2

Jerico awoke with a start, crying out while hardly aware he was doing so. Sweat poured down his face, and it felt cool against his skin in the chill night air. He’d flung off his bedroll, no doubt from flailing about in the night. Clouds hid most of the stars, but the moon shone through one of the scattered gaps, and in its light Jerico stared at his hands. They were shaking.

“Just dreams,” the paladin said, steadying his breathing in an attempt to slow down his heart. “Dreams, that’s all, nothing more.”

He lay back down and closed his eyes. Though he was on the outskirts of Robert’s camp, he was still close enough to hear the snores and shuffling. From all around thrummed the cicadas, plentiful in the tall grass in the Knothills where they camped. To some it would have seemed dreadfully loud, but to Jerico it was nothing compared with Sandra’s echoing screams in his head.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it. The battle at the Castle of Caves was at its end, Sebastian’s siege crushed by the unexpected aid of Luther’s army. Sandra had come running, leaping into his arms, oblivious to the gore and death all around them in the gates of the castle where Jerico had helmed the defense. She’d been his first love, his only love, and night after night he re-lived that moment where Luther came, pointed his finger, and blasted her heart to pieces with a bolt of lightning that had shimmered black.

Now do you understand, Jerico? Luther had said as Jerico held Sandra’s corpse in his arms. You are insignificant, just a puppet to my desires. Go off into the wilderness and die. There is no longer a place for you in this world.

Such calculated cruelty. It made him shiver still. Luther had meant every word, and spoken them as if to a child or troublesome animal. Jerico, covered in the blood of dozens of soldiers, had been nothing but a tool. But for what reason? As he closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, he pondered on that, wishing his mind to remain on things other than the life vanishing from Sandra’s eyes. Why had Luther wanted Jerico to keep Lord Arthur alive? What purpose? Everything he knew about Lord Sebastian implied he was an ardent supporter of Karak.

…‌just a puppet…

That’s how Jerico felt. A clueless puppet. How did one fight against the strings when ignorant of the direction they pulled?

“Forget it,” Jerico muttered, slowly rising to his feet. His mind was too awake.

Walking away from the camp, he hoped to put his mind at ease, to let the sounds of the night and rhythm of his steps drown away the lingering fears. Just south of the camp was a larger hill, and Jerico climbed it, the motion stretching the muscles of his legs in a satisfying way. He’d thought to overlook the encampment alone, but was surprised to find another. Jerico’s first instinct was to reach for his mace, but Ashhur cried no warning in his mind. Besides, he’d left his mace and shield next to his bedroll, a rather stupid act in hindsight.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” the other man asked. He sat facing the camp, a long dirk in hand. When he looked up to speak, the faint light shone across his face, revealing his gray hair tied in a long ponytail.

“I could ask you the same thing, Kaide,” Jerico said.

Kaide met his gaze, and for several long seconds he showed no reaction. Then he looked away, back down to his dirk.

“I think we both know the answer,” the bandit lord said.

Jerico did, of course. Six days ago they’d buried Sandra along with the rest of the dead. If anyone felt the pain keener than Jerico, it’d be Kaide.

“Mind if I sit?” Jerico asked. “If neither of us can sleep, we might as well talk.”

“Why not?” Kaide said. “You do tend to help one fall asleep.”

“That’s what the people in Durham used to say after my sermons,” Jerico said, forcing an unreturned smile. Shaking his head, Jerico sat beside the man, and together they overlooked the tents. On one side were Lord Arthur’s men, about five hundred in number. On the other side were those belonging to Kaide. Most slept below the open sky instead of in tents, having little more than the clothes on their backs and a desire for vengeance in their hearts.

“What is it you see?” Jerico asked when Kaide continued to stare at the camp.

“I see my men outnumbering Arthur’s,” Kaide said. “Yet we will receive no honor at Sebastian’s defeat. We’ll earn no lands, and be given no credit. It’ll all belong to Arthur.”

“I thought he promised to give you back Ashvale,” Jerico said.

Kaide let out a chuckle.

“I’m not sure I want it anymore. Enough blood on my hands.” He fell silent for a moment, and Jerico could tell he was struggling for words. “She told me, you know,” he said after a time. “That bastard, Luther, he gave her warning. Said I was to stay away, me and my men. I laughed at her. Laughed. And now look at what’s happened. Here I am, Kaide the Cannibal, marching south to have my revenge, and all I can think of is how I wish I’d let you and Arthur rot in that castle.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jerico said.

“It’s not?” Kaide asked, shooting him a glare. “Then whose is it? Luther’s? Arthur’s? Yours? Tell me, Jerico. Tell me, so I can shove this blade up their ass and rip it out their throat.”

Jerico waited to respond, letting Kaide calm first. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he had to offer in answer, but he had to try. He’d felt distance growing between him and Kaide for a while, and when Sandra died it’d turned into a massive chasm.

“Revenge isn’t how you should honor her,” he began.

