The Old Ways (2 page)

He drew his sword and pointed ahead of him.

“Move aside.”

At first Jerico thought they would. The speech was sincere, his certainty forceful. Jerico felt uncomfortable with the implied threat, but surely the people would understand. Surely they would realize the gold coin was not worth the bloodshed and betrayal of...

“Cowards,” said the messenger, thrusting for a crease in Darius’s armor. Before it hit, Darius stepped to one side and swung. The blade cut the messenger at the wrist. Blood arced across the grass as both weapon and hand twirled and fell. Jerico felt his heart stop, and his breath catch in his throat.

The mob saw blood, and it was like fire on dry leaves.

“Push through!” Jerico shouted, ducking his head and leading with his shield. His armor was thick, and his shield thicker. He felt blows strike him, mostly ineffective. A sickle scraped across his pauldron, and a pitchfork struck the shield before sliding to one side. Legs pumping, Jerico continued on, giving them no chance to resist, no chance to regroup. He burst through the other side of the crowd, feeling battered and bruised, but alive.

Spinning, he saw Darius trying to follow, but the crowd’s attention had turned on him. Without a shield, he could only lead with his sword. He cut and parried, relying on his armor to protect him from fists and clubs, and his blade to protect him from all else. His armor had many sharp ridges and edges, and he slammed through people who tried to block his way. Blood coated the dark steel.

“Darius!” Jerico shouted as the way closed between them. He ran, using his shield to shove aside a group of three trying to stop Darius’s exit. Two more blocked the way, both with heavy sickles. Darius smacked aside one, but the other slipped through his defenses. The curved end hooked over his chestplate, past his neck, and into the flesh of his collarbone. Darius screamed, and then whipped his sword around, cleaving the attacking farmer in half.

“No!” Jerico cried.

The way was clear, and Darius sprinted free. Jerico stood before the crowd, and he braced with his shield.

Forgive me if this is wrong,
he prayed. Light swelled in the center of his shield, then burst outward with the strength of a lightning bolt. Blinded, the people staggered. Hooking his shield on his back, Jerico turned and ran, following Darius out of Wilhelm and into the wilderness beyond.

They ran for a long hour, both of them conditioned to such exertion as well as blessed with strength from their deity. Not a word was said between them. At last they reached the end of the farmland, and feeling confident they could lose themselves in the hills beyond, Jerico slowed. Bending over to catch his breath, he let his shield slip to the ground, glad to be free of its weight. Darius did the same, jamming his sword into the dirt and leaning on it, the handle pressed against his face.

“You’re bleeding,” Jerico said.

“Most of the blood isn’t mine.”

“No, your neck.”

Darius pulled off his glove and then touched the wound at his collarbone. His fingers came back red.

“Not too deep,” he said. “I’ll live.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Jerico felt he should be the teacher, Darius his student, even though Darius was actually older. He knew more of the world, understood better the politics of the North. But he’d erred, badly.

“Darius...” he started to say.

“Save it. I know. I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? You cut a man in two.”

Darius glared.

“I was hurt, and frightened. A second more, and they would have buried me. What would you have done then? Watched me die? Or risked dying yourself when you tried to save me? There was no reasoning with them, and you know it.”

“They might have listened until you cut off a man’s hand!” His voice was rising, and much as he knew he shouldn’t, he continued anyway. “We’re beacons, examples for others to follow. We’re not executioners!”

“Bullshit!” Darius was in his face now, overcome with exhaustion and frustration. “I saw how many wolf-men you killed, far more than I ever did. I saw you slaughter Sebastian’s men. You’re just as good at killing as I am, if not better. I killed one man,
one man,
protecting my life. You think I’m happy about it? Think I enjoyed it? Gods damn it, if this world were just, they’d have killed me in my sleep without giving me the choice. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”

He fell silent. Jerico took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He couldn’t judge Darius harshly, not without knowing everything he’d gone through. This was a man turned from Karak to Ashhur. A dark paladin would have had no qualms about slaughtering an entire village to protect himself. That he felt guilt at all was a poignant sign.

“What happened in Durham?” Jerico asked softly. “I’ve not asked before, but now I think it best you tell me.”

Darius looked back to the village, then sighed.

“A priest found me, wandering and lost,” he said. “He offered me a chance to redeem myself in the eyes of Karak. He was a cold, cruel man, Jerico, if he was ever even a man. Very powerful, and worst of all, his words were like poison in my mind. I believed him. He was Karak’s prophet, the voice of my god. And then he brought me to Durham, to make amends for my mistakes. I was to convert the faithful, make the entire village bend its knee.”

Jerico thought of the many he knew there, and could guess their reaction.

“What happened then?” he asked.

Darius chuckled, and he wiped at his eyes.

“I couldn’t do it. I tried, but they knew me better than I knew myself. Yet it didn’t matter. The prophet...when he came back...damn it. Damn it all, I told them to run! I told them how dangerous he was. Some listened, but not enough. He came with fire and magic, and...”

He started laughing, despite his grief.

“You know what, Jerico? I’m glad there’s a bounty on my head. It means a few made it out alive. It means at least I might have done something right.”

Jerico looked back, and he saw a distant cluster of torches, about a mile away by his estimate.

