Clash of Faiths

11

“Why have we come here?” Darius asked as high above the stars twinkled.

“And you complain of my questions,” Velixar said, walking beside him. “Surely you can think of why we return.”

Before them stretched the town of Durham, Darius’s place of teaching for over a year. It was there he had tended his flock, and there he’d first met Jerico. A hundred memories flooded him as the two walked through the quiet streets. Time had erased the bloodstains, but not the vicious claw marks across the many buildings. Wolf-men had torn through the village, and Darius had stood against them, side by side with Jerico. They’d been heroes, he knew, and his name was retold in stories all throughout the North. He thought of that night, and of the pure calm he’d felt at Jerico’s side. There’d been such a wonderful simplicity to it all. The wolves had been his enemy, Jerico his friend, and together they fought until death.

But what would Velixar have called for? And what did he want now?

“Is it because of Jerico?” Darius dared ask.

“Everything we do, in one sense or another, is because of him,” Velixar said, frowning. “Because of your failure to kill him, to be exact. If you’re to ask questions, learn to ask better ones.”

They stopped in the center of town. Darius looked to homes, seeing a surprising number of new ones. After that night, he’d talked with Jerico of the survivors, merely a third of what they had been. Still, they had rebuilt, and now slept in peace, though he wondered how many dreamt of dark shapes crossing the river, yellow eyes glinting…

“I wish you could sense it,” Velixar said, closing his eyes and lifting his arms to the sky. “Even in death, the power of life lingers on. Not just for mankind, either. A shame the bodies of the wolves were burned. They would make excellent servants for Karak.”

They reached the center of town, and there Velixar stopped. He seemed too pleased with himself for Darius to feel comfortable. In the distance, wild dogs began howling, as if they sensed the presence of the prophet.

“Do you know why I have brought you here?” Velixar asked.

“I can think of many reasons, therefore I cannot say. Why?”

“You let Ashhur’s paladin teach here, unchallenged, unquestioned. You let his lies spread, let his frailties be viewed as strength. Tonight, you shall rectify this error. Call the town. Bring them before you, and in the dead of night, show them truth.”

The prophet turned and began walking toward the distant forest that outlined the Gihon River.

“Will you not stay?” he asked.

“This is your test,” Velixar said, looking back. “Before the night’s end, I will return. Pray I am pleased with what I find when I do.”

Darius watched him go, and felt relieved when he was gone. For the first time since the dungeon, he was alone. Even when he prayed, he felt Velixar’s presence lingering like an intruder. At least now he could breathe.

“Rectify my error,” he muttered, looking about. “Easier said than done.”

In the deep of night, all would be asleep. Time to wake them up. He took his sword and stabbed it into the dirt before him. Clutching the hilt, he harnessed the power of Karak in one of the few ways he knew how. His voice multiplied in volume, thundering over the town as he gave his call.

“To me!” he cried. “To the center! I am Darius, returned, and my news is grave!”

Three times he let out his cry, until certain everyone would hear and obey. No doubt they felt fearful of another attack by the wolf-men. Let them. What waited by the river was far more dangerous than any wolf.

“Darius?” asked a familiar voice. Of the first to arrive was Jeremy Hangfield, the wealthiest landowner of the village. He wore heavy robes tied with a gray sash. At his side was his daughter Jessie, clutching his hand tight.

“Jeremy,” Darius said, tilting his head in respect. “I’m glad you’ve come. I will need your help in convincing the rest.”

“Convincing them of what?”

Instead of answering, Darius shouted again, urging the villagers to hurry. He beckoned them closer with his arms. As he spun, he took in the faces, former friends, acquaintances. For a moment, he thought there were still many lagging behind, perhaps even sleeping, but then realized the extent of the damage the wolf-men had inflicted. Two-thirds of the town, Jerico had claimed after taking count that horrible night. So many faces he did not see, and his heart ached for their fate. How many had been of his own congregation? Worse, how many had died with their faith clutching a lie?

“I know you all, as you know me,” Darius began. He’d always been comfortable speaking to crowds. He’d even joked with Jerico about it. His faith had given his words a fire the other paladin could not match, but tonight… tonight, he felt timid, quiet. Once he might have spoken, and trusted his words to be heard, but now he shouted as if he feared the sounds of the night would drown him out.

“I am Darius, paladin of our great lord Karak. I come to you with a heavy heart, and a heavier conscience. Many of you once gathered about when I lectured, and to you, I apologize for my absence. This night will be kindest to you, so do not fear what I have to say. To those who knelt with the paladin, Jerico, it is you whom I speak to with greatest urgency.”

