The Broken Pieces (30 page)

Jerico looked to the paladins around him. There was a power in Cyric’s words, and the approaching dead only added danger to his message. Would the others listen? Jerico had heard no speeches or warnings from Luther, no explanation of the foe they fought beyond him being a heretic to the faith of Karak and a threat to all of Dezrel. Or did keeping them in ignorance protect them from Cyric’s twisted wisdom?

“Send the dead back to their graves,” Luther called out to them. “And do not listen, do not obey. Kill him, my brethren, for the sake of your souls, kill him!”

The dead were near, and Jerico lifted his shield.

“Burst through,” he told Darius at his side. “Cyric is all that matters.”

“Then lead the way.”

The undead hit their line. Flaming swords cut them down, slicing through rotted flesh with ease. But they were so many, even with each swing taking two at a time the paladins were nearly overwhelmed. Jerico let the light of his shield flare, and all about the abominations staggered and moaned, the magic holding them together threatening to break. In their weakened state he slammed through them, shattering them to dust with his shield and crunching bones with his mace. Darius followed after, his sword spinning side to side to finish off the undead who tried to close around their rear. By the dozens they fell, and then the paladins were beyond them, rushing across the space between Cyric and his army.

Risking a glance back, Jerico saw the dark paladins holding their own, but just barely. A few of the priests helped them, but the rest hurled arrows of shadow and bolts of black flame over their heads, each one aimed at Cyric. It felt like they were rushing a besieged castle, but instead of high walls it was only one man, who stood with his arms out. A translucent shield shimmered before him, and against that shield broke the bolts and arrows.

“Paladins of Ashhur?” Cyric asked as they neared. “Truly my brethren are lost if they have enlisted your aid.”

The priest clapped his hands together, and a shockwave rolled outward. All magical attacks against him ceased to exist, and then the force slammed against Jerico. He struggled, and it wasn’t until he placed his shield before him that he felt the pressure vanish. Darius kept his sword up, arms braced, as he screamed out with every painful step he took.

“Can’t you do better?” Jerico said.

No more attacks by the other priests followed. The dark paladins were overwhelmed, and only their spells kept them from falling. Jerico and Darius were alone.

“Trying,” Darius said through clenched teeth.

A great funnel of fire burst from Cyric’s hands. Jerico took a step back, and he let his shield absorb its heat. Darius did the same, swinging his sword so the light about it banished the magic. Free of the resisting force, Darius rushed Cyric, who only grinned at his attack.

“You beat me, once,” Cyric said. “Not again.”

From his palm tendrils of shadow burst in all directions, growing upward and outward for several feet before turning downward and punching into the dirt. The ground rumbled, and then all around Darius the tendrils surfaced, lashing at him, curling around his ankles, wrists, and neck. Darius screamed, and he hacked at them, but each one he cut became two, and even faster he lost the mobility of his arms and legs.

“Let him go!” Jerico cried. He flung himself forward, shield leading, mace at the ready to crush the priest’s skull. With his free hand Cyric reached out as if to greet him, but his skin was like that of a ghost. When it touched Jerico’s shield, his progress halted, and a great thunder shook the battlefield. No matter how hard he pushed with his legs, he could not close the distance.

“The others will serve,” Cyric said, and though he smiled, Jerico could see the strain wearing at him. “You, however, will die. There will be no salvation, not for you. My order has tolerated heathens long enough.”

“Heathens?” Jerico said, and he couldn’t but laugh. “Your words hurt, Cyric. Let me return the favor.”

He shifted his shield to the side, and around it he swung his mace. It connected with the palm the tendrils grew from. Blood splattered as the flesh of Cyric’s hand tore, and all at once the tendrils vanished. From behind him, Jerico heard Darius let out a gasp of air. Before Jerico could feel too proud of himself, Cyric shoved his wounded hand his way, splashing blood across Jerico’s armor. With a snap of his fingers, it ignited, covering his armor with flame. Jerico screamed. Despite his urge to roll to the ground to put out the fire, he stepped closer and swung his mace. It should have connected with Cyric’s head, but instead it struck the fire of his crown and halted.

