They were almost to the forest when a squad of men finally noticed their approach. They turned and formed a line, what few shields they had taking up the front. Kaide shifted them further away, and Gregane’s troops hurried to match. Behind them, the vanguard slowed, both to fight the stragglers as well as catch their breath, for as Jerico had hoped, they were more used to riding into battle, and their heavy armor had finally taken its toll.
Not that he felt that much better himself, but despite that, he shoved to the front, where Kaide ran with his dirks drawn.
“Crash through,” Kaide said, not even slowing.
“That or death,” Jerico said, pulling his shield off his back. He held it above his head, letting friend and foe know his approach.
“For Ashhur!” he cried, and it echoed across the gulch, louder than even the fire. The light of his shield flared, and he slammed into the line. Blades clanked off his armor, no one able to score a solid hit because of the light. Jerico twisted and swung, smashing through while knocking over everyone near. Behind him, the rest of the bandits surged, forcing through the gap. Jerico remained, like a wedge holding up a heavy stone. Even Kaide hurried through, but only after slashing open the throats of nearby soldiers to satisfy his bloodlust.
When at last Sebastian’s troops recovered from the brutal assault, Jerico again turned to run. He felt blows striking him, and something sharp slashed against his face, but he endured. Crying out the name of his god, he slammed a man aside with his shield, parried a chop, and then reached open ground. He ran until he found the ditch, and just barely managed to slow himself so he didn’t break his legs in the sudden drop. He more rolled than climbed down, then accepted Adam’s waiting arms pulling him up.
“How many?” Jerico asked, looking back.
“Half,” Kaide said, looking through the trees at where his friends fought and died. Jerico whispered them a prayer, then fell to his knees to recover his breath.
“They’ll charge soon,” Bellok said. He leaned against a tree, and he sounded winded from the run. “I say we get our asses out of here.”
“We don’t run,” Kaide said, glaring at the remaining hundred men at his command. “Not now. Not when victory still remains.”
“Victory,” Jerico muttered, looking toward where Arthur’s men stood in defense far down the ditch. He could only barely see them, but they still looked terribly outnumbered.
“You held off legions of wolf-men with mere villagers,” Kaide said, turning on him. “Don’t you lose hope on me now. Lift that damn shield of yours. Let my men see you still stand!”
Though his side ached, and his legs felt on fire, he stood and held his shield high.
“None pass,” he shouted as loud as his tired lungs could manage. “Not here. Not while my light still shines!”
The men took up the call, and they lifted their own weapons, daring the soldiers to cross the ditch.
Then Gregane’s men let out a cry, and the entire army did just that. At their position, Kaide’s men were horribly outnumbered, but unlike the rest of the battlefield, the ditch before them remained empty. That quickly changed. Jerico kept his shield low and swung, smashing his mace through helmets and chestplates. The ditch was deep enough that it came up to the assaulters’ waists, and they had to abandon all pretense of attacking to climb. The rest of the bandits kicked and shoved, and they beat at hands and arms with their weapons. Body by body they filled the ditch.
“Too many!” Jerico cried as he looked to the sides. Gregane’s men were spreading out, going beyond where they could defend.
“No shit,” Kaide yelled back, whirling beside him. His two blades were coated with blood. Between dodging the chaotic swings, he’d dip low and knife a man’s throat or plunge a dirk through an eye before continuing along. Jerico was far less fancy, but just as efficient. No man gained ground before him. He shoved with his shield, trusted his armor to protect his lower body, and kept his mace moving side to side. The screams of the dying grew. Jerico looked once to his left and saw enemy soldiers climbing up. In less than a minute, they’d be surrounded.
“We can’t hold!” he shouted to Kaide as he slammed his shield to the ground, the light momentarily blinding his attackers. “Give the retreat!”
Kaide gritted his teeth, and his attacks took on a new frenzy. They’d been forced to fall back, unable to hold the ditch any longer. Men climbed free, and they stayed back, defending the rest of their forces. Kaide slashed into them, his blades finding every crease, every gap in the armor. Jerico reminded himself to ask who trained him should they all survive. But despite the fury, there was no way he could turn the tide, not by himself. Already he heard cries to their left, of Arthur’s troops sounding the retreat.
