Night of Wolves

11

Jerico slept well into the morning, having already given Jeremy orders for the townsfolk to follow. His rest was not deep, nor fulfilling, and he rose red-eyed and groggy. His breakfast was meager, various vegetables fried in animal fat, with only water from the town’s well to wash it down. After that, he donned his armor, even though he expected no combat. It would do the people good to see him prepared, he knew. With his shining platemail and thick shield, they might think they had a chance to survive while protected by such a warrior.

Even though it was hopeless. Jerico had seen the pack gathered that night. But he dared not voice that belief, and he felt guilty enough thinking it in his heart. Nothing was hopeless when Ashhur was at his side. But no matter how often he reminded himself that, he also remembered that terrible vision of the Citadel cracking and falling, and of the belief that its fall would mean the end of his order. The end of him. Was this where the last paladin of Ashhur would fall, some backwater village lost to the belly of beasts?

“Sorry,” Jerico muttered to his god as he stepped from Jeremy’s home. “I’m cranky and stupid. Ignore me.”

Darius was already up and about, but he stood in the center of town with Pheus at his side. Wishing nothing to do with the priest, Jerico instead found Daniel and his men guiding the rest of the townsfolk in preparing the defenses.

“You look like shit,” Daniel said at his arrival.

“Feel like it, too. How goes the defenses?”

The lieutenant gestured about him. Before three particular buildings the people were digging trenches, boarding up windows, and planting stakes.

“We decided cramming everyone into one single building wasn’t feasible, so we settled on three: the inn, the tavern, and Mr. Hangfield’s estate. They all have their unique quirks, but we think with enough time we can nail shut the doors and block every window. When they attack, we’ll funnel them to a single doorway. If we can negate their numbers advantage, we might stand a chance.”

“Where’s all the wood coming from?” Jerico asked.

“We’ve had volunteers. We’re tearing down other homes within the wolf-men’s circle. Nearly everyone figures they can rebuild if we survive.”

“A large if,” Jerico muttered.

“The trenches should slow them a little,” Daniel said, glaring. “And we’ll fill each one with stakes and traps. Figure to build as many as we can before each of the three entrances. All the buildings are within sight of one another, which’ll help too. I figure we’ll have an archer atop each one, and use ’em to thin the wolves at the doors. Darius also says that priest of his should prove dangerous with open space to cast, so we’ll probably stick him atop of Hangfield’s.”

“As solid a plan as any,” Jerico said. “What if they try to starve us out?”

“Well, time’s on our side, not theirs right?”

Jerico saw the desperate hope in the lieutenant’s eyes, wanting reassurance more than anything.

“Of course,” said the paladin. “One of the other towers is bound to notice our absence, if not the traders.”

“Right.” Daniel looked at the townspeople, and a smile touched his lips. “They’re good workers here. If they have any sons to spare, I’ll probably try to bring them back with me to Blood Tower. This is the fine stuff true fighters are made of, not those sniveling brats nobles send off in hopes of winning their family honor.”

They walked between the three areas, Jerico pointing out gaps in the defenses, plotting locations of more trenches, and correcting angles of the spikes.

“They like to leap,” he said. “Remember that. They aren’t charging men on foot. Push the tips higher. Make every one of them suffer for jumping too much, or too little.”

When he was back at Jeremy’s, Jessie came out to greet them. She looked about as bad as Jerico felt, and he felt guilty for not being there to protect her against Yellowscar’s attack. He knew it was irrational, but he felt it all the same. After Yellowscar’s burial, he’d gone inside to help with the others. The image of that room had haunted his dreams, robbing it of rest. He thought of Darius’s anger at giving the creature any form of honorable death. Viewing that carnage, he finally understood.

“Jerico?” she asked, and the paladin bowed politely.

“Yes, Jessie?”

“We, well, some of the others were getting together, and we were hoping you could, you know…”

He smiled even as the selfish part of him wished for anything else in the world.

“Of course,” he said. “Where?”

“In the square. The men are about to take a break to eat.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite take. When she left, Jerico sighed and shook his head.

“She should be worried about which boy to take to the hay-dance, not prayer for friends and family soon to die.”

“World ain’t fair, nor just,” Daniel said.

A vision of the Citadel flashed before his eyes, and then it fell.

“No,” said Jerico. “It is not.”

