David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“I am a weary traveler searching for shelter,” Lathaar said. “Might I enter?”

“What’s your name?”

In answer the paladin drew his sword and let its light shine across his face.

“Good lord, you’re back,” the person on the other side exclaimed. “We’ve been hoping for your return.”

Lathaar heard bolts being slid from the door, followed by a loud crack. The door swung inward. An old man dressed in white robes stood there, a large medallion shaped like a mountain hanging from his neck. His hair was in a frazzled mess.

“Lijah!” the man shouted. “Come get his horse and take it around back.” A young boy appeared from further in. His face was scarred with acne, and his left hand a tangled mess. With his good right arm he reached out for the reigns. Lathaar handed them over, smiled at the boy, and then outright grinned at the old man.

“Been a long time, Keziel. I see your hair hasn’t fallen out yet.”

“Still your tongue and get in here,” Keziel said. “I have a guest that’s been dying to meet you.”

Keziel grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. The hallway was cramped but the ceiling was incredibly high. Torches decorated both sides, lighting the place well. The priest turned and hurried past a few doors to a sharp right turn. The place rapidly expanded into a great room. A fire roared in a giant oven, and various rugs made of animal skins lined the floor. Sitting on one before the fire, turning pages to a small book, was a man dressed in platemail. Upon seeing Lathaar, he startled to his feet and grabbed his mace, which rest next to him against the wall.

“Draw your sword,” the man said, flicking his head so his long red hair did not block his vision.

“What nonsense is this,” Keziel shouted. “Put that down!”

“I said draw your sword,” the stranger insisted. His free hand reached back and grabbed a handle on the shield that hung from his back. Lathaar grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew it, holding it before his eyes so that the blue glow illuminated the features of his face.

“It is drawn,” he said. “Now what is it you wish from me?”

To his surprise, the stranger suddenly relaxed, and he lowered his mace.

“Ashhur be praised,” he said. “It’s been so long.”

“What’s going on here, Keziel?” Lathaar asked. He remained still as a stone, tensed for a trap.

“This is all just a misunderstanding. Jerico, did you have to get him all riled up?”

The man Lathaar assumed to be Jerico pulled his shield off his back and held it before his chest.

“Lathaar, paladin of Ashhur,” he said, a huge smile overcoming him. “You are no longer alone.”

And then his shield flared with the light of Ashhur, as equally bright as the glow that surrounded Lathaar’s sword.

“Your name,” Lathaar said, his mouth dropping open in shock.

“Jerico of the Citadel, paladin of Ashhur. The more attractive of the two last paladins.”

Lathaar was still too stunned to argue as his mind tried to wrap around the joyous fact that he was no longer the last.

S o how did you survive?” Lathaar asked once the two were seated comfortably before the fire. Lathaar’s armor was piled into one corner, waiting to be cleaned. Jerico’s was beside it, with the square shield propped atop. Each held bowls of warm soup that Keziel had brought them.

“I dreamt of the Citadel falling,” Jerico explained in between sips from the bowl. It tasted of potatoes and broth, and he loved the warmth down his throat. “It was too real to be just a dream. I would have thought it a warning from Ashhur, but it was too sad, too…final. I wasn’t far from Mordeina at the time, and I assure you, that was not a good place to be. All the priests and paladins for Karak came out in force, in far greater numbers than you’ll ever see in Neldar.”

“I’ve fought plenty,” Lathaar said, blowing against the steam that hovered above his own bowl. “I spent much of the past two years either with Tarlak or the priests here. I’ve got quite a tale for you, once you have the time to hear it.”

“I have a few of my own,” Jerico assured him. “But Keziel has already told me much of what you’ve done. Slaying Darakken, eh? And what’s this nonsense I hear about an Elholad?”

Lathaar grinned and pulled out his sword. At his command, it shone pure white, so bright and powerful that the metal seemed to vanish away within the glow. When he sheathed the blade Jerico gave him a few joking claps.

“It seems Ashhur had a plan sparing the two of us, although I cannot claim such amazing exploits as you. I returned to the Citadel after six months, just to be sure no dog of Karak waited for me. It was there I found Bonebreaker.” He pointed to his mace. “Do you remember Jaeger? Big guy, hair redder than mine? That was his mace. I found it just laying in the grass, abandoned. I took it and then fled to the Vile Wedge. Killed a few orcs, maimed a few goblins, and just roamed. Didn’t know why, or what I was waiting for, but then a young paladin of Karak mentioned your name before I killed him.”

“I’ve become something of an obsession for them,” Lathaar said, a bit of joy leaving his eyes. “Especially one in particular. But that is for another time.” He slurped down the rest of his bowl. “For now, I need sleep.”

“Amen to that,” Jerico said. “I’m glad you arrived, though. Ashhur brought us here for a reason. I hadn’t seen Keziel since the Citadel fell, and when I return, you show up within days of my own arrival.”

“I’m not sure I want to imagine why,” Lathaar said, grinning. “I’ve seen what he’ll throw at just one of his paladins. What does he think the two of us can handle?”

Jerico laughed.

“I’ll pray for both of us. Good night, Lathaar.”

“You too, Jerico.”

Jerico left for the only spare room while Lathaar curled his blankets tighter and scooted closer to the fire. After the month of riding, he finally felt at home. Still, sleep proved elusive. His mind kept drifting back to Tessanna, black wings arching out her back as she howled in the rain. He had seen that face before. He had seen it on Mira. Come the morning, he planned on finding out just what Keziel knew.

P rayer dominated all the morning rituals of the Sanctuary, and the sound of worship to Ashhur was constant. Keziel, being the eldest, attended the youngest at the prayers, and counseled those who were troubled. Lathaar remained patient, letting him complete his rounds before he would take him aside to talk. To pass the time, the two paladins sparred.

The ground was rough and cold but relatively flat on the north side of the Sanctuary, so they scraped a rough circle into the dirt. Lathaar wielded his longsword and shortsword, while Jerico twirled his mace while his shield remained on his back.

“Been a long time since I sparred with a paladin,” Lathaar said, stretching his arms. “Brings back plenty of good memories.”

“You were Mornida’s pupil, weren’t you?” Jerico asked. “Thought so. I remember hearing all this nonsense about prodigy and whatnot, some whelp of a kid five years younger than me that Lolathan died healing.”

“He was not punished by Ashhur,” Lathaar said.

“Easy there. Didn’t say he was. But I remember the whispers.”

Lathaar grabbed his ankle and stretched.

“Going to ready your shield?”

Jerico shrugged. “I don’t tell you when to draw your swords, do

“Very well.”

Neither wore their armor at Lathaar’s insistence. It was just a harmless sparring match, not a competition, and he trusted each other to be skilled enough with their weapons. With a nod, they began.

Lathaar slashed with his longsword, keeping his shorter blade back and ready. Jerico parried it aside, grinning as he did. When the shortsword thrust in, straight for his gut, he had already stepped to the side. As it passed his exposed skin, he slapped it away with his mace.