“Come inside,” Jeremy said, his voice low. “Tell me first what danger wakes us in the night. Don’t do this here. You look a man feverish and ill.”

“No!” Darius screamed. “I am here because I must be. I have no choice. No choice! The darkness walks this night, and it brings a fire more dangerous than the teeth of wolves. It brings the fires of the Abyss. Forgive me, people of Durham, for my weakness. I let a liar become my friend. I let falsehoods be spoken next to my truths. In cowardice, I did not act, but I must now. Those of you who would worship Ashhur, I tell you: your god is false. What he teaches is lies and delusions, a doctrine made for a different world, not our own. Bend your knee, and swear to Karak. Judgment has come. Do not hesitate. Do not question. Bend the knee!”

Angry murmurs spread through the crowd. Few bowed, and even they seemed upset.

“Enough of this madness,” Jeremy said, grabbing Darius’s arm. “You disturb our rest for this?”

“Get back!”

Darius shoved him aside, and he pulled his greatsword free of the earth. Its fire burned across the blade, but not just the blade. His blackened hand was consumed as well, a dark flame wreathing his exposed skin, burning away the gauntlet.

“If you will not bow, you must leave tonight!” he cried. “No delay. No waiting. For the sake of your very lives, I demand this of you. Durham belongs to Karak now. If you would still live your lives in chaos, then go elsewhere.”

The crowd’s anger increased tenfold.

“This is our home!” they shouted. “Our land!”

Darius looked to them, and in their eyes he saw only fear and confusion. Symptoms of chaos.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said. He pointed his blade at Jeremy. “I once lacked courage. No longer. I will slay all those who neither bow, nor flee. No more words. No more arguments. You all have heard, and know I speak truth.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked a man, pushing to the front of the crowd. Darius recognized him as Jacob Wheatley, a poor farmer. He held a heavy club in hand, just one of many that had come to his gathering armed with simple weaponry. “Wasn’t so long ago you stood here and defended us. You saved us from the wolves, and now you’re telling us to leave?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Darius said.

“Not if we bow. I ain’t bowing, Darius. You saved my life, and I owe you, but nobody forces me to do nothing I don’t like. Karak ain’t my god. If you still say we go, then I might have to use this club here on your thick skull.”

“What are you doing?” Darius asked as Jacob tensed, holding the club before him like a sword. “You’ve seen what I can do. You know I am better than you. What hope do you have?”

“Hope that you’ll learn some damn sense.”

Darius looked to the crowd. Even those that had bowed, their faith loyal to Karak, had stood. Anger trembled in his breast. This was what Velixar wanted, wasn’t it? This was his way, and look what it cost him. The souls he had were gone, and the rest were ready to fight, unknowingly fighting for Ashhur. Or was this another lesson? What would Velixar say when he walked into this unruly mob and saw only enemies? Or would he say anything at all before the bloodshed began?

“I’m saving your lives,” Darius said, his voice dropping. “I’m saving your souls. For that, I will do everything I must. Bend the knee, Jacob, I beg of you.”

Jacob shook his head.

“I won’t,” he said. “You won’t do it. I know you well enough. You won’t.”

A direct challenge. The others were watching, waiting. None had the armor or weaponry to face him, but with their numbers, they had a chance to bury him if they attacked as one. But that would need bravery, and a communal sense of defense. Damn fools. He would not let them have it. He would not be made a liar. His words were his vow. With a single step, he lifted his greatsword and swung. It cleaved through the club as if it were straw. A second step, and he smashed Jacob in the face with the hilt of his sword. The farmer went down, blood gushing from his nose.

Before anyone could move, Darius put the tip of his blade an inch from Jacob’s neck. Even at that distance, the man’s skin started to redden from the heat of the dark fire.

“Enough,” Darius said, glaring at the crowd. “What else must I do to prove myself to you?”

“You won’t,” Jacob said, but his voice quivered.

“I will.”

“But why? You saved me before, Darius. Don’t you remember? Don’t you?”

The wolf-man had been on top off Jacob, its teeth already sunken into flesh. Darius had cut off its neck before it could finish, and then taken Jacob back to town. Jerico had then saved his life, with hands that healed. A look at his own hand, and Darius saw only fire. He’d saved Jacob, and now he was ready to kill him.

Once more he looked to the crowd, and he knew not what to say. These were his charges. These were the people he’d sworn to defend. What was it he’d told Jerico? His path was hard, and he didn’t always enjoy it. But no parent wished to punish their child. No farmer wanted to cull the weak or ill that might bring down the rest of the herd. As he looked, he saw Jessie staring at him, tears in her eyes. Her father looked ready to explode. The town was uniting, and it was in hatred of him.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t hate me. I do what I must.”

