David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“I will.”

Cobb stretched, and his back popped several times.

“I should join my family.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor in Sandra’s room, if that’s all right with you.”

“I thought you might,” Cobb said, and he smiled. “And Jerico…if it’s you she’s wanting, you might consider just how important taking down Lord Sebastian really is.”

He went inside. Finally alone, Jerico looked to the stars. He wanted to pray for guidance, but he was too damn tired.

“Tomorrow,” he promised the stars. “And thank you.”

Jerico returned to Sandra’s room. He put his hand against the side of her face, checking there was no fever. She slept deeply, with no appearance of pain. For that, he was thankful. Cobb’s words came to him, but he pushed them away. He had no energy for that. Beside her bed he found a blanket laid out for him, when and by whom, he could only guess. Wrapping himself in it, he closed his eyes and fell asleep within moments.

Darius was stunned to be awake. His back hurt like the Abyss, his left arm was asleep, and the red mark on his forehead would probably never vanish…but somehow, he was alive.

“Huh,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned.”

Well, maybe not quite, he thought with a chuckle. That was, after all, the entire point of what he was fighting against.

He ate his meager breakfast, always with an eye out for Valessa. It made no sense, really, why she hadn’t killed him in his sleep. How she’d mocked him, taunted him with that fate. She could wait, she’d said, yet Ashhur had commanded him to sleep, and no dagger had found his throat. It was a miracle, one he felt woefully unworthy of. Not that he’d complain. It was still vastly better than the alternative.

Darius caught sight of her only once as he gathered his things, watching from behind a distant tree. She looked like herself, plain-garbed and furious. When she realized she’d been spotted, she vanished. Darius saluted her direction, then continued east, toward the Gihon River. Once he reached it, he could follow it north to the Blood Tower. Sir Robert Godley, issuer of the bounty on his head, would be there. As he’d told Jerico, he’d explain everything and demand that the bounty be removed before anyone got hurt.

And if Robert refused…

Darius tried to not think about that.

Valessa bothered him little as the next days passed. Several times Darius felt a tingle in the back of his mind, and he’d turn, readying his sword. If she’d been planning to attack, she backed down at his reaction. At no point did he feel safe, nor relinquish his weapon. Even when he took a piss, he held the hilt in one hand, his dick in the other. Valessa might not think it honorable killing a man while he relieved himself, but he’d seen the madness in her eyes. As long as he died, he felt pretty sure she’d be content.

Every night he knelt in an open space or field, for he’d left the forest long behind him. He stabbed his sword into the dirt before him, closed his eyes, and slept. Every night, he expected death, and prayed Ashhur would take him. Every morning, he awoke shaking his head and chuckling.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that Darius encountered another human being. He walked a dirt path between great fields stretching north to south on either side. Gold wheat blew in the wind, and he ran his hands across their stalks. Half a mile beyond the Stronghold there had been a field, and a long time ago Darius used to play in it, weaving hidden from the world through the wheat when he was supposed to be performing his daily prayers. He’d been caught once, and that once was enough to ensure he never did it again.

His hand dropped to his side. Karak had stolen away his childhood. Surely that alone proved the destructiveness of the Stronghold. Lost in memories of rigid canings, forced prayers, and constant reaffirming of the chaos in his heart, he barely noticed the approaching wagon until it was right on top of him.

“Hold!” Darius called out, waving his arms at the approaching driver. A wagon meant supplies, and food, both of which he was running low on. What little coin he had should get him to the Gihon, and from there it was just a matter of time until he spotted one of their patrols along the river.

Two men sat at the front of the covered wagon, which was pulled by a pair of heavily panting oxen. Their clothes were the color of dirt and toil, their faces unshaven. They said something to one another, then issued a command with the reins. Darius knew nothing of how to drive a wagon, but he could tell when one wasn’t slowing. Frowning, he waved his arms again, making sure to keep his sword sheathed.

“Hold, I wish to trade,” he shouted. “I am a paladin, and mean you no harm!”

The men appeared unwilling to run over a champion of the gods, and finally slowed, close enough for Darius to reach out and touch the noses of the oxen.

“Could you move?” the driver asked Darius.

“Certainly,” Darius said. “Though I’d prefer we talk first. I’ve run low on supplies, and wonder if you have any to spare?”

The men exchanged a look.

“I can pay,” he insisted.

“Not got much to trade,” said the larger man beside the driver. “I suggest you move on. Town’s not far back behind us. Buy your fill there.”

Darius tried to show no insult for their inhospitable nature. While at times he’d received preferential treatment for his allegiance to Karak, he also knew there were plenty who wished nothing to do with the gods’ champions, or any matter of faith. With dark paladins hunting those of Ashhur all across Dezrel, they also might not wish to traffic with either side, lest they be caught in the middle.

“Just a scrap of food,” Darius said, doing his best to show he posed no danger. “I will pay fair prices, and be grateful for your kindness.”

Still they looked at one another, neither saying a thing.

“It’s that, or you run me over,” Darius said, his patience wearing thin. “I’m not moving.”

“Fine,” said the driver. “Grick will see what we can spare, if you’ll curl around to the back.”

“Much appreciated,” Darius said, bowing. He walked past the wagon, smacking one of the oxen across its muscular side. Grick vanished into the covering. For a brief moment Darius thought the driver might resume now the road was clear, but he did not. At the rear of the wagon, Darius peered inside. Various bags and crates were stacked to either side. Many of them were already open. Grick wandered around them, as if unsure of what he was looking for.

“On the way to market?” Darius asked.

“Huh?” Grick looked over at him, then shrugged. “Yeah, right. Been lean, so me and Gacy thought to take some things to sell down at Murkland. Now where…”

Darius watched him search as a cold feeling settled in his stomach. When Grick turned aside, Darius stepped closer, and peered at the visible boards of the wagon.

Dried blood.

“So are you and Gacy brothers?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Brothers?” Grick chuckled. “Yeah, we’re brothers. Ain’t we brothers, Gacy?”

“Just shut up and sell him what he wants,” Gacy shouted from the front.

A strange sensation hit Darius, though it was less of a sensation and more of a certainty. He knew, without a shred of doubt, Grick had just spoken a lie.

“Poor wagon looks like it’s been through plenty of hard winters,” Darius said, making casual conversation. “Had it long?”

“Yeah,” Grick said, pulling out two loaves of bread from a sack. “Had it forever, it seems.”

Another lie. Darius knew that Jerico had always possessed the ability to detect truth, and now it seemed Ashhur had granted him the same gift. Darius slowly pulled his sword off his back and rested it across his shoulder.