The Death of Promises

8

A t long last the Sanctuary appeared in view. Lathaar smiled, relieved at its sight. Curled in his lap lay Mira, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs tilted to one side as she slipped in and out of dreams. He had done much to heal her wounds, but Krieger had left scars all across her body, and he dared not try to heal her mouth and tongue. The clerics excelled at healing. He would leave such miracles to them.

“We’re here,” he said to Mira even though she slept. “Praise Ashhur, we’re finally here.”

His joy faded as the Sanctuary grew closer. He could see the shattered remnants of the front door, and in his heart he knew who had come.

“Damn you, Qurrah,” he said, spurring his horse on. “Damn you to the Abyss.”

Jerico sat beside the door with his mace and shield at his side. He wore no armor. A long red scar ran from his ear to his chin. When he saw the two approach he waved and got to his feet.

“About bloody time,” Jerico shouted to the approaching couple. “I hope you had fun, because I had a…”

He stopped when he saw Mira’s wounds.

“What happened,” he asked, grabbing the reins of Lathaar’s horse.

“Take her,” Lathaar said, shifting the girl off his lap and holding her. Jerico reached out and accepted her frail form, his mouth locked in a frown as he scanned her wounds. Her lips were scabbed and bloody. Cuts lined her face and neck. Her fingers were swollen and red. All about her dress were torn holes in the fabric, and at each one was a fading wound. As he examined her, he fought a shudder at how similar she appeared to the girl who had scarred his face.

“By Ashhur, what happened to her,” he whispered.

“Inside,” he said. “Find Keziel. I’ll explain once she’s been healed.”

“I’m already here,” the priest said, emerging from the building. “And I think we both have stories to tell. We had a visitor, Lathaar.”

“The spellbook,” Lathaar said. “Tell me, was it taken?”

Jerico glanced at Mira’s wounded face, unable to meet the other paladin’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “It was taken.”

Lathaar shook with anger.

“Who…how…damn it all!” He slammed his fist against the Sanctuary. Jerico put the girl down on the grass and let Keziel kneel beside her, healing magic already glowing on his hands.

“Watch your anger and your tongue,” Jerico said. “Now tell me who did this, and then I will tell you who came for the book.”

Lathaar told him of how he had found Krieger, and then of their battle. He skipped nothing. When he finished, Jerico smacked him across the shoulder.

“He sounds a lot tougher than most dark paladins,” he said. “Don’t worry. Mira’s still alive, and that’s what matters. As for your book, well…”

He glanced at Mira and pointed.

“Two nights ago, her twin showed up with a necromancer dressed in black. They attacked while we slept. I held them off, at least until most of the clerics could escape in the back. You think you did poorly in your fight?” He pointed to the scar across his face. “I passed out mere feet away from where the priests hid. One of them did this to me as I lay there, but did not kill me. Looks like it hasn’t been a good few days for either of us.”

“Amen to that.”

The two stopped their discussion and looked to Keziel, whose back popped several times as he stood.

“She’ll be fine,” the cleric said. “She’s already healed a remarkable amount, no doubt thanks to Celestia’s power. Give her a day or two and I wouldn’t be surprised if even the scars are gone.”

“What’s the plan?” Jerico asked. “We going to give chase?”

“Not yet,” Lathaar said. “I need to keep a promise and return to Veldaren. Once Mira’s better we’ll begin. You in?”

“Course I am,” Jerico said. “I think Ashhur gave us a solid lesson on the need to stick together.”

“Amusing,” Keziel said, “Now help me bring her inside, unless you think she should sleep on the grass in the dead of winter?”

“Lathaar, how could you!” Jerico said, faking shock and indignation. Lathaar rolled his eyes, picked up the girl, and carried her into the Sanctuary as all the while Jerico tried to laugh away the worry that squirmed in his gut.

