“Seven men,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “We lost seven men. I hope you’re happy, Darius.”
He felt guilty saying it, but he also felt better. At least alone in his room he could grumble, mutter, and let his frustration show. Once in his armor and about the town, he had to be all forgiveness and prayers. Sometimes he enjoyed taking up his mace and smashing the head of an outlaw. At least he wasn’t pretending about anything there.
But of course he also knew he wasn’t being fair. Darius had taken them out to deal with a threat to the town. None of them could have foreseen how serious it’d be. After the battle, he’d spoken with all but Darius, who had stayed quiet and away from the others. Three wolf-men had attacked from the back, two from each side, and three more from the front. A pack of ten so close to the Gihon and the towers that guarded it? They’d killed six of the ten, and injured the remaining four. Given how unprepared they’d been, it could have been far worse.
“Jerico?” asked a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a gentle knock.
“I’m awake,” he said, sitting up in bed and stretching his sore muscles. The door opened, and in stepped his host’s pretty daughter, Jessie.
“Forgive me,” she said, turning away and blushing when she saw Jerico wore no shirt. He chuckled, tossed on his tunic, and then asked her what was the matter. Something bothered her, he could tell. It was written all over her face.
“It’s Bobby,” she said, struggling to meet his gaze. Her eyes kept flicking to the floor, and her hands clasped behind her. “He…he hung himself last night. My father wishes you to pray over his body before we bury him.”
The words knifed through Jerico, but despite the pain, he wasn’t surprised. He’d seen the lingering sorrow and death in Bobby’s eyes. Last night’s excursion hadn’t brought him the satisfaction he’d hoped for. Instead, seven of his friends had died, and many more suffered greatly. Again he thought of Darius, and wondered how the paladin was taking the news.
“I’ll be there shortly,” he said, sliding off the bed and reaching for his armor. Jessie started to close the door, then stopped. Her green eyes stared at him, and seeing the question aching to be asked, he prompted her to speak.
“Will Bobby go on to the golden land?” she asked. “Killing yourself…my father’s always said the gods hate men who die a coward. Killing yourself’s a sin, and to die sinning…”
His hand clasping his cold breastplate, Jerico stopped and frowned. He tried to decide what to say, what measure of truth would comfort her, and what he even knew himself.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I dearly hope so. He was a kind man. I’ll pray for him, and pray that he’s with his family in the hereafter. Surely Ashhur can fault no man for missing his loved ones as much as Bobby did.”
“Darius said he deserved Karak’s punishment.”
Jerico pulled his armor over his head, shifted it, and then walked over to kiss the girl on the forehead.
“He speaks out of hurt,” he said. “Pay him no mind. Now go, and tell your father I’m almost ready.”
She smiled weakly, curtseyed, and then was gone. Jerico sighed.
“Damn you, Darius,” he said, tightening the straps on his armor. “For once, couldn’t you know better?”
It seemed half the town had gathered at Bobby’s home by the time he arrived. Jerico’s host, the tall Jeremy Hangfield, stood in the center, clearly in charge. He was a distant relative of a noble in Mordeina, and owned more land than the rest of Durham combined. Thankfully, the corrupting influence of his wealth never went beyond him and the tax man. The people treated him as their leader, lord in all but name.
“There you are!” Jeremy said, spotting him near the back of the crowd. “Come, Jerico, come! Darius has refused to pray over him, but Bobby was a good man, and he deserves no worse than any one of us here.”
The way parted before him, and he stepped to the porch of Bobby’s home. Inside, he saw a rope lying on the floor, having been cut from the rafter it’d been tied to. Wrapped in a blanket was Bobby’s corpse. His parents, their backs hunched, their skin deeply tanned by the sun, sat to the side, surrounded by their friends. Not far away, he saw the parents of Bobby’s dead wife, and they looked too drained to cry. They’d lost all their tears the days before, suffering for the fate of their daughter and grandchildren.
Jerico knelt before Bobby’s parents and took their hands in his.
“Is there anything you want me to say?” he asked.
The father looked at him, his eyes puffy and red.
“He wasn’t his self when he did it. You know that, right? He’d never…he’d never do this…”
“He was already dead,” said the mother. “Died when Susie did.”
He kissed both their hands, stood, and then looked to the crowd. Some wanted comfort. Some were there to support their friends, and couldn’t care less what he had to say. A knot grew in his stomach, and his tongue felt layered with sand. What could he say to them? He knew so little. At the Citadel, they’d taught him the words for funerals, what to say for the passing of men, women, and children. They’d never trained him to deal with the looks they’d give him, the near desperate desire for relief and comfort.
Jerico gave them what he could, and it felt like exposing a piece of himself as he spoke. He told them of Bobby’s kindness, talked of the love of his family, and the grace he’d accepted from Ashhur. He said not a word of his suicide. Let the gods deal with that. When he finished, he gestured to Jeremy, who stepped forward, three men with him. They lifted Bobby into their arms and carried him out. They would bury him in the fields, forever to be a part of their village and their way of life.
Afterward, Jerico mingled, accepted compliments for his speech, and then searched for Darius.
