David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“I should have struck you down the moment I saw you,” he said as the pain increased. “The unfinished are all failures in Karak’s eyes, unworthy of a place of honor at his side. I gave you a chance, yet now we suffer. I suffer! Your burden was to kill Darius, and you did not, you worthless, faithless bitch! What you feel, that is Karak’s anger.”

His words were becoming a jumble in her mind. Her skin burst, and gray shadows bubbled to the ground. To her knees she went, clawing wildly at the earth. This was how he would repay her? She suffered in agony, denied an eternity with her god, and yet he would blame her for his own failures? Darius had defeated him as well. Where was Karak’s fury for him?

“Karak,” she whispered. “Please…Karak…save me.”

She prayed for strength, for escape from the torment, for the mad priest to suffer…but heard only laughter. Her limbs were gone, as were her legs; she was nothing but a writhing puddle of shadow struggling to retain form. Still she could see Cyric looming over her, nothing but hatred and faith. Yes, she saw it, his faith burning bright, his skin alive with ethereal fire. Karak loved him still, but why?

Then there was no love for her. Closing her eyes, she cursed her god, and fell through the world.

The rock and stone passed over her as she fell. Caverns and empty spaces flew past, but still she fell. She thought to fall forever, to see if at the very bottom she might find the Abyss her god ruled over. But instead she felt water, a great river rolling beneath the surface. This time she did not fight it, despite the horrible pain and discomfort it caused. She didn’t care for her form, didn’t care for her survival. It carried her for a moment, and then at last, she slipped from its current and into stone.

Something stopped her from falling further. The pain was ebbing, however little. Within the rock, her heart hardened, and with a tentative hand reaching upward, barely more than a tendril of smoke, she yearned for the surface. It was strange, the way it felt as she climbed, melding parts of her body with the stone to lunge higher. But she endured. Crawling, crawling, time meaningless in that darkness, the hours passed. Higher and higher. Many times she thought herself confused, and feared she crawled downward, but she fought through the disorientation.

At last, her hand burst through the grass, and like a woman emerging from a deep river, she crawled upon the surface. She didn’t know where she was, saw nothing but trees and thorn bushes in all directions, but it didn’t matter. The red star still burned in the sky, and she followed it. Hours passed as she ran, her form steadily regaining strength. Her surroundings grew familiar, and she realized she was on the correct side of the Gihon, thankfully.

On and on, to Darius.

The night was young when she found Daniel’s men camped at the outset of Willshire. Darius was among them, she knew, but they would not let her pass, not if they recognized her. Adopting the look and dress of a plain village woman, she wandered through them, smiling meekly at any who looked her way. In the center she found Darius’s tent, him sitting within it. His sword was at his side, but so far, it lacked its damnable glow.

“Darius,” she said, stepping within. He looked up from his bed, confused, but then she dropped the facade, and stood naked before him, her own body, her own face, with nothing to hide. He reached for his sword, but she did not move.

“Have you not had enough?” he asked, his hand closing about the hilt.

“I have,” she said, even as her skin flaked away under the growing light of his sword. “I promise you nothing, for the blood between us remains. But that is not why I am here.”

She hated doing so, but she must. Valessa fell to one knee, bowed her head, then looked up into Darius’s eyes so he might see the searing hatred in them.

“Help me,” she asked. “Help me kill Cyric.”

Cyric wandered further into the wild lands trapped between the rivers. There were many creatures there, he knew. He’d read the books, seen the maps. When the gods’ war had sundered the land, Ashhur and Karak had given strength and form to the beasts so they might fight as soldiers. But now the creatures had abandoned their gods, or was it their gods who had abandoned them? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

The camp of wolf-men was small, but it would grow larger with time. He trusted his strength, the strength of Karak. Darius was only a dying vessel, one of the last paladins of Ashhur that his enemy might throw at him. Desperate, and wild in faith. Such a man would fall in time.

At the edge of their camp the weaker wolf-men slept. Cyric stopped just before them, for he knew his scent would alert them soon. Growls confirmed this. The first to see him snarled, leapt from his sleep, and attacked. Cyric waved his hand, crushing his throat with a heavy stone made of shadow. Two more leapt at him, and with a word he burst the blood from their eyes and nostrils.

“I have not come to fight,” he told them as more and more gathered. “Where is your leader?”

“I am pack leader,” said a large wolf-man, pushing through the rest. His claws were sharp, his whole body lean with muscle. Cyric smiled at him.

“My name is Cyric, priest of your god, Karak, the god you worshipped before you turned to the moon and in falseness gave her your faith.”

“You speak lies,” said their leader. “I will enjoy the taste of your blood on my tongue.”

“Try, if you wish. The strongest leads the tribe, after all.”

The wolf-man feinted a direct rush, then circled to the side before leaping. It was a clever move, but Cyric did not fall for it. Clapping his hands together, he summoned manacles born of dark magic. They broke through the dirt and wrapped about the wolf-man’s wrists and ankles, slamming him to the ground. All around him, the rest of the tribe yipped with fear. A small tribe, maybe thirty at most; Cyric knew they would be the first of many. And he also knew that, as a human, he could never inspire their complete loyalty. He looked down at the captured wolf-man, then knelt mere inches from his snapping teeth.

“I will give you great power,” Cyric said. “All you must do is accept the love of Karak, and swear your life to me. Can you do that? If you do, I will help you make your tribe a thousand strong. At my side, you will fight as we retake the north in Karak’s name. Heathen men will die before you, and your feasting will be great. What do you say?”

The wolf-man looked up at him with startling intelligence in his eyes. The tribe fell silent as they waited for an answer from their pack leader.

“I will serve Karak, if Karak will lead us to blood and battle,” he said.

“Excellent.” Cyric banished the chains. “Rise, wolf, and tell me your name.”

The creature rose to his full height, towering over him. His voice deepened as he spoke, a heavy growl eager for conflict.

“Redclaw,” said the wolf.

L uther knelt before his bed, hands clasped in prayer. They were not far from Lord Sebastian’s castle, and he expected an envoy from him at any time. Not that it would matter. His host marched beside him, and Sebastian’s army had been left tattered and in ribbons. If Sebastian wanted to retain power, he would have to turn to them, regardless of his own feelings.

“All for you,” Luther prayed. “All I have done, I do for you. The lawless shall be broken upon the immovable law. In time, the North will be yours, not just in heart but in deed and law. May I remain strong, and break the will of Sebastian. We have left him nothing, as you desired. Let him know his strength is in his loyalty to Karak, not his own might and men.”