Night of Wolves (13 page)

“The people of Durham need to prepare.”

“Then you wake at dawn and tell them,” Darius had said as he set aside his armor and slipped into bed. “Meanwhile, the sky’s still dark and my head feels like two wolf-men are fighting inside. Good night.”

His head felt little better come waking, but at least it had lost some of its knife edge of pain. His legs ached from the many miles they’d walked, and his back was sore for doing it all while wearing his armor. He stayed in the sole upper room of Durham’s inn, and he came down to have breakfast with the lady of the place, a widow named Dolores.

“Bread and honey as always?” he asked her, trying for levity.

“You’ll make do with porridge,” she said, not a smile on her wrinkled face. “The whole town’s talking, and it’s got me scared. I can’t leave everything behind, Darius. Even riding in a cart will make my old bones groan, and what hope could I have to earn a living elsewhere?”

“I hear a beautiful woman such as yourself earn quite a lot in the back alleys of Mordeina.”

She slapped his head with a rag, and he grinned at her. Seemed like Jerico had already met with Jeremy, and he felt relieved. Let him deal with that enormous hassle. He began eating his meal.

“Oh, dear me, slipped my mind,” Dolores said a few minutes later. “A man came to speak with you, but I told him you’d been out at night helping us and you don’t take kindly to waking up early. He said he was one of you, at least in a way. A priest, he said. I offered him a room, but he said he wouldn’t be staying long.”

“A priest?” Darius asked. “Where is he now?”

“Said for you to meet him at the square. He seemed in quite a hurry.”

“Thank you, Dolores. I’d best be going then.”

He hurried back up the stairs, trying to make sense of things. Sometime in the next few months he knew a paladin of Karak was supposed to check in on his progress, but a priest? Had he just happened to pass by Durham? Or were they to change his assignment? Priests were considered superior to paladins in Karak’s hierarchy, and if the priest gave him an order, he would have no choice but to obey. Still, his arrival was certainly fortuitous in other ways. Perhaps he might help with the wolf-men, or know of a better plan than simply tucking their tails between their legs and running.

Once he was dressed in his armor, his sword sheathed on his back, he came down.

“Did he say a name?” he asked Dolores before stepping outside.

“I reckon he did,” said the woman. She tapped her teeth with a fingernail. “Slipped my mind, though. Seemed polite enough, though I wouldn’t wish him around long. Got a queer air about him. Cold, too.”

“Thanks.”

Darius pushed open the door and hurried his way to the square. Jerico found him first. A mob of seven or eight surrounded him, and he pushed his way toward the dark paladin.

“Enjoy your nap?” Jerico asked.

“Tremendously,” Darius said, forcing a grin. “Enjoy your talk with Jeremy?”

“He saw reason, thank Ashhur. The whole town will be heading south. We’re fifteen miles from Wetholm, and I doubt the little village can manage to feed even a third of us, but it’s better than nothing. We’ll just have to make do.”

“Sure thing,” Darius said, his eyes looking past him. Jerico evidently noticed, and he frowned.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“No. Yes. Just a friend.”

Jerico glanced behind, and a bit of his cheer vanished.

“He’s been here all morning. I’ve stayed away out of respect. Any help the priests and paladins of Karak can offer would be appreciated.”

The group returned, asking Jerico questions and requesting aid.

“Will you be helping everyone prepare?” Darius asked before he turned away.

“We leave after midday. Not much time, so we’ll be stretched thin. Help who you can, and I’ll do the same.”

“As you say.” Darius pushed past him, toward the lone tree growing near the square. Leaning against it, being given a wide berth by the rest of the town, was a man in the black robes of a priest. His head was shaved, and a multitude of pendants made of silver and iron hung from his neck. He stood straight, his thin shoulders pulled back. His blue eyes lacked any amusement as Darius came before him and kneeled.

“Welcome to Durham, brother,” he said, his head low. “I hope your travels have been safe.”

“Nothing in this world is safe,” said the priest. He glanced at Jerico, and his frown deepened. “Least of all here. I come with great tidings, though I wish my heart would not be so troubled when I tell you. Do you remember me, Darius? I was there when you were first assigned along the river.”

Darius remembered, two years prior at the gates of the Stronghold. He’d completed the Trials, and having come of age, they gave him his first assignment: to travel along the northern stretches of the Gihon, preaching to the many villages that had gone years without hearing Karak’s word. The ceremony had been solemn, and his heart swelled with pride. Two priests had attended, invited to the special event. One had remained quiet, but the other…his eyes had the same icy blue, and his words still stung.

You are young, full of faith, and yet in you I sense a chaos rumbling. Mind your heart, your thoughts, and your ideas. Among the simple folk you belong, for I fear your reaction should you face a true challenge of Ashhur.

“Yes,” he said. “I remember you now, though I was never given your name.”

“I am Pheus, and it seems I was correct. How long has the paladin of the false god preached in your village, Darius?”

Darius felt his face flush.

“Perhaps a year, at most.”

“You have not driven him out? You have not rallied the villagers against him? Worse, I see you speaking with him. Have you reached some agreement with this paladin, some sort of truce? I do not understand it.”

Even worse,
thought Darius.

He couldn’t dare tell Pheus, not facing his cold glare. With his arms crossed, the priest lifted his chin and turned as if the very sight of Jerico angered him. Darius tried to think of an excuse, but he knew none, and he stared at the ground in shame.

