A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 12

Haern’s shoulder had nearly recovered by the time the three of them walked into the town of Leen. It was a far more populous settlement than Trass, largely due to the modest docks built on the Rigon River. Many people walked about, their clothes simple and homespun, their faces tanned from working the fields, long days fishing in the boats, and sailing both up-and downstream to sell their goods. Already feeling like he stuck out as an oddity due to his clothing, the blood on his shoulder and all over Thren’s shirt did little to help.

“You should be able to find suitable clothes here,” Delysia said as they approached a large inn. She gestured to the river, where a couple ramshackle booths were selling food to the men, others replacement gear and clothing.

“I’ll smell like fish for weeks,” Thren said.

“Better than smelling like blood.”

Haern and Delysia stepped into the tavern as Thren headed off to the meager market. Inside, a weathered man, much of the top of his head both bald and tanned, greeted them warmly.

“Two rooms,” Haern said, dropping coins atop the man’s desk. “The other is for a friend,” he added at the man’s raised eyebrow.

“Of course,” he said.

As Delysia put away their things in their room, Haern returned to the man up front, who was clearly wary. Given his hood and clothing, Haern couldn’t blame him.

“I’m looking for a paladin of Karak named Jorakai,” he said. “We heard he was here?”

“Jorakai will be here tomorrow,” the innkeeper said. “He comes every sixth day to give another lecture. You wanting to take a listen?”

“Something like that.”

“He comes early, so don’t go sleeping in.”

Haern bought a bit of bread left over from the morning, brought it back to their room, and shared it with Delysia. Thren returned not much later, wearing a white shirt with long sleeves. He tossed his old bloody and torn shirt onto the floor beside their bed.

“It’ll suffice,” he said. “You discover anything about Jorakai?”

“Tomorrow,” Haern said.

Thren shrugged.

“Good,” he said. “I need a long sleep in a comfortable bed, anyway.”

Come the next morning, the three of them joined the rest of the gathered crowd at the docks. It looked like much of the river work was put on hold, and Haern was surprised to see over sixty people there to listen to the dark paladin preach. They sat on blankets, many sharing food with their families. Staying near the back so they could quietly observe, Haern waited with his arms crossed.

“Why must we listen?” asked Haern. “I’ve heard enough of Karak to last a lifetime.” He winced at a half-forgotten memory, that of him lost in a strange room of Karak’s temple, the great Lion demanding his obedience.

“Before we make a move on him, I want to take measure of the man,” Thren said. “We’ll learn plenty by how well he controls the crowd.”

A few more people came in late, taking seats around the outer ring, and not much later, Jorakai arrived, having been waiting in a nearby home. He was a tall man, his skin even more tanned than the people of the village. Much of his hair was shaved but for a single stretch forming a long ponytail he tied behind his head. He wore the armor of his order, heavy plate mail stained black with a silver lion painted across his chest. Its mouth was open in a roar, its teeth bared, its claws raised to strike. Attached to his back in a loose sheath was an enormous two-handed blade.

“Karak’s peace be with you,” he said, and his voice carried with ease.

“And peace be to you,” responded the crowd in kind.

“Peace,” Thren said, letting out a snort. “If you can call slavery ‘peace,’ I guess…”

A few of the people on the outer ring heard him and glared his way, but he only smiled in return.

“We live in exciting times,” Jorakai continued, and he slowly paced before them, turning his head so he might address all parts of the crowd. “With the fall of the Citadel, our world of Dezrel may finally see a glimmer of hope, see her people return to the true god, to the times of obedience, times of peace. Order. At last we have a chance for there to be order, in all our lives!”

A few clapped, and others said “amen” to punctuate the paladin’s sentences.

“Such exciting times,” Thren said, looking disgusted. “He tells this to fishermen and farmers. The most excitement they’ll see in their lifetimes is a sick child or a bandit raid. No wonder they’ll cling to such a false story. To think I believed it’d be through weakness or desperation he converted the people, but instead, it is merely boredom.”

“Perhaps it is all three,” Haern said.

“Keep your voices down,” Delysia whispered to the two. “We stand out enough as it is.”

