David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“I promised safety if obeyed,” Cyric told them. “But I make no such promise to the disloyal. Karak’s fire will burn the weak, the foolish, and the disobedient. I would ask for those from Durham to come forth, but I know they hold no faith to Karak. So I ask the rest of you, lift your fingers, and reveal to me the outsiders to your village.”

“I can tell you who they are,” a ragged man offered. Cyric turned to him, then beckoned him to rise. He looked wafer-thin, an uneven growth of beard on his face.

“Your name?”

“Billy,” said the man. “Lived here all my life. I can show you who don’t belong.” He turned to the rest of the village, and he snapped at them, as if he could sense their disdain. “And they don’t belong! They ain’t us! No reason for us to die for them.”

“Walk among them,” Cyric said, all emotion gone from his face. “Touch them, so I may know. As for the rest of you…are there any here who would serve their god? The Lion stands before you, and your reward will be great.”

Eleven men lifted their arms, and with a wave of Cyric’s hand, they stood. Valessa knew she should view them as faithful converts, but instead saw them as traitors to their village. Cyric bade them come to the front, where he put his thumb against each of their foreheads. It burned there for a moment, then faded, leaving only a black scar.

“If any harm you, or resist you, I will know,” he told them. “Now find me the people of Durham, and bring them here.”

No doubt they knew as well as Billy who the traitors were, but they did not scatter amid the crowd. Instead, they followed him as he walked, and grabbed every man, woman, and child he touched. Some struggled, only to be beaten by the eleven. Others burst into tears, but most remained stoic, saying not a word as they walked toward the front. The minutes crawled along. Valessa felt the villagers grow restless and angry, but Lilah’s presence was more than enough to keep them in check. The lioness prowled around the perimeter of the crowd, softly growling.

When nearly a hundred stood before them, Billy looped through the crowd a few more times, then shrugged.

“I think that’s it,” he said.

“Very good,” Cyric said. “Kneel at my right hand, as is your reward.”

Billy did so, and Valessa hated how pleased he looked. Cyric would give him no reward, other than perhaps rule over the pathetic little village. What he’d done, he’d done out of fear, not faith. There was little to cherish in that.

Cyric looked over the people of Durham, and Valessa did the same. There was nothing special about them; they were just tired and frightened farmers, herders, mothers and their children. They had a defiance to them that impressed her, though it was foolish, as she knew it would be.

“Who will speak for you?” Cyric asked.

“I will,” said a man, stepping forward. He was tall but heavyset, and dressed in finer clothing than the others. “My name is Jeremy Hangfield. I am the one who came to Sir Robert and told of the destruction Karak brought to our village. Strike me down, and get this over with.”

“You say Karak brought destruction upon your village,” Cyric said, approaching Jeremy. “But it wasn’t Karak, was it?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“A priest of his, then. He wore your robes, and his eyes shone like fire. Darius told us to kneel, or suffer. And we suffered, unjustly, unfairly.”

Cyric laughed in his face.

“Unjustly? Unfairly? You deserve nothing, not even the breath that fills your lungs. You were commanded to kneel, and warned of the punishment that would ensue if you did not. How is that unfair? You spat in the face of your god, the god who created you, who demanded worship lest he revoke your gift of life. Did you think you might resist without consequence? You are a spoiled child, angry at the punishment after willfully committing the misdeed.”

“Even so,” said Jeremy, “we did nothing but tell Sir Robert the truth of what happened.”

“Truth? What truth is that?”

“Karak destroyed our village. We all know it.”

Cyric shook his head.

“Karak did not destroy your village,” he said.

“Prove it.”

“You were asked to kneel, and you did not. But I commanded the same. Tell me, Jeremy, what did you then do?”

Jeremy glared but said nothing. Cyric knelt closer, as if he were sharing a secret. His voice was soft, like a whisper, but somehow the entire village still heard.

“You knelt, because while you refused a prophet, and one of his paladins, you cannot refuse me. I am no paladin, no priest, no prophet. I am Karak, and you will worship my might by the rise of the blood moon. I was not there in Durham, but I am here now.”

Lilah roared, and her power rolled over the villagers.

“Kneel!” cried the lioness. Those from Willshire obeyed, though the people of Durham did not.

“Valessa, my queen.” Cyric’s words startled Valessa. She felt like she’d been lost in a dream, unable to interfere.

“Yes, Cyric?” she asked.

“Go to the Blood Tower. Fetch me twenty of my guard, and send them here. I will need them to help keep order while we await the blood moon.”

“I am a stranger to them,” she said. “They may not listen.”

“Go as you are,” he said. “No one will refuse you. But for your peace of mind, Lilah will also accompany you, and her presence will prove you speak my will.”

Valessa bowed her head, then put her back to the spectacle. She thought to ask him if he would be safe on his own, but knew it a foolish question. The power of Karak was with him, even if he wasn’t Karak made flesh.

“Must I lead the way?” Lilah asked as they put the village behind them.

“If you could,” Valessa said. In truth, she knew the path, but preferred to have the lioness farther ahead instead of traveling beside her. At least then she might be alone with her thoughts.

She glanced back toward Willshire, and suppressed a shudder.

At least then she might not be afraid.

“I will serve,” she whispered. “I will obey. I am faithful. I am faithful.”

And all the while, a soft voice in her head cried, liar, liar, liar.

Sandra’s wrists bled from struggling against her bonds, yet she did not stop. The blood only made them slicker, gave her hope to pull free. Jerico had not returned from his meeting with Luther, and despite Luther’s act of kindness, she still feared for her friend’s life. Or was he her lover now? She didn’t know, didn’t want to think about it. Morning was rapidly approaching, and come daylight, she knew escape would be nearly impossible.

“Come on,” she whispered as she pulled. Her hands were on fire now, and she felt more skin scrape away as she worked her right arm. No guard remained to watch her between the two wagons. If only she could…if only…

She stopped for a moment, biting her tongue to hold down her sobs. Her hands shook, whether from pain, blood loss, or fear, she didn’t know. She wanted to believe she was brave. She wanted to believe that no matter how expertly tied her bonds were (and make no mistake, they were very expertly tied) she would still be strong and escape.

But Luther had only looked at her, brushed away her hair from her face, and asked for her full name. That was all, yet she had given it. But it wasn’t because she was afraid, she told herself. It wasn’t because she saw a horrible evil lurking in those eyes. It wasn’t because she felt like little more than meat in his presence, and that his touch had swirled with shadows most unnatural. No, she’d just been foolish, made a mistake and forgotten he might use her against her brother. That was it. Better a fool than afraid.