Night of Wolves

4

Despite the respect his men showed him, despite the importance lauded on him by the nearby villages, Sir Robert Godley knew his position was an insult, the best King Marcus Baedan could think of for one of his station.

“The seer says this winter will be a harsh one,” said one of his lieutenants and closest friends, a slender man named Daniel Coldmine.

“Who, that old crone in Dunbree?” asked Robert, staring out the window of the great tower overlooking the Gihon. “She also said I’d fall for a lovely lass come my fortieth birthday, but she’d only betray me. Been a decade past that, and still no lass.”

“Maybe she meant King Baedan,” Daniel said, joining him at the window, a smug grin on his face. Robert chuckled. Perhaps Daniel was right. He looked down at his portly body, remembering a time when it had been all muscle, his heavy fingers calloused from the daily wear of his sword’s hilt. But that had been before the disastrous defeat at the hands of the elves years before. They’d chased their kind out of Mordan for good, but at the southern bridge leading to Ker, the elves had sent their greatest to make their stand. The magic they’d wielded was immense, godlike powers he still saw in his nightmares. Boulders of ice the size of houses had crashed through his ranks, and fire had rained from the sky, each piece of burning hail bigger than his fist.

“Baedan’s no lass,” Robert said. “He’s just a spineless bigot, Karak curse his name.”

Daniel pointed to where smoke burned in the far distance inside the Wedge.

“A hunting party, perhaps?” he asked. “Orcs? Or have the hyena-men finally learned how to make fire?”

“No matter,” said Robert. “It’s too far away. I won’t lead what few men I have in a hopeless chase of distant smoke.”

“There was a time when we would have ridden across those dead plains on a hundred horses,” Daniel said, a wistful look coming over his face. “The damned creatures feared the very sight of the Gihon, our boats and our towers. What happened?”

Robert turned away from the window and leaned against the stone. Closing his eyes, he sighed. During that disastrous attack against the elves, he’d pulled back his men, refusing to continue. They’d lost thousands trying to kill a mere ten. There would be no victory, no revenge. The fight had lasted another six hours, and when Marcus heard of his retreat, he blamed him for the deaths, as if his cowardice had allowed the elves to endure as long as they did. But Robert was also the hero of Dezerea, and it was his strategy that had burned the elven capital to the ground. Unable to punish him how he wished, instead Marcus had sent him to the wall of towers.

Year after year, the king had denied requests for supplies and soldiers. Their boats grew worse, their weaponry chipped and dull no matter how often they polished and shined it. They’d been forced to beg donations from the nearby villages, for Baedan’s coin was not enough to feed them all. Their role in patrolling the river, protecting the lands from the various creatures of the Vile Wedge, ensured the local populace aided them whenever they could. Robert’s muscular body had thickened as the tedious years rolled on. His calluses had vanished, his black hair grown long and gray, and his finely honed reflexes had faded away into the dusty corners of his mind.

“You want to know what happened?” Robert asked. “I was put in charge. That’s what happened. Marcus will bleed us with the patience of a spider, until at last we are so weak something gets through. He doesn’t care how many die, so long as he can strip me of my title and exile me in shame.”

Daniel grew quiet, and he looked to the distant smoke with new worry.

“We’re not so thin,” he said. “We can stop whatever those savages send at us.”

“Here, perhaps,” said Robert. They were within his study, and he walked across the room and gestured to a map of northern Mordan. Drawn in exquisite detail were the towers placed alongside the Gihon at thirty to forty mile intervals. The distance grew the closer they came to the Citadel, for the paladins aided them in guarding the lower section of the Gihon, where it met the Rigon, forming the lower V part of the wedge. Robert gestured to the various towers, all named after the colors they were drawn in.

“Tower Red and Silver are at a tenth of their full capacity,” he said, pointing at the two nearest to theirs. “Green is down to a single horse, and I have none left to send. The best I can hope for is a wealthy farmer donating one to us. Gold’s foundation is cracking, and no matter how often I request a mason from Mordeina, Marcus only responds with vague promises. At the far end, Violet is all but unmanned, the paladins of Ashhur graciously patrolling its waters for us. Most of our troops lack training, don’t try to deny it. We’re a rotting fence penning in a herd of bulls. One of these days those bulls will realize it, turn their horns our way, and smash through.”

“What of the Blood Tower?” asked Daniel. “How are things there?”

Robert forced himself to smile. Blood Tower was his, the base of command for the entire wall.

“Blood has the finest soldiers Mordan could hope for,” he said. “And I hear they won’t quit no matter how terrible their situation becomes, and never will they let the creatures cross the Gihon.”

“That’s what I thought,” Daniel said.

Someone knocked at the door, and Robert ordered them in. A younger lad, an orphan volunteered into their service from a nearby village, stepped inside, bowed his head, and offered a small scroll. Robert took it and dismissed him.

