David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“Might I have your name?” Jerico asked, the man seeming familiar, but only a little.

“I am Pallos. I’ve come from the Citadel to observe your progress.”

Jerico laughed. “Well, I’ve done about a quarter of this field, and should have another quarter done by sundown…”

Pallos’s glare showed that he was not amused.

“Right. Sorry. I’m actually glad you’re here. Let me go tell Jeremy he’ll need to send someone over here to replace me, and then we can return to the village.”

“I’ll be waiting,” said Pallos, saluting with a mailed fist. As he walked away, Jerico wondered just how far Pallos had his sword shoved up his ass. Of course, such thoughts were hardly worthy of a paladin, but as he hurried to where Jeremy overlooked the rest of his workers, he figured that Ashhur might not only forgive him, but probably agree over the matter.

Pallos sat in the shade of a tree not far from the village square, drinking from a waterskin. Jerico joined him, having taken a quick detour to his room to throw on a shirt. It felt grand while out in the field working, but once at rest, his body slick with sweat, the air turned uncomfortably chill.

“I hope you had a pleasant ride here,” Jerico said, sitting down beside his superior.

“Pleasant enough, though I must apologize for my mood. I have lost a dear friend; we all have. That is why I have come.”

“Who?” asked Jerico.

Pallos leaned his weight against the tree, and he looked rather uncomfortable about the whole matter. His eyes watered, but the man’s self-control was too great for such displays of emotion.

“Mornida died of a sickness. Sorollos has replaced him as High Paladin. I’ve been traveling north informing all of our men in the field.”

Jerico crossed his arms and frowned.

“A good man,” he said. “Though I doubt I knew him as well as you. But we are strong, and will endure the loss.”

“Sorollos is a young man, but his faith is great. Still, I miss Mornida’s leadership. But enough of that. He is with Ashhur now, and we have worldly matters to discuss. I spoke with many villagers before coming to you, Jerico, and what I heard distresses me greatly.”

Jerico knew where this was headed, but he asked anyway.

“About what?”

“Your friendship with a paladin of Karak. What is his name, Darius?”

His mouth felt dry when he responded. “Yes.”

“We knew he was here when I positioned you in Durham. You were to counter his doctrine and free the villagers from his lies. Instead I hear of you befriending him, even spacing out your sermons so the people here may attend both.”

“I thought it best to let them hear both our doctrines, and let them see the truth of Ashhur’s wisdom by comparison.”

“Serving Ashhur is a choice, Jerico.” Pallos frowned at him, and Jerico felt like he was back at the Citadel, being reprimanded for a wrong answer. “People cannot serve both Karak and Ashhur, and it is foolish to give them the chance to do so here. Karak’s darkness will not be defeated in such a way. You do not stop the charging bull with flowers. You kill it with a sword.”

“Darius is a good man, Pallos. He worries about this village as much as I.”

“Good man or not, he serves a lie, and in his ignorance, he will damn the people here. Challenge him. Watch your friendship crumble when you stop acting as if his beliefs are worth hearing.”

Pallos looked at him, honest sadness in his eyes.

“He serves Karak, and come a time, Karak will call him to betray you. That is when you will see your worth to him.”

Jerico turned away and refused to acknowledge him. The silence dragged on, awkward and uncomfortable. At last, Pallos put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

“Do not be mad with me, Jerico. I am old, and have seen the evil this world fosters. I only say this because I fear the hurt that will befall you. But let us talk on other things. Your shield…is it still your beacon? I would very much like to see it.”

Jerico welcomed the excuse to leave his presence, if only for a little while. He seethed at such condemnation of someone like Darius. Sure, the man had his faults, but didn’t everyone? But he’d been there beside him, bleeding and fighting for the safety of the village. He called the men to be strong, the women to be faithful, for all to follow laws that, while strict, often seemed fair. They were both young, and they understood the trials each of them endured, and what it meant to stand before a crowd and speak from the heart on matters of faith. Betray him? Never.

In his room he retrieved his mace and shield and carried them back to Pallos.

“Incredible,” said Pallos as Jerico held the shield aloft. The blue-white glow swirled over it, not as strong as it’d been on the night fighting the wolf-men, but nothing he would be ashamed of, either.

“And your mace?” he asked.

Jerico held it closer, so he could see it held no glow, no power. Pallos drew his sword, its blade swirling with the light of Ashhur, showing the strength of his faith.

“When I first heard of this during your training, I didn’t believe it,” Pallos said, sheathing his sword. “Even coming here, I thought it would have faded over to your mace. Ashhur has granted you a strange gift, Jerico. Never have any of us encountered a paladin’s shield becoming his beacon of faith over his weapon. I hope you study it closely to learn its reasons, its limits.”

Jerico set the shield down by the tree.

“It’s a big hunk of metal that glows. I think I understand it well enough.”

Pallos shook his head.

“You should show more reverence to the gifts of Ashhur. The people here study the way you speak, the way you act. You are an example to them, and if you show such callousness toward the miracles of our god, then you will instill them with the same.”

Jerico felt his neck flush.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Come now, I am no teacher, and you no wet-nosed pupil. You are a good man, and I expect greatness out of you. I would not have sent you here if I did not. There are a hundred villages, all needing to hear the word of our god. But Ashhur expects something special from you. I only pray you are prepared for it.”

Pallos stood, and he brushed the dirt from his armor.

“I must be going,” he said. “There are others who must learn of Mornida’s death.”

Before he could go, Jerico stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. “You see, I…”

“What is it?” Pallos asked.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he said. “The same one, really, and it comes with greater frequency.”

The old paladin tilted his head. “Well, tell me, and perhaps I can interpret.”

“I see the Citadel. The lower walls are cracking, and then the surrounding field bursts with fire. It’s raining, but instead of water, bones fall. I hear a sound, like the roar of a beast, and then I awake.”

Pallos looked troubled by what he heard.

“Perhaps you dreamt of Mornida’s death,” he said. “It is always a troublesome time when our leader falls.”

“Are you sure?”

Pallos gestured to the distance. On the other side of the square, Darius was gathering men and women for another sermon.

“Perhaps it is Ashhur warning you of his presence. The Citadel is strong as ever. But to be in the company of a dark paladin…you must expect some of his shadow to fall upon you. Stay safe, Jerico. I hope to see you on my return.”

Jerico watched him go as Darius’s speech grew louder and filled with fire. He listened for a little while, then went back to the field. More than anything, he wanted the monotony so he might think over what he’d heard, as well as calm the turmoil growing in his breast. It was only an hour later that he realized he’d not once mentioned the wolf-men that had attacked their village.