David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“You’re not gonna like hearing this,” Adam said.

“Out with it.”

“It’s your sister.”

He started to ask what about her, but Adam’s look was enough. A stone shifted in Kaide’s stomach, and he looked to the dying fire.

“Do we go after them?” Adam asked. “You did say…”

“I know what I said.”

Adam shifted, his arms crossed.

“Then what do we do?”

Kaide drew his dirk, and he twirled it before his eyes, staring into the multitude of reflections cast by the light of the dying embers before him.

“Let them go,” he said, jamming it back into its sheath. “Call off the search. Bellok should be back soon, and we’ll need to be rested. We’ve wasted enough time. Tomorrow we march, and we’ll bring the Abyss to Sebastian and his men.”

“You’re the boss.”

Adam left, and once more alone, Kaide cursed the paladin’s name.

“Take good care of her,” he whispered, looking up to the night sky. “Otherwise I’ll kill you myself.”

He returned to his cabin, hoping for a few more hours of sleep. After tossing and turning for an eternity, he gave up hope, and only stared at the ceiling until at last daylight streamed in through a window.

Daniel put on the last of his armor, then left his room. The morning was young, and he had men to train. His mood was foul, but not because of the training. He’d had a horrible time avoiding the two priests and their men. It seemed every hour they came to Robert with new demands or expectations, and it seemed every time Robert conceded. The idea of pandering to Karak’s fanatics burned his gut. He’d warned Robert of the Stronghold’s strength, yet he’d gone ahead with the bounty on Darius’s head. Now look what it’d gotten them.

He turned a corner, approaching the bottom door to the Blood Tower, when he encountered one of the priests. It was the young one, Cyric. The way he leaned against the door with his arms behind his back made it seem like he’d been waiting for him.

“Morning,” Daniel said, hoping to barge right past without conversation.

“Morning,” Cyric said, stepping in the way. “A word, if you please?”

Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

“Of course. What do you need?”

Cyric rubbed his knuckles against his robe and then looked at them, as if oblivious to Daniel’s impatience.

“Something has been bothering me. Luther insists I not worry, but perhaps you might indulge me anyway. I would like to speak with the witnesses of the attack on Durham.”

The young man looked up and smiled. Daniel felt his blood chill. It was a serpent’s smile, a killer’s grin.

“For what reason?” he asked. “Sir Robert has already judged they speak truthfully.”

“I do not mean to doubt Robert’s decision,” Cyric said. “Only to hear with my own ears what happened. I find it hard to believe that just one man caused such destruction. Don’t you?”

Daniel swallowed. The townsfolk had spoken of another man that came after Darius’s warning. Fire had leapt from his hands and demonic words from his tongue. They’d given no name, and among them all, couldn’t even agree on a description, other than the color of his eyes: a deep red that shone as if the fires of the Abyss burned behind them. With so little to go on, Robert had restricted the bounty to the one person whose blame no one could deny: Darius.

“A paladin of Karak can be a very powerful foe,” Daniel said.

“Indeed,” Cyric said, his smile growing. “I am not ignorant of their power. Five traveled with Luther and me from Mordeina, after all.”

Daniel sensed the implied threat and did his best to pretend he hadn’t.

“That’s fine, but I don’t think it appropriate you speak to the townsfolk. They have suffered enough without you bringing up bad memories.”

“I am afraid I must insist, Daniel.”

“Then insist to Robert. You have my answer.”

He grabbed the handle to the door. Cyric remained leaning against it, as if daring Daniel to pull it open.

“We’ll be holding a service tomorrow,” said the fledgling priest. “You should attend.”

“The Abyss will freeze over before I do.”

“Careful,” said Cyric, stepping out of the away. “The time of judgment approaches on the backs of lions. I would hate to be caught unaware.”

Daniel stormed outside, glad to be away. He’d hoped to take his frustration out on his men in a grueling training session, but it seemed one of the gods was conspiring against him, and it took little wit to guess which one. Normally they held practice in a wide area of trampled dirt, within the small courtyard that stretched between the tower and the outer walls. That morning, Luther stood in its center, a book in hand. A tenth of the Blood Tower’s fighting men stood about, listening as Luther preached in a firm, steady voice. The mere sight sent Daniel’s blood boiling.

“What is going on here?” he asked, pulling one of his men aside.

“Just listening,” said the man, though he looked away, as if guilty of something. Daniel bit his tongue as he realized Luther was in mid-prayer. He felt awkward interrupting it, especially when he realized several others were praying along. Karak or Ashhur, Sir Robert had never cared, so long as it didn’t interfere with his soldiers’ duties. Despite his anger, Daniel tried to honor that, and let the priest finish.

“…and may we always abide by the strength and wisdom of the Lion,” said Luther. “And all those with wisdom say amen.”

Five or six echoed the word ‘amen’, and for whatever reason, it set the hair on the back of Daniel’s neck to standing. The prayer over, the men scattered, all shooting glances toward Daniel, who approached Luther.

“A word,” he said, grabbing Luther’s robe by the shoulder.

“Of course,” Luther said, nothing but calm. “Though remember whose robe you grab, and perhaps show wisdom the next time you would act in anger.”

Daniel accepted the rebuke, and forced his temper in check. Their situation was no less precarious now than it had been at the priests’ first arrival.

“My apologies,” Daniel said dryly. “But this place is for my men to train every morning, and I cannot have you occupying them with speeches and sermons.”

“Does the soul not need training as well?” Luther asked as he led him toward the gate to the outside. “What good does it to teach men how to kill if they know not when or why to use those abilities?”

“That’s why we have a chain of command, why we teach them to follow orders.”

“Exactly,” Luther said, sounding pleased. It made Daniel feel like he was just another of the old priest’s students, and he didn’t like it. “Chain of command. Such a good term to describe what we do. Imagine the Blood Tower represents our world. You are to your men as I am to my flock, a teacher. Above you is Sir Robert, just as above me are the old masters in Mordeina and the Stronghold. And as the King is above Sir Robert, so is Karak above us all. We are in the same field of work, Daniel, and I would hope you appreciate my difficulties.”

“I’m training men to defend all the West from the bloodthirsty creatures in the Vile Wedge.”

“And I’m training men to defend their souls from the evils of the world. I dare say that my task is more important, wouldn’t you?”

They stepped out the gate. Across the lush field fed by the Gihon was Karak’s encampment, formed of several dozen tents. Over five hundred men were there, well armed and armored. Their very look made him uneasy. They were like private mercenaries, only worse. The Stronghold might pay them with gold or jewels, but they viewed their service as a religious duty. They served no king, only Karak. The very notion made Daniel nervous. Once a man invested his loyalty in something other than his own king, it made him unpredictable and dangerous.