When nearly a hundred stood before them, Billy looped through the crowd a few more times, then shrugged.
“I think that’s it,” he said.
“Very good,” Cyric said. “Kneel at my right hand, as is your reward.”
Billy did so, and Valessa hated how pleased he looked. Cyric would give him no reward, other than perhaps rule over the pathetic little village. What he’d done, he’d done out of fear, not faith. There was little to cherish in that.
Cyric looked over the people of Durham, and Valessa did the same. There was nothing special about them; they were just tired and frightened farmers, herders, mothers and their children. They had a defiance to them that impressed her, though it was foolish, as she knew it would be.
“Who will speak for you?” Cyric asked.
“I will,” said a man, stepping forward. He was tall but heavyset, and dressed in finer clothing than the others. “My name is Jeremy Hangfield. I am the one who came to Sir Robert and told of the destruction Karak brought to our village. Strike me down, and get this over with.”
“You say Karak brought destruction upon your village,” Cyric said, approaching Jeremy. “But it wasn’t Karak, was it?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“A priest of his, then. He wore your robes, and his eyes shone like fire. Darius told us to kneel, or suffer. And we suffered, unjustly, unfairly.”
Cyric laughed in his face.
“Unjustly? Unfairly? You deserve nothing, not even the breath that fills your lungs. You were commanded to kneel, and warned of the punishment that would ensue if you did not. How is that unfair? You spat in the face of your god, the god who created you, who demanded worship lest he revoke your gift of life. Did you think you might resist without consequence? You are a spoiled child, angry at the punishment after willfully committing the misdeed.”
“Even so,” said Jeremy, “we did nothing but tell Sir Robert the truth of what happened.”
“Truth? What truth is that?”
“Karak destroyed our village. We all know it.”
Cyric shook his head.
“Karak did not destroy your village,” he said.
“Prove it.”
“You were asked to kneel, and you did not. But I commanded the same. Tell me, Jeremy, what did you then do?”
Jeremy glared but said nothing. Cyric knelt closer, as if he were sharing a secret. His voice was soft, like a whisper, but somehow the entire village still heard.
“You knelt, because while you refused a prophet, and one of his paladins, you cannot refuse me. I am no paladin, no priest, no prophet. I am Karak, and you will worship my might by the rise of the blood moon. I was not there in Durham, but I am here now.”
Lilah roared, and her power rolled over the villagers.
“Kneel!” cried the lioness. Those from Willshire obeyed, though the people of Durham did not.
“Valessa, my queen.” Cyric’s words startled Valessa. She felt like she’d been lost in a dream, unable to interfere.
“Yes, Cyric?” she asked.
“Go to the Blood Tower. Fetch me twenty of my guard, and send them here. I will need them to help keep order while we await the blood moon.”
“I am a stranger to them,” she said. “They may not listen.”
“Go as you are,” he said. “No one will refuse you. But for your peace of mind, Lilah will also accompany you, and her presence will prove you speak my will.”
Valessa bowed her head, then put her back to the spectacle. She thought to ask him if he would be safe on his own, but knew it a foolish question. The power of Karak was with him, even if he wasn’t Karak made flesh.
“Must I lead the way?” Lilah asked as they put the village behind them.
“If you could,” Valessa said. In truth, she knew the path, but preferred to have the lioness farther ahead instead of traveling beside her. At least then she might be alone with her thoughts.
She glanced back toward Willshire, and suppressed a shudder.
At least then she might not be afraid.
“I will serve,” she whispered. “I will obey. I am faithful. I am faithful.”
And all the while, a soft voice in her head cried, liar, liar, liar.
17
Sandra’s wrists bled from struggling against her bonds, yet she did not stop. The blood only made them slicker, gave her hope to pull free. Jerico had not returned from his meeting with Luther, and despite Luther’s act of kindness, she still feared for her friend’s life. Or was he her lover now? She didn’t know, didn’t want to think about it. Morning was rapidly approaching, and come daylight, she knew escape would be nearly impossible.