The battle was lost.
“Go!” Jerico shouted, plunging into the gathered forces. Blows rained down upon him, denting his armor and slashing cuts across his face. He swung his shield in a high arc, slamming away soldiers, and then grabbed Kaide by the shirt. With all his might he flung the man away.
“I said run!” he screamed as all around him the bandits died. They needed no further orders, not from Kaide. Casting aside their weapons, the remaining few fled. Kaide looked to Jerico, and he mouthed a promise the paladin could not hear amid the din. Then he turned and ran. Jerico brought his attention back to the soldiers, who were cheering their victory. Most rushed to assault, with many giving Jerico a wide berth. They wanted the fleeing men, the ones lacking armor and weaponry.
Twenty remained behind, though, surrounding Jerico in a wide circle. They were the furious, the ones who had lost friends to his mace. Jerico braced himself, his shield tucked against his body as he met their stares.
“Victory is yours,” he said. “No one else must die.”
“Sebastian will want him prisoner,” one of the soldiers said, though the rest murmured in disapproval. None seemed ready to attack, for everyone clearly knew the first to attack would die. Jerico kept shifting, letting none see his back for long.
“To the Abyss with what Sebastian wants,” said their leader, who cast off his helmet so Jerico could see his glare. “Too many died at his feet. Drop your mace, paladin, and I will make it merciful.”
Jerico grinned
“I’ll die with my weapon in hand,” he said. “And only if you can best me.”
The rest tensed. The attack was soon to come, and would begin with the first blow. Jerico prayed that Ashhur would be kind, and take him into his arms. He braced for the cries of battle.
The cries came, not of victory, but pain. Fire burned a ring around him, keeping him safe. Another blast of flame came in from outside the forest, consuming many of the soldiers. They turned to face their attacker, as did Jerico, whose blood ran cold at what he saw. Approaching the forest was a man in the black robes of Karak, his deathly skin pale in the sunlight. Dim red eyes shone from beneath his hood, which hid all but his bemused smile. A woman was with them, dressed in gray. Two dark paladins walked at his side, one a stranger, and one painfully familiar.
“Darius,” Jerico whispered.
“He is mine,” the man in black said, pointing to the remaining soldiers. “Go seek the spoils of your war elsewhere.”
Despite their fury at his magic, the remaining men knew they could not challenge one who wielded fire with his bare hands. They hurried on, chasing after Kaide. Jerico lifted his shield, his eyes unable to leave Darius. The man had a starved look about him, all traces of his good humor long vanished. Pain was evident in his eyes as he gave Jerico a cold glare. Around Jerico, the fire spread, setting trees aflame. At his feet, though, the grass blackened and died, but did not burn. The heat was heavy, but the smoke rose on the wind, and the fire only burned outward.
“Paladin of Ashhur,” shouted the pale man who seemed a priest. “Karak has declared your life forfeit. Meet your executioner.”
And then Darius drew his sword. At sight of the dark fire wreathed about its blade, Jerico felt his last vestige of hope d
ie.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Darius felt the eyes of everyone upon him as he stepped into the burning forest. Even Karak seemed to watch him, and he prayed he would not disappoint. His faith was strong. He would endure. No matter that Jerico looked to him with such betrayal and sadness that it rent a hole in his heart. No matter that he felt fury at the entire circumstances thrusting them into such a battle. Only Karak’s will mattered, and Karak’s desire was plain, simple.
“I will not ask for forgiveness,” Darius said as he lifted his sword with both hands and adopted an offensive stance. “Not for this. You are to die, Jerico. My god demands it.”
For a brief moment, the old Jerico surfaced, a half-smile stretching at his face.
“Then tell him no.”
Darius grinned, though he felt no humor.
“Not this time. I have rejected him once, and was rejected in turn. Not again. You are a plague upon this world, a false light that must be extinguished. Dezrel was not made in your image. Ashhur’s hope is a hope of fools and peasants. Karak is truth. The wretched, the broken, the selfish, the weak … they will burn in fire. My fire.”
