Clash of Faiths

9

In the darkness, Darius called out for the prophet.

“I am here,” Velixar said, stepping out from the shadows and into the light of the single torch. Beside him, the jailor slept, and with a touch, Velixar made sure he stayed that way.

Darius hung his head. He couldn’t even look at the man in black when he spoke. But he saw no other way. He had to find out. Denying Velixar without proof, without certainty, only risked him remaining a fool.

“One chance,” he said. His dry throat cracked his voice. “I’ll give you one chance, but that is all. I will listen, and see if Karak’s truth is with you.”

“Do you tire of this cell?” Velixar asked, approaching the bars. “Do you tire of your chains?”

Even swallowing hurt. It’d been a day since he’d had a drink, and he felt so tired, so thirsty. His back throbbed with every beat of his heart. His arms felt like torn, twisted limbs, never to regain their natural shape.

“Yes. I do.”

Velixar smiled.

“If only you could feel the cage about your soul as keenly as you feel those chains. Be free, Darius.”

A wave of his hand and the door opened. Another, and his bindings became like shadow, his flesh falling right through them. Darius’s back popped as he twisted left and right, gasping in pain as his muscles fired off random spasms. Despite the pain, it felt deliriously good to stand. He took an unsteady step toward Velixar, then another. The prophet held out his hand, and Darius took it. There was no warmth to the grip.

“Sustenance first,” Velixar said, his ever-changing face smiling. “Then learning.”

The torch flickered and died, and in the dark, they walked forward. Darius felt a momentary sickness, and then he was beneath open stars. He shivered at the cold. They stood on a tall hill, and when he glanced back, he saw the Castle of the Yellow Rose.

“Wait here,” Velixar said. “I must gather your things the guards took from you.”

Another portal of shadow ripped open before him, and then he stepped through, leaving Darius alone.

“Is this your will?” Darius whispered as he shivered. “Is this what you want, Karak? My god, please, show me your way. I’m tired of being lost.”

He looked to his blackened hand, and he wondered if the mark would ever be gone. Several minutes later, Velixar returned, tossing down a chest. It must have weighed a ton, and it thunked heavily against the grass, but the prophet showed no strain at all.

“Nearby is a stream,” he said. “The cold will not harm you, though it will be unpleasant. Consider it symbolic. Once you’ve cleansed yourself, come back and put on your armor. I would see the man you once were standing before me.”

Darius stumbled in the direction Velixar pointed, and sure enough he found a small stream winding its way south through the hills. He caught his reflection cast by moonlight atop the water, and the sight gave him pause. He looked a dead man, sleep-deprived and hungry. It’d been only a week, he knew, but even before the castle dungeon he’d been eating poorly, and sleeping little. He cast a pebble across his reflection to scatter it, then stepped in. The water was cold enough to hurt, but he clenched his teeth and fought his shivers. He’d endured far greater trials in his faith to his god. He would not falter now. When he finished bathing, he ducked his head under completely, feeling the chill seep into his bones, shocking the exhaustion from his veins. When he emerged, his entire body shook, but he did not care. After putting his clothes back on, he walked to Velixar.

The prophet smiled, and his red eyes seemed to glow brighter. He gestured to the open chest.

“Put on your armor.”

Darius did so one piece at a time, showing no hurry. The water had left him numb, and his shivers lessened with every minute. In the light of the moon, he felt calm, almost peaceful. If not for Velixar’s presence, he might have felt completely at ease. Putting on his armor, etched with symbols to Karak, the Lion, as well as ancient runes proclaiming his might, he felt once more the champion he’d been. Only one thing mattered, and he knew what it was.

Velixar knew as well, and he offered the hilt of Darius’s sword.

“Karak is not a god of miracles,” said the prophet. “You have made but a single step on a very, very long road. I offer you your blade, your means to bring wisdom to this chaotic world. If you accept, you must swear to heed my words as truth, to know that our god speaks through me, and me alone. Do not take this lightly, Darius. Think on it. If you wish, I can return you to your cell, and leave you to the fate this world would bring you.”

