The Old Ways p-3

by David Dalglish

  Either way, the path was clear, and Jerico ran with his body crouched as low as possible while still maintaining speed. Upon reaching the wagon, he rolled underneath and then paused, holding his breath for a long ten seconds while his heart hammered in his ears. No calls, no nearby footsteps. He let out his breath, then went to work. The dirty base of the wagon was inches above him, but the tight space was no bother. At the rear of the wagon, he stopped and unclipped his mace.

  The cramped environment would limit his strength, but he prayed to Ashhur that it would be enough. Both hands grabbing the handle, he swung for the rear axle. His mace sank in with a heavy thunk, and a long crack ran along the wood. Jerico pulled it free, then waited. The wagon would muffle much of the noise, and the merriment would obscure it further. Once confident no one had heard, he struck again. The crack spread further.

  All night, thought Jerico. I’ve got all night, if that is what it takes.

  He waited another minute, then struck again. This time the wood split, and the entire wagon groaned above him. Jerico waited a good five minutes before moving, then slid toward the front axle to do the same. They would have spares, he knew, but how many? If he hit every single wagon, replacing all the broken axles would take a long time, longer if they ran out of spares. Without their food and supplies, the army would go nowhere. For all Jerico knew, that several day delay could make the difference at the siege further north.

  The second axle taken care of, he rolled onto his stomach and then judged the gap between him and the next wagon. It, too, appeared unguarded, though there was a campfire about ten yards to the west that might overhear his sabotage. Glancing the other way, he looked for Sandra to see if she watched. The grass was thick, so he could only hope. Praying to Ashhur for safety, he crawled out and then sprinted for the next wagon. He nearly slid underneath, then realized the scraping dirt and gravel might alert the nearby men. Calmly he dropped to his side and rolled.

  The men at the nearby camp, it turned out, were gloriously drunk. Jerico sighed with relief. There were twelve of them, and they were taking turns arm-wrestling with their elbows atop a log. From his low vantage point, Jerico watched, timing his strikes against the wagon with the start and end of every new competition, when the cheering was at its loudest. The rear axle broke with ease, appearing to have been well on its way toward doing so without his help. The front one took longer, but ten minutes later, he’d made a long enough crack that he trusted would break after a day or two of rough travel.

  Reaching the third wagon looked to be far more difficult. This one had soldiers patrolling the area, looking bored and unhappy to be saddled with such duty while the rest drank and gambled the night away. A soldier watched each side, and a third circled, peering inside the wagon every other time. Watching for thieves, of course, but Jerico had no interest in swiping supplies. The men at the sides were just beyond the road, standing amid the grass. They feared an outside threat, not one from within. Hopefully the distance would be enough.

  After the circling guard vanished around the wagon, Jerico crawled out and ran. His back ached, and a spasm struck his side halfway there because of his low crouch. Clenching his teeth, he stumbled the last few steps. No time to be graceful, he fell to his stomach and crawled. He heard rocks scatter and dirt kick out from below him, but did the guards hear it too? Holding his breath, he listened and waited.

  A pair of boots walked along, then stopped at the rear of the wagon. Jerico slowly pulled his knees to his chest, for his feet were in danger of poking out below. He needed to get further underneath, but dared not move any more than he must. The boots shifted, and he wondered what the soldier could be doing.

  Move on already, Jerico silently begged.

  And then the guard knelt on one knee and peered underneath the wagon. His eyes must not have been fully adjusted to the darkness, for it took a full two seconds before he realized Jerico was there. The look on the soldier’s face might have been amusing if not for Jerico knowing his chances of survival had just dropped to nil.

  “What the…”

  Jerico’s heel smashed the soldier in the face, crushing his nose. He fell backwards, screaming through his hands as he tried to stem the blood. Jerico rolled out the side, toward the field where Sandra hid, and lurched to his feet. The man standing guard on that side turned, and Jerico took him down with a mace blow to the head. What little surprise he had, though, was spent by then. Two groups of men stood from their campfires and reached for their weapons. Speed was all Jerico could rely on now. He knew he could run for hours if need be, and Ashhur could grant him the strength to continue. But that involved getting out.

