Come the ninth night, while he lay in bed staring out the window, he saw the fires in the distance. There was no doubt as to what they were, and who was with them.
Going downstairs, he put a silver coin on the counter. He’d meant to wake Dolores, to thank her for her stay, but she was gone now, and he stayed for free in thanks for his valiant defense. His heart ached at the realization. She’d been a fine innkeeper. Damn the wolves, and damn himself for not being strong enough to protect her.
“Whatever fate you found in eternity, I hope it is pleasant,” he said to the quiet night air.
He dressed in his armor, taking time to polish it well in the candle light. No hurry, not for him. Not for what would most likely be his last night on Dezrel. When finished, he cleaned his sword, sharpened it with a whetstone, and then sheathed it across his back. Finished, he knelt at the door of the inn and offered Karak a prayer.
“I have done what I thought was right. I have stood against chaos in the only way I knew how. Give me the strength to show them. Give me the words to speak the truth of your will to those who should know better.”
A chill touched his shoulder, and he knew not what to think of it. Deciding enough was enough, he trudged north, to where the three of the Tribunal waited.
16
The light was actually of three torches staked into the ground, and they burned bright as he approached. Darius wished they had chosen a spot closer to the river. At least the soft sound of it flowing along would have brought him some measure of peace. As it was, he had only the wind to keep him company on the walk there, and it was an unpleasant howl through the scattered trees.
Three men waited for him, standing in the gaps between the torches, which formed a triangle. One stepped aside and gestured for Darius to enter. He did.
“I feared you would reject a chance to appear before the Tribunal,” Pheus said, his features looking grim in the torchlight.
“I have done no wrong,” Darius said. “Why would I fear such a trial?”
Pheus gave no answer.
Darius looked to the other two men. They were paladins of Karak, their black armor almost shimmering in the light of the torches. He recognized both. One was a younger warrior named Nevek, there most likely because he was in the vicinity when the Tribunal was called. He appeared calm, but his eyes belied his nervousness. Darius felt insulted to have one such as him be considered his judge. The man barely had stubble on his chin. The other was an older paladin named Lars, wise and skilled in battle. His faith, in particular, was above question.
“We have heard troubling reports of your actions here in Durham,” Lars said. His voice was a deep baritone, and it carried authority. Darius turned to him, trying to ignore the growing feeling of claustrophobia. No matter where he turned, there he would face the eyes of an accuser, so he focused on Lars, who would clearly be the one in charge of the Tribunal.
“My actions were just,” Darius replied. “I followed the will of Karak, and I trust this Tribunal to realize that before this night’s end.”
“Is that so?” Pheus asked. “You threatened my life, the life of both brother and superior. How might you justify that?”
“I too would like to hear an answer,” Lars said. “Even if you were on the side of right in your disagreement, I wonder how you could justify such actions.”
“We must ever be vigilant against the chaos within ourselves, and our own ranks,” Darius said, holding his head high. “Pheus’s actions were born of betrayal and hatred, clear enemies of Order.”
“You’d dare speak against my name?” Pheus asked.
“Quiet,” Lars said, lifting a hand. “There is some truth to this, Darius, though you should have let this matter come to a Tribunal if you felt that the case.”
Darius shrugged his shoulders.
“I drew no blood, and I did not expect to. Pheus honored my wishes, as I thought he would.”
The priest glared.
“You threatened an unarmed priest, you coward,” Nevek said. “You should be hanged!”
“Quiet, Nevek,” said Lars. “It is not your place to speak. No judgments are to be made until every last word is spoken. Darius, you were told to execute the paladin of Ashhur, the one known as Jerico. You refused. Tell me why.”
Darius took a deep breath. Why did he? The vision of Karak flowed through him, and he saw himself bleeding before the paladin. His life depended on it, yet he had spared him. Was it really friendship?