Darius shook his head. He would face this future, reveal the truth of his god. There would be no return to a prison, not outward, not within.

“My sword is my soul,” he said, stepping forward and taking the handle. “And it has always belonged to Karak.”

Exhilaration shot through him as his fingers closed about the leather. The dark fire was not much, just the faintest shimmer even newly anointed paladins could outmatch, but to Darius it was a brilliant blaze of the greatest significance. It flickered and burned across his blade, unable to survive the weakest of winds. But it was there, and every time the air calmed, it returned. Darius laughed even as tears ran down his face.

“You are beloved in Karak’s eyes,” Velixar whispered. “Come. It is time we take another step down his road.”

He created another portal of shadows, and taking Darius’s hand, led him through to the other side. Darius knew not what to expect, nor did he try to guess. For the moment, he was trying to abandon all his previous teachings, to rely only on what appeared to be truth, and what the prophet confirmed. He would accept everything with an open mind, until Velixar failed. A single false word, or moment of doubt, and he would seek Karak in his own way. At least, he thought he might. Feeling the distant touch of his god deep in his chest, and seeing that fledgling fire on his greatsword, made him wonder if he was already decided, his life already bought and earned. His promise to Velixar… he had not made it lightly.

“Where are we?” Darius asked as they stepped out. It seemed they had not traveled far, for the terrain remained the same, just rocky hills with withering grass and the occasional barren tree. Before him was a heavy cluster of bushes, marking the outline of a small grove.

“Quiet, and listen,” Velixar said.

He did, and the sound of moaning reached his ears. Taking a step forward, he pushed through the bushes. Within he found a man lying on his back, bleeding from gashes across his arms and legs. His hands were gone, the bone still exposed. His eyelids were peeled. Despite his training, despite his experience with bloody combat, Darius still found himself on the verge of vomiting.

“What grotesquery is this?” he asked.

“Now is not the time for questions,” Velixar said, joining him in the ring. He gestured to the mutilated man. “Do you not understand that is the nature of your failure? You seek answers to things that do not matter. Look at him. Say I found him tortured by bandits and brought him here for succor? Or perhaps he tortured himself, bearing a guilty soul, and he sought me out to help him with his sickness? I might have done this to him myself, but you will never know, will you? Yet you ask, and ask, and do you know what is happening while you do?”

Velixar pointed to the man.

“He suffers. He bleeds. Tell me, does any of that matter in the face of his torment?”

Darius looked into the man’s eyes, unsure if the man saw him back. He looked lost in a daze, moaning lightly as he lay there. His stubs shook, and the sight of exposed bone made Darius shiver with unease. The pain… it had to be excruciating.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked the prophet.

“To learn. To understand. This is one of the greatest lessons I can offer you. Here, now, realize the many paths before you, and then make your choice.”

The man jerked back his head, and suddenly his moans turned into bloodcurdling screams.

“What did you do?” Darius asked, having drawn his greatsword without realizing it.

“I was numbing his pain,” Velixar said. “But no longer. The choice is before you. I will not intervene.”

The sword shook in Darius’s hand. He saw the fire upon its blade wither and die. Looking back to the man, he knew the lesson Velixar wanted him to learn. It burned in his gut. He wanted to refuse, to deny its wisdom, but how could he hearing such horrific screams? Lifting his sword, he closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness from Karak. Down came his blade, right through the mutilated man’s throat. He silenced the screams. He ended the pain.

The blood on his blade burned away in dark fire.

“So close,” Velixar said in the sudden silence. “But I saw your lips. I heard your prayer. There is nothing to forgive, Darius. Do you not understand?”

“The intent,” Darius whispered. “It is all in the intent.”

“Your intent was to end pain, to stop suffering. There is no sin in killing. Do not even Ashhur’s paladins kill? You must be purer. You must embrace Karak’s ultimate truth.”

