The Broken Pieces (15 page)

Valessa bit back her retort. She eyed the boat, thinking of what had happened the last time she tried crossing a river. The water had torn at her being, tried to sweep her along without any true form. Her body had shifted and changed with the current, incredibly painful and beyond disorientating. But if she were careful, she could stay within the boat, though she wondered how long until the thing sprung a leak, and down to the bottom of the Gihon they went.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered a foot into the boat, followed by the other. She pulled out the lone oar as Brute untied the boat.

“Why?” she asked him.

Brute shrugged.

“No matter what he says, he’s not supposed to die here. Elsewhere, perhaps, and at a later time, but not here. Not when he’s got no chance to change anything. Row as fast as you can. He’ll wake in a few hours. I suppose we’ll all be dead by then.”

The boat shuddered once as it drifted out into the heavier current. Valessa guided it with the oar best she could. Her experience with them was limited, but she was strong, and that helped immensely.

“He’s almost here,” Valessa shouted to them as the Blood Tower started to drift further and further away. “Don’t let him know you’re afraid, and don’t you dare bow your knee.”

“We won’t,” Brute shouted back.

He and the others turned their backs to her, and just like that, they were alone on the river, drifting south in a sudden calm that felt almost threatening. Valessa looked to the sleeping Darius in the center of the boat. A sensation came over her, like a tightening of her focus. If she still had a body, it would have been akin to the speeding up of her heart.

Darius lay alone, unguarded, and without his sword in his hand.

Dropping the oar, she picked up the blade by the hilt. It had once been consumed with the dark fire of Karak, a cleansing flame to burn away the weakness and filth of the world. It had been replaced with the holy light of Ashhur, pushing away the shadows, revealing the ugly nakedness of man. But now it was neither, just a heavy hunk of metal with one side sharper than the other.

The tip hovered a foot above his neck. Over and over she imagined plunging it into his flesh, slamming it down with a primal cry of torment and fury. Just like that, his life would be over. The red star would shine no more in the sky. In her hands, she thought, the blade was in her hands. All she had to do was use it.

The boat drifted on. The Blood Tower looked like a child’s toy in the distance, just a tiny thing illuminated with torches no bigger than the light of the fireflies.

“Why?” she asked aloud as she sat down beside him. “Why do I let you live?”

She had to know. The blade rested atop his chest, the hilt still in her hands. A hard shove, and it would slide upward, through the lower half of his jaw and into his brain. But not until she knew why she felt such a terrible impulse to spare him. She would not act against it, not in ignorance. She did not love him. That was easy to discount. She wasn’t even sure she cared much for him. But something about being in his presence comforted her. She wanted to hear him speak to her, even if she had nothing to say back. His arguments for Ashhur were uneducated and shallow. But he’d turned anyway.

He was a man who had endured similar turmoil, who had even knelt at the foot of the prophet, Velixar, and yet through all that he’d emerged whole, sane, and relatively happy. It was a future she could not see for herself in any way. Was that what she thought he offered her? But that was a happiness she could not take.

Could she?

She remembered when she and Cyric fled from Darius’s glowing blade at Willshire. Valessa had been threads of shadow barely held together by magic she did not understand. Cyric had towered above her, condemning her. Every bit of hate in his eyes had shone clear, and still she’d seen the love of Karak surrounding him, blessing him. What had happened to her god? She’d cursed Karak then, swore against him. Was that the same god Darius had turned against? Did she really want to find peace and redemption through Darius’s blood bleeding out of his neck and onto her hands, forever staining them the same shade of red as the star that shone above him?

“Stop it,” she said, standing. The motion rocked the boat, and she fought for balance as she lifted the blade high and screamed out again. “No doubt! I am faithful, I am faithful, I am…”

Tears of silver and tears of blood ran down her face, the only liquid seemingly capable of touching her ethereal flesh. They fell upon Darius’s armor with soft plinks, like rain. She knew her purpose. She knew her place. Was it not to kill the mad priest Cyric? It wasn’t Karak’s love she’d seen about him. It was hatred. It had to be. He was blaspheming, he was evil, horrible. He condemned her, called her unfinished. Doubt was killing her. Doubt was destroying her. She was faithful, she’d always been faithful. Ever since she was a child old enough to speak words, she’d knelt before Karak and called him lord. He wouldn’t abandon her. She couldn’t abandon him. Faithful, faithful, Karak help her, she was faithful…

She lost control. Her feet slipped through the boat, followed by her legs. Instinct had her lash out, dropping the sword so she might grab the first thing she could. It was Darius’s leg. Her lower half felt aflame, and she had a sensation akin to her legs stretching on and on, as long as the river. The fish and the bugs crawled through them, and she felt every bit of their surface. Her fingers dug into Darius’s armor, and with a cry she flung herself back into the boat, her whole body solid. Atop Darius she lay, her upper half trembling, the lower half slowly becoming bones, legs, flesh.

Kill him, she thought. Kill him, then fling yourself into the river, and let whatever god that would take you, take you.

She reached for the hilt but stopped. No. Enough of this farce. Her hatred for Cyric and Darius had nothing to do with Karak, not anymore. It wasn’t for redemption. It wasn’t cleansing, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t her performing Karak’s secret desire. No, it was selfish, it was desperate, and it was all she could hope for to remove the torment and chaos that filled her mind. Her entire world, built prayer by prayer, lesson by lesson by Karak’s priests, had crumbled. She only hated Darius for exposing it with that damn glowing blade of his.

But there was no honor in killing Darius. No redemption. No salvation, no clarity, no relief. Just a bitter, angry denial of the painfully obvious.