Haern glanced at her, saw the way her skin had paled.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

She nodded, continuing to watch as Jorakai preached.

“I know the weaknesses in your hearts,” the dark paladin shouted, his voice bleeding with sincerity and anger. “I know those of you who lust after women, with hands you fail to control. I know you who let your tongues rule your minds, who will murder a man with your words far worse than my blade ever could. Worst of all, I know many of you doubt. Where is the Lion, you ask? Where are his people, his faith, his power? But the sick branches must be burned so the healthy may live. The rotting hand must be cut to spare the arm. If you have doubt, now is the time to silence it! If you sin with your tongue, now is the time to remove it from your heads. Karak seeks grand gestures, not simple, cowardly steps to be undone mere days later.”

Jorakai was shouting now, his deep voice thundering over the crowd.

“Who are you to give in to your own desires? What worth are we as pathetic, dying humans to demand our will over the will of the one who created us? When your eyes wander to the chest of a woman not your wife, kneel to the Lion and beg for forgiveness. When you spread lies about a man or woman, kneel to the Lion and beg that he rip out your tongue. We are the creators of chaos, and if our world is to find order, if it is to have meaningful change, then that change must start with us, the faithful. It won’t come from the unbelievers. It won’t come from Ashhur and his doctrine of turning blind eyes to sin and opening his arms to all the failures and hypocrites of the land. Us, my friends, it comes from us! Sacrifice your will to the Lion. Sacrifice your desires, your pride, and know that Karak is Lord!”

Haern felt Delysia clutch his arm as she leaned against him, and he was surprised by the intense look in her eyes.

“Karak would make them slaves,” she said, and she shivered as a song of worship began. “I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this.”

“Go,” Haern said. “There’s no reason for you to be here, not for this.”

She took his hand, squeezed it, then left for their room. Haern watched her go for a moment, then brought his attention back to the crowd. The song they sang was a somber one, yet the people seemed willing enough to cry it out at the top of their lungs. Jorakai maintained the chorus, his deep voice leading the others.

“Pray to Karak,” he said as the song dwindled down. “Pray to the Lion, and sacrifice daily your weaknesses upon his blood altar. Deny yourselves, and be made strong. Give up your own childish rebellion, and be made whole. So is the word, so is the truth, and so is the way.”

The crowd murmured a conjoined “amen,” and then the sermon was over.

“Before I forget,” Jorakai shouted over them, apparently not finished. “I will not be here the next sixth, but the day after. My travels will take me to Yarsville, then to Arlet, and it will add an extra day on my return ride.”

That was it, then. Several came up to him, confessing private worries, others packing up their blankets and their children so they might begin their work on the river and in the fields.

“What do you think?” Haern asked as the crowd began to disperse.

“I think he’s a man like any other,” Thren said. “And like any other, we’ll make him bleed, and we’ll make him talk.”

“He said he’s traveling to Yarsville soon. Do you know where that is?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thren said. “He said he’ll ride back from it, which means horses, which means he won’t be on a boat. Go find Delysia; tell her to get ready. When Jorakai rides out, we’ll be waiting for him on the road.”

Yarsville was to the west of Leen, following a well-worn road through the fertile farmlands near the river. Trees were sparse, but the grass was tall, and Haern saw little point in trying to find a particularly clever ambush place.

“He’s one man,” Haern had said. “Take out the horse, and he’ll be ours. Don’t need to leap from trees to pull that off.”

So, they waited near the bottom of a hill, the tall grass keeping them hidden while elevation let them have clear sight of the road for over half a mile. Haern and Thren lurked on opposite sides of the road, while Delysia sat next to Haern.

“You don’t need to be here,” Haern told her as the day passed into night.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Why? I know you don’t want us doing this.”

Delysia kept her eyes on the road, refusing to look at him.

“Turning my back to it doesn’t change what it is you’ll do. If my choices are hiding like a coward or staying to ensure your safety, then I’ll stay.”