Darius stared at the corpse, and he felt cold fingers, like the touch of a ghost, tracing the curves of his spine.

“And what is that?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“Only in absolute emptiness is there Order, and we serve a god of Order. Follow me once more. We must take another step.”

No guilt, thought Darius as he tore his eyes away from the corpse. No forgiveness. Seeking the cause was pointless. He had to react to the way things were. Was that not what he’d always chided Jerico about? Ashhur’s paladins fought for a world that didn’t exist. He, on the other hand, bled for the real world. But there was no comfort in these words, no strengthening of his heart with such understanding. Instead, he felt another part of himself die.

Burn the sick branches with fire, Darius thought, one of Karak’s few axioms. Otherwise that which might live will also die.

Just how much of his understanding of the world, of Karak, was nothing but dead branches?

Accepting Velixar’s offered hand, he took another step, and appeared at the outside of a log cabin. To either side of him stretched acres of flat land, some recently tilled, some left fallow.

“Where are we now?” he asked.

“There is light in the window,” Velixar said, gesturing. “Look through, and tell me what you see.”

Darius did, feeling fresh dread clawing at his throat. By candlelight he saw a mother and father through the warped glass, kneeling beside a bed. Wrapped underneath covers was their child, a young boy with hair even redder than his father’s. Feeling himself the invader on something private, he looked away.

“I see a family in prayer,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue.

“They pray to Ashhur,” Velixar said. “Not Karak. Not to any true god. Every night they’re tucking their child away with lies and delusions. Do you know what they pray for? Protection. Safety. A long, healthy life for that child. Do you think Ashhur hears? Do you think he acts? We are here, and Ashhur is not. We are truth, and he is falsehood. Another choice before you, Darius. I pray you have learned enough to choose what is right.”

“Intent,” Darius said again, and his sword hand shook.

“And what would your intent be?” Velixar asked.

“No more suffering. No more fear. Salvation from loss, heartache, betrayal, hunger, and lies.”

Velixar’s eyes flared with color, as if he could not contain his excitement.

“Are you strong enough?” he asked.

Darius looked to the door. He thought of the nameless family inside, of the wounded man he’d killed, and the desires of his god. In the end, he knew what he must do.

“Please,” he prayed to Karak. “Everything I am, I have sworn to you. I will not doubt. I will not disobey. Give me a sign. Show me the way, and I will follow without question.”

He opened his eyes, and the dark fire on his blade fully consumed the metal. Prayer answered, choice made, he pushed open the door. The family screamed; the father fought. They died, and the fire burned all the hotter. When Darius stepped back out, his armor stained with blood, he threw down his sword and fell to his knees with a sob. Velixar’s hands were on his shoulders, his cold cheek pressed against Darius’s as his whole body shuddered with tears.

“We are what the world lacks,” Velixar whispered in his ear. “We are what the world needs. Banish your guilt. You are no longer one of them. You are better. You are a child in the eyes of Karak, and have been made anew.”

Darius heard the words, and with strength born of desperation he clung to them in his mind. All the while, he pushed away the images, the blood. As his heart burned, he thought of Jerico, and how the simple act of saving him had thrust him onto this path.

Damn you, Jerico, he thought as Velixar set fire to the cabin with a wave of his hand. Damn you to the Abyss.

“Are you hungry?” Velixar asked.

Darius thought it impossible, but his stomach groaned, and he weakly nodded.

“Very well. Pick up your sword, and we will find you a meal.”

Darius grabbed the hilt of his greatsword. Deep inside, in a part of him that felt very small, he hoped it would lack the fire of faith, that it would remain plain steel and nothing more. When he lifted it into the air, it burned strong as ever, and that small piece of him burned along with it, just a dead branch meeting its proper fate.

*

J erico spent the morning teaching the men how to hold a sword. It seemed like it should have been the most basic of things, but instead he learned how militaristic his childhood had been, where weaponry and training had been daily rituals.