“Bullshit!” Kaide shouted, stabbing his dirk into the dirt. “Bullshit. Revenge is all I have left. It’s what’s gotten me this far. It’s what has rallied these men to fight on my side to overthrow Sebastian. All I had beyond revenge was my sister and daughter, and now I’ve lost one.”

“She’s not lost, not…”

“No,” Kaide said, glaring. “No, don’t you dare tell me that. I don’t want to hear about the hereafter. I don’t want to hear about golden streets and rows of angels. My sister is dead, gods dammit! Dead, gone, lost, and for what reason? Because I pissed off a priest? Because I was stupid enough to think I could accomplish something in this miserable fucking world?”

“Luther killed Sandra to hurt me,” Jerico said, the words like acid in his throat. “That’s why she died.”

“To hurt you?” Kaide said. “That’s all? To think she died for so noble a purpose. Why are you so special? If he wanted to hurt you, he should have just hurt you. Not my sister. Not my little…”

He was crying, and he jammed the dirk into the dirt again and again. His upper body trembled with the action.

“What good are you, Jerico?” he asked at last. “Sandra loved you. I know she did. And you couldn’t protect her, not even her. I sit here, and you have no comfort to offer other than petty dreams of gold you desperately pretend are real. You’re an excellent killer, I’ll give you that. An excellent killer in a world that’s gotten so very fucking good at that lately.”

Kaide stood, dirk in hand, and paused. His back was to Jerico, as if he were waiting, giving Jerico one last chance to refute the words. Jerico wanted to. He wanted to say something profound, something meaningful. A dozen responses he’d learned at the Citadel came to mind, things he’d been trained to say at such questioning. But they felt prepared. They felt dishonest. If he and Darius were wiped out, what did the world of Dezrel lose? What did he have to offer?

“Hope,” Jerico said. “I offer hope.”

“Hope?” Kaide asked, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t see any hope in your eyes. I don’t hear any hope in your voice. You’re living a lie, Jerico, and I want no part of it. Luther was right. You should go off into the wilderness and die. There’s no hope left in this world, just a lot of tears and blood.”

Kaide descended the hill. Jerico watched him go, his gut wrenched into a knot. More than ever he wished he could say something, offer something, cleanse away the man’s anguish for his sister with a simple prayer. But instead he heard the words, the accusations, and as the clouds passed over the moon, darkening the land, Jerico dared wonder.

When the sun rose, and the army below stirred in preparations for another day’s march, Jerico remained upon the hill, still awake, still in doubt.

Grevus stepped into the tent, then waited at the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back. His dark armor was polished to a fine gleam, the lion on his breastplate intricately detailed so that it seemed its fur blew in an unseen wind. Sheathed at his side was his well-worn blade. For twenty years he’d served as a paladin of Karak, and in those twenty years, he’d never met a priest more frightening than Luther.

“You called for me?” he asked when Luther turned from his candlelit desk. A parchment lay before him, an inkwell beside it. Luther put away the quill he held, then gestured to what he’d written.

“I have a message for you to deliver,” the priest said. “One that, given the circumstances, might put your life in peril.”

“My life belongs to Karak,” Grevus said. “I shall do whatever he commands without fear or doubt.”

“Fear itself is irrelevant,” Luther said, turning back to the parchment and scanning over it. “It’s how you act upon it that matters. Doubt, however, is poison. I say this only to ensure you are careful, and remain guarded. This is a most delicate task, more than just delivering a message.”

Grevus hated the cryptic words but knew better than to demand a proper explanation. If Luther wished to give him one, he’d do so on his own terms.

“I will do as I must,” Grevus said. “Where am I to go?”

“To the Blood Tower,” Luther said, letting out a sigh.

Grevus swallowed, everything clicking in place.

“To Cyric,” he said.

“Yes, to Cyric,” Luther said. “This must be handled delicately. I’ve already sent a missive to Mordeina, requesting the full force of our might to come north under my command. So far none of them know of Cyric’s claims to be Karak made flesh, and I’d like this settled without them ever knowing.”

“You fear they’ll condemn him, and risk war amongst ourselves?”

“Condemn? No, Grevus, I fear that my brethren will believe him. The only thing worse than a madman is a madman with followers.”

Grevus felt his body stiffen. Luther was the most faithful, intelligent priest he’d ever known, hence why he feared him so. He knew Karak’s every desire, and when he spoke, it was with the voice of the Lion. If he was afraid of Cyric’s claim, and the damage it might cause…

“So you don’t believe him then?” Grevus asked.

Luther shot him a look.

“Believe him? Of course I don’t believe him. That you have to ask makes me reconsider sending you as bearer of my message.”

“Forgive me,” Grevus said, bowing low. His mind scrambled for the right words. He thought back to his days at the Stronghold, particularly the weeks spent reading over prophecy before returning to the physical training and prayers. “But every child of Karak has been told there will be a day when our god walks the world as he once did. When the sun rises, we pray today is that day, so our hearts may be ready, and our faith strong enough to kneel in his presence without shame.”

