“No choice?” Jerico cried, stepping back as Darius swung wildly. “Is that what you tell yourself? You are no slave, Darius, no puppet. I was your friend, damn it, remember that!”
“Friend?” Darius asked as their weapons connected. When Jerico tried to shove forward with his shield, Darius was ready. He pulled back and struck it with his blade, the dark fire flaring. They both felt the pain, but Darius knew his blows were raining down ever harder, Karak’s strength flooding his veins. The other paladin staggered deeper into the forest. The red light of the fire shone upon them, and in the glow Darius felt himself returned to the Abyss, fulfilling his visions.
“Friend,” Jerico gasped, stumbling onto one knee before quickly standing.
“I gave my life for you,” Darius said. “I sacrificed everything, even my faith, for you. And what do I find? You leading a rebellion, sowing chaos throughout the North. At the side of bandits? Rebels? I have suffered every day since, cast off, abandoned, tortured… and I see it was for nothing. You worship a lie. Too long I accepted it, treated you as an equal. But you’re not. You’re nothing, and at last I see it… friend.”
Jerico shook his head, at last showing despair.
“You can’t believe that,” he said quietly.
“By my actions, my proof.”
Darius swung, only to have Jerico block. The metal of his mace groaned, but held. Jerico shoved it aside, then shifted so his shield shone its light directly into his eyes. Darius fell back, swinging wildly to keep the other paladin at bay.
“Where were you when I suffered in prison?” he cried. “Where was Ashhur when Velixar took the lives of his faithful? Where were either of you as I butchered that family? He has abandoned this world, abandoned us all! Look at you, last of his kind. What lies can you offer? What hope can you possibly believe in? Tell me why… tell me why I wasn’t stopped?”
Jerico remained back, seemingly with no desire to go on the offensive. The sadness on his face only grew with every word Darius spoke, and for whatever reason, that infuriated him further. Darius stepped in and swung, crying out the name of his god. The fire on his blade consumed it fully, and a word came to his lips, its meaning unknown to him.
“Felholad!” he screamed. The very metal of his blade vanished, nothing but the burning will of his god. It struck Jerico’s shield with the sound of thunder. Bright light flared, but Darius’s fire sucked it in and defeated it. Jerico flew back several feet before hitting a tree, his head smacking against it hard enough to leave a smear of blood. He slumped to his knees, remaining upright only by leaning his weight on his fists. Blood trickled down his neck and dripped to the scorched grass.
Darius held his blade high, clutching it with both hands as he towered over his defeated opponent.
“Karak’s judgment,” he whispered.
“Stand with me,” Jerico said, and he looked up without any anger, any malice, only disappointment. “Remember, Darius. Stand with me.”
The words Jerico had said during the fight against the wolf-men. Side by side, they’d fought, bled, and been ready to die. And so they had, making their stand against the chaos of the world. It didn’t matter Darius had failed to protect his charges, that his lack of strength had doomed many. Jerico had understood, and called him to fight without ever casting blame or judgment.
Side by side.
The fire of his blade, fueled by his hatred, his anguish, his certainty, could no longer be sustained. It dwindled away, still bright, but no longer the Felholad it had become. In that brief moment, Darius felt terrified to be once more alone, abandoned, a failure to the vision he’d seen. In that brief moment, Jerico lunged to his feet, his mace swinging. Darius was too slow to block, only partially deflecting the strike. The mace struck the side of his head, the flanged edges tearing into his skin. Blood spilled, and he collapsed from the blow as his sight blurred. His hands felt strange to him, and the sword slipped to the ground. Tears in his eyes, he saw the fire fade completely.
More than anything, he felt alone. On his knees, he looked up at Jerico, who stood with the mace at ready.
“Do it,” he said. “Kill me. Gods help me, you don’t know what I’ve done. I can be this no longer.”
Jerico hesitated, and for some reason that hesitation filled Darius with fury.
“I said do it!” he screamed. “Coward! I’ll not be judged!”
Instead Jerico flung his mace to the ground, shifted his shield onto his back, and offered his hand. Darius stared at it, unbelieving.
“Take it, and stand,” said Jerico.
“Why?” Darius asked.
“Because I need to believe you aren’t lost to me, otherwise I might as well throw down my shield and join you in death. Now stand.”
Darius felt Velixar’s words searing through his mind. He thought of the massacred villagers, of the horrors at Durham. He felt guilt crushing him, denied for so long by a certainty of faith he no longer held. Through it all, one thing echoed over everything: Velixar’s own words now turned against him.
Darius looked to Jerico’s offered hand, and a face containing no anger, no blame, only forgiveness.
“What this world needs,” he whispered.
He took it and stood. Jerico embraced him, and he laughed.
“Ashhur be praised,” he said, grinning. “I thought you were going to take my head off.”
“I almost did.”
Together they looked through the fire, to where Velixar waited. They could see the barest hint of the group, so deep into the forest they had gone during their fight.
“We have to run,” Jerico said, nodding the other way. “Sebastian’s army will come back to find us soon.”
“No,” Darius said, glancing at his sword. “No running. Those out there know your name. They’ll hunt you forever, and me as well. Let us end this now.”
Jerico touched the back of his head, and he winced at the pain. Darius felt guilty for it, but he laughed anyway and smacked Jerico across the shoulder. For whatever reason, even at the prospect of facing down Velixar, he felt almost giddy. He had always expected one of two fates to befall him, either torturing in the Abyss, or being tortured. Somehow he had found a third fate, and it was at Jerico’s side.
“If you say we must, then we must,” Jerico said, readying his shield and mace. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Darius said, unable to control his grin. “I have an idea.”
*
V alessa felt disappointed to see Darius emerge from the forest into daylight. She’d hoped the other paladin might kill him, and as a failure he’d go to Karak to beg for mercy, mercy he would not receive. Instead he walked with blood on his armor, and his sword sheathed across his back.
“Karak be praised,” Velixar said. “He is dead?”
Darius said nothing, only walked silently toward the prophet. Something about the look in his eyes worried Valessa, so much that she found herself itching to draw her daggers. He looked healthier, relieved. Of course, she thought. He’d defeated the burden placed upon him. With Jerico dead, his reparations with Karak were complete. Such a damn shame.
“Is he dead?” Velixar asked again, a note of worry in his voice, as if he too noticed the change. Darius kept calm, his face betraying nothing. He moved between the three, past Velixar, but the prophet reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. Mallak tensed, also sensing the strange feeling in the air.
“Darius,” Velixar said. “Draw your sword.”
Darius obeyed, a hint of a smile finally showing on his lips. He drew, and Valessa froze at the shock of what she saw.
Blue light shone across the edges of the blade. So stunned was she, she could only watch as Darius continued the smooth drawing motion into a swing right for Velixar’s neck. The sword cut cloth and struck the prophet’s pale skin. For a moment it seemed it would do nothing, but the blue light flared stronger, and then the blade passed right on through. Velixar’s body burst into dust; his eyes melted into fire. He let out a single cry before he died, a denial against failing, a refusal to accept the death befalling him. Then he was silent.