3

The people of Willshire rose with the sun, for there was work to do. For them, it meant dealing with the fields, their homes, with baking bread and dirty clothes. For Darius, it was an execution.

The paladin strode from his tent toward the town square, the new day sun shining off his polished armor. Where once had been the sigil of Karak was now a golden mountain. It’d taken many meticulous hours scraping away at it with a dagger to clear off the original paint, and his drawing, while careful, was still crude. Skill in art had always eluded Darius growing up, not that he’d had much practice beyond a few doodles made while learning his letters in the Stronghold. But he was proud of it nonetheless, though it now worried him greatly. He bore the symbol of Ashhur on his chest, but on his face he would wear the hood of the executioner.

An older man, Brute, saw him along the path through town and strode to join him.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Brute said.

Darius shook his head.

“You know it does.”

They continued on, neither speaking. After the defense of Willshire and the arrival of Daniel Coldmine’s soldiers, they’d remained in town. They’d fortified the outer roads and built up some barricades, but not with any real expectation of defense. In truth, they’d not known what else to do. Daniel himself was lost, presumed dead after a failed attack on the Blood Tower. Once casualties were counted and done, Brute had assumed leadership, though only in name. Darius had become their leader after that battle. He’d defeated Cyric and sent him running, and it was his sword that had killed the demon lion, Kayne. They looked to him, expecting a miracle that Darius simply did not have to offer.

“It shouldn’t be you,” Brute said, finally breaking the silence as the square came into view. “This man is one of mine. Crimes committed by soldiers should be tried, judged, and punished by other soldiers.”

Darius heard the words, and a large part of him wanted to accept. Brute had quickly become a good companion, offering advice earned from many long years of battle. His gray hair and numerous scars weren’t needed to convince Darius that his wisdom was more often correct than not. But this, he had to do.

“Who gave the order that the people of Willshire were to be untouched?” Darius asked.

“You did, but…”

“And,” Darius continued, “who warned Conn that if he forced himself on another woman, he’d have a choice, his prick or his life?”

Brute shook his head.

“You did, but you had no authority to make those orders, or those threats. You spoke them, but I made them law. Let me swing the blade. It’s not your fault.”

“I know it’s not mine,” Darius said. “It’s Conn’s. Who’d have thought the fool would rather lose the head on his shoulders than the one down below?”

To this, Brute could only shrug.

In the center of town was a great pit of ash. It was there Cyric had constructed his altar, where he’d planned to sacrifice many in the name of Karak. Once the mad priest had been defeated, Darius made sure every bit of wood and nail had been burned to the ground. Later they’d burned the bodies of the dead upon it, for they had little spare wood for the purpose, and the fire was already blazing. That the law required Conn’s execution to be held in the public square, on that same spot he’d fought and killed to prevent similar beheadings, felt bitterly ironic.

Conn waited on his knees in the center of the pit, hands bound behind his back. Two soldiers stood at either side of him, their hands on the hilts of their swords. At their arrival Conn looked up, then spat at Darius’s feet.

“Figured you’d be here,” he said. “Plan on using that big ass sword of yours?”

Conn was a fine looking man, but his heart was ugly. Twice Darius had caught him pressuring the young girls of the village to lie with him, implying harm might come to them otherwise. He’d been given warnings, but little else. Then one drunken night, not three days after they’d stopped Cyric’s sacrifices, Conn had flung a barmaid against a wall and tried to take her by force. Again Darius had stopped him, and then told Brute to declare the law. Trying to live by the forgiveness Jerico had taught him, Darius gave Conn more warnings, and every bit of hard labor he could think of around the town to keep him busy. It’d not been enough.

This time, Darius had not been there to stop him. They’d learned only from the girl’s furious father.

“You can change your mind,” Brute told Conn. “It’s not too late.”

Conn spat at his feet.

“You want me to live as half a man? That ain’t living. I’ll die whole, not like that.”