“I thought so,” said Pheus. He sighed, and his anger retreated into sadness. “I pity you, Darius. You have great potential, though more than ever I fear you will waste it. But perhaps I see only the weakness I fear; it is a curse my colleagues have often berated me for. This is a joyous occasion, and I come spreading the word to all the faithful.”

“And what is that?” Darius asked, glad to have the conversation changed.

“The Citadel has fallen. The paladins of Ashhur are scattered, homeless, with many casting aside their faith. Our time of victory has come. The Stronghold has declared war upon the survivors, every last one.”

Darius’s jaw dropped. He thought of Jerico’s attempt to leave the day before, and suddenly he understood.

“How?” he asked, still struggling to believe it.

“The Voice of the Lion led the assault, and through his disciple Xelrak, brought the building crashing to the ground. I have been traveling north to inform all I can of our new orders. Ashhur’s paladins are weak now, helpless. We must descend upon them before they regroup.”

“Wait…you want to kill Jerico?”

“Kill him? No. We want him
executed
for his blasphemy and service to the false god. Do you not understand? After all these years, we have a chance for complete victory.” He pointed toward Jerico, and it seemed as if his eyes sparkled. “For all I know, he is the very last. Let us take him now, before he realizes the danger he is in.”

“No,” Darius said, stepping away. “Do you not see the chaos about us? Wolf-men gather in great numbers beyond the Gihon, and any day they will swim across. They’ll slaughter every one of these villagers. Jerico stands at my side. For now, if any of us are to live, we need him.”

Pheus leaned back against the tree. For a long minute he did not speak, only stare, as if gazing into the depths of Darius’s soul. Whatever he saw there, he certainly did not like.

“This is your failure,” Pheus said at last. “And it is yours to correct. This…Jerico…will die by your hand. That is an order, and you will obey, paladin.”

He left the tree and wrapped an arm around Darius’s shoulder. “I must continue my travels. By the time I return, I expect the matter handled. If it is not, the Stronghold will hear of your failure. I assure you, they will be far less understanding than I.”

“Will you not stay and help us?”

“This village is your responsibility, not mine. These men are of the earth, and there will always be a thousand others like them. Our war with Ashhur has waged for hundreds of years. Do you think I would risk losing that over a handful of farmers? What you do, do quickly, Darius. I have spoken. Obey your god.”

Pheus left along the northern road, not a single man or woman saying a word in greeting as he passed by. Darius watched him go, and he stared long after he was gone.

“You all right?” Jerico asked him, having returned to the square after doing who knew what to help another family.

Darius looked at the man, tired, proud, his red hair soaked with sweat and covered with dirt. He tried to see him as an enemy, a blasphemer of a false god. Instead, he saw Jerico.
I fear your reaction should you face a true challenge of Ashhur,
Pheus had said two years ago, and it seemed prophetic. Was Jerico such a challenge? Had he prepared for physical strength, skill in combat, and left his heart unprepared for the lies, the facades, the tempting half-truths of Ashhur? How could he follow Karak, yet claim a paladin of Ashhur as his friend?

“I’m fine,” he said.

“If you say. The Douglas family needs help fixing their wagon for the journey. Can you help them out?”

Darius nodded, still feeling as if he walked in a troubled dream.

“Jerico,” he said, stopping the other paladin from leaving. “I…forgive me. The Citadel. Have you heard?”

Jerico’s face paled, he swallowed, but he nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Darius said, unsure if it were truth or lie.

“Go help Jim and his wagon. And Darius…thank you.”

A cruel, chaotic world, thought Darius. What greater proof could he need?

“J
acob Wheatley bent over beside the wheelbarrow in his garden, swearing at each passing moment. He yanked and tore at the zucchini and winter squash. The tiny hairs on their sides poked his hands, and several cuts bled along his thumbs and palm. Under the best circumstances he wasn’t a patient man, and today he had even less time to be careful. The wolf-men were coming, and the whole town was turning yellow and running.

“Can’t believe Jeremy’s such a bloody coward,” he muttered. “Would probably tuck his dick between his legs and run from a fucking rabbit if it bared its teeth.”

“They ain’t no rabbits,” said Perry, son of his neighbor, Jim Douglas. Jacob usually paid the boy a few coppers to help with his harvest, along with a bottle of shine his father knew nothing about. The two had already filled one wheelbarrow, dumped it back at his house, and come back for a second load.

“Shit, I know that, son. I was there with everyone else when we stepped into the wedge. We were in their land, at night, and we still gave as good as we got. Thank the gods those paladins were there, though. I mean, you should have seen what Gary looked like before the redheaded one could heal…hey, you listening?”

Perry stood straight, a yellow squash still in his hand. His eyes scanned the distance with an intensity that riled up the snakes in Jacob’s stomach.

“I said you listening?” he asked, louder.

“I saw something. There. I’m sure of it.”

“What could you be seeing?” Jacob asked, looking. He saw the edge of his garden, then the long stretch of hills, followed by the slender forest. “There ain’t nothing out there.”

“I was
sure,
” Perry insisted.

“And I was sure Tessie would marry me if I bought her a ring. Sometimes we’re so sure of something we don’t realize how stupid we are. At least that tease ended up with Noel. Don’t tell your pap, but I hear his dick’s the size of a…”

“There!”

Jacob stood a second time, and he followed Perry’s outstretched arm. This time he did see a vague shape, but only for a few heartbeats before it sank back into the grass.