“Jerico protected the village from the wolf-men,” he said. “He stood side by side with me and saved the lives of many men, women, and children. Killing him would have cost me my own life, and theirs as well. Is our mission not to save these people from the chaos of this world? How could I strike down an ally? It makes no sense. It is not the will of Karak. Above all…” He knew he might be hanging himself here, but he had to say it. He had to speak the truth. “Above all, he was my friend. I will not slay a friend, betray his trust, just because he is part of a scattered, broken remnant of Ashhur. We will achieve victory over them through the truth of our words, and the justice of our actions. Not through murder. Not through cowardice.”
The three of the Tribunal fell silent as he spoke his last. The wind howled, and Darius thought that perhaps he had won them over. Nevek still looked petulant, but he was young and would abide by the opinions of the others. Pheus was still angry, that much he could tell. It all fell on Lars. The man stroked his neatly-trimmed beard, the two staring eye to eye as he thought.
“You truly believe you do the will of Karak,” he said. “Of that, I am certain. But the most dangerous to our cause are those who would disobey every tenet of our belief, all the while certain they understand the real truth. Draw your sword, Darius. Let us see Karak’s judgment in this. Let us see how strongly he rewards your faith.”
Darius grinned. He had them. His belief in Karak had never been stronger. This was his will. His desire. Drawing his greatsword, he held it before them, to let them see its dark flame.
But there was no fire.
“No,” Darius whispered. It couldn’t be. Nevek laughed. Pheus grinned. Lars shook his head, clearly saddened. But it couldn’t be. It made no sense. Darius felt his knees go weak. The eyes of his brethren were upon him, and he suddenly hated them, hated them more than anything. He wanted to escape. He wanted them gone. His head bowed, as if he could no longer bear the weight. His god, the god he had worshipped all his life, had abandoned him. Because of his disobedience. Because of his protection of the weak.
Because of Jerico.
“You understand what must be done,” Lars said. “To threaten one of our own, and be rejected by Karak, leaves only one fate.”
Slowly, Darius nodded his head. Lars drew his sword, a heavy blade he wielded with one hand. Its dark fire was great, greater than it had ever burned for Darius. He watched as Lars pulled it back, preparing the swing. Pheus looked satisfied beyond measure. Nevek was still grinning. In and out, Darius breathed. Waiting for the sword to fall.
When it did, he shifted to the side and swung. His sword slashed through Pheus’s throat, spilling blood in a wild arc. Continuing his turn, Darius focused on Lars, knowing him the greatest threat. By the time Nevek had even drawn his sword, Darius had cut down the elder paladin, blood gushing from a deep wound in his side. Nevek screamed something unintelligible but full of hate. Darius cut off his head.
The sudden silence felt like thunder. Standing in the center, Darius looked upon the three dead bodies, still in position between the triangle formation of torches.
“I refuse your judgment,” he told the corpses. “For if Karak abandons me, then I will abandon him.”
It seemed a coming storm mocked his words with a clap of thunder. His blood chilled. To his left, he heard the soft sound of laughter.
“Abandoned?” said a man, his voice deep. “Is that what you think you are?”
The man stepped into the light of the torches. A lump swelled in Darius’s throat
. It couldn’t be. The man’s eyes shone red, as if behind his irises burned a constant fire. He was robed in black, his skin pale and stretched thin across his bones. The man’s face, however, was in constant, subtle movement. If he stared hard enough, Darius could see the man’s brows thicken, his nose shorten, his lips lift or lower to adapt to the new visage. Always the eyes remained the same.
“Do you know who I am?” asked the man with the ever-changing face.
“I do. Your name was spoken of in both fear and reverence in the Stronghold.”
“Tell me, what name do they know me as there?”
Darius lifted his sword.
“You are the Voice of the Lion, his word made flesh.”
The man laughed. The sound made Darius want to turn and run.