He found him outside the town, sitting with his back to a lone tree growing atop a hill. The wind blew, and it felt wonderful against Jerico’s warm skin. Speaking to the public always made him flush and feel like his neck were on fire.
“You weren’t there for the burial,” he said as he sat down beside him.
“Don’t deserve it.”
Jerico sighed. “Whether he hanged himself or not, he trusted both of us, and at least you could have—”
“Not him,” Darius said, shooting him a glare. “I don’t deserve to be there. He was hurting, and I led him out into the Wedge in hopes of aiding him. Instead, I made things worse. One of those that died was Bobby’s best friend, Peck Smithson. How could he endure that?”
He leaned against the tree and thudded his head against the bark.
“I led us right into that ambush,” he said, his voice growing quieter. “The tracks were so obvious a child could have followed them. I should have known something was wrong. The people of this village aren’t fighters. They’re farmers, shepherds, and herdsmen. Now more are dead, the village suffers for the lack of hands, and the one I sought to help spent the night hanging from his ceiling by a rope.”
“Yeah, you really messed up, didn’t you?”
At Darius’s glare, Jerico chuckled and smacked his shoulder.
“If our gods agree on something, it’s that we’re all human, and all make mistakes. Let it go, Darius. You did what you thought was right. Next time, don’t let your guilt keep you away. I’m tired of dedicating all the burials around here. Oh, and don’t give a damn sermon about the punishment awaiting a loved one who died mere hours before.”
“You would have me lie about my beliefs to make them feel better?”
“I’d have you show a measure of tact and talk about anything else in the world for the next few days. Surely you can grant me that?”
Darius sighed. “Very well. The least I could do for what remains of his family. It’s not like I want it to be this way, Jerico. The rules we live under are harsh, and not everyone will meet them, but truth is stone, unbending, unmoving. That is the way of Order.”
Jerico stayed silent, not wanting to discuss theology. Inste
ad he gestured east, toward the distant river.
“What do we do about the wolf-men? From what I gathered, it was a pack of ten that attacked us. That, plus the raids across the river worry me to no end. They’ve found a gap in the towers, and Durham’s right there in the way.”
“We killed more than half,” Darius said. “And that was with them having the advantage. Do you still think they’ll press us?”
“How do we know it was half?” Jerico asked, voicing the fear that had been nagging at him. “We were within the Wedge only a little while. How many might be gathering? We could have stumbled upon a single hunting party, not the entire pack.”
Darius shook his head. “That can’t be. That would mean a pack of fifty or so, maybe more. It’s been years since any packs of that size. The elven scoutmasters keep them thinned and at war with one another, and someone that strong usually finds an arrow in their neck.”
“Except the elves are gone,” Jerico said quietly. “We cannot take any chances. Let us request aid from the towers, together.”
“We can handle this,” Darius said, his stubbornness and pride returning.
“Whether we can or can’t, I’d rather we err on the side of caution. Trust me on this?”
Darius sighed.
“Twice now I agree to your demands. I must be bothered by this more than I thought.”
“Good. It’s a welcome reminder you’re as human as I am.”
Jerico gave him an exhausted grin, and the dark paladin relented to his good humor.
“Write your request,” Darius said, standing. “And I will sign it.”
“Where are you going?” asked Jerico.
“I have a family deserving my apologies,” said Darius. “Not that it’s your business.”
Jerico leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the weather. Slowly he felt his tension drain away, and once renewed, he returned to Durham to write his letter to the lord of the Towers.
Redclaw waited at the head of his pack for his scout to return.
“He will see little in this daylight,” said Bonebite, his most trusted warrior. His fur was faded with age, but he’d feasted upon more fallen foes than anyone else in his pack.
“The orcs are slow and stupid,” said Redclaw. “They will not expect us to attack while the sun burns the sky.”
Bonebite snorted. “Does the mighty Redclaw need the help of surprise to kill a few runty orcs?”
Redclaw bared his teeth, both smile and threat. Bonebite had once vied for the position Redclaw now held. They’d fought for the honor, but instead of killing him as was custom, Redclaw let him live.
“Wolf should not kill wolf,” he’d declared, his first law of the pack. He’d killed plenty enforcing the rule, but none in the pack were intelligent enough, or brave enough, to point out the contradiction. Bonebite had resented him for the longest time, but Redclaw treated him like the proud warrior he was, and after a time, the wily old wolf had accepted his role, and appeared to even appreciate the younger warrior’s skill and leadership.
“Whenever we fight, we must win,” Redclaw said, turning back east and squinting in search of his scout. “Why let orcs fight fair against us? They deserve nothing. They are food.”
“The fight weans out the weaklings,” argued Bonebite.
Redclaw glared at him. Bonebite’s snout was covered with scars, his nose nearly white with them instead of its original black. One scar ran straight across his eye, the hair around it never growing back.
“Even our weaklings are stronger than the best of man and orc,” he said. “One day you will fall, Bonebite. Would you have me hail you a warrior, or a weakling, when we consume your flesh?”
“Neither,” said Bonebite, and he let out a laugh. “I will be too tough and dry by then. You will choke.”
