12

All throughout the preparations for departure, Valessa accompanied Darius. She said nothing, and whenever he asked her a question she refused to respond. Perhaps it was childish, but Valessa didn’t care. The paladin had certainly earned a cold shoulder, at least for a single day. The combined people of Willshire and Durham reacted with a numb calm when hearing of their need to flee. They’d been through too much to react otherwise, Valessa knew. No one argued. The memory of Cyric’s initial attempt at subjugation was far too recent.

Through it all, Daniel kept their spirits high. He hollered and shouted, acting like his soldiers were incompetent sods while the villagers were the bravest of heroes. Boat after boat filled, as many crammed in them as possible without capsizing. And then, while the sun was beginning its final descent, they left without fanfare or goodbyes. Only Daniel made the shortest of speeches to Brute and his seventeen volunteers.

“Bloody their noses for me,” Daniel said. “And I’ll make sure the king builds you a memorial right here at the tower engraved with the names of every last one of you. And then we’ll grind Cyric’s bones atop it, put them into a bowl, and fill it with my own piss before tossing it to the Wedge.”

“An elegant hope,” Brute said, grinning. “Now get out of here, you old bastard.”

With that, they were alone, twenty total to guard the walls of the Blood Tower. Valessa looked to the sky, saw the steady approach of the black star. Twenty soldiers, when they’d need two thousand to stand a chance. What was the point, she wondered. What gave the men the jubilance they showed? What allowed them to laugh and joke as they prepared their armor for battle?

Only Darius looked bothered by his fate, and even then she wasn’t sure. He sat atop the northwestern section of the wall, staring into the distance. Waiting for Cyric, she knew. Was he nervous about the meeting? Valessa shook her head, berating herself. Of course he was. The thought of meeting Cyric, of hearing his voice speak her name, filled the center of her blasphemous body with terror.

“Hey Darius,” Brute called from down below, having finally found the paladin. “Time’s getting short, so come join us, be sociable.”

Darius chuckled, and his gaze flicked over to Valessa. She kept silent, refusing to offer any input. Being there at all was lunacy. What did it matter if they drank themselves stupid or remained sober and at attention?

“Be right there,” Darius said.

He climbed down the stairs, and Valessa followed.

The seventeen volunteers gathered in the mess hall of the tower, drinking to their heart’s content. Brute waited in a far corner, and he had two cups ready, along with a pitcher.

“Forgive me if it seems I am a poor host,” he said to Valessa. “I’d have prepared a drink for you as well, but far as I know, you’re not much for that type of thing anymore.”

“I tried to drink once,” she said, standing beside Darius instead of sitting. Sitting was actually more difficult, since she had to keep more of her body solid than just her feet. “The liquid ran through my jaw to the floor.”

She’d killed the couple who witnessed that spectacle. Their faces flashed before her, and she wished to think on anything else.

“I’ll drink double for her then,” Darius said, grabbing his cup.

“You’re my kind of paladin,” Brute said. The drink lifted to his lips, Darius paused just before, as if something was wrong. Realizing they were watching him, he laughed, and his neck flushed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Weird feeling. Still thinking this might be against our code or something.”

Brute laughed.

“If a cup of ale’s the worst sin on your shoulders when you die, I dare say you worry too much.”

Darius drank the liquid, then set it down. As the wood tapped atop the table, Valessa stared at it, feeling a mad jealousy. What she’d give to eat, to drink, to experience sweet fruits and bitter ale. In this undeath, she had an existence cruel enough to know how much she’d lost, yet an inability to do anything about it. Meanwhile, Darius was worrying Ashhur might flick him on the nose for a stupid drink. What she’d give to trade problems…

“So why are you really staying?” Brute asked, pouring more of the dark liquid into his cup. “Every one of the men here knows they’re to die. They’re doing it for family, for honor, or because they’re old and tired and don’t want to spend the next few weeks running just to die anyway. But you…‌you strike me as a man who has no intention of dying. So why?”

