David Dalglish: Clash of Faiths

“Bandits and rebels are men of chaos. You should remember that, knight, before you ever question the allegiance of a paladin of Karak.”

As Gregane nodded again, a second knight leaned in and murmured something to him in a low tone.

“Very well,” Gregane said, turning his attention back to Darius. “Our lord has been seeking one of your faith. I ask that you ride back with us to his castle.”

“And if I refuse?”

Gregane glanced at the rest of the riders.

“I would strongly recommend against doing so,” he said.

Darius sighed.

“Very well.”

They had no spare horse, and could not carry two with how burdened each of them were with their heavy armor. One dismounted and offered Darius the reins.

“Her name’s Esme, after my wife,” said the knight. “Treat her well. She has a temper.”

“The horse, or your wife?” Darius asked as he adjusted the saddle.

“Both,” he said with a grin.

“I’ll send a rider for you, Isaac,” Gregane said. “Stay off the road. Bandits might still be near.”

They rode north, Darius in the center of the formation. Most kept to themselves, for which the dark paladin was thankful. He had no desire for conversation, not while he pondered the reason for his audience. Never before had he been to the Castle of the Yellow Rose, and it didn’t seem that Lord Hemman requested him by name. No doubt he wanted some sort of religious guidance, though why no members of the faith would be with him at the castle seemed odd. Perhaps they were all hunting their new favorite prey…

The thought reminded him of Jerico, and he wondered how the paladin fared. Had he fled north, as Darius had suggested, or turned about to head south? What of the dark paladins, had they found him yet? He hoped not. Deep down, Darius still felt the bloody conflict might end, that it was no true war. But the various lords, ladies, and kings would turn blind eyes to conflicts of faith, so long as it did not disrupt their people or bathe their streets with blood. Darius knew his brethren would be too careful for that.

They emerged from the forest about an hour later, the castle not far in the distance. Its walls stretched out for a mile beyond the castle itself, sealing in several pastures with crops and cattle, along with numerous wells. Darius eyed the walls. They were short, and made of dark stone. Ladders would easily reach the top, and battering rams would make quick work of their gates, but that wasn’t their point. They were for holding off uprisings of peasants and raids by bandits, who lacked even the most basic of siege weaponry.

The castle was equally unimpressive, save for one thing. As Darius entered through a gateway, following the knights along a beaten dirt path, he saw the great rose painted across the face of the castle. It drooped to one side, and a single petal fell, twirling in an unseen wind. Vines grew across the face of the walls, adding texture to the painted petals. Darius couldn’t begin to imagine how they painted it, nor kept its color vibrant. As a defensive foundation, it was basic, square, and crenellated along the tops.

Sir Gregane announced their arrival, and the castle’s doors were flung open. Young boys appeared, leading away the horses once the knights dismounted. Darius kept an eye out for priests and paladins of either faith, but saw none. If lucky, he might appear before Sebastian, offer some vague advice, and then be gone.

“Follow me,” Gregane said. “But first, your sword.”

“I go nowhere without it, not even before kings and queens. I will not disarm myself before your lord, especially when I am brought here as a guest.”

The other knights tensed, but Gregane seemed unoffended.

“Very well. Keep it sheathed on your back. I cannot promise you safety otherwise.”

Darius gestured for him to move along. They stepped into a short hallway, past several doors leading to the lower and upper floors of the castle. Then they were inside the grand room, with rows of tables for feasting at the foot of a single throne made of stained oak. A man sat on it, thin and wiry, with his dark hair reaching far past his neck. Flecks of gray shone in the black.

“Sebastian Hemman,” Darius said, not waiting for introductions. “I am Darius of the Stronghold, faithful paladin of Karak, and I bring with me his blessing.”

Sebastian sat ramrod straight in his chair, and at the announcement, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to a table that had a meager offering of food.

“You may eat and drink, if you’d like,” said the lord. His voice was soft, calculated.

“Perhaps when business is done,” Darius said. He remained standing, even when the other knights bowed in reverence. Darius would bow to no one, nor call them lord; his kind served Karak and Karak alone. “I have never been fond of empty pleasantries, nor stalling words to feel out another’s true thoughts. Let me state this plainly: I have come because you have summoned me. Let me know why, so I may perform my function, and then go on my way if I so choose.”

“Impatient words,” Sebastian said. “But I’ve found your kind often is. Sometimes I think Karak sends those gifted with golden tongues to his priesthood, and the blunt muscle to the Stronghold.”

Darius grinned.

“No one will ever accuse me of a bronze tongue, let alone golden. I have my sword, and that is enough. Tell me, Sebastian, why am I here? Are there no others of the faith to counsel you?”

“We once had a priest here, but he has left, with business he swears is most urgent.” Lord Hemman took a drink of wine from a cup at his side, still in no hurry to move things along. “But the seventh day approaches, and we have no one to administer the offerings, nor have we had for several weeks. Would you preside over this for my people tomorrow?”

That was it? Darius tried to contain his temper. He’d basically been kidnapped and brought before their lord, all so he could perform a function even the youngest of the faith could handle?

“If that is what you require, I accept, but I have matters I must attend, and cannot stay long.”

“Yes, of course. Now that that is settled…”

Sebastian clapped his hands, ordering everyone out. Gregane opened his mouth to protest, but the lord silenced him with a glare. The servants vanished, shutting the door behind the knights. When they were alone, Sebastian stood, and he seemed to visibly relax.

“Forgive me that tedious business,” he said, eagerness bleeding into his voice. “It has been weeks since any worshipper of Ashhur was here, but I thought it best to hide the reason for your arrival just in case. Castle walls have ears, after all, and mine are no exception.”

“I see,” Darius said, though he didn’t. If not for the morrow’s service, why was he here? A ball of lead formed in his stomach, for of all the ideas he had, none were pleasant. The lord moved to a door behind his throne, and he opened it with a key wrapped around his neck. Taking a nearby torch, he stepped inside, beckoning Darius to follow. Heart in his throat, he did.

The air was heavy, and the floor damp. They descended into a dank dungeon, the only sound that of the flickering torch and a distant dripping of water. At the bottom of the stairs was a cell, and inside that cell was an older man strapped upright to the wall with iron.

“Who is this?” Darius asked, already dreading the answer. “Answer me.”

“It is a brave man who will make demands in a lord’s dungeon,” Sebastian said. “But that is your nature, I suppose. I have always been a faithful supporter of Karak. Ashhur appeals to the peasant folk, the simple minded who need promises of greatness in death, who need a doctrine that elevates them as equals to gods. Karak knows better. It is Order the world needs, a king, his lords, and their subjects. That is the divine sequence.”