Abandoning the sword for the oar, she began to row so she might have something to do instead of dwelling on her decision. Summoning the courage only once, she looked back and saw the black star directly over the distant blur that was the Blood Tower. She wanted to pray for the men remaining behind, but knew Karak would only mock her, and she did not think Ashhur would care to listen. So she rowed, rowed, and wished the night would finally end.

13

T
hirty years Brute had served in Mordan’s military. Before enlisting he was Tory Baedan, an older cousin of Marcus Baedan, who would soon be crowned king. Brute had known remaining in any possible contention for the crown would put his life in danger, and so he’d become a soldier, quietly and without ceremony. He’d changed names often, but after a particularly deadly conflict with border raiders from Ker he’d earned the nickname Brute from his superior officer. Separated from the rest of his squad, and outnumbered four to one, he’d emerged victorious through his sheer strength and skill with his ax.

Four to one, thought Brute as he stood on the wall overlooking the coming force. What he’d give to have odds that good.

“I want every man on this wall,” he ordered, not taking his eyes off the north. “Let’s hope they don’t realize the gate is broken, and think far more of us are on the ground.”

The soldier beside him saluted and hurried down the stone steps. Brute took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out, trying not to question his decision to send away Darius and the witch woman. He’d expected to die before, coming close numerous times. Once an elf had shot an arrow aimed at his eye, stopped only by another man stepping in the way without realizing it. Several times he’d been outnumbered, and whenever rebellions broke out in the north, it’d been Brute’s men who went their way, far ahead of any reinforcements. He’d often thought Marcus was secretly trying to get him killed, despite all his attempts to show his lack of desire for the throne.

But then he’d been assigned to Sir Robert Godley’s division, and had stood with him when he refused to engage the fleeing elven refugees after the destruction of their kingdom. To the wall of towers he went, joining Sir Robert in his punishment. For years he’d been a glorified gatekeeper, killing the occasional beast foolish enough to try crossing the Gihon. Never had he thought to see another battle, not anywhere near the scale of his early days. But if he was to die, at least it wouldn’t be from a raging fever or shitting himself in a bed as his innards slowly turned on him.

Brute looked to the gate. He’d purposefully snuffed out the torches near it. The witch woman had completely ruined the metal, and he hadn’t a fraction of the men required to repair it. So in darkness he hoped Cyric would not realize it was broken, and even better, assume some sort of trap lay within. Not that he expected to find any kind of victory. No, he was a delaying tactic, nothing more. Every minute Cyric wasted observing his walls and planning his strategy was another minute those under Daniel’s protection could travel toward safety. And from what he saw, they’d need every minute.

“How many?” asked Alex, the youngest of the men to elect to stay. He’d come up the stairs to join him, watching the approaching force with a mournful expression on his face.

“Hard to say with the darkness, but my guess is a thousand, maybe more,” Brute said. “So much for hoping Cyric would come alone, eh?”

Stretching across the horizon was Cyric’s army. In the darkness they might have been hidden, but foul magic shone across them. Every one shimmered with a red light, much like moonlight flickering across a watery surface. And amid the horde he saw several that burned far brighter, as if they were moving torches, or demonspawn from the deepest reaches of the Abyss. Brute felt his stomach tighten as they neared with terrifying speed. He wasn’t afraid for his own life, but for those on the run. This was no normal army. Even on foot, they might outrace the river.

“Why’d you stay?” Brute said as he pulled his ax off his back. “I understand the rest, but you?”

Alex crossed his arms, and Brute recognized the look of a man struggling to hold himself together.

“Daniel said that Cyric’s army would have attacked Bellham before coming here,” said Alex.

“He did.”

Alex nodded at the approaching force.

“My family lives in Bellham. If that’s true, I’ve got nothing left. I might as well join them.”

Brute put a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed it tight.

“You’ll see them soon,” he said. “But before you do, make them proud.”

The rest of the defenders gathered along the wall, spacing out to exaggerate their numbers. Brute stood in the center, and he lifted his ax high. The wolf-men were less than a minute away.

“The mad priest will have no taste for a siege,” he shouted to them. “And if he does, all the better for those we protect! He’ll come running, and all that matters is us stalling as long as we can. The moment these walls are breached, retreat to the Blood Tower. We’ll hold in there until our last breath. You might have lived like scum, but tonight, we all die heroes.”

“Fuck that!” cried someone on the far end. “I’ll stay scum to the end. It’s heroes that die easy. I plan on going down hard.”

“You say that to your whores as well?” Brute called back, and a smile crossed his face. A long life of killing lay behind him. No long, tedious future of growing old and dying lay ahead of him. Whatever mysteries of the beyond awaited, at least he’d get to them now. The thought energized him, and when the wolf-men pulled back a hundred yards from the wall, each one howling at the top of their lungs, Brute held his ax above his head with both hands and howled right back. The cacophony thundered over them, carrying an almost physical force. Several held their hands over their ears. Howling, howling, like a legion of wolves gathered together to sing to the moon.

“Let them howl!” Brute cried, even though he doubted any of the others could hear him. “They can howl all night if they want. I’ll howl right back!”

And he did. Stupid creatures, thinking they needed to intimidate, to showcase their massive numbers. They knew nothing of what they faced. Keep wasting time, thought Brute. Just keep on wasting it.

The wolf-men approached, this time much slower. Brute was thankful they came from the north. The broken entrance was to the west, and there would be no way they could see it from where they were. From the enormous pack emerged two figures. One was a gargantuan wolf-man, his fur glowing crimson as if it were made of embers. It made Brute think of the two lions Cyric had originally summoned during his ritual, on that terrible night he’d betrayed them all at the Blood Tower.