Dark laughter met his ears.
“It is dead, though I fear it’s not the only one we have to worry about. Take my arm and stand.”
Jacob felt something grab him, lifting him by his armpits. Once righted, he felt his weight rest on his feet, and he struggled to maintain balance. His strange savior held him steady, and ignoring the biting pain in his eyes, he opened them to look. The dark paladin, Darius, leaned his weight against him, and together they walked back to his home.
“Perry got to me just in time,” Darius said, picking up their pace. “Your back’s a mess, and your chest is bleeding like a stuck pig, but I’m not giving you any choice. You’re going to walk, you’re going to live, and you’re going to remember to tithe every week whether you feel like it or not.”
“Will two of three do?” Jacob asked.
His savior laughed. “For now.”
Perry was waiting for him at the house, his face wet with tears and covered with dirt. His father was with him, along with his damned wagon. They’d already loaded his vegetables, he realized. That was kind of them.
“You’re all right,” Perry said, the relief palpable.
“Don’t feel it.”
They laid him in the wagon, pushing aside rickety crates of food and clothing to make room. Darius gave the order and the wagon began moving. Perry hopped in with him, holding a long rag.
“He said to tie this around you,” the kid said.
“Then do it.”
Jacob grunted as the cloth slid around his chest. It didn’t take long for it to turn a dark crimson, but the pressure felt good. Leaning back, Jacob closed his eyes, drowsiness overcoming him.
“There was another,” Perry said, talking out of nervousness. “Back at my pa’s house. If Darius hadn’t been there, if he…”
“Perry?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up, will ya? We’re going to be fine.”
He opened an eye to see the kid smiling at him. It was a thin mask, a tiny strength covering a massive wall of fear, but at least it was something.
“Should have known a single wolf-man wouldn’t kill you,” Perry said. “You’re too stubborn for that.”
“Too stupid’s more like it. So is this it? This the big attack?”
Perry’s smile wavered, but he managed to keep it there.
“Nah. Darius said it ain’t.”
“Then what is it? You got any ideas, boy?”
Apparently he didn’t, for he only shrugged. Jacob leaned back, moaning occasionally as the wagon bounced along.
“Jacob?”
“Yeah?”
Perry looked away.
“Thanks for saving me.”
Jacob slapped the boy’s leg, then lay back down.
“Was nothing,” he said. “Nothing…”
He slept despite the pain and movement of the wagon.
9
Jerico felt lost in a storm of people, and nothing made sense. At first it was only a trickle, a single family claiming the wolves had come. He grabbed his shield and mace, but before he could leave, another family arrived, holding their bleeding son in their arms.
“Two of ’em!” the father cried. “They got Terry. They got my son!”
Fearing the full attack to come, he sought out Darius. Not finding him, he instead located Daniel and his men, who had also prepared themselves for battle.
“Death may be coming for us,” Daniel said, “but we’ll meet it armed and ready. Gods willing, we’ll take plenty of them with us!”
They marched to the center of town, and that was when Jerico found Darius. He waited there, looking strangely calm amid the din. People were shouting, asking questions. He ignored them all.
“Jerico,” he said, seeing him. “Two attacked the outer farms, Douglas and Wheatley. I saw more, but they kept back, circling.”
“Why didn’t you chase them down, then?” Daniel asked, pushing people aside to join them.
“Because I am no fool,” Darius said, glaring at the older man. “They’re circling, don’t you get it? We’re completely cut off from the world. Every road, every farm, even the river…the wolf-men watch them all.”
The realization hit Jerico like a blow from his own mace.
“We’re trapped,” he whispered. “What do we tell the people? What do we do?”
“My baby!” a mother wailed behind them. Jerico couldn’t think of her name. She was a lost face in a sea of frightened villagers. Several more wandered about, bleeding, and Jerico saw the wounded man in a cart sitting beside him in the square.
“We need to get the wounded somewhere,” he said. “I can heal them, though it’ll take much of my strength.”
