David Dalglish: Clash of Faiths

Temaryn took back the offensive. He knocked aside the table between them and closed the distance, his sword slashing and cutting with mechanical precision. There was no surprise to it, no fluidity. Darius’s enormous sword positioned perfectly to block every time. With Karak’s strength, Temaryn’s sword hit his with a jolt, but he would endure. Temaryn had no innate sense of battle, no real talent for it. Darius, however…

He stepped closer, feinted a thrust, and then swung for the dark paladin’s knees. Temaryn’s shield dropped, and though it blocked the swing, it gave Darius the opening he wanted. His elbow smashed into Temaryn’s face, hard metal armor shattering his nose and splattering blood across the dark steel. Temaryn fell back, screaming, and Darius swung again. His greatsword slashed through the exposed underarm, tearing tendons and causing him to drop his shield.

Blood dripped to the tavern floor.

“It is not too late,” Darius said. “Turn back. Don’t make me add another sin to my burdens.”

“Why?” Temaryn asked, his wounded arm clutched against his side. “If you know this is sin, then why?”

“Because I will not go to Karak as I am. I will not be a sinner for him to burn for an eternity. I must find a way to make amends. My faith will not go unheard.”

“You’re mad.”

“And you’re wounded. Go, now.”

Temaryn lifted his sword.

“I will not run from you,” he said. “I will not go to our god as a coward. You may have lost your faith, you may have turned your back upon Karak, but I will not. I will not!”

He charged, and Darius cut off his head with a single swing. As the body collapsed, Darius sheathed his blade and turned to the tavernkeeper.

“Take whatever price needed to clean this up,” he told him, gesturing to the bag of coins tied to Temaryn’s waist. “Give what is left to the next servant of Karak who comes.”

The tavernkeeper, an overweight man who was sweating with fear, only nodded. Darius retrieved the head and put it back atop the body, using the weight of Temaryn’s shield to hold it in place.

“The next you see me, I will not be the shamed, lost paladin,” he whispered. “I will be a prince of Karak, a wayward son returned home. The Stronghold has twisted what we know of him. It has lied, and tricked me out of his blessing. My faith is strong. I will fight the chaos of this world, until Karak himself must speak my name and acknowledge my deeds. Pray no more brethren try to stop me.”

He kissed Temaryn’s forehead, placed a coin atop it to pay for his meal, and then left the tavern.

A sharp pain woke Jerico from his restless slumber. Delirious, he looked about, confused as to where he was and where he was going. The ground was in motion below him, but he felt unable to move. Tied? Not tied, he realized. He was in a net made of thick rope. That was a strange place to be.

“Why am I in a net?” he asked aloud.

Something hard struck his head, and he screamed. Colors danced before his eyes, and someone spoke, though the words were just a jumble compared to the ringing in his ears. Shaking his head, he tried to remember. He’d been traveling in the North, alone on the road, when he’d met an old man. Except it hadn’t been an old man, he’d been…

“Hey, Bellok, he’s awake again.”

Jerico twisted his head to stare through the gaps in the net. There was the older man, though not as old as he’d first looked. His hair was nearly white, but he walked with his back straight, and his skin wasn’t wrinkled. He carried a staff in hand, and he waved it at Jerico.

“Another sleep spell and he might be out for a day or two. We best not risk it.”

A dull tingle alerted Jerico to the uncomfortable position of his arm beneath him. He shifted, pulling his weight off it. The movement earned him a kick in the side, which his platemail thankfully absorbed. Worse was the pain that awoke in his once-sleeping arm, feeling like a thousand ants crawling through his veins, biting him.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” he asked. His head pounded, and his stomach lurched with every bob of the net. From what he could see, the net was attached to a thick branch, carried on either side by two large men.

“Shut up,” said the big lug behind him, kicking again. This time the boot connected with his head. The world spinning, he vomited. Much fell through the gaps of the net, but some stuck to the rope, and it smeared against his cheek.

“What a mess,” the not-so-old man named Bellok said. “Don’t worry, the sickness is just a residual effect of the spell. You’ll feel fine soon enough.”

“Wonderful,” Jerico muttered. “Can I speak, or will I get kicked again?”

“Let him talk,” Bellok said. “He’s no wizard. His words can’t hurt you.”

“I just want him to stop moving,” said the man at Jerico’s feet. “He’s too damn heavy.”

“If I’d known I was going for a ride, I’d have taken off my armor.”

No one seemed amused by Jerico’s joke, which disappointed him. If he could get them to laugh, he could get them to like him. Instead he saw two brutes carrying him, neither cracking a grin, plus Bellok walking beside him. Jerico turned his attention to Bellok, figuring him the most talkative of the bunch.

“So… Bellok, right? Where am I going again? I heard rumors of Kaide being a cannibal, so before anything else, please tell me I’m not about to be roasted over an open fire.”

Bellok rolled his eyes and made a loud scoffing noise.

“Please, disgusting rumors with hardly a grain of truth. You will not be eaten, paladin, if hearing so puts you more at ease.”

Jerico relaxed. Well, if he was going to die, at least it’d be in a normal, sane way. He really didn’t want to meet Ashhur having just been someone’s substitute for dinner.

The net shifted. What had been a flat dirt path below suddenly became heavy vegetation. They passed through bushes, the thorns scratching him through the net. He thought to ask his two captors to lift him higher, then thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was for them to decide to drop him even lower instead. Bellok vanished for a minute, then returned, picking burs from his robe. Wherever they were going, it was no longer on a standard road.

“Damn forest,” the man muttered.

“So where is Kaide?” Jerico asked, more of his memory returning. Someone had spoken the name, and Bellok had confirmed it when he mentioned the cannibal rumor. If he interpreted his blurry past correctly, it had been Kaide who told the rest of the men to take him after they’d flung nets atop him and beaten him senseless. Of course, where they were taking him was another good question he doubted he’d get an answer to.

“Kaide is busy,” Bellok said, a look of distaste crossing his face.

“Shagging some young tart,” said the lug behind him. “Kaide can’t turn down a little fun whenever we pass by a village. The lasses are practically flinging themselves at him.”

“And someday one of those lasses will pull a dagger and claim herself a bounty of gold,” Bellok said, glaring.

“Why would a girl do that?” asked the other guy carrying him. “You can’t hump gold.”

Well, thought Jerico, that explained Bellok’s distaste; and also confirmed why he hadn’t gotten a laugh from either of the two lugs. He knew donkeys with better senses of humor. And wit, now that he thought about it.

“So where are we going?” Jerico asked. “I hope not anywhere fancy. I must look a mess, what with the beatings and all.”

“For someone an inch away from death, you seem in rather good spirits,” Bellok said.

“Anything to stave off that final inch.”