“At last I see fear in your eyes,” the old paladin said, who walked beside him.
“Not fear,” Jerico said. “Guilt. You realize how many of you I’ll have to kill to escape? No man should have that much blood on his hands.”
“Stupid words. Brave, but stupid. I’d suggest keeping your tongue in check when you stand before Luther.”
Jerico expected another smack to his face to punctuate it, but was proven wrong. Instead one of the other paladins jammed the hilt of his sword against his side. The pain was searing, and he stumbled along, refusing to fall.
They crossed the rest of the distance between the wall and tower in relative silence. To Jerico, it felt like a strange sort of ritual, all of Luther’s men staring straight ahead without talking to one another. Jerico wished he could know what they were thinking, then decided he’d rather not. It might crack whatever resolve he had left.
“Ready the army,” the old paladin said when they reached the castle doors. Several of the others departed for the rows of tents pitched about the commons, shouting orders to the mercenaries. Jerico quickly counted their numbers, and from what he saw, Luther had not exaggerated in his letter when he claimed a thousand followed him.
Into the castle they took him, tugging on the rope as if he were a reluctant dog. Passing through the great hall, they hooked a right, climbing stairs that wound up one of the castle towers. Jerico knew right there was his best chance to escape, but just as he thought of it, he saw the old paladin had his hand on the hilt of his sword. The moment he resisted, he’d have that blade shoved through his throat. Trusting Ashhur’s command, he kept still. At last they reached a door, and after knocking, they entered.
Within sat Luther on a bed. Instead of his robes he wore a thin tunic, which had been cut to give easy access to the many bandages wrapped around his chest. Seeping through them was a hint of red. Before the bed, waiting for him, was a plain wooden chair. Luther started to stand, then thought better of it.
“Untie him,” Luther said.
The old paladin hesitated at first, then obeyed. As they cut the ropes, Jerico glanced around the room. It was small, quaint, with but some books, a bed, and a washbasin. More befitting a librarian than a lord, thought Jerico. Seeing Luther there, Jerico felt his pulse increase with his growing rage. Here he was, the man who had killed Sandra without a second thought, the man he had sworn vengeance upon.
“I would have your word,” Luther said to him. “Promise you will not escape, nor attempt any harm against me.”
His response burned his throat. More than anything, he wished for his mace so he could crush Luther’s skull.
“I promise,” he said.
“Good.” Luther looked to the others. “Leave us.”
Reluctantly they filed out, until only the two of them remained, Jerico standing, Luther sitting on the bed. With a sigh, Luther leaned back against the stone wall.
“I trust you to understand the harm that’d befall you if you tried to escape.”
“You look like you can barely stand,” Jerico said. “I understand, even if I don’t believe it. But I gave my word. Consider yourself lucky for it.”
Luther chuckled.
“Always joking, aren’t you? But this is not a time for laughter. We must talk, Jerico, and you must hear things that will pain me to speak, especially to a child of Ashhur.”
Jerico stretched his arms, trying to work out the knot in his back before sitting in the chair provided for him. His rage was subsiding, however slowly. He hoped within an hour or so the urge to throttle the priest with his bare hands would be minor.
“Speak then,” he said. “Tell me whatever speech you have planned. Let me hear whatever justification you’ll use to go against your promise to Lord Arthur and take the lives of his men.”
Luther shook his head, and he looked genuinely insulted.
“There’s more going on in the North than this petty feud between brothers,” he said. “And I have no intention of keeping this castle, nor attacking Arthur’s army. My goals for a nation unto Karak must be put on hold, for both our holy orders face a threat greater than ever before.”
Jerico scratched at his chin, struggling to believe what he was hearing. Ashhur granted him the ability to know truth from lie, and so far, every word the priest spoke rang true. Whatever threat he faced, he believed it as dangerous as he claimed.
“What threat?” he asked.
“A former pupil of mine by the name of Cyric. He has gone mad, and declared himself Karak’s mortal vessel come to conquer the world. Already he has overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and with an army of wolf-men he now marches south. His power is greater than mine, Jerico. I tried to stop him, and failed. The next time, I cannot fail, or a great many will suffer.”