“It has been many years since I was called by that title. I am Velixar, fallen paladin. I thought to witness your execution for a bit of amusement, but instead find myself watching a far greater surprise. A paladin, lacking the strength of Karak, still takes down two of his brethren, plus a priest? How surprising. How interesting.”
“Stay back,” Darius said, shifting his sword to aim the tip at Velixar’s throat. Velixar’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Or what? You will call down the thunder of Karak? You will pierce me with a blade of simple metal? The blood in my veins has not flowed in centuries. The air in my lungs moves to speak, and nothing else. I am Karak’s prophet to this chaotic world. Do you think you have a chance to defeat someone such as I?”
“Willing to try.”
Darius stepped close and swung. The blade felt heavier in his arms, the strength gifted to him by Karak long vanished. Still, it should have cleaved right through Velixar’s head, sent it rolling to the dirt where he could give it a well-deserved kick. Instead, the man raised a hand, whispered a word, and then grinned. The blade struck his fingers as if they were stone. The shock reverberated up his arm, made his elbows and wrists throb with pain.
“Foolish man.”
Black lightning flowed up the blade and into his arms. Darius screamed, and he felt his muscles spasm. When he hit the ground, he writhed there, unable to drop the hilt of his sword. He opened his mouth to cry out, but he could make no sound. All at once, the pain stopped, and he lay there gasping for air.
“You said you know who I am, yet you dare attack anyway? You know nothing, stupid boy.”
“Kill me,” Darius said, his voice croaking. “Just do it, damn you.”
“You are the damned, not me, Darius. But I am not here to kill you.”
“Then what?”
Velixar knelt beside him. Darius stared into his eyes, feeling lost within their fanatical fire. The pale man’s hand touched his face, and it was cold.
“You are lost,” Velixar whispered. “Your god has not abandoned you. You have abandoned your god. You fell to weakness, gave in to folly, and believed the lies of the enemy. But your faith, Darius, your faith is still incredible. Even now it cries out to be forgiven. Even now, you wish you had been right, that you could still feel Karak’s embrace.”
“All I feel is hatred.”
Velixar stood, and it seemed the very night gathered about him, worshipping his power.
“I am here, and I offer you my hand. Atone for the sins you have committed. Become my wayward son returned home. I have much I can teach you, and much for you to do.”
Darius tried to think, to listen to his heart. What did he believe? What did he want?
“I have seen Karak’s truth,” he said at last. “I have seen the murder he would have me do. You will not teach me. I refuse.”
Velixar’s lips curled into a smile.
“You damn fool,” he said. “You do not have a choice. Whether you desire it or not, your soul will be redeemed.”
Down came the black lightning. It touched his eyes, his throat, his hands, and his heart. As he lay there, his scream pierced the night, and for the first time, Darius regretted letting Jerico live. The pain went on and on. Time lost meaning. Tears ran down his face, and he felt he would do anything to make the torture stop. But it continued, and he could not beg, not plead, only scream out his agony. When it finally did stop, he collapsed once more, and amid the ringing of his ears he heard Karak’s prophet laugh.
“You will slay the paladin of Ashhur. You will kill your friend. Only then, when you have placed Karak above all things, will you finally understand. And you will understand. You will learn. You are a part of a game, a simple piece, but I will not lose you to Ashhur. This must be done on your own, though. I will not force you back to Karak. No, I have seen your fate, Darius. You will come to me, of your own free will, and beg for guidance. I will always be near, watching, listening, and come that time, I will be there for you, lost paladin.”
And then he was gone. For a long while, Darius lay there, waiting for his strength to return. When it did, he staggered back to town, gathered up his things, and fled.
Epilogue
For several days Jerico traveled along the river. Using a small knife and slender branch he formed a spear, and he ate fish some nights. He avoided the first few villages he encountered, worried they would be the first places checked when his pursuers realized he had left. Assuming he had pursuers. It would be a strange thing to lie about, but Darius might have had his reasons. Still, the image of the falling Citadel haunted him, and if Karak were truly behind it, it was no stretch to believe the dark god’s followers had declared war against his very existence. The priest’s actions certainly confirmed it.