“More promises and gifts from Mordeina?” asked Daniel, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“No,” said Robert, furrowing his brow. “It’s from Durham.”

“Durham?”

Robert pointed on the map. It was an unnamed dot in the lengthy space between towers Bronze and Gold, not far from the river.

“Says wolf-men have been crossing the Gihon. Damn fools, they even went into the Wedge to try stopping them. They killed six, but say at least four remain. Now they want our help in case there’s more.”

“Sounds like they’re capable of handling this themselves,” Daniel said.

Robert handed him the scroll so he could read for himself.

“They went into the Wedge and found monsters,” Robert said, returning to the window. “Nothing surprising about that. It says only a single wolf-man actually entered their village, and it was slain. Starvation probably drove it across.”

“It’s far from either tower,” Daniel said, glancing back at the map. “I guess our boats don’t go there except maybe once a month. Still, worrisome that there’d be so many bunched together.”

“They’re probably lying about the numbers they found, just to get us to help them.”

“I doubt that. It’s signed by two paladins. Shit, one’s Ashhur, and one’s for Karak.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. He yanked the scroll out of Daniel’s hand and scanned the bottom.

“Tan my hide,” he said. “You’re right.”

“If something can get a paladin of both gods to agree, I’d say it’s serious.”

“Damn it. Two paladins, and they can’t defend themselves?”

“Those two might be the only reason they killed the ones they did,” Daniel pointed out.

“Fine. If you’re so overcome with boredom, take a squad and go. It might do some good to instill a bit more faith in us. And give Sir Lars an earful when you pass through Bronze. That’s his stretch he’s supposed to be guarding, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

Daniel struck his breast with his fist and bowed.

“I’ll tell you of all my legendary conquests when I return,” he said, grinning.

“You’re not much younger than I,” Robert said, laughing. “I’ll be impressed if you even get blood on your sword.”

“Perhaps not younger, but I’m not as fat, either,” Daniel said, ducking out the door before Robert could respond with the rightful blow to the head he deserved.

T he week passed, and the people of Durham moved on best they could given their losses. No wolf-men crossed the river. Jerico and Darius resumed giving their respective sermons, though Jerico noticed his numbers had grown by fifteen or so, while Darius’s dwindled. No doubt many still bore grudges at his pain-fueled condemnation of Bobby’s fate. All the while, they waited for the message they’d sent upriver by way of tower Gold to be received, and the response to be given.

On the eighth day, as Jerico toiled in the field, he saw a man in silver armor approach from the distance. Straightening up, he stretched his arms and waited.

“Jerico?” asked the man as he arrived. He was older, with a white, well-trimmed beard. His small eyes looked Jerico up and down. “Or perhaps I am mistaken?”

“I am he,” Jerico said, offering his hand.

“Strange to see you half-naked and working a field.”

Jerico chuckled. “On days with nothing to preach, I like to help with what I can. It is the least I can do for what they’ve given me.”

“You bring them truth and salvation. The least they could do is feed you and give you a roof over your head,” said the man.

“Might I have your name?” Jerico asked, the man seeming familiar, but only a little.

“I am Pallos. I’ve come from the Citadel to observe your progress.”

Jerico laughed. “Well, I’ve done about a quarter of this field, and should have another quarter done by sundown…”

Pallos’s glare showed that he was not amused.

“Right. Sorry. I’m actually glad you’re here. Let me go tell Jeremy he’ll need to send someone over here to replace me, and then we can return to the village.”

“I’ll be waiting,” said Pallos, saluting with a mailed fist. As he walked away, Jerico wondered just how far Pallos had his sword shoved up his ass. Of course, such thoughts were hardly worthy of a paladin, but as he hurried to where Jeremy overlooked the rest of his workers, he figured that Ashhur might not only forgive him, but probably agree over the matter.

Pallos sat in the shade of a tree not far from the village square, drinking from a waterskin. Jerico joined him, having taken a quick detour to his room to throw on a shirt. It felt grand while out in the field working, but once at rest, his body slick with sweat, the air turned uncomfortably chill.

“I hope you had a pleasant ride here,” Jerico said, sitting down beside his superior.

“Pleasant enough, though I must apologize for my mood. I have lost a dear friend; we all have. That is why I have come.”

“Who?” asked Jerico.

Pallos leaned his weight against the tree, and he looked rather uncomfortable about the whole matter. His eyes watered, but the man’s self-control was too great for such displays of emotion.

“Mornida died of a sickness. Sorollos has replaced him as High Paladin. I’ve been traveling north informing all of our men in the field.”

Jerico crossed his arms and frowned.

“A good man,” he said. “Though I doubt I knew him as well as you. But we are strong, and will endure the loss.”