  Men rushed into his way from all sides. Jerico ducked underneath a swing, rammed his shoulder into a guard to send him to the ground, then continued on. Another man raced along, then dove at his legs. Jerico leapt over him, wishing he could have turned around and kicked him for such stupidity. Two more soldiers had an angle on him from the right. He pumped his legs harder and shifted his direction. If he could only gain a bit more distance, get beyond the light of the campfires…

  The men were fast, though, and their swords were long. Jerico parried the first swing, but when the other thrust, he had to fling himself to the left. His momentum sent him rolling to the ground, unable to keep his balance. The tall grass helped cushion the landing, but nothing cushioned the rock that cracked against his forehead. He tried to stand, but his stomach heaved, and his vision tripled and spun. The two men stood over him, and when he took a swing, they blocked it with ease.

  “Still dumb enough to fight?” asked the one on the left. Jerico closed his eyes, opened them just in time to see a boot. It connected with his cheek, jarring his head hard to the side. Spitting blood, Jerico again pushed to his feet. He would not die without a fight. One of the men grabbed his wrist, preventing a swing of his mace, and then the other held him by the throat, choking him. Jerico kneed him in the groin, and gasped in air as the man’s hand released.

  “Damn fool,” said the other, striking Jerico across the head with the hilt of his sword. Jerico dropped to his knees, and he wished more than anything to have his shield in hand. But he had no armor, no shield, and then the tip of a blade pressed against his throat.

  “Stand up, and die like a man,” said the soldier.

  Jerico had no time to obey. The soldier jerked forward, and the sword fell limply from his hand. Sandra shoved him aside, a bloody dagger in her hand. Before the other man could recover, she cut his throat as well.

  “Sandra,” Jerico murmured as warm blood ran down the side of his face.

  He wanted to go to her, but the rest of the camp was upon them. Sandra swung her dagger at one, but her target parried it aside, then returned the favor with the flat of his blade against her face. Another struck her from behind, knocking her to the ground beside Jerico.

  “You were supposed to run,” Jerico told her as his hands were bound behind him with thick rope. His voice sounded drunk in his ears.

  “You’ll forgive me,” Sandra said, her own hands bound the same.

  “Quiet, both of you,” said an older man, who appeared to be in charge of the soldiers.

  “Or you’ll what?” Jerico asked, giving him a half-cocked grin.

  In answer, the man struck him with his gauntlet hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  Fair enough, thought Jerico as his consciousness faded.

  15

  Darius saw more familiar faces than he expected when he joined the meeting in Daniel Coldmine’s room. Two chairs had been pushed together to form a table, a crinkled map unfurled across it and held down with rocks. Daniel stood over it, arms crossed and looking miserable. Beside him was the young but sharp-witted soldier, Gregory. Darius and Gregory had met in Durham, guarding what few survivors remained in the ruins of a mansion. Together they’d held a doorway until Sir Robert arrived with reinforcements, chasing away the last of the wolf-men attackers. Darius had nodded in greeting, but Gregory gave him the c
old shoulder. It seemed he was not yet willing to forgive him for his part in Velixar’s attack on the town.

  In the corner, making up the last of the group, was an older man, his face covered with a wispy, gray beard. His eyes were hard, and he still bore enough muscle to show how dangerous he might have been in his youth. His name was Porter Grayson, and Daniel introduced him as the man in charge of Tower Silver. Together, the four planned the assault against the Blood Tower.

  “How many does that bastard have fighting for him?” asked Porter, leaning against the wall of the cramped room.

  “Luther left him with fifty of their personal guard,” answered Daniel. “I don’t know how many we killed during our retreat, but there’s also another seventy of our own men that joined his betrayal.”

