David Dalglish - Clash of Faiths

“Sustenance first,” Velixar said, his ever-changing face smiling. “Then learning.”

The torch flickered and died, and in the dark, they walked forward. Darius felt a momentary sickness, and then he was beneath open stars. He shivered at the cold. They stood on a tall hill, and when he glanced back, he saw the Castle of the Yellow Rose.

“Wait here,” Velixar said. “I must gather your things the guards took from you.”

Another portal of shadow ripped open before him, and then he stepped through, leaving Darius alone.

“Is this your will?” Darius whispered as he shivered. “Is this what you want, Karak? My god, please, show me your way. I’m tired of being lost.”

He looked to his blackened hand, and he wondered if the mark would ever be gone. Several minutes later, Velixar returned, tossing down a chest. It must have weighed a ton, and it thunked heavily against the grass, but the prophet showed no strain at all.

“Nearby is a stream,” he said. “The cold will not harm you, though it will be unpleasant. Consider it symbolic. Once you’ve cleansed yourself, come back and put on your armor. I would see the man you once were standing before me.”

Darius stumbled in the direction Velixar pointed, and sure enough he found a small stream winding its way south through the hills. He caught his reflection cast by moonlight atop the water, and the sight gave him pause. He looked a dead man, sleep-deprived and hungry. It’d been only a week, he knew, but even before the castle dungeon he’d been eating poorly, and sleeping little. He cast a pebble across his reflection to scatter it, then stepped in. The water was cold enough to hurt, but he clenched his teeth and fought his shivers. He’d endured far greater trials in his faith to his god. He would not falter now. When he finished bathing, he ducked his head under completely, feeling the chill seep into his bones, shocking the exhaustion from his veins. When he emerged, his entire body shook, but he did not care. After putting his clothes back on, he walked to Velixar.

The prophet smiled, and his red eyes seemed to glow brighter. He gestured to the open chest.

“Put on your armor.”

Darius did so one piece at a time, showing no hurry. The water had left him numb, and his shivers lessened with every minute. In the light of the moon, he felt calm, almost peaceful. If not for Velixar’s presence, he might have felt completely at ease. Putting on his armor, etched with symbols to Karak, the Lion, as well as ancient runes proclaiming his might, he felt once more the champion he’d been. Only one thing mattered, and he knew what it was.

Velixar knew as well, and he offered the hilt of Darius’s sword.

“Karak is not a god of miracles,” said the prophet. “You have made but a single step on a very, very long road. I offer you your blade, your means to bring wisdom to this chaotic world. If you accept, you must swear to heed my words as truth, to know that our god speaks through me, and me alone. Do not take this lightly, Darius. Think on it. If you wish, I can return you to your cell, and leave you to the fate this world would bring you.”

Darius shook his head. He would face this future, reveal the truth of his god. There would be no return to a prison, not outward, not within.

“My sword is my soul,” he said, stepping forward and taking the handle. “And it has always belonged to Karak.”

Exhilaration shot through him as his fingers closed about the leather. The dark fire was not much, just the faintest shimmer even newly anointed paladins could outmatch, but to Darius it was a brilliant blaze of the greatest significance. It flickered and burned across his blade, unable to survive the weakest of winds. But it was there, and every time the air calmed, it returned. Darius laughed even as tears ran down his face.

“You are beloved in Karak’s eyes,” Velixar whispered. “Come. It is time we take another step down his road.”

He created another portal of shadows, and taking Darius’s hand, led him through to the other side. Darius knew not what to expect, nor did he try to guess. For the moment, he was trying to abandon all his previous teachings, to rely only on what appeared to be truth, and what the prophet confirmed. He would accept everything with an open mind, until Velixar failed. A single false word, or moment of doubt, and he would seek Karak in his own way. At least, he thought he might. Feeling the distant touch of his god deep in his chest, and seeing that fledgling fire on his greatsword, made him wonder if he was already decided, his life already bought and earned. His promise to Velixar… he had not made it lightly.

“Where are we?” Darius asked as they stepped out. It seemed they had not traveled far, for the terrain remained the same, just rocky hills with withering grass and the occasional barren tree. Before him was a heavy cluster of bushes, marking the outline of a small grove.

“Quiet, and listen,” Velixar said.

He did, and the sound of moaning reached his ears. Taking a step forward, he pushed through the bushes. Within he found a man lying on his back, bleeding from gashes across his arms and legs. His hands were gone, the bone still exposed. His eyelids were peeled. Despite his training, despite his experience with bloody combat, Darius still found himself on the verge of vomiting.

“What grotesquery is this?” he asked.

“Now is not the time for questions,” Velixar said, joining him in the ring. He gestured to the mutilated man. “Do you not understand that is the nature of your failure? You seek answers to things that do not matter. Look at him. Say I found him tortured by bandits and brought him here for succor? Or perhaps he tortured himself, bearing a guilty soul, and he sought me out to help him with his sickness? I might have done this to him myself, but you will never know, will you? Yet you ask, and ask, and do you know what is happening while you do?”

Velixar pointed to the man.

“He suffers. He bleeds. Tell me, does any of that matter in the face of his torment?”

Darius looked into the man’s eyes, unsure if the man saw him back. He looked lost in a daze, moaning lightly as he lay there. His stubs shook, and the sight of exposed bone made Darius shiver with unease. The pain… it had to be excruciating.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked the prophet.

“To learn. To understand. This is one of the greatest lessons I can offer you. Here, now, realize the many paths before you, and then make your choice.”

The man jerked back his head, and suddenly his moans turned into bloodcurdling screams.

“What did you do?” Darius asked, having drawn his greatsword without realizing it.

“I was numbing his pain,” Velixar said. “But no longer. The choice is before you. I will not intervene.”

The sword shook in Darius’s hand. He saw the fire upon its blade wither and die. Looking back to the man, he knew the lesson Velixar wanted him to learn. It burned in his gut. He wanted to refuse, to deny its wisdom, but how could he hearing such horrific screams? Lifting his sword, he closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness from Karak. Down came his blade, right through the mutilated man’s throat. He silenced the screams. He ended the pain.

The blood on his blade burned away in dark fire.

“So close,” Velixar said in the sudden silence. “But I saw your lips. I heard your prayer. There is nothing to forgive, Darius. Do you not understand?”

“The intent,” Darius whispered. “It is all in the intent.”

“Your intent was to end pain, to stop suffering. There is no sin in killing. Do not even Ashhur’s paladins kill? You must be purer. You must embrace Karak’s ultimate truth.”

Darius stared at the corpse, and he felt cold fingers, like the touch of a ghost, tracing the curves of his spine.