“See how little you are to me,” Cyric said, and with a flick of his fingers Jerico flew backward through the air. When he hit ground the air blew from his lungs, and he silently screamed as he rolled along the dirt. When he came to a halt, Darius was there, reaching down to grab his arm and pull him to his feet.

“Least that put out the fire,” Darius said to him, and Jerico grinned, despite the terror of their situation. Still laboring for breath, he looked to Cyric, who approached with his arms at his side, his crown glowing so fiercely that even in the daylight he looked like a vicious red star.

“You are nothing!” Cyric cried to them as Darius’s eyes drifted to the sky. “Nothing to me, nothing to a god! You are mortal, human, pathetic.”

“Perhaps we are,” Darius said. “But how do you feel about birds?”

And then from the sky plummeted a white dove, its left wing malformed. Mere feet away from Cyric’s head the dove transformed, becoming the silver-armored, long-cloaked, furious Valessa. Her hands were white, and they shone with brilliance as they slammed against Cyric’s head. With all his power he screamed, denying her, and against that Valessa flew, her body twisting so that she landed not far behind them.

The crown broke, and all across Cyric’s face and forehead there was blood. On his knees he crumpled, and his whole body shivered. Behind them, the undead collapsed, marked with heavy sighs as their souls found relief. It blew across them like wind.

“If you’re a god, then I’d rather be human,” Valessa said as she struggled to her feet, fighting through the magic of Cyric’s attack.

With his crown broken, his undead crumbling, panic flooded across every feature of Cyric’s body. Jerico raised his shield, the light shining over the mad priest, mocking him. But Cyric, god or not, bleeding or not, refused to admit defeat. He stood, and with a particular strength given only to the frightened and the fanatical, he let his power roll.

“I am Karak!” he cried, a wellspring of rage and fury bursting. “I am your god! Now kneel!”

It hit them all like a wave. Even Jerico felt the impulse, an irrational desire to fall to his knees and beg for mercy. He resisted, for never would he bow to Karak, not an imposter, not even the real deity if he stood before him with blade raised. He took a hesitant step forward, then glanced over his shoulder. Only two others remained on their feet: Darius and Valessa. The other paladins and priests knelt, some weeping, the rest crying out in anger or confusion.

With his domination incomplete, Cyric turned and ran into the forest. Jerico gave chase, and each step made it feel like bricks were falling off his legs. Valessa soon caught up with him, having shaken off Cyric’s blow. Darius was not far behind.

“Give him no respite,” Valessa said. “His power is still great.”

As they stepped into the cover of the trees, Jerico saw many catching fire, the mad priest no doubt burning them to stall his pursuers. Weaving through the smoke and flame, they ran until stumbling upon Cyric on his knees, his back to them. Blood covered his body, and around him was a ring of fire. Most frightening of all, he was laughing.

“Do you understand now?” Darius asked between labored breaths. “You’re no god, Cyric. You’re just a man. Now turn and die like one.”

Cyric glanced back, and the madness in his eyes was in full control.

“No,” he said. “I’m no man. But I bleed. I hurt. I understand now. I cannot be Karak, not in this pathetic mortal shell. The demon legions will not tremble before me, the Abyss will not worship its true ruler, until I assume the proper form.”

His skin rippled as if boiling water bubbled in his veins. His hair burned, and the bones in his body began to shift and break.

“Darius?” Jerico asked, taking a step back.

“No idea,” said the other paladin. “So kill it.”

Jerico rushed forward, but the ring of fire surged into a towering wall. Jerico staggered back, and Darius had to shift aside to avoid him. Only Valessa passed through the flame unharmed, but she came flying back out, having been struck by something great. She flew through a burning tree, then fell through the ground itself, her momentum carrying her far below the surface. Jerico held his shield before him, its glow the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely to terror.