He swung, and it seemed his entire world slowed to a crawl. His sword struck Jerico’s shield, two lights intertwining, the dark and light bursting together in violent sparks that showered the ground. Darius felt a spike of pain from the contact, but Jerico felt it as well. Both staggered back, breathing heavily.
“I won’t break,” Jerico said, repositioning his shield. “You know that.”
“I know you’re a fool.” He swung again, trying to shatter Jerico as if he were a stone. Sword and shield connected, and the shockwave of it echoed throughout the forest. “I know my faith is stronger. I will break you. I have no choice!”
At his third swing, Jerico parried it aside with his mace and then lunged, his shield leading. Darius screamed at the painful light. Never before had it made his eyes ache so. He turned away and rolled, avoiding a swing from the mace. Spinning on his knees, he kicked to his feet, stabbing. Jerico shifted to the side, narrowly avoiding an impaling.
“No choice?” Jerico cried, stepping back as Darius swung wildly. “Is that what you tell yourself? You are no slave, Darius, no puppet. I was your friend, damn it, remember that!”
“Friend?” Darius asked as their weapons connected. When Jerico tried to shove forward with his shield, Darius was ready. He pulled back and struck it with his blade, the dark fire flaring. They both felt the pain, but Darius knew his blows were raining down ever harder, Karak’s strength flooding his veins. The other paladin staggered deeper into the forest. The red light of the fire shone upon them, and in the glow Darius felt himself returned to the Abyss, fulfilling his visions.
“Friend,” Jerico gasped, stumbling onto one knee before quickly standing.
“I gave my life for you,” Darius said. “I sacrificed everything, even my faith, for you. And what do I find? You leading a rebellion, sowing chaos throughout the North. At the side of bandits? Rebels? I have suffered every day since, cast off, abandoned, tortured … and I see it was for nothing. You worship a lie. Too long I accepted it, treated you as an equal. But you’re not. You’re nothing, and at last I see it … friend.”
Jerico shook his head, at last showing despair.
“You can’t believe that,” he said quietly.
“By my actions, my proof.”
Darius swung, only to have Jerico block. The metal of his mace groaned, but held. Jerico shoved it aside, then shifted so his shield shone its light directly into his eyes. Darius fell back, swinging wildly to keep the other paladin at bay.
“Where were you when I suffered in prison?” he cried. “Where was Ashhur when Velixar took the lives of his faithful? Where were either of you as I butchered that family? He has abandoned this world, abandoned us all! Look at you, last of his kind. What lies can you offer? What hope can you possibly believe in? Tell me why … tell me why wasn’t I stopped?”
Jerico remained back, seemingly with no desire to go on the offensive. The sadness on his face only grew with every word Darius spoke, and for whatever reason, that infuriated him further. Darius stepped in and swung, crying out the name of his god. The fire on his blade consumed it fully, and a word came to his lips, its meaning unknown to him.
“Felholad!” he screamed. The very metal of his blade vanished, nothing but the burning will of his god. It struck Jerico’s shield with the sound of thunder. Bright light flared, but Darius’s fire sucked it in and defeated it. Jerico flew back several feet before hitting a tree, his head smacking against it hard enough to leave a smear of blood. He slumped to his knees, remaining upright only by leaning his weight on his fists. Blood trickled down his neck and dripped to the scorched grass.
Darius held his blade high, clutching it with both hands as he towered over his defeated opponent.
“Karak’s judgment,” he whispered.
“Stand with me,” Jerico said, and he looked up without any anger, any malice, only disappointment. “Remember, Darius. Stand with me.”
The words Jerico had said during the fight against the wolf-men. Side by side, they’d fought, bled, and been ready to die. And so they had, making their stand against the chaos of the world. It didn’t matter Darius had failed to protect his charges, that his lack of strength had doomed many. Jerico had understood, and called him to fight without ever casting blame or judgment.
Side by side.
