Boisterous sounds of cheers and song met their ears as they floated closer. Daniel clenched his jaw tight to keep his teeth from chattering. Carefully, he swam toward the wall, then went limp again, letting the water bump him against it. He lay flat, until all five were gathered. Glancing up, Daniel waited for the light of a torch, or even a single glance downward to show them as odd shapes in the reflected moonlight. This was it, the most vulnerable part of their plan. Porter lifted three fingers, then counted down. At one, he alone pushed off and floated around the wall.
All they could do was wait and listen. After several minutes, they heard a soft gasp, then the sound of armor hitting stone. Another minute later, Porter leaned over from atop the wall and beckoned them to come. Pushing off, Daniel led the others around and onto dry ground. They kept their backs to the wall, in the deep shadows cast by the scattered torches. He could see the men on the opposite wall, and he tried not to panic, and convince himself he could not be seen.
One of the soldiers with him, a young dark-haired man named Slint, tapped him on the shoulder.
Lion? the man mouthed, lifting his shoulders to accentuate the question. Daniel shook his head. They saw no sign of it yet. If they were blessed, the two horrible creatures would be in Willshire, or even better, back in the Abyss from whence they came. Daniel pointed to his eyes, telling them to stay alert. On the far side, many tents filled the killing field. They could all hear the ruckus. It was a time of celebration, just as Darius had insisted. They were gathered about bonfires, roasting meat and drinking themselves stupid. No wonder the few men on guard were inattentive, and kept their attention focused toward the interior. The fires would also ruin their vision, something Daniel was plenty thankful for.
Besides the men on the walls, the only other guards were two stationed at the doors of the tower, both looking tired and leaning against the building. Daniel kept his anger in check when he saw they were both recruits of theirs, men who had bowed the knee to Karak and turned against their commander.
There’d be no mercy, not for them. Daniel drew his sword, pressed his back to the wall, and crept along. Above them, Porter did the same, tracking their progress. When they reached another guard, they stopped and waited. Porter snuck behind him, for the man watched the north. Daniel winced as he heard the man’s body hit the ground on the opposite side of the wall. Too much noise, but it seemed no one heard. They continued on after Porter gave them the go ahead. Once they’d crossed beyond the two guards’ line of sight, they ensured no eyes watched and then made a break for the tower.
No time to waste, Daniel knew. He hurried to the tower door. No hesitation, no commands, he trusted his men to follow. The closest of the two guards died before ever realizing he was under attack. As Daniel held his hand over the man’s mouth and twisted the blade he’d stuck in his back, the other let out a soft yelp before two of his soldiers thrust their swords through his throat and belly. The dying cry went unnoticed amidst the songs of the mercenaries. Testing the door, Daniel found it unlocked. Throwing it open, he gestured for the other three to hurry. They dragged the bodies inside, and Daniel quickly followed, slamming the door shut behind him.
The sounds of revelry quieted once within. Knowing whatever time they had was dwindling fast, Daniel led the way toward the stairs. The second anyone noticed the missing guards, and was sober enough to look into the matter, they’d be caught. They needed to have rescued Robert and vanished long before then.
“I hear snores,” Slint whispered into Daniel’s ear. Daniel paused a moment, then nodded. Men were sleeping in the adjacent rooms. The three looked to him, and he could tell they wanted orders.
“Kill them,” he whispered back. “I’ll get Robert.”
The three opened the door, and like wraiths in the night, they slipped inside with swords drawn. As Daniel climbed the circular steps leading to Robert’s chambers, he heard a sound that made his heart freeze. It was the roar of a lion, and it was furious. Racing up the steps, he found a window overlooking the wall Porter hid upon. There, atop the stone, was one of the lions of Karak, Porter’s body flopping as the creature shook it in its jaws. Daniel forced himself to look away.
At the top of the steps, Daniel found a mercenary rushing down to investigate. A quick stab underneath the ridge of his breastplate sent him toppling. Daniel yanked free the iron key attached to his belt, then continued on. Stopping at Robert’s door, he unlocked it and thrust it open.