Cyric grew taller as words streamed off his tongue, each syllable painful to hear. Their rhyme and rhythm put a deep sense of wrongness into Jerico’s chest. Cyric’s bones twisted, his flesh darkened, and then cracks of fire burst through his molten skin. Larger and larger he became, his fingers extending into claws, his muscles molten rock, his eyes twin chasms of burning coal. Any unlit leaves about him curled black and fell. This beast that had been Cyric took a step forward, and the footfall sent a tremor through the dirt.

Suddenly Jerico’s shield seemed rather puny compared to that.

“Jerico…” Darius said, his sword before him as if he might ward off the demon with it.

“Do you still doubt?” asked Cyric, his voice rumbling like deep stones knocking together. “Look upon me and know that I am God.”

Jerico knew Darius was looking to him, needing him. Against such a thing, easily twice their height, they were but mere mortals. But the army beyond the forest knelt against its will. If Cyric was not stopped now, he would never be. What arrow would pierce his side? What sword would break through that rock? Who else would not bow before such power? Darius, Jerico, they were both about to break, to succumb to the fear that rolled over Cyric’s body in waves. But Jerico couldn’t give in. Darius looked to him for strength, and somehow he’d give it to him.

“We are the light shining in the deepest pit,” Jerico said, reciting a mantra of his order. “We are the hope that lets the fearful sleep. We are the strong that kneel before the weak.”

Cyric reared up, his fist billowing smoke and fire. Jerico lifted his shield.

“We are the stone that will not shatter. We are the mountain all may climb. We are everything good, everything joyful, that must never die.”

A sword formed in Cyric’s fist, its blade as long as Jerico was tall. The edge shimmered with lava, the hilt cracked with black obsidian.

“We will not break,” Jerico cried as the sword descended. “We will not break!”

Sword hit shield. The shockwave rolled as the ground shattered beneath Jerico in all directions from the force of his stand. Branches blew outward, the fire on them nearly dying. Sparks flew, metal groaned, but the sword could not break the shield.

“Now!” Jerico screamed.

Darius lunged, the light of his blade gleaming. It cut into Cyric’s side, and from it flowed blood that burned from contact with the air. The demon swung its sword toward him, but Jerico was there, putting himself in the way of the attack. Again it hit his shield, and he screamed at the pain in his arm. When Cyric pulled back for a third strike, Darius slipped in, cutting another gash along the inside of his arm before bouncing away. The molten blade struck the earth but not flesh.

Jerico gave him no time to recover. He flung himself forward, his shield leading. It was his weapon, his defense, and with its light he would burn away everything Cyric represented. The shield slammed into Cyric’s chest, and it hit with a heavy crack. Cyric bellowed in pain, and he twisted his sword to stab Jerico’s neck. Before he could, Valessa leapt from the very earth, her arms twin blades of light. They slashed up Cyric’s back, spilling burning blood. When the demon cried again, she looped her legs around his neck, spun, and then slashed at the arm holding the blade.

Cyric struggled, his body assaulted from both high and low. It was amid that struggle Darius stepped forward, let out a cry to Ashhur, and then sliced through Cyric’s knee. The beast crumpled, Jerico fled back, and Valessa leapt off. Together the three faced Cyric as the demon pounded the earth attempting to stand.

“Follow my lead,” Jerico said. He raced forward, and when Cyric lashed out, the sword struck his shield, knocking him flying. His back hit a tree, and he gasped for air, but the way was clear. Valessa danced, her speed incredible, her hands slashing across Cyric’s stomach before plunging deep into his wounded leg. Cyric roared out his pain in a bellow of breaking rock and madness personified.

Darius cut off his head, ending Cyric’s cry forever.

Before a single horn on the demon’s skull touched ground, the body had broken into fire and smoke.

“I think…” Jerico winced, stumbling off the tree with bits of bark sticking to his armor. “I think we won.”

Darius jammed his sword into the dirt and smiled at Valessa.

“I think we did.”

“Praise Ashhur,” Valessa said, returning his smile as the demon’s body consumed itself, leaving only a black scar upon the land where the mad priest had once been.

24