face, her stubborn smile. But this was what she’d want. He knew that. She could have run, but instead she killed the two men that had threatened him. Cowering to threats, giving in to cruel demands...that wasn’t her, wasn’t something she’d ever do.

  But that didn’t make it any easier.

  He left his room and made his way to the courtyard. Soldiers lined the walls and formed rows before the rumbling gates. From what he’d learned, there were a hundred stationed within, and approximately six hundred outside the walls. Should they break through, they couldn’t hold. He also knew that. They’d die, without hope of victory. As the wood groaned, and the battering ram slammed again and again, he took up a position at the front of the defense, where the tired men stood, quiet, nervous, watching.

  “They’ll hold,” one said to him as he stood at his side.

  “If not, then we will,” Jerico said, and he smiled a smile he knew they all needed to see.

  Screams filled the air. Glancing up, he saw the men on the walls pouring boiling oil on the attackers. Others shoved stones through murder holes, the sharp rocks plentiful because of the caves. Arthur’s archers were few, but they loosed arrow after arrow while ducking behind the ramparts when Sebastian’s men returned fire. More oil, and for a brief moment, the slamming against the gates stopped.

  Jerico dared to hope. Perhaps something had broken the wheels of the battering ram, or Sebastian’s general had lost his taste for bloodshed facing such casualties. It was a false hope, and he knew it, but the respite from that constant hammering was still welcome. He took a step forward, and looked to the men when the battering ram resumed its work, despite the oil, the arrows, and the killing stones.

  “The archway is tight,” he told them. “Two men abreast, that is all they can send. When it breaks, I’ll be there. My shield will block the way, and unlike wood, unlike stone, I will not break. Stand with me, at my side. Let our enemies see no fear, see no doubt. Let them see a wall of swords!”

  Silence greeted him, but he saw the resolve hardening in their eyes. As he turned to the gate, he heard a single sarcastic clap from Jerek upon the walls.

  “Good show,” he shouted. “Hope you meant it, because they’re coming through!”

  Jerico felt his own terror crawl up his throat, and he choked it down.

  “Play the hero,” he whispered.

  The thickest of the boards snapped, one half twisting and falling free to the ground. The gates flung open violently upon the next smash, revealing the carnage on the other side. Dead men lay slumped, arrows in their bodies. Others were horribly burned by oil, flesh charred and bubbling. Some were still alive, moaning softly or shaking. So many dead, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred, but it didn’t ma
tter. The gates had fallen.

  Time to play the hero.

  “With me!” he cried, rushing forward as Sebastian’s men poured into the archway. Jerico’s shield led the way, and it shone with a vicious light. He threw all his weight into the charge, his head ducked low and his legs pumping. A handful of men made it out of the archway as his charge met them, smashing aside one as if he were a child. Jerico’s mace swung, punching through chainmail to crack ribs and puncture lungs, and then he spun, striking down a third trying to rush past him.

  Without thinking, he pushed his shield forward in the air, though nothing pressed against it. A sound filled the courtyard, like that of a thunderclap. The closest attackers jolted backward as if struck. Their weapons flailing, their feet out of position, Jerico rushed ahead, the flanged edges of his mace tearing flesh and splattering blood across the stone archway. He stopped just before it, so the men above could continue to hurl their stones and fire their arrows.

  For a moment it seemed that time slowed, and there was a pause in the attacks as the next wave of men prepared. Behind him, the rest of Arthur’s soldiers cut down Sebastian’s men, who were scattered and few. They took up positions beside him, and they cheered at the victory. Jerico breathed in heavily, knowing it was just a start.

  But the delay in the attack wasn’t a figment of his imagination, or a quirk of battle. He heard shouting, and from what he could see through the gate, the attackers were redirecting men away from the castle.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Jerek peered through the defenses, then spun, a grin on his face.

  “It’s Kaide!”

  Whatever effect the bandit leader had, it wasn’t enough. Jerico tried not to think of what he’d say if he met the man. Odds were high neither would live, and he found that comforting enough. The next wave of men gathered, shields raised to protect them from Arthur’s arrows. They were nearly a hundred in number, fresh in strength, and with many reinforcements.