David Dalglish - The Old Ways

Jerico flung aside the guards, sliding free of their grasps with ease. His fists struck one in the jaw, the other in the kidney. As they staggered back, Jerico turned to the priest, lunging with all his speed. It was not enough. Luther outstretched his fingers. Dark lightning shot from them, spiking through Jerico’s nerves. His body arched, his jaw clenched tight, and every muscle stretched to its limit. When the power faded, he dropped to his knees, completely exhausted.

“Get rid of him,” Luther said to his guards. “And Jerico, should I see you again, even hear rumors of your approach, I will sacrifice that whore to Karak. She’ll die naked, alone, and screaming in pain. Think on that the next time you would play the hero.”

More lightning arced across his body. Jerico endured as best he could. When the guards reached underneath his arms and lifted, he could not resist. Jerico glared at the priest, and there was no amusement anymore, no sarcasm.

“I’ll kill you,” he said as he was led from the room.

“A paladin of Ashhur, refusing to see reason?” asked Luther as the tent flap closed between them. “Will wonders never cease?”

When Darius flagged down the men in the boat, Valessa thought her moment of victory was finally at hand. The paladin handed over his blade, leaving him defenseless as he sat amid the soldiers. Valessa crept closer, watching, waiting. She could pass through solid trees as if they were smoke, so what protection could a boat be against her, especially when she did not even need to breathe? Submerged beneath the water’s surface, the men would have no warning of her approach.

And then she tried to enter the river.

When moving, when fighting, Valessa had to concentrate to become firm, corporeal. It came naturally with her feet, for she’d spent her whole life walking. It wasn’t much harder keeping her hands solid, but the rest of her body was another matter. Wearing clothes, or using her knee as a weapon, was far more difficult. But when her right foot dipped into the water, her mind recoiled with a horrible sensation of cold emptiness. The water was shifting, swirling, threatening to pull her away. She was shadow and smoke, she knew, and while the wind was something she could resist, the river was not.

Pulling free, she saw a shriveled stump where her leg should have been. Slowly, feeling returned, and while it hurt, at least it was not as terrible as enduring Ashhur’s light. Fighting down her panic, she told herself she still had all the time in the world. Darius would be their prisoner, yet those walls would mean nothing to her. Racing along the water’s edge, she followed the boat as it traveled upstream, toward one of their towers.

Except the tower was on the wrong side. They pulled their boat to shore and exited into the Wedge, while she remained in the opposite forest. There was no bridge.

“Damn you,” she whispered, trying to think. Perhaps she could not pass through water like she could wall or tree, but what about atop it? Closing her eyes, she gathered her concentration, then stepped again. Her foot remained firm when pressed against the water, which for the moment, held.

Light as air, she thought. I am as light as air. Light as a moth’s wing. Calm as a crow’s feather.

She stepped out, now both feet atop the water. Her balance shifted, and her concentration wavered. No good. The water was always in motion, the surface never the same. Her ankle sank, and as the water poured across her, she screamed. Flinging herself to the shore, she crawled free. On her stomach, she closed her eyes and waited for her body to heal. Again she wondered if her form were a blessing, or a curse. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the tower. Darius was inside, she knew, but how to get to him?

Looking to the skies, she saw the bright red star, wafts of its light shining down on the tower. Yet there was something more, and though she did not know why, she trembled. She had known its presence before, just a subtle kiss in the back of her mind, but now it was closer. A black star shone in the sky, darker than the night itself. Others might not see it, but she could. It pulsed in her mind, swallowing all other light.

Karak’s presence was upon Dezrel; it was strong, and it was near. Could she even go to it amid her failure?

When at last she could stand, she knew she had no other choice. It called to her, even stronger than the red.

“What is it you desire from me, my god?” she asked. “Who is it I am to meet that is so dear to you?”

She ran, careful not to stray too close to the water. Her eyes remained on the black star, and she passed through tree and rock without thought. Her daggers itched in her hands. If only she could give them blood to drink, and life to take. The moon dipped, the sun rose, yet even in the daylight the black star still shone, a pockmark on the blue sky. Who might it be? Whose presence left her enslaved to its call? She told herself it did not matter, that she trusted Karak fully…but the doubt still remained.

The day passed, and she saw no signs of life. Even though she made not a sound, the wild creatures sensed her approach and fled. The sunlight burned, but the trees were plentiful, and mostly guarded her from it. At last, as sunset came again, she reached where the black star shone down its darkness: the garrison of the Blood Tower. She thought to hide, but decided it was unnecessary. She could feel the presence of whomever the black star beckoned her to. If he was truly so powerful, she would not need to hide her allegiance.

Assuming her normal form, she approached the gate to the wall surrounding the tower. It was shut, and three soldiers stood above it on the wall, calling for her to halt.

“What is your name,” one asked, “and why do you come here?”

“I am to speak with he who is most faithful to Karak,” Valessa said.

This seemed to surprise them, for no doubt it was far from the answer they expected.

“Cyric is the embodiment of Karak’s will here,” said another of the men. “His duties are many, though, and I must ask the reason you would speak with him.”

Cyric…the very name gave her chills.

“I am Valessa of the gray sisters. I answer to none but the priests of Karak. Let me through, so I may speak to Cyric.”

The three debated with one another, then gave her their answer.

“Wait here, Valessa. We will find Cyric, and see if he will allow you to enter.”

Valessa rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the patience for this nonsense. She walked right through the outer gate, emerging on the other side. As the men stared down at her, their mouths agape, she blew them a kiss.

“Escort me, if you wish,” she told them. “But I will not be stopped.”

One of them grabbed his bow and loosed an arrow, which flew through her breast as if she were but an illusion. Another rushed down the steps, his sword drawn. Growling like a feral animal, she blocked the sword strike with a dagger, then stepped forward and clutched the soldier’s throat with her other hand.

“I do not mean him harm,” she said. “But I will harm you, if I so desire. Take me to Cyric.”

The soldier nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

“As you wish, milady,” he said.

“Good.” She let him go, and sent a glare to the man with the bow. “Lead on.”

They crossed the empty space to the tower, then walked around it to the other side. Two soldiers with pikes guarded the door, and they saluted at their arrival.

“Lady Valessa of the gray sisters wishes a word with our master,” the soldier told them. The guards exchanged a glance, then opened the door for her. Valessa followed her guide inside. They traversed the steps that wound along the inner walls, until stopping at a room near the top. The guard moved to knock, but Valessa pushed him aside and walked straight through the door.