“I’ll moisten your flesh with the blood of men. Now quiet. I see my scout.”
“I see only the fire in the sky.”
“Then your eyes already succumb to the weakness of age. I hope the rest of you is not the same.”
Bonebite growled but said nothing. Racing along the plain came Redclaw’s scout, running on all fours. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.
“They’ve come from a hunt,” said his scout, the aptly named Swiftheel. He panted and reached out his hand. A nod from Redclaw and Bonebite gave him a dried stomach full of water.
“Better,” growled Swiftheel after drinking. “The orcs are tired, and will soon be fat and lazy from eating. The time is right.”
“How many are they?” asked Redclaw.
Swiftheel let out a little yip, as if amused his pack leader thought their numbers would matter.
“Four times I counted to fifty.”
“Has their camp been moved?”
“No, they stay in the ravine. They must feel safe there.”
Redclaw let out a howl, alerting the rest of his pack.
“Their safety is their doom,” he snarled. “We will seal both sides. Tonight we feast on the flesh of hundreds of orcs, brethren! With me! To the bloodshed!”
He raced off on all fours as over a hundred more gave chase behind him. The distance was a little under three miles, but they crossed it swiftly. In the cool of night they could run forever; it was only the fire in the sky that made them pant. If they had not been outnumbered, he might have held the raid at night, but he had to hit them unprepared. He had ambitions far greater than the Wedge could offer, and to fulfill them, he needed a pack large enough to endure. When the howls sounded across the land of humans, he wanted them to know fear.
The ground steadily grew rockier, and Redclaw slowed his pack. Up ahead was the ravine, dipping down into the land like a great scar. The orcs had built a wall at either entrance, but the camp was new enough that they had not yet reinforced it, nor built rudimentary towers to keep watch at its top. He didn’t know why they had encroached his land. Perhaps they fled one of the other orc tribes, or they had been scattered and forced their way by the other vile races within the Wedge, the hyena-men with their short, thick claws, or perhaps the bird-men with their cruel beaks.
Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. They’d come into Redclaw’s ever-expanding territory, earning their fate.
A quick growl, and Bonebite veered to the side, leading half his pack to curl around the ravine and assault from the rear. Redclaw slowed his pace, wanting to give them time to set up. They would hit at once, crawling over both walls and shredding their camp before the orcs could organize a defense. They came from the west, using the depth of the ravine as a shield against watching eyes. No one kept watch, a stupidity that might explain why they had been forced to flee in the first place. No doubt an orc or two stayed at the walls within the ravine, but they would have only a moment’s notice when the wolf-men came rushing in.
Redclaw stood on his legs and lifted a hand. The rest of his pack pulled up, and he heard their panting. A few nipped at one another, clearly on edge.
“Calm,” he growled. “Save your bites for the orcs.”
They endured the daylight and waited, every muscle tense. When the signal howl came from the opposite end of the ravine, they answered in unison.
“For the blood!” Redclaw cried, leading the charge. They stormed into the ravine, toward the wooden wall blocking their way. It was designed against other orcs, no doubt who they thought their greatest enemy. But the wood was thick, rough, and it yielded easily to their claws. Cries of warning came from inside, but no spears thrust at them, no cowardly arrows sailed through the air. Redclaw scaled the wall, paused atop it, and scanned. Orcs were scurrying about, grabbing swords and shields. No line had formed yet, though it seemed like the greatest force gathered in the center, no doubt where their tribal leader hollered in panic.
Three orcs were below him, the spineless lot abandoning their posts in flight. With a push of his enormous legs, Redclaw dove upon two of them at once, his claws shredding their flesh. He let out a howl, and he felt himself falli
ng into the wild warrior beast that lived deep within him. The planning done, the fight begun, he allowed himself to give in.
At first, it was too easy. They raced through the many tents, clawing and biting at any nearby. Mostly it was the old or weak, those unable to fight. Hiding inside the tents, they acted as if they would be safe there. They were not. Blood soaking his fur, Redclaw killed everything that moved, and he drank his fill. From the far side, he heard the roars of Bonebite’s group, and more worrisome, howls of pain. The orcs had finally begun to fight. Furious that he had missed the initial confrontation, he tore through the tents, calling for his pack to join his side. Forming a wedge of nine, they thundered toward the large center of the camp, where the orcs had chosen to make their stand.
Redclaw dove into where they were thickest, unafraid of their thin spears and cruel swords. His claws were sharper, his muscles greater. Even the orcs, tall and strong compared to most races of Dezrel, were puny compared to him. He descended upon one, tore out its throat with a quick snap of his jaw, and then spun to his right. He slashed at the wrist holding the blade swinging at him, and the blow lost all strength when it hit, the blade unable to pierce the thick hide beneath his black coat of fur. A quick swipe, and the orc fell back, blood gushing from its torn throat.
All around he heard the sound of fighting, and at his side were his trusted pack, tearing into the orcs as if their armor were butter, their weapons toys. Still, the orcs were stubborn, and their spears were the worst. Redclaw caught sight of one of his best warriors howling, a spear embedded deep in his breast.
“Back!” he cried. “Circle!”
Paladins 01 - Night of Wolves Page 3