O n the western bank of the Rigon river, just before it emptied into the Thulon Ocean, stood Karak’s counter to the Citadel. It was the Stronghold, a giant black tower with four obsidian lions guarding its corners. While Lathaar and Jerico waited for Mira to heal, Krieger rode night and day until he arrived at his refuge in the chaotic world of Dezrel. The sun was high in the sky, and the young apprentice watching the door threw open the gates and knelt in respect as the dark paladin arrived home.

“The Stronghold welcomes you,” the apprentice said, his head bowed. Normally he would have offered to stable Krieger’s horse, but he had seen before the magical properties of Demonwail and would not be made a fool.

“Where is Carden?” Krieger asked.

“The brethren are assembled for his sermon,” the apprentice said. “It is the sixth day.”

“Then he is in his study. The true god be with you.”

“You as well.”

Krieger marched inside as the great doors slammed shut behind him.

The first room of the Stronghold was designed with invasion in mind. All about the door were perches for higher ground, angled so that a trio of men with spears could hold off wave after wave of intruders. Farther back was a single barrier with four crossbows bolted across the top. Spikes protruded out of the barrier toward the door, so any charging the crossbowmen would impale themselves on the spikes first. The floor sloped downward so that if any went around they would find themselves still on lower ground.

Behind all the defenses was a large staircase leading both up and down. Krieger rubbed one of the spikes as he past the barrier, a habit from when he was a young apprentice. A thief had had the audacity, or more likely insanity, to try to rob the Stronghold. Krieger had caught him, and at the age of nine took his first life by slamming the thief against the spikes while he crept in the dark. Ever since, he had touched the spikes to remember the blood that had flown from them, and the initial thrill of watching another die at his own hands.

The second floor was more ornately decorated. Gold weavings covered the walls, showing ancient battles between Karak and the followers of Ashhur. Each wall had a marvelous lion, shining gold with bared teeth made of silver. What wasn’t gold or silver was red, from the floor to the ceiling. Krieger loved the room. The ‘gentle persuasion,’ the dark paladins called it. Royalty and dignitaries were brought there to see the wealth and wisdom of Karak. If that failed, then they were taken to the ‘hard persuasion,’ which was beneath the first floor. Much as he loved the gold and red, the blood that bathed the floor of that other room always made Krieger smile.

Beyond that were rooms for sleeping, storage, and training. The dark paladin kept climbing, for he could hear the rough chants of his brethren. Every sixth day those at the Stronghold gathered for worship of their deity and to hear a sermon by the High Enforcer. The dark paladins were deep within the chant of loyalty. After that was the chant of obedience, and then the sermon.

On the sixth floor he joined his armored brothers in Karak. They knelt before a giant stage covered with a crimson curtain. There were no chairs, just wood floor, the stone walls, and the stage. To Krieger’s right was a small door. He knocked twice, then entered. Inside was a gray-haired man dressed in polished black armor. A painted lion skull covered his chest, made deep crimson by the blood of his enemies. The man held his helmet in his hands, an ugly thing with the horns of a goat curling around the sides. The High Enforcer stood to greet his visitor.

“Welcome back, Krieger,” Carden said, clasping the man’s hand and shaking it. His voice was deep and old. It was a voice to be respected if not feared. “It is good to see you safe and well.”

“Forgive me for not joining the chants,” Krieger said, “but I bring matters that cannot wait.”

“We have time,” Carden said, sitting back down in his carved chair.

“I have spoken with the eternal prophet,” the dark paladin said. “Darakken’s spellbook is in the hands of his chosen apprentice. As we speak, they march toward Veldaren. The time has come, Carden. Ashhur’s city will soon be burned to the ground.”

“Karak be praised,” Carden said, a great smile lighting up his face. “I prayed it would be within my lifetime that Veldaren fell, and at last Velixar is ready for it to come to pass.”

“There is one problem,” Krieger said. “Lathaar rides to stop them, and he is not alone. Another paladin has escaped our purging, one by the name of Jerico. I want their blood decorating my armor when we march victoriously through Veldaren’s gates.”

