24

Darius and Jerico stood there, both exhausted, both gasping in air, as they watched Luther approach. Valessa, however, hid behind one of the burning trees just outside Darius’s line of sight. It seemed she didn’t want to be seen. After everything, Darius did not blame her. So far Luther likely didn’t know she existed.

“He is dead?” Luther asked as he stepped through the flames.

“He is,” Darius said, and the relief was palpable on Luther’s face.

“You have done something all of Dezrel should thank you for,” he said to them. “Though I fear they might never know your names, nor understand the peril you saved them from.”

“What now?” Jerico asked. “Will you leave us be?”

Luther shook his head sadly.

“No,” he said. “I cannot. There are too many of my order who desire your death. You’re the last of them, Jerico. You are too great a prize, and too dangerous a foe, to let live.”

Darius laughed.

“How else would Karak reward loyalty and aid?” he asked. “We’ve done your dirty work. Now to dispose of the corpses, correct?”

Luther’s neck flushed.

“It does not have to be this way,” he said. “Darius, you were once a most faithful paladin. You know the law that must be given to this world. And you, Jerico, your order is crushed. Your brethren are gone. But you can still aid this world. Have you not seen what we can accomplish together? Bring your teachings of mercy and forgiveness to the Stronghold. Help me mold our understanding of Karak into something men of all faiths might embrace. Come with me. Both of you, join me. It is not too late.”

Darius looked to Jerico, and the answer was clear on his face.

“Give us a moment to consider,” Darius told Luther. “I would talk with my friend.”

Luther bowed low.

“Of course,” he said before trudging off.

“Talk?” asked Jerico when he was gone. “What is there to talk about?”

“Plenty,” Darius said. He beckoned Valessa to come out of hiding. “We can’t win this, Jerico. They are too many, and even if we could cross the river, it would only be a matter of time before they hunted us down like dogs.”

“I will not sell my soul,” Jerico insisted.

“And I would not have you do so, either. No, you need to run. I have a plan, desperate perhaps, but I think it will save you.”

Jerico began shaking his head, immediately protesting.

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t. I won’t leave you, Darius, listen to me, I’m not leaving.”

“You have to,” Darius insisted. “You’re the last, Jerico, and you’re the best of us. I owe you everything, so for this once, let me pay you back.”

“You would have me run like a coward?”

“I would have you live,” Darius said. “Is that so terrible a request?”

Jerico flung his shield onto his back, and he glanced about the burning forest. His eyes settled on Valessa, who stood quietly beside him.

“And you?” he asked her.

“My place is with him,” she said, nodding toward Darius.

Jerico bit his lower lip, and then at last he gave in.

“So be it,” he said, stepping forward and embracing Darius. “May we see each other again.”

“In this life or beyond,” Darius said, and he did his best to smile. “Now get out of here.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Jerico clipped his mace to his belt and turned to the river.

“Promise me something,” he said before he left.

“What is that?”

“When you see Luther again, don’t hate him. I’ve never seen a better man so horribly lost.”

Weaving his way through the fire, he vanished amid the smoke. Darius watched him go as he felt his stomach harden into a stone. Valessa touched his arm.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Do you?” he asked, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw she did.

“I do it for you,” she said. “Is he worth it?”

Darius looked to the river.

“I hope so,” he said.

They turned and waited for Luther’s return as the fire around them spread. Into that growing inferno came Luther, a dozen priests and paladins with him. They halted just beyond the edge of the trees, and Luther stepped forward.

“I would have your answer!” he cried.

Darius drew his sword and looked to the side. Valessa was there, but she wore the heavy platemail of a paladin of Ashhur. Her hair was long and red, and on her back was a tower shield. Her face, though, was still her own when she spoke to him as they stood before the ring of flames.

“Feel no guilt,” she said. “No one will weep for my passing.”

“One person will,” Darius said softly as her face became Jerico’s.

“An answer!” cried Luther.

“You would have an answer?” Darius said, jerking his attention back to Karak’s followers. His sword rose high in the air. “His life is not yours. You will not have him. You will not kill him. He is beyond you now.”

Down came his sword, crashing through Valessa’s neck. Light flashed, and then she collapsed into the fire before her, the flames obscuring the decay of her body as it dissolved into white mist that was soon lost amid the smoke. Darius felt a sob catch in his throat, and he prayed they would not see the tears in his eyes as he turned to face them.