  “Surely they won’t fight against you,” Darius said. “Not after killing Robert.”

  “Robert’s not dead,” Gregory said. He pointed toward Daniel’s bed, where several letters lay in a pile. “Cyric’s been sending orders down the Gihon, claiming he’s merely advising Robert. Every letter bears Robert’s signature, and I don’t believe it a forgery, either. Cyric is keeping him alive, using him to prevent the king from interfering. If we’re to have any help from the capital, we need to rescue him.”

  Darius shook his head and looked at the parchment on the chairs. It was an excellent replica of the Blood Tower, drawn that morning by Gregory. The defenses were simple, but effective. An outer wall surrounded the tower, thrice the height of any man. Within that was the tower itself, and in between nothing but flat killing ground. On the opposite side of the river was a single entrance through the wall, its doors made of thick wood and reinforced with steel. The only other entrance was the river itself. A hundred men could easily hold the fortifications against a far larger group than what he and Daniel had.

  “We don’t have the supplies for a lengthy siege,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “And I helped build those doors. We don’t have the time to build a sufficient battering ram, nor enough men to endure the archers as we try to pound through. Right now there’s only a hundred or so, and we need to retake it before reinforcements arrive.”

  “Are you sure they will?” asked Porter. “What if the priests in Mordeina deny any involvement for fear of angering King Baedan?”

  “They’ll still send men, even while they deny it,” Darius said, staring at the map as if he could bore a solution out of it with his eyes. “The priests always protect their own. Daniel’s right. We have to retake it now, before any more of Karak’s followers arrive.”

  “If we can’t retake the walls, why not go around them?” Gregory asked. He tapped where the outer wall met the river. “If all our boats beach at once, we might overwhelm them.”

  “How many men are at your disposal?” asked Darius.

  “We’ve got soldiers coming from the nearby towers, and if we leave a skeleton crew in the rest, that gives us about two hundred. I’m not sure it is enough.”

  “Two hundred against one?” Darius shrugged. “If we can get them on anything like open ground, how could we not win?”

  “The lions,” Daniel said. “You didn’t see them. They tore through our ranks like we were children. Robert shot them with a hundred arrows from his tower, and not one pierced their skin. We try to push in with brute force, they’ll eat us alive.”

  “No exaggeration there, either,” Gregory added.

  Darius frowned, and thought of his teachings at the Stronghold. He’d heard the occasional story of a priest summoning lions of the Abyss, but always it had been in the earliest days of history, during the anarchy that had followed the Gods’ War. No mortal blade was supposed to be able to kill them, no mere human fast or strong enough to defeat them. If even a third of the stories were true, two beasts guarding the river would be difficult to overcome.

  And what did it mean that Cyric could summon them? How great was the power given to him by Karak?

  “What keeps men from walking into the river and around the wall?” he asked, pointing to the same spot on the diagram as Gregory.

  “That wall goes out deep into the river,” Daniel said. “We rake the bottom every year, and add rocks when needed. Anyone trying to wade through will be in over their head, and risk drowning. Even if they make it around, they’d still be easy pickings for archers when they try to reach the shore.”

  “Again, it looks like boats are the best way,” Darius said.

  “You didn’t see what I saw, Darius,” Daniel insisted. “That priest wielded fire and lightning in his hands like it was nothing. If they spot us coming, and they will, then what happens if he destroys our boats before we ever reach them? And that’s ignoring the regular arrows the men on the walls will bury us with on the passage over. I won’t have my retaking of the Blood Tower end with half my men drowning, and the other half eaten by lions.”

  “You three are too focused on the tower,” Porter said, turning and spitting out the window. “Remember the man who rules it. What does Cyric hope to achieve? What’s he gain by owning some boats and a wall that guards nothing but empty fields and farmland?”

  Gregory and Daniel looked to each other, and they both shrugged.

  “He spoke of the old ways,” Gregory said. “I’m not sure what else, or what that even means. We were both preparing for battle when he performed his ritual that brought about the lions.” He turned his attention to Darius. “Do you know what he means by the old ways?”

