David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“I had to,” Jerico said, putting the woman’s body down next to the man’s. “I feared you might not reach the archer in time, might be…I had no time to be careful.”

“You won’t receive any judgment from me,” she told him.

“It’s not you who I fear judgment from.” He pointed to a distant cluster of trees several hundred yards out. “Grab a branch, biggest you can find.”

She did not ask, only obeyed. The walk there helped calm her down, and the last of her shakes faded. As they did, though, she felt the pain in her stomach flare. Reaching the trees, she stopped to press her hand against her abdomen. She felt blood. Was it from Jerico’s embrace, or herself? She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Finding a half-broken branch, she tore it free and carried it back. Jerico took it, lit it in their fire, and handed it back.

“Go start another campfire,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it will take all night and day to dig a grave for them, time we don’t have. I won’t leave them here for the carrion.”

She thought of the look the man had given her before he’d tried to take her life with his sword.

“They don’t deserve it,” she said, crossing her arms, feeling very cold.

“They were bandits, probably husband and wife. I don’t know what family they have, what life they’ve led. Children may starve now because we killed them. If only they’d asked, I would have given them what little coin I had. If only they’d asked…”

Jerico sighed.

“I hate this world sometimes. Now go on, before that branch burns too low and hurts your hand.”

Sandra nodded, but couldn’t go just yet.

“You really hate this world?” she asked him.

Jerico grinned despite his apparent exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do. But I love the people in it. Now go.”

She set up camp farther away, near the cluster of trees, so she might have ready kindling. When finished, she looked back, saw Jerico tending the pyre. Her stomach heaved, and she turned to vomit. In the light of the fire, she saw it was a deep red. Blood. She felt like crying. Instead she lay down, closed her eyes, and waited for Jerico. The paladin returned long after, though she could not say just how much time had passed.

“Sandra?” she heard him ask. His shield thudded into the ground beside her, and then his palm was against her forehead. “Sandra, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t know,” she murmured. She felt very tired. Jerico carefully lifted her shirt so he might examine the wound on her stomach.

“Oh god,” he whispered.

She was scared to look, to see what frightened him so. All she knew was that it hurt like a blade driven deep in her belly. Eyes closed, she thought of the bandit woman as her mace struck her face.

“I’ve never killed anybody before,” Sandra said, feeling as if she’d drunk too much of Griff’s personal stash of hard liquor. “I’ve seen people die; saw plenty after the Green Gulch…but never killed before.”

“Don’t dwell on it,” Jerico said as he pressed his palms against her abdomen. She screamed, but wasn’t sure why. All she felt was a sharp pressure.

“Can’t…help it,” she said. White light shone, and she relaxed. The healing magic would flow into her, banish the pain like it had the past several nights. She was safe with Jerico. Safe…

“Sandra,” he said after several minutes. Sweat lined his forehead, and he wiped it away with his wrist. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m not sure I can heal this.”

She swallowed, tried to remain calm. Panic swelled in her breast, coupled with anger.

“You’ve healed worse,” she said. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it! Why me? Why this?”

Jerico grabbed her hand and clutched it with both of his.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I can do this, but I need you to stay with me. Can you do that, Sandra? Talk to me, Sandra. Sandra!”

A river ran through her mind, softly swaying side to side, and in it she was free of the pain, the fear, and the anger. She closed her eyes and let it carry her away.

Sandra!

Sandra…

She opened her eyes, that river suddenly gone. She knew time had passed, dimly aware of it in some instinctual way. Jerico knelt over her, and she saw his hands pressed against her stomach. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Guilt washed over her, for she realized he was praying, and it felt wrong to be present in a moment so private. But his words struck her, and she realized he was crying as he spoke.

“Don’t let me fail her,” Jerico said, his jaw trembling. It seemed like every part of him was fighting against losing control. “Don’t do this to me. I don’t know what I’ve done, where I erred, but don’t let her suffer for it. I can be stronger. I can do better. Please, your strength, not mine. Your strength, not mine…”

She reached out and touched his face. He stiffened, then looked to her, eyes red. He smiled.

“Sandra,” he said, and it seemed as if her very name swept away his sorrow.

She kissed his lips, then held him tight against her as the pain in her stomach slowly returned, and she was once more aware of the chill of the night, the soft cries of the crickets, and the way his strong arms kept her close.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. I think you were stabbed with a cursed dagger. I’ve done what I can. Everything else is in Ashhur’s hands.”

“Am I cured?”

“I don’t know. I’d need to examine the wound to be certain.”

She kissed him again.

“Not now,” she said. “Let me sleep without knowing.”

He gently lowered her back to the grass, then lay beside her, his arms carefully wrapped about her chest, his face pressed against her neck. The heat of the fire washed over her face.

“Thank you,” she said.

He gave no answer, only kissed the back of her neck. She fell asleep not long after, the rhythmic warmth of his breath against her ear.

Cyric helped his master and teacher prepare for departure, and did his best to hide his excitement. It wasn’t that he bore any ill will toward Luther-far from it. But this meant a chance to finally be on his own, to have a measure of trust placed upon him. With it came expectations, but he felt confident he could handle whatever the world threw at him. His faith in Karak was strong, after all.

“Remember to keep your patience when speaking to Daniel and Sir Robert,” Luther said as he folded together similar colored robes, then cinched the container tight. “They will never be faithful to Karak, but they can still be of use in our crusade against chaos.”

“They should be replaced if they will not bow to the true god,” Cyric said, hoisting a trunk of Luther’s things onto his shoulder.

“In time, my student. In time, all the world will bow. But it does not yet, and expecting perfection from this chaotic world will only lead to disappointment.”

Cyric led the way down the stairs to the outer wall, where the wagons waited.

“What you say sounds like defeat,” he said. He didn’t like arguing with Luther, but today he felt confident, proud. Luther was to leave fifty men in his care. He had every intention of using that gift to its utmost potential.

“Defeat and acceptance are not the same thing,” Luther said. Cyric could not see him, but he heard the impatience creeping into his voice. “You’ll understand one day, when you have walked across Dezrel as much as I.”

Cyric put the chest into the wagon and shoved it into place, then took Luther’s bag and gently tossed it in as well. That was the last of it, and all around them the armed men of Karak prepared to leave. Luther crossed his arms and looked Cyric over. The younger man held down a shiver. He hated when his master analyzed him so.