David Dalglish - The Old Ways

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.

Despite 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.”

When she moved, it was as if she became a shadow, her armor fading, her flesh a blur of darkness. Her daggers shone red, and he focused on them, nothing else. His greatsword had benefits of reach, but it lacked in speed. Protecting himself from her barrage involved a constant retreat, a step back for her every step forward. She twisted and struck with inhuman speed. Could he hurt her, he wondered?

At last he saw an opening. His counter-riposte slashed across her arm. The blade passed right through her, as if she were only smoke. At first the lack of blood and flesh disheartened him, but then he heard her scream. She pulled back, clutching at the wound, which was a deep gray scar compared to the rest of her body. He gave her no reprieve, thrusting for her chest. He thought her helpless, for she’d pressed against a large tree to avoid the thrust. He swung wide, a chop that would remove her head from her neck…he hoped.

But instead it thunked into wood. Before his very eyes, she’d sunk into the tree, as if it had been nothing but a mirage. He freed his sword just in time, for Valessa burst forth from the trunk, daggers leading. Darius blocked both, and he pressed against her crossed blades, strength against strength.

“What are you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Your better,” she said.

“Not a chance.”

The light of his sword shone against her in such close contact. The flesh of her face peeled away, revealing the darkness beneath. She let out a cry, then retreated beyond the edge of the firelight. Darius did not chase; he was too busy catching his breath.

“I do not sleep,” she told him, pacing along the camp’s edge. “I do not eat. I do not tire. Walls mean nothing to me, Darius. Nothing. What hope do you have? Your death is only a matter of time. I will send you to Karak’s Abyss, and enjoy watching you burn.”

“You’re wrong, Valessa,” Darius said, watching her, his sword still held tight. “You won’t kill me, and even if you do, Karak won’t have me.”

“You will go to the Abyss if I have to drag you there myself!”

She attacked, her daggers arcing for gaps in his armor. Darius twisted so one scraped harmlessly against the platemail, then smacked aside the other so he could counter. His sword cut across her breast, white light shining. Again she shrieked, and fled out of his reach.

“What was it you’d do to me?” he asked her, laughing despite his tired limbs. At first Valessa looked ready for another assault, but she pulled back further, shaking her head.

“I endured death so I might kill you, Darius. I can wait a few more hours. You must sleep, and when you do, I will be watching. I will always be watching.”

Valessa faded away into the darkness, her voice lingering in the night. Darius lowered his sword and took a breath.