The Old Ways (12 page)

“Be with me, Karak,” he said, closing his eyes in prayer.

Priests of Karak could wield great power, but so far Cyric had been given little chance to demand it. It was not something that could be practiced, for Karak frowned on pointless use of his power. But now—now was the time. Fire burned across his hands, and he felt pride at its strength. The grass caught, and he controlled it like he might his own limb, guiding it in a circle. The heat grew, the fire roared, and then the interior of the circle was also consumed. With a clap of his hands, it died, leaving him a space to perform his ritual.

“Clear out the ash,” he told Pat.

The man knelt and scooped away with his hands without complaint. Meanwhile, Cyric flipped to the marked section and fought down a last moment of nerves. This was it. He would show no fear, no hesitation. The words of the prophet soothed him. When Pat finished, Cyric glanced at Salaul, who was watching with his arms crossed. Was that mistrust in his eyes, or merely boredom? The paladin might not be impressed yet, but he would be soon. Cyric read aloud a passage, feeling the power of Karak flowing through him. The burned ground flashed red for the briefest moment, then faded.

Falling to his knees, Cyric slowly dipped a finger in the dirt and scratched a symbol. It was as if he were opening a wound into the world, revealing an angry red glow burning across melted rock. Cyric hurried about the circle’s perimeter, drawing rune after rune. His confidence grew as each one flared with power. There was no boredom in Salaul’s eyes when he finished, only a growing awareness of the momentous event.

“You dabble in ancient powers,” he said.

“I awaken what was forgotten,” Cyric said. “I practice what our god once preached. Will you stop me?”

The paladin shook his head.

“I still remember a time when the Stronghold held to the old ways. I was only a child, but I remember their faith.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Pat.

“Step into the center,” Cyric said, pointing. “Close your eyes, lift your arms up and your head to the stars. Pray to Karak with all your strength. Beg for his mercy, his wisdom. Let it flow upon us all.”

“As you wish.”

Pat hesitated only a moment, impressing Cyric with his determination. The runes shone about him, bathing him in crimson light. Pat lifted his head, closed his eyes, and began to pray. It was a constant drone, but it was sincere. Heart pounding in his chest, Cyric pulled out the cloth package and broke the string with his fingers. He let the wrappings fall, and he held the dagger hidden within.

There was a time when Karak himself walked the world, and he gave his wisdom to his priests and followers. There were a few who recorded those words, and the rituals demanded therein. Time had diminished their power, and council after council had challenged their use. They were rules for a more barbaric time, they claimed. Primitive practices, filled with superstition, exaggerations, and uncivilized ways. The priesthood had moved on. It had evolved. But Cyric knew the truth.

The world had not changed. People had not changed. Only their faith, their determination, had changed, and it was not for the better.

“Place your blessing upon me,” Cyric said, lifting his dagger to the heavens. “Let it flow upon us, opening our eyes, our hearts, and our minds.”

This was it, the only time Salaul could stop him. But he did not.

Cyric stepped forward, into the circle, where Pat continued to pray.

“Praise be,” whispered Cyric, and he felt a chill run up his spine at the words.

He slashed open Pat’s throat, then grabbed his jaw and held him still. Pat’s eyes opened wide, and his arms convulsed, but he was helpless before the power that flooded into the runes. Blood poured down Cyric’s arm, and it splashed across the circle. The runes burst with fire that stretched ever higher, but the heat did not burn—at least, not him. Pat’s body flickered orange and red. The skin blackened. In Cyric’s hand, the sacrifice was consumed.

The Lion roared.

Cyric felt a force fling him to his knees. The stars were gone, replaced by a solid black sky that rumbled angrily. Red lightning crackled, though there were no clouds. The ground shook, and he realized it was from the approach of a great stampede in the distance. He saw their eyes, their molten skin. Lions, thousands of them, racing toward him. As one they roared, and it seemed all of Dezrel quaked with their fury. The pack grew closer, swirling about him like a river. He did not see Salaul, and in truth, hardly even remembered he had been there.

What is it you seek?

The voice came from everywhere, as if spoken by the sky, the earth, the lions, and his own mind. It overwhelmed him to tears. He struck the ground with his fists, crying out for strength. The voice was so deep, so cold, but he would not be afraid. He would not cower.

“I am a servant,” he shouted, but his voice was lost in a sudden wind. It blew in from the west, and in its fury came fire, consuming the very air. Cyric closed his eyes as he felt his hair burn away, and his flesh peel.

Whom do you serve?

“You!” he cried. “I serve Karak!”

The fire poured down his throat, igniting his insides. His tongue dried to dust. The ground beneath him turned molten, and he sank within. His legs were gone, his arms...

What do you desire?

He opened his mouth to scream, but he had no tongue, no voice. It didn’t matter. He cried it out with his heart, with the last vestiges of his strength. It was the truth, for he could not lie, not in that storm. Not with the fires of the Abyss consuming the chaos of his very soul.

“To bring order to all I touch!”

The wind blew again, and it left a shocking cold. He saw nothing, heard only the growls of the legion of lions. Their tongues licked at his flesh. Their teeth bit into his bones. Again he shrieked his cry for order. He would banish the chaos by blade and fire. He would take life away from the unfaithful, deny them the gifts their wretched, ungrateful souls did not deserve. All of it, he screamed, he would do all of it in Karak’s name.