“We can send all our forces to guard the Gods’ Bridges,” Carden said. “Should they try to cross, we will slaughter them.”

“No,” said Krieger. “Give me ten of my brothers and we will kill them ourselves. Lathaar is mine. I shall have the privilege of slaying him.”

“And it is you that let him live,” Carden said as he stood from his chair. Though he stood a foot shorter, he still seemed a larger presence in the confined room. “In your pride you sought an equal fight. The death of all paladins proves Karak’s greatness, Krieger, not your own physical prowess. The balance tilts in our favor because we are the stronger. It is Karak about to escape his prison, not Ashhur!”

Krieger knelt to one knee, feeling his face flush with blood.

“Forgive me, High Enforcer. I thought he was the last of his kind, and I underestimated the danger.”

Carden waved him off.

“And now he is with another. The paladins of Ashhur were a worthy adversary, Krieger. You have not seen them in battle as I have. I remember this Jerico, an oddity with a shield blessed by Ashhur. We cannot let them continue to live just to satiate your pride.” The old man collapsed in his chair and leaned back. An amused look came over his face, and his eyes twinkled.

“I have spoken with Pelarak,” he said. “They’ve begun daily sacrifices to strengthen Karak’s followers. A cloud of fear encircles the city. So soon, so very soon…”

The chant of obedience began to echo through the walls. Just three words, but they were spoken with power and conviction by all in attendance, over and over in perfect synchronization. I will obey. I will obey. I will obey.

“Do you hear them?” Carden asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“They seek a leader,” the old man said. “Their faith is strong, but many are young. A guide, that is what they need. A strong believer whose skill is unmatched.”

Carden motioned to the door behind him that led to the stage.

“Give them your orders,” the High Enforcer said. “Lead us to Karak’s freedom.”

“I will not disappoint,” Krieger said, bowing deeply. He walked to the door, strangely proud of his damaged armor and wounded back. He bore signs of battle, and that was what mattered. As his hand wrapped around the handle, Carden called out his name.

“Krieger,” he said. “Make sure it is the will of Karak, and not your pride, that guides you now.”

The dark paladin did not reply. He opened the door and stepped onto the stage as the final chant ended. Thirty men, all dressed in gleaming black armor, knelt facing him. Krieger looked at each face as a heavy silence overtook the room. Some were young, brimming with faith bordering fanatical. Others were older than he, heavily scarred and bitter to the world. But a few stared at him with excitement twinkling in their eyes. They were the strong, the intelligent. They knew what Krieger’s ascension to the stage meant.

“I have fought a paladin of Ashhur,” Krieger said, his voice shattering the silence. “And still he lives. That is the nature of our enemy. Wounded, yes, bleeding yes, but still he lives. Another has joined him. Lathaar and Jerico, paladins of the Citadel. Their survival blasphemes against Karak. Their very breath insults our dark god.”

As he talked he walked about the stage, shifting side to side so that the gruesome wounds on his back could be clearly seen. His voice grew louder, and his speech, faster.

“When the Citadel fell, we thought our victory complete. We have purged many, but the true faith is not restored. Not until Karak walks among us again can we say our purpose has been fulfilled! And he will! His prophet approaches Veldaren, and at long last our god’s freedom is assured. But the paladins…”

He drew his sword and held it before him, letting all see the great black fire that surrounded his blade. Only Carden could claim a stronger flame.

“The paladins give chase! They travel with a witch of Celestia, the goddess who imprisoned our mighty god.”

Krieger saw hatred growing among his audience. Good, he thought. Anger was very good. He pointed to the front row, where the youngest dark paladins knelt.

“You seven will be given chance to prove your faith to Karak,” he said, pointing at each and every one of them. “You march for the Gods’ Bridges. The paladins are wounded, as is their whore. When they arrive, show them your faith.”

He spread his arms wide, waving to the rest.