“The attack isn’t coming today,” Daniel said. “You have time.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if it was coming today, they’d bloody well do it. They’ve given us warning now, which does them no good. That means they plan on keeping us here, nice and quiet, while they starve us, weaken and frighten us.”
Jerico glanced to Darius, who nodded in agreement.
“Move the wounded to the inn,” said the dark paladin. “I’ll check the roads north. Daniel, send men to check the south. Have the rest try to keep order here. We need to take stock of what we have, in both food and weaponry. If they’re to trap us, then we need to lay a trap right back. We are the cornered animal, gentlemen, so let’s act like it.”
Jerico stepped back, pushing his way toward Dolores’s inn.
“Bring your wounded!” he shouted to them. “All hurt, all bleeding, come to me at Dolores’s!”
Inside he found Dolores sitting on a stool, her hands crossed on her lap. She was crying.
“We’re all to die, aren’t we?” she asked.
“Someday,” Jerico said, clearing space on the floor. “But not today.”
“I’m not scared of dying,” she said as the first of many followed, carrying wounded or bearing wounds themselves. “But to die to them…to be alive when they…they…”
“Dolores!” Jerico looked at her, refusing to let his gaze falter. She stared at him, tears running down her face, and her old lips quivered. “Not now. Not ever. Help me, please. Blankets, bandages, and towels for the blood. Your passing will be in your sleep, even older, and even crankier. You think a damn wolf can chew through your leathery hide?”
She smiled at him, and whatever daze she’d been in crumbled.
“Lay ’em the other way,” she said as Jerico put the first down. “More room. Ugh, so much blood. You got a needle for stitches?”
“Something like that,” Jerico said, closing his eyes and putting his hands on a man’s chest, lined with eight vicious cuts. Where his fingers touched skin they glowed with white light, and after a quiet moment, the light plunged within, smoothing over the flesh and knitting torn muscle.
More and more came in, crowding the small inn. Dolores guided them to corners, and she wrapped blankets across those Jerico healed. The sobs of both healthy and sick echoed upon the walls.
“Jerico!” a boy cried out. He glanced that way, saw Perry kneeling over Jacob Wheatley.
“Close your eyes and be strong,” Jerico whispered to a woman who had lost her arm. He’d closed the wound and wrapped it with a bandage, the best he could do. Walking to Perry, he stopped a moment, a dizzy spell coming over him.
“He stayed back ’cause I couldn’t keep up,” Perry said, glancing down at Jacob. “You’ll help him, won’t you? I don’t want him…him…he can’t die. It’ll be all my fault. My fault!”
Jerico knelt to examine the wounds. His back was bleeding, but it appeared to be from shallow slashes that would only prove fatal if they became infected. The bite on his chest, however…
“Be with him,” Jerico prayed, his hands on the rupture. The blood felt hot on his fingers. The light bathed over them both. Slowly, the change unseen through the light, the skin closed into a long, angry scar. When finished, Jerico leaned against the wall and gas
ped. So many. He had never been the greatest at healing, and facing so many wounded, so many clawed and mangled people…
“Come on,” Dolores said, offering her hand. He took it and stood.
“I have needle and thread,” she continued. “Save those beyond all but Ashhur. The rest, well, they can do with a bit of stitching for now.”
“Thank you,” he muttered.
They triaged the worst, Jerico praying at their sides to close gaping wounds while Dolores moved about, sewing shut minor cuts and applying tourniquets when it was clear the limb was lost. By the time he was done, there were forty men, women, and children lying on the floor in blankets, with the lesser wounded staying in various rooms, including Darius’s. Seven died, and quietly Jerico took them behind the inn for eventual burial.
They cleared out every piece of furniture but for two chairs, and Jerico sat in one beside Dolores, looking over the many. They were crying, sleeping, or staring into the distance. Dolores had had to force all family members out. In some ways, that had been the worst. No matter how often Jerico told them there was no room, that they had to leave, they still sobbed, still clutched at their loved ones as if they might never see them again. Breaking that up felt wrong, but he knew it must be done.