When his provisions at last ran low, he hid his armor in a copse of trees and traveled into a small village wearing only his trousers, shirt, and the platemail’s padded undershirt.
“Heading south?” asked the shopkeep as Jerico paid him for the dried meat and nuts.
“North, actually.”
The man turned to the side and spat between his bucked teeth.
“Not a good idea. Lotta men been gathering arms against lord Hemman, calling him lawless, but they’s just as lawless as him. Not a safe time to be traveling, unless you want to be heading into the far north naked as the day you was born.”
“I will stay wary,” Jerico said, paying him.
“Hey, you hear about a man named Kaide, you get your ass far away,” the shopkeep said as he was leaving. “He’s a cannibal, they say, and he’s got a mad wizard as a pet. Uses the blood of virgins to cast his spells is what I hear! Stay safe from where his bandits are roaming!”
Jerico promised he would.
Once he was dressed in his armor, he packed up the food, filled his waterskins at the river, and continued north. Steadily the land grew wilder. Where once he might have traveled a day to reach the next town, it soon took two, then three. All the while he avoided people best he could, removing his armor when he did have to enter a village. At last he arrived in the true north, much of it winter trees growing in enormous stretches at the feet of the Kala Mountains. It was there he thought he’d have the best chance to hide.
Several weeks after the wolves’ attack, he walked along one of the few trade routes leading toward the mining villages. His pack was light, and his stomach grumbled, but he felt content. The woods were a vibrant green, despite the approaching winter. The chill air felt fine on his skin, which was slick with sweat from the many hours of walking. There was a storm approaching, though, and he felt a calm warning of Ashhur in the back of his mind.
“Not alone, am I?” he chuckled. “Well, let’s see how brave they are.”
He shifted his arm so he had a better grip on his shield. A single tug and he’d have it at the ready. It’d be a brave band of bandits that would assault a man in full platemail. What weapons could they possibly have that might punch through, or be long enough to find the gaps in his armor? He caught sight of eyes watching him from the trees, and bird-calls sounded, birds that should have already flown south. Still, another hour passed, and no one revealed themselves. He thought himself free, but still Ashh
ur called warning.
Up ahead he saw an elderly man walking with a cane. The top of his head was bald, the rest of his hair a pale white. His back was bent, and in his free hand he carried a satchel.
“It is a long road to walk alone,” Jerico said, calling out to him. “Care for some company?”
“I’m not alone, young man,” the man said, turning toward him. He lifted his staff, and the end shimmered. Cursing, Jerico pulled his shield free, and it burst with blue-white light. That light faded for a moment, then resumed, absorbing the invisible spell.
“An interesting trick,” the old man said. He stood with his back no longer bent, and his voice was firm, belying the age he showed. “Maybe you can explain that later.”
“I think I’ll be going on my way instead.”
The old man laughed.
“I think not.”
Nets dropped from high above his head, cast by men hiding in the trees. Jerico dodged one, but the second fell upon him, its ends heavily weighted. He pulled at it, swinging his mace in hopes of knocking himself free. The old man’s staff shimmered again, and this time his shield was not able to save him. Drowsiness flowed through his veins, making his muscles ache as if he’d just sprinted for miles. Every exertion felt like it would be his last. Whispering prayers to Ashhur, he tried to fight off the spell, but then came the clubs. At least ten bandits descended upon him, bludgeoning him with thick branches of wood stripped of their bark.
As one blow struck his head, he collapsed, his vision swirling with red and black. More blows rained down, most hitting his armor, but some still bruising his flesh. All sound came as if from a distant room.
“Enough,” someone said. Jerico looked up, the effort nearly beyond his abilities. He saw a young man in a ponytail frowning down at him.
“You’re a paladin, aren’t you?” asked this man.
Paladins 01 - Night of Wolves Page 17