David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“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 naive 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.”