David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“I was marked by the goddess Celestia herself,” Muzien said, his good mood from crushing the Wolf Guild leaving him. “I know more of the gods and their foolishness than you can possibly imagine. I do not care what Karak intends for this city. All I care is that the true city, the real world underneath, remains in my hands. I would have an empire that stretches from coast to coast, and not even a god will prevent that.”

“I seek to save the lives of hundreds of thousands,” Daverik said. “No matter how important you think you are, you are still nothing compared to the importance of what we do. Keep out of our affairs, and we will let you rule like the king you’ve always pretended to be.”

“Enjoy your battle for souls,” Muzien said as the priest headed for the door. “I will remain here, lording over all that truly matters.”

Daverik opened the door, shook his head.

“The things of men and kings turn to ash, held only by hands of bone,” he said.

Muzien lifted his blackened hand, and he smiled despite the burning anger in his chest.

“Even a hand of ash and bone may still wear a ring of gold,” he said. “Even a darkened hand may force a man to kneel. We are the dust, priest, swirling against the stones of time and the will of gods. To either, we mean nothing, but to each other … to each other, we rise and fall, shine and dim, build great kingdoms and burn others to the ground. Nothing we do matters but what echoes on in the night, and I swear to you, I care not for my soul, but I do care for the echo.”

Muzien turned away, heading once more for his bottle.

“The next time you say the name of a god in my presence, I will kill you,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

He drank, and Daverik left him, and as the alcohol burned down his throat, he offered his own goodbye to the Wolf Guild.

“Echo on into the night,” he whispered. “Remembered, and lost only to the echoes of others just as proud, just as meaningless.”

Haern’s shoulder had nearly recovered by the time the three of them walked into the town of Leen. It was a far more populous settlement than Trass, largely due to the modest docks built on the Rigon River. Many people walked about, their clothes simple and homespun, their faces tanned from working the fields, long days fishing in the boats, and sailing both up-and downstream to sell their goods. Already feeling like he stuck out as an oddity due to his clothing, the blood on his shoulder and all over Thren’s shirt did little to help.

“You should be able to find suitable clothes here,” Delysia said as they approached a large inn. She gestured to the river, where a couple ramshackle booths were selling food to the men, others replacement gear and clothing.

“I’ll smell like fish for weeks,” Thren said.

“Better than smelling like blood.”

Haern and Delysia stepped into the tavern as Thren headed off to the meager market. Inside, a weathered man, much of the top of his head both bald and tanned, greeted them warmly.

“Two rooms,” Haern said, dropping coins atop the man’s desk. “The other is for a friend,” he added at the man’s raised eyebrow.

“Of course,” he said.

As Delysia put away their things in their room, Haern returned to the man up front, who was clearly wary. Given his hood and clothing, Haern couldn’t blame him.

“I’m looking for a paladin of Karak named Jorakai,” he said. “We heard he was here?”

“Jorakai will be here tomorrow,” the innkeeper said. “He comes every sixth day to give another lecture. You wanting to take a listen?”

“Something like that.”

“He comes early, so don’t go sleeping in.”

Haern bought a bit of bread left over from the morning, brought it back to their room, and shared it with Delysia. Thren returned not much later, wearing a white shirt with long sleeves. He tossed his old bloody and torn shirt onto the floor beside their bed.

“It’ll suffice,” he said. “You discover anything about Jorakai?”

“Tomorrow,” Haern said.

Thren shrugged.

“Good,” he said. “I need a long sleep in a comfortable bed, anyway.”

Come the next morning, the three of them joined the rest of the gathered crowd at the docks. It looked like much of the river work was put on hold, and Haern was surprised to see over sixty people there to listen to the dark paladin preach. They sat on blankets, many sharing food with their families. Staying near the back so they could quietly observe, Haern waited with his arms crossed.

“Why must we listen?” asked Haern. “I’ve heard enough of Karak to last a lifetime.” He winced at a half-forgotten memory, that of him lost in a strange room of Karak’s temple, the great Lion demanding his obedience.

“Before we make a move on him, I want to take measure of the man,” Thren said. “We’ll learn plenty by how well he controls the crowd.”

A few more people came in late, taking seats around the outer ring, and not much later, Jorakai arrived, having been waiting in a nearby home. He was a tall man, his skin even more tanned than the people of the village. Much of his hair was shaved but for a single stretch forming a long ponytail he tied behind his head. He wore the armor of his order, heavy plate mail stained black with a silver lion painted across his chest. Its mouth was open in a roar, its teeth bared, its claws raised to strike. Attached to his back in a loose sheath was an enormous two-handed blade.

“Karak’s peace be with you,” he said, and his voice carried with ease.

“And peace be to you,” responded the crowd in kind.

“Peace,” Thren said, letting out a snort. “If you can call slavery ‘peace,’ I guess…”

A few of the people on the outer ring heard him and glared his way, but he only smiled in return.

“We live in exciting times,” Jorakai continued, and he slowly paced before them, turning his head so he might address all parts of the crowd. “With the fall of the Citadel, our world of Dezrel may finally see a glimmer of hope, see her people return to the true god, to the times of obedience, times of peace. Order. At last we have a chance for there to be order, in all our lives!”

A few clapped, and others said “amen” to punctuate the paladin’s sentences.

“Such exciting times,” Thren said, looking disgusted. “He tells this to fishermen and farmers. The most excitement they’ll see in their lifetimes is a sick child or a bandit raid. No wonder they’ll cling to such a false story. To think I believed it’d be through weakness or desperation he converted the people, but instead, it is merely boredom.”

“Perhaps it is all three,” Haern said.

“Keep your voices down,” Delysia whispered to the two. “We stand out enough as it is.”

Haern glanced at her, saw the way her skin had paled.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

She nodded, continuing to watch as Jorakai preached.

“I know the weaknesses in your hearts,” the dark paladin shouted, his voice bleeding with sincerity and anger. “I know those of you who lust after women, with hands you fail to control. I know you who let your tongues rule your minds, who will murder a man with your words far worse than my blade ever could. Worst of all, I know many of you doubt. Where is the Lion, you ask? Where are his people, his faith, his power? But the sick branches must be burned so the healthy may live. The rotting hand must be cut to spare the arm. If you have doubt, now is the time to silence it! If you sin with your tongue, now is the time to remove it from your heads. Karak seeks grand gestures, not simple, cowardly steps to be undone mere days later.”

Jorakai was shouting now, his deep voice thundering over the crowd.