“I need a bite to eat myself. Join me when you’re done.”

Jerico waved him off, then trudged to the square. He took his shield off his back and glanced at its light on the way, feeling childish for needing to do so. He wanted some visual proof of Ashhur’s presence, for he felt so exhausted, so trapped. Waiting for him was nearly half the village, men sitting with their wives, their children beside them, the younger ones cuddling on their laps. Some ate, and some drank. When Jerico stepped among them, he felt their presence, their need for reassurance. They were tired, ragged eyed, fighting terror and exhaustion.

“I’m here,” Jerico said, for he knew not what else to say. He felt woefully unprepared. His training at the Citadel meant nothing for this. Where were his teachers? Where was their faith that had seemed unshakeable? Before the crowd he felt his neck flush, his hands tremble, and his back go slick with cold sweat. So many of them would die, if not all. What fate awaited them? Would it be Ashhur’s graceful hands? Karak’s fire in the Abyss? Or only emptiness, a nothing that belied what he knew and believed?

“Thank you for coming,” Jessie said, sitting in the front row. Several others echoed similar thoughts.

Jerico bowed his head and closed his eyes. He drowned them out, all of them. Denying his doubt, denying his fear, he spoke to Ashhur as if he were alone. His voice quivered at first, then grew firm. He asked for strength. He asked for forgiveness. He revealed his fear, his uncertainty, and his desperate trust that it would be conquered. Through it all, the people listened.

“D o you see them?” Pheus said, watching from afar. His arms crossed, he leaned against a partly disassembled home and frowned at the sight. “Do you see what I warned you of?”

Darius stood beside him, and he keenly felt the shame burn in his chest.

“They are only afraid,” he argued. “It will not mean anything beyond today, perhaps tomorrow…”

“The now means everything,” Pheus said, willing to hear none of it. “It should be you they come to for guidance. It should be you who shows them what it means to be strong. When afraid, when facing death, men and women flee to the gods for succor. There will be no lulls to win them back over to you now. No quiet moments of doubt to speak your word. The wolves will come, and fight, and many will die. How many there once sat in your congregation, Darius?”

Taking his greatsword off his back, the dark paladin stared into the black fire that enveloped it.

“Many,” he said at last.

“Many?” Pheus sighed. “Even one is too many, and we both know there are far more than one in that gathering. This is your failure. Their lost souls are upon your shoulders for not doing what needed to be done. How tall will you stand before Karak when he asks of this? What will you tell our great lord? I fear what I myself must say. I trusted you, I suppose. Will he accept it? Doubtful. Perhaps we can still acquire some measure of mercy, but only when Jerico dies at our feet. Only when his blood wets your sword and burns in its dark flame…”

Darius sheathed his weapon.

“Enough,” he said. “You have made your point. But whoever out there would abandon Karak now in their moments of weakness, they were never true servants of our god. Perhaps we only separate the wheat from the chaff.”

Pheus waved a dismissive hand.

“Use platitudes to excuse your weakness if you must, paladin. Those with knowledge will know the truth. I pray you are one of knowledge.”

He left. Darius remained, and he listened to Jerico’s prayer. It was heartfelt, he knew that for sure. Whether he served a false god or not, he believed it fully. The crowd sang, and cried, and ached for the dead and the soon to be dying. It did not last long, and soon Jerico fell quiet. Some came to talk to him, but most returned to their tasks, shovels and hammers in hand. Jealousy burned in his heart. He had always been the greater speaker, always commanded the greater presence. But it seemed the village almost reveled in Jerico’s revealed weakness. It made no sense. How could a trembling of faith affect them more than his iron certainty?

They were only frightened, he told himself. Only tired, scared, and expecting to die. They didn’t want laws to live by. They didn’t want truths to mold their lives around. They wanted weak grace, a childish promise of safety in the hereafter. Darius frowned, his heart bitter. No Golden Eternity awaited them, only the belly of wolves. He shook his head, knowing he was being cruel. Had he not admitted Jerico his friend a few nights prior? It was only under Pheus’s watch that he felt such a failure. What did that mean? Had he fallen from his god’s wisdom? For surely the elder priest was closer to Karak than he was…

Doing his best to shove the thoughts from his mind, he approached Jerico and stood before him, feeling strangely awkward.

“A fine job,” he said.