“Time to go, sir,” he said, then froze. His jaw dropped, and his hands trembled.
“No,” he whispered. “Gods, no.”
Robert sat in a chair, his waist and legs strapped to it with chains. Before him was a table, rows of parchment, and a single candle. He held a quill in his gray, lifeless hand. His eyes were open, and his mouth hung limp. His flesh was already rotting, his tongue cut from his throat, but he still lived...if living was what it could be called. A wicked cut remained open across his throat, his clothes and skin below it stained red, but the wound itself did not bleed.
“What have they done to you?” Daniel asked as he heard the lion roar once more.
Robert dipped the quill into an inkwell, then carefully wrote a message on the parchment before him. Daniel stepped forward, and he read it with tears in his eyes.
Kill me. Last order.
Daniel swallowed.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The undead mockery of his commander nodded. Daniel clenched his jaw and wiped away his tears, so he might strong, might be proud.
“I understand,” he said. “It was an honor to serve you, Robert. A true honor.”
He cut off Robert’s head. It fell to the floor, rolled once, then lay still. The rest of the body sagged in the chair, all strength vanishing from it. Daniel stared, holding back his grief, but not his anger.
“Sir?”
Daniel turned to see the other three gathered there, looking at the corpse with wide eyes.
“Cyric’s doing,” Daniel said, his voice croaking. “May the bastard suffer for an eternity when we find him.”
“We barred the door downstairs,” Slint said. “The rest of the traitors are dead, but...”
“The lion,” Daniel said, knowing what they feared. Porter had been found, and the lion stalked the tower. He looked out the window, saw men hurrying to investigate. Whatever hope they had of escape was gone.
“Forgive me,” he told them. “I led you to your deaths.”
“Save the apologies,” Slint said, pulling some rope off his back, one of their emergency provisions. He thrust it into Daniel’s hands. “You’re lord of the Blood Tower now, and our commander. Any hope of honoring Robert is now in your hands.”
Daniel looked to the rope, then the window, and shook his head.
“I won’t. They’ll find me before I ever set foot on the ground.”
“Not if we distract them.”
The three saluted him with their swords. They were willing to die, and appeared ready to carry out their plan whether he agreed with it or not. Taking a deep breath, he saluted back.
“I couldn’t be more proud of you,” he told them. “Take as many with you as you can.”
“Damn right.”
Daniel tied the rope to Robert’s desk, which he shifted closer to the window. When the tower was built, the entrance had faced the river, but Robert’s window faced the gate to the walls, so he might always see the arrival of any guests. Looking down, he saw no one watching, everyone gathering at the other side. From down below, he heard a loud banging as something smashed into the barred doors. Holding the rope in his hands, he waited to throw it, listening for what he also feared.
Loud cracking, then screams. They were through. Daniel offered a prayer for his men, then tossed the rope. He climbed down fast as possible, the rope burning his hands as he slid at a reckless pace. Hitting the ground, he looked about, knowing he had no time. He wanted to run to the dark side they’d entered, but his gut told him otherwise. Sprinting
for the side with the tents, he kept his head low. Whatever celebrations had been going on had clearly halted, with nearly every armed man making their way to the walls and tower, letting out confused cries and shouting questions about a surprise attack. As he weaved through them, he heard shouts from up top. An arrow struck the ground beside him, another just ahead. Daniel said another word of thanks, this time for intoxicated archers.
A roar behind him curdled his blood. He was almost to the river, but he dared a glance back. The lion chased, far ahead of any soldiers still on the ground. It barreled through the tents, which burst into flame upon contact.
Shit, thought Daniel. Shit, shit, shit.
He cast aside his sword, every bit of his strength going into his pumping legs. Another roar, this time closer. The ground seemed to shake with every leap the lion took, and it was so close, so close...