“You won’t die whole,” Darius said, pulling his greatsword off his back. Blue-white light shone across the blade, soft and subtle. It was the material manifestation of Darius’s faith, and by how weakly it flickered he could see how much his confusion had shaken him.

Conn sneered.

“Whole enough. Go ahead, unless you’re too much of a coward.”

Darius swallowed, and he tried to bury his frustration, his anger and hatred. Stepping closer to Conn, he knelt down so they could stare eye to eye. No matter what Conn was, he was not a coward, and he met Darius’s gaze without flinching for fear of what was to come.

“Don’t do this,” Darius said. His voice dropped low, as if it were just the two of them alone in the world. “There’s still a chance for you to change. There’s still a way you can make this right.”

“You want to make this right?” Conn asked. He leaned closer, his arms still bound behind his back. “Then let me go. I didn’t do nothing, and you’ve got no right mutilating me. What you said, it’s sick. Only have yourself to blame.”

Forgiveness and compassion, thought Darius. He saw neither, not in those eyes. He stood, then beckoned the guards to step away. Conn sat on his haunches instead of presenting his neck.

“I ain’t making it easy for you,” he said to the paladin. “And you,” he said, glaring at Brute. “We fought to keep that Cyric bastard from taking us over. What’s the point if we just let one god replace the other?”

“Conn Graham, you have broken the king’s law, and chosen a sentence of death,” Darius said, ignoring Conn’s snicker at the word king. “May you find peace in the hereafter.”

“Maybe I’ll find justice, too,” Conn said.

Down came the blade in a sweeping angle, chopping through Conn’s neck side to side. His head rolled, and Darius turned away, not wanting to see. The two guards reached for the body, and the paladin trusted them to clean up the mess. Wiping down his sword, he placed it on his back and marched away. Brute stepped in line, following.

“We get all kinds of men for our towers,” Brute said. “Most we hammer and beat into something worthwhile, something a man can be proud of. But sometimes…‌sometimes we’re trying to make armor out of mud. Can’t change what a man’s made of, only improve what’s there.”

“So you’re saying Conn was mud?”

“I’m saying if you gave him a hundred chances, he’d break every one.”

Darius shook his head, troubled but not wanting to reveal why, not even to Brute.

“Then perhaps I should have given him a hundred and one.”

Brute grabbed his arm, forcing Darius to stop and look at him.

“You son of a bitch, you really are bothered by this,” he said. “I told you to let me swing the damn sword. Next time maybe you’ll listen.”

Darius opened his mouth to retort back, but then just sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “And pass your own laws, too. I’m clearly terrible at it.”

“Not so bad as you think.”

They stopped, for down the street rushed one of their men, clearly excited about something.

“He’s back,” the man said, out of breath from the run.

“Who’s back?” asked Darius as Brute raised an eyebrow.

“Daniel,” said the soldier. “Daniel Coldmine’s back from the Wedge!”

They gathered in Darius’s tent, the largest and most private in the camp. Daniel sat on the cot, a blanket wrapped about his upper body. He held several slices of buttered bread, wolfing them down and pausing only to speak. A cup of ale rested between his knees, half-empty. A small boy stood in the corner of the tent, attending him should he need more to eat or drink.

“Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Daniel said, finishing his third slice. “After eating bugs for a week, you’d be surprised how close to tears a sliver of butter will bring you.”

Darius chuckled, sitting in a rickety chair opposite the cot. Beside him stood Brute, arms crossed and patiently waiting for his returned commander to tell his tale.

“We assumed everyone lost,” Darius said. “Did anyone else survive? What of Sir Robert?”

Daniel stopped eating, and the bread trembled in his hands.

“No,” he said. It was as if he were suddenly an inch from breaking down. “No, no one lived, especially not Sir Robert.”

He glanced up, and Darius realized it wasn’t tears that made Daniel tremble. It was seething rage.

