David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“Where’d you get it?” he asked.

Grick was about to offer the bread, but paused. Something in Darius’s voice must have set him off, for he pulled back.

“Asking a lot of questions, mister,” Grick said. “Why you care about my wagon?”

“I don’t. I care about what you and Gacy did to the original owners.”

“Go!” Grick shouted, ducking further into the covering. Darius climbed after him. On his knees amid stolen goods and atop wood stained red with blood, he felt his anger rise. Before he could take to his feet, Grick was back, knife in hand. He lunged, the small blade aimed for Darius’s throat. It was a meager weapon, suitable for robbing peasants, not combat with an armed professional. Darius smacked it aside with his gauntleted hand, then kicked himself forward. The headbutt knocked Grick to his rear. The ensuing kick sent the knife flying.

The wagon shuddered as it started to move, and then Gacy was there, climbing over the divider between the front seat and the rest of the wagon. He wielded a heavy club, and swung it overhead with all his strength. Darius blocked it with his sword, kicked Grick again when he tried to get up, and then swung. His sword slashed across Gacy’s arm, severing tendons. Howling in pain, Gacy leapt at Darius, his hands reaching to strangle him.

Darius reacted as he’d been trained to a thousand times. Stepping back, he put the tip of his sword between them and let the man impale himself on the blade. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the man away and pulled his sword free. The body collapsed on the floor beside Grick, arms and legs sprawled atop various crates. Grick’s lower lip quivered, and he pushed at the corpse.

“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Take it. Take the wagon; it’s yours, all of it, yours. Just don’t kill me!”

Darius pressed the tip of his blade against Grick’s throat. Blood trickled down the sword, obscuring the blue glow beneath. His pulse pounding in his ears, Darius tried to think, tried to decide what Jerico would do.

“You’re thieves, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Grick.

“You stole this wagon, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I…I didn’t want to, it was Gacy’s idea, I swear.”

“Shut up!”

Darius felt his jaw begin to tremble, so he clenched it tighter. He ground his teeth as he fought for calm.

“What did you do to them?” he asked. “What did you do to some poor farmers on their way to market? Tell me, Grick.”

“We just roughed ‘em up,” Grick said. “I swear, roughed them up, but they’re alive. We left them alive.”

Again came that certainty. The man spoke a lie.

“They’re dead,” Darius whispered. The tip of his sword pressed harder against Grick’s neck. “That makes you a thief and a murderer.”

“Please, no,” the man said, barely understandable between his sobs. He was a wretched man, poor, uneducated, without a shred of courage. His skin barely clung to his bones. Yet he had taken a life. Many lives, most likely. Gacy was already dead, and Darius could only imagine Jerico’s unhappiness at that. But what was he to do? Turn them over to the law, and risk capture himself? Let them go free, with an easily broken promise to do no wrong?

Mercy over vengeance, Jerico had said. Grace over condemnation. But what of justice? Grick continued to sob, and in Darius’s mind, he became the wounded stranger that Karak’s prophet Velixar had brought him to on a dark night. Velixar’s lesson was that killing could be done for good, that the ending of a life was a mercy. How could Darius reject Karak’s teachings, yet desire nothing more than to shove his sword right through Grick’s throat? He would not be a hypocrite. Darius would rather be a failure-or a weakling-than a hypocrite.

“Get up,” he said. He saw a coil of rope in the corner and gestured to it. “Grab it, and step out of the wagon. Slowly. If you run, I will chase you down and make sure you get every scrap of pain you deserve. Have I made myself clear?”

Grick nodded.

“Good. Now do it.”

The man slowly stepped out from the wagon, wincing every time the tip of Darius’s sword nudged his back. When they were both out, Darius tied one end around Grick’s wrists, then looped it about his neck, always careful to keep an eye out for Valessa in case she thought it an opportune moment to strike. When finished, he took the other end and held it while he replenished his store of food from the wagon.

“We’re going to travel the way you came, Grick. You’ll lead. We’ll find those bodies, and if you and your bastard friend didn’t bury them, then we’ll do that, too. After that, we head to town, find someone who knew the people you killed, someone related. They’ll decide your fate. But first…”

He nodded toward the wagon.

“Grab Gacy out of there. You have a body to bury.”

Darius left him plenty of slack as Grick climbed inside and dragged out Gacy’s body by a leg.

“In the field,” Darius said when Grick paused.

“What am I going to dig with?” Grick asked.

“The gods gave you hands for a reason. Now start.”

“What about the wagon? You just gonna leave it here? Someone will take it.”

Darius chuckled. The irony was not lost on him.

“Then let’s pray whoever finds it is much more deserving of it than you.”

He watched Grick dig as the sun crawled across the sky. Progress was slow in the hard ground. Darius did his best to feel no compassion, no remorse, as the cuts grew across Grick’s hands. He was a murderer, after all. Karak would have had him executed, the old ways even calling for his sacrifice upon an altar. Glancing down at the scratched off lion on his chest, Darius reminded himself he was slave to those ways no longer. Blood dripped across the shallow groove that was Gacy’s grave.

“Slide over,” Darius said as he jammed his sword into the dirt, still within arm’s reach. “I killed him. This is my grave to dig, too.”

Together they tore into the ground with their hands, until at last there was enough space for a body. Darius dragged Gacy into it, and then covered it with what dirt they had. It was not enough, and Darius knew wild animals would soon come to dig it up. Still, there was little else he could do. If not wild animals, then the worms would have him, but at least they’d done something.

“Come on,” Darius said, grabbing his sword. “Walk.”

Darius had no desire to chat, and thankfully Grick picked up on it. In silence they traveled down the dirt road, Grick ahead, Darius holding the rope like the other man was some sort of pet. The hours spent digging the grave had killed much of the day, and by the time they found a trio of trees growing beside the road, the sun had begun to set.

“There,” Grick said, pointing toward the trees. “That’s where we hid. Bodies should be around here someplace.”

It wasn’t difficult to find where they’d been dumped. Darius just followed the blood. There were three bodies. Two were husband and wife, lying side by side as if they would stay together even in death. At their feet, face down, was the body of a child. Darius rolled her over so he could see her face, see the bugs crawling across her pale skin, see the trickle of blood dripping from her nose to her mouth. The paladin swallowed hard, and he heard Velixar’s voice in his head, mocking him.

What say you now, Darius? Is this man worth the time, the effort? Run your sword through him, and make this world a better place. Or do you still see compassion as a virtue, and not a weakness?

“Why?” Darius asked, turning to the thief. “Why did you kill the child, too? You had their things. You had their wagon.”

Grick stepped back, reaching the extent of the rope. It tightened about his neck, and he winced.