“Jerico?”
The paladin glanced up to see Darius standing at the door. He gestured outside, and Jerico nodded.
“Will you watch them?” he asked Dolores.
“Go on,” she said. “You have much to do, but don’t push yourself. Hate to find you on my floor with the others.”
Jerico stepped carefully among the bodies, then followed Darius outside. Daniel had returned, though his men were still hurrying about the town. Things had calmed down, but only a little. It seemed like everyone had a task set before them, and that kept down the bulk of the panic.
“So what’s the story?” he asked.
“Patrols to both directions,” Darius said, and Daniel nodded in agreement.
Jerico sighed, wishing he was a cussing man. He knew plenty that felt appropriate for the situation
“Where’s Jeremy Hangfield?”
“Taking stock of our supplies,” Daniel said. “We got lucky. With everyone preparing to move out, most had gathered up their belongings and brought them into town already. Because of this, we got plenty of food to live on, at least for a week or two. If they plan on starving us out, it’ll take time, time I doubt they have. Sir Godley will notice something is up, if not one of the other towers.”
Jerico caught sight of a man in black robes approaching, and he raised an eyebrow.
“That your friend?” he asked Darius. The paladin turned, and seeing the man, bowed on one knee in respect.
“Pheus, you’ve returned to us,” he said.
“I have,” said the priest, glaring at Jerico. “Two wolf-men accosted me on the northern road.”
“How did you escape?” Jerico asked.
Pheus gave him a look of such contempt it chilled his blood.
“I killed them, of course.”
“We’ll need all the help we can get,” Darius said. “And the question is, do we hunker down, or try to punch through their circle?”
“They’ll harry us for miles,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “No matter which direction we go, it sounds like they’ll be watching. Our best chance now is to protect ourselves and hope someone notices our isolation; the traders they attacked last night, perhaps.”
“What about sending off a boat for aid?” Daniel asked. “Down south to the nearest tower, or better yet, to the Citadel?”
Jerico winced, and he saw both priest and paladin of Karak look his way. Darius’s eyes revealed nothing, though Pheus was clearly amused.
“The Citadel is no more,” Jerico said. “We will get no aid from them.”
He turned to leave. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he spun, his hand reaching for his weapon. Darius pulled away, and he looked at the mace with a mixture of betrayal and anger.
“I wanted to thank you for what you did in there,” he said, gesturing to the inn. His voice lacked what conviction it might have had, though. Jerico released the handle of his mace and nodded.
“We’ll gather everyone into a few places to sleep,” Daniel said, glancing between them. He clearly felt the tension in the air, and he pushed on to change the subject. “Will make it easier keeping watch. Need to get our food into safe places too, so they can’t destroy it. Oh, and last of all, we need to stay off each other’s throats. Times before a battle can make even the kindest men turn to ogres. Let’s all remember that, eh?”
“I have wounded to attend,” Jerico said. “Excuse me.”
He returned to the inn, feeling both furious and embarrassed by that fury. Darius had meant no insult, yet he felt hot under the collar anyway. It was just the way that priest stared at him, with a mocking glint. No doubt he’d cheered when the Citadel fell. No doubt he expected Darius to feel the same way. Did he?
“Any news worth sharing?” Dolores asked him, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping.
“No,” he said. “What hope we have is little.”
She frowned.
“Out in the back,” she said. “Will you take care of ’em?”
He sighed. His temples throbbed, his forehead ached with every heartbeat, but still he nodded.
“Might be the only chance we have to bury our dead,” he murmured.
“Don’t you talk like that,” Dolores said. “Not where they can hear. Thought you smarter than that.”
Jerico accepted the berating in silence, then left the inn once more.
