The Old Ways (31 page)

“Those whores in there won’t be much for a first time,” said the guard, and he laughed. “What’s wrong with your friend? Why ain’t he porked one of the local gals, instead of harassing us in the dead of night?”

Darius tried to think of a reason, but Gregory beat him to it. He opened his mouth, closed it, then made a slashing motion over his throat. Darius bit his tongue to prevent a reaction. He’d told the man to talk as little as possible. Leave it to him to pretend to be a mute.

“Can’t sweet talk a lady when you got no tongue to do it,” said one of the other guards, and they chuckled.

“Lots of things you can’t do to a lady with no tongue,” said another.

“Least if the lady’s got a tongue, she can still be of use.”

Darius’s sword was inside that barn, and it was probably a good thing, too. Fantasies of cutting off all six of their heads turned his vision red. But he smiled, shifted side to side as if he were still drunk out of his mind.

“So you fine men understand,” he said. “Care to let us in? Anyone asks, we’re just there to talk. Right?”

“Talk?” said their leader, grinning at mute Gregory. This sent him to laughing again. “Aye, we’ll tell Cyric we let a mute fucker inside to talk.”

Darius stretched his grin, and acted as if he didn’t understand why it was so funny.

“Let ‘em in,” said the guard. “Worth it for the damn laugh.”

They stepped aside, and Darius grabbed Gregory by the shirt and pulled him into the dark barn.

“Greg don’t know what he’s doing,” he said just before they shut it. “So we’ll be ‘ere all night.”

“Fine by me,” said the guard. “But if they cut off your balls while you’re asleep, don’t expect us to do shit about it.”

The door closed, sealing them in darkness. The two stood there, letting their eyes adjust to what little light streamed in through the cracks of the walls. Darius could hear people shuffling, and knew their conversation had awakened many. They might have overheard why they were there, or deduced the reason, so caution was of the utmost importance. As his sight improved, he saw many lying in piles of hay or under blankets, staring at them with wary looks. Two thirds appeared to be women, and many of the men looked old or frail. One man looked healthy, and Darius recognized him all too well.

“I don’t see no sword,” said Jacob Wheatley, standing before two young girls huddled behind him. “No armor, neither. You think you’ll have fun just like the others?”

“No, I don’t, Jacob,” Darius said. “I expect to hide, and pray, and hope that come tomorrow night I cut off Cyric’s head and present it to you all in penance.”

Jacob’s jaw dropped. He took a step closer, and squinted in the darkness.

“Darius?” he wondered aloud. Before Darius could answer, Jacob clocked him across the face with his fist. As Darius dropped to his knees, Gregory flung himself in the way, just barely keeping the farmer from latching about his throat.

“Enough,” Gregory hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “We’re Sir Robert’s men, and we’ve come to help!”

“Help?” asked Jacob. He pushed Gregory away, then pulled at his shirt to fix it. “You got a lot of nerve coming here, Darius. Thought you’d be out there with that fucking priest, singing praises and sharpening your sword.”

Darius took a deep breath and rubbed his sore jaw. He deserved worse, he knew, and did his best to keep his temper in check.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said, walking around him while giving him a wide berth. “I’m not going to explain myself, for I’m getting tired of finding a thousand different ways to say I’m sorry I was a fool.”

He reached the far wall, found his greatsword, and lifted it into the air. Soft light enveloped the blade, and it shone upon the people of Durham, all of whom were now awake.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Darius said, his voice falling. “Will you let me?”

Jacob grunted, and he sat down next to one of the women.

“Don’t mean we’re even,” he said. “But if you can kill Cyric, I think it might be a damn fine way to start.”

B
efore they came for him that morning, Jerico already knew the battle had begun. He stood before the bed Arthur had given him, wearing his armor. On the bed lay his armaments. His fingers ran along the symbol of the golden mountain painted across the front of his shield, but his god was far from his mind at that point. All he could think of was Sandra held captive by the priest, Luther, and what his promise had been.

...should I see you again, even hear rumors of your approach, I will sacrifice that whore to Karak.

He had no reason to doubt him, no reason to believe he lied. There’d been such intensity in his eyes, such loathing...

The door opened. Jerico kept his back to it, his head low.

“Jerico?” asked a soldier he did not know.

“Yes?”

“They’re...they’re rushing the gates. We need you.”

She’ll die naked, alone, and screaming in pain.

“I know,” he said, glancing back. The soldier opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Right. Arthur wished you to know, that is all.”

He closed the door as Jerico picked up his mace. The weight felt reassuring in his hands.

Think on that the next time you would play the hero.

