15

Jerico stood before the crumbled remains of the Citadel. He saw the broken stone and billowing dust with a clarity and certainty of his dreaming status that he knew himself in no ordinary dream. The sun was high, the grass green and blowing in a smooth summer wind. The stables were crushed, thick sections of stone wall having collapsed on top of them. Toward the river was the rest of the former structure, toppled as if the very foundations had been thrown up from the dirt. A deep crater remained where the Citadel had once stood, like a wound on the land.

While he once might have felt fear or despair walking toward such a scene, Jerico now only felt a timid sadness. Was this what awaited him should he finally have the courage to travel south? Was this the scene that would confirm his earlier dreams?

And then the clouds swirled, and Darius stood before him. He wore the same armor as always, except now made of gold, and with a silver symbol of the mountain carved into the chestplate

“Darius?” Jerico asked.

Darius smiled, and did not confirm nor deny.

“You’ll soon be betrayed,” the dream apparition said. “Show no fear, no anger, and no surprise. Into the hands of the enemy you must go.”

“What?” Jerico asked. “Why? If I’m to be a martyr, just say so, and I’ll do it gladly.”

“Not a martyr,” Darius said, shaking his head. “Just remember, you are never alone. Even among the lost there are men of faith. Do not hate them. Let go of your sadness and pride, and above all…‌trust me.”

Darius turned and began walking toward the river, his royal blue cloak billowing behind him.

“Wait!” cried Jerico.

Hearing him, Darius turned, and he gave the paladin a smile.

“Go easy on Kaide, too,” he said. “There’s hope for him yet.”

A white dove flew over him, and its feathers billowed in the wind, multiplying with unnatural means until all Jerico saw was white.

And then he woke to the warnings of a rider approaching from the Castle of the Yellow Rose.

Two hours later, long after the rider had left, Lord Arthur summoned Jerico to his tent. Jerico, left uneasy by his dream, made sure he was in his full armor, his shield on his back and his mace clipped to his side. Getting to the tent involved traveling through a large group of Kevin Maryll’s troops, and the icy glares they gave him made him wonder. The guards at the entrance looked tense, but they let him in without attempting to take his weapon.

Inside, Jerico found Arthur and Kevin waiting for him. Arthur sat at his small desk, and he looked greatly troubled. Kevin, meanwhile, had a smile on his face that made Jerico want to punch him. No reason in particular, other than to see his fist wipe away that smirk and replace it with shock. But that was a juvenile thought, and Jerico chastised himself for it.

“I saw the rider,” Jerico said when neither seemed ready to start the conversation. “What word from Sebastian?”

“The rider was not from my brother,” Arthur said, leaning back into his chair. “No, it seems that priest, Luther, has done what you feared. He defeated Sebastian and his men and then seized control of the castle.”

“Then your path is clear,” Jerico said. “If Luther’s claimed control, send word to all the other lords of Mordan, and to the King himself. This outrage will not…”

“There’s more,” Arthur interrupted. He glanced to Kevin, whose smirk grew.

“Sebastian’s still alive,” Kevin said.

Jerico frowned.

“I don’t see how that changes things.”

Kevin rolled his eyes, all too eager to make the paladin seem unintelligent.

“Luther has offered a trade,” he said. “He’ll turn over control of the castle, as well as spare the life of our lord’s brother. In return, he asks for only one man’s life.”

Jerico felt his breath catch in his throat. No matter how unintelligent Kevin might think him, it took very little imagination to know who Luther requested. Kevin realized it too, and his hand drifted down to his sheathed sword. From all around the tent, Jerico heard the movement of armor. They were surrounded by men loyal to Sir Maryll, no doubt. Again the words of the dream haunted him, and he looked into Arthur’s eyes. A dozen things he wanted to ask, but instead he kept his voice calm.

“Will you say yes?” he asked.

Arthur met his gaze despite his obvious guilt.

“Leave us,” he ordered Kevin.

“Milord, he is a dangerous…”

“I said leave!”

Kevin bowed low, and then he left, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. Arthur mumbled after his leaving, then grabbed a cup of ale and downed it all in one gulp.