“We need to continue,” he said. “It looks like they’re pursuing us farther than I thought.”

“I don’t blame them.”

They gathered their things. They had terribly few supplies, and Jerico expected a very hungry day until they could reach another village, or trap a rabbit or squirrel.

“Darius,” said Jerico. “Please, just promise me you won’t kill anyone else coming after you because of that bounty. They’re only obeying the law. I’ll help protect you from the people, but don’t make me protect the people from you.”

Darius looked down at his armor, saw the blood on the sharp edges.

“I’ll try,” he said. “Forgive me. I’ve much to learn.”

Jerico thought of his dilemma earlier and chuckled.

S
ir Robert Godley was at the top of the Blood Tower when Karak’s army arrived.

“Robert?” asked Daniel Coldmine, Robert’s most trusted companion. The lieutenant stood at the half-open door, his fingers still wrapped about the handle.

“I know,” Robert said, staring out the window at the reinforced doors of the walls surrounding the tower. Beyond were tents, caravans, and many, many armed men. His heavy hands lay flat across his desk. Between them were a bottle and an empty glass. “Send whoever is in charge up to me.”

Daniel hesitated.

“Sir, we still have the option to turn them away. The worst they can do is voice their complaint back at Mordeina. They can’t be mad enough to attack servants of the King and expect no retribution.”

“I said bring their leader to me,” Robert said, still refusing to turn around. “I will show no fear, not to the likes of them. Now go.”

Daniel bowed.

“I’ll return shortly.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Robert said to no one. He reached for the bottle, then pushed it away. He wasn’t drunk, but he was getting damn close. It was shameful enough using the liquor to bolster his courage. Confronting the priests shit-faced was an embarrassment he’d never let himself live down. He was better than that, and more importantly, he owed his men better than that.

It hadn’t taken long. Within two weeks of his bounty on the paladin Darius, he’d received message that an envoy from Mordeina would soon arrive to represent the Stronghold. Robert had put a death sentence on the head of one of their own. At the time, Daniel had warned him such an action would not go unnoticed, and he’d been right. As to how Karak’s children would respond, he could only guess, but seeing over five hundred private soldiers bearing the mark of the Lion surrounding his tower, Robert’s imagination didn’t need to work too hard.

A knock at the door sent him slowly to his feet.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened, and Daniel escorted two men inside. One was older, with thin gray hair that hung down to his bony shoulders. He stood straight, though, and walked without a limp. He offered a wrinkled hand, and when Robert shook it, he squeezed with impressive strength.

“Greetings, knight,” said the priest. His voice was deep, well-aged. “My name is Luther, priest of our glorious god, Karak. With me is my pupil, Cyric.”

The other man stepped forward. Unlike Luther, he looked young, barely into his twenties. He bowed low, in a manner more respectful than Luther had shown. His hair was a deep brown and cut short, so that his forehead seemed much larger than it was. Combined with his blue eyes and slender nose, it gave him an awkward, youthful look. When he spoke, though, his voice echoed with an authority and a certainty that immediately revealed why he’d been chosen as Luther’s pupil.

“I am honored to meet the man who devised the banishment of the heathen elves from our lands,” said Cyric. “You did Mordan a great service.”

“You’d have been at your mother’s breast when that happened, if not still in her belly,” Robert said. “How could you know much of that?”

“He’s a voracious reader,” said Luther. “I doubt there is a book in our library he has not read. But come, we have not traveled all this way to discuss forgotten battles. Word of your bounty on one of the Stronghold’s paladins reached us quickly, Sir Godley.”

Robert exchanged a look with Daniel, who shifted his stance so his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not a fool,” said Robert. “I knew you’d come, but if there were ever a guilty man in the North, it would be Darius. I have over a hundred people who’ll swear that he...”

“We have not come to question his guilt,” Luther interrupted. “Darius is a fallen servant, and has rejected Karak’s teachings. We have reason to believe he killed several of our paladins, good men sent to find and ascertain his faithfulness to our ways.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed. They weren’t here to argue, or to protect Darius? It sounded too good to be true, which made him all the more suspicious.

“Then why have you come, Luther? I can see your armed men from my window. The North is dangerous, but not so much to require that large an escort for only two priests.”

“Indeed,” said Luther, smiling. “I pray we have not frightened you, but yes, we have come with a request. You handed Darius a sentence of death, but we ask that you deliver him unto us instead.”

“You want to spare his life?” asked Daniel, and Robert could see his anger ready to burst forth.

“Spare it?” asked the young Cyric, laughing. “Our tomes detail quite clearly the fate blasphemers and traitors must suffer. Whatever death you think Darius deserves, I assure you, ours will be worse.”

Luther shot his pupil a look, and Robert recognized it well. It was a warning against speaking out of turn. Robert had just sent Daniel that same look for his own outburst.

“This is about more than punishment,” Luther said, clearing his throat. “Darius is a dangerous man, and your bounty invites much unnecessary death. If he can kill our skilled paladins, then poor farmers and soldiers desperate for a bit of coin stand little chance. I ask that you retract the bounty, and instead make it for information only. Let the Stronghold deal with Darius. He will not remain hidden for long, not from me.”