“Come on,” she whispered as she pulled. Her hands were on fire now, and she felt more skin scrape away as she worked her right arm. No guard remained to watch her between the two wagons. If only she could...if only...
She stopped for a moment, biting her tongue to hold down her sobs. Her hands shook, whether from pain, blood loss, or fear, she didn’t know. She wanted to believe she was brave. She wanted to believe that no matter how expertly tied her bonds were (and make no mistake, they were very expertly tied) she would still be strong and escape.
But Luther had only looked at her, brushed away her hair from her face, and asked for her full name. That was all, yet she had given it. But it wasn’t because she was afraid, she told herself. It wasn’t because she saw a horrible evil lurking in those eyes. It wasn’t because she felt like little more than meat in his presence, and that his touch had swirled with shadows most unnatural. No, she’d just been foolish, made a mistake and forgotten he might use her against her brother. That was it. Better a fool than afraid.
Tears running down her face, she pulled once more against the ropes. Better bleeding and maimed than that man’s prisoner. He’d told her he meant her no harm. He’d whispered that she was beautiful, and he would protect her from his men so long as she told him what he wanted. Just her name, that was all he’d wanted. What did it matter that she gave him her name? Jerico was the one they wanted. Jerico was the one they hunted, and he might still be in there, suffering at the hands of that...
“Sandra?”
She screamed. Her right hand slipped free, and she stood. Luther caught her fist with his hand and held it firm. He said nothing, only stared into her eyes. She felt her stomach heave at the look.
“Do not strike at me again,” he said. He glanced at the rope, and her bloodied hands. “I must commend you, despite this foolishness. You are not in danger, Sandra. I have use for you.”
“I won’t help you,” she said. “Where is Jerico?”
“I sent him away,” Luther said. He still held her fist, and her blood trickled across his fingers as he forced her hand downward. “I told him I would sacrifice you to Karak if he interfered any further with Karak’s work in the North.”
“You said I was not in any...”
“I told him what he needed to hear,” Luther interrupted. “I know him, as much as he might try to deny it. He loves you greatly, and will be reluctant to put your life in danger.”
“You think you know him?” she asked. She pulled her hand free, then slipped out of the rope. The two stood alone between the wagons, in a darkness away from the light of any fire. In the starlight, Luther looked healthier, more alive than he had in the tent. Worse, he looked far more dangerous.
“I think I know him rather well,” he said. “Do I not?”
“He won’t run, Luther. He knows me, too. He knows I’d rather he kill every single one of you than give in to your demands, even if it costs me my life.”
She expected him to argue, or be angry, but instead he let out a tired chuckle.
“I know, Sandra. Right now, I expect him to be running toward the Castle of Caves with every shred of strength left in his body. He’ll hate himself, yet still believe he honors your...feisty spirit in refusing to give in to my threats. Foolish, really, but that stubbornness and sense of honor are why he has survived
as long as he has. I want him at the castle, especially after the damage done to our wagons, which has given us a delay we can ill afford. As for you...”
He took her bleeding wrists in his hands. She told herself to run, but again she saw the danger lurking in his eyes. If she tried that, she’d be dead, and that death would not be quick, or painless.
“I have a request involving your brother. I wish you to take him a message.”
“I don’t know where he is,” she insisted.
“Then you’ll find him. There are many villages nearby, and I’m sure all of them are loyal to the bandit. He marches to Lord Arthur’s aid, if he is not there already. Can you carry my words to him? And not just repeat them, Sandra, but make him believe? Make him listen?”
“What is it?” she asked, daring to hope.
“Tell him to pull back his men from the Castle of Caves, and avoid any battle with Lord Sebastian. Do this if he wants to spare the lives of his men, and ensure his safety. I know of his rebellious desires, and the grudge he bears against Sebastian...but make him listen. Make him understand. I ask this in his best interest. Should he listen, well...”