“All you have is me,” he said. “I hope I’ll suffice, you sick bastards.”

Luther’s mouth hung open, and he seemed at a loss for words. Those behind him knew what they wanted, though, and they readied their weapons and magic. Darius tensed, and he dared let a grin show. Him against them all in a desperate battle to the death. What more could he possibly have asked for?

With a cry, he charged, the light of his sword shimmering bright. Dark paladins swarmed around Luther, bringing their weapons to his protection. Darius swung, pouring into it a reckless energy. His sword connected with a large blade akin to his own, and sparks showered across the grass from the contact. Darius was the faster to recover, and he thrust for the man’s neck only to have it blocked by another. An elbow struck his forehead. Staggering back, he swung again, hitting only air. Two priests leapt forward, hands extended. Shadows shot forth, and at their touch he screamed as his nerves ignited with pain.

Fully surrounded now, Darius continued to swing, constantly turning in a vain attempt to prevent a sneak attack. A sword thrust pierced his side, slipping through a crease in his armor. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to steal his balance as the blood ran free. Another man caught him, slammed his helmet into his face. To his knees Darius fell as all around he saw the blurred faces of men who hated him.

“That…” he gasped, “that all you can do?”

He tried rising, but a heavyset man lifted a great mace with both hands and swung. It smashed into Darius’s leg, and he felt bones shattering. He screamed. Unable to stand, the others held him, pinning his arms. When he refused to be disarmed, they pulled and twisted until his elbow snapped. His sword fell to the ground before him. More spells shone from the hands of priests, sapping his strength.

Helpless, Darius watched as Luther slowly approached.

“You could have been our greatest,” he said, pulling a dagger out from a hidden pocket of his robes.

“No,” Darius said, defiant to the last. “The greatest of you is still so much less.”

“Less?” asked Luther as those around him laughed and mocked. “You’re beaten, Darius. You’re abandoned. You are the unloved. At least accept this one last truth before you die.”

The words were muffled in his mind, but one sliced through his delirium and pain.

Unloved…

Unloved…

Luther stabbed the dagger just below his chestplate and into his stomach, but Darius never felt it. Instead, an anger grew in his breast, and it contained such fury it terrified him. The pain in his limbs started to fade, and with vision suddenly clear he looked up at Luther.

“Unloved?” he said. “Who are you, Luther, to deny the love I know?”

The words were his own, but not. He heard ringing, he felt power, and then from his back spread wings of silvery light. Their edges sliced through the armor of the paladins that held him, and when blood splattered, it refused to stain the ethereal feathers. Darius cast off the men and grabbed his sword. Immediately the metal vanished, overwhelmed by a blade of purest light, as weightless as the feathers stretching from his back. The wounds in his body were closed. When he pivoted, his knee felt stronger than it had in years.

In a single swing he killed three, the blade of light cutting through their bodies like they were stalks of wheat. Turning, the paladin with the mace lifted it up to block, but Darius cut right through, splitting him in twain from forehead to sternum. Spinning, he caught two priests trying to curse him. The wings stretching from his back folded protectively, and the spells hit without the ability to penetrate. Spreading wide, Darius rushed them, with two flicks of his wrist severing their heads. Faster and faster he moved, nothing able to satisfy his rage.

They were panicking now, and one dark paladin moved to guard Luther. The black flame around his sword was great, and when Darius swung the man blocked with a great cry to his god. The blades connected midair, releasing a shockwave that felt like a pale imitation of when Cyric’s sword had struck Jerico’s shield. As the other paladin stood shocked, Darius pulled back and swung, the second blow shattering the steel. Helpless, the man could do nothing as Darius cut through one side of his waist and out the other.

To his left a priest gathered shadows on his fingers. Feathers from his wing lashed out, and to the ground fell those same fingers. Another beat of the wing, and the priest fell with them. Blood pounding in his ears, Darius turned and turned, his sword cutting down all who would face him. A single beat of his wings and he leapt on those who tried to flee.

And then, quick as it began, it was over. Only one remained, and the tip of Darius’s sword hovered just shy of his throat.

“Tell them what you saw,” Darius ordered Luther as he felt the rage in his chest slowly subsiding. Luther had not moved, had only stood and watched from the moment the wings had burst through the armor on Darius’s back.

