David Dalglish - Clash of Faiths

The murmurs of the crowd were a welcome relief to Darius as he sat in the corner, his greatsword leaning against the wall beside him. The rest of the tavern seemed boisterous enough, the occupants receiving plenty of attention from the serving girl. He, however, had received only a single glare upon his request for water. Perhaps he should have ordered some ale along with his bread to win her over, but he would not pretend to nurse a drink forbidden to him. He was a dark paladin of Karak, and lost faith or not, he would still act like it.

“To Kaide!” one of the bigger men shouted, raising his glass. The rest took up the cry and then drank.

The name was familiar enough to Darius, though he wondered what the man had done to earn such drunken admiration. No doubt he’d filled their pockets with coin. Such lawless men in the North, they wanted money, alcohol, and women. Give them any of the three, and you were a better god than Karak or Ashhur would ever be…

“Temaryn, come to join us in our merriment?” called out someone at the bar.

Darius glanced at the door, and he felt his heart jump. Dressed in the black platemail of his order was another paladin, a longsword sheathed at his thigh and a heavy shield on his back. His hair was long and brown, perfectly matching his hazel eyes. Darius recognized him at once.

“Bloody Abyss,” he muttered, looking for a way out of the tavern.

“You know I can’t,” Temaryn called back, approaching the drunkard with a grin on his face. “But I hear the mad thief left a pot of gold at our doorsteps. I take it every lesson I have ever taught will soon be thrown to the swine?”

“Course not!” said the drunk. “You’ll get your share of tithes, but until then, we’ll drink ourselves… hey, what’s the matter?”

Temaryn was no longer paying him the slightest attention. Darius sighed and waved the other dark paladin over. His elbow bumped his greatsword, tilting it so the hilt lay across his lap. Just in case he couldn’t talk his way out…

“I don’t believe it,” Temaryn said, pulling a chair opposite him and sitting. “What brings you here of all places?”

“I take it this is your assigned village?” Darius asked, avoiding the question.

“One of several. Never enough shepherds for the sheep, as I’m sure you know. The Stronghold has me run a loop here in the vale. Have you tried the bread yet? Nothing special, but they have some fantastic honey to go on top.”

“Only butter,” Darius said, his voice barely a mumble.

“Betty,” Temaryn said, snapping his fingers. The serving girl came over and smiled. “Honey please, and some bread for myself.”

“Of course,” she said, giving him a smile Darius could only dream of getting.

“I don’t know what they do to it,” Temaryn said. “But you’ll never get honey anywhere else in all of Dezrel like right here in Helmshire.”

Darius felt his nerves relax, but only slightly. Temaryn remained at ease, the grin on his face never faltering. But his hand, though, stayed near the sheath of his sword. Habit, or conscious thought? The Temaryn he remembered from the Stronghold was an easy-going but faithful man. It could be either.

Temaryn leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to relax even more.

“So how are things in… what was that little place called? Durham?”

Darius thought of the two dark paladins and the priest that lay dead, slain by his hand at his false Tribunal.

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine? That’s it? I’m hearing stories of a thousand wolves held at bay by two paladins, amazing warriors of both Karak and Ashhur allied together against the entire might of the Wedge. Surely you don’t mean to tell me the simpletons around here are exaggerating your fantastical exploits?”

There was something calculated about his laughter, something insidious about his question. Darius tensed, but he forced himself to remain calm.

“You know the people as well as I,” he said as Betty arrived with a second plate of thick bread slices, along with a small cup filled with golden honey. Darius refused the offered honey, earning himself a frown.

“We’re allowed few indulgences in our lives,” Temaryn said as he drizzled the honey across his bread. “You should learn to accept them.”

“If you say so.”

Temaryn took a bite.

“You still haven’t told me about Durham.”

Darius shifted, his hand inching closer to his greatsword.

“Wolf-men crossed the river, not a thousand, only a few hundred. We stood against them, myself and the rest of the village. Nearly two-thirds of the people died, so I doubt too many are singing our praises.”

“What of this paladin of Ashhur?”

Darius swallowed.

“His name is Jerico. Yes, he helped as well.”

Temaryn fell silent for awhile, instead focusing on his bread. When the first slice was down, he sucked the honey from his fingers, then leaned back in his chair.

“I must admit, I was sent to Durham to find you. We’d heard a pretty outlandish story, and the Stronghold wanted me to look into the matter. Supposedly you had turned against Karak, and abandoned your faith. Needless to say, I found this hard to believe. I remember you from our training. The world would turn upside down sooner than you abandoning Karak.”

A grim smile crossed Darius’s face.

“To my shame, I must admit my faith in Karak is less than it was,” he said. “But it is still strong.”

“Good,” Temaryn said, taking another bite of bread. “So was it difficult killing this Jerico?”

“No.”

“No difficulty at all? Well, not much of a surprise-”

“He’s not dead.”

Temaryn put down his meal and pushed it away.

“So Pheus was right when he spoke of your friendship with the enemy? He wanted your head on a platter, Darius, and I’m not exaggerating by much.”

Darius chuckled at the word ‘enemy’.

“Yes, he did want that. That is why I killed him.”

The humor finally left Temaryn’s face. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and Darius did likewise.

“I never believed it,” Temaryn said. “You, fallen? It made no sense. Even worse, slaying priests and dark paladins of your own faith? Nonsense, I thought. But Pheus vanished, as did Nevek and Lars. I hoped it wasn’t you. You were never my friend, but you were an inspiration, an example of how much strength one could gain through the power of faith. Now look at you. Do you have any excuses, you wretch?”

“No excuses,” said Darius. “Only a warning. Keep your sword sheathed. You were never as good as I, Temaryn. Never were, and never will be.”

Temaryn stood, flinging his chair back. His shield and sword were in his hands, the blade consumed by dark fire.

“Karak has abandoned you!” the paladin cried. The rest of the tavern went deathly silent. “You are nothing without him, but he is at my side at all times. Draw your sword, Darius. Show me your lack of faith so I may kill you in good conscience.”

Darius stood, grabbed his greatsword, and hefted it high above his head. No black fire consumed it. Karak’s gift, a fire burning with strength equal to that of their faith, was absent from him. Seeing the mocking superiority in Temaryn’s eyes, Darius tensed, knowing he had no choice. He didn’t want to kill a brother in faith. But he would not die, either.

“Is that the proof you need?” he asked quietly.

“It is.”

Temaryn lunged, his whole body extended to maximize the reach of his thrust. Darius smacked it aside, pivoted, and sent his sword crashing into his opponent’s shield. At the sound of their collision, the rest of the tavern erupted with noise, people knocking over chairs and jostling one another to get out of the way. Such a battle was beyond them, and none wanted to be caught in the middle.