And then, in a sudden silence, he was given his wish.

Then stand.

The vision left him. The pain was gone. Cyric looked about, feeling tears running down his face. It was still night. The circle at his feet was gone, the runes smeared with dirt. They no longer shone with power. Before him knelt Salaul, his greataxe laid flat across his knee. Nothing remained of Pat, not even dust.

“Blessed be,” said Salaul, looking up to him with nothing but admiration. “I am honored to serve.”

Cyric lifted his hands, and as he looked at them, he felt the immense power dwelling within. Karak’s strength flowed through him, giving him a confidence he could hardly comprehend. Whatever he wished, he could make it so. He knew this, somehow. Overcome with a desire to test it, he told the paladin to stand.

“How long was I...gone?” he asked him.

“I do not know, milord,” said Salaul.

“Lord? Why do you call me lord?”

Salaul swallowed. Something had clearly shaken him, but what?

“You disappeared among the fire,” he said. “But Karak spoke to me, and told me to remain. I did, for many long hours. I heard lions roaring, and then you were here, within the blink of an eye. I heard Karak speak one last time...I heard him call you beloved.”

Salaul knelt once more.

“You have been to the fires of the Abyss, and then returned. I cannot imagine being worthy of such a gift, but you are. You are worthy in Karak’s eyes. Speak the word, and I will obey.”

Cyric looked back to where the Blood Tower rose high above the river, its lanterns shining bright amid the night.

“Let us earn their faith,” he said, thinking of Sir Robert’s soldiers. “Let us show them miracles, show them power.”

“As you wish, milord.”

“Lord...yes. There is no other lord but Karak, but you are right to call me that. He is here, isn’t he?”

“Cyric...your eyes!”

Cyric did not know what he saw, but he assumed it was another sign. Returning to the river, he saw their boat, then chuckled.

“Take my hand, Salaul.”

The paladin did so, and together they walked across the river to the other side, where the faithless waited to be converted.

D
espite what he’d told Jerico, Darius was in no hurry to reach Sir Robert at the Blood Tower. He traveled east, through the forest, but spent plenty of time setting up traps and catching rabbits and squirrels for his meals. He even found a bush of crimsonberries, and stuffed himself to the edge of vomiting. He kept several pocketfuls more, and crushed them across the rabbit he cooked on the third night after leaving Kaide’s village. The stars were twinkling into existence, and he watched them through the branches as he ate.

“Think I can just stay here awhile, Ashhur?” he asked, then chuckled. As nice as it might be, he’d grow bored with the solitude and lack of conflict. He was a man of action, always had been, always would be. Hopefully his actions might lead to a bit more substance than they had before.

He closed his eyes to pray, and immediately opened them. An impulse echoed in his head, new to him, but he knew what it was. Ashhur crying out a warning. Darius stood and pulled his sword off his back. The soft light shone across his meager campsite. The stars were bright, and in the distance, he saw the approach of a man robed in black. He felt his throat tighten, and he prayed it be anyone other than him. But the man looked at him from across the distance, and his eyes shone like fire.

“No,” Darius whispered. “It can’t be. I killed you.”

Karak’s most fanatical servant...how was he alive? He’d cut his head off, watched his body burn. No one was immortal. It couldn’t be him. But who else was it? The man in black drew nearer, and with each step, Darius felt Ashhur screaming warning. It had to be him. His face shifted, each feature changing in the tiniest of ways. His hood dipped low, and then he smiled.

“You failed me, Darius,” said Velixar, Karak’s prophet.

“You’re dead,” said Darius.

“You failed me, and you failed your god.”

Darius shook his head.

“Karak is my god no longer.”

Velixar continued his approach. He stood at the edge of the campfire, the light shining over the black robes and pale white flesh.

“That isn’t true,” Velixar insisted. Another step closer. “You can still turn back to him. You can still accept my embrace, and return to the one true faith.”

“No closer,” Darius said, pointing his sword toward the prophet’s throat.

“You do not need to remain a failure. You do not need to wallow in guilt. Lower your weapon, and listen to my words. I never lied to you. I would never lie...”

Darius prayed for strength, for courage. His time in Durham flashed back to him, and he thought of the innocent family he’d butchered in Karak’s name. He used that anger, that shame, to keep his sword raised. Still, Velixar was there, smiling, stepping closer. Always there to discuss, to speak his truth. Darius would not listen. He would not!

“Do not be afraid,” Velixar said. His throat was mere inches from the tip of Darius’s sword. “You have nothing to be afraid of...traitor!”

Velixar lunged, his face locked in a horrific scowl. Darius started to thrust, but saw that the prophet wielded daggers. He almost didn’t block, for it made no sense. His instincts ruled in the end, and he pulled back, his sword whirling. He blocked the thrusts, parried another, and then retreated closer to the fire. Velixar remained back, but he was no longer Velixar, and no longer smiling.

“You could never just die, could you?” asked Valessa.

“I could say the same for you,” Darius said, trying to remain confident. The black robes were gone, as was the ever-changing face. She wore her gray cloak and plain leather armor. Two wicked daggers twirled in her hands. Darius felt like he was trapped in a nightmare. This hardly made any more sense than Velixar returning to walk the lands.

“You flung yourself against my blade,” he said. “You killed yourself rather than accept defeat. What magic lets you live again?”

“Magic?” she said. “This is no magic. No blessing. No curse. This is vengeance.”