The Broken Pieces(62)

“Help me out here,” Jerico muttered to Ashhur. “I think I’m in way too deep.”

Luther had made it clear he was a guest, so he walked to the outskirts of the camp and waited. Many men saw him, and it didn’t take long until Arthur himself arrived.

“Jerico!” he called out, and the relief was palpable in his voice. Amid it was guilt, and despite everything, it made Jerico smile.

“Rule well,” he said. “Rule fair.”

And that was it. He gave him no other wisdom, no other knowledge of why he lived or where they were going. He’d thought briefly of trying to enlist Arthur’s aid in fighting Cyric, but Luther appeared insistent on dealing with the mad priest on his own. Was it pride? Jerico didn’t think so, but then again, he couldn’t pretend to know Luther all that well.

“I will,” Arthur promised as he walked away. “I would have you proud of me.”

Luther’s army marched along the road, well-disciplined and well-supplied. Jerico knew without a shadow of a doubt it could have crushed Arthur’s army, without need for walls and castles. Luther’s plan had been flawless, and after Arthur’s death, it wouldn’t have taken long before Sebastian was reinstated as their puppet ruler, always in fear for his life. That all this had been abandoned because of Cyric only reinforced how great a threat he was to the North, if not all of Dezrel.

Jerico kept to the rear of the army, with the rest of the mercenaries. Most paid him no heed other than the occasional glare. Far better that than the aura of loathing he felt from the priests and paladins at the vanguard. When they stopped for their midday meal, a young squire found him sitting amid the grass far from the road.

“My master, Luther, asked that I ensure you have enough to eat and drink,” said the freckle-faced boy. As he said it, he offered a waterskin as well as a wrapped package that smelled of smoked meat. Jerico took both and thanked him, and in silence he ate, enjoying the momentary privacy. Before him stretched fields of farmland, stopped only by a distant pine forest. They traveled to the river, and from there they’d head north. Jerico wondered how Darius fared. He’d gone to the Blood Tower in hopes of removing the bounty on his head, and he must have been there when Sir Robert was overthrown. Had he survived? If so, where was he now?

As Jerico wondered, he saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the distant forest. He thought little of it, and then came the call to resume the march.

Come nightfall, Jerico wanted to do little more than stretch out his sore legs and sleep in the soft grass. Instead the same squire returned, inviting him to Luther’s tent. With a sigh, the paladin agreed, and to the north of the army he went.

“Welcome,” said Luther as he stepped inside. “I am glad you chose to join me.”

“The last time I was in your tent I tried to crush your skull with my mace,” Jerico said. “Are you sure I should be so welcome?”

Luther lay propped up on pillows, his face pale. When he spoke, each word came out labored.

“I remember,” he said. “You promised to kill me, if I recall correctly. That is why you should never promise to take another’s life. The gods might decide to amuse themselves.”

Whatever wound he suffered was affecting him greatly, and Jerico could tell he was worse off than the day before. He knew he should ask, but didn’t want to. Part of him enjoyed seeing the priest in pain, as much as it shamed him.

“What is it you want?” he asked. “Or am I here just to reminisce about good times?”

Luther shifted the pillows so he might sit up higher.

“I have not known many paladins of Ashhur,” he said. “But all I met were the same. Men who thought they were good. Men who thought they were better than everyone about them. Most of all, they hated the very sight of me. You were different. Even when you were my prisoner, you did not look upon me with hatred, not that first time.”

He shook his head.

“Now you are like all the others. The world will not weep for your passing, Jerico. Not anymore.”

Jerico breathed in deep, and he begged Ashhur for patience. There was some truth to Luther’s words, however bitter they were to hear.

“You’re right,” he said. “I should not hate you, and it shames me still. But I don’t hate you for what you are, Luther. I don’t hate you for the robes you wear, or the god you worship. I hate you for what you’ve done to me. I hate you for what you did to Sandra. You took her from me, and for what reason? A colder, crueler man I have never known. Ashhur asks that I love all the world, from the sinners to the kings. In this, I fail him. In you I see little to admire, and nothing to love.”