Jorakai was shouting now, his deep voice thundering over the crowd.
“Who are you to give in to your own desires? What worth are we as pathetic, dying humans to demand our will over the will of the one who created us? When your eyes wander to the chest of a woman not your wife, kneel to the Lion and beg for forgiveness. When you spread lies about a man or woman, kneel to the Lion and beg that he rip out your tongue. We are the creators of chaos, and if our world is to find order, if it is to have meaningful change, then that change must start with us, the faithful. It won’t come from the unbelievers. It won’t come from Ashhur and his doctrine of turning blind eyes to sin and opening his arms to all the failures and hypocrites of the land. Us, my friends, it comes from us! Sacrifice your will to the Lion. Sacrifice your desires, your pride, and know that Karak is Lord!”
Haern felt Delysia clutch his arm as she leaned against him, and he was surprised by the intense look in her eyes.
“Karak would make them slaves,” she said, and she shivered as a song of worship began. “I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this.”
“Go,” Haern said. “There’s no reason for you to be here, not for this.”
She took his hand, squeezed it, then left for their room. Haern watched her go for a moment, then brought his attention back to the crowd. The song they sang was a somber one, yet the people seemed willing enough to cry it out at the top of their lungs. Jorakai maintained the chorus, his deep voice leading the others.
“Pray to Karak,” he said as the song dwindled down. “Pray to the Lion, and sacrifice daily your weaknesses upon his blood altar. Deny yourselves, and be made strong. Give up your own childish rebellion, and be made whole. So is the word, so is the truth, and so is the way.”
The crowd murmured a conjoined “amen,” and then the sermon was over.
“Before I forget,” Jorakai shouted over them, apparently not finished. “I will not be here the next sixth, but the day after. My travels will take me to Yarsville, then to Arlet, and it will add an extra day on my return ride.”
That was it, then. Several came up to him, confessing private worries, others packing up their blankets and their children so they might begin their work on the river and in the fields.
“What do you think?” Haern asked as the crowd began to disperse.
“I think he’s a man like any other,” Thren said. “And like any other, we’ll make him bleed, and we’ll make him talk.”
“He said he’s traveling to Yarsville soon. Do you know where that is?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Thren said. “He said he’ll ride back from it, which means horses, which means he won’t be on a boat. Go find Delysia; tell her to get ready. When Jorakai rides out, we’ll be waiting for him on the road.”
Yarsville was to the west of Leen, following a well-worn road through the fertile farmlands near the river. Trees were sparse, but the grass was tall, and Haern saw little point in trying to find a particularly clever ambush place.
“He’s one man,” Haern had said. “Take out the horse, and he’ll be ours. Don’t need to leap from trees to pull that off.”
So, they waited near the bottom of a hill, the tall grass keeping them hidden while elevation let them have clear sight of the road for over half a mile. Haern and Thren lurked on opposite sides of the road, while Delysia sat next to Haern.
“You don’t need to be here,” Haern told her as the day passed into night.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Why? I know you don’t want us doing this.”
Delysia kept her eyes on the road, refusing to look at him.
“Turning my back to it doesn’t change what it is you’ll do. If my choices are hiding like a coward or staying to ensure your safety, then I’ll stay.”
As it had been for the past week, the night was bright, with sparse clouds and a glittering field of stars accompanying the moon. They should have had no problem seeing Jorakai on his ride nor hearing him, but it seemed he and his horse traveled in shadows, for he crested their slender hill without their having heard or spotted his approach. Haern startled at the sudden proximity, and he had no time to whistle out his signal to Thren. They’d meant to leap out simultaneously, cutting at the legs of the horse to bring it down, but with such speed, he wasn’t sure he could manage. Sprinting through the grass, giving no thought to remaining hidden, he lunged … and missed.
Rolling along the ground, he watched as Thren leaped out farther ahead, and his strike was far better aimed. His short swords cut into the back tendons of the horse’s rear right leg, and it let out a wail that was dreadful to hear. The horse continued ahead a few more steps out of sheer momentum, its right leg crumpling each time it tried to apply weight. Haern rose to his feet as Jorakai dismounted, gently tapping the beast on the neck as it whinnied in pain.
“Nesme has long served me faithfully,” the dark paladin said, drawing his sword over his back and holding it before him. “Whatever gold you thought to take from me, it will not be worth the suffering you’ll endure at my hands for such insolence.”
Fire enveloped the enormous blade, black flames flickering with violet at its tips.
“We’re not here for gold,” Thren said as he and Haern stepped away from each other, giving themselves space to fight, while Delysia remained in hiding. Slowly, they approached the paladin, spreading out even farther to ensure an attack on one meant he’d leave himself vulnerable to the other. Jorakai eyed the two of them, feet firmly planted where he was. The fire on his blade grew stronger with each passing moment, and it seemed the very light of the stars dimmed, their illumination drawn into the blade and snuffed out forever. Yet despite the darkening of the world around him, Jorakai seemed to shine brighter, every curve and dent on his black plate mail vibrant, most of all the lion on his chest, which shimmered blue-violet.
“If not gold, then what?” asked Jorakai. Despite the ambush, he didn’t sound worried, just annoyed by their presence. “Revenge, perhaps? Have I killed someone you loved? Or are you some of Ashhur’s more fanatical faithful? If you’re seeking a martyr’s death, I’ll gladly give it to you if you think it will earn you a better seat for eternity.”
“Information,” said Haern, taking several more careful steps so that he and his father were on opposite sides of the paladin. “Drop your blade and tell us what we need to know, and your death will be quick and painless.”
Jorakai grinned a wolfish grin, exposing his teeth.
“I’m not the one dying here tonight.”
He lunged at Haern, the movement stunningly quick for one bedecked in plate mail. The great sword swung in a wide arc, aiming to cleave him in half at the waist. Haern twisted, bracing both his legs as he put his sabers in the way. He expected the blow to be strong-he’d fought people like Ghost whose arms were like tree trunks-but when Jorakai’s blade hit his own, he feared his life was at an end. His arms jarred toward his chest, the ground giving way beneath his feet as he skidded backward half a foot. A scream escaped his lips as he pushed against it, fighting the fire and steel that pressed for his waist. He felt no heat despite the proximity, instead a biting cold that stole his breath.
At last he shoved the blade away, and when the paladin moved to swing again, Haern was already rolling, desperate to avoid another until he could recover. The block had lasted no longer than a second, yet it felt like an eternity. Sliding to a halt, he spun to watch as Thren assaulted Jorakai, his blades whirling. Jorakai took step after methodical step backward, holding his great sword by the hilt as well as with a gauntleted hand midway up the sword. As if it were a staff, he shifted and turned his sword, batting away Thren’s attempts to stab and cut. A few slipped past, but Haern had a feeling Jorakai was letting them, for they were weak and struck his plate mail, unable to find a crease and lacking the strength of a mace or ax to punch through the armor.