Something slashed at his back. It tore through his clothes, and his skin burned with fire, but he continued on, leaping into the river. The pain in his back eased with the cool water, and like a madman he swam toward the far side. He glanced behind only once to see the lion snarling furiously as it thrashed about. Massive amounts of steam curled into the air from its skin, and when it roared again, it was clearly with pain.
The river might stop the lion, but the rest would be in boats in no time. Reaching the other side, Daniel paused a moment to catch his breath, then ran. He knew well the lands of the Wedge, which grounds were safe and which were occupied by various monsters. Wishing he’d kept his sword, he ran deeper into the Wedge, his back to the tower. Let them chase, but he would not be caught. He couldn’t be. Death would not take him—not yet.
Not until he found vengeance for what they’d done to Robert.
23
Cyric’s men brought food and water into the barn only once, just after dawn. Darius reluctantly took his share. The people of Durham were clearly malnourished, but if he were to protect them in battle, it wouldn’t help to do so on an empty stomach.
“Is there a way up to that window?” he asked Jacob when he noticed the light streaming in through it. The window was up in the loft, and in answer, Jacob pointed to where a ladder had been.
“They broke it when they locked us in here,” he said.
“Where are the rest?” Gregory asked.
Jacob shrugged.
“They’ve got plenty at whatever they’re building in the center. Don’t know where the rest are. Maybe in a home or two, locked up like we are.”
Time crawled, and Darius spent much of it pacing and wondering what was going on outside.
“I trust my men to do their job,” Gregory said, relaxing in a pile of hay.
“And if they’re noticed? Interrogated?”
Gregory shrugged.
“Least we have our weapons. We’ll get to die fighting.”
Darius chuckled, and he leaned against a wall of the barn, wishing he could see out.
“You’re right, Gregory. That makes it so much better.”
“You whine like a child.”
Slowly, so slowly, but the day continued to pass. As night approached, a cold tension filled the air. Even locked away, the two could sense it, could hear it in the way the guards outside the barn talked, and in how the noise of the village dwindled. The many people around them started to fidget, murmur, or cry silently. Darius paced before the door, eager for the night to start, yet dreading it as well.
“What if they don’t come for us?” Jacob asked as the sun began to set.
“They will,” Darius said.
“And if they don’t?”
The paladin shrugged.
“I’ll break the damn door down.”
Jacob gestured to where Darius’s greatsword lay on the ground.
“Time’s running out. If you want to hide it, better get started.”
Darius looked about the men and women. He’d told them his plan, but he still did not like it.
“Who would be best?” he asked.
“I’ll do it,” said an elderly woman. Darius tried to remember her name. Ezre Reed—that was it. Gary’s mother.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I already walk with a limp,” she said. “No one will question an old woman hiding from the chill.”
Darius and Gregory exchanged a look.
“Your decision,” said the soldier.
Using some twine, they tied his sword to her side, the tip at her feet, the hilt tucked underneath her armpit. She took a few awkward steps. A smile lit up her wrinkled face.
“Not so heavy as I feared. Carrying my children was worse.”
Darius smiled back.
“Good. Now let’s get you protected from that cold, cold wind.”
Another couple handed over their blanket, and they wrapped her from head to toe. Her elbow hiding the bulge of the handle, she clutched the two edges of it and walked again. No sign of a weapon.
“Excellent,” Gregory said. “But next time, just bring a dagger.”
“Stay with me, near the very back, if you can,” Darius told her as she leaned against a wall, unable to sit because of the sword. “When I draw it, I might be in a hurry. My apologies in advance if I hurt you.”
“My son died when that evil man came,” she told him. “You could never hurt me more than you did then.”
Her bitter words stung, but whether that was her intent or not, he didn’t know. Looking to Gregory, he saw the man had hidden his shortsword by tying it against his inner thigh.
“Step carefully,” Darius told him, earning himself a rude gesture.
The door was flung open, startling them all. Six soldiers stood there, half holding torches. The light stung their eyes, and several let out cries.
“On your feet, all of you,” said one. “You all should be proud to bear witness to tonight’s miracle.”