As it had been for the past week, the night was bright, with sparse clouds and a glittering field of stars accompanying the moon. They should have had no problem seeing Jorakai on his ride nor hearing him, but it seemed he and his horse traveled in shadows, for he crested their slender hill without their having heard or spotted his approach. Haern startled at the sudden proximity, and he had no time to whistle out his signal to Thren. They’d meant to leap out simultaneously, cutting at the legs of the horse to bring it down, but with such speed, he wasn’t sure he could manage. Sprinting through the grass, giving no thought to remaining hidden, he lunged … and missed.

Rolling along the ground, he watched as Thren leaped out farther ahead, and his strike was far better aimed. His short swords cut into the back tendons of the horse’s rear right leg, and it let out a wail that was dreadful to hear. The horse continued ahead a few more steps out of sheer momentum, its right leg crumpling each time it tried to apply weight. Haern rose to his feet as Jorakai dismounted, gently tapping the beast on the neck as it whinnied in pain.

“Nesme has long served me faithfully,” the dark paladin said, drawing his sword over his back and holding it before him. “Whatever gold you thought to take from me, it will not be worth the suffering you’ll endure at my hands for such insolence.”

Fire enveloped the enormous blade, black flames flickering with violet at its tips.

“We’re not here for gold,” Thren said as he and Haern stepped away from each other, giving themselves space to fight, while Delysia remained in hiding. Slowly, they approached the paladin, spreading out even farther to ensure an attack on one meant he’d leave himself vulnerable to the other. Jorakai eyed the two of them, feet firmly planted where he was. The fire on his blade grew stronger with each passing moment, and it seemed the very light of the stars dimmed, their illumination drawn into the blade and snuffed out forever. Yet despite the darkening of the world around him, Jorakai seemed to shine brighter, every curve and dent on his black plate mail vibrant, most of all the lion on his chest, which shimmered blue-violet.

“If not gold, then what?” asked Jorakai. Despite the ambush, he didn’t sound worried, just annoyed by their presence. “Revenge, perhaps? Have I killed someone you loved? Or are you some of Ashhur’s more fanatical faithful? If you’re seeking a martyr’s death, I’ll gladly give it to you if you think it will earn you a better seat for eternity.”

“Information,” said Haern, taking several more careful steps so that he and his father were on opposite sides of the paladin. “Drop your blade and tell us what we need to know, and your death will be quick and painless.”

Jorakai grinned a wolfish grin, exposing his teeth.

“I’m not the one dying here tonight.”

He lunged at Haern, the movement stunningly quick for one bedecked in plate mail. The great sword swung in a wide arc, aiming to cleave him in half at the waist. Haern twisted, bracing both his legs as he put his sabers in the way. He expected the blow to be strong-he’d fought people like Ghost whose arms were like tree trunks-but when Jorakai’s blade hit his own, he feared his life was at an end. His arms jarred toward his chest, the ground giving way beneath his feet as he skidded backward half a foot. A scream escaped his lips as he pushed against it, fighting the fire and steel that pressed for his waist. He felt no heat despite the proximity, instead a biting cold that stole his breath.

At last he shoved the blade away, and when the paladin moved to swing again, Haern was already rolling, desperate to avoid another until he could recover. The block had lasted no longer than a second, yet it felt like an eternity. Sliding to a halt, he spun to watch as Thren assaulted Jorakai, his blades whirling. Jorakai took step after methodical step backward, holding his great sword by the hilt as well as with a gauntleted hand midway up the sword. As if it were a staff, he shifted and turned his sword, batting away Thren’s attempts to stab and cut. A few slipped past, but Haern had a feeling Jorakai was letting them, for they were weak and struck his plate mail, unable to find a crease and lacking the strength of a mace or ax to punch through the armor.

Armor wasn’t Jorakai’s only advantage. With his great reach, and even greater strength, he appeared able to halt Thren’s assault at any time. As Haern ran to join in, the paladin swung his sword in another wide arc. Thren dared not block, not after witnessing Haern’s struggle, and instead, he dropped to his knees underneath, then rolled away as the great sword curled back around and stabbed deep into the earth where he’d been. Haern came crashing in while the sword was still embedded in the dirt, both feet slamming into the man’s chest in an attempt to knock him away from his blade and leave him vulnerable.