“I will,” he said, taking a careful step backward, then another. When it was clear Darius would not kill him, he turned and ran from the forest as fast as his old bones would allow.

Darius stood there watching until he was gone. The moment lingered, and he did his best to enjoy it. It was the calm after a storm, the peace of a quiet morning. The light of his wings dimmed, and with each beat he felt them losing their luster. The moment gone, the presence of Ashhur vanishing at last, Darius turned and began to walk. The wings faded from his back, shimmering away like soft white smoke upon the wind. His direction was not aimless, and he passed through the fire without a thought to its danger. With each step his exhaustion returned, the rage he’d known slowly draining into an emptiness in his chest that refused to fill.

“Was it right?” Darius asked as he felt the wound in his side reopen. “Was it right to let him live?”

Luther would return to Mordeina and inform the rest of Karak’s faithful about Jerico’s death. If they hunted for anyone, it’d be him now. Jerico was free. He could go and live, wherever, however, and perhaps make a life for himself. But was it worth letting such a terrible man like Luther escape? He didn’t know. But he’d killed enough that day, and he’d made Jerico a promise.

Jerico…

“Let him find some happiness,” Darius said, feeling a fever starting to burn in his face and neck. “Let him find some peace. Can you do that for him? If that’s possible. If you’re even in this world anymore. It’s so dark, Ashhur. So terribly dark.”

His breath grew weaker. Blood trickled down his face and neck. Step by step he pushed onward. The sword he’d held, once light as a feather against Luther’s neck, now felt like it weighed a thousand stone. It dragged behind him on the ground, the tip bumping against the dirt.

“Will she be waiting for me?” Darius asked, forcing his body to move forward. “Will Valessa…”

He screamed as he felt the bones in his right arm shatter and break. His sword fell to the ground, and he left it there. Staggering, he screamed again as the torn muscles of his chest pulsed with fresh pain.

“Please,” Darius said, his voice ragged. “Please, Ashhur, please. I don’t want to die.”

Another scream, this time when the bones in his left leg snapped, just as they had from the dark paladin’s mace. Every cut, every break, he felt them returning, the pain fresh as it had been when first inflicted upon his body. Unable to walk, he collapsed onto his stomach, his blood painting the grass below him red. But he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t there. With shaking hands he dragged himself along.

“Was it enough?” he asked, straining to look ahead. Before him was the river, and he crawled to it on his knees. “All those people. Oh god, the family. The town. I watched them die. Was it enough? Will they be waiting too?”

Another inch closer he dragged his broken body, even as he felt the stab of a dagger through his stomach. He thought of their faces, of the terror he’d brought them. A family praying to Ashhur, killed to prove his faithfulness to Karak. The prophet’s words were poison, but he’d believed them anyway. He’d stood in Durham and watched it burn. Why? What madness had possessed him? Again and again he saw their faces, frozen in pain and fear.

“Will they be waiting?” he asked. “Will they forgive me? I slew your faithful, Ashhur. I slew them. So many…”

His fingers dipped into the water. It was cold, and he splashed some across his face, wiping away the blood. With that same water he washed away his tears, and then he rolled onto his back, his hands above him, still in the river. Could it really be that easy? Could he just kneel and plead for forgiveness, and it’d cleanse it all away? But it didn’t wash away the death. It didn’t erase the damage. The pain he’d caused would always be there, festering in the lives of others, sown like seeds that would sprout only thorns.

Unworthy, thought Darius, and he dreamed of meeting those pained faces in a shining land. He dared hope they would greet him with smiles, and when he fell to his knees before them, they would reach out and tell him to stand. It would be a poor eternity spent in a place that could harbor bitterness and blame.

“What’s it like?” he wondered aloud, his tongue so dry it was starting to burn. Would it be streets of gold as they said? He hoped not. For some that might be their vision of beauty, but Darius liked to think himself a simpler man. He wished for fields of grass, for tall mountains capped with snow, for forests and animals. There’d be large gatherings of friends, maybe a cool lake where he could wait for Jerico to join him, where they could embrace and forget the torment they’d suffered on Dezrel. More than anything, he wanted peace. He wanted there to be no more need for someone like him, no more need for the sword he’d left behind.

The river flowed across his hands.

“I hope she’s waiting,” Darius whispered with lungs slowly starting to fail him. “I hope she’s…”

The wind blew across him, and a smile blossomed on his face.

“I see,” he said.

And then he died.