The Broken Pieces (16 page)

Cyric stood beside the wolf-man, dressed in his priestly robes, his face illuminated by the fire of his companion. Brute wished he were closer so he could spit on him from atop the wall. The wolf-men fell silent so the priest might shout up to Brute and his defenders.

“How gracious for you to guard my tower in my absence,” Cyric said. “But you need do so no longer. I am home, and I bring with me an army. Kneel to the true god, and I will spare your lives.”

Wolf-men yipped and growled around him. Brute doubted they liked the idea of a surrender. They were hungry for a fight.

“Give me an hour,” Brute shouted back. “I’ll talk it over with my friends here, see who feels like kneeling.”

“There is no debate,” Cyric insisted. “No consensus, and no compromise. Kneel and live, or stand and die. Either way, you will serve Karak.”

Brute shrugged.

“I guess I’ll beg to differ. I won’t serve Karak, and I sure as shit won’t serve you. Send your pups after me, if you must. All hundred of us are ready to die.”

An easy lie. Outnumbered ten to one was still a dire situation, but with the aid of walls, they would inflict significant casualties. Of course, they didn’t have a hundred men, and their walls could be bypassed by a short run around to the west. Brute prayed Cyric realized neither.

“I don’t think you understand,” Cyric said. “But you are acting out of loyalty to your king, and such loyalty is admirable. Loyalty is a trait sorely lacking in this age, so for that, I will reward you. I will let you see your fate if you continue to deny me my rightful place.”

He made a motion with his hand, and the wolf-men behind him parted.

“What’s going on?” Alex asked, and then he gasped, seeing it a fraction of a second before Brute. Walking through the lines, overshadowed by the hulking wolf-men, were pale-faced men and women. They shambled forward, limbs stiff, eyes locked ahead. Over a hundred of them in number, and when Cyric called out for them to kneel, they did. Their clothes were torn, their necrotic flesh covered with claw marks and missing thick chunks where they’d been bitten.

“Do you see?” Cyric asked. “The village of Bellham has been made pure. The weakness in it is gone, the divisiveness of serving two gods in one community ended. The murderers, the rapists, the heartless, the heathens; they all have been made to serve. Those who remain behind have loyal hearts, and will serve in the new nation I’ll create. One nation, from east to west, full of loyalty. Full of faith. We have allowed men to sin, to fail, and to condemn themselves for an eternity. It was wrong of us. It was weak to let children suffer the fire for their own failures, all under the guise of choice and fairness. Open your gates, and kneel. Confess your faith, whether it is born anew tonight, or has been in your hearts since your childhood days. All of you, kneel before Karak made flesh. Serve in life, or serve in death. Dezrel shall be made pure, one way or the other, for I shall have my paradise.”

“Paradise?” breathed Brute as he stared at the walking dead. Beside him, Alex let out a cry, and he looked ready to collapse.

“Don’t you kneel on me, boy,” Brute said, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“No,” he said, shaking his head as tears ran down his face. “I’ll never. That’s my family there. Don’t you see? That’s them.”

He was pointing into the rows of the dead. Brute felt his innards twist.

“That’s not them,” Brute said. “That’s not. That’s just a corpse, a shell, an empty thing. Be proud of them for staying strong till the end. They’re safe from him now, as will we be. As will we all.” Turning to Cyric, he shouted, his rage never before higher. “Send your wolves. Send your dead. Not a knee will bow on this wall.”

Cyric shook his head as if disappointed, but he was grinning.

“I could strike you down from where I stand…but my wolves are hungry.” He turned to his wolf-men. “Kill all but the man who leads them. I would have him humbled before he dies.”