“Higher, Jorel,” he said, readjusting the man’s grip. Beside him, Adam clutched the hilt with both hands, his meaty fists dwarfing the metal.

“Just one,” Jerico said, “we’ll look into getting you a bastard sword, perhaps, but for now, just use one.”

“Feels better using two,” Adam said.

“It’s too heavy using just one,” another man, Pat, agreed.

“They’re balanced for one,” Jerico said, trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “If it feels heavy, it means you need to strengthen your arm, and that won’t happen if you keep using two… Trent, what did I say about your feet?”

Thinking back, Jerico decided he had never given his instructors even a pittance of the respect they deserved. He’d hoped to have the men spar, but getting them to grip the weapon tight, but not too tight, with just one hand, and at the right angle from their bodies, felt like trying to teach a pack of dogs how to dance on two legs. Sure, they could do it, but it wasn’t coming natural.

“Seriously, Pat,” Jerico said, turning back. “Stop crossing your legs!”

“I got to piss,” Pat said, looking ashamed.

Jerico opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing he had no clue how to react. He wanted to ask why he hadn’t said so, why he’d waited, why he hadn’t just wandered off, taken care of business, and come back. Instead he gave him a dumb stare, then waved a hand.

“Hurry up,” he said, praying for the hundredth time for patience.

“When we get to spar?” Griff asked.

Jerico caught him giving Adam an evil look, and he knew then and there that when the twins sparred, both would end up needing stitches for days.

“You get to spar when I know neither of you will kill the other,” Jerico said, harsher than he meant.

“Hey Jer, like this?” another man asked, and Jerico rushed down the line to double-check. Everyone was shifting about, trying to make things perfect. The paladin kept seeing a hundred things wrong, and it felt like the past half hour had been nothing but fixing error after error after error…

“Goddamn piece of shit!” Pat screamed from further into the forest. Jerico spun, grabbing his mace. From the corner of his eye, he saw the men turning with him, several nearly cutting their neighbors or dropping their blade from the sudden, surprised reaction. He nearly felt like crying. Not much more than farmers, Kaide had told him before they started. No kidding.

Pat came rushing back to them, but instead of being under attack, he was running as fast as he could while trying to remove his shirt and pants.

“What’s going on?” Jerico asked, baffled.

Then the smell hit.

“Skunk!” Adam and Griff swore in unison.

“Damn, Pat, you go and piss on one?” asked Jorel.

Jerico pressed his nose shut with his fingers, his eyes watering at the smell. As Pat neared, the rest gave way, not wanting to get too close.

“What is going on out here?” Kaide asked, stepping out from his cabin. He frowned, sniffed, and then pulled his shirt up to his nose. “Damn it, Pat, a stream’s southwest of here. Get in it, and don’t come out until you see the moon.”

“Sorry,” Pat said, his eyes running, his face red. The rest of the men were laughing at him, and Jerico couldn’t help but chuckle, no matter how bad he felt for Pat.

“Can’t you do something about that?” Kaide asked, joining Jerico’s side.

“I can heal broken bones and torn flesh,” Jerico said, rubbing his nose. “But that evil is beyond me.”

They both laughed, and were still laughing when they heard the sound of hooves thundering across the ground. When they saw the pale look on the rider’s face, their laughter died.

“Him!” the man screamed, pointing at Jerico. “He did this!”

Jerico looked to Kaide, and he shrugged, not understanding.

“Calm down, Ned,” Kaide said, offering his hand to help the man dismount. Ned did so, still glaring at Jerico. When the paladin neared to listen, Kaide shot him a look, so he stepped back until he was out of earshot.

“Enough practice,” Jerico said, realizing the rest of the men were still lingering about. “Take a break, and put your weapons away. Carefully!”

