David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“Sorry,” Jerico muttered to his god as he stepped from Jeremy’s home. “I’m cranky and stupid. Ignore me.”

Darius was already up and about, but he stood in the center of town with Pheus at his side. Wishing nothing to do with the priest, Jerico instead found Daniel and his men guiding the rest of the townsfolk in preparing the defenses.

“You look like shit,” Daniel said at his arrival.

“Feel like it, too. How goes the defenses?”

The lieutenant gestured about him. Before three particular buildings the people were digging trenches, boarding up windows, and planting stakes.

“We decided cramming everyone into one single building wasn’t feasible, so we settled on three: the inn, the tavern, and Mr. Hangfield’s estate. They all have their unique quirks, but we think with enough time we can nail shut the doors and block every window. When they attack, we’ll funnel them to a single doorway. If we can negate their numbers advantage, we might stand a chance.”

“Where’s all the wood coming from?” Jerico asked.

“We’ve had volunteers. We’re tearing down other homes within the wolf-men’s circle. Nearly everyone figures they can rebuild if we survive.”

“A large if,” Jerico muttered.

“The trenches should slow them a little,” Daniel said, glaring. “And we’ll fill each one with stakes and traps. Figure to build as many as we can before each of the three entrances. All the buildings are within sight of one another, which’ll help too. I figure we’ll have an archer atop each one, and use ’em to thin the wolves at the doors. Darius also says that priest of his should prove dangerous with open space to cast, so we’ll probably stick him atop of Hangfield’s.”

“As solid a plan as any,” Jerico said. “What if they try to starve us out?”

“Well, time’s on our side, not theirs right?”

Jerico saw the desperate hope in the lieutenant’s eyes, wanting reassurance more than anything.

“Of course,” said the paladin. “One of the other towers is bound to notice our absence, if not the traders.”

“Right.” Daniel looked at the townspeople, and a smile touched his lips. “They’re good workers here. If they have any sons to spare, I’ll probably try to bring them back with me to Blood Tower. This is the fine stuff true fighters are made of, not those sniveling brats nobles send off in hopes of winning their family honor.”

They walked between the three areas, Jerico pointing out gaps in the defenses, plotting locations of more trenches, and correcting angles of the spikes.

“They like to leap,” he said. “Remember that. They aren’t charging men on foot. Push the tips higher. Make every one of them suffer for jumping too much, or too little.”

When he was back at Jeremy’s, Jessie came out to greet them. She looked about as bad as Jerico felt, and he felt guilty for not being there to protect her against Yellowscar’s attack. He knew it was irrational, but he felt it all the same. After Yellowscar’s burial, he’d gone inside to help with the others. The image of that room had haunted his dreams, robbing it of rest. He thought of Darius’s anger at giving the creature any form of honorable death. Viewing that carnage, he finally understood.

“Jerico?” she asked, and the paladin bowed politely.

“Yes, Jessie?”

“We, well, some of the others were getting together, and we were hoping you could, you know…”

He smiled even as the selfish part of him wished for anything else in the world.

“Of course,” he said. “Where?”

“In the square. The men are about to take a break to eat.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite take. When she left, Jerico sighed and shook his head.

“She should be worried about which boy to take to the hay-dance, not prayer for friends and family soon to die.”

“World ain’t fair, nor just,” Daniel said.

A vision of the Citadel flashed before his eyes, and then it fell.

“No,” said Jerico. “It is not.”

“I need a bite to eat myself. Join me when you’re done.”

Jerico waved him off, then trudged to the square. He took his shield off his back and glanced at its light on the way, feeling childish for needing to do so. He wanted some visual proof of Ashhur’s presence, for he felt so exhausted, so trapped. Waiting for him was nearly half the village, men sitting with their wives, their children beside them, the younger ones cuddling on their laps. Some ate, and some drank. When Jerico stepped among them, he felt their presence, their need for reassurance. They were tired, ragged eyed, fighting terror and exhaustion.

“I’m here,” Jerico said, for he knew not what else to say. He felt woefully unprepared. His training at the Citadel meant nothing for this. Where were his teachers? Where was their faith that had seemed unshakeable? Before the crowd he felt his neck flush, his hands tremble, and his back go slick with cold sweat. So many of them would die, if not all. What fate awaited them? Would it be Ashhur’s graceful hands? Karak’s fire in the Abyss? Or only emptiness, a nothing that belied what he knew and believed?

“Thank you for coming,” Jessie said, sitting in the front row. Several others echoed similar thoughts.

Jerico bowed his head and closed his eyes. He drowned them out, all of them. Denying his doubt, denying his fear, he spoke to Ashhur as if he were alone. His voice quivered at first, then grew firm. He asked for strength. He asked for forgiveness. He revealed his fear, his uncertainty, and his desperate trust that it would be conquered. Through it all, the people listened.

“D o you see them?” Pheus said, watching from afar. His arms crossed, he leaned against a partly disassembled home and frowned at the sight. “Do you see what I warned you of?”

Darius stood beside him, and he keenly felt the shame burn in his chest.

“They are only afraid,” he argued. “It will not mean anything beyond today, perhaps tomorrow…”

“The now means everything,” Pheus said, willing to hear none of it. “It should be you they come to for guidance. It should be you who shows them what it means to be strong. When afraid, when facing death, men and women flee to the gods for succor. There will be no lulls to win them back over to you now. No quiet moments of doubt to speak your word. The wolves will come, and fight, and many will die. How many there once sat in your congregation, Darius?”

Taking his greatsword off his back, the dark paladin stared into the black fire that enveloped it.

“Many,” he said at last.

“Many?” Pheus sighed. “Even one is too many, and we both know there are far more than one in that gathering. This is your failure. Their lost souls are upon your shoulders for not doing what needed to be done. How tall will you stand before Karak when he asks of this? What will you tell our great lord? I fear what I myself must say. I trusted you, I suppose. Will he accept it? Doubtful. Perhaps we can still acquire some measure of mercy, but only when Jerico dies at our feet. Only when his blood wets your sword and burns in its dark flame…”

Darius sheathed his weapon.

“Enough,” he said. “You have made your point. But whoever out there would abandon Karak now in their moments of weakness, they were never true servants of our god. Perhaps we only separate the wheat from the chaff.”

Pheus waved a dismissive hand.

“Use platitudes to excuse your weakness if you must, paladin. Those with knowledge will know the truth. I pray you are one of knowledge.”

He left. Darius remained, and he listened to Jerico’s prayer. It was heartfelt, he knew that for sure. Whether he served a false god or not, he believed it fully. The crowd sang, and cried, and ached for the dead and the soon to be dying. It did not last long, and soon Jerico fell quiet. Some came to talk to him, but most returned to their tasks, shovels and hammers in hand. Jealousy burned in his heart. He had always been the greater speaker, always commanded the greater presence. But it seemed the village almost reveled in Jerico’s revealed weakness. It made no sense. How could a trembling of faith affect them more than his iron certainty?