David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“It was a mercy,” he said.

“Mercy?” Darius felt his fury swell. “Mercy!”

He rushed the man, struck him with his fists. The heavy gauntlets smashed into Grick’s nose and teeth. Darius flung him to the ground, kicked, and then fell upon him, his hands clutching the front of his shirt.

“Mercy?” he shouted. “You killed a child, and you call it mercy?”

“Gacy woulda kept her,” Grick said, spitting out blood and a tooth so he could talk. “Woulda taken her, done…we didn’t know she was in the wagon, and the parents died fighting back. She’s just a little girl, no ma, no pa. It was mercy, please listen, either that or Gacy.”

No warning this time, no certainty from Ashhur that he spoke a lie. Darius thought of the wounded man Velixar had brought him to, bleeding and in pain. Killing wasn’t a punishment, Velixar had said. It was a mercy. Staring down at the thief, Darius saw pieces of himself, of what Velixar had sought to create, only in a far more terrible light.

“I made sure she felt nothing,” Grick said when Darius said nothing. His words broke the silence, and Darius stood.

“We have no time for a burial,” he said. “We’ll burn them, just as you should have.”

By the time the pyre was complete, night was upon them. Darius felt tired, his armor heavy on his body. The fire burned, and in it, Darius thought he saw a glimpse of the Abyss, and Velixar’s mocking smile. This was the world he defended. These were the people Darius had sworn to defend, to save, when he sided with Jerico over Karak.

“How much farther is the town?” Darius asked Grick as the smell of burnt flesh and hair filled the air.

“Another four miles,” Grick said.

“Too far, then. We’ll stay here for the night.”

They moved to the cluster of trees and built a small fire. Darius chewed on his lip, then removed the rope from around Grick’s neck, leaving only the tight cords about his wrists.

“I won’t leave you hog-tied through the night,” Darius said, settling down opposite the fire and the trees. “You’ll want to run, I’m sure, but know that I can track you. I’ve been trained for this, Grick. I know where you’d go, how you’d hide, and I can’t promise to control myself the next time I find you.”

“Then what do you want me for?” Grick asked, pressing his hands against his neck and rubbing the raw flesh.

“To deliver you to justice. Like I said, we’ll let the townspeople decide your fate.”

“Then just kill me now. You know that’s what they’ll do.”

Darius rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. Yes, he did know that. What in the gods’ names was he doing? What did he hope to accomplish?

“You killed people,” Darius said. “You know you must be punished.”

“You killed Gacy. Don’t see no one punishing you.”

“Children,” Darius said. “You killed children.”

“Yeah, I did, and I did it to protect her. You saying you never done something like that?”

Darius opened his mouth, then closed it. The praying family flashed before his eyes, followed by Velixar’s laughter echoing in his ears. Yes, he had. And Jerico had forgiven him for all of it. And now Ashhur placed his trust in him. Damn it, why couldn’t things remain simple?

“Yes,” Darius said quietly. “I have. And then I flung myself to my knees and demanded that my friend deliver justice.”

Grick shifted against the tree he leaned against.

“Why didn’t he kill you?” he asked.

Darius chuckled.

“Because he’s a better man than I.”

He rolled over, clutched the hilt of his sword. When he spoke, he did not look at Grick, did not want to see his reaction.

“Go if you wish, thief. I don’t know what is right anymore. You deserve death, but then again, so do I. So go. Let someone who can sleep through the night decide your fate. Run away from your punishment. When the gods one day find you on your deathbed, may they possess greater wisdom than I.”

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He heard rustling several times, but Ashhur cried no warning in his ear. At last sleep came for him, and he dreamt of a little girl running through a field, flowers in her hair, her face lit with a smile.

When Darius woke, Grick lay against the same tree, his head lolled to one side. His neck was slit, and blood soaked the front of his clothes. Valessa stood beside him, grinning. Darius grabbed his sword, but Valessa only laughed at him.

“Ashhur protected you from me,” she said. “But not him. What does that mean, Darius? Can you answer?”

She stepped through the tree and vanished.

“What does it mean?” Darius asked, fighting away the lump in his throat. “It means I must bury him. That’s what it means.”

He spent the morning digging the grave and the afternoon filling it back up with dirt. He gave a quick prayer over it, for he knew not what else to say.

“I know nothing of him but his sins,” Darius whispered to the cold evening air. “But he stayed. I pray that meant something.”

The grave went unmarked, and traveling east, Darius did his best to think no more on it.

Robert awoke before dawn, as he often did, but this time he felt unease the moment he opened his eyes. Something was awry, but what? With Luther’s departure, along with the vast bulk of his private troops, he’d hoped things would return to normal. Of course, the younger priest had remained. The way Cyric looked at him when they talked always put a queer twisting into his gut. As he dressed, Robert felt certain the priest was to blame for his current unease.

It felt foolish to fear anything in his own tower, surrounded by his own troops, but he took his sword with him anyway. Dressed, armed, and finished with his pre-dawn rituals, he traveled down the stairs, feeling particularly fat and old that morning. Two men guarded the doorway to his tower, and by the way they saluted him, Robert knew something bothered them as well.

“We weren’t sure if we should wake you,” one said when pressed for an explanation.

“I’m awake now,” Robert snapped. “Tell me.”

“The priest…” said the other, then shrugged. “Best you follow me, see for yourself.”

Robert followed the guard to the northern side, toward where Karak’s followers had relocated their camp. The cause of the guard’s apprehension was immediately apparent. Within the circular wall protecting the tower they’d begun building a structure of impressive size. Its center was of stone, though where they’d found it, Robert couldn’t begin to guess. What looked like stairs were on either side, built of thick slabs of wood. Four pits marked the corners, each one already thick with flame.

“What in Karak’s name is that?” Robert wondered aloud.

“It’s an altar,” said the guard.

“An altar? For what?”

He had no answer, and Robert dismissed him back to his post. The sun was just creeping above the horizon, and it cast a red hue across the clouds. Together with the fires, it gave a strange look to the altar that Robert liked not one bit. His eyes lingered on it as he approached, and his attention shifted from it only when stopped by Cyric himself.

“Welcome, knight,” Cyric said, his smile ear to ear. Robert nodded, just a curt greeting, until he noticed the change that had overcome the priest. He looked healthier, stronger. Once he’d been nothing but a child with his nose in a book, but now…there was an aura, a glow. Now he appeared dangerous. His skin was darker, though perhaps that was just a trick of the poor light. His eyes were different too, he realized. Instead of a baby blue, they were a deep red, as if his irises had begun to bleed.