As they scattered, muttering amongst themselves, Jerico watched Kaide’s face. Outwardly he showed little sign, but his eyes hardened, and his whole body turned rigid. At last he hugged the rider, then approached Jerico, who didn’t fail to notice the man’s hands balled into fists.

“What’s going-”

Kaide struck him in the mouth, then kicked the back of his sore knee. Jerico went down, screaming in pain. The bandit leader landed on top of him, an elbow crushing his throat.

“You bastard,” Kaide said, his voice quiet, cold. “You just couldn’t leave things be, could you? Always have to interfere.”

“I don’t understand,” Jerico said, his words cracking.

“You will. You’re coming with me to Stonahm. I’ll let you see what a fucking mess you’ve made.”

Word spread to the rest of the camp, but given how limited they were on horses, only one other could go with Kaide and Jerico, the short man, Barry.

“Is my family all right?” he asked Ned as they saddled up. “Tell me, is she all right?”

The rider refused to say, even when Barry grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed in his face.

“Look me in the eye!” he cried, shaking him. “Why won’t you look me in the damn eye?”

It’d taken two men to pull him off. Now he rode behind Jerico and Kaide, head down and refusing to say a word. The hours crawled, and when they stopped to let their horses rest, not a shred of conversation was spoken between the three. As they neared Stonahm, there was no denying the cloud of smoke in the sky, nor where it was rising from.

“She’s all right,” Ned said upon seeing the smoke. “I know it. She’s all right, and my boys, too.”

Kaide’s glare was cold enough to freeze the skin on Jerico’s neck.

Jerico felt some relief as they finally rode into the village. The smoke was only from a few homes, not all of them as he’d initially feared. People milled about, looking as if they’d just survived a battle. Seeing Kaide’s approach, they began to gather.

“Jess!” Barry screamed. “Where’s Jess!”

Two boys pushed through the crowd, and they leapt into Barry’s arms as he dismounted. Jerico remained on his horse, feeling lost. People were shouting and crying all at once, a mixture of anger and heartbreak. Kaide tried to soothe them, but soon gave up.

“Where’s Beth?” he asked repeatedly. “I said where’s Beth?”

“With the others,” said a farmer. “Kalgan’s looking over them.”

“Come on,” Kaide said. Jerico dismounted and followed, leading his horse behind him.

The wounded had been too many to fit into a single hut, so they lay spread out on blankets in the open air. Jerico feared to count how many. Kalgan walked among them, his clothes and hands coated with blood. When he saw their approach, he looked at them with dull, expressionless eyes. In the corner, Barry wept over the still body of his wife while his two boys clutched him tightly.

“Kaide,” Kalgan said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

He pointed to where Beth sat on the blankets, staring into nowhere. Kaide called her name, and when she saw him, she burst into tears. Jerico stood, feeling the intruder, as the father ran to his daughter.

“Do you remember what I said?” Kalgan asked, trying futilely to wipe his hands on his robe. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” Jerico said, feeling a knot swell in his throat.

“Good. I hope you remember until the day you die.”

Kalgan went on his way. Jerico looked about. He saw at least seven dead, and thrice that wounded. On every street at least one building had been burned, and in the distance, he saw the torched remains of an entire field of crops. The lump in his throat swelled, and he had to struggle to keep his hands from shaking. After a horrific wait, Kaide finally kissed his daughter’s head and returned.

“You attacked one of Sebastian’s knights,” Kaide said, his glare full of fire. “You struck him, beat him down, and then sent him on his way. You damn fool, this is what you’ve done.”

“He was going to rape-”

“I don’t care!” Kaide shouted. “One woman? One rape? Do you know what they did here? A hundred knights came with swords and armor, burned their food, took every woman they pleased, and killed whoever resisted. One woman, you fucking paladin, all that to stop the rape of one woman? A hundred women can now blame you. A hundred women…”

He choked up, and Jerico looked to Beth with newborn dread.

“Even her?” he asked.

There were tears in Kaide’s eyes when he looked back.

“Even her.”