Velixar pointed to the man.
“He suffers. He bleeds. Tell me, does any of that matter in the face of his torment?”
Darius looked into the man’s eyes, unsure if the man saw him back. He looked lost in a daze, moaning lightly as he lay there. His stubs shook, and the sight of exposed bone made Darius shiver with unease. The pain… it had to be excruciating.
“What is it you want from me?” he asked the prophet.
“To learn. To understand. This is one of the greatest lessons I can offer you. Here, now, realize the many paths before you, and then make your choice.”
The man jerked back his head, and suddenly his moans turned into bloodcurdling screams.
“What did you do?” Darius asked, having drawn his greatsword without realizing it.
“I was numbing his pain,” Velixar said. “But no longer. The choice is before you. I will not intervene.”
The sword shook in Darius’s hand. He saw the fire upon its blade wither and die. Looking back to the man, he knew the lesson Velixar wanted him to learn. It burned in his gut. He wanted to refuse, to deny its wisdom, but how could he hearing such horrific screams? Lifting his sword, he closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness from Karak. Down came his blade, right through the mutilated man’s throat. He silenced the screams. He ended the pain.
The blood on his blade burned away in dark fire.
“So close,” Velixar said in the sudden silence. “But I saw your lips. I heard your prayer. There is nothing to forgive, Darius. Do you not understand?”
“The intent,” Darius whispered. “It is all in the intent.”
“Your intent was to end pain, to stop suffering. There is no sin in killing. Do not even Ashhur’s paladins kill? You must be purer. You must embrace Karak’s ultimate truth.”
Darius stared at the corpse, and he felt cold fingers, like the touch of a ghost, tracing the curves of his spine.
“And what is that?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“Only in absolute emptiness is there Order, and we serve a god of Order. Follow me once more. We must take another step.”
No guilt, thought Darius as he tore his eyes away from the corpse. No forgiveness. Seeking the cause was pointless. He had to react to the way things were. Was that not what he’d always chided Jerico about? Ashhur’s paladins fought for a world that didn’t exist. He, on the other hand, bled for the real world. But there was no comfort in these words, no strengthening of his heart with such understanding. Instead, he felt another part of himself die.
Burn the sick branches with fire, Darius thought, one of Karak’s few axioms. Otherwise that which might live will also die.
Just how much of his understanding of the world, of Karak, was nothing but dead branches?
Accepting Velixar’s offered hand, he took another step, and appeared at the outside of a log cabin. To either side of him stretched acres of flat land, some recently tilled, some left fallow.
“Where are we now?” he asked.
“There is light in the window,” Velixar said, gesturing. “Look through, and tell me what you see.”
Darius did, feeling fresh dread clawing at his throat. By candlelight he saw a mother and father through the warped glass, kneeling beside a bed. Wrapped underneath covers was their child, a young boy with hair even redder than his father’s. Feeling himself the invader on something private, he looked away.
“I see a family in prayer,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue.
“They pray to Ashhur,” Velixar said. “Not Karak. Not to any true god. Every night they’re tucking their child away with lies and delusions. Do you know what they pray for? Protection. Safety. A long, healthy life for that child. Do you think Ashhur hears? Do you think he acts? We are here, and Ashhur is not. We are truth, and he is falsehood. Another choice before you, Darius. I pray you have learned enough to choose what is right.”
“Intent,” Darius said again, and his sword hand shook.
“And what would your intent be?” Velixar asked.
“No more suffering. No more fear. Salvation from loss, heartache, betrayal, hunger, and lies.”
Velixar’s eyes flared with color, as if he could not contain his excitement.
“Are you strong enough?” he asked.
Darius looked to the door. He thought of the nameless family inside, of the wounded man he’d killed, and the desires of his god. In the end, he knew what he must do.
“Please,” he prayed to Karak. “Everything I am, I have sworn to you. I will not doubt. I will not disobey. Give me a sign. Show me the way, and I will follow without question.”
He opened his eyes, and the dark fire on his blade fully consumed the metal. Prayer answered, choice made, he pushed open the door. The family screamed; the father fought. They died, and the fire burned all the hotter. When Darius stepped back out, his armor stained with blood, he threw down his sword and fell to his knees with a sob. Velixar’s hands were on his shoulders, his cold cheek pressed against Darius’s as his whole body shuddered with tears.
“We are what the world lacks,” Velixar whispered in his ear. “We are what the world needs. Banish your guilt. You are no longer one of them. You are better. You are a child in the eyes of Karak, and have been made anew.”
Darius heard the words, and with strength born of desperation he clung to them in his mind. All the while, he pushed away the images, the blood. As his heart burned, he thought of Jerico, and how the simple act of saving him had thrust him onto this path.
Damn you, Jerico, he thought as Velixar set fire to the cabin with a wave of his hand. Damn you to the Abyss.
“Are you hungry?” Velixar asked.
Darius thought it impossible, but his stomach groaned, and he weakly nodded.
“Very well. Pick up your sword, and we will find you a meal.”
Darius grabbed the hilt of his greatsword. Deep inside, in a part of him that felt very small, he hoped it would lack the fire of faith, that it would remain plain steel and nothing more. When he lifted it into the air, it burned strong as ever, and that small piece of him burned along with it, just a dead branch meeting its proper fate.
*
J erico spent the morning teaching the men how to hold a sword. It seemed like it should have been the most basic of things, but instead he learned how militaristic his childhood had been, where weaponry and training had been daily rituals.
“Higher, Jorel,” he said, readjusting the man’s grip. Beside him, Adam clutched the hilt with both hands, his meaty fists dwarfing the metal.
“Just one,” Jerico said, “we’ll look into getting you a bastard sword, perhaps, but for now, just use one.”
“Feels better using two,” Adam said.
“It’s too heavy using just one,” another man, Pat, agreed.
“They’re balanced for one,” Jerico said, trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “If it feels heavy, it means you need to strengthen your arm, and that won’t happen if you keep using two… Trent, what did I say about your feet?”
Thinking back, Jerico decided he had never given his instructors even a pittance of the respect they deserved. He’d hoped to have the men spar, but getting them to grip the weapon tight, but not too tight, with just one hand, and at the right angle from their bodies, felt like trying to teach a pack of dogs how to dance on two legs. Sure, they could do it, but it wasn’t coming natural.
“Seriously, Pat,” Jerico said, turning back. “Stop crossing your legs!”
“I got to piss,” Pat said, looking ashamed.
Jerico opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing he had no clue how to react. He wanted to ask why he hadn’t said so, why he’d waited, why he hadn’t just wandered off, taken care of business, and come back. Instead he gave him a dumb stare, then waved a hand.