The fire of his blade, fueled by his hatred, his anguish, his certainty, could no longer be sustained. It dwindled away, still bright, but no longer the Felholad it had become. In that brief moment, Darius felt terrified to be once more alone, abandoned, a failure to the vision he’d seen. In that brief moment, Jerico lunged to his feet, his mace swinging. Darius was too slow to block, only partially deflecting the strike. The mace struck the side of his head, the flanged edges tearing into his skin. Blood spilled, and he collapsed from the blow as his sight blurred. His hands felt strange to him, and the sword slipped to the ground. Tears in his eyes, he saw the fire fade completely.
More than anything, he felt alone. On his knees, he looked up at Jerico, who stood with the mace at ready.
“Do it,” he said. “Kill me. Gods help me, you don’t know what I’ve done. I can be this no longer.”
Jerico hesitated, and for some reason that hesitation filled Darius with fury.
“I said do it!” he screamed. “Coward! I’ll not be judged!”
Instead Jerico flung his mace to the ground, shifted his shield onto his back, and offered his hand. Darius stared at it, unbelieving.
“Take it, and stand,” said Jerico.
“Why?” Darius asked.
“Because I need to believe you aren’t lost to me, otherwise I might as well throw down my shield and join you in death. Now stand.”
Darius felt Velixar’s words searing through his mind. He thought of the massacred villagers, of the horrors at Durham. He felt guilt crushing him, denied for so long by a certainty of faith he no longer held. Through it all, one thing echoed over everything: Velixar’s own words now turned against him.
Darius looked to Jerico’s offered hand, and a face containing no anger, no blame, only forgiveness.
“What this world needs,” he whispered.
He took it and stood. Jerico embraced him, and he laughed.
“Ashhur be praised,” he said, grinning. “I thought you were going to take my head off.”
“I almost did.”
Together they looked through the fire, to where Velixar waited. They could see the barest hint of the group, so deep into the forest they had gone during their fight.
“We have to run,” Jerico said, nodding the other way. “Sebastian’s army will come back to find us soon.”
“No,” Darius said, glancing at his sword. “No running. Those out there know your name. They’ll hunt you forever, and me as well. Let us end this now.”
Jerico touched the back of his head, and h
e winced at the pain. Darius felt guilty for it, but he laughed anyway and smacked Jerico across the shoulder. For whatever reason, even at the prospect of facing down Velixar, he felt almost giddy. He had always expected one of two fates to befall him, either torturing in the Abyss, or being tortured. Somehow he had found a third fate, and it was at Jerico’s side.
“If you say we must, then we must,” Jerico said, readying his shield and mace. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Darius said, unable to control his grin. “I have an idea.”
* * * * *
Valessa felt disappointed to see Darius emerge from the forest into daylight. She’d hoped the other paladin might kill him, and as a failure he’d go to Karak to beg for mercy, mercy he would not receive. Instead he walked with blood on his armor, and his sword sheathed across his back.
“Karak be praised,” Velixar said. “He is dead?”
Darius said nothing, only walked silently toward the prophet. Something about the look in his eyes worried Valessa, so much that she found herself itching to draw her daggers. He looked healthier, relieved. Of course, she thought. He’d defeated the burden placed upon him. With Jerico dead, his reparations with Karak were complete. Such a damn shame.
“Is he dead?” Velixar asked again, a note of worry in his voice, as if he too noticed the change. Darius kept calm, his face betraying nothing. He moved between the three, past Velixar, but the prophet reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. Mallak tensed, also sensing the strange feeling in the air.
“Darius,” Velixar said. “Draw your sword.”
Darius obeyed, a hint of a smile finally showing on his lips. He drew, and Valessa froze at the shock of what she saw.
Blue light shone across the edges of the blade. So stunned was she, she could only watch as Darius continued the smooth drawing motion into a swing right for Velixar’s neck. The sword cut cloth and struck the prophet’s pale skin. For a moment it seemed it would do nothing, but the blue light flared stronger, and then the blade passed right on through. Velixar’s body burst into dust; his eyes melted into fire. He let out a single cry before he died, a denial against failing, a refusal to accept the death befalling him. Then he was silent.
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