David Dalglish - Clash of Faiths

Jerico glanced down at himself. Good question. What could he do unarmed and unarmored versus such an opponent? Still, no others would die for him.

“Let him pass!” Jerico shouted. “I stand here on open ground. Face me, dog of Karak!”

Reluctantly the crowd relented, and Kren burst forth, running as fast as he could in his armor. Jerico tensed. Mobility was his only defense. Even with superior faith, he had no item to project that power through, negating any other potential advantage he might have had.

Kren tried to gut him without slowing his charge, no doubt trusting his armor to protect him should they collide. Jerico twisted, avoiding just in time. Kren’s feet skidded across the ground, and he changed directions before Jerico could dodge again. Blood splashed over them both as the blade wounded his chest. Crying out in pain, Jerico fell to one knee, avoiding a blow that would have taken off his neck. Lunging, he wrapped Kren in a grapple, attempting to lift him from his feet. Kren’s shield jammed into his shoulder, and the weight was too great. Unable to complete the tackle, Jerico shifted again, positioning his leg behind Kren’s knee. The hilt of Kren’s sword rammed down on the top of his head. Forcing through the pain, he shoved again, knocking the dark paladin to his back.

By now the crowd had reformed, and they were hurling insults and hissing at Kren. As Jerico pinned Kren’s sword, he wished the crowd would do something useful, like tossing him a shield. He managed a few solid blows before Kren pulled his shield high enough to protect himself. The dark paladin struggled, unable to lift his sword with Jerico pinning his wrist, but armored as he was and his face now protected, Jerico knew he had little chance to do any more damage.

Unless…

Hoping surprise would be on his side, he shifted so that his left knee pinned the blade. Fire burned into his flesh, and he screamed, but he did not relent. With both hands, he clutched Kren’s shield, pulling it aside. Kren turned his head, expecting another blow, but that wasn’t Jerico’s plan. Instead he grabbed the inner handle, attempting to wrestle away control. Kren fought, but as Jerico gained further control, he saw a blessed sight: the light of his faith burning across the outer surface of the shield, peeling away the lion and turning the black paint to gold.

“I will break you!” Kren screamed. “You’re a blasphemy! I will burn you with fire!”

Doing a good enough job already, Jerico thought, his entire left knee throbbing in unbearable pain. As the light swelled on his shield, Jerico lifted it higher, trying to press it against Kren’s flesh. Before he could, Kren released the shield completely, and his fist smashed against Jerico’s leg while filled with the fury of his god.

“ Heretic! ”

The dark energies swirled through his already wounded leg, bursting burnt flesh and shattering the bones of his knee. Jerico fell back, his mind white with pain. On pure instinct he clutched his shield before him, his only defense. Kren rose to his feet, blood dripping from his nose and one side of his face burned from where his cursed helmet had begun to melt from the proximity to the holy shield.

“My faith is stronger,” Kren said, his upper body rising and falling with each labored breath. “Give Ashhur my contempt when I send you to him.”

“Not today,” Kaide said, having hidden amid the crowd. His dirk slipped through a gap near Kren’s lower back, piercing his spine. Kaide’s other arm wrapped about Kren’s neck, holding him in place so he could not retaliate. After a moment, Kaide let him go. The paladin dropped, his eyes lifeless.

Seeing this, Jerico let go of the shield and collapsed. Kaide was over him in a moment, examining his knee.

“You…” With the pain so great, Jerico struggled for every word. “You stabbed him in the back.”

“I did,” Kaide said, cutting off Jerico’s pant leg so he could see the wound better.

“Not… honorable.”

Jerico laughed, delirious amid the pain.

“This world’s life or death,” Kaide said, frowning. “Like I give a damn about honor.”

His vision fading, Jerico closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Around him, he heard murmured sounds of people talking.

“Carry him,” someone said, most likely Kalgan. “Gently, please.”

Hands grabbed him, and he screamed.

“I said gently! Watch for his leg. Gods, what a mess.”

That was the last Jerico heard before he blacked out completely.

The numbers gathered for the offering stunned Darius. It seemed like the entire countryside had come to hear his words and receive Karak’s blessing. Every time he glanced out from behind the curtain, he felt his chest tighten, and panic swell in his throat. The crowd waited in the courtyard, warmed by the thick clothes they wore and the few scattered fires built among them. Meanwhile, Darius remained in the castle, thinking of excuses for delay. When the service began, he would step out onto a balcony, and overlook the crowd from above as if he were their king.

“There’s so many,” Darius said, checking for what seemed like the tenth time.

“Of course,” Sebastian said, adjusting his cloak. “Service is obligatory, or at least it was until our priest left, and we had no one to administer the offerings. Are you nervous, son?”

“Do not call me son,” Darius said, harsher than he meant. “I am a warrior for Karak, and will not be insulted so.”

“Of course, of course, I meant no offense. It’s only a term of endearment for someone younger than I.”

Darius looked to the curtain, and he listened to the impatient murmurings of the crowd. Seemed strange to him for service to be mandatory, but he’d heard of smaller towns having such rules, so it wasn’t that unusual. Sometimes to cultivate faith, the faithless needed to be forced onto the path of righteousness.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am nervous. I’ve taught only in small villages. Out there… how many, a thousand? Two?”

“Last census count? Four thousand and three hundred, at least within walking distance. Those too far away must give their tithes along with their taxes. But don’t worry, Darius. I’ll be at your side the whole time.”

“You?” Darius asked.

“Why not?” Sebastian grinned at him. “It does good for the simple folk to see me beside you. It lets them know that we are their lords, the masters of their lives. To turn on one of us is to turn on the other. I will have no traitors to Karak in my household.”

Darius struggled not to react.

“But what do you do when the priests of Ashhur come?”

The lord rolled his eyes.

“I say pretty words, toss them a few coins, and pretend to mull over having a second service for Ashhur. Their stays are not long. Lice-ridden beds and stale bread usually ensure that, though I’m not above a knife in the dark. I’m sure you understand.”

Darius stood, and he pulled aside the curtain.

“I do,” he said, stepping out onto the balcony. The crowd quieted, and they looked up to see a stranger. For a moment he said nothing, only scanned faces, judging reactions. Most were impatient, or bored. He saw plenty that clearly wanted nothing to do with giving offerings to Karak. Many still talked, not caring if they disturbed others. Forced faith, thought Darius. Was this its culmination? If he walked among them, he wondered if he’d find even a handful as faithful as his flock had been back in Durham.

“Welcome to the seventh day,” Darius said. His voice failed him, and only the first few rows even knew he spoke. Battling his nerves, he swallowed, took another step toward the balcony’s edge, and let his voice cry to the winds.