David Dalglish - The Old Ways

Not until he found vengeance for what they’d done to Robert.

Cyric’s men brought food and water into the barn only once, just after dawn. Darius reluctantly took his share. The people of Durham were clearly malnourished, but if he were to protect them in battle, it wouldn’t help to do so on an empty stomach.

“Is there a way up to that window?” he asked Jacob when he noticed the light streaming in through it. The window was up in the loft, and in answer, Jacob pointed to where a ladder had been.

“They broke it when they locked us in here,” he said.

“Where are the rest?” Gregory asked.

Jacob shrugged.

“They’ve got plenty at whatever they’re building in the center. Don’t know where the rest are. Maybe in a home or two, locked up like we are.”

Time crawled, and Darius spent much of it pacing and wondering what was going on outside.

“I trust my men to do their job,” Gregory said, relaxing in a pile of hay.

“And if they’re noticed? Interrogated?”

Gregory shrugged.

“Least we have our weapons. We’ll get to die fighting.”

Darius chuckled, and he leaned against a wall of the barn, wishing he could see out.

“You’re right, Gregory. That makes it so much better.”

“You whine like a child.”

Slowly, so slowly, but the day continued to pass. As night approached, a cold tension filled the air. Even locked away, the two could sense it, could hear it in the way the guards outside the barn talked, and in how the noise of the village dwindled. The many people around them started to fidget, murmur, or cry silently. Darius paced before the door, eager for the night to start, yet dreading it as well.

“What if they don’t come for us?” Jacob asked as the sun began to set.

“They will,” Darius said.

“And if they don’t?”

The paladin shrugged.

“I’ll break the damn door down.”

Jacob gestured to where Darius’s greatsword lay on the ground.

“Time’s running out. If you want to hide it, better get started.”

Darius looked about the men and women. He’d told them his plan, but he still did not like it.

“Who would be best?” he asked.

“I’ll do it,” said an elderly woman. Darius tried to remember her name. Ezre Reed-that was it. Gary’s mother.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I already walk with a limp,” she said. “No one will question an old woman hiding from the chill.”

Darius and Gregory exchanged a look.

“Your decision,” said the soldier.

Using some twine, they tied his sword to her side, the tip at her feet, the hilt tucked underneath her armpit. She took a few awkward steps. A smile lit up her wrinkled face.

“Not so heavy as I feared. Carrying my children was worse.”

Darius smiled back.

“Good. Now let’s get you protected from that cold, cold wind.”

Another couple handed over their blanket, and they wrapped her from head to toe. Her elbow hiding the bulge of the handle, she clutched the two edges of it and walked again. No sign of a weapon.

“Excellent,” Gregory said. “But next time, just bring a dagger.”

“Stay with me, near the very back, if you can,” Darius told her as she leaned against a wall, unable to sit because of the sword. “When I draw it, I might be in a hurry. My apologies in advance if I hurt you.”

“My son died when that evil man came,” she told him. “You could never hurt me more than you did then.”

Her bitter words stung, but whether that was her intent or not, he didn’t know. Looking to Gregory, he saw the man had hidden his shortsword by tying it against his inner thigh.

“Step carefully,” Darius told him, earning himself a rude gesture.

The door was flung open, startling them all. Six soldiers stood there, half holding torches. The light stung their eyes, and several let out cries.

“On your feet, all of you,” said one. “You all should be proud to bear witness to tonight’s miracle.”

Darius bit his tongue, and offered his hand to Ezre. She took it, then began limping along. Unable to bend her right knee, she hobbled forward, and put more and more weight against Darius. He helped her, always careful that the blanket did not pull back to reveal the blade.

“Hurry it up,” one of Cyric’s mercenaries told him.

Darius started to retort, but Ezre beat him to it.

“Hush you. I’ll get there when I get there.”

The soldier blinked for a moment, stunned by the outburst, then laughed.

“Remind me of my own ma,” he said, then struck her across the face. “Hated my ma.”

Darius caught her, and his heart skipped as he felt the handle of his sword press against him. Ezre straightened herself out, moaning only a little. The blanket fell loose, covering the blade again. The guard did not notice, instead turning his back to them and ushering others along.

“I’m sorry,” Darius whispered to her.

“I’ll be fine,” Ezre said. “Took worse from my husband for saying less.”

“Stay near the back. When we take our place, start untying the twine.”

She lifted a curled hand as they walked toward the center of the village, far behind the other people of Durham.

“My hands can’t thread a needle like they used to,” she said. “You’ll have to do it.”

He nodded, not sure how he would do it, but knowing he had little choice in the matter. Trying to fight his nerves, he brought his attention to the spectacle at hand. A great altar waited in the clearing, and it looked like something out of his old lessons at the Stronghold. Stone slabs joined together to form an enormous altar, propped up by wood where necessary. At least four men could lie flat on top of it, but Darius felt certain that Cyric would do just one at a time. He wanted this to last. He wanted to revel in his return to the old ways.

Darius hoped to ruin all his fun.

They stopped at the back of the crowd. Soldiers kept them separated from the original inhabitants of Willshire, who were lined up on the opposite side of the altar. Tied to it were the twenty he’d seen the night before. They looked haggard and tired, and he knew many of them. They’d endured the wolf-men, survived Velixar’s assault, and now this. It was amazing that any still clung to life, given the horrors they’d faced. If Ashhur were kind, he’d make sure this was the last.

Standing at the center of the altar was Cyric. The very sight of him twisted Darius’s stomach. His eyes were a deep red. They weren’t the burning fire of Velixar’s, but his smile, his robes, were all eerily similar. Most remarkable was how young he was, and how overwhelmed he was by his faith. Beside him was a paladin of Karak, steadfast and quiet as he protected his master, an enormous ax strapped to his back. Darius vaguely recognized him from his time training in the Stronghold, an old veteran named Salaul.

“A joyous night!” Cyric kept repeating. “Such a joyous night!”

Gregory slipped through the crowd and took up a spot beside him.

“See the others?” Darius asked, speaking low, as if he were just muttering to himself.

“Behind Cyric, the house with two windows.”

Darius saw the building, but the windows looked empty to him.

“Gavin and Kris?”

“Believe so. Let’s pray their arrows are accurate.”

“The other three?”

Gregory nodded toward the large group of people from Willshire.

“He’s in there. Spoke to him for a moment. No one came in or out. We should have them…shit.”

Cyric had been speaking, and then he gestured grandly toward the road. Marching in was a small group of mercenaries, about fifteen in number. In the center walked a woman wearing a silver crown upon her forehead, a long violet cloak, and armor that was both regal and deadly with its sleek lines and dark silver hue.