David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

Once he was dressed in his armor, his sword sheathed on his back, he came down.

“Did he say a name?” he asked Dolores before stepping outside.

“I reckon he did,” said the woman. She tapped her teeth with a fingernail. “Slipped my mind, though. Seemed polite enough, though I wouldn’t wish him around long. Got a queer air about him. Cold, too.”

“Thanks.”

Darius pushed open the door and hurried his way to the square. Jerico found him first. A mob of seven or eight surrounded him, and he pushed his way toward the dark paladin.

“Enjoy your nap?” Jerico asked.

“Tremendously,” Darius said, forcing a grin. “Enjoy your talk with Jeremy?”

“He saw reason, thank Ashhur. The whole town will be heading south. We’re fifteen miles from Wetholm, and I doubt the little village can manage to feed even a third of us, but it’s better than nothing. We’ll just have to make do.”

“Sure thing,” Darius said, his eyes looking past him. Jerico evidently noticed, and he frowned.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“No. Yes. Just a friend.”

Jerico glanced behind, and a bit of his cheer vanished.

“He’s been here all morning. I’ve stayed away out of respect. Any help the priests and paladins of Karak can offer would be appreciated.”

The group returned, asking Jerico questions and requesting aid.

“Will you be helping everyone prepare?” Darius asked before he turned away.

“We leave after midday. Not much time, so we’ll be stretched thin. Help who you can, and I’ll do the same.”

“As you say.” Darius pushed past him, toward the lone tree growing near the square. Leaning against it, being given a wide berth by the rest of the town, was a man in the black robes of a priest. His head was shaved, and a multitude of pendants made of silver and iron hung from his neck. He stood straight, his thin shoulders pulled back. His blue eyes lacked any amusement as Darius came before him and kneeled.

“Welcome to Durham, brother,” he said, his head low. “I hope your travels have been safe.”

“Nothing in this world is safe,” said the priest. He glanced at Jerico, and his frown deepened. “Least of all here. I come with great tidings, though I wish my heart would not be so troubled when I tell you. Do you remember me, Darius? I was there when you were first assigned along the river.”

Darius remembered, two years prior at the gates of the Stronghold. He’d completed the Trials, and having come of age, they gave him his first assignment: to travel along the northern stretches of the Gihon, preaching to the many villages that had gone years without hearing Karak’s word. The ceremony had been solemn, and his heart swelled with pride. Two priests had attended, invited to the special event. One had remained quiet, but the other…his eyes had the same icy blue, and his words still stung.

You are young, full of faith, and yet in you I sense a chaos rumbling. Mind your heart, your thoughts, and your ideas. Among the simple folk you belong, for I fear your reaction should you face a true challenge of Ashhur.

“Yes,” he said. “I remember you now, though I was never given your name.”

“I am Pheus, and it seems I was correct. How long has the paladin of the false god preached in your village, Darius?”

Darius felt his face flush.

“Perhaps a year, at most.”

“You have not driven him out? You have not rallied the villagers against him? Worse, I see you speaking with him. Have you reached some agreement with this paladin, some sort of truce? I do not understand it.”

Even worse, thought Darius.

He couldn’t dare tell Pheus, not facing his cold glare. With his arms crossed, the priest lifted his chin and turned as if the very sight of Jerico angered him. Darius tried to think of an excuse, but he knew none, and he stared at the ground in shame.

“I thought so,” said Pheus. He sighed, and his anger retreated into sadness. “I pity you, Darius. You have great potential, though more than ever I fear you will waste it. But perhaps I see only the weakness I fear; it is a curse my colleagues have often berated me for. This is a joyous occasion, and I come spreading the word to all the faithful.”

“And what is that?” Darius asked, glad to have the conversation changed.

“The Citadel has fallen. The paladins of Ashhur are scattered, homeless, with many casting aside their faith. Our time of victory has come. The Stronghold has declared war upon the survivors, every last one.”

Darius’s jaw dropped. He thought of Jerico’s attempt to leave the day before, and suddenly he understood.

“How?” he asked, still struggling to believe it.

“The Voice of the Lion led the assault, and through his disciple Xelrak, brought the building crashing to the ground. I have been traveling north to inform all I can of our new orders. Ashhur’s paladins are weak now, helpless. We must descend upon them before they regroup.”

“Wait…you want to kill Jerico?”

“Kill him? No. We want him executed for his blasphemy and service to the false god. Do you not understand? After all these years, we have a chance for complete victory.” He pointed toward Jerico, and it seemed as if his eyes sparkled. “For all I know, he is the very last. Let us take him now, before he realizes the danger he is in.”

“No,” Darius said, stepping away. “Do you not see the chaos about us? Wolf-men gather in great numbers beyond the Gihon, and any day they will swim across. They’ll slaughter every one of these villagers. Jerico stands at my side. For now, if any of us are to live, we need him.”

Pheus leaned back against the tree. For a long minute he did not speak, only stare, as if gazing into the depths of Darius’s soul. Whatever he saw there, he certainly did not like.

“This is your failure,” Pheus said at last. “And it is yours to correct. This…Jerico…will die by your hand. That is an order, and you will obey, paladin.”

He left the tree and wrapped an arm around Darius’s shoulder. “I must continue my travels. By the time I return, I expect the matter handled. If it is not, the Stronghold will hear of your failure. I assure you, they will be far less understanding than I.”

“Will you not stay and help us?”

“This village is your responsibility, not mine. These men are of the earth, and there will always be a thousand others like them. Our war with Ashhur has waged for hundreds of years. Do you think I would risk losing that over a handful of farmers? What you do, do quickly, Darius. I have spoken. Obey your god.”

Pheus left along the northern road, not a single man or woman saying a word in greeting as he passed by. Darius watched him go, and he stared long after he was gone.

“You all right?” Jerico asked him, having returned to the square after doing who knew what to help another family.

Darius looked at the man, tired, proud, his red hair soaked with sweat and covered with dirt. He tried to see him as an enemy, a blasphemer of a false god. Instead, he saw Jerico. I fear your reaction should you face a true challenge of Ashhur, Pheus had said two years ago, and it seemed prophetic. Was Jerico such a challenge? Had he prepared for physical strength, skill in combat, and left his heart unprepared for the lies, the facades, the tempting half-truths of Ashhur? How could he follow Karak, yet claim a paladin of Ashhur as his friend?

“I’m fine,” he said.

“If you say. The Douglas family needs help fixing their wagon for the journey. Can you help them out?”

Darius nodded, still feeling as if he walked in a troubled dream.

“Jerico,” he said, stopping the other paladin from leaving. “I…forgive me. The Citadel. Have you heard?”