David Dalglish - The Old Ways

The lions gave chase, but Karak’s men did not. They turned their attention to the tower, and the locked doors. The archers continued firing at the men, but they were hesitant, and Robert caught many glancing his way. Worse, he saw Cyric lift his arms, darkness shimmering about his fingers.

“Get back,” he ordered.

Two did not retreat in time. Arrows made of blood pierced their sides. One slumped by the window, the other fell through, his skull cracking on the ground below. Silence filled the room as the men stood there, looking to their leader. Robert knew they wanted hope, wanted victory, but he had none to offer them.

“Men, you have served me well, as you have your lords, and your country,” he said. “I don’t know how much your life is worth to you, or what gods you believe in. If any one of you wants to fall to your knees, I won’t blame you. But as for me, I’ll be in my room with my door barred. When they break through, I plan on killing as many as I can before tasting death. Any who still wish to fight, grab a sword and follow me.”

Every man there took up arms, and Robert couldn’t have been more proud.

At the top of the tower, they put his desk, chair, and chest of clothing against the door. Two men stood at the far side, bows in hand. The rest waited, swords drawn, listening to the cries of pain intermixed with worship outside.

“King Baedan won’t allow this,” said one, rubbing his sword with an oiled cloth. “When he finds out, he’ll send his whole army. Wish I could see the look on that priest’s face when he sees how doomed he is.”

“He ain’t going to hear shit,” said another. “Who’s going to tell the king what happened? You?”

“Daniel will. He escaped. I saw it.”

“Enough,” Robert said to them both. “Just…enough. I won’t spend what little time I have left listening to you two bicker.”

“Then how will we spend it?” asked a third. Footsteps echoed from the stairs beyond the door, and they heard scattered shouts.

“Like men,” Robert said, drawing his sword. “Clear the door. I won’t have them starve us out, and I won’t wait for that priest to weaken us with his sorcery. Let those bastards in, and we’ll give them a proper Blood Tower welcome.”

Even facing death, none there would disobey their commander. They pushed away the barricade. So far nothing heavier than a man’s shoulder pressed the door from the outside, so the locks still held. Robert held up his fingers, counting down for them to fling open the bolt. On three, he let out a cry and raised his sword.

The door burst open, and several men came barging in, their armor painted with a red lion. The first fell, two arrows in his throat. Another tried and failed to block a trio of attacks as Robert’s men assaulted him from all sides. More soldiers poured inside, the archers abandoned their bows, and at last Robert joined in. He parried and twisted, but he felt none of the youth he had when he fought the wolf-men in Durham mere months ago. He felt old, tired. He was watching his men die before him, and for what? The whims of a mad priest?

They killed two for every one of their own, but still they fell. Robert plunged himself into the gap, drenching his sword with blood. Every time he watched the life fade out from those fanatical eyes, he felt a smile stretch across his face. A counter-riposte, and another died. They were down to four, but the mercenaries were beaten back to the door. Robert dared to think they’d hold, that they’d build a wall of the dead across the stairs.

Cyric stepped into the room.

Robert felt both fear and hope. Fear, for he knew the priest’s power. Hope, because with one thrust he might end the entire conflict, maybe even send those blasted lions back to the Abyss where they belonged. The paladin was with him, but his attention was turned to the other men slashing and thrusting. The way was clear. Robert held the hilt of his sword with both hands and swung with every last remnant of his strength.

Cyric caught the blade with his bare hand. His skin shone a dull red. A few drops of blood trickled down his wrist.

“Hello, Robert,” Cyric said, smiling.

The priest’s other palm slammed against Robert’s chestplate and flung him backward, as if he’d been kicked by a giant. Crashing against his desk, he rolled to one knee, gasping for air. His helmet had cracked, and he tossed it aside. Blood poured down his face; he didn’t know the nature of the wound, only that he was blind in his right eye.

“Oh, have you finally found wisdom and kneeled?” Cyric asked as the rest of Robert’s men died to the paladin.

Robert struggled to his feet, clutching his face with one hand.

“Go roast in the Abyss,” he said.

Cyric stepped closer. He was smiling, but there was no joy in those red irises.

“I have. I came back.”

A bolt of shadow leapt from his palm. Robert blocked it with his sword, only to find the power traveling up his blade and through his gloves. He shrieked as the skin of his hand erupted with pain. Cyric grabbed him by the throat, and with strength he couldn’t possibly have, lifted him into the air.

“You won’t die here, Robert,” said the priest. “I won’t have a rebellion on my hands, nor the king interfering. So you’ll be a good little puppet, won’t you? Write all the right letters, say all the right things?”

“Fuck…off,” Robert gasped through his crushed windpipe.

Black electricity arced throughout his body. He’d have screamed if Cyric’s hand hadn’t denied him breath. The priest lowered him to his feet, so they could stare eye to eye.

“I’ll burn every last shred of resistance from you if I must,” he said, his voice a cold whisper. “I’ll purify the chaos from your heart, through fire, through pain, just like our forefathers once did. Do you understand me, Robert? Is that what you desire? Or would you rather save yourself the torment, and kneel?”

Robert spat in his eye.

Cyric wiped his face, that smug smile finally gone from his lips.

“So be it,” he said.

Robert felt pain, tremendous pain, and then darkness.

They stayed at the Williams’ home for three days, letting Sandra fully recover. Jerico repaid their kindness as best he could by working in their fields. Truth be told, he enjoyed the simple work, knowing that in planting a few seeds and yanking out some weeds he wasn’t making a mistake. He had no decisions to make. No lives to endanger.

By the third night, Sandra could walk without a limp, and she’d clearly grown restless remaining indoors. The air was fairly warm, and Jerico sat with her on their porch, looking at the stars.

“Feel like I’m constantly in the way,” Sandra said, leaning her head back and sighing. “They’re good people, but I’ll be happy to leave.”

Jerico chuckled.

“Well, that answers the question I was going to ask.”

She glanced his way, raised an eyebrow.

“Which was what? If I wanted to stay with them?”

Jerico shrugged.

“It’s a good life, calm, even if it is a bit meager. Cobb says he could find you a husband without too much trouble.”

The way her eyes bugged out, Jerico realized he’d made a mistake, though he’d be damned to know what it was.

“Is that what you think I want?”

“You wanted a life away from your brother. Well, this is one, and Cobb has offered.”

Sandra crossed her arms and sighed.

“You’re ready to leave, aren’t you?”

Jerico stared at the sky instead of meeting her gaze. Only a few clouds dotted the horizon, and they made the expanse of stars look that much larger.

“I must. Arthur needs my help.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”