The wolf-man standing beside Cyric let out a howl, and with that the charge began. Brute readied his ax, baffled as to what they planned to do. They had no ladders, no siege towers. Did they hope to tear down the wall with their bare claws? Or was the priest powerful enough to smash open a gap with his magic? A red hue shone around them, and all of their claws flared as if with a great heat. Brute knew they would be terrifying to face in combat, but they would face no combat with the wall standing…

And then the wolf-men leapt, hundreds of them, slamming into the side of the wall and digging in with their burning claws. The stone gave way, the claws piercing it as if it were butter. All around, Brute heard his men cry out in fear. Like spiders they climbed, or cats up a tree. The wall was nothing. Castles, towers, gates…nowhere in Dezrel would be safe, not from them. Brute prepared to swing his ax as he cried out an order, canceling his initial idea to retreat when the walls were breached. They’d be overrun before they ever reached the tower door.

The first wolf to poke his head over the edge received Brute’s ax through his skull. Brute let out a roar. They might have been blessed with unholy magic, but they were still mortal. There might be hope in Dezrel after all. Another tried climbing over, and Brute smashed his face in. All around his men stood firm, and his heart swelled with pride. Every second, he thought, every second was precious. Beside him, Alex stabbed a wolf-man through the eye, then fell as two more hurled themselves over the ramparts. Their claws shredded his flesh. Brute flung himself at them, severing in half the spine of one. The second lashed out, and it knocked the ax from his hand.

Strong paws clutched at his arms, and he screamed as he felt teeth lock around his neck, holding him in place. Like an unstoppable river the wolf-men flowed over the wall, overwhelming the last of his men. He struggled, but now three of the creatures held him down. He bled from their claws and teeth, but only superficially. None of it would be fatal. They’d leave that to their master.

The minutes passed in horror as he listened to the wolf-men feast.

“You’re a frustrating one,” Cyric said, walking up the stairs to join him upon the wall. Brute heard his approach, but could not see, his head locked so he could only stare upward at the stars.

“I do my best,” Brute said, his voice cracking.

“A hundred men, you say? I count twenty at best. Willshire was empty, and I expected them here. Where are your men? Where are the refugees?”

“They’re safe from you,” Brute said as Cyric loomed over him, a sick smile on his pale face.

“You cling to old ideas,” Cyric said. “Nowhere is safe, not anymore.”

He turned to his wolf-men, and with a clap of his hands, they backed away from the bodies.

“I promised them a feast,” the priest said. “No doubt they feel cheated, but the North is plenty large enough. But you must be humbled. You won’t join them, not like the others. Your soul will move on to the fire, and the fault will be yours alone.”

Cyric stood, putting his back to Brute. He raised his hands, and they shone with a dark power. Words reached Brute’s ears, indecipherable. The very sound of them made his skin crawl. When Cyric stopped, he saw nothing, and could only hear the soft growls of the many wolf-men. He struggled against the creatures holding him, but they pushed down harder, one popping his shoulder out of joint. Brute choked down his scream.

Walking into view, his ghoulish body missing large chunks from where the wolf-men had feasted, was Alex. Cyric turned and stood beside him, rubbing Alex’s bloodied face lovingly.

“His soul will be saved,” Cyric said, pulling away. “But yours will not.”

The wolf-men holding him howled, as if terribly amused. Alex approached, and he held no weapon. His hands reached out, and his knees bent as if he were an elderly man. When the cold fingers closed around his neck, Brute gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Even in death, he’d deny the priest, deny him the satisfaction, deny him everything.

“It’s not you, Alex,” Brute said while he still had air in his lungs. “I know it.”

Stars of all colors swam before his eyes. His chest heaved in futile attempts to draw in breath. Then nothing.

14

T
he dark paladin Grevus rode toward the Blood Tower amid the howls of wolves. The sound chilled his blood, and he was not one prone to fear. Had the wolf-men of the Wedge launched another attack across the Gihon, as they had in Durham? But why such a well-fortified place as the Blood Tower? Grevus paused a moment so he could dismount. Grabbing the reins, he pulled his horse’s head low, then carefully put his fingers upon its eyes so he might cast a spell.

“You’ve done me fair,” he said. “But I need haste.”

