David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“Time hasn’t been kind to the Silver,” Darius remarked.

“Ain’t nothing the wilderness is kind to,” said a soldier. “Least of all those trying to keep order.”

Two men at the docks threw them ropes. Once they were looped about the boat’s front they pulled them in. Darius was led out first.

“Who’s he?” asked one of the men on the dock.

“A guest,” said the patrol leader. “Where’s Daniel?”

The soldier jerked a thumb behind him to the tower.

“He’s asleep in his room. Where else would he be?”

“Then go wake him. And don’t ask me why, or how important it is. That’s an order, now go.”

The leader turned back to Darius.

“We have a small dungeon, fit for only a man or two. I plan on taking you there, where no one else but Daniel will know you’ve arrived. Will you come peacefully?”

Darius chuckled.

“Lead on. Just take care of my sword, will you?”

At the western side of the tower, dug into the earth like a cellar, was their dungeon. Darius stepped inside as the soldier locked him in. The only light came between the bars of the slender window in the door. The walls were cold stone, and he could touch every side from where he stood in the center. Man or two? No kidding. He shuddered to think of sharing such a small space with another.

Of course, such tight walls meant little to Valessa. Without his sword, he had nothing to fend her off, no light to burn her shadowed flesh. He could only hope and pray she did not show until after his business with Daniel was done. Time wore on, and though the night was deep, Darius had no desire to sleep. At last he heard a commotion on the other side of the door, and then it opened. Holding his hand to block the torchlight hurting his eyes, Darius smiled and stood.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, bowing. “I’m Darius, who once hailed from the Stronghold.”

“Where do you hail from now?” asked the man. He was slender, but carried the scars of battle, and his eyes sparkled with wary intelligence.

“If the Citadel still stood, it might be from there,” Darius said. “But for now, I guess I am without home or country.”

The man leaned against the door and crossed his arms.

“I’m Daniel Coldmine, lieutenant for Sir Robert Godley. Do you remember me, Darius?”

Darius lowered his hand, his eyes finally adjusting. He better saw Daniel’s face, and then nodded.

“You helped us fight the wolf-men at Durham.”

“I did. Robert and I pushed our men night and day to reach you in time, to save the life of that little town. Yet all that’s left now is ruin and graves. Tell me why, Darius. Why would you turn on those you once protected?”

Darius saw that Daniel held a knife, barely concealed between his arms. This was it, Darius realized. No court. No appearance before Robert. Looking into Daniel’s eyes, he knew the man could not care less for the bounty. Either he gave Daniel a worthy answer, or kissed his life goodbye.

“I was a fool,” Darius said softly. “I was desperate, and afraid. I feared I had lived my entire life as a lie to Karak, and then a prophet came to me, offering proof. Offering meaning. He brought me back to Durham, and demanded they kneel in faith to Karak, or perish. I was to execute all who refused.”

Daniel shifted his arms. The blade glinted in the torchlight.

“Did you?”

Darius rubbed at his eyes as the horrible memories came back.

“No,” he said. “I could not. I don’t know who lived, who died, but ask them if you must. Ask Jeremy Hangfield. Ask Jacob Wheatley. I begged them to run. The prophet would return, and I couldn’t stop him. At the time, I thought no one could…”

He shook his head.

“I see the anger in your eyes, and I will not deny it. Please, before you act, tell me how many survived. Let me go to eternity, be it fire or gold, knowing at least that.”

Daniel remained silent for a very long time.

“Little over a hundred,” he said at last. “And they’ve told me, same as you, that you begged them to run. That doesn’t make you innocent, Darius. A boy who sets a house aflame, then yells for those inside to flee the fire, still deserves his lashes.”

He moved to close the door, then stopped.

“That prophet,” he asked. “Did anyone ever stop him?”

“I did,” Darius said. He knew he should feel proud, but strangely did not. “I cut off his damn head.”

Again Daniel fell silent. He was working something out, Darius could tell, but what?

“Things have changed since the battle at the Green Gulch,” Daniel said, leaning against the door. “Two priests of Karak arrived at the Blood Tower, demanding that we hand you over to them. They want the North to worship their god forever. One of them, a pissant named Cyric, led a revolt against us. He sacrificed his own men to bring about strange creatures made of fire, and hurled arrows of shadow from his palms. Few of us escaped, and I don’t know the fate of those we left behind.”

Daniel struck the door with his fist.

“You say you killed this prophet,” he said. “The one who many of Durham said wielded killing flame with his hands, and whose eyes shone red like the Abyss. Can you kill Cyric?”

“Release me, and I will try my best to end his threat.”

“I don’t need you to try. I need a fucking promise. Will you help me reclaim my tower, save Robert, and send that priest to the grave where he belongs?”

Darius fell to one knee and bowed his head.

“For what I have done, I’ve only begun to atone for. If Cyric wishes to continue what the prophet started, then I’ll deliver him the same fate. You have no reason to fear my blade, Daniel. Karak is my god no longer.”

“That’ll do. I’ve set up a second room for you, which should be far more accommodating than this. My guard will show you the way. Sleep well. We have much to discuss come morning if we’re to retake the tower.”

They left the farm, the Williams refusing to accept any coin Jerico offered them.

“You’ve helped enough,” Cobb said. “You worked the fields, and told my boys stories of lands they’ll never, ever see. I just hope you think on what I told you. No reason for you to get yourself killed for any man other than yourself.”

“My life’s not worth much,” Jerico said in return. “Not much need to be protective of it now. Safe days, farmer.”

“You too, paladin.”

They traveled northwest, following the road. Cobb had assured him it would lead to the Castle of Caves, so long as he took every northern fork. On his back, Jerico carried an impressive collection of provisions, and Sandra had a bag of traveling bread as well. That first night, they ate until both felt ready to burst, then lay down on their bedrolls. They camped in the open, in a field not far from the road.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sandra said as they stared up at the stars. “You don’t owe Beth, nor my brother. We all owe you, if anything.”

“Trying to convince me to turn tail, Sandra?”

“Trying to convince you to live. Surely you have something better to do with your life. Someone better to spend it with.”

Jerico looked away, not wanting her to see the confusion and doubt on his face.

“It’s what I must do,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because if I run now, if I try to save myself instead of helping those who need it, then what was the point of me surviving when all others have fallen?”

He felt her hand brush against his arm. His entire body stiffened.

“I can think of several reasons.”

Jerico rolled over to face her, and he took her hands in his.

“You won’t change my mind, Sandra. The closer you get to me, the more likely you’ll be hurt. I have no home, no place I will ever be safe. I…I don’t think…”