“Damn it, Jerico, couldn’t you at least yell at me?” he asked.

Jerico remained silent.

“Luther’s messenger said they’ll kill Sebastian by the end of tonight,” Arthur continued. “There’s no time to send word to anyone, no time to rally an army large enough to storm the walls. They claimed to have a thousand men loyal to Karak, and after what I saw at my own castle, I find that believable enough. My brother’s life may not be worth much, but he’s still family. And more importantly, Luther’s promised to hand over the castle. I can retake all the North without a single drop of blood spilled.”

“Other than my own, of course,” Jerico said. “Why tell me this?”

“Because I want to know if it’s the right thing to do,” Arthur said. “You’d follow your conscience, and I’d follow mine, is that not what we promised? And right now, my gut screams this is wrong, screams it loud enough I’m surprised the rest of my army can’t hear it. But you know how strong an army we face. This isn’t just Sebastian’s pathetic remnants. Luther’s men could storm out of those gates and kill every last one of us, without need for towers and ramparts. We have no hope here, none. Kevin practically threatened treason if I turned down this deal, saying he wouldn’t risk the lives of his men just to save yours. What choice do I have, Jerico?”

Jerico closed his eyes, and he begged Ashhur for calm. No fear, he thought, no anger. When he opened them, he saw Arthur watching, waiting. He was on the edge, he knew. A single word, even a harsh look, and he would cancel the entire plan, even at risk of his brother and his soldiers.

“Your brother’s a scoundrel,” Jerico said, and he forced a smile. “But your men aren’t. Promise me you’ll be a good lord for the North, and I’ll go.”

“I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep,” Arthur said, standing. “Would a good lord hand over a man who’s been faithful to him without reason, and whose courage has saved his life numerous times?”

Jerico stepped close and accepted the man’s embrace.

“I go willingly,” he said.

With that, he turned and exited the tent, where Kevin and his men waited. Jerico unclipped his mace and tossed it at Kevin’s feet.

“Shield too,” Kevin said. “I’ve heard what you can do with it.”

Jerico did so, and one of Kevin’s men scooped up both. Lifting his hands high, the soldiers grabbed him, yanking his arms so they could bind them behind his back.

“Your life for the life of a lord and the control of a castle,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Such strange games you men of gods play.”

They were two miles out from the wall surrounding the Castle of the Yellow Rose, and they made Jerico walk it, the rest of them mounted. There were over fifty of them, their chainmail rustling with each step of their horse. Kevin himself held the rope that wrapped around Jerico’s chest before looping through the knot binding his hands. At one point he ushered his horse to a trot, and Jerico ran behind, his heavy platemail rattling. Annoyed, Kevin raced faster, so that Jerico had to sprint. At last he lost his footing, and the rope dragged him along. The hard dirt jostled him in his armor, and his face scraped against rocks that left him bleeding.

When the horse slowed, Jerico stumbled to his feet, spat a bit of blood, and then grinned at Kevin.

“Always enjoyed a good run,” he said.

Kevin only shook his head in disbelief.

At the gates of the wall waited a group of dark paladins, all with their weapons drawn. The sight of the fire made the men around Jerico nervous, and he felt an odd compulsion to calm them.

“Just keep me alive, and you’ll be safe,” he said.

A few gave him bewildered looks, and Jerico just shook his head and chuckled.

“Greetings,” Kevin said as they rode up before the paladins. “I am Sir Kevin Maryll, and I bring the prisoner your priest and master requested.”

One of the paladins strode forward, sheathing his sword to show he meant no harm. Maryll’s men parted to give him way. The paladin was a hard man, his face wrinkled and his eyes a crystalline blue. He took Jerico’s face in his hand, lifting him so they might get a better look.

“Are you him?” the dark paladin asked.

“Probably not,” Jerico said, still grinning. “Just Jerico.”

The man struck him across the mouth, then nodded to Kevin.

“Your master has upheld his end of the bargain, so we will uphold ours.”