When his fingers moved away, the horse’s eyes shimmered red. Mounting once more, Grevus spurred it on, his horse now blessed to see in the darkness as well as if it were midday. He felt an urgency, and he prayed to Karak he was not too late. Luther had told him Cyric would most likely be at the tower, but what if he was not? Or what if he was in danger? Would it be right to help him, or let him be? The answer might be in the scroll Luther had given him, but Grevus had not dared break the seal to read it along the way. Luther had insisted it be for Cyric’s ears only.

Grevus had spent so much time thinking on how he would judge Cyric’s deeds, he’d not entertained notions that things might differ so greatly. He didn’t consider himself a quick thinker on his feet. More and more he prayed that he misunderstood the sounds, and that all was well. But when he neared the gates, he saw the torches there extinguished. Trusting his horse to react to any danger with his blessed eyes, Grevus rode closer. Just as he’d feared, the gates were broken, the metal mangled as if hit by a battering ram. As Grevus rode through, he realized they were twisted oddly, almost as if they had been pulled outward instead of battered inward.

What madness has happened here? Grevus wondered.

The sound of the wolves had grown louder, and Grevus drew his heavy blade from its sheath. He didn’t know their numbers, and if the combat had turned badly, he’d need to come riding in like a beast to change the tide, however poor the odds. The Blood Tower was before him, and he saw no outward damage, nor defenders manning the windows. Curling around toward the northern side, he saw the expanse between the tower and the wall, and it was then he stopped, mouth agape.

Hundreds and hundreds of wolf-men filled the space, tearing through the remains of the tents, gathering together into groups and feasting on meat of a type he dared not think about. More were along the walls. Grevus saw no defenders, no corpses. Had the defenses been abandoned? He barely had time to consider this before the nearest of the wolf-men sensed his arrival. A howl went up, and a hundred others matched it. Turning his horse about, Grevus kicked his sides to flee, but it was already too late. The wolf-men swarmed to either side of him, moving with terrifying speed. They bit at his horse’s feet to slow him down, then fully surrounded him.

Grevus lashed out with his sword, trying to keep them at bay, but they were not interested in him just yet. As his horse reared up, trying to kick two wolf-men biting at his legs, another ducked in, slashed out its throat, and then leapt away. The beast began to topple, and Grevus scrambled to launch himself from the saddle. He landed in a roll, and came up swinging. The wolf-men stayed back, snarling, watching. It was just a game, Grevus realized, a little play with their food. The black fire burned deep across the blade of his sword, and he beckoned them on. Let them do whatever to his mortal body. He’d take plenty with him, and enter eternity with his head held high.

But it seemed eternity was not yet ready for him, for a loud cry broke through the howls.

“Get back!”

The wolf-men obeyed, their ears flattened and deep growls emanating from their throats. Through their opened ranks approached a man who must have been Cyric. Deep down, Grevus knew he should feel relieved to see the priest coming to his aid, but instead his anxiety only increased. He’d been ready to give his life killing the wild savages; what did it mean if the wild savages served Cyric?

“You must be the one I seek,” Grevus said, standing tall and nodding his head in greeting. He kept his sword unsheathed.

“Many will seek me before the world’s end,” Cyric said, and he smiled. Grevus took in his pale skin, his carefully brushed hair, and his vibrant eyes so bright a brown they almost looked red. He was a handsome man, almost seemed to gleam with life. Grevus’s worries deepened. The words the priest spoke were familiar to him, and oft-repeated in the holy scriptures housed in the temples.

“And cherish the rare man who finds him,” Grevus said as a test. Would Cyric then and there declare himself Karak? Would he state himself the man the world sought in its darkness, yet seldom found?

“Indeed,” Cyric said, his smile growing. “Warfang, please give my guest some space. He is to be treated with the respect of his station.”

One of the larger wolf-men beside him snarled, and with a few quick barks, the rest of the wolf-men retreated further into the complex, leaving the dark paladin alone with Cyric.