At Jeremy’s mansion he found a shovel, and he brought it with him to the inn. There was plenty of open space behind it. Normally the people of Durham buried their dead at the corners of the fields, returning them to the ground that allowed them to prosper. There would be no such act, not with the wolves closing in. The ground was soft enough, and he dug the first of many graves. After he was done with the second, and the sun had started its descent, coloring the sky pink, Darius arrived. The dark paladin watched for a moment, left, and then returned with another shovel. Jerico put the bodies in, and Darius covered them up. This they did until the seventh, and both stabbed their shovels into the ground and leaned their weight against them.
“I’m sorry about the Citadel,” Darius said.
“Are you?”
Darius sighed, and he looked away. When he looked back, he knew for certain his answer.
“Yes. I am.”
Jerico gestured to the graves.
“Hundreds of my brethren died. I saw them in a vision, granted to me by Ashhur. No one will dig them graves. No one will gather before them to mourn. The dead tore apart their bodies and cast them to the dirt. Who deserves such a fate? Who would hate us so?”
The Voice of the Lion, Pheus had said. Darius knew that name, though he had never met him. The fabled prophet of Karak, his priest since before the Gods’ War. Eyes of blood and fire, and never the same face. He was a relic of a more fanatical time. At the Stronghold, Darius had been taught to honor him should they ever meet, for none were supposed to be closer to their deity. And now he had brought low the Citadel. Would Jerico understand? Could he? Were they truly at war, and Jerico an enemy he had befriended?
“I fear whatever answer I might give will offer no satisfaction,” he said.
“You’re probably right. Every part of me wants to leave, to go to the rubble and see it for myself. I don’t want to believe it. I might never, really, until I see the wreckage. How could…how could Ashhur abandon us so?”
The crisis of faith seemed too personal, too close to home for Darius. He turned away and gestured to the setting sun.
“We should go inside and rest. Unless the wolf-men are exceptionally clever, they’ll attack at night, which will be when you and I must stand guard. It’ll be a long night, and following a long day, but we’ll endure. Won’t you, Jerico?”
Jerico stood and clapped
Darius on the shoulder.
“Forgive my behavior, Darius. I’m tired, scared, and sad. That priest of yours, when I see him looking at me…I feel more alone than ever. And hated, too. I never should have disrespected you so.”
“All’s forgiven,” Darius said. “I’ll be with the wounded at the inn. Daniel’s men are watching Jeremy’s estate. That leaves the tavern for you.”
“Thank you,” Jerico said.
“For?”
In answer, he gestured to the mounds of dirt, the only marker for the seven dead.
“Think nothing of it,” said Darius. “They won’t be the last. Together, life and death, the fate of the village rests in our hands, both yours and mine. Peaceful nights, Jerico.”
“To you as well.”
They split for their respective assignments.
S he’d always liked the privacy of her room, and that’s what Jessie Hangfield missed most of all. Keeping her bed to herself had required little argument, but three other women slept on the floor. They shuffled, cried, and snored. Every noise bothered Jessie to no end. There were summer nights where even the song of the cicadas could keep her staring at her ceiling for hours. Hearing such inconsistent noises breaking the quiet only reminded her she was not alone, and not yet asleep despite how tired she felt.
Jessie shifted to her side and stared out the window of her room. The glass was recently cleaned, product of a strange delusion that she should tidy up the place before the swarm of guests invaded her father’s home. It was only when the women arrived that she realized how stupid she’d been. A pink talking rabbit could have greeted them at the door, and they still would have thought nothing of it. Their eyes were wide, but seeing nothing. She knew them all, and she felt too scared to ask them of their families.
“Blessed of the light, watch over me,” she heard Lyla pray. Lyla was beside her bed, wrapped in a thin blanket she’d brought from her home. It was the fifth time she’d begun the ritual prayer to Ashhur. No matter that others were trying to sleep. It seemed that ritual cadence was the only thing keeping her sane. She was not that much older than Jessie, with a handsome husband and a newborn babe. No amount of courage could have convinced her to ask where they were, nor ask her to be quiet.
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