  Darius rubbed his forehead with his fingers and tried to remember.

  “Study of such things is generally left to the priests,” he reminded them. “Our lectures on the faith were more practical, and devoted to winning over the hearts of the people. But I’ve heard enough stories that I think I know what he means. There’s a lot of old practices that the priests have deemed…no longer relevant. Too violent, really. They lasted as long as they did because the kings had not yet solidified their power over Dezrel.”

  “What type of practices are we talking about?” Gregory asked.

  Darius shrugged.

  “Ritual execution of murderers and thieves. Punishment of those who speak out against Karak. Conversion by the sword. That sort of thing.”

  “Shit!”

  All eyes turned to Daniel, who stood with his fists clenched.

  “The people of Durham,” he said. “Cyric wished to meet with them. He insisted he only meant to talk, but he was damn persistent. He must want to get back at them for taking witness against the prophet of Karak who attacked their village.”

  Gregory’s face paled, and Darius didn’t like the way the men-at-arms looked at one another.

  “Where are the survivors of Durham?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Robert gave them land a few miles east of the tower,” Daniel said. “There’s a town there, Willshire. We thought it best the people go there until we could be certain of Durham’s safety.”

  Darius’s blood ran cold.

  “Someone will talk,” he said. “One of the converted soldiers, or maybe even Robert himself. And when he finds them…”

  The old ways, the paladin kept thinking as the others stared him. Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, some tiny detail. What would Cyric do when he found them? Make them kneel, or be put to the sword? Sacrifice them? If he was so smitten with the old ways, wanted them resurrected…

  “A calendar,” Darius said, startling them. “Do any of you have a lunar calendar?”

  They looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “Of course not,” Daniel said. “We’re lucky enough to have food to feed our men.”

  “I have the blood of farmers in me, paladin,” Porter said. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “The blood moon,” Darius said, feeling feverish. “It happens once every four years. Do you know of it?”

  “Aye, I do,” Porter said. “It’s said to never lay with your lady on that night, for nothing good ever comes of a child conceived during the bloo
d moon.”

  “It is this year, isn’t it? How long until then?”

  Porter scratched at his beard.

  “Five days, I believe.”

  “Then that’s how much time we have,” Darius said, turning his attention back to the diagram of the tower. “Even now, Karak’s paladins will sacrifice a man guilty of murder at the steps of the Stronghold. That is how sacred the blood moon is to our…their god. If Cyric wishes to return to the old ways, I can only imagine the tribute he has devised for that night.”

  “I’m not sure I want to imagine it,” Gregory said. “What do we do? How do we stop him?”

  “Well,” Darius said, nodding toward Porter. “Now we know the man, and I do know him, or at least men like him. Young, stubborn, seeing history through diamond eyes, yet seeing the lives of those around them through mud and contempt. Karak’s gift of the lions will only increase his pride, his certainty of his ways. If he succeeds, he’ll move on, slowly increasing his numbers. He’ll bring the old ways of faith to the North until someone stops him.”

  “No one will,” Daniel said. His whole body trembled with rage at the thought. “Arthur and Sebastian are too busy killing each other to pay attention to the lands they’re sworn to protect.”

  “Then that leaves us,” Darius said. “The tower might cause us problems, but we know where Cyric will be five days from now, don’t we?”

  “We do,” Porter said, pushing off the wall and slowly walking over to the diagram. “And that means a far smaller guard at the tower, too. I’ve learned a few tricks in my time, and my gut says if we’re to save Robert’s life, we’ll do it quick, do it quiet, and most importantly, do it my way.”

  “And what way is that?” Darius asked him.

  The old man grinned.

  “The least honorable way possible, so long as it works.”

  J erico knew he’d only been out a moment or two, given that they were still dragging him toward the tents and wagons. A man held each arm, hoisting him from his armpits. His toes dragged across the ground.