“As for us… Veldaren will burn! Our time for war has come at last. We will march through the gates and join our priests of Karak as we cloud the city in fear and bathe it with blood. We will fight as the prophet sunders this world, and at long last victory becomes ours!”

The dark paladins drew their swords and held them high. The room darkened as the black flame flared from blade and axe. “For Karak!” they shouted. “For Karak! For Karak!”

Krieger beamed, the shouts causing the hairs on his neck to stand and a tight shiver to crawl up his spine.

“Arm yourselves,” he shouted. “And prepare your provisions. Time is our foe.”

“And every foe must be beaten,” Carden said, joining him on stage. He strutted out with familiarity and an aura that made all in his presence bow.

“Krieger is the new High Enforcer of the Stronghold,” the old man said, his deep voice losing no strength from age. “You will follow his commands, for they are the words of Karak himself. Now rise! Make ready! The time for war is now.”

The dark paladins cheered his name and clanged together their weapons. As they left to prepare, the old man turned to Krieger and smiled.

“A sufficient speech,” he told him. “Though your energy and conviction made up for your lack of grace.”

“It is how I fight,” Krieger said as he sheathed his sword. “And it is how I speak. Will you come with us?”

“My bones are old but my faith is still strong,” he said. As if to prove his point he drew his own sword and plunged it two inches into the stage.

“Veldaren will crumble like a house of straw,” Krieger said.

Carden tore his sword free and held it high.

“And we will be the fire that consumes it as it falls.”

M ira had no horse of her own, but she was light and Lathaar’s horse bore her weight with ease. She sat in front, his arm around her waist to hold her steady. Jerico rode several paces ahead, scanning the horizon for any sign of Qurrah and his book. They had been riding for several days, and after the fifth Lathaar finally told her everything Keziel knew about the daughters of balance. She said little, mostly listening. During their ride the next morning she finally spoke.

“Are you sure what he says is true,” she asked. “About what I am?”

“I find no reason to doubt him,” Lathaar said.

Mira leaned against his chest, closed her eyes, and then tilted her head so it rest sideways against his armor.

“Killing Darakken was my purpose, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“We don’t know that.”

“And if I do have another purpose, what if…”

She said no more. Lathaar stroked her hair with his free hand. After twenty minutes of silence, she spoke again.

“I’ve had dreams,” she said. “Good dreams. Peaceful dreams. And in each one I am dying.” She felt Lathaar tense up at her words.

“That isn’t your purpose,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to die. I won’t let you be a martyr.”

“Evermoon taught me to pray to Celestia,” she said. “I know the sound of her voice. The dreams come from her, Lathaar. That girl, the one like me…”

“Tessanna.”

“Yes. I think she is to kill me.”

The path led them into a large forest, where the tree trunks were thick and the space between was large enough that they could stay mounted. They still had to be careful of footing, lest they injure their horses. Lathaar guided his mount side to side as he thought over his words.

“Celestia wants you to keep everything the same,” he said, gently pulling on the reins to slow his horse. “She may want you to die to prevent more good. I won’t allow it, Mira. I won’t let you die just so she…just so…”

The girl smiled up at him and pressed a finger against his lips.

“I can read your mind, remember?” she said.

He nodded, trying to look calm as his face flushed a deep red.

“Careful back there,” Jerico shouted, “I think I upset a gopher’s home.”

Lathaar checked the ground and sure enough found a deep collection of holes prepared like a deadly trap. He guided his horse around, glad that Jerico’s horse hadn’t injured its leg when the dirt collapsed underneath it.

“I missed you,” Mira said.

“Missed you, too,” Lathaar said.

The girl turned around and kissed his neck just above the top of his breastplate. Just as quick she turned back, nestled comfortably in his arms, and remained quiet for the rest of the day. Jerico looked to make sure they had avoided the pitfall, and as he did he noticed how red Lathaar face had grown.

“What the abyss is wrong with you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Lathaar said. “Nothing at all.”