Darius bit his tongue, and offered his hand to Ezre. She took it, then began limping along. Unable to bend her right knee, she hobbled forward, and put more and more weight against Darius. He helped her, always careful that the blanket did not pull back to reveal the blade.
“Hurry it up,” one of Cyric’s mercenaries told him.
Darius started to retort, but Ezre beat him to it.
“Hush you. I’ll get there when I get there.”
The soldier blinked for a moment, stunned by the outburst, then laughed.
“Remind me of my own ma,” he said, then struck her across the face. “Hated my ma.”
Darius caught her, and his heart skipped as he felt the handle of his sword press against him. Ezre straightened herself out, moaning only a little. The blanket fell loose, covering the blade again. The guard did not notice, instead turning his back to them and ushering others along.
“I’m sorry,” Darius whispered to her.
“I’ll be fine,” Ezre said. “Took worse from my husband for saying less.”
“Stay near the back. When we take our place, start untying the twine.”
She lifted a curled hand as they walked toward the center of the village, far behind the other people of Durham.
“My hands can’t thread a needle like they used to,” she said. “You’ll have to do it.”
He nodded, not sure how he would do it, but knowing he had little choice in the matter. Trying to fight his nerves, he brought his attention to the spectacle at hand. A great altar waited in the clearing, and it looked like something out of his old lessons at the Stronghold. Stone slabs joined together to form an enormous altar, propped up by wood where necessary. At least four men could lie flat on top of it, but Darius felt certain that Cyric would do just one at a time. He wanted this to last. He wanted to revel in his return to the old ways.
Darius hoped to ruin all his fun.
They stopped at the back of the crowd. Soldiers kept them separated from the original inhabitants of Willshire, who were lined up on the opposite side of the altar. Tied to it were the twenty he’d seen the night before. They looked haggard and tire
d, and he knew many of them. They’d endured the wolf-men, survived Velixar’s assault, and now this. It was amazing that any still clung to life, given the horrors they’d faced. If Ashhur were kind, he’d make sure this was the last.
Standing at the center of the altar was Cyric. The very sight of him twisted Darius’s stomach. His eyes were a deep red. They weren’t the burning fire of Velixar’s, but his smile, his robes, were all eerily similar. Most remarkable was how young he was, and how overwhelmed he was by his faith. Beside him was a paladin of Karak, steadfast and quiet as he protected his master, an enormous ax strapped to his back. Darius vaguely recognized him from his time training in the Stronghold, an old veteran named Salaul.
“A joyous night!” Cyric kept repeating. “Such a joyous night!”
Gregory slipped through the crowd and took up a spot beside him.
“See the others?” Darius asked, speaking low, as if he were just muttering to himself.
“Behind Cyric, the house with two windows.”
Darius saw the building, but the windows looked empty to him.
“Gavin and Kris?”
“Believe so. Let’s pray their arrows are accurate.”
“The other three?”
Gregory nodded toward the large group of people from Willshire.
“He’s in there. Spoke to him for a moment. No one came in or out. We should have them...shit.”
Cyric had been speaking, and then he gestured grandly toward the road. Marching in was a small group of mercenaries, about fifteen in number. In the center walked a woman wearing a silver crown upon her forehead, a long violet cloak, and armor that was both regal and deadly with its sleek lines and dark silver hue.
“Valessa,” Darius whispered.
The crowd parted as if they were royalty. Cyric beckoned her to join him upon the altar, and she did, accepting his hand reluctantly. Her face was an emotionless mask, and Darius could not read it. Something about it didn’t feel right, though. Where was her smile? Where was that same triumphant faith that Cyric exuberated with every movement he made?
And then came the lion. Fire burned across its molten skin, and Darius felt terror grip his heart. It was like something out of the tales he used to listen to as a child, when his teachers would lay them down to bed in the Stronghold. The ancient times, when Karak walked the land, his armies of wolf, bird, and lion at his side.
Paladins: Book 03 - The Old Ways Page 23