The Old Ways (11 page)

She swallowed, tried to remain calm. Panic swelled in her breast, coupled with anger.

“You’ve healed worse,” she said. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it! Why me? Why this?”

Jerico grabbed her hand and clutched it with both of his.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I can do this, but I need you to stay with me. Can you do that, Sandra? Talk to me, Sandra. Sandra!”

A river ran through her mind, softly swaying side to side, and in it she was free of the pain, the fear, and the anger. She closed her eyes and let it carry her away.

Sandra!

Sandra...

She opened her eyes, that river suddenly gone. She knew time had passed, dimly aware of it in some instinctual way. Jerico knelt over her, and she saw his hands pressed against her stomach. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Guilt washed over her, for she realized he was praying, and it felt wrong to be present in a moment so private. But his words struck her, and she realized he was crying as he spoke.

“Don’t let me fail her,” Jerico said, his jaw trembling. It seemed like every part of him was fighting against losing control. “Don’t do this to me. I don’t know what I’ve done, where I erred, but don’t let her suffer for it. I can be stronger. I can do better. Please, your strength, not mine. Your strength, not mine...”

She reached out and touched his face. He stiffened, then looked to her, eyes red. He smiled.

“Sandra,” he said, and it seemed as if her very name swept away his sorrow.

She kissed his lips, then held him tight against her as the pain in her stomach slowly returned, and she was once more aware of the chill of the night, the soft cries of the crickets, and the way his strong arms kept her close.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. I think you were stabbed with a cursed dagger. I’ve done what I can. Everything else is in Ashhur’s hands.”

“Am I cured?”

“I don’t know. I’d need to examine the wound to be certain.”

She kissed him again.

“Not now,” she said. “Let me sleep without knowing.”

He gently lowered her back to the grass, then lay beside her, his arms carefully wrapped about her chest, his face pressed against her neck. The heat of the fire washed over her face.

“Thank you,” she said.

He gave no answer, only kissed the back of her neck. She fell asleep not long after, the rhythmic warmth of his breath against her ear.

C
yric helped his master and teacher prepare for departure, and did his best to hide his excitement. It wasn’t that he bore any ill will toward Luther—far from it. But this meant a chance to finally be on his own, to have a measure of trust placed upon him. With it came expectations, but he felt confident he could handle whatever the world threw at him. His faith in Karak was strong, after all.

“Remember to keep your patience when speaking to Daniel and Sir Robert,” Luther said as he folded together similar colored robes, then cinched the container tight. “They will never be faithful to Karak, but they can still be of use in our crusade against chaos.”

“They should be replaced if they will not bow to the true god,” Cyric said, hoisting a trunk of Luther’s things onto his shoulder.

“In time, my student. In time, all the world will bow. But it does not yet, and expecting perfection from this chaotic world will only lead to disappointment.”

Cyric led the way down the stairs to the outer wall, where the wagons waited.

“What you say sounds like defeat,” he said. He didn’t like arguing with Luther, but today he felt confident, proud. Luther was to leave fifty men in his care. He had every intention of using that gift to its utmost potential.

“Defeat and acceptance are not the same thing,” Luther said. Cyric could not see him, but he heard the impatience creeping into his voice. “You’ll understand one day, when you have walked across Dezrel as much as I.”

Cyric put the chest into the wagon and shoved it into place, then took Luther’s bag and gently tossed it in as well. That was the last of it, and all around them the armed men of Karak prepared to leave. Luther crossed his arms and looked Cyric over. The younger man held down a shiver. He hated when his master analyzed him so.

“What will you do?” Luther asked. Cyric stood up straight, and did not hide the pride in his voice.

“Continue to spread the faith. Weaken Sir Robert’s control over the Blood Tower until he acknowledges our right to rule over him. With that done, I will find the remnants of Durham. They will learn the folly of accusing a paladin of Karak of causing chaos and destruction.”

“And how will you do that?”

Luther’s voice had grown quieter, more guarded. Cyric knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but didn’t care. He’d put much thought into this, and it was time to reveal the truths he’d uncovered.

“I’ve read the older tomes,” said Cyric. “There are spells in them, rituals of such power and strength it overwhelms the mind. That strength will be mine. With it, I will renew the faithful, and crush those that worship the false god, or deny Karak’s power. It is time to bring the old ways back to the North.”

“I told you to avoid those tomes,” Luther said. “Our council has deemed them too dangerous to the cause of Karak.”

“But why? With them, I can force the will of Karak upon all chaotic life!”

“You would
enslave
them, Cyric! Don’t you understand? We must use a firm hand when reshaping this world, but we must also ensure that there is still a choice, no matter how illusionary it may be. Man will struggle against foreign chains about his neck, but if he binds himself willingly, humbly, he will remain free of chaos forever. That is why you must not use the old ways.”

Cyric felt his temper rise at such a rebuke, and his pride stung deeply.

“Not all the priesthood feel as you do,” he said, trying to stand tall before his imposing master. “Hayden often laments the loss of the old ways, and I’ve read Pelorak’s teachings from...”

“Enough,” Luther said, striking the wagon. Dark magic flared across his fist, and the wood splintered from the blow. “You are
my
disciple, not theirs. How can I pass on my wisdom to you if you would ignore me, and go only by the books you read and the dreams that fill your head? If you resurrect the old ways, you will bring about terrible ruin, to yourself, and to the North.”