“Don’t feel like it.”

“Trust me on it. Has Daniel informed you of our plan?”

Jerico nodded. “I looked them over. So much of it depends upon the two of us. I don’t know if I can do it, Darius.”

“You don’t have much choice,” Darius said, a grim smile on his face. “It’ll be just you and me between the wolves and their meal. Neither of us can fail, and we won’t, either.”

Jerico smacked his shoulder, and for the first time that day, he really smiled.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Glad to hear you admit it. Maybe you’ll start listening to other things I have to say as well.”

I t would be the last peaceful night before the wolf-men attacked, and Darius knew he must use it. His muscles ached, for he’d worked side by side with the rest of the village. They’d said little to him, though they showed no animosity or uncomfortable reactions, either. He knew he should be guarding the tavern, but he’d convinced Daniel to send a few of his men over instead under the excuse that he needed to pray, which was no lie.

Darius kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached the thin forest that lay between them and the river. He knew the wolf-men surrounded them, watching for any escape attempts, but he strayed north, not quite reaching the river. He listened for the occasional howls, and he kept his body crouched low. With how bright the moon was, he needed no torch for light. Should he reach the forest, he figured he would be safe for a while. The wolves would expect men to try to flee upon the river, not hide beside it.

Once surrounded by trees, he cleared a space of leaves, and with his hands, tore away the grass until he exposed bare earth. Using his sword, he carved a circle. His throat tightened, and he felt his pulse race. What he was about to do was beyond dangerous. Here he was, a potential disappointment to Karak, ready to enact one of Karak’s most sacred rituals. Every motion must be perfect. Every word spoken must be true. Karak was a god of Order, and he would not suffer the presence of one with so much chaos in his heart.

The circle complete, he carved seven runes around it, double-checking each and every one. Satisfied, he thrust his blade into the center, both hands clutching the hilt. Dark fire surrounded it, and he cried out to Karak despite the danger of the wolf-men. The fire burst, and it filled the circle of dirt, though it had nothing to burn. It burned on his faith, he’d been told at the Stronghold, and for it to burn strong, so must he be strong. He repeated prayers to Karak, strengthening the fire. At last he dared make his request known.

“Reveal the fate awaiting me,” he whispered. “What will happen if I deny Jerico a death at my hand?”

He stared, not daring to blink, not daring to breathe. In the center of the fire he saw what looked like a dark pebble. It grew, and it seemed like a window to another world, its edges washing over his blade as if it were not there. Within its center he saw the answer to his question. His heart recoiled, and only his strong will kept his hands closed, his jaw clenched shut.

Jerico stood over him, mace in hand. Blood, Darius’s blood, stained its edges. At his feet, Darius saw himself lying there, wounded, beaten, and asking for death.

“No!” he cried, yanking free his blade. Above him thunder rolled, though not a cloud covered the sky. The dark fire continued to burn, traveling up his blade to the hilt. It touched his bare hand, and though it had never harmed him before, today he felt its heat with startling clarity. His skin blackened. His nerves flared with pain. Tears rolled down his face and, unable to withstand the punishment, he dropped his weapon. At the loss of contact, the fire vanished, plain steel landing atop the carpet of leaves. Clutching his blackened hand to his chest, he wept for his weakness.

“Must it be so?” he asked, unable to believe it.

He glanced down at his hand. He expected blistered skin, but instead he saw only the dark hue his flesh had become. He flexed it, and it wasn’t tight, nor did it cause him pain. He’d been marked, he knew, permanently branded with his weakness and doubt. A burnt, blackened hand wielding a sword of dark flame. Faith burned both ways, he realized. He was naive to think otherwise.

“My god asks for your death,” Darius said, sheathing his blade. He rolled his hand up in a scrap of cloth, having no desire to look upon it. “And I will obey. You are no friend, Jerico, for what friend would strike me down? I am a paladin, damn it, a paladin of Karak.”

Hollow, frightened words, born of pain. He knew it, and he tried to pretend he didn’t. Hardening his heart, he returned to the inn and slept. But Karak was not done with him. Throughout the night, Darius had one dream, and it was of himself lying on the ground, Jerico towering over him. They had fought, though he never remembered the beginning, only the end. Every time, it was Jerico who was the mightier paladin, taller, better, and with Darius’s blood on his mace.