“Outlaw,” Jerico said, and he chuckled. “Is there such a thing as an outlaw paladin? Sounds like a contradiction.”
“Hardly,” Kaide said, smacking him across the shoulder. “I have a feeling every true paladin is already an outlaw in this world.”
Kaide led him back to the fire, where the rest of the men were busy eating.
“Starting tomorrow, he’ll be your trainer,” he shouted to them. “And come our next ambush, he’ll be right there with us, standing against our foes.”
“Does this mean I get my armor and mace back?” Jerico asked as the men cheered half-heartedly. Kaide laughed, his good humor finally returning.
“All yours. You won’t regret this, Jerico. Not at all.”
Jerico prayed he was right.
9
In the darkness, Darius called out for the prophet.
“I am here,” Velixar said, stepping out from the shadows and into the light of the single torch. Beside him, the jailor slept, and with a touch, Velixar made sure he stayed that way.
Darius hung his head. He couldn’t even look at the man in black when he spoke. But he saw no other way. He had to find out. Denying Velixar without proof, without certainty, only risked him remaining a fool.
“One chance,” he said. His dry throat cracked his voice. “I’ll give you one chance, but that is all. I will listen, and see if Karak’s truth is with you.”
“Do you tire of this cell?” Velixar asked, approaching the bars. “Do you tire of your chains?”
Even swallowing hurt. It’d been a day since he’d had a drink, and he felt so tired, so thirsty. His back throbbed with every beat of his heart. His arms felt like torn, twisted limbs, never to regain their natural shape.
“Yes. I do.”
Velixar smiled.
“If only you could feel the cage about your soul as keenly as you feel those chains. Be free, Darius.”
A wave of his hand and the door opened. Another, and his bindings became like shadow, his flesh falling right through them. Darius’s back popped as he twisted left and right, gasping in pain as his muscles fired off random spasms. Despite the pain, it felt deliriously good to stand. He took an unsteady step toward Velixar, then another. The prophet held out his hand, and Darius took it. There was no warmth to the grip.
“Sustenance first,” Velixar said, his ever-changing face smiling. “Then learning.”
The torch flickered and died, and in the dark, they walked forward. Darius felt a momentary sickness, and then he was beneath open stars. He shivered at the cold. They stood on a tall hill, and when he glanced back, he saw the Castle of the Yellow Rose.
“Wait here,” Velixar said. “I must gather your things the guards took from you.”
Another portal of shadow ripped open before him, and then he stepped through, leaving Darius alone.
“Is this your will?” Darius whispered as he shivered. “Is this what you want, Karak? My god, please, show me your way. I’m tired of being lost.”
He looked to his blackened hand, and he wondered if the mark would ever be gone. Several minutes later, Velixar returned, tossing down a chest. It must have weighed a ton, and it thunked heavily against the grass, but the prophet showed no strain at all.
“Nearby is a stream,” he said. “The cold will not harm you, though it will be unpleasant. Consider it symbolic. Once you’ve cleansed yourself, come back and put on your armor. I would see the man you once were standing before me.”
Darius stumbled in the direction Velixar pointed, and sure enough he found a small stream winding its way south through the hills. He caught his reflection cast by moonlight atop the water, and the sight gave him pause. He looked a dead man, sleep-deprived and hungry. It’d been only a week, he knew, but even before the castle dungeon he’d been eating poorly, and sleeping little. He cast a pebble across his reflection to scatter it, then stepped in. The water was cold enough to hurt, but he clenched his teeth and fought his shivers. He’d endured far greater trials in his faith to his god. He would not falter now. When he finished bathing, he ducked his head under completely, feeling the chill seep into his bones, shocking the exhaustion from his veins. When he emerged, his entire body shook, but he did not care. After putting his clothes back on, he walked to Velixar.
The prophet smiled, and his red eyes seemed to glow brighter. He gestured to the open chest.
“Put on your armor.”
Darius did so one piece at a time, showing no hurry. The water had left him numb, and his shivers lessened with every minute. In the light of the moon, he felt calm, almost peaceful. If not for Velixar’s presence, he might have felt completely at ease. Putting on his armor, etched with symbols to Karak, the Lion, as well as ancient runes proclaiming his might, he felt once more the champion he’d been. Only one thing mattered, and he knew what it was.
Velixar knew as well, and he offered the hilt of Darius’s sword.
“Karak is not a god of miracles,” said the prophet. “You have made but a single step on a very, very long road. I offer you your blade, your means to bring wisdom to this chaotic world. If you accept, you must swear to heed my words as truth, to know that our god speaks through me, and me alone. Do not take this lightly, Darius. Think on it. If you wish, I can return you to your cell, and leave you to the fate this world would bring you.”
Darius shook his head. He would face this future, reveal the truth of his god. There would be no return to a prison, not outward, not within.
“My sword is my soul,” he said, stepping forward and taking the handle. “And it has always belonged to Karak.”
Exhilaration shot through him as his fingers closed about the leather. The dark fire was not much, just the faintest shimmer even newly anointed paladins could outmatch, but to Darius it was a brilliant blaze of the greatest significance. It flickered and burned across his blade, unable to survive the weakest of winds. But it was there, and every time the air calmed, it returned. Darius laughed even as tears ran down his face.
“You are beloved in Karak’s eyes,” Velixar whispered. “Come. It is time we take another step down his road.”
He created another portal of shadows, and taking Darius’s hand, led him through to the other side. Darius knew not what to expect, nor did he try to guess. For the moment, he was trying to abandon all his previous teachings, to rely only on what appeared to be truth, and what the prophet confirmed. He would accept everything with an open mind, until Velixar failed. A single false word, or moment of doubt, and he would seek Karak in his own way. At least, he thought he might. Feeling the distant touch of his god deep in his chest, and seeing that fledgling fire on his greatsword, made him wonder if he was already decided, his life already bought and earned. His promise to Velixar… he had not made it lightly.
“Where are we?” Darius asked as they stepped out. It seemed they had not traveled far, for the terrain remained the same, just rocky hills with withering grass and the occasional barren tree. Before him was a heavy cluster of bushes, marking the outline of a small grove.
“Quiet, and listen,” Velixar said.
He did, and the sound of moaning reached his ears. Taking a step forward, he pushed through the bushes. Within he found a man lying on his back, bleeding from gashes across his arms and legs. His hands were gone, the bone still exposed. His eyelids were peeled. Despite his training, despite his experience with bloody combat, Darius still found himself on the verge of vomiting.
“What grotesquery is this?” he asked.
“Now is not the time for questions,” Velixar said, joining him in the ring. He gestured to the mutilated man. “Do you not understand that is the nature of your failure? You seek answers to things that do not matter. Look at him. Say I found him tortured by bandits and brought him here for succor? Or perhaps he tortured himself, bearing a guilty soul, and he sought me out to help him with his sickness? I might have done this to him myself, but you will never know, will you? Yet you ask, and ask, and do you know what is happening while you do?”