It felt like ramming feetfirst into a giant. Haern somersaulted off, his feet barely touching ground before he leaped in again, this time slashing toward Jorakai’s exposed face with one blade while thrusting for the gap at the armpit with the other. The paladin tore his blade free, chunks of dirt flying as he whipped it around, blocking both strikes, then continuing its turn to deter Thren’s attempted charge from the other side, again beating him back. Still, they were together now, and Haern swung and stabbed, forcing Jorakai to turn his attention in his direction lest he be cut down.

Jorakai continued to swing in long, wide arcs, his burning blade crackling as it cut through the air. Haern felt himself finally settling into a rhythm, knowing when the paladin would turn his way, and therefore retreating, and when to come rushing back in while his father attacked from the opposite direction. They’d scored no hits yet, but Jorakai was clearly getting frustrated, constantly turning back and forth, sometimes blocking the attacks with his swords, sometimes using the armor on his elbow and arms.

At last, Haern saw an opening. With Jorakai in mid-spin, his back was to him, and in that instant, Haern dropped to one knee, and as the burning blade cut above his head, he stabbed deep into the paladin’s calf. Before he could suffer any retaliation, he danced away, ripping out the saber as he did. Blood flew, and by the scream Jorakai let out, Haern knew the fight was theirs. Rather than press the fight he stayed back, lurking along with his father as they watched Jorakai lean most of his weight on his good leg.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, taking a hobbling step forward. “What wisdom do you think I have that you can take by the sword?”

Thren joined Haern’s side, and shoulder to shoulder, they prepared a charge.

“Don’t worry,” Thren said. “You’ll tell us soon enough.”

Together they rushed him, and as he was unable to properly brace himself, his sword carried only a shadow of its former strength. Haern put both his swords in the way, and as he blocked it, his left foot kicked out, ramming into the dark paladin’s throat. Thren was left unblocked, and he took advantage of it, jamming one of his short swords into the knee of the man’s good leg while slipping the other through a crease at his side. Jorakai crumpled to the ground from the combination of their attacks, and when he hit, the sword fell from his hand. The fire surrounding it faded away, and it seemed the stars shone brighter for it.

Thren was on top of him in a heartbeat, knees pressing on Jorakai’s shoulders to pin his arms, his swords crossed beneath his chin, gently touching the skin of his neck. The paladin’s breaths came ragged and uneven as he tried to recover from the blow. Haern paced before the two, pausing only to kick the great sword out of reach.

“If you’d only surrendered, you’d have spared yourself the pain,” Thren said, bent down so he could stare into Jorakai’s eyes.

Haern had hoped for surrender, maybe exhaustion or hopelessness in Jorakai’s response. Instead, he heard laughter, and he knew they would need to earn their answers that night.

Fingers touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Delysia there, withdrawing her hand to wrap both around her waist as she watched, her upper body hunched as if she were cold.

“Give me one moment,” she said, her red hair taking on a bluish tone in the moonlight. “I will not stop you, but I may at least reduce the torment he must suffer.”

Haern stepped out of her way and gestured for her to continue. Thren eyed her warily, but he said nothing as she knelt down above Jorakai, her hands lying flat on either side of his face. The paladin glared up at her, his smile momentarily fading.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “A priestess of Ashhur come to join the fun?”

She ignored him and instead dipped her head and closed her eyes. Words of a prayer slipped from her lips, soft and indiscernible. Light glowed around her fingertips, then rolled over her hands and onto his face as if it were made of liquid. It settled on his lips, waiting, and then when he breathed in, the light slipped between his lips and vanished down his throat.

“I cannot make him speak,” she said, rising to her feet. “But when he does, he may only speak the truth.”

She walked past them, and Haern reached out to take her hand. She let him, smiling faintly, then pulled away so she could return to the road. Haern watched her go, then brought his attention back to his father, who was gesturing for him to come nearer.

“Your swords,” he said.