Waving his finger in a circle in the air, he strode back toward the gate. Curiously, the stone around it looked old and burnt, as if it’d been struck by fire, but the gate itself looked new. With a rumble of metal it opened, and from it approached two priests and a paladin. A haggard man walked between them. His wrists and ankles were bound together with chains, and he shuffled with what little slack they gave. His eyes were blackened, as if he’d been beaten, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Jerico looked to him, saw the pathetic remnant of a man that had been Sebastian Hemman.

“He is battered, but will live,” said the old paladin as one of the priests took out a key and unlocked the chains.

Sebastian said nothing as he walked unescorted to Kevin. Meanwhile the dark paladins pushed Jerico forward to the gate. As he and Sebastian walked past each other, their eyes met, and Jerico hoped the man might realize the incredible fortune granted to him. They’d ridden to the castle to take his life, yet now he would find safety in their arms.

“Keep an eye out for Kaide,” Jerico said, unable to hold back completely.

A fist struck his cheek, but before it did, Jerico caught a bit of fear in Sebastian’s eyes, and it made him grin through the pain. Not that he wanted to see Sebastian afraid. It was that he finally saw a sign of life in the man for whom he was giving his own.

They did not chain him, nor take off his armor. One of the paladins accepted his shield and mace from Kevin’s men, and another held the rope that tied his arms and hands. They walked in silence through the gate, and as it shut behind him, Jerico winced against his will. Despite the grin on his face, he knew that sound was a death sentence. Whenever Luther abandoned the castle, assuming he even did, Jerico knew he would not be coming with him. Not alive, anyway.

“At last I see fear in your eyes,” the old paladin said, who walked beside him.

“Not fear,” Jerico said. “Guilt. You realize how many of you I’ll have to kill to escape? No man should have that much blood on his hands.”

“Stupid words. Brave, but stupid. I’d suggest keeping your tongue in check when you stand before Luther.”

Jerico expected another smack to his face to punctuate it, but was proven wrong. Instead one of the other paladins jammed the hilt of his sword against his side. The pain was searing, and he stumbled along, refusing to fall.

They crossed the rest of the distance between the wall and tower in relative silence. To Jerico, it felt like a strange sort of ritual, all of Luther’s men staring straight ahead without talking to one another. Jerico wished he could know what they were thinking, then decided he’d rather not. It might crack whatever resolve he had left.

“Ready the army,” the old paladin said when they reached the castle doors. Several of the others departed for the rows of tents pitched about the commons, shouting orders to the mercenaries. Jerico quickly counted their numbers, and from what he saw, Luther had not exaggerated in his letter when he claimed a thousand followed him.

Into the castle they took him, tugging on the rope as if he were a reluctant dog. Passing through the great hall, they hooked a right, climbing stairs that wound up one of the castle towers. Jerico knew right there was his best chance to escape, but just as he thought of it, he saw the old paladin had his hand on the hilt of his sword. The moment he resisted, he’d have that blade shoved through his throat. Trusting Ashhur’s command, he kept still. At last they reached a door, and after knocking, they entered.

Within sat Luther on a bed. Instead of his robes he wore a thin tunic, which had been cut to give easy access to the many bandages wrapped around his chest. Seeping through them was a hint of red. Before the bed, waiting for him, was a plain wooden chair. Luther started to stand, then thought better of it.

“Untie him,” Luther said.

The old paladin hesitated at first, then obeyed. As they cut the ropes, Jerico glanced around the room. It was small, quaint, with but some books, a bed, and a washbasin. More befitting a librarian than a lord, thought Jerico. Seeing Luther there, Jerico felt his pulse increase with his growing rage. Here he was, the man who had killed Sandra without a second thought, the man he had sworn vengeance upon.

“I would have your word,” Luther said to him. “Promise you will not escape, nor attempt any harm against me.”

His response burned his throat. More than anything, he wished for his mace so he could crush Luther’s skull.

“I promise,” he said.

“Good.” Luther looked to the others. “Leave us.”

Reluctantly they filed out, until only the two of them remained, Jerico standing, Luther sitting on the bed. With a sigh, Luther leaned back against the stone wall.

“I trust you to understand the harm that’d befall you if you tried to escape.”

