Paladins 02 - Clash of Faiths

by David Dalglish

  “You?” Darius asked.

  “Why not?” Sebastian grinned at him. “It does good for the simple folk to see me beside you. It lets them know that we are their lords, the masters of their lives. To turn on one of us is to turn on the other. I will have no traitors to Karak in my household.”

  Darius struggled not to react.

  “But what do you do when the priests of Ashhur come?”

  The lord rolled his eyes.

  “I say pretty words, toss them a few coins, and pretend to mull over having a second service for Ashhur. Their stays are not long. Lice-ridden beds and stale bread usually ensure that, though I’m not above a knife in the dark. I’m sure you understand.”

  Darius stood, and he pulled aside the curtain.

  “I do,” he said, stepping out onto the balcony. The crowd quieted, and they looked up to see a stranger. For a moment he said nothing, only scanned faces, judging reactions. Most were impatient, or bored. He saw plenty that clearly wanted nothing to do with giving offerings to Karak. Many still talked, not caring if they disturbed others. Forced faith, thought Darius. Was this its culmination? If he walked among them, he wondered if he’d find even a handful as faithful as his flock had been back in Durham.

  “Welcome to the seventh day,” Darius said. His voice failed him, and only the first few rows even knew he spoke. Battling his nerves, he swallowed, took another step toward the balcony’s edge, and let his voice cry to the winds.

  “Welcome to the seventh! Lift your voice, and let me hear your faith in our mighty god!”

  The half-hearted murmurs nearly broke his heart. Only those near the front cried out, and they were so few. No, he thought. Perhaps their previous priest was a calm, quiet man. Faith in crowds was like a fire. Once it started to burn, it’d spread with incredible speed. He had to ignite it.

  “In this day, we kneel to Karak and present our offerings for his protection, his strength, and his blessings. In this day, we of the faithful receive our reward for our loyalty. Are you faithful, people of the Yellow Rose?”

  A bit more energy this time as they shouted yes. Darius smiled. He felt his nerves sliding away. This was no different than Durham. They needed to see his own faith, feel his own energy pouring out of him. And he would give it.

  “I asked are you faithful?”

  More shouts. They were waking up now, leaving their slumber to join the Lion.

  “Then let us pray.”

  Darius drew his sword, flipped it about, and stabbed it into the balcony. Hands on his hilt, he bowed his head, but something was wrong. The crowd murmured, and immediately he knew he’d lost them. What was it? Opening his eyes, he realized his error.

  His sword bore no flame. Even the common folk knew that its strength mirrored that of his faith.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Sebastian asked, standing beside him with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Darius opened his mouth to lie, then stopped. No, he would not profane his soul before thousands of witnesses.

  “My faith in Karak is strong as ever,” he said, just loud enough for Sebastian to hear. “But I fear I have displeased my god, and he has denied me his blessing.”

  Lord Hemman stepped away. A single motion of his hand sent guards rushing in, surrounding him. Down below the crowd erupted with confusion. Darius kept his sword where it was, though his grip on the hilt was strong enough to make his hands hurt. He eyed the guards, waiting for one to make their move.

  “Do not make me cut you down while they watch,” Sebastian said. “No matter if you deserve it or not. By Karak, how could I be so foolish? Now release your sword!”

  Darius thought to resist, but he’d never make it out of the castle alive. More than ever, he felt revealed of his failure. Sebastian could give near exact count of the amount of men and women that had just seen the proof of Karak’s displeasure with him. He would not go to the Abyss, not as he was.

  “As you wish,” he said, letting go of his sword and stepping away.

  “Calmly,” Sebastian said to his guards. They took Darius by the arm and led him away, and it wasn’t until they were out of sight of the crowd that they clasped his hands behind his back and bound him. Darius repeated a litany of faith to Karak as Sebastian stepped back to the crowd, lifted his arms, and resumed the offerings as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  *

  Hours later, Darius sat in the cold darkness, his hands chained to the wall. His arms ached from the uncomfortable position, but he refused to let it bother him. He would not give Sebastian the satisfaction. Even worse was the jailor. He lurked in the corner, barely visible in the smoldering light of a torch. Whenever Darius tried to move, or groaned with pain, the man would open his mouth to laugh, though he’d make no sound. Someone, perhaps even Sebastian, had removed his tongue. This jailor would tell no secrets, and make no bargains.