What you must? Indeed…

Velixar’s voice floated on the wind, and its sound put a chill into his heart. No time left.

“Go,” he said, taking his sword and stabbing it once more into the dirt. “Forget my words. Forget everything. Your lives are at stake. I am not alone, you fools, now run. RUN!”

The urgency in his voice finally sent them moving. At first they only rushed, and he had little doubt that many intended to bar their homes and wait out the night, along with whatever nameless fear he warned them of. But that wouldn’t last. Already he heard the sound of deep laughter, and in it was such joy. Darius refused to turn. Refused to look. He heard the sound of an explosion, followed by wood raining down upon the ground. Another, and then another. Screams joined it. All the while, he knelt in prayer to Karak, begging for strength. Begging for understanding. Begging for their souls.

At last Darius stood, tears in his eyes.

All around him, Durham burned. People ran for their fields, ran for the forests. Soon they, too, burned, a great wildfire that blotted out the very stars with its heat and smoke. Velixar walked amid the blaze, a dark prophet come bearing judgment. With a wave of his hand, fire spread. With a few words from his lips, lightning struck, blasting apart feeble wooden structures. More screams, cries for help. Darius pulled free his sword, and as he listened to a nearby woman burn alive, he stared at the fire of his blade, the strength of his faith.

It had lessened, but only a little. His heart felt like a bleeding wound, but he clutched to Velixar’s words with whatever strength he had left.

“What this world needs,” he whispered, even as his tears fell. Darkness struck him, and he collapsed to one knee. Blinded, he heard a sudden roar, its power overwhelming. Words echoed in his head, coming from everywhere, and nowhere.

We are what this world needs. The time for choice is over. The time for mankind’s failure is done. We must save them. We must save them all. Order, my beloved paladin. Bring this world Order.

His blindness left him, and feeling coldly detached, he looked up to the smoke-filled sky. Hovering over the village, like a phantom image in the reflection of a pool, he saw the face of a lion. Karak had come to him, and spoken. The honor left him shaken. The words left him numb. Looking around, he saw the town he had once saved, now lost to fire.

“Is this your will?” he whispered. “So be it. My faith is great. The road is narrow, and harsh. Few will walk it, but I will. I will follow your prophet. Forgive my frailty, Karak. Forgive my doubt. I am one man, mortal, and weak. But I will be strong. I will remember. We do this for them. Always for them.”

Faith in Ashhur was like a plague. A single instance could spread. Only one thing would stop it, and at last he knew the prophet’s desire.

Burn the sick branches, Darius thought, fully understanding the gift bestowed upon his blade-upon blades of all paladins sworn to his mighty god.

Burn them with fire.

*

A knocking stirred Jerico from his uneasy sleep. Before he could sit up, Kaide was already at the door, weapon in hand. He put his fingers to his lips, and then motioned for Jerico to answer. The paladin did so, cracking the door enough to let in the light of a candle held by a servant.

“Milord wishes an audience with you,” he said.

“Me?” Jerico asked, still groggy. “Now?”

“Most apologies for disturbing your rest, but yes, I must insist. Dress if you’d like, but do not worry about formality.”

Jerico shut the door and gave Kaide a confused look.

“Formality?”

“It’d be a strange trap, and for little reason,” Kaide said with a shrug. “I’d go, but just in case, bring your mace.”

“I’d rather bring my shield.”

The bandit shrugged.

“Whatever. I’m going back to bed.”

Jerico flung his shield on his back, clipped his mace to his belt, and then exited the room. The servant gave him a funny look, and when he saw the mace, he frowned.

“No weapons,” he said.

“I am no threat to your lord,” Jerico said. “If you wish, you may ask him.”

This didn’t seem to appease the wiry servant much, but he gestured for the man to follow. They wound their way through the halls of the castle, which felt more like interlocking caves than hallways. After many turns, they came upon an area of the castle in the open air. Arthur sat on a bench carved of stone, staring at the moon.

“Milord,” said the servant, “the paladin wishes to keep his shield and mace. What say you?”

“Fearing assassins?” Arthur said, and he chuckled. He was in his bedrobes, and he gestured to his flimsy attire. “I assure you, I am little threat.”

“It is not you I fear,” Jerico said, “nor your men. The world is no longer safe to my kind, no matter where I go, but if you insist I will return to my room and lay down my arms.”

Arthur waved him off.

“Come. Sit with me in the moonlight.”

Jerico did, still unsure of the reason for their meeting. The bench was long, and surprisingly comfortable. The air was chill, for no torches burned nearby lest they obscured the stars. Jerico crossed his arms to keep in his heat.