“Grevus, I trust you above all others,” Luther said, and the worried look on his face made Grevus uneasy. “You are a simple man, faithful, practical. If you are uncertain about Cyric’s claim, then I fear all the more how the rest of our brethren will react.”

“You misunderstand me,” Grevus said. “I believe that Karak might one day walk this world. What I do doubt, however, is that he’s Cyric.”

“You speak of doubt yet again. Be certain, or admit you know nothing. Never doubt.”

The ink dry, Luther rolled up the message, then began melting wax so he might form a seal. Grevus watched, the tent feeling incredibly cramped despite its large size. The air was suffocating, he realized, though he was unsure why. Maybe it was Luther’s worry that infected him. Grevus felt best walking into a conflict with his sword drawn and his armor shining. That was his home, on the battlefield, the heathens and the blasphemous dying upon his blade. Philosophy? Prophecy? They appealed to him, but only as a curiosity. Debating them, on the other hand, made him feel like he was on a different battlefield, naked and fighting with his bare fists.

“He was a good disciple,” Luther said, interrupting his thoughts. “Good, but there was a flaw in him, one I tried to repair. But some flaws are too deep. Some flaws define who we really are.”

“And what might that be?” asked Grevus as the wax dripped upon the message he was to bring north. “What was Cyric’s flaw?”

Luther smiled sadly and shook his head.

“He hated the priesthood.”

Grevus’s mouth dropped open. That was a flaw? That sounded more like a massive contradiction for a young man determined to be a priest.

“I’m…‌not sure I understand.”

Drip, drip went the wax.

“It’s not that hard,” Luther said, carefully watching it collect. “A subtle thing, really. But the priesthood, its laws, its restrictions, all of its members…‌he saw them as beneath him. He saw them as failing to live up to Karak’s standard. Whenever he failed, he’d blame not himself but the priestly order. It was we who taught him weakness, was it not? No, he always looked to the old ways. That was his excuse, his reason for the flaws he saw in all of us. We didn’t sacrifice sinners like we used to. We tolerated too much. We weren’t as strict, weren’t as demanding. So much easier for him to yearn for a past that was better, more full of faith and wisdom.”

Grevus tried to think like that, to understand, but could not. The past was the past, nothing better, nothing worse.

“In all times, there are men who are faithful, and men who are weak,” he said. “Cyric is a fool to think it wasn’t always this way.”

Luther smiled as he put down the candle and wax.

“So true, paladin. Thank you for reminding me why I chose you.”

He pressed his ring into the wax, placing his seal upon it.

“Ride alone to the Blood Tower,” Luther said, offering the missive to him from his seat. Grevus accepted it, hoping the priest didn’t notice his nervousness. Even through his gauntlets, it felt like the paper shocked his skin. “If Cyric is not there, he might be at a nearby village named Willshire. When he is alone, break the seal and read him my message.”

“Shall he not read it himself?” Grevus asked.

“No, no. From your lips, Grevus. I want there to be no doubt, no confusion. I trust you to believe what I say, and to know what to do after the message is delivered. Act with faith, and do not hesitate. There is more at stake here than you know.”

“And what is that?” Grevus dared ask, even if it revealed him to be lacking in wisdom.

Luther leaned back into his chair, and his eyes glazed over as his thoughts traveled inward.

“A man who yearns for the past now claims to be Karak,” he said. “A man who would make things as they once were. His faith is strong, and his words will be seductive. He’ll speak of power, of conquest and subjugation. He’ll speak of enforcing faith throughout the land, denying people even the illusion of choice. And if given the chance he’ll crush every last remnant of our order, which he views with such contempt, all to remake a world that never existed except in his foolish dreams.”

“The words I carry, they are the words of Karak?” Grevus asked, looking at the parchment.

“They are,” Luther said, his eyes refocusing. “And if they are not, they should be. Prepare your things quickly, and ride out before the dawn.”

Grevus bowed low, but had one last question before he left.

“Luther,” he said. “I must ask. I must. If Cyric claims he is Karak made flesh when he is not, then he speaks blasphemy of the highest order. You know our law. You know what I am called to do.”

Luther stood from his chair and walked over, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“Read the message,” he said. “And then act with the wisdom and faith I know you have.”

Grevus’s insides hardened, and despite all his training, he felt fear and uncertainty facing such a task. To judge the life and faith of a priest, knowing that blood must be spilled should he not deny the blasphemy…

“I will do my best,” he said, standing up straighter.

“I know you will. Now go.”

As Grevus went to leave, Luther gave him one last command.

‘Oh, and while you’re up there,” he said, his old eyes sparkling, “should you find out where Darius is hiding, hunt him down and kill him. An embarrassment like that to our order has no right to live.”

“Of course,” Grevus said, bowing low. He felt a smile pull at his lips. Everything else might worry him, especially being caught between two powerful priests of Karak, but in this, he knew there was no debate.

Darius, the traitor paladin, deserved to die.