He grinned.
“Karak’s mercy will smile down upon him for it.”
The very notion of Karak’s mercy made Sandra want to spit in the priest’s face, but she did not. He was letting her go, quietly in the night. He didn’t want the rest of his men to know, but why? What game was he playing?
“I’ll do it,” she said. “But I won’t promise any more than that. Kaide will do as he desires, regardless of what I say.”
“Of course,” Luther said, releasing her wrists. When she looked down, the bleeding had stopped, and the pain was gone. “If he did as he was told, he’d never have resisted Sebastian in the first place. But for the sake of his men, for your sake, too, convince him. Now go, to the east, quickly. There are no guards watching, I made sure of that.”
She glanced behind her, fearing a trap. But it didn’t seem like it, and furthermore, it made no sense. Games, she thought. The priest was playing games, and she didn’t know the rules. She looked at him, almost thanked him, then bit her tongue. What insanity was that, that he should have her thanks? Without a word, she ran east, off the road and into the fields. The grass resisted, but she pushed on. Her heart pounded, and her lungs burned, but still she ran, until the fires of the wagons were out of sight. Falling to her knees, she finally allowed herself to cry, to tremble in fear.
“Please keep him safe,” she begged Ashhur as her fingers clawed the earth. “He’s done everything you asked, now keep him safe, damn you.”
She didn’t know if Ashhur was even listening, but she felt better for the demand. Sleep pulled at her limbs, but she rose to her feet. Her back to the caravan, she ran until dawn’s first light met her eyes. Then she found a flat space in the field, curled her knees to her chest, and slept.
They’d left Darius free to roam the grounds of the tower, and he took advantage of it as often as he could to find some privacy. At night he slept in the barracks with the rest of the men, and though he had plenty of blankets, nothing could keep away the chill that pervaded the air. He felt it with every glare his way, every shoulder turned when he dared speak. No one struck him. No one lifted a sword, or even mentioned the word Durham. But he knew it was in their minds.
More men came north upon the Gihon, soldiers pulled in from the other towers. The newcomers tended to treat him better, at least for a while. Then the whispers would begin, the conversations in the corners, and the welcome smiles would become clenched teeth. Darius stopped trying by the end of the first day. Wandering beside the river, he enjoyed the solace of the nighttime sky and the gentle mumble of the water across the rocks. At least the fish wouldn’t judge him.
“What in the world am I doing?” he wondered aloud as he squatted beside the shore and tossed a rock at his reflection.
“Running away, perhaps?”
Darius startled, even though he knew it was only Gregory, patrolling around the grounds. He must have spotted him at the water’s edge. When Darius first heard his voice, he’d feared it was Valessa, come to make another attempt at removing his head from his shoulders.
“I flagged down your boat willingly enough,” Darius said, slowly standing. “What makes you think I’d run now?”
Gregory gave a dismissive grunt and crossed his arms. Darius did not fail to notice the way his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The man was young, and intelligent. A dangerous combination, Darius knew, especially if she should become emotional.
“You’d run if you’d done everything you needed to do here,” Gregory said, a hard look in his eyes. Darius frowned, and it took him a moment to realize what exactly the man was accusing him of.
“You think...you think I’m leading us into a trap?” he asked. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh, cry, or wallop the soldier upside the head.
“We’ll be split up,” Gregory said. “Our entire plan relies on surprise, and if either Willshire or the Blood Tower is ready...”
“Daniel trusts me. Perhaps you should listen to your superior. I’m tired of the cold looks I get from you and your men.”
Gregory stepped closer, and his hand was a clenched fist, the hilt firmly in his grasp. He was an inch away from drawing, Darius knew. His greatsword was strapped to his back, but there was no way he could pull it free faster than Gregory’s longsword.
“What sort of welcome does a traitor deserve then, Darius? Tell me.”
