“There you are!” Jeremy said, spotting him near the back of the crowd. “Come, Jerico, come! Darius has refused to pray over him, but Bobby was a good man, and he deserves no worse than any one of us here.”
The way parted before him, and he stepped to the porch of Bobby’s home. Inside, he saw a rope lying on the floor, having been cut from the rafter it’d been tied to. Wrapped in a blanket was Bobby’s corpse. His parents, their backs hunched, their skin deeply tanned by the sun, sat to the side, surrounded by their friends. Not far away, he saw the parents of Bobby’s dead wife, and they looked too drained to cry. They’d lost all their tears the days before, suffering for the fate of their daughter and grandchildren.
Jerico knelt before Bobby’s parents and took their hands in his.
“Is there anything you want me to say?” he asked.
The father looked at him, his eyes puffy and red.
“He wasn’t his self when he did it. You know that, right? He’d never…he’d never do this…”
“He was already dead,” said the mother. “Died when Susie did.”
He kissed both their hands, stood, and then looked to the crowd. Some wanted comfort. Some were there to support their friends, and couldn’t care less what he had to say. A knot grew in his stomach, and his tongue felt layered with sand. What could he say to them? He knew so little. At the Citadel, they’d taught him the words for funerals, what to say for the passing of men, women, and children. They’d never trained him to deal with the looks they’d give him, the near desperate desire for relief and comfort.
Jerico gave them what he could, and it felt like exposing a piece of himself as he spoke. He told them of Bobby’s kindness, talked of the love of his family, and the grace he’d accepted from Ashhur. He said not a word of his suicide. Let the gods deal with that. When he finished, he gestured to Jeremy, who stepped forward, three men with him. They lifted Bobby into their arms and carried him out. They would bury him in the fields, forever to be a part of their village and their way of life.
Afterward, Jerico mingled, accepted compliments for his speech, and then searched for Darius.
He found him outside the town, sitting with his back to a lone tree growing atop a hill. The wind blew, and it felt wonderful against Jerico’s warm skin. Speaking to the public always made him flush and feel like his neck were on fire.
“You weren’t there for the burial,” he said as he sat down beside him.
“Don’t deserve it.”
Jerico sighed. “Whether he hanged himself or not, he trusted both of us, and at least you could have-”
“Not him,” Darius said, shooting him a glare. “ I don’t deserve to be there. He was hurting, and I led him out into the Wedge in hopes of aiding him. Instead, I made things worse. One of those that died was Bobby’s best friend, Peck Smithson. How could he endure that?”
He leaned against the tree and thudded his head against the bark.
“I led us right into that ambush,” he said, his voice growing quieter. “The tracks were so obvious a child could have followed them. I should have known something was wrong. The people of this village aren’t fighters. They’re farmers, shepherds, and herdsmen. Now more are dead, the village suffers for the lack of hands, and the one I sought to help spent the night hanging from his ceiling by a rope.”
“Yeah, you really messed up, didn’t you?”
At Darius’s glare, Jerico chuckled and smacked his shoulder.
“If our gods agree on something, it’s that we’re all human, and all make mistakes. Let it go, Darius. You did what you thought was right. Next time, don’t let your guilt keep you away. I’m tired of dedicating all the burials around here. Oh, and don’t give a damn sermon about the punishment awaiting a loved one who died mere hours before.”
“You would have me lie about my beliefs to make them feel better?”
“I’d have you show a measure of tact and talk about anything else in the world for the next few days. Surely you can grant me that?”
Darius sighed. “Very well. The least I could do for what remains of his family. It’s not like I want it to be this way, Jerico. The rules we live under are harsh, and not everyone will meet them, but truth is stone, unbending, unmoving. That is the way of Order.”
Jerico stayed silent, not wanting to discuss theology. Instead he gestured east, toward the distant river.
“What do we do about the wolf-men? From what I gathered, it was a pack of ten that attacked us. That, plus the raids across the river worry me to no end. They’ve found a gap in the towers, and Durham’s right there in the way.”
“We killed more than half,” Darius said. “And that was with them having the advantage. Do you still think they’ll press us?”
“How do we know it was half?” Jerico asked, voicing the fear that had been nagging at him. “We were within the Wedge only a little while. How many might be gathering? We could have stumbled upon a single hunting party, not the entire pack.”
Darius shook his head. “That can’t be. That would mean a pack of fifty or so, maybe more. It’s been years since any packs of that size. The elven scoutmasters keep them thinned and at war with one another, and someone that strong usually finds an arrow in their neck.”
“Except the elves are gone,” Jerico said quietly. “We cannot take any chances. Let us request aid from the towers, together.”
“We can handle this,” Darius said, his stubbornness and pride returning.
“Whether we can or can’t, I’d rather we err on the side of caution. Trust me on this?”
Darius sighed.
“Twice now I agree to your demands. I must be bothered by this more than I thought.”
“Good. It’s a welcome reminder you’re as human as I am.”
Jerico gave him an exhausted grin, and the dark paladin relented to his good humor.
“Write your request,” Darius said, standing. “And I will sign it.”
“Where are you going?” asked Jerico.
“I have a family deserving my apologies,” said Darius. “Not that it’s your business.”
Jerico leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the weather. Slowly he felt his tension drain away, and once renewed, he returned to Durham to write his letter to the lord of the Towers.
R edclaw waited at the head of his pack for his scout to return.
“He will see little in this daylight,” said Bonebite, his most trusted warrior. His fur was faded with age, but he’d feasted upon more fallen foes than anyone else in his pack.
“The orcs are slow and stupid,” said Redclaw. “They will not expect us to attack while the sun burns the sky.”
Bonebite snorted. “Does the mighty Redclaw need the help of surprise to kill a few runty orcs?”
Redclaw bared his teeth, both smile and threat. Bonebite had once vied for the position Redclaw now held. They’d fought for the honor, but instead of killing him as was custom, Redclaw let him live.
“Wolf should not kill wolf,” he’d declared, his first law of the pack. He’d killed plenty enforcing the rule, but none in the pack were intelligent enough, or brave enough, to point out the contradiction. Bonebite had resented him for the longest time, but Redclaw treated him like the proud warrior he was, and after a time, the wily old wolf had accepted his role, and appeared to even appreciate the younger warrior’s skill and leadership.
“Whenever we fight, we must win,” Redclaw said, turning back east and squinting in search of his scout. “Why let orcs fight fair against us? They deserve nothing. They are food.”
“The fight weans out the weaklings,” argued Bonebite.
Redclaw glared at him. Bonebite’s snout was covered with scars, his nose nearly white with them instead of its original black. One scar ran straight across his eye, the hair around it never growing back.