They emerged from the forest about an hour later, the castle not far in the distance. Its walls stretched out for a mile beyond the castle itself, sealing in several pastures with crops and cattle, along with numerous wells. Darius eyed the walls. They were short, and made of dark stone. Ladders would easily reach the top, and battering rams would make quick work of their gates, but that wasn’t their point. They were for holding off uprisings of peasants and raids by bandits, who lacked even the most basic of siege weaponry.
The castle was equally unimpressive, save for one thing. As Darius entered through a gateway, following the knights along a beaten dirt path, he saw the great rose painted across the face of the castle. It drooped to one side, and a single petal fell, twirling in an unseen wind. Vines grew across the face of the walls, adding texture to the painted petals. Darius couldn’t begin to imagine how they painted it, nor kept its color vibrant. As a defensive foundation, it was basic, square, and crenellated along the tops.
Sir Gregane announced their arrival, and the castle’s doors were flung open. Young boys appeared, leading away the horses once the knights dismounted. Darius kept an eye out for priests and paladins of either faith, but saw none. If lucky, he might appear before Sebastian, offer some vague advice, and then be gone.
“Follow me,” Gregane said. “But first, your sword.”
“I go nowhere without it, not even before kings and queens. I will not disarm myself before your lord, especially when I am brought here as a guest.”
The other knights tensed, but Gregane seemed unoffended.
“Very well. Keep it sheathed on your back. I cannot promise you safety otherwise.”
Darius gestured for him to move along. They stepped into a short hallway, past several doors leading to the lower and upper floors of the castle. Then they were inside the grand room, with rows of tables for feasting at the foot of a single throne made of stained oak. A man sat on it, thin and wiry, with his dark hair reaching far past his neck. Flecks of gray shone in the black.
“Sebastian Hemman,” Darius said, not waiting for introductions. “I am Darius of the Stronghold, faithful paladin of Karak, and I bring with me his blessing.”
Sebastian sat ramrod straight in his chair, and at the announcement, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to a table that had a meager offering of food.
“You may eat and drink, if you’d like,” said the lord. His voice was soft, calculated.
“Perhaps when business is done,” Darius said. He remained standing, even when the other knights bowed in reverence. Darius would bow to no one, nor call them lord; his kind served Karak and Karak alone. “I have never been fond of empty pleasantries, nor stalling words to feel out another’s true thoughts. Let me state this plainly: I have come because you have summoned me. Let me know why, so I may perform my function, and then go on my way if I so choose.”
“Impatient words,” Sebastian said. “But I’ve found your kind often is. Sometimes I think Karak sends those gifted with golden tongues to his priesthood, and the blunt muscle to the Stronghold.”
Darius grinned.
“No one will ever accuse me of a bronze tongue, let alone golden. I have my sword, and that is enough. Tell me, Sebastian, why am I here? Are there no others of the faith to counsel you?”
“We once had a priest here, but he has left, with business he swears is most urgent.” Lord Hemman took a drink of wine from a cup at his side, still in no hurry to move things along. “But the seventh day approaches, and we have no one to administer the offerings, nor have we had for several weeks. Would you preside over this for my people tomorrow?”
That was it? Darius tried to contain his temper. He’d basically been kidnapped and brought before their lord, all so he could perform a function even the youngest of the faith could handle?
“If that is what you require, I accept, but I have matters I must attend, and cannot stay long.”
“Yes, of course. Now that that is settled…”
Sebastian clapped his hands, ordering everyone out. Gregane opened his mouth to protest, but the lord silenced him with a glare. The servants vanished, shutting the door behind the knights. When they were alone, Sebastian stood, and he seemed to visibly relax.
“Forgive me that tedious business,” he said, eagerness bleeding into his voice. “It has been weeks since any worshipper of Ashhur was here, but I thought it best to hide the reason for your arrival just in case. Castle walls have ears, after all, and mine are no exception.”
“I see,” Darius said, though he didn’t. If not for the morrow’s service, why was he here? A ball of lead formed in his stomach, for of all the ideas he had, none were pleasant. The lord moved to a door behind his throne, and he opened it with a key wrapped around his neck. Taking a nearby torch, he stepped inside, beckoning Darius to follow. Heart in his throat, he did.
The air was heavy, and the floor damp. They descended into a dank dungeon, the only sound that of the flickering torch and a distant dripping of water. At the bottom of the stairs was a cell, and inside that cell was an older man strapped upright to the wall with iron.
“Who is this?” Darius asked, already dreading the answer. “Answer me.”
“It is a brave man who will make demands in a lord’s dungeon,” Sebastian said. “But that is your nature, I suppose. I have always been a faithful supporter of Karak. Ashhur appeals to the peasant folk, the simple minded who need promises of greatness in death, who need a doctrine that elevates them as equals to gods. Karak knows better. It is Order the world needs, a king, his lords, and their subjects. That is the divine sequence.”
“Enough,” Darius said, wishing to hear no more of the man’s simplification of a doctrine he knew better in his sleep. “Answer my question.”
“His name is Pallos,” Sebastian said, opening the cell door. “My men captured him along the road, and have brought him here. Before he left, Laius, one of your priests assigned to be my counsel, spoke whispers of a war. He told me of the Citadel’s fall, and of the great cleansing that sweeps across Dezrel. Of course, I would not dare steal from you a rightful execution. Besides, if the priests of Ashhur received word, they might make my life… difficult.”
Darius stepped into the cell, his throat dry. The paladin’s name was so familiar. Pallos… that was it. Darius had promised Jerico that he would warn Pallos of the silent war should he encounter him again. It seemed such a warning was no longer necessary. The older man looked up at him, his eyes still lucid despite the thinness of his body and the darkness of his cell.
“Leave me,” Darius told Sebastian. “I wish to have words with this man, of things you’d best not hear.”
“Of course.” The man bowed and stepped back, keeping his torch high so its light might still shine on them both.
“Who are you?” Pallos asked, his voice cracking.
“My name is Darius… of Durham.”
At the name, Pallos tensed against his shackles.
“Have you turned against me?” he asked. “Has the entire world? I warned Jerico, but did he listen? He counted you his friend.”
“And he still does,” Darius said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I had not the heart to kill him. He lives, Pallos, at least last I saw him. The world is dangerous, though, so I cannot know for certain.”
Pallos’s mouth dropped open, and he looked torn between hope and distrust. Darius knew the man had no reason to believe him. Everything he said could be a trick, or a cruel torture to be later revealed as a lie.
“I don’t believe it,” he said at last. “I thought for certain… Karak would call you to kill him.”