Valessa had heard his reasons, his inane sense of honor in replicating an act he assumed Jerico would perform in a similar situation. Shaking her head, she wondered just what this Jerico was like. He wasn’t even human, if she went by how Darius talked of him. He was more a caricature of godliness, a walking shield of good deeds and sickening perfection. Perhaps she should remind him that it was Jerico who had killed Claire, her companion?

It took Darius a moment to answer, and when he did, he failed to be convincing.

“Because it’s what I should do,” he said.

“I beg to differ,” Brute said. “No, what I’m thinking you should do is get into that little rowboat I kept here and row like a dragon’s teeth are nipping at your ass. But then again, I’m no paladin, just a simple soldier.”

“Sometimes I think the simple soldiers know more than us educated paladins,” Darius said, and he smiled. The smile was clearly forced. Valessa wondered if his nerves were starting to get to him.

Brute shot her a wink.

“We know more about killing and dying, and that sometimes lends clarity. I spiked your drink, by the way. Just want you to know for when you start passing out. Would hate to scare you.”

Valessa lifted an eyebrow, and she looked to Darius, who was gripping the table edge tightly. His skin was turning pale, and sweat trickled down his neck.

“No,” he said, and his head bobbed as if he were suddenly dizzy. “Not your…‌not your place to…”

Brute was up from his seat in a heartbeat, catching Darius as he fell. With a whistle, two other men came over, helping him lift Darius from the table.

“Where are you taking him?” Valessa asked, following after.

“To the rowboat,” Brute said. “Weren’t you listening?”

They dumped Darius unceremoniously into the rowboat, which was tethered to the southernmost dock. It rocked back and forth, the old wood looking dangerously insufficient compared to the heft of the paladin and his armor. One of the soldiers carefully set Darius’s large sword beside him.

“Get in,” Brute said when that was done. “You’re going with him.”

Valessa opened her mouth to protest, but Brute gave her no chance.

“You can row a boat, can’t you?” he asked.

“Water and I don’t get along,” she said.

“Then don’t fall out. We’ve all volunteered to stay, and not a one here is willing to appear a coward by helping Darius get out safely. That leaves you, and truth be told, woman, I think I’ll feel safer once you’re off with him. You raise the hairs of my neck. I’ve already loaded the rest of his things, and there’s a bit of food too, in case it takes you a bit to catch up with the others. Not that you will need to eat much.”

Valessa bit back her retort. She eyed the boat, thinking of what had happened the last time she tried crossing a river. The water had torn at her being, tried to sweep her along without any true form. Her body had shifted and changed with the current, incredibly painful and beyond disorientating. But if she were careful, she could stay within the boat, though she wondered how long until the thing sprung a leak, and down to the bottom of the Gihon they went.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered a foot into the boat, followed by the other. She pulled out the lone oar as Brute untied the boat.

“Why?” she asked him.

Brute shrugged.

“No matter what he says, he’s not supposed to die here. Elsewhere, perhaps, and at a later time, but not here. Not when he’s got no chance to change anything. Row as fast as you can. He’ll wake in a few hours. I suppose we’ll all be dead by then.”

The boat shuddered once as it drifted out into the heavier current. Valessa guided it with the oar best she could. Her experience with them was limited, but she was strong, and that helped immensely.

“He’s almost here,” Valessa shouted to them as the Blood Tower started to drift further and further away. “Don’t let him know you’re afraid, and don’t you dare bow your knee.”

“We won’t,” Brute shouted back.

He and the others turned their backs to her, and just like that, they were alone on the river, drifting south in a sudden calm that felt almost threatening. Valessa looked to the sleeping Darius in the center of the boat. A sensation came over her, like a tightening of her focus. If she still had a body, it would have been akin to the speeding up of her heart.

Darius lay alone, unguarded, and without his sword in his hand.

Dropping the oar, she picked up the blade by the hilt. It had once been consumed with the dark fire of Karak, a cleansing flame to burn away the weakness and filth of the world. It had been replaced with the holy light of Ashhur, pushing away the shadows, revealing the ugly nakedness of man. But now it was neither, just a heavy hunk of metal with one side sharper than the other.

