haunted him, always of the Abyss. He felt its heat beneath his skin. In the darkness, he saw what would be his fate, his torture and release upon accepting his rightful place in the eyes of his god. With fire and flame he would cleanse the sin from the wretched.
But in his dreams he suffered with the sufferers, despite everything Velixar insisted.
Yet those dreams were still better than having Velixar’s burning eyes upon him, or to hear his cold words whispering promises and assurances. He wanted rest, needed it badly, but this time, as the stars rose, the prophet did not leave for prayer.
“Will you need a fire?” he asked as the two sat in the center of their modest camp. Darius nodded. Winter was fast approaching, the last remnants of autumn’s warmth in retreat. A fire sprang forth between them with a wave of Velixar’s hand, and Darius leaned closer to it, his arms hunched and his head low.
“You know what must be done,” Velixar said, watching him from beneath his hood. “Come tomorrow, it will all end. The last consequence of your failure will be faced. Amid Arthur’s army lurks the paladin. I am sure of it. No mere soldier will bring him down. That honor must be yours. What will you do when you meet him in battle?”
Darius thought of the man he’d always considered his friend, however strained their friendship had been because of their opposed deities. What would he do?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, refusing to look Velixar in the eye. “I will do what Karak asks of me.”
“Karak’s will has often proved elusive to you. I would have an answer, paladin.”
Darius looked up, and he felt a weight upon his heart as he spoke.
“I will kill him. I will cut his head from his shoulders, and hold it high for all Dezrel to see. My faith is to Karak, my god, above all others. Let him go to Ashhur, or Karak, or wherever his soul shall spend eternity.”
A smile spread across Velixar’s ever-changing face.
“You have learned much, Darius, enough that I would consider you both pupil and friend. I know your heart is still troubled. Do not think me blind to your struggles. But freedom comes soon. Bear no guilt for what must be done. Think not of him as your friend, nor as an enemy. He is an obstacle in your path, blocking the narrow road. In this, you must know what Karak has called for. You cannot doubt my words. Since your childhood, Karak has demanded this of you, that you let nothing stand in the way of your faith. Not death, not life, not love, not weakness, and not pride. Faith, Darius. You have it, stronger than most alive, and that is why I offer you a gift, if you would accept it.”
Darius felt a shiver travel up his spine, and he tried to blame it on the weather.
“What is your gift?” he asked.
“Let me see the mark on your hand.”
Darius pulled back his sleeve and held out his sword hand. The skin remained black as charcoal, and looked as if it had been recently charred. It caused him no pain, other than a constant remembrance of his doubt and weakness back in Durham. Velixar put his own hands atop it, his touch like ice.
“Karak marked you, for you went to him seeking your fate if you spared Jerico’s life,” Velixar said. “Now you have seen it, and lived it, all the while bearing Karak’s shame. You doubted his will. You tried to bring mercy to an enemy that deserves only annihilation. Tell me once more the fate you saw.”
“I would fall at his feet,” Darius said, and he felt tears building in his eyes. “I’d be beaten, bloodied, and like a dog I would beg for death.”
“I free you from that fate,” Velixar said. “I free you from Karak’s mark. Your faith has returned, and it will grow stronger than ever. Know Karak’s love has come into you. Know his presence, in his greatest way.”
Velixar’s hands shimmered violently.
Everywhere the mark touched flared with pain, as if Darius had plunged his hand into fire. His arm shook. His stomach twisted, but he had not eaten in a day, and he had nothing to expel. A vision came over him, shocking with its strength and power. He saw himself, and at first he thought it taking place in the Abyss given the fire surrounding them, but then he saw grass and trees. Bodies lay about, cut down by blades
On his knees, his mace lost, his shield broken, knelt Jerico.
One last chance, he heard himself say. Yield to Karak, or face his judgment.
Jerico stared at him, his face full of anguish and sorrow. He said nothing, only shook his head. Darius felt himself dip into the body of the vision, becoming one with it. Sensations nearly overwhelmed him; the heat of the fire, the ache of his muscles from the fight, and the taste of blood on his tongue. Most of all, though, he felt pure, total exhilaration.
He lifted his sword, wreathed with black flame so thick it hid the blade completely. It felt light as air in his hands. His mark, which had marred his skin, was gone. Jerico looked to the blade, then closed his eyes.
Karak’s judgment, Darius heard, though he knew not who said it. It comes for all.
He swung the sword. As it connected with Jerico’s neck, the vision shattered, and he felt himself returning to his true body. He lay on his back in the grass, shivering from the cold. To his left, the fire had dwindled down to nothing. Velixar stood over the ashes, and even he looked shaken.
“Such glory,” he said, his voice soft. “Such honor. Your mark is gone, Darius, and your fate now your own. Show faith to Karak, and you will achieve all you have seen. Fail, doubt, and you will break before Jerico. Two destinies, both yours to decide. Either Jerico falls, or you fall before him. I have faith in you to make the right choice, to wield the power meant to be yours. Karak’s strength embodies you. Stand, Darius. Lift your blade.”
Darius did, and though he felt unsteady on his feet, he could not deny how much lighter his armor felt. When he lifted his sword, it was with a single hand instead of two. At his touch, fire consumed it, dark and deep. The metal of the blade was visible, but only just.
“My choice,” Darius said.
“It always has been.”
Darius looked to Velixar.
“Then I will live, and bring Order to a world that sorely needs it.”
Velixar’s smile was ear to ear.
“As it should be,” he said. “Karak be praised. You have truly returned to the fold.”
Darius sheathed his sword, closed his eyes, and gave his first ever prayer to Ashhur. He asked him to keep his champion from partaking in the battle. Otherwise, his mind was decided. His fate was chosen.
Should they meet, Jerico would die.
15
“You’re grumpier than normal,” Jerico said as Bellok shouted orders at every nearby person, whether they deserved it or not.
“The whole damn night,” the wizard said, rubbing his eyes. “Ever tried swinging your mace for eight hours straight? I did that with my head. Grumpy doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. The next person who yells next to my ear gets turned into a jumping toad.”
They walked amid the bustle of the camp, preparing to move out. Arthur had sent them a rider, alerting them to Gregane’s location. Come the late afternoon, the battle would begin.
“Are we ready?” Jerico asked, tightening his armor. “I still don’t know our plan.”
“Better you don’t. It’s not going to work.”
“This the grumpiness talking?”
“Common sense. Now where’s that blasted little brat, Kaide?”
Jerico pointed toward the top of a hill.
“Giving his best speech to the men.”
Bellok rubbed his temples with his fingers.
“I don’t have time for speeches. Let me just show you, then.”
The paladin followed him to the wizard’s tent. Inside was a chest, its lid closed. Before Jerico even took a step inside, Bellok whirled on him, jamming a finger against his breastplate.
“Whatever you do,” he said, “not even if Ashhur himself commanded it, not even if you thought your very life depended on it, do not bump that chest. Understood?”
Jerico stammered, his jaw working up and down as if it might somehow figure out a correct response.