“Well hurry, still have a good week to reach the Bridges. This little shortcut through the forest will save us time, but not much. Oh, and Lathaar, may I remind you that while Ashhur doesn’t require us to take an oath of celibacy, he does frown upon needless necking while my back is turned.” Lathaar’s face turned even redder as Jerico rode on, muttering something about youngsters.

M ira stopped them when the western bridge was finally in view. She had grown increasingly quiet as their journey progressed, to the point she said almost nothing to Jerico, and only the occasional comment to Lathaar. She cuddled him on his horse, slept at his side near the fire, and did little else. So when she held out her hands and ordered them to halt, it was their surprise, not her words, that made them stop short.

“What is it, Mira?” Lathaar asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t you feel them?” the girl asked. “Waiting like snakes?”

Jerico closed his eyes and let his mind listen for the soft voice of Ashhur. “Dark paladins, seven of them. Someone isn’t happy about our return to Neldar.”

“This is worse than you think,” Lathaar said, frowning atop his horse. “Qurrah was never in league with Karak’s knights. If they’re here, then more is at stake than we know. Neldar must be in danger.”

“What do we do?” Jerico asked. They could see the magnificent arches of the bridge in the distance from their perch atop a hill. A small patch of trees filled the distance between them and the bridge. His eyes were good, and he could see waiting beside the arches were seven men in distinctive black armor.

“We can’t go around,” Lathaar said. “Our horses cannot swim across water that fast, and our armor isn’t exactly light.”

“I can get us across,” Mira said, staring at the bridge.

“Yeah, I guess you might know a floating spell or two,” Jerico said as his face perked up.

“No,” Mira said, her face darkening. “You misunderstand. We will cross.”

“Wait…you want to meet them head on?” Lathaar asked.

“There’s only seven of them,” Jerico said, scratching at his chin.

“They’re dark paladins, not virgin squires. Seven is more than enough to be dangerous.”

“I will get us across,” Mira repeated. “Now move, or I go without you.”

The two paladins glanced at one another, apprehensive about the idea, but Lathaar had seen Mira fight Darakken. He would trust her. Down the hill they trotted, through the woods toward Karak’s bridge.

They were spotted the moment they left the forest. The dark paladins formed a line across the front of the bridge, eager for a fight.

“Arrogant,” Lathaar muttered. “No hiding their numbers and no attempt at ambush. It’s as if they want us to fight them or turn away.”

“They’re young,” Mira said, her eyes rolling back in her skull. “Their faith is maniacal, blind.” She flitted from one mind to the next. “None are afraid. They think our deaths will give them favor with the dark god.”

“I haven’t met a paladin for Karak I can’t beat up, down, and sideways,” Jerico said. “And no young pups will change that, either.”

“You stay back,” Mira said, her black eyes staring at him. “They don’t know who I am. I will show them.”

“Show them what?”

She smiled at Jerico.

“The goddess.”

Mira leapt off Lathaar’s horse. Before he could spur his mount faster, her bare feet were already hovering an inch above the grass. An unseen wind pushed her forward, as if she weighed nothing. Her arms trailed at angles behind her, like masts holding an unseen sail.

“Hey, wait!” Jerico shouted, spurring his own horse on as the other two left him behind. “Don’t have fun without me!”

Mira saw that Lathaar was closing so she flew faster, her hair flailing wildly as the wind at her back soared stronger. The bridge approached at frightening speeds, but she knew that she appeared far more frightening to the dark paladins that waited. She slipped in and out of their minds, whispering echoing words as she did.

The goddess is coming. You are to die, mortals. Die to the goddess. Fear my eyes, my hair, my fire. The goddess is here.

She felt their fear growing, and to that she smiled. She had tried a similar ploy to Lathaar, and he had only grabbed her presence in his mind and demanded to know her name. Silly dark paladins, she thought. All faith but no courage.

Fire swirled around her hands as she came to a halt before the line of platemail, axes, and swords.