  The door creaked, and then light pierced the darkness. Darius closed his eyes and prayed for the thousandth time to Karak for forgiveness.

  “Well this is certainly interesting,” Sebastian said. When Darius opened his eyes, he saw the lord standing at the entrance to his cell, torch in hand.

  “Unnecessary is a better term,” Darius said.

  “Perhaps. I hope you know where you are. You’re chained in the same cell Pallos was when you executed him in the name of Karak. I’m sure there’s some irony here, though I won’t know it yet until you tell me your story.”

  “I have no story to tell. I am a faithful servant of Karak.”

  “Then Karak has refused your service,” Sebastian said, stepping closer to the bars. “Why is that, paladin? How did you fail?”

  “I did not fail!”

  Sebastian laughed as Darius blushed, ashamed of the outburst. What was happening to him, that he would lose his temper so easily?

  “You humiliated me before my people,” Sebastian said, pacing before the cell. His footfalls echoed with maddening consistency. “Some now claim the offerings are extra taxes clothed in the garb of faith. Others want your head, for they decry you an imposter. I’ve spread a few rumors of my own. My favorite is that you were pretending to be a paladin to make an assassination attempt on my life. So long as no one understands what’s really going on, I can manipulate this to whatever outcome I desire.”

  “And what outcome is that?” Darius asked, feeling too tired for games. “What do you want with me? I did you no wrong. You heard my words. You know I speak truthfully of my faith in Karak.”

  “This isn’t about you, boy,” said Sebastian, and he grinned at Darius’s reaction at the term. “This is about the rest of your kind. I’ve sent riders in search of the nearest priest or paladin of Karak that might know who you are, and what it is you’ve done to soil your name. What will they tell me when they return? What does the Stronghold think of the paladin named Darius?”

  Darius closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cold stone.

  “They’ll say I am a murderer,” he said. “They’ll say I have turned against Karak and betrayed my Order.”

  “Did you?”

  Eyes still closed, he shook his head.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  Sebastian chuckled.

  “Then I don’t know, either. I won’t pass judgment on you, just as I passed no judgment on Pallos. Your own kind will come for you, and do with you as they wish. Until then, you’ll stay here.”

  “I’m sure the Stronghold will reward you well,” Darius said as Sebastian turned to leave. “That’s what really matters, I know.”

  The lord glanced back and smiled.

  “Why, that thought never crossed my mind. Sleep well, Darius.”

  The door slammed shut, and the darkness returned once more. In that darkness, Karak’s prophet laughed.

  “Sleep now,” Velixar said, waving an arm at the mute jailor. The burly man slumped in his chair and passed out. Stepping out from the shadows, the prophet crossed his arms and sighed. His red e
yes, irises of fire, chilled Darius’s blood and sent shivers up and down his spine.

  “So this is where I find you, you who I thought held such promise? Locked in a dungeon, chained to a wall so you cannot even kneel in prayer to your god? Pathetic.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Come now, don’t act the idiot with me, even if you did seem somewhat dimwitted to Sebastian. You know what I want. I am no deceiver, no creature of lies. I told you my desire when we first met, and I’m not one prone to change.”

  Darius did everything he could to not meet that gaze.

  “You want me to learn from you, to accept your word as the word of Karak. I still refuse, prophet.”

  Velixar laughed, and there was nothing pleasurable in the sound.

  “Yes, because the world certainly agrees with you. Tell me, why am I the one with Karak’s power, and you the fool locked in a cell? Why do the rest of the faithful refuse your wisdom? If even that egomaniacal Sebastian sees through your lies, what hope have you for the rest of Dezrel?”

  “Always questions,” Darius said. “How do I learn from you when you say nothing?”

