David Dalglish - The Old Ways

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.

“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.”