“I am a daughter of the goddess,” she told them as they stared, frozen in place by fear and indecision. “And I demand passage. Will you grant it?”

“It is the will of Krieger, and of Karak, that none shall pass,” the one in the center answered. While the others had long hair cut past the shoulder or tied in ponytails, he was completely shaven. “We are the embodiment of his will. And the goddess shall not break the will of Karak.”

Mira laughed as the edges of white in her eyes vanished.

“Very well. Let’s test Karak’s will.”

A ring of fire rose from the ground around her, blazing hot. The seven raised their shields, testing the heat. A razor blade of whirling air shot from Mira’s fingers, slicing one in half at the waist. His body fell, blood and intestines spilling everywhere. She turned to another, who braced his shield. Again she laughed.

“Shut up, bitch,” the man said, the lion skull on his shield gleaming in the sun. Mira clapped her hands together above her head. Lightning struck from the clear sky, swirling its power around her. The other dark paladins dodged, but the one who had cursed her kept his place. Arrogance, Mira thought. She pointed at his chest and winked. Lightning shot from her finger, crashing through his chest and out the other side. The blast lifted him into the air before flinging him off the bridge.

“We will not fall!” the bald one shouted, holding an axe in both hands. He prayed for aid from his dark god, and his request was granted. The black fire that surrounded his blade spread to all his flesh, protecting him from Mira’s fire. The girl turned toward him, smiling as if it were a game. She remembered the times she had trained against Flowers, and later on the rest of the Doru’al. Even ten at a time she had won, and those demons were far quicker and stronger.

A wave of her hand and a wall of ice surrounded her. When the bald man shattered it with the hilt of his sword, a great flash of light blinded his eyes. Mira clapped again, and the horribly bright light struck them once more. The others charged, her fire wall dissipated. She twirled, blasting one with a solid ball of water and hitting a second with a chunk of earth she tore from the ground. A third swung his sword at her waist, desperately praying to Karak that it would tear flesh. Instead it passed through empty air, for Mira was no longer there.

She reappeared on the far side of the bridge, waving as if all was friendly between her and men she had just injured. As the dark paladins glared death, they heard the heavy sound of hoof beats. They turned and saw Lathaar and Jerico riding at full speed toward them, and with opponents on both sides, they knew their error.

“Kill the paladins while we can,” the bald one ordered. “Close combat at all times. The girl will not risk hurting her companions.”

The five charged, their weapons high and their shields ready.

“None of you are Krieger,” Mira said, her bright smile fading just a bit. “But I feel better just the same.”

She twirled her hands, opening a portal. She stepped through and appeared in front of the dark paladins. Before they could react, she knelt and punched the bridge. Another wall of ice rose up, blocking Jerico and Lathaar from reaching them.

“Mira!” she heard Lathaar shout from the other side.

I’m fine, she told his mind. Please trust me.

She stood, elegant and powerful. Ice swirled around her hands. She grabbed a man’s throat, and then the ice found a new home. Frost shards exploded outward, piercing his windpipe. As the dark paladin dropped, the bald one stepped in and slammed his shield across her forehead. Mira fell, her vision swimming. She used her arms to roll to one side as an axe struck where she had been.

“Where is Krieger?” she asked them as she let loose a blast of pure white energy from her hands. Her target raised his shield and tried to block, but it just disintegrated the metal, then his armor, and finally blasted a hole in his flesh. His body sailed off the side and into the water. “Where is Krieger?” she repeated to the final three.

“He left us here for you,” the shaved man said. “Said a daughter of the whore would be coming, and here you are.”

“Your name,” she asked.

“Fuck you.”

Mira pressed her palm flat against the bridge and let her magic flow into it. The entire bridge rumbled on its foundations. The shaved man stumbled, and then she cast her second spell. Two cylindrical streams of water rose from either side of the bridge, spinning in the air. One hit his upper body while the other took out his legs. He hit the ground, cracking his head hard on the stone. The remaining two cried out the name of their god and charged, wanting Karak to think them brave and not cowards when they met him in his abyss.

