The Broken Pieces(4)

“What is it you see?” Jerico asked when Kaide continued to stare at the camp.

“I see my men outnumbering Arthur’s,” Kaide said. “Yet we will receive no honor at Sebastian’s defeat. We’ll earn no lands, and be given no credit. It’ll all belong to Arthur.”

“I thought he promised to give you back Ashvale,” Jerico said.

Kaide let out a chuckle.

“I’m not sure I want it anymore. Enough blood on my hands.” He fell silent for a moment, and Jerico could tell he was struggling for words. “She told me, you know,” he said after a time. “That bastard, Luther, he gave her warning. Said I was to stay away, me and my men. I laughed at her. Laughed. And now look at what’s happened. Here I am, Kaide the Cannibal, marching south to have my revenge, and all I can think of is how I wish I’d let you and Arthur rot in that castle.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jerico said.

“It’s not?” Kaide asked, shooting him a glare. “Then whose is it? Luther’s? Arthur’s? Yours? Tell me, Jerico. Tell me, so I can shove this blade up their ass and rip it out their throat.”

Jerico waited to respond, letting Kaide calm first. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he had to offer in answer, but he had to try. He’d felt distance growing between him and Kaide for a while, and when Sandra died it’d turned into a massive chasm.

“Revenge isn’t how you should honor her,” he began.

“Bullshit!” Kaide shouted, stabbing his dirk into the dirt. “Bullshit. Revenge is all I have left. It’s what’s gotten me this far. It’s what has rallied these men to fight on my side to overthrow Sebastian. All I had beyond revenge was my sister and daughter, and now I’ve lost one.”

“She’s not lost, not…”

“No,” Kaide said, glaring. “No, don’t you dare tell me that. I don’t want to hear about the hereafter. I don’t want to hear about golden streets and rows of angels. My sister is dead, gods dammit! Dead, gone, lost, and for what reason? Because I pissed off a priest? Because I was stupid enough to think I could accomplish something in this miserable fucking world?”

“Luther killed Sandra to hurt me,” Jerico said, the words like acid in his throat. “That’s why she died.”

“To hurt you?” Kaide said. “That’s all? To think she died for so noble a purpose. Why are you so special? If he wanted to hurt you, he should have just hurt you. Not my sister. Not my little…”

He was crying, and he jammed the dirk into the dirt again and again. His upper body trembled with the action.

“What good are you, Jerico?” he asked at last. “Sandra loved you. I know she did. And you couldn’t protect her, not even her. I sit here, and you have no comfort to offer other than petty dreams of gold you desperately pretend are real. You’re an excellent killer, I’ll give you that. An excellent killer in a world that’s gotten so very fucking good at that lately.”

Kaide stood, dirk in hand, and paused. His back was to Jerico, as if he were waiting, giving Jerico one last chance to refute the words. Jerico wanted to. He wanted to say something profound, something meaningful. A dozen responses he’d learned at the Citadel came to mind, things he’d been trained to say at such questioning. But they felt prepared. They felt dishonest. If he and Darius were wiped out, what did the world of Dezrel lose? What did he have to offer?

“Hope,” Jerico said. “I offer hope.”

“Hope?” Kaide asked, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t see any hope in your eyes. I don’t hear any hope in your voice. You’re living a lie, Jerico, and I want no part of it. Luther was right. You should go off into the wilderness and die. There’s no hope left in this world, just a lot of tears and blood.”

Kaide descended the hill. Jerico watched him go, his gut wrenched into a knot. More than ever he wished he could say something, offer something, cleanse away the man’s anguish for his sister with a simple prayer. But instead he heard the words, the accusations, and as the clouds passed over the moon, darkening the land, Jerico dared wonder.

When the sun rose, and the army below stirred in preparations for another day’s march, Jerico remained upon the hill, still awake, still in doubt.



Grevus stepped into the tent, then waited at the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back. His dark armor was polished to a fine gleam, the lion on his breastplate intricately detailed so that it seemed its fur blew in an unseen wind. Sheathed at his side was his well-worn blade. For twenty years he’d served as a paladin of Karak, and in those twenty years, he’d never met a priest more frightening than Luther.