David Dalglish - Clash of Faiths

The crowd’s anger increased tenfold.

“This is our home!” they shouted. “Our land!”

Darius looked to them, and in their eyes he saw only fear and confusion. Symptoms of chaos.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said. He pointed his blade at Jeremy. “I once lacked courage. No longer. I will slay all those who neither bow, nor flee. No more words. No more arguments. You all have heard, and know I speak truth.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked a man, pushing to the front of the crowd. Darius recognized him as Jacob Wheatley, a poor farmer. He held a heavy club in hand, just one of many that had come to his gathering armed with simple weaponry. “Wasn’t so long ago you stood here and defended us. You saved us from the wolves, and now you’re telling us to leave?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Darius said.

“Not if we bow. I ain’t bowing, Darius. You saved my life, and I owe you, but nobody forces me to do nothing I don’t like. Karak ain’t my god. If you still say we go, then I might have to use this club here on your thick skull.”

“What are you doing?” Darius asked as Jacob tensed, holding the club before him like a sword. “You’ve seen what I can do. You know I am better than you. What hope do you have?”

“Hope that you’ll learn some damn sense.”

Darius looked to the crowd. Even those that had bowed, their faith loyal to Karak, had stood. Anger trembled in his breast. This was what Velixar wanted, wasn’t it? This was his way, and look what it cost him. The souls he had were gone, and the rest were ready to fight, unknowingly fighting for Ashhur. Or was this another lesson? What would Velixar say when he walked into this unruly mob and saw only enemies? Or would he say anything at all before the bloodshed began?

“I’m saving your lives,” Darius said, his voice dropping. “I’m saving your souls. For that, I will do everything I must. Bend the knee, Jacob, I beg of you.”

Jacob shook his head.

“I won’t,” he said. “You won’t do it. I know you well enough. You won’t.”

A direct challenge. The others were watching, waiting. None had the armor or weaponry to face him, but with their numbers, they had a chance to bury him if they attacked as one. But that would need bravery, and a communal sense of defense. Damn fools. He would not let them have it. He would not be made a liar. His words were his vow. With a single step, he lifted his greatsword and swung. It cleaved through the club as if it were straw. A second step, and he smashed Jacob in the face with the hilt of his sword. The farmer went down, blood gushing from his nose.

Before anyone could move, Darius put the tip of his blade an inch from Jacob’s neck. Even at that distance, the man’s skin started to redden from the heat of the dark fire.

“Enough,” Darius said, glaring at the crowd. “What else must I do to prove myself to you?”

“You won’t,” Jacob said, but his voice quivered.

“I will.”

“But why? You saved me before, Darius. Don’t you remember? Don’t you?”

The wolf-man had been on top off Jacob, its teeth already sunken into flesh. Darius had cut off its neck before it could finish, and then taken Jacob back to town. Jerico had then saved his life, with hands that healed. A look at his own hand, and Darius saw only fire. He’d saved Jacob, and now he was ready to kill him.

Once more he looked to the crowd, and he knew not what to say. These were his charges. These were the people he’d sworn to defend. What was it he’d told Jerico? His path was hard, and he didn’t always enjoy it. But no parent wished to punish their child. No farmer wanted to cull the weak or ill that might bring down the rest of the herd. As he looked, he saw Jessie staring at him, tears in her eyes. Her father looked ready to explode. The town was uniting, and it was in hatred of him.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t hate me. I do what I must.”

What you must? Indeed…

Velixar’s voice floated on the wind, and its sound put a chill into his heart. No time left.

“Go,” he said, taking his sword and stabbing it once more into the dirt. “Forget my words. Forget everything. Your lives are at stake. I am not alone, you fools, now run. RUN!”

The urgency in his voice finally sent them moving. At first they only rushed, and he had little doubt that many intended to bar their homes and wait out the night, along with whatever nameless fear he warned them of. But that wouldn’t last. Already he heard the sound of deep laughter, and in it was such joy. Darius refused to turn. Refused to look. He heard the sound of an explosion, followed by wood raining down upon the ground. Another, and then another. Screams joined it. All the while, he knelt in prayer to Karak, begging for strength. Begging for understanding. Begging for their souls.

At last Darius stood, tears in his eyes.

All around him, Durham burned. People ran for their fields, ran for the forests. Soon they, too, burned, a great wildfire that blotted out the very stars with its heat and smoke. Velixar walked amid the blaze, a dark prophet come bearing judgment. With a wave of his hand, fire spread. With a few words from his lips, lightning struck, blasting apart feeble wooden structures. More screams, cries for help. Darius pulled free his sword, and as he listened to a nearby woman burn alive, he stared at the fire of his blade, the strength of his faith.

It had lessened, but only a little. His heart felt like a bleeding wound, but he clutched to Velixar’s words with whatever strength he had left.

“What this world needs,” he whispered, even as his tears fell. Darkness struck him, and he collapsed to one knee. Blinded, he heard a sudden roar, its power overwhelming. Words echoed in his head, coming from everywhere, and nowhere.

We are what this world needs. The time for choice is over. The time for mankind’s failure is done. We must save them. We must save them all. Order, my beloved paladin. Bring this world Order.

His blindness left him, and feeling coldly detached, he looked up to the smoke-filled sky. Hovering over the village, like a phantom image in the reflection of a pool, he saw the face of a lion. Karak had come to him, and spoken. The honor left him shaken. The words left him numb. Looking around, he saw the town he had once saved, now lost to fire.

“Is this your will?” he whispered. “So be it. My faith is great. The road is narrow, and harsh. Few will walk it, but I will. I will follow your prophet. Forgive my frailty, Karak. Forgive my doubt. I am one man, mortal, and weak. But I will be strong. I will remember. We do this for them. Always for them.”

Faith in Ashhur was like a plague. A single instance could spread. Only one thing would stop it, and at last he knew the prophet’s desire.

Burn the sick branches, Darius thought, fully understanding the gift bestowed upon his blade-upon blades of all paladins sworn to his mighty god.

Burn them with fire.

*

A knocking stirred Jerico from his uneasy sleep. Before he could sit up, Kaide was already at the door, weapon in hand. He put his fingers to his lips, and then motioned for Jerico to answer. The paladin did so, cracking the door enough to let in the light of a candle held by a servant.

“Milord wishes an audience with you,” he said.

“Me?” Jerico asked, still groggy. “Now?”

“Most apologies for disturbing your rest, but yes, I must insist. Dress if you’d like, but do not worry about formality.”

Jerico shut the door and gave Kaide a confused look.

“Formality?”

“It’d be a strange trap, and for little reason,” Kaide said with a shrug. “I’d go, but just in case, bring your mace.”

“I’d rather bring my shield.”