Y ou know any way to get across?” Lathaar asked as the two paladins stood dismounted before the ice wall.

“Your girl has problems,” Jerico said as he pressed his shield against the ice. “You do know that, right?”

“She’s never like this,” he said. “She’s shy, and lonely…what are you doing?”

“Knocking down the wall.”

He shifted his arms and pushed with all his might. The light around his shield flared brighter and brighter. Lathaar stepped back and crossed his arms.

“You’re doing what?”

“Oh you of little faith…” They heard the sound of a thunderclap. “Sounds like your girl got another one.”

He clamped his teeth together and grunted. The muscles in his entire body tightened. The light surrounding his shield grew even brighter. A long crack split the wall. Another joined it, arcing inward from the left corner. Lathaar felt his jaw drop as third crack appeared, spiking from the Jerico’s shield to the lower right corner.

“Not right,” he muttered as Jerico burst through, the ice wall crumbling to pieces around him. Jerico raised his shield above his head as the pieces fell. Several hefty chunks hit atop it, but he weathered them with ease. When the commotion was done the two saw Mira standing over a lone dark paladin. His face and hands were charred red, and his right eye looked like a blackened piece of fruit.

“Where is Krieger?” they heard her ask. Magic swirled around her hands. “Tell me.”

“You think I’ll tell?” he said with a pained laugh. She struck his other eye with a blast of lightning. The man screamed, and his back bent upward in a wicked jerk. He gasped for air as smoke escaped his open mouth.

“Tell me,” she said. “Where is Krieger?”

“Mira, stop it!” Lathaar shouted, sheathing his blades and running to her. He grabbed her wrists and spun her around. Her entire body tensed like a cat before a pounce. Lightning crackled in her eyes, but then she saw him and stopped. Her hands unclenched. The magic left her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she said as Lathaar let go of her wrists. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest. Her tears ran down his armor. “I’m sorry.”

Jerico stood over the dying, blind paladin. He hooked his mace onto his belt, slung his shield over his back, and then hoisted the bald man onto his feet. The man had no strength to resist as Jerico pushed him to the edge of the bridge, where the Rigon river roared beneath them.

“Why do you aid Qurrah?” he asked him. “What has that half-orc offered you?”

“Who is Qurrah?” the dark paladin asked. Jerico narrowed his eyes. All paladins of Ashhur could innately sense a lie, and he knew the man spoke truth. He didn’t know who Qurrah was.

“Karak’s army marches for Veldaren,” he said. “Now give me an honorable death.”

“Sure thing.” He pushed him off the bridge. In his heavy armor, the man sank straight to the bottom.

“Don’t do that again,” Jerico said to Mira. “Revenge is too hard for a heart as soft as yours.”

He left to retrieve his horse. Lathaar wrapped his arms around her as she continued to cry.

I tortured him, he heard her say in his mind. Celestia help me, I tortured him, just like he…he…

“You’ll be okay,” he said.

I’ve never…I have all this power and I lost control…

“You’ve fought before. Killed before.”

But never this. Please forgive me, Michael. Never this.

Lathaar kissed her forehead and held her tight. She had called him by his original name before he had passed the Trials and become a paladin. It reminded him of just how young she still was, and how young she had been when he first met her, alone in a dark forest with only a demon to keep her company.

“I forgive you,” he said, pulling her back and taking her hand. “Now let’s get away from this place. Go back to my horse.”

She sniffed, smiled a little, and then did as she was told. Lathaar pushed the remaining three bodies into the river, feeling grim satisfaction with each one.

“Five less servants of Karak in this world,” he said. “Five less drops in a river.”

“But even rivers one day run dry,” Jerico said from atop his horse. He held Lathaar’s reigns in his right hand. Mira rode atop the horse.

“Amen,” Lathaar said, taking his seat on the saddle behind Mira.