Exhausted and shivering, Daniel looked out to the river. He saw pairs of eyes watching him from the far side, but not many. It seemed no others gave chase.
“They coming after?” asked Jon.
“Don’t look like it,” said Daniel. “But we have a long night to go. Get our gear, all of you. Let’s put some armor on. If they decide they want to fight, by god, we’ll give them one.”
While they unloaded the chests, he took count of their losses. Of their original twenty, only eleven remained, counting himself. Nine men, dead or lost along the river. He did his best not to think of it, instead issuing orders and gathering up those who were left.
“How will we find Durham?” asked Gregory, sliding up beside him.
“We’ll follow the river south,” he said. “Worst comes to worse, and we passed Durham during that mess, we’ll eventually reach tower Gold.”
“We don’t have much food.”
Daniel nodded toward a pair of bows his men were unloading from one of their chests.
“We’re in the wild now,” he said. “We’ll hunt if we must.”
“While we ourselves are hunted?”
He looked east, those yellow eyes still watching.
“Then we’ll see who is the better hunter,” Daniel said.
I t was all a dream. Jerico knew it was a dream, knew with a certainty that frightened him, for normally that understanding would spur him awake. Instead, the vision continued, with a power and clarity that deepened his fright.
Before him loomed the Citadel, the great tower of Ashhur. Behind it were its docks, and they burned. At its gates he saw a hundred of his brethren. They cried out the name of their god, and their swords shone with the light of their faith. Fighting them were legions of undead. They reached beyond the limits of his vision, for he felt like a raven flying over the battlefield. The undead fell by the scores, but still they came. Jerico’s heart soared at his brethren’s skill. They would win. Despite the numbers, they would overcome the dead, for they were strong in faith and full of song.
The ground shook, a lion let loose a great roar, and then the Citadel fell.
It crumbled into pieces, its lower foundations breaking at the sides. As it fell, the top half tilted to the right, the heavy dark stone slamming into the ground and tearing free huge chunks of earth. The sound was deafening. Even in his dream he felt his ears ache, and the shockwave of its fall thudded into his chest. The army of paladins below felt it all the more keenly. The light of their weapons, once bright and unshakeable, dwindled. The undead let out a cry, and they charged anew. This time they did not fall so quickly. This time, the paladins did not sing out songs to their god. One by one they fell, until the undead crushed them beneath their feet. Jerico cried out in despair, but he could do nothing, only watch.
He felt an emotion wash over him, and it was not his own. It was a terrible ache, so deep, so overwhelming, that it took him a moment to realize he felt Ashhur’s sorrow.
And then he awoke. He lay in his simple bed in his guest room. Sweat covered him. He felt tears in his eyes.
Do not fear the road you must travel, a voice whispered to him. Only know that you do not travel it alone.
Alone. The word hit him like a sledge. The vast bulk of his order had died. How many might remain? He thought of the dead he’d seen, and he wondered who commanded them. What nightmare was this? The Citadel, fallen? It’d been prophesied to never fall, for if it did, so would end the order of paladins. And it couldn’t end, it couldn’t, couldn’t…
He felt Ashhur’s presence with him, and indeed, believed it was his voice that whispered softly. Deep in his heart, he knew he should feel at peace with such a presence, but he felt only fear and sorrow. His friends. His brothers. His teachers. Dead. So many dead.
Despite all this, he felt a keen sense of exhaustion. He fell back atop his bed, and by the time his head hit the pillow, he was already asleep.
W hen Jerico awoke, he remembered the dream, and the passage of time did little to help. As the morning light bathed him, he wished for the images to leave his mind. He’d hoped it would reveal itself a dream, or a possible future to avoid. But all he remembered was a sense of immediacy that denied that hope. He’d felt Ashhur’s sorrow. His home was destroyed. The Citadel had fallen.
He heard a knock at the door, then Jessie call out to him.
“Breakfast, if you’re ready, sir,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, still feeling lost in a dream. He had to get back. He had to see the wreckage for himself, or he might never believe. Besides, who else might be in danger? What of the younger students, had they died in its collapse? And who had led this army? So much he didn’t know, didn’t understand.
He dressed in his platemail, and he packed his things. Preaching in the village could wait. There were more important things to do.
“Are you leaving us?” Jeremy Hangfield asked as he sat with him at their table.
“I’m afraid I must,” he said. Jeremy stared him over, and he felt uncomfortable as he ate.
“You look ill. Is something the matter? A flu, perhaps?”
“Ill,” Jerico said, and he shook his head as if his mind couldn’t fathom basic conversation. “Ill news from home, perhaps. Thank you, Jeremy. You have been a good host.”
“A shame,” said Jeremy. “Before you go, Darius wished to speak with you. He said it was urgent, but wouldn’t tell me what about.”
A strange guilty feeling came over him. Had Darius received a similar dream? How much exaltation would have been in his? Could any paladin of Karak weep for their fall?
“Perhaps I will see him before I go,” he said, with no intention of looking.
After excusing himself, he gathered up the rest of his things and hoisted his pack onto his back, over his shield. Jessie was waiting for him at the door.
“Will the Citadel send someone to replace you?” she asked. The question stabbed straight to his heart.
“I fear not,” he said.
“I’ll miss you. Are you sure you must go? How else will I talk to Ashhur?”
Jerico sighed. She was staring at him from the corner of her eye, as if afraid to meet his gaze. With how haggard and drained he felt, he couldn’t blame her. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead.
“Even if I go, Ashhur will always remain. Take care, Jessie.”
He left their home and trudged south. He’d need supplies later, but he had enough to live on for now. The Citadel had given him plenty of coin, and he’d spent little of it. There would be many villages along the river, and he’d buy what he needed from them. He didn’t want to remain in Durham anymore. He felt guilty for abandoning his post, but how could he ignore such a portent sent in his dreams?
Darius spotted him passing through the town square, and inwardly he cursed himself for not going around.
“Jerico!” he said, hurrying over. He wore his armor, and it shone in the light.
“I’m leaving,” Jerico said, trying to keep the conversation quick and simple.
Darius looked as if he’d been slapped.
“Leaving?”
Jerico nodded and continued walking. Darius recovered, and he jogged to his side.
“You can’t leave,” he said. “How could you? The people here need you.”
“The wolf-men are dead, and I’ve done what I can to spread Ashhur’s word. Besides, what could you care about that?”
Darius pushed himself into Jerico’s way, forcing him to stop.
“Soldiers from Blood Tower arrived several hours before dawn,” he said. “They’ve taken up lodging in several houses, and I’ve told them not to say anything about what happened.”
“What happened? Start making sense, Darius.”
“Wolf-men assaulted them upon the river. They lost nine men and had to beach a couple miles outside the village. Right now they’re pretending it didn’t happen, and they are the full contingent Sir Godley originally sent.”