Haern hesitated, an irrational fear of a trap soaring through him, but he fought it down and then handed over one of his blades. Thren took it, flipped it around, and then jammed it through Jorakai’s right palm. As the man screamed, Thren gestured again.

“The other.”

He almost didn’t give it to him. Almost.

Now with both of Jorakai’s hands pinned to the ground, Thren rose to his feet, his own short swords twirling in his hands.

“I want to make this perfectly clear,” Thren told him. “You will suffer greatly tonight, though for how long is up to you. If you cooperate, it will only be minutes. If you don’t, it will be hours.” He smiled at Jorakai. “And if you piss me off, I will make it days. I know ways to hurt a man without killing him, dozens, really. If I must, I will try every single one, break every bone, tear every muscle, stab your eyes, your lips, tear your genitals from your body with my bare hands … I’ll do it all, do you understand?”

Jorakai was laughing through it all, just laughing.

“You damn fools,” he said. “Nothing but damn fools.”

Thren smiled right back.

“We’ll see.”

He began his work, starting with dislocating fingers. Haern watched, a rock building in his stomach. He told himself this was a man who deserved no better, a servant of a dark god, but it mattered little as the man’s screams grew louder. Those screams only paused when Thren would ram his elbow into the man’s throat, constantly keeping his breathing ragged and uneven.

“We need to get inside the Stronghold,” Thren told him when he paused for a moment to put away one of his swords. “The building must have a weakness, a secret entrance or a lapse in the patrols. I want to know when and where.”

Still laughing. Jorakai was still laughing.

“You don’t understand,” he said, even as he struggled to breathe. “You won’t break me. You’ll never break me.”

Thren glanced over his shoulder, and his worried look was enough. Delysia’s spell was supposed to keep him from lying. Did that mean Jorakai spoke the truth, or merely that he believed it to be true?

“Most men claim they can’t be broken,” Thren said, taking his other sword and pressing it against Jorakai’s left eye. “Most men are wrong.”

“I am the servant of the Lion, the sharpened claw to rake the world,” Jorakai said. “What you’ll do to me … do you think I have not undergone worse? In the pits of the Stronghold, we are made pure. There we are broken and remade strong. There is nothing you can do, nothing, that will match the black fires that have seared my skin and the teeth that shredded me down to the bone.”

Laughing, still laughing.

“You will never breach the Stronghold,” he said. “It is built for war and guarded as if it were the greatest of treasures. Whatever you want in there, you won’t get it, you hear me, you bastards? You. Won’t. Get it.”

Thren ripped out his eye anyway, then tossed the orb over his shoulder so that it landed at Haern’s feet.

“I think,” he said, “we have made a mistake.”

When Jorakai’s screams stopped, he resumed his mocking.

“The windows are barred,” he said. “The doors always guarded. There are no gates, no tunnels, nothing but that front entrance. Who is it you seek there, you fools? One of us? Or do you think you’ll take our gold and jewels?”

Out went the other eye.

“Nothing for you,” Jorakai screamed. “Nothing but a death far worse than mine. Go there, I beg of you. Go willingly into the hands of my brethren and their pits. What I suffered for weeks, you will suffer for decades.”

Thren abandoned his short sword, instead drawing a thin knife from his belt and beginning to work. After finishing with the face, he moved downward. He cut and thrust, opening up the man’s belly so he could reach his hands inside. Jorakai could no longer laugh, only scream as Thren shouted.

“You think I will suffer?” he asked. “You think I fear your pits and lions? Your home is a home like any other, and I will break into it. I will find the man within who has toyed with my life and manipulated me like a pawn in his fucking game!”

Haern put his hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Enough,” he said. “Let him die.”

Jorakai’s face had turned pale, and Haern knew he’d pass out soon enough from the pain. His empty eye sockets looked up to the stars, and the sight of them reminded Haern of the Widow’s victims from months before. To find him party to one doing the same filled him with unease.

“He deserves worse,” Thren said, refusing to look back at him.

“It doesn’t matter if he does. We’ll gain nothing from him. Let him die.”

Thren stood, his hands slick with blood, so red they seemed to glow in the night.