  Velixar walked over and brushed a pale finger across the jailor’s forehead.

  “I ask questions to show you have no answers, and will do so until you finally open your eyes and realize it.”

  The man in black shivered.

  “Such wonderful dreams. This man has seen the dark side of this world, Darius, more than you could ever know. If anyone understands Dezrel’s need for order, it is him.”

  “Will you help me escape?” Darius asked, feeling unclean as he did.

  “Escape? No. Don’t you see, this place, this moment, personifies you perfectly. Karak stands at the gate, ready to free you, and you simultaneously plead for aid while denying him his truths. You cannot have both, Darius. You cannot hold back Karak with one hand and reach for his help with the other.”

  Darius felt too tired, too lost to argue. He regretted even asking. Death at the hands of his brethren seemed better than going with the man with the ever-changing face. Still ... what if Velixar was right? What if he truly spoke the will of his god?

  Velixar knelt before the gate, appearing to be in no hurry. The sun had set, and the jailor slept. They had all night.

  “Do you know where you first erred?” Velixar asked.

  Darius rolled his eyes. More questions. Always questions.

  “I suppose you’ll say when I refused to kill my friend?” he said, his voice full of sarcasm.

  “No, that was just a symptom of a greater failure. It is when you treated him as your equal, as your friend. Call me a liar, and doubt my wisdom, but did you ever do the same to Jerico? You overlooked his lies. You forgave his belief in the false god. You treated him as one of your own, and in turn, spat in the face of Karak. Ashhur is the enemy. You cannot serve Karak and refuse that simple truth.”

  “No,” Darius said, wishing he could call for the guards. “No. You’re wrong. Karak doesn’t want murder. He doesn’t want bloodshed. He wants order! He wants peace!”

  Velixar stood. All trace of humor left him. When he spoke, there was no mockery, no anger. Instead, Darius heard something all the more frightening: certainty.

  “My eyes are everywhere,” he said. “I watched you kill the paladin, Pallos. Answer me this one question truthfully, and I will let you be. What happened when you killed him? What happened when your blade cleaved through Pallos’s neck?”

  Darius fought against the memory. He had tried to think it made no sense, that it had been a hallucination, a delusion, a deception. The weight of it crushed him, and when he looked into Velixar’s eyes, he knew he could not lie, so he said nothing, for what else could he say?

  But Velixar knew. No smiles. No bragging. He spoke quietly, almost gently.

  “Your blade burned with Karak’s fire, didn’t it? At that glorious moment, you felt the presence of your god.”

  Darius felt tears slide down his face.

  “I did,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “You took the life of a paladin of Ashhur, and Karak blessed you for it. The truth could not be any simpler. Do you still deny me?”

  He wanted to. He needed to. Shaking his head, Darius clung to the last vestige of his faith.

  “Killing Jerico would have been wrong,” he said. “You will never convince me otherwise.”

  Velixar put his back to him, and as the shadows swirled about, he spoke.

  “I will not be the one to convince you, Darius. You will do that on your own. When you do, I will be waiting, and I will welcome you back to the glory of Karak with open arms.”

  The shadows thickened, and then Velixar was gone. Darius jolted, as if he’d been asleep the whole while. Tears remained on his face. In the corner, the jailor snored.

  “Damn you, Jerico,” Darius whispered. “I hope you live. I hope you live a thousand years for the suffering I must endure.”

  He slept, not long, and not comfortably. His dreams were dark, and Karak’s contempt filled them with shadows and fire.

  6

  Kalgan sat beside him when Jerico came to, his consciousness swimming to the surface amid an ocean of pain.

  “How long?” Jerico asked, lying very still, which kept the pain at its least.

  “Just a few hours,” Kalgan said. “You’re tougher than you look.”

  “Thanks, I guess. Water?”

  A bony hand pressed against his back as he sat up. Every movement made his leg ache, but he was thirsty, and refused to let the pain control him. He accepted a small wooden cup and drank. It tasted strangely bitter, but he downed it anyway.