“Traitor?” he asked. “Who have I betrayed? Karak?”
“The people you swore to protect! You protected them from the wolf-men. You and me, side by side, we held when all seemed lost. But then some priest or prophet of Karak arrives, and you stand by and let him kill?”
“I told you,” Darius said, feeling his temper rise. The waters of the Gihon were growing awfully tempting, as if their mumble begged for him to toss Gregory in headfirst. “I was confused, I was lost. I thought I was doing what was right by my faith, don’t you get it?”
“No!” Gregory shouted. “No, I don’t get it. Don’t you see? Every damn fool could tell that prophet had you twisted around inside and out. How could you be so blind, so stupid, as to fall for any of that nonsense? To think that killing simple farmers and their families could somehow be justified? I know you, have fought with you, and know you’re strong, and wise. It makes no sense to me. You can’t have been that foolish. You’re lying to us, hiding something, and I want to know what.”
“Or what, you’ll run me through?”
The night turned deadly silent.
“I will protect my friends, my family,” Gregory said. “But I guess you wouldn’t understand that either, would you?”
Darius felt his anger and pride rising, but he closed his eyes and shook his head to force it away. It would be too easy to get defensive, to attack Gregory for doubting him. But he was right, and Darius would give the young man an honest answer, not unearned ire.
“I’m not sure you could ever understand,” he said, looking away from the soldier and to the water. “Imagine knowing something, knowing it so well that it is burned deep into your gut. You’d question your own name before you questioned this. And then...one day...the whole world changes, and you know nothing. Every friend you’ve known since childhood has lied to you, every mentor and teacher was nothing but a monster in a mask. Think of the wolf-men you slew, and imagine pulling off their faces to find human children underneath. What would you do to put the masks back on?”
He breathed in deep, then sighed. If only Gregory could hear Velixar’s words, feel the way they burrowed into the mind, sounding so terrible, so true.
“I was a dying man in a desert, Gregory. A man offered me poison and told me it was wine, and gods help me, I drank it. He handed me a sword, and bade me to save people with its blade. And I did. If you don’t understand it, don’t see how I could have been so foolish, then I am happy for you. No one should walk in
a valley so low.”
Darius looked back and his eyes met Gregory’s. The disappointment was still there, but the fury had abated. His hand no longer clutched the hilt of his sword.
“Daniel says you pray to Ashhur now. Are you so certain he is better than Karak?”
Darius shrugged, and he shifted, feeling uncomfortable.
“I did what I did to earn back the love of my god. Yet now, Jerico says I have the love of Ashhur, and will never need to earn it, nor fear losing it. I never knew my parents, but I’d like to think that is how they should be, how they would look upon one of their children. And right now, I feel I am little more than a child.”
Silence stretched between them, until at last Gregory picked up a stone and tossed it into the river.
“I watched Cyric slaughter my friends with a simple wave of his hand. While I ran like a coward, his lions tore apart armor and flesh like we were nothing. I’m scared, Darius. I look north, and my stomach twists just thinking of him waiting there for us. No matter what, we’ll have to face him. If we hide here, he’ll come for us. I see no way out, no real chance for victory. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re the one hope we have. We don’t need a child. We need a warrior. For all our sakes, I hope Ashhur’s paying attention.”
With that said, he returned to the tower, leaving Darius alone with his thoughts.
“Are you paying attention?” Darius asked, glancing up at the stars. He drew his sword, and the blue-white glow shone across the blade. He stared into it, let it cast away his fear. He’d already given himself up to death once, and Jerico had denied him. This time, he’d be doing it for others, not for selfish, cowardly reasons. Win or lose, by gods, he planned on giving it a damn good attempt.
“Good enough,” he told the cold night air. Still weak, still just a fledgling faith. But it’d been enough to kill Velixar, and it’d be enough for Cyric.
Paladins: Book 03 - The Old Ways Page 18
