greatsword strapped to his back.
“The people of Durham will recognize you, even if Cyric doesn’t,” Gregory said softly, standing beside him in similar plain clothes. “Are you so certain they will protect us?”
“No, I’m not,” Darius said. “But I have to trust them. Whatever fear they have of me, I think they’ll fear Cyric more.”
Daniel paced before the men after shaking their hands.
“You make me proud,” he told them. “Every one of you deserves a song sung in your praise.”
“And we’ll sing it nice and loud when we come back with that bastard’s head,” one of the seven said, and the others laughed. Daniel smiled, and clapped the man on the shoulder.
“Damn right,” he said. “And no one will be singing it louder than I. My men will arrive on time, don’t you ever doubt it. Try not to die before then.”
“No promises,” Darius said, bowing low. “Have fun at the Blood Tower.”
He looked at the rest of men, and the way they looked back, he knew he was their leader now, the one they put their faith in. He prayed he wouldn’t disappoint.
“Let’s go,” he told them. “We have a village to save.”
They traveled north, keeping the Gihon to their right at all times. Darius’s hand often reached for his sword, and he kept expecting Valessa to be behind every tree, or lurking in every shadow. Each time, nothing, but his nerves remained on edge nonetheless. The rest of the men said little, even Gregory falling silent as they marched. They had many miles to cover, so they saved their breath. An hour in, Gregory spotted a road, and they followed it away from the river. It wound through the flatlands and fields of wild grass. Darius felt naked without his armor, but was glad for the lack of weight as the miles passed.
“Don’t look like there’s any patrols,” said the oldest of the seven, a long-haired man named Zeke.
“Why would there be?” Gregory asked. “Why would Cyric think we knew his plans? He was an overconfident bastard the few times I met him, and I doubt he’s gotten any better now he thinks he’s a god.”
“He ain’t a god,” said Zeke. “He ain’t even much of a man. Just wait. I’ll shove my sword in his gut, and we’ll see how proud he is then.”
The rest laughed, all nervous chuckles and sideways glances. Darius made sure to grin wide, and let none know of his private fears. A priest claiming he was Karak returned in human form? The rest of the priesthood would flay the flesh from his skin when they learned of such blasphemy. So why hadn’t Karak denied him his power? Why send lions of the Abyss? Was there a grain of truth to it? Darius had killed a prophet with his blade, but could he kill a god?
The road widened as they neared the village, and the ground was markedly flatter. By now they could see torches, mostly gathered around the village center.
“Close enough,” Darius said. “Time we split up.”
“Darius with me,” Gregory said. Darius could sense the young man assuming leadership, and was glad to let him do it. He knew the men better. “Zeke, go with Reb and Thomas. Stay at the farthest edge of town, close to the road. I want us to always know who leaves and who goes from Willshire.”
The three men saluted, lowered their backs, and ran toward one of the homes. Gregory turned to the final two, lowborn brothers who’d enlisted at the same time, and been considered unworthy of anything other than a station at the towers. Darius had rarely spoken to them, learning little more than their names. They both had short red beards, making them even more identical.
“Something’s going on in the center,” Gregory said. “Think you two can find a home close enough to see?”
“Finding one’s the easy part,” said Gavin, grinning. “It’s sneaking in unnoticed that’ll be tricky.”
“Can you?”
“We can,” said Kris, the younger. “And no tiny village door is going to be locked or barred, not well enough to stop us.”
“You certain?” Darius asked.
“There’s a reason Daniel picked us for this,” Gavin said. “We might have been a bit… troublesome before being sent to the towers. Come on, Kris. I promise, come tomorrow night, we’ll be ready for Cyric’s little game.”
“Stay low, and don’t do anything stupid,” Gregory told them.
“You mean besides our whole damn mission?” Kris asked, grinning.
Darius looked at Gregory and shrugged.
“He’s got a point.”
“Thanks for the confidence,” Gregory said, gesturing to the quiet village. “Where are we to go?”
Darius analyzed the homes, then shook his head.
“To the other side,” he said. “Maybe we will see something from a new angle.”
He led the way, his body crouched and his head low. So far they had yet to see soldiers, or any sign of Cyric, but he refused to believe the priest had not begun preparations for the blood moon. Someone watched over the city, and kept them in line. As they circled Willshire, they reached a space where they could see through a gap of homes to the center. Both stopped, and Darius felt his heart stutter.
“What is that?” Gregory whispered.
“It’s an altar,” Darius whispered back.
“It can’t be. It’s too big to be one.”
The paladin shook his head.
“Blood will spill there,” he said. “Trust me.”
Surrounded by torches and watched by soldiers bearing the standard of Karak was a massive table, built of five carved slabs of stone. Tied to the stone were twenty men and women. They sat with their backs to it, their heads sagging as they slept. Darius felt fury burn in his gut, and time slowed as he saw the man lording over it all: a priest dressed in black, standing atop the stone with his head bowed and eyes closed.
“We can attack them now,” he said. “We have surprise, and I count only thirty or so guards.”
“No,” Gregory said. “We follow the plan.”
“But the people…”
“…will die if we fail.” Gregory put a hand on his shoulder. “They will endure. Now come, I think I see a place for us to stay.”
He pointed to a large barn, far from any torchlight. The two of them could stay the night there, and come the morning, they’d just be two more villagers native to Willshire, eager to work the fields and participate in whatever ceremony Cyric had planned. Darius gave one last look at the priest, let his face burn into his memory, and then followed.
The barn itself was not quite as empty as they had expected. Instead of silence, they heard snores, and shuffling. Peeking inside through a crack, Darius saw at least thirty people sleeping amid the hay. Gregory snuck around to the front, then hurried back.
“Six men guard the entrance,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Those from Durham must be inside.”
“Cyric fears they’ll flee. I can’t imagine why.”
“What do we do?”
Darius looked up, saw a high window. Too tall to climb. Other than that, there was the front entrance. The paladin scratched his chin, thinking. He looked at Gregory and frowned.
“How good a liar are you?” he asked.
“No one will play dice with me anymore. That good enough?”
Darius pulled the sword off his back and lay on his stomach. The wood on the barn was old, and carefully he checked board after board until he found one that was loose. It didn’t have much give, but when he pulled, it opened up enough of a crack that they could slide their weapons inside. Gregory looked unhappy doing so, but he trusted him. That done, Darius stood, wiped a bit of dirt into the sweat of his face, then did the same to Gregory.
“The men at the front are just mercenaries,” Darius explained in hurried whispers. “We at the Stronghold never liked them, nor respected their faith. They’re in it for the money and power. While they praise Karak, they think like men, not priests. And like men, they assume other men are just like them.”
“What are you getting at?”