  “There’s a few herbs in there to help you,” Kalgan said, taking back the cup. “Some you’ve heard of, and some I doubt you’ve ever seen before. You’ll sleep well, and it’ll dull the pain. Ignore any strange hallucinations it gives you.”

  Already he felt his head turning light, and he tried to protest.

  “I shouldn’t ... things like that ...”

  “Spare me, Jerico. Even in your sleep, you moaned with pain.”

  Jerico breathed in deep and tried to relax. Best he could tell, he was back in the same hut, and when he glanced left, he saw the patched up hole that had been his exit earlier. Beth was gone, and he hoped that meant her recovery was going well.

  “Your ability to heal,” Kalgan said, settling into his chair and resting his hands on his lap. “Can you use it on yourself?”

  “In a way,” Jerico said. His throat felt dry despite the drink, and his tongue thick. His pain was dulling, though, which was nice. “It requires concentration, and if the pain is bad ...”

  “Which it is. I thought so. You won’t be going anywhere for a few days. I suspect you’ll be up and about faster than any man has right to, but it won’t be today. I already told Kaide as much.”

  “Kaide?” Jerico started to sit up, but his stomach lurched, and the whole room swayed as if the world had begun to shake. He lay back down, deciding such complicated actions like sitting up or talking could probably be done slowly, or later.

  “Yes, he seemed quite worried for you. Not that you’d get better, but that you’d run off. I told him you had a few days to recover, and I considered that generous. Most men would have never walked again, and those that did would use a cane. Your kneecap is in pieces, paladin. As for the flesh around it, well ... I wouldn’t look if I were you. Not until you’re ready to use Ashhur’s magic to remedy it.”

  “Not ... magic ...”

  Kalgan laughed, and Jerico chuckled along with him despite his sour mood.

  “Call it what you want, but Kren did something to your leg when he touched you, that much I’m certain. I thought of cutting it off completely, to be honest. If I hadn’t seen what you’d done for Beth, I’d have already brought out the knife.”

  “How is Beth?” Jerico asked after a moment to catch his breath. He felt a heaviness settling over him, like an invisible blanket weighted on all s
ides. He wanted to lie still, and do nothing, but he refused to cooperate.

  “Still asleep, but in her own bed. Poor girl, to suffer such a cruel fate from a little thing like a spider. Some parts of life are lost to her, but she’s resilient, got that much from her father. She’ll find a way to thrive, and the people of this village love her. Don’t worry about her fate, just concentrate on your own.”

  Ignoring Kalgan’s earlier advice, Jerico sat up again. His eyes didn’t want to open, but after a moment, he rubbed them with his fingers and then pulled aside his blanket. Seeing his leg, he turned to one side and vomited. Kalgan cursed up a storm.

  “What’d I tell you?” Kalgan said. He left, then returned with a handful of dirt and sawdust to scatter atop the vomit.

  “Does it smell of rot?” Jerico asked, pulling the blanket back over.

  “No. For that, I guess you can be thankful.”

  Jerico laughed.

  “Aye. Thankful. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Do you want me to splint the leg?”

  Jerico thought of the black tissue around his swollen kneecap, the blue veins streaking outward in all directions.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t touch it. Ashhur help me, I don’t want to think of the pain.”

  Jerico slept, and when he awoke again, night had fallen. Several new blankets lay over him, and despite their cover, he felt cold all over. Kalgan’s chair was empty beside him.

  “Kalgan?” he asked anyway. His jaw trembled, but at least his head felt somewhat clear from whatever concoction of herbs the old man had given him. No one responded, and that was fine. He’d need silence for what would follow.

  “Please be with me, Ashhur,” he whispered as he shoved blanket after blanket aside. Shivers assaulted him, and he knew without a doubt he was with fever. No matter. He’d manage. Swallowing down his fear, he pulled away the last blanket, revealing his leg. This time he refused to look away from the swelling, bruises, and puss. His leg shook along with the rest of his body, and the movement awoke spikes of pain that nearly made him pass out. Gritting his teeth, he gently touched his knee with his fingertips.