The Broken Pieces (19 page)

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.

16

S
ebastian’s arrival at the camp was full of raucous joy. To Kaide’s ears, it was the jubilation of betrayal. He’d not been consulted on the offered agreement, nor been informed of the coming trade. Only now, from the whispers of soldiers closer to Arthur than he, did he hear of the proposal. The loss of Jerico was unpleasant, but with it ending the war, Kaide understood. But what of Sebastian’s fate? He knew what should happen. He knew that Arthur should thrust a dagger into his brother’s chest and put a worthy ending to their battle. But that wouldn’t happen. Deep down, he knew Arthur had a weakness in his heart. His reluctance to openly war against his brother for so long was proof enough of that.