“If you want him dead, then you kill him,” he said. “Otherwise, I want this bastard to suffer. However slim the connection, he is part of what is happening in Veldaren, and we need to send a message.”

“What message?” Haern asked. “Who will know of his death? Who will see it? This is for your own enjoyment, nothing else, so don’t lie to me, nor to yourself.”

Thren froze, his eyes meeting Haern’s, and they were filled with fire. Haern felt a tingle travel down his spine, and more than anything, he wished to have his swords in his hands.

“You of all people are the last allowed to say that to me,” he said, his voice dropping, his words shaking with intensity. “Not you, not a man who is a living lie. Deep down, past the cloak and the hood and all your protective shadows, I know the monster you truly are. Never again, you understand? Never dare tell me that again. No matter what this man says, we’ll go to the Stronghold, we’ll break inside, and we’ll find our prey. No building is impenetrable, not to us. Now clean up your mess.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Haern alone with the dying man. Jorakai was breathing slowly now, each one accompanied by a wheeze due to the damage of his throat. Haern put his foot on a wrist, then withdrew the blade stabbed through the palm. He stared down into those two bloodied caves that were now the paladin’s eyes.

“Why did your god try to manipulate us?” Haern asked him. “Why would he work with the Sun Guild to help move them into Veldaren?”

Jorakai’s lips peeled back into a gruesome smile. Several teeth were missing from where Thren had pried them out with a knife.

“I cannot decide if you’re deluded or merely stupid,” he said, coughing and spitting blood to the side. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you’re from. Whatever you think happened, Karak had nothing to do with it. No priest or paladin worthy of their title would aid the Sun Guild.”

Haern was again perplexed. How could that not be a lie? Luther had worked with Grayson in organizing the Sun Guild’s initial arrival to Veldaren. So, unless they’d been lied to before …

“The priest named Luther,” Haern said. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll give you mercy.”

The paladin let out a chuckle.

“Mercy? Why should I want your mercy?”

Haern knelt down, and he felt a shadow cross over his soul.

“You may have my mercy,” he said, “and if not, I will have Thren return so he may resume his work. Your choice.”

Jorakai let out a sigh, and his entire body seemed to relax.

“So be it,” he said. “Luther is a disgrace, an insult to our order. We are holding him in the highest room of the Stronghold as our prisoner.”

The words left him stunned.

“Prisoner?” Haern asked.

“Prisoner,” Jorakai said. “Are you satisfied?”

Disgraced? Prisoner? Suddenly, his earlier confusion clarified. What if the priests and paladins of Karak were in the dark when it came to Luther’s actions? Given Jorakai’s reaction to the idea, it had a sort of logic to it. Did Luther hide his involvement for fear of retribution from his brethren? Or were his actions the reason for his imprisonment? Above all, what would cause a priest of Karak to risk so much that he’d hide his plan from his own order?

Even more unsettled, Haern placed the tip of his sword against Jorakai’s throat.

“Thank you,” said the paladin. “Send me to my god. Let me find succor in his embrace.”

“I’ve seen the Lion,” Haern told him. “You’ll find no succor, not with him. Only fire.”

He thrust, twisted the sword, then pulled it free. The paladin bucked for a moment as he failed to draw breath, and Haern watched until the body fell still. He felt no pleasure, but no shame either, no guilt. Just exhaustion.

Yanking free his other blade, he held both out wide and looked up to the stars, to where he pictured Ashhur looking down upon him.

“What we do, is it madness?” he asked. “Is it wrong?”

There was no answer, as he knew there wouldn’t be. But deep down, the answer was obvious.

It’d taken both of them to handle a single paladin of Karak, and now they headed for their home, to where they were raised, trained, and sent out into the world to spread their order. What they did, it wasn’t hopeless. It wasn’t madness.

It was suicide.

“I do this for others, not myself,” he insisted. “I do this to save those I love. I have to. Even my father … somewhere in there, he knows I am his son, and he’s ready to die for me. It has to mean something. All of this. Luther, Thren, Delysia…”

There was no confirmation given to him, nothing but the blowing of a cold night wind across the blood on his blades.