By aiding Arthur, he was killing Sandra. He picked up his shield, slung it over his back. By fighting Sebastian, he ended the life of the first woman he’d ever loved. Closing his eyes, he thought of her face, her stubborn smile. But this was what she’d want. He knew that. She could have run, but instead she killed the two men that had threatened him. Cowering to threats, giving in to cruel demands...that wasn’t her, wasn’t something she’d ever do.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

He left his room and made his way to the courtyard. Soldiers lined the walls and formed rows before the rumbling gates. From what he’d learned, there were a hundred stationed within, and approximately six hundred outside the walls. Should they break through, they couldn’t hold. He also knew that. They’d die, without hope of victory. As the wood groaned, and the battering ram slammed again and again, he took up a position at the front of the defense, where the tired men stood, quiet, nervous, watching.

“They’ll hold,” one said to him as he stood at his side.

“If not, then we will,” Jerico said, and he smiled a smile he knew they all needed to see.

Screams filled the air. Glancing up, he saw the men on the walls pouring boiling oil on the attackers. Others shoved stones through murder holes, the sharp rocks plentiful because of the caves. Arthur’s archers were few, but they loosed arrow after arrow while ducking behind the ramparts when Sebastian’s men returned fire. More oil, and for a brief moment, the slamming against the gates stopped.

Jerico dared to hope. Perhaps something had broken the wheels of the battering ram, or Sebastian’s general had lost his taste for bloodshed facing such casualties. It was a false hope, and he knew it, but the respite from that constant hammering was still welcome. He took a step forward, and looked to the men when the battering ram resumed its work, despite the oil, the arrows, and the killing stones.

“The archway is tight,” he told them. “Two men abreast, that is all they can send. When it breaks, I’ll be there. My shield will block the way, and unlike wood, unlike stone,
I will not break.
Stand with me, at my side. Let our enemies see no fear, see no doubt. Let them see a wall of swords!”

Silence greeted him, but he saw the resolve hardening in their eyes. As he turned to the gate, he heard a single sarcastic clap from Jerek upon the walls.

“Good show,” he shouted. “Hope you meant it, because they’re coming through!”

Jerico felt his own terror crawl up his throat, and he choked it down.

“Play the hero,” he whispered.

The thickest of the boards snapped, one half twisting and falling free to the ground. The gates flung open violently upon the next smash, revealing the carnage on the other side. Dead men lay slumped, arrows in their bodies. Others were horribly burned by oil, flesh charred and bubbling. Some were still alive, moaning softly or shaking. So many dead, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred, but it didn’t matter. The gates had fallen.

Time to play the hero.

“With me!” he cried, rushing forward as Sebastian’s men poured into the archway. Jerico’s shield led the way, and it shone with a vicious light. He threw all his weight into the charge, his head ducked low and his legs pumping. A handful of men made it out of the archway as his charge met them, smashing aside one as if he were a child. Jerico’s mace swung, punching through chainmail to crack ribs and puncture lungs, and then he spun, striking down a third trying to rush past him.

Without thinking, he pushed his shield forward in the air, though nothing pressed against it. A sound filled the courtyard, like that of a thunderclap. The closest attackers jolted backward as if struck. Their weapons flailing, their feet out of position, Jerico rushed ahead, the flanged edges of his mace tearing flesh and splattering blood across the stone archway. He stopped just before it, so the men above could continue to hurl their stones and fire their arrows.

For a moment it seemed that time slowed, and there was a pause in the attacks as the next wave of men prepared. Behind him, the rest of Arthur’s soldiers cut down Sebastian’s men, who were scattered and few. They took up positions beside him, and they cheered at the victory. Jerico breathed in heavily, knowing it was just a start.

But the delay in the attack wasn’t a figment of his imagination, or a quirk of battle. He heard shouting, and from what he could see through the gate, the attackers were redirecting men away from the castle.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Jerek peered through the defenses, then spun, a grin on his face.

“It’s Kaide!”

Whatever effect the bandit leader had, it wasn’t enough. Jerico tried not to think of what he’d say if he met the man. Odds were high neither would live, and he found that comforting enough. The next wave of men gathered, shields raised to protect them from Arthur’s arrows. They were nearly a hundred in number, fresh in strength, and with many reinforcements.

But Jerico stood against them, and as they charged, he lifted his shield high and cried out the name of Ashhur.

T
hey’d crept among the hills, avoiding the road as much as possible. They were only a hundred, without armor or significant training. But Sandra knew her brother would steal every bit of advantage he could find. Their scouts had alerted them to the start of a frontal assault on the castle, and within minutes they were out and ready. A hundred men, plus Sandra, traveling with an unnerving silence.

“Their leaders will be in the back, watching the siege,” Kaide had told them as they exited the camp. “If we’re lucky, we’ll smash their skulls in before they know we’re there. Might even get Greg, too, if we’re lucky. And Bellok has a fine surprise for them, as well.”

The men had cheered, the last bit of noise, really, before heading out. Bellok was their wizard, his power minor compared to those trained and belonging to the Council of Mages. But Bellok had aided them before, at the Green Gulch, and the way he grumbled, they all thought he had another trick up his long sleeves.