“Sleep refuses to find me,” Arthur said, his head leaned back so he could gaze at the sky. “And if I cannot sleep, then the petty part of me refuses to let others. I could use a man to talk to, Jerico. Someone honest. They say that paladins of Ashhur are incapable of lies, that your god would strike you dead for even the lightest fib. What say you to that?”

“I’d say you repeat children’s stories. I speak truth by choice, Arthur, not by fear of lightning bolts from the sky.”

Arthur chuckled.

“It must be grand to have all your answers given to you. To the Abyss with politics and fiefdoms. What Ashhur says, you do. You’re not much different than any of my knights, are you?”

This time it was Jerico’s turn to chuckle.

“If Ashhur gave me orders in the same way you order your knights, perhaps it would be so easy. But even if he did, it would not truly make a difference. If you ordered your knights to abandon their families, and march to their deaths, how many would do so?”

“All of the good ones.”

“And how many is that?”

Arthur’s smile widened.

“Not nearly enough. But what of you? How much would you sacrifice?”

“All that I have,” said Jerico.

“Hrmph. Easy to say, of course. Middle of the night, everything’s calm, and every foe is a hundred miles away. But what do you do when confronted with such a terrible choice? What do you do when honor tells you one thing, and your gut tells you another?”

Jerico shifted, and he turned his attention from the stars to the troubled lord.

“What bothers you?” he asked.

Arthur sighed.

“You and your friend come to me demanding action, as if it is that simple. You’re simple people, of course, a paladin who worries only of his god and a bandit who thinks only of his vengeance. I have no god. I seek no vengeance. I must do what I think is right, not just for me, but for the people of my lands.”

“Well,” Jerico said, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “You dragged me out here to talk, so let’s talk. Help a simple man out. Either that, or let me go back to bed. I’ll kick Kaide out here to tell you a few stories.”

“Kaide bores me,” Arthur said, motioning for a servant to bring him something to eat. A young woman appeared, blonde-haired, carrying a tray of sliced fruits. Arthur took a plate, and told Jerico to take what he liked. The paladin grabbed half an apple and began absent-mindedly chewing it.

“Kaide is… he’s like a rabid dog at times,” Arthur said, eating a handful of grapes. “He’d tell me to send every soldier I had rushing the gates of my brother’s castle, to the Abyss with whether or not we’d win. He’d slit my throat in a heartbeat if it got him to Sebastian. Advice from him is pointless. I know what he wants, and what he’ll say. But you… To be honest, paladin, I haven’t a clue why you’re with him. It sounds like the makings of a very bad joke.”

“A bandit and a paladin, into a tavern they go,” Jerico said, and he laughed. “And your guess is as good as mine what the next line might be. I help because I feel I should. Kaide might be willing to go too far for what he wants, but at least his cause is just. Your brother’s actions against him… there is no excuse for murder and bloodshed done in the name of greed.”

“Greed is a tricky thing,” Arthur said. “Might not greed guide my own actions here? What if I care not for righting my family’s wrongs? What if I want power, and will use a misguided, homeless bandit to further my ends?”

“If you have that fear, Arthur, then you are most certainly not that kind of man.”

Arthur scratched at his beard.

“I forfeited my right to my father’s holdings. Honor would say I keep to what I did years ago. What Sebastian has done… it is foul, yes, but is war any better? He’s killed a few, but hundreds will die if I muster my men, and the peasant folk, to fight for me.”

He sighed and fell silent. Jerico gave him time to think, but when it seemed apparent he would not continue, he prodded him with another question.

“Why did you forfeit your right as firstborn?” he asked. “Whatever you speak stays with me, and you may refuse if you wish. I only ask so that I may help, if I can.”

Arthur tossed the rest of his grapes to the floor, and he rubbed his eyes.

“I lose more sleep over that than anything else, paladin. My father was getting old, and his mind was failing him. I pray you never endure anything similar. A cruel fate, watching a proud, intelligent man torn down piece by piece, until nothing is left but a child. There were times he was still himself, but mostly… Anyway, I talked with a servant I trusted, and procured a simple poison. It would only make him sleep for a few days, that is all, but I hoped that during that time I could take control of my birthright. But I was caught, turned in by that very same servant. My father would hear no reason, for never did he believe his mind was breaking.”

Outwardly, Arthur remained calm, as if his face were that of a statue instead of a living man. His voice kept steady. But his eyes were watering, and he made no pretence at hiding it when he wiped them.