“You look like you can barely stand,” Jerico said. “I understand, even if I don’t believe it. But I gave my word. Consider yourself lucky for it.”

Luther chuckled.

“Always joking, aren’t you? But this is not a time for laughter. We must talk, Jerico, and you must hear things that will pain me to speak, especially to a child of Ashhur.”

Jerico stretched his arms, trying to work out the knot in his back before sitting in the chair provided for him. His rage was subsiding, however slowly. He hoped within an hour or so the urge to throttle the priest with his bare hands would be minor.

“Speak then,” he said. “Tell me whatever speech you have planned. Let me hear whatever justification you’ll use to go against your promise to Lord Arthur and take the lives of his men.”

Luther shook his head, and he looked genuinely insulted.

“There’s more going on in the North than this petty feud between brothers,” he said. “And I have no intention of keeping this castle, nor attacking Arthur’s army. My goals for a nation unto Karak must be put on hold, for both our holy orders face a threat greater than ever before.”

Jerico scratched at his chin, struggling to believe what he was hearing. Ashhur granted him the ability to know truth from lie, and so far, every word the priest spoke rang true. Whatever threat he faced, he believed it as dangerous as he claimed.

“What threat?” he asked.

“A former pupil of mine by the name of Cyric. He has gone mad, and declared himself Karak’s mortal vessel come to conquer the world. Already he has overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and with an army of wolf-men he now marches south. His power is greater than mine, Jerico. I tried to stop him, and failed. The next time, I cannot fail, or a great many will suffer.”

“What do you mean you tried to stop him?” Jerico asked, honestly baffled. “How can two servants of Karak battle? If this Cyric is claiming he’s a god, he’s speaking blasphemy. Why has Karak not struck him down, or denied him power?”

“He hasn’t,” Luther said. “And he won’t.”

“Then is he right? Is he really Karak?”

“Of course not,” Luther snapped, and the sudden shout caused him to double over hacking. He coughed until blood was on his fingers, but at last he regained his breath.

“No,” he said. “That is the great mystery, one I have long suspected and only now understand fully.”

Jerico lifted his hands in surrender.

“Then explain it, Luther, because I do not.”

“I will,” Luther said. “But promise you will listen with an open mind. What I say may sound like blasphemy to you. Perhaps some of it is, but it is the truth, so far as I know it.”

“Say it then,” Jerico said. “I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”

“The rules of our gods are strange,” Luther began, his wet voice painful to listen to. “The power they grant us, be it the fire and light on our blades, or the spells we learn to cast, they are all granted by our faith. Our faith makes them manifest, and our faith decides their power. But it is faith, and only faith, that grants the power. I am beginning to believe that so long as there is faith, Karak and Ashhur will grant that power, whether they approve of the wielder or not. Perhaps they must. There is no way to know.”

Jerico felt his hands tighten into fists. Luther was right. To claim either god was helpless against those who took power in their name…‌surely that was blasphemy.

“What of Darius?” he asked. “He told me of Karak’s betrayal, and how he yearned for a restoration of his faith. Yet he was denied it because his beliefs no longer matched your god’s dark design. How does that fit into your ideas of gods being slaves to humans?”

“Doubt is a cruel lion. Often it attacks without us ever being aware. From what I know, Darius spent many months in Durham with you, and even counted you as a friend. Your words affected him, though he might not have realized it at the time. His faith was shaken by discovering a second truth, which I will tell you now. He lacked wisdom to understand it, to reconcile with it as I have. You see, Jerico, our gods have changed.”

It took all of Jerico’s willpower to remain silent.

“I see your anger,” Luther said. “I understand it too, for you have forever seen Ashhur as the unchanging mountain. But when our gods first warred, Ashhur was not as you know him now. His tendencies to mercy, forgiveness, compassion…‌he did not practice these weak compulsions as you now preach. He was a god of Justice. Karak was a god of Order. In a way, their goals were the same. They both wanted a civilized world for Dezrel, a land where men did not murder, steal, and rape, and women did not sell their bodies for a scrap of coin. But my god was all about the ends, whereas yours kept focused on the means. That they warred is no surprise, as much as many in my order like to claim otherwise.