“Sorollos is a young man, but his faith is great. Still, I miss Mornida’s leadership. But enough of that. He is with Ashhur now, and we have worldly matters to discuss. I spoke with many villagers before coming to you, Jerico, and what I heard distresses me greatly.”

Jerico knew where this was headed, but he asked anyway.

“About what?”

“Your friendship with a paladin of Karak. What is his name, Darius?”

His mouth felt dry when he responded. “Yes.”

“We knew he was here when I positioned you in Durham. You were to counter his doctrine and free the villagers from his lies. Instead I hear of you befriending him, even spacing out your sermons so the people here may attend both.”

“I thought it best to let them hear both our doctrines, and let them see the truth of Ashhur’s wisdom by comparison.”

“Serving Ashhur is a choice, Jerico.” Pallos frowned at him, and Jerico felt like he was back at the Citadel, being reprimanded for a wrong answer. “People cannot serve both Karak and Ashhur, and it is foolish to give them the chance to do so here. Karak’s darkness will not be defeated in such a way. You do not stop the charging bull with flowers. You kill it with a sword.”

“Darius is a good man, Pallos. He worries about this village as much as I.”

“Good man or not, he serves a lie, and in his ignorance, he will damn the people here. Challenge him. Watch your friendship crumble when you stop acting as if his beliefs are worth hearing.”

Pallos looked at him, honest sadness in his eyes.

“He serves Karak, and come a time, Karak will call him to betray you. That is when you will see your worth to him.”

Jerico turned away and refused to acknowledge him. The silence dragged on, awkward and uncomfortable. At last, Pallos put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

“Do not be mad with me, Jerico. I am old, and have seen the evil this world fosters. I only say this because I fear the hurt that will befall you. But let us talk on other things. Your shield…is it still your beacon? I would very much like to see it.”

Jerico welcomed the excuse to leave his presence, if only for a little while. He seethed at such condemnation of someone like Darius. Sure, the man had his faults, but didn’t everyone? But he’d been there beside him, bleeding and fighting for the safety of the village. He called the men to be strong, the women to be faithful, for all to follow laws that, while strict, often seemed fair. They were both young, and they understood the trials each of them endured, and what it meant to stand before a crowd and speak from the heart on matters of faith. Betray him? Never.

In his room he retrieved his mace and shield and carried them back to Pallos.

“Incredible,” said Pallos as Jerico held the shield aloft. The blue-white glow swirled over it, not as strong as it’d been on the night fighting the wolf-men, but nothing he would be ashamed of, either.

“And your mace?” he asked.

Jerico held it closer, so he could see it held no glow, no power. Pallos drew his sword, its blade swirling with the light of Ashhur, showing the strength of his faith.

“When I first heard of this during your training, I didn’t believe it,” Pallos said, sheathing his sword. “Even coming here, I thought it would have faded over to your mace. Ashhur has granted you a strange gift, Jerico. Never have any of us encountered a paladin’s shield becoming his beacon of faith over his weapon. I hope you study it closely to learn its reasons, its limits.”

Jerico set the shield down by the tree.

“It’s a big hunk of metal that glows. I think I understand it well enough.”

Pallos shook his head.

“You should show more reverence to the gifts of Ashhur. The people here study the way you speak, the way you act. You are an example to them, and if you show such callousness toward the miracles of our god, then you will instill them with the same.”

Jerico felt his neck flush.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Come now, I am no teacher, and you no wet-nosed pupil. You are a good man, and I expect greatness out of you. I would not have sent you here if I did not. There are a hundred villages, all needing to hear the word of our god. But Ashhur expects something special from you. I only pray you are prepared for it.”

Pallos stood, and he brushed the dirt from his armor.

“I must be going,” he said. “There are others who must learn of Mornida’s death.”

Before he could go, Jerico stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. “You see, I…”

“What is it?” Pallos asked.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he said. “The same one, really, and it comes with greater frequency.”

The old paladin tilted his head. “Well, tell me, and perhaps I can interpret.”

“I see the Citadel. The lower walls are cracking, and then the surrounding field bursts with fire. It’s raining, but instead of water, bones fall. I hear a sound, like the roar of a beast, and then I awake.”

Pallos looked troubled by what he heard.

“Perhaps you dreamt of Mornida’s death,” he said. “It is always a troublesome time when our leader falls.”

“Are you sure?”

Pallos gestured to the distance. On the other side of the square, Darius was gathering men and women for another sermon.

“Perhaps it is Ashhur warning you of his presence. The Citadel is strong as ever. But to be in the company of a dark paladin…you must expect some of his shadow to fall upon you. Stay safe, Jerico. I hope to see you on my return.”

Jerico watched him go as Darius’s speech grew louder and filled with fire. He listened for a little while, then went back to the field. More than anything, he wanted the monotony so he might think over what he’d heard, as well as calm the turmoil growing in his breast. It was only an hour later that he realized he’d not once mentioned the wolf-men that had attacked their village.