The Old Ways

16

When Darius flagged down the men in the boat, Valessa thought her moment of victory was finally at hand. The paladin handed over his blade, leaving him defenseless as he sat amid the soldiers. Valessa crept closer, watching, waiting. She could pass through solid trees as if they were smoke, so what protection could a boat be against her, especially when she did not even need to breathe? Submerged beneath the water’s surface, the men would have no warning of her approach.

And then she tried to enter the river.

When moving, when fighting, Valessa had to concentrate to become firm, corporeal. It came naturally with her feet, for she’d spent her whole life walking. It wasn’t much harder keeping her hands solid, but