“That bastard, Cyric, he turned Robert into an abomination. His throat was cut, yet somehow he still lived. Still moved. They kept him chained in the tower, writing letters south, telling people that Cyric’s takeover of the Blood Tower was all a lie, and that the priest was only advising him. I…‌I cut off his head. It was his order, his last order. Gods help him find peace.”

“What happened then?” Brute asked.

Daniel gestured to the dirty child in the corner.

“Not sure I wish to say more with the lad here.”

Darius tried to reveal nothing with his gaze, and shrugged off the comment.

“That lad’s my helper, and he’ll hold his tongue. Tell us, what happened at the tower?”

“The rest of my men gathered at the door of Robert’s tower, sacrificing themselves so I could escape out a window. Nearly died even then. One of those abyssal lions spotted me. If you’d care to look, you can see the scars he left on my back with his breath.”

“Her,” Darius said. “It was a her, by the name of Lilah.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Daniel asked.

“Because I killed Kayne, the other.”

Daniel shook his head in disbelief.

“If you faced one of them down, you have greater stones than I do. Only way I escaped was by crossing the river. Fled into the Vile Wedge, and lived among the monsters. Shouldn’t have had problems staying hidden, but something’s amiss in there. Too many wolf-men, and not enough of anything else. You’d think they’d have learned after we slaughtered them at Durham.”

The man drank down the rest of his ale, then tossed the cup to the floor.

“Are you two really the ones in charge?” They nodded. “Shit.”

“We stopped Cyric’s plans here,” Darius said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “His soldiers were killed, and his sacrifices halted. Cyric lived, though. Ran before I could shove my sword through his belly. After all that, we weren’t sure what else to do. Our numbers are too few to recapture the Blood Tower, and the town lacks the supplies for any lengthy travel. The only way to reach civilization would be to sail down the river, right past the Blood Tower. The garrison there would crush us if we tried. So we’ve stayed here.”

“Hoping for the best?” Daniel asked. “That’s your plan?”

“Put simply, yes,” Brute said. “You disagree?”

Daniel shook his head.

“Cyric will be returning to the Blood Tower. With Robert gone, their ploy will fail if they can’t tie up all the loose ends. That’s what we are, one giant loose end. He’ll come, and then we’ll die.”

“I saw what Darius could do on his own,” Brute said. “Get some food and drink in your belly, then sleep away the day. You do us a disservice as you are. None of us have any plans of dying.”

“You misunderstand me,” Daniel said, putting aside his plate and standing. “I didn’t survive all that just to play the coward or the fool. Sir Robert was a great man, a good man, and what Cyric did…‌I can’t forgive it. I won’t. We’ll find that madman and make him pay. And the first step to that is retaking Robert’s tower.”

“Robert’s dead,” Darius said. “It’s not his tower anymore.”

“Then we’ll take back my goddamn tower,” Daniel said. “We’ll fling those mercenaries into the river, and maybe you can kill yourself another of those forsaken lions. How does that sound?”

“It sounds impossible,” Darius said, even though he smiled. “But I’ve been doing the impossible lately. What’s one more attempt at it among friends?”

“Not quite impossible,” Brute said. “We do have that woman of yours.”

Daniel leaned back in his chair, setting aside the last of his meal and drink.

“Woman?” he asked. “What woman do we have that can make the impossible possible? Because I’d be glad to meet her.”

“You already have,” said the boy in the corner. He stood up straighter, and suddenly looked so much taller than before. His build thickened, and his hair turned red, growing longer so that it curled about his neck. No longer a boy but a woman with breasts beneath her sleek black tunic, which matched the leather of her pants. Brute frowned, clearly unhappy with the display, while Daniel tensed as if expecting some sort of attack.

“Always one for the dramatic,” Darius said, shaking his head. “Daniel, I’d like you to meet Valessa, formerly a gray sister of Karak, and my current guest.”

“Who…” Daniel said, then paused to swallow. “No, what are you?”

“I was one of Karak’s most faithful,” Valessa said. Even now, Darius could hear the pain in her voice. “And now I am accursed and abandoned. Cyric stripped everything from me, betraying me to excuse his own failures. I am shadow, I am death, and I will have my revenge upon him, same as you.”

“There must be something stronger in my drink than I thought,” Daniel said, standing. Darius met his gaze, which had hardened tenfold. “Are you a madman, paladin? You invite a creature of Karak into our tent because she claims a desire for revenge? How do you know she doesn’t report our every move to Cyric? How do you know she won’t kill us all in our sleep?”

“I don’t,” Darius said. “But I trust her.”

“You trust her?” Daniel said. “That’s great. But can you guard her?”

Darius looked to Valessa, trying to read her. It was nearly an impossible task, her very image that of an illusion, an exquisite mask to hide the shadows. In her eyes, he thought he saw anger, perhaps wounded pride.

“I do not fear pain,” she said to him. “If you must, show Daniel the manacles you hold over me, if he needs such a display to sleep at night.”

It didn’t feel right. It felt akin to when he drew his sword to cut off Conn’s head, but he would not refuse Valessa’s request. He pulled his sword off his back and held it with both hands. The blade shimmered with light, and even though it did not seem bright in the tent, it immediately began to burn Valessa’s flesh. Her pale skin flaked away inch by inch, and her body trembled as whatever held it together steadily broke. Daniel watched, his mouth open. Darius pulled his blade back to sheath it, but Valessa stepped closer, grabbing his wrist. She stared into his eyes as the light burned her deeper, until even her face was lost in shadow and darkness.

“Enough!” Daniel cried. Valessa’s hand released his wrist, and he quickly sheathed the sword onto his back. The light faded away. Now a mass of darkness on her knees, Valessa slowly regained her strength, her form solidifying with each passing moment.

“Satisfied?” Darius asked Daniel, feeling irate.

“Not even close,” Daniel said, watching the skin reappear on Valessa’s hands and face. “I think you’ve only disturbed me further.”

“We’ve kept her presence hidden from the others,” Brute said, putting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “So far she’s done nothing suspicious, nor threatened harm upon anyone other than Cyric.”

“So be it,” Daniel said, pointing at Darius. “If you can control her, then she stays in your tent. I take it she’s been going out in the disguise of a boy?”

“She has,” Darius said. “We call him Vale.”

“Cute.” Daniel grabbed the blanket off his chair and wrapped it about his shoulders. “If she wants to kill Cyric, she can get in line. We don’t need tricks and charlatans to retake the Blood Tower. We need men, able-bodied killers.”

“There are fewer killers finer than I,” Valessa said.

“My comfort only grows in your presence,” Daniel said.

Darius tried to keep his temper down. He knew Daniel had little patience or tact when frustrated, but this felt unfair. Valessa had come to him willingly, offering aid.

“She knows where Cyric is,” Darius said as he put a hand on Valessa’s shoulder. It felt cold to his touch, but he gently squeezed anyway. “At all times, she knows. We can use her, Daniel, track Cyric no matter where he goes, evade any ambush while planning our own.”

“A good trick,” Daniel said, settling back into his chair. “Can she do that with anyone, or just Cyric?”

“Only two,” Valessa said, her voice soft, eloquent. She’d adopted the habits and persona of a highborn lady, and Darius knew she did it to seem superior to the soldier. “Men who have wronged me greatly, and who by my very creation I am called to kill. Cyric is one.”

“And the other?”

Valessa smiled, and then she was the boy, Vale. Without a word she left the tent. Darius smirked at Daniel, and he found himself needing to talk to Valessa, to apologize for the agony his blade had inflicted upon her.

“The other’s me,” he told the lieutenant. “Good night, gentlemen. Rest well. We’re going to need it if we’re to overthrow the Blood Tower.”