“He went to his grave thinking I had tried to kill him, all because I didn’t want to wait the few months it would take for him to grow bedridden. The way he would look at me… so angry, so confused. He was like a child even then, a child betrayed. Father almost ordered me hanged, but Sebastian intervened. If I would only return to my private lands, and relinquish any claims to my inheritance…”

He looked to Jerico, as if surprised he’d said as much as he had.

“I lost much because I tried to take what was not yet my own. Sebastian rules. The land is not mine. Should I spill so much blood for a few farmers and outlaws?”

Jerico crossed and uncrossed his arms, trying to think through his tired, hazy mind.

“I think… I think I could use a drink,” he said.

“A sound plan.”

Arthur gestured, and the blonde serving girl returned, this time holding a tray with two cups and a steel pitcher. Jerico accepted a cup, and he squinted at the liquid the girl poured into Arthur’s.

“Do you not drink wine?” the lord asked.

“Water, please,” Jerico said, putting the cup back on the tray. The girl smiled at him, but something about her look prickled the hairs on his neck. It wasn’t that she seemed frustrated or angry. No, her face remained absolutely, perfectly controlled, if not pleasant. Like glass. Impressive for a servant girl forced awake to attend her lord halfway through the night…

“Wait,” Jerico said, grabbing Arthur’s cup with one hand, and the girl’s wrist with the other.

“I’ve change my mind,” he said. “Please, drink with me, Arthur.”

“Of course,” said the serving girl, smiling sweetly at him.

Jerico accepted his cup, and once it was poured, he lifted it to his lips. Immediately he felt the warning of Ashhur sound in his mind. He looked to the girl, who stood perfectly still, as if waiting for her dismissal.

“Arthur,” he said, lowering the cup. “Can you please tell me her name?”

“Her, why that’s… step into the starlight, girl, I can’t see you well enough without.”

As the moonlight fell upon her beautiful features, Arthur’s face hardened, and that look alone told Jerico that she was a stranger.

“Don’t run,” Jerico started to say when she pivoted, smacking him across the head with the metal tray. He rolled with the blow, desperate to remain beside Arthur. Upon hitting the ground he spun, kicking his leg out. The girl leapt, and his leg smacked against the hard stone of the bench. He screamed.

“How dare you!” Arthur roared. “Guards!”

Guards wouldn’t be there in time, Jerico knew. Her hand shot out, chopping Arthur’s throat. His cry for guards choked down, and blood dripped from his lips. The tray clattered to the ground as she drew a dagger, but Jerico would not allow it. Shield pulled free, he lunged, flinging himself in the way. The dagger clanged against it, and the assassin cried out from the pain of contact.

“Do not interfere, paladin,” the woman said, taking a step back.

Jerico readied his mace and kept his shield high. He watched her, waiting. Every muscle in her body tensed. Time was not on her side. She couldn’t dance about, nor try to misdirect. Her target was Arthur, and so long as Jerico lived, he would stand in the way.

She shifted her weight twice, twisting her extended foot in a way to feint one direction, then leap the other. Jerico nearly fell for it, but at the last moment flung his mace in the way. It struck across her shoulder, and he heard the snap of bone. Despite this, she did not scream, nor stop. A dagger in her other hand, she thrust for Arthur’s throat.

Arthur caught her wrist with both hands and wrenched her arm. As she twisted, he kicked out, snapping his heel against her knee. When she crumpled, he kicked again, this time the arm Jerico had wounded. Jerico stepped between them, again ready with his shield, but Arthur pushed him out of the way. As the assassin tried to stand, he smashed his fists into her head.

“I am no fat lord for you to stick like a pig,” he said as he kicked her stomach, blasting a cry of pain from her lips. “In my own home, you come with poison and blade? You’ll hang, woman, hang!”

She rolled over, her dagger pressed against her own throat.

“Hang a corpse, then,” she said before slicing.

Her face contorted in pain as the life left her eyes. Jerico stepped back as the guards arrived, forming a protective circle about their lord. Arthur pushed them aside, and he clapped Jerico across the back.

“I owe you my life,” he said. “Any boon, name it, and it’s yours.”

Jerico looked to the corpse, then shook his head.

“I will name no boon. Just let me return to rest. All I ask of you is that you do what you think is right concerning your brother.”

Arthur nodded, and he pointed to the dead woman’s body.

“I have lived these past years fearful of an assassin,” he said. “But never did I think Sebastian would actually do it. I always doubted. No longer. He wants my head? Then I’ll take his. He wants poison in my veins? Then I’ll bleed his out on the field of battle. Go rest, paladin, and worry no more. My decision is already made.”

Jerico glanced once more at the woman, absently wondering of her name.