Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Maybe dying wouldn’t hurt at all.
He slapped himself to push the thoughts away. Another hour passed, dreadful in its tedium. His nerves could no longer take the wait, the constant anticipation of an attack from the shadows. He had no ideas, no solutions. The metal was cool against his skin as he pressed his forehead against the hilt of his sword.
“I have nothing left,” he prayed. “No way to go. What do I do, Ashhur? Tell me, and I’ll do it. Don’t let me die here, not like this. Surely I have something more, something better to achieve. Tell me what to do. Just tell me.”
Expecting nothing, he shuddered when he heard Ashhur’s voice.
Sleep, it said. And he did.
V alessa watched from the branches of a tree, always conscious of where her feet pressed against the bark. She had to keep it solid, lest she fall. The hours passed, but she did not tire. Everywhere within her she felt pain. How could one sleep through that? Several times she thought Darius had lost focus, but knew that damned god of his would warn him of her approach. The last thing she wanted to do was break the monotony, to give his body a bit of danger to wake itself up again.
“It doesn’t matter the wait,” she whispered, watching the way his eyes remained shut for longer with each closing, and how his head drooped ever further. She knew men could stay awake for lengthy periods of time, but it usually involved actual combat, arduous travel, or constant danger. She’d give him nothing. Already she felt foolish for not waiting for him to be asleep before she attacked in the first place, but her pride burned inside her belly. She wanted to prove to Karak she was the superior, and Darius’s challenge had stirred shame and fury. Still, what would it matter if she beat him in combat, or forced a dagger through his eye while he slept? He was a traitor, a coward, and deserved an eternity of torment for his betrayal. What did honor or fairness matter compared to that?
And then his eyes remained closed for too long. Her body tensed, and she clutched the branch with a shadowy hand. Already? He’d fallen asleep already? She’d expected him to last the night, and perhaps much of the following day. How could someone so weak have defeated her?
“Accept this blessing, my glorious Karak,” she whispered, slinking to the ground. She passed over leaves without making a sound. Her daggers shook in her hands, not from fear but from excitement. This was it. A single thrust, and she’d be free of her torment, of a form that knew only cold and agony. Darius’s head dipped lower, his hands still clutching the hilt. His breathing was deep, rhythmic. Forcing herself to be calm, she waited, watched. She would not be tricked, not so close to victory.
But another ten minutes passed, and he did not stir. Lifting her daggers, she stepped into the dim light of his fire. The kill was hers.
And then the sword flared.
The pain overwhelmed her beyond words. She could not even scream. The blue-white light around his blade shone brighter than any torch, any sun, any star. It flooded the forest, washing over it in waves. Valessa tried to flee, but it held her prisoner. The illusion of herself burned away, until she was only darkness, only pain. Her thoughts scrambled as her form weakened with every passing moment. The Abyss awaited her, she knew, and she would go there a failure. Her punishment would be beyond reckoning. That terror gave her strength, and she stepped away, dimly aware of her frantic, jerky movements.
And then the light diminished, became once more the faint glow that barely lit up Darius’s armor. She fell to her hands and knees. It was hard to describe, but her body felt loose, barely hanging together by threads of shadow. Every shift, every twitch, elicited pain far beyond the constant ache she had grown accustomed to. She’d felt the glare of Jerico’s shield as it pressed against her, but this was nothing compared to that. Whatever she’d witnessed, it wasn’t the same. She didn’t want to imagine the torment if she’d been beside the blade when the light erupted.
“Damn you, Darius,” she said, struggling to stand. “You’ll bleed by my hands. Ashhur won’t protect you forever.”
Deep down, she could feel Karak’s anger growing. Thrice a failure…how long until he revoked his gift from her completely? She didn’t want to know-to ever know-but glaring at the dimly glowing blade, she feared for the first time that she might actually fail. Looking to the sky, she hoped for comfort in the shining red star. It was there, but another star was beside it, one she had never seen before. The sight of it filled her with fear, and she swore not to look on it again, nor think on what it might mean.
10
Jerico woke before Sandra did, both of them covered with a fine, cold layer of dew. He shivered, then carefully pulled his arms free of her. She stirred, repositioned her head atop her hands, and continued to sleep. Jerico rubbed his eyes, glancing once at the rising sun. The clouds were thick, yet the sun burned a deep red. A bad omen, Jerico knew. Had another of his brethren died in the night? Or perhaps Karak moved again, further sealing his victory.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Jerico’s task was to worry about himself, and those with him. Glancing at Sandra, he felt hesitation building in his chest. Better to pray first, he thought, or prepare breakfast. He knew that would be stalling, though, and let out a sigh. He was hardly perfect, and the last thing he wanted was to see what he feared most: an angry red scar, the skin about it darkening purple. He’d cured disease, venom, and wounds of battle…but could he defeat Karak’s own curse?
“Just normal skin,” he prayed while she still slept. “Normal skin. Not too much to ask, right?”
Knowing time was short, and Sandra would wake soon, he carefully knelt beside her and grabbed the bottom of her shirt between his fingers. He didn’t want her to see his reaction if it was bad. He needed to be strong. At least, that’s what he thought she needed.
Realizing he was stalling again, he swallowed, then slowly revealed the skin of her stomach.
The sight hit his gut like a club. It was worse than he’d expected. The wound wasn’t even scarred. It looked like it was still trying to heal, swollen flesh leaking pus. The skin around it was a dark purple, with red veins snaking through the bruises.
“No,” he whispered.
“Jerico?”
Sandra was awake, and lying very still. Her jaw trembled, but there were no tears in her eyes.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked.
Jerico licked his lips, and begged for strength.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
She laid her head back on the grass and closed her eyes. Her hand clutched his, and it held him tight.
“I thought so,” she said softly. “It hurts so much, Jerico. So much.”
“Lie still,” he told her. “Let me do what I can.”
He prayed over the wound, and watched the healing light about his hands plunge into the skin. He did this again and again, refusing to let anything of Karak’s defeat him. Not now, not when a life was at stake. The purple faded, and the wound closed back to an angry scar. Each time drained him, laid an extra layer of exhaustion across his mind. He’d endured worse, especially after the wolf-men attacked Durham, but he knew there was little more he could do for her. Standing, he let her examine the wound.
“The pain’s mostly gone,” she said.
“Mostly? It should be gone completely. Dark magic must have been in that dagger, Sandra. It is the only way to explain why I can’t heal it.”
“You’re keeping it under control though, right? Maybe it just needs time…”
Jerico bit his tongue and nodded. It was getting harder every day to heal it, but he didn’t want to tell her that. He could see the way she looked at him. She was grasping at hope, and if there was anything Jerico was supposed to represent, that was it. Arguing with her about it seemed beyond childish.