He stepped into the wagon and called out for the rider to begin.

“You may not approve,” Cyric said, walking behind it as it started to move. “But I am yet to hear you forbid me from doing so.”

Luther leaned back, his arms crossed.

“It is still your choice,” he said. “I will not deny you that. Be mindful of your prayers, and listen for the whispers of Karak. I trust he will dissuade you from this na
ïve
hope. If you find yourself lost, trust in Salaul’s advice.”

Cyric bowed respectfully, but the moment Luther was gone, he shoved his teacher from his thoughts. He would not listen to a man so closed-minded against the wisdom of the great fathers of their faith. Hurrying through the now largely abandoned campsite, Cyric searched out the man left by Luther to aid him in spiritual matters, the dark paladin Salaul. He found him reorganizing the layout of the camp because of their far fewer numbers, relocating them into the inner walls of the Blood Tower.

“My friend,” Cyric said, bowing to the paladin. Salaul leaned back and crossed his arms. He was an older man with graying hair, now living a life of training and teaching instead of actual combat. But he was a paladin of Karak, and his strength was still greater than that of most mortals. A greataxe hung on his back from several leather straps. Cyric could only begin to guess how many lives it had claimed.

“Young priest,” Salaul said, his voice incredibly deep. “Luther told me you would be assuming control of the situation here at the Blood Tower. I offer you my wisdom, for I have seen much in this world, for good and ill.”

“Your wisdom will aid me greatly,” Cyric said, trying to sound even half as authoritative as Salaul. “But for now, I have a task for you, one that must be done away from prying eyes.”

Salaul narrowed his gaze.

“I will do nothing that might dishonor my god,” he said. “What is it you would ask of me?”

It was a gamble, Cyric knew. He’d learned everything he could of Salaul, of his many battles against bandits, his periodic trips to Mordeina to preach on the streets, and most of all, of his total lack of hesitation in using that greataxe of his to enforce the will of Karak.

“Tonight, I will cross the Gihon and into the Wedge,” Cyric said, nodding toward the river. “I wish to communicate with our god. All I require is one man or woman to accompany me, someone loyal to Karak above all else.”

“Any of our men would gladly volunteer,” Salaul said, gesturing about the camp.

“Then find me the most faithful, and have them meet me at the river come nightfall. Understood?”

Salaul tugged at his armor, adjusting the padding underneath.

“They will want to know what it is they volunteer for,” he said.

Cyric sensed the real question beneath it, the paladin’s desire to know the truth. He had to be careful here, but his gut told him Salaul would be open to the old ways, more so than many.

“I will not say, but you may accompany me, Salaul. Karak surely will hear my prayer if you are there to lend it strength.”

“Perhaps.”

Salaul bowed, and Cyric returned to his room in the Blood Tower. His heart raced. It was time. All his patience would now be rewarded. In his room, he retrieved a book from his satchel. He’d read many things in the Stronghold’s library, as well as the priests’ library in Mordeina. In the dark corners, he’d found tomes untouched for over a hundred years. At the Stronghold, he’d discovered one in particular that had sent his fingers tingling just by touching its leather-bound frame, and set his heart racing by reading the faded cover.

The Collected Words of the Prophet
.

It had no drawings, no gold lettering, nothing that might indicate the immense knowledge within. He still remembered the first sentence, the moment that had put his entire life into order, and given him a purpose for his discipleship. He opened it now, fingers lovingly touching the paper, and then read aloud.

“To the best of my abilities, here within I recount the wisdom granted to me by the man with a thousand faces, Karak’s most holy servant...”

He flipped through, stopping at a section he’d marked with a thin, dried leaf.

Tonight,
he thought.
Tonight!

The hours crawled as in seclusion he read over passages he’d studied a hundred times. There could be no error, no slip of the tongue. This was the first of the rituals, his childlike step into the old ways. Should he be successful, all of Dezrel would soon know his name. Within the temple, he’d be revered for his accomplishments.

At last the sun began to set. He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. Before going, he reached into his trunk and pulled out a bundle of cloth tied shut with string. Hiding it within his robes, he left the Blood Tower. Waiting for him at the river was Salaul and another man who Cyric did not recognize.

“We are here,” Salaul said at his arrival. “Cyric, this is Pat Arenson.”

“Karak saved me from my sinful life of murder and rape,” said Pat. He was a shorter man, with black hair that curled about his neck and ears. “I owe everything to you priests. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it with a song on my lips.”

Cyric smiled.

“Excellent. I can sense your faith, Pat. Stand tall, and be proud. I have selected you for a great honor, unbestowed for far too many years.”

“Very good,” Salaul said, hardly sounding impressed. He gestured to the river. “Do you have a way for us to cross? Otherwise, I procured us a boat.”

“A boat will suffice.”

The three men rode to the opposite side, Cyric standing in the center while the other two rowed. He felt the cold night air blowing through his hair, and it did nothing to diminish his smile. Instead, it made him feel more alive, closer to the stars and, therefore, closer to his god. When they hit the shore, Salaul hammered down a stake in the dark earth and tied the boat to it. Meanwhile, Cyric hurried across the grass, searching for a flat section. It was all flat, so he chose a spot at random upon which to begin.