David Dalglish: Clash of Faiths

Jerico gestured for Kaide to lead the way, and then followed the outlaw. Around a large, central campfire he saw ten bodies, lying in a circle to keep them near its warmth. They all had various wounds, some minor, some severe. Jerico circled them, taking in the damage. Surrounding him were the rest of the men, talking quietly to themselves and watching him intently.

“You assaulted armored knights,” he said, turning to Kaide. “All of these are by swords. They injured themselves breaking the law, and attacking innocent men.”

“Innocent?” one of the ruffians asked, and two others had to grab him to keep him from attacking Jerico.

“Will you heal them?” Kaide asked.

“Should I?”

They exchanged a look. Jerico didn’t know what to think, or what to do. Part of him just wanted to alert Kaide to the reality of his situation. In the end, it didn’t matter. The bandit leader stared him in the eye and called his bluff.

“If you are who I think you are, you would never sit back and watch a man die. Do not argue with me, risking my men death, just to waste my time and satisfy your pride. Do your duty, paladin.”

Jerico’s stare hardened, but then he turned away. Kaide was right. It didn’t matter if these men were murderers or thieves. He would not watch them suffer needlessly. Circling the fire once more, he sought out the worst of the wounded, and knelt beside a bearded man with a cut across his belly. The man held his fists pressed against it, keeping his entrails from spilling out.

“Let go,” Jerico said, putting his hands atop his fists. “Close your eyes, relax, and let go.”

The man reluctantly obeyed. Jerico closed his own eyes and gave himself to Ashhur in prayer. Light shone from his fingers at their contact, pouring across the skin. It knitted the flesh together, healing the wound. Done, Jerico stood, took a deep breath to steady himself, and then went to the next.

Two of the ten were already dead by the time he could go to them. Several others had mortal wounds, wounds he sealed with his faith. The rest, with minor cuts or broken bones, he treated last. Torn muscles he mended, and broken bones snapped together amid the cries of their owners. At last, Jerico collapsed to his knees and stared into the fire. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, and his head pounded. Nearby, Sandra went from man to man, wrapping what remained of their cuts with bandages, and giving slings to the men who’d broken arms or fingers so they might not strain their tender appendages.

“Well done,” Kaide said after chatting with a couple of the men who had, only minutes before, been at death’s door.

“Thanks,” Jerico said, still not opening his eyes. He felt ready to vomit, though he didn’t know if he had anything in his stomach to empty. Something slapped his shoulder, and he opened an eye to see a waterskin. He took it and drank, then turned to the side and vomited it all back up. Coughing, he prayed for the dizziness to stop. At Durham he’d handled worse, but that day felt centuries away. He was tired from the road, nursing bruises and desperate for food and drink. An empty shell, he lay on his back and stared at the stars through the naked canopy of branches.

Kaide sat beside him, acting unbothered by the vomit nearby. He took his own drink from the waterskin, and then offered it a second time. Jerico weakly waved it away.

“They were ready for us,” Kaide said. His voice was soft, and it lacked the hard edge it’d had before. “Only reason we lived was because we came at them from both sides. Don’t think they realized just how many have sworn to my name. Still, they wore heavy armor, like yours. Half my men have nothing but clubs, tree branches. Do you know what it takes to bring someone down with only that? Gods damn it all, the gore we left inside that armor…”

He fell silent for a moment, took a drink.

“Left twelve men back there, dead or too far gone to survive the trip back. Couldn’t even bury them. Didn’t have the time. Could only burn them.”

“I’m sorry,” Jerico said. He wasn’t sure if he was, but it felt like the right thing to say.

“You need to be there with us,” Kaide said, still not looking at him. “My sister’s told me who you are, what you’ve done. Those knights

… you could have taken out half of them by yourself. And my friends, my wounded…”

He wiped at his eyes, quick, subtle.

“There would have been time for them.”

Jerico rolled onto his knees, waited for his stomach to settle, and then stood. Ashhur help him, was this all he would ever be good for? Healing the wounded and presiding over the dead?

“I don’t know what god you worship, if any,” he said. “But I will pray over your dead, if you would allow it.”

Kaide nodded.

“It’ll do a lot of the men good. You have my blessing.”

There were about sixty of them gathered around the two graves, nearly all sporting cuts and bruises. Four men had taken turns shoveling, and another had whittled down stakes to place above them, with a single letter cut into the wood to mark their names. When the bodies were in place, and the dirt ready to fall, Jerico stood before them. He felt their eyes watching him, felt their confusion, anger, and doubt.

“Let us pray,” Jerico said, beginning the burial ritual.

When he was done, they shoveled the dirt back into the grave, and Kaide led Jerico back to his room. When he laid down on the bed, he heard muttered talking, then nothing. Curious, Jerico forced himself back up and to the door. A slight push was enough to confirm what he thought. The door was unlocked. Stay or go, he wondered. What is right?

In the end, he returned to his bed and slept. Ashhur had guided him there for a purpose. He had to believe that, for all other possibilities frightened him, left him alone and adrift in the land of Dezrel. As sleep came to him, he vowed to find out the reason, and attack it with all his might. But his dreams were not of duty, or vengeance, but of Sandra, smiling at him with her sad smile.

For several days Darius saw no sign of Velixar, and this heartened him greatly. He always felt his lowest in the prophet’s presence, as if he stood before a standard that he could never hope to achieve. Velixar had the faith of a man who spoke with deities, while Darius could only wander the wilderness road, glad for the moments of silence.

On the third day, he heard the heavy sound of hoofbeats coming from the south, and he stopped to await their arrival. They might be bandits, knights, or riders from the Stronghold. No matter what, he would neither run nor hide, only face them in the open and meet any challenge issued.

Ahead, the road curved, and around that curve came six knights in worn platemail. They were not of the Stronghold, that was obvious enough. Darius saw the symbol on their shields, that of a yellow rose, but didn’t recall its significance. He raised his hand in greeting, expecting similar in kind. Instead the horsemen encircled him, their swords drawn.

“Identify yourself!” their leader shouted.

Darius chuckled, wondering if he was supposed to be intimidated.

“I am Darius of the Stronghold, paladin of our mighty god Karak. And who might you be?”

The knight lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal his face. His hair was dark, and he had a scar running along the bridge of his nose.

“Sir Gregane, knight of our lord, Sebastian Hemman. We’ve been tracking a group of bandits, and they struck not far from here.”

“Do I look like a bandit? Put your swords away, before I am offended.”

A nod from Gregane, and the men sheathed their blades.

“My apologies,” said the knight. “We have been ambushed many times, and feared you were part of another.”