“But the Karak I read about does not quite match the Karak our paladins profess. Ever since our brother gods were imprisoned by Celestia, what we preach has slowly evolved. The miracles change, the demands of our gods shift, and suddenly these two deities of Justice and Order are so very different than they began. What I wonder, Jerico, did our gods change, or did we change our gods?”

Luther believed it, all of it, but that didn’t mean it was true. Jerico tried to understand, to know what it was he himself believed. It’d take time to think on these things, time he didn’t currently have.

“You said Cyric is our greatest threat,” Jerico said. “Tell me why.”

“Because the Karak I worship, the Karak I teach to my pupils, is not the Karak others would have him be. No doubt Darius realized this as well, and his faith was broken for it. Can the same god have multiple faces? No, one must be true. One must win out, and the history of our order is full of men in conflict about our god’s true nature. The worst of them is the prophet, the man with a hundred names and a thousand faces. Over the centuries he has always been. His words drip with war, and his fingers are stained with the blood of sacrifice. There have been those of my order who have mistrusted his presence from the beginning, for death refuses to claim him. The Council of Stars even denied his authority over us. I was just a young man then, but I was one of the loudest speakers there. So often I’ve felt myself fighting a losing battle, but never did I think it would come to this.”

“Cyric is like the prophet,” Jerico said, piecing it together. “Like him, but worse. He doesn’t think he’s just a prophet.”

“Far worse,” said Luther. “He thinks he’s a god. His faith in Karak is unbelievably strong, for his belief is now in himself. An older man might doubt or know his limitations, but Cyric’s young and inexperienced. With each passing day he’ll trust his power more, and wield it with greater skill. Should the North begin to fall to him, he’ll be unstoppable. And with him he’ll bring about a faith in Karak that I have long attempted to quash. He’ll bring back the blood sacrifices, the rituals, the destruction and unbending rules of the old ways. The ideas of choice and free will mean nothing to him. Faith will be little more than chains, and he’ll use them to enslave all of Dezrel if he can.”

The thought was a horrifying one, even worse than the idea of the priesthood having control of the North’s lands and laws.

“You wish for my help,” Jerico said when Luther lapsed into silence. “But why give up the castle? You destroyed Sebastian’s army, then took the Yellow Rose from him. Did he refuse to play a part in your game?”

Luther chuckled, but there was a furious bitterness to it that made Jerico slide his chair away from the bed.

“No, Jerico. My victory here was a heartbeat away, but I could not continue. I will not be a hypocrite. I will not condemn Cyric for attempting to create a kingdom sworn to Karak while I do the same. My wayward pupil has ruined everything, all because I am not strong enough to stop him. My last best chance failed. That is why I need you, Jerico. I want you at my side, Karak and Ashhur, together crushing a man who would render faith in either of our gods irrelevant. Because if our gods can change, and all of Dezrel comes to worship the cruel god of Cyric, then I fear I will have no place left in this world.”

It was such a strange proposition at first, but Jerico remembered when he and Darius had stood side by side defeating the wolf-men threatening to destroy their village. Was it so crazy to think something like that could happen again?

“I don’t how much of what you say I believe,” Jerico said. “But what you say of Cyric is true. He must be stopped, and if it is within my power, I will stop him.”

Luther nodded.

“Very well. Consider yourself no longer my prisoner, but my guest. Open the door. Xarl should be waiting on the other side. I trust him to have heard every word.”

Jerico opened the door, and sure enough, the old paladin stood before the door, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

“Follow me to your room,” Xarl said. “You can stay there until we march.”

Jerico did, but not before looking back to Luther, who lay on his bed, coughing profusely. Even among the lost there are men of faith, he’d been told in his dream. Do not hate them. Jerico knew he shouldn’t hate, he didn’t want to, but lying there was the man who had killed the only woman he’d ever loved.

And yes, he hated him.

“What does the old Karak think of you killing Sandra?” Jerico asked him as Luther continued coughing. “And would Cyric agree?”

He followed Xarl down the steps, letting his hatred and anger hang in the air of Luther’s room.