“Your friendship with a paladin of Karak. What is his name, Darius?”
His mouth felt dry when he responded. “Yes.”
“We knew he was here when I positioned you in Durham. You were to counter his doctrine and free the villagers from his lies. Instead I hear of you befriending him, even spacing out your sermons so the people here may attend both.”
“I thought it best to let them hear both our doctrines, and let them see the truth of Ashhur’s wisdom by comparison.”
“Serving Ashhur is a choice, Jerico.” Pallos frowned at him, and Jerico felt like he was back at the Citadel, being reprimanded for a wrong answer. “People cannot serve both Karak and Ashhur, and it is foolish to give them the chance to do so here. Karak’s darkness will not be defeated in such a way. You do not stop the charging bull with flowers. You kill it with a sword.”
“Darius is a good man, Pallos. He worries about this village as much as I.”
“Good man or not, he serves a lie, and in his ignorance, he will damn the people here. Challenge him. Watch your friendship crumble when you stop acting as if his beliefs are worth hearing.”
Pallos looked at him, honest sadness in his eyes.
“He serves Karak, and come a time, Karak will call him to betray you. That is when you will see your worth to him.”
Jerico turned away and refused to acknowledge him. The silence dragged on, awkward and uncomfortable. At last, Pallos put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.
“Do not be mad with me, Jerico. I am old, and have seen the evil this world fosters. I only say this because I fear the hurt that will befall you. But let us talk on other things. Your shield…is it still your beacon? I would very much like to see it.”
Jerico welcomed the excuse to leave his presence, if only for a little while. He seethed at such condemnation of someone like Darius. Sure, the man had his faults, but didn’t everyone? But he’d been there beside him, bleeding and fighting for the safety of the village. He called the men to be strong, the women to be faithful, for all to follow laws that, while strict, often seemed fair. They were both young, and they understood the trials each of them endured, and what it meant to stand before a crowd and speak from the heart on matters of faith. Betray him? Never.
In his room he retrieved his mace and shield and carried them back to Pallos.
“Incredible,” said Pallos as Jerico held the shield aloft. The blue-white glow swirled over it, not as strong as it’d been on the night fighting the wolf-men, but nothing he would be ashamed of, either.
“And your mace?” he asked.
Jerico held it closer, so he could see it held no glow, no power. Pallos drew his sword, its blade swirling with the light of Ashhur, showing the strength of his faith.
“When I first heard of this during your training, I didn’t believe it,” Pallos said, sheathing his sword. “Even coming here, I thought it would have faded over to your mace. Ashhur has granted you a strange gift, Jerico. Never have any of us encountered a paladin’s shield becoming his beacon of faith over his weapon. I hope you study it closely to learn its reasons, its limits.”
Jerico set the shield down by the tree.
“It’s a big hunk of metal that glows. I think I understand it well enough.”
Pallos shook his head.
“You should show more reverence to the gifts of Ashhur. The people here study the way you speak, the way you act. You are an example to them, and if you show such callousness toward the miracles of our god, then you will instill them with the same.”
Jerico felt his neck flush.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Come now, I am no teacher, and you no wet-nosed pupil. You are a good man, and I expect greatness out of you. I would not have sent you here if I did not. There are a hundred villages, all needing to hear the word of our god. But Ashhur expects something special from you. I only pray you are prepared for it.”
Pallos stood, and he brushed the dirt from his armor.
“I must be going,” he said. “There are others who must learn of Mornida’s death.”
Before he could go, Jerico stopped him.
“Wait,” he said. “You see, I…”
“What is it?” Pallos asked.
“I’ve been having dreams,” he said. “The same one, really, and it comes with greater frequency.”
The old paladin tilted his head. “Well, tell me, and perhaps I can interpret.”
“I see the Citadel. The lower walls are cracking, and then the surrounding field bursts with fire. It’s raining, but instead of water, bones fall. I hear a sound, like the roar of a beast, and then I awake.”
Pallos looked troubled by what he heard.
“Perhaps you dreamt of Mornida’s death,” he said. “It is always a troublesome time when our leader falls.”
“Are you sure?”
Pallos gestured to the distance. On the other side of the square, Darius was gathering men and women for another sermon.
“Perhaps it is Ashhur warning you of his presence. The Citadel is strong as ever. But to be in the company of a dark paladin…you must expect some of his shadow to fall upon you. Stay safe, Jerico. I hope to see you on my return.”
Jerico watched him go as Darius’s speech grew louder and filled with fire. He listened for a little while, then went back to the field. More than anything, he wanted the monotony so he might think over what he’d heard, as well as calm the turmoil growing in his breast. It was only an hour later that he realized he’d not once mentioned the wolf-men that had attacked their village.
5
Leaving tower Bronze, Daniel felt an immense sense of relief. Their boat drifted along the center of the river, slow and deep enough they could relax and let the Gihon carry them. Daniel sat in the back, dipping his fingertips in the cold water to keep awake. Not that he needed the help. An argument with someone as stubborn as Sir Lars was easily enough to get him worked up and ready to hit something.
“Unsupplied as I am, you want me to patrol twenty miles south to help protect some…simpletons stupid enough to go into the Wedge?” Lars had asked. He was shorter than Daniel, but still outweighed him by plenty. They’d bickered in his study, him wearing a family breastplate that enhanced his rotund physique.
“At least those simpletons aren’t afraid of what they face,” Daniel had shot back. Lars had flustered red, and he’d tugged at his long blond mustache while trying to find words to say. During many battles with bandits in the south, as well as the initial skirmishes with the elves, Lars had earned a reputation as a cautious leader. To those with enough alcohol to loosen their tongues, he was a coward, and that cowardice had eventually landed him his position in tower Bronze.
“Sir Godley might be a sour, quiet sod,” said one of his men as they drifted along, “but I’d take him any day over that fat weasel Lars.”
There were twenty of them, and they all shared a chuckle. The jest was in good nature, but Daniel knew he couldn’t let the man get away without reprimand.
“If you’ve got the energy to waggle your tongue, you can grab some oars and do a bit of rowing, Jon,” he said. “I’d hate you to end up as fat as Sir Lars.”
More laughs, but they got the point. Jon took to rowing, knowing he’d have to be a fool to try and escape the rather lax punishment. The oars dipped in and out of the water, the sound rhythmic, relaxing. Trees lined either side of them, growing tall with their roots crawling down into the river. Worn stone surrounded both sides, soft rock and dirt half the height of a man. The sun set, the moon rose, but so flat was the river they continued along, two men at the front using poles and lanterns to make sure they had no surprises.
“How far?” asked Jon, a man who had refused to give his last name upon enlistment. Daniel figured him a former bandit or thief, but whatever the crime, he was willing to let it be forgotten so long as he served faithfully, which he did.
“You mean until we’re there, or until you stop rowing?” Daniel asked.