The tip hovered a foot above his neck. Over and over she imagined plunging it into his flesh, slamming it down with a primal cry of torment and fury. Just like that, his life would be over. The red star would shine no more in the sky. In her hands, she thought, the blade was in her hands. All she had to do was use it.

The boat drifted on. The Blood Tower looked like a child’s toy in the distance, just a tiny thing illuminated with torches no bigger than the light of the fireflies.

“Why?” she asked aloud as she sat down beside him. “Why do I let you live?”

She had to know. The blade rested atop his chest, the hilt still in her hands. A hard shove, and it would slide upward, through the lower half of his jaw and into his brain. But not until she knew why she felt such a terrible impulse to spare him. She would not act against it, not in ignorance. She did not love him. That was easy to discount. She wasn’t even sure she cared much for him. But something about being in his presence comforted her. She wanted to hear him speak to her, even if she had nothing to say back. His arguments for Ashhur were uneducated and shallow. But he’d turned anyway.

He was a man who had endured similar turmoil, who had even knelt at the foot of the prophet, Velixar, and yet through all that he’d emerged whole, sane, and relatively happy. It was a future she could not see for herself in any way. Was that what she thought he offered her? But that was a happiness she could not take.

Could she?

She remembered when she and Cyric fled from Darius’s glowing blade at Willshire. Valessa had been threads of shadow barely held together by magic she did not understand. Cyric had towered above her, condemning her. Every bit of hate in his eyes had shone clear, and still she’d seen the love of Karak surrounding him, blessing him. What had happened to her god? She’d cursed Karak then, swore against him. Was that the same god Darius had turned against? Did she really want to find peace and redemption through Darius’s blood bleeding out of his neck and onto her hands, forever staining them the same shade of red as the star that shone above him?

“Stop it,” she said, standing. The motion rocked the boat, and she fought for balance as she lifted the blade high and screamed out again. “No doubt! I am faithful, I am faithful, I am…”

Tears of silver and tears of blood ran down her face, the only liquid seemingly capable of touching her ethereal flesh. They fell upon Darius’s armor with soft plinks, like rain. She knew her purpose. She knew her place. Was it not to kill the mad priest Cyric? It wasn’t Karak’s love she’d seen about him. It was hatred. It had to be. He was blaspheming, he was evil, horrible. He condemned her, called her unfinished. Doubt was killing her. Doubt was destroying her. She was faithful, she’d always been faithful. Ever since she was a child old enough to speak words, she’d knelt before Karak and called him lord. He wouldn’t abandon her. She couldn’t abandon him. Faithful, faithful, Karak help her, she was faithful…

She lost control. Her feet slipped through the boat, followed by her legs. Instinct had her lash out, dropping the sword so she might grab the first thing she could. It was Darius’s leg. Her lower half felt aflame, and she had a sensation akin to her legs stretching on and on, as long as the river. The fish and the bugs crawled through them, and she felt every bit of their surface. Her fingers dug into Darius’s armor, and with a cry she flung herself back into the boat, her whole body solid. Atop Darius she lay, her upper half trembling, the lower half slowly becoming bones, legs, flesh.

Kill him, she thought. Kill him, then fling yourself into the river, and let whatever god that would take you, take you.

She reached for the hilt but stopped. No. Enough of this farce. Her hatred for Cyric and Darius had nothing to do with Karak, not anymore. It wasn’t for redemption. It wasn’t cleansing, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t her performing Karak’s secret desire. No, it was selfish, it was desperate, and it was all she could hope for to remove the torment and chaos that filled her mind. Her entire world, built prayer by prayer, lesson by lesson by Karak’s priests, had crumbled. She only hated Darius for exposing it with that damn glowing blade of his.

But there was no honor in killing Darius. No redemption. No salvation, no clarity, no relief. Just a bitter, angry denial of the painfully obvious.

Abandoning the sword for the oar, she began to row so she might have something to do instead of dwelling on her decision. Summoning the courage only once, she looked back and saw the black star directly over the distant blur that was the Blood Tower. She wanted to pray for the men remaining behind, but knew Karak would only mock her, and she did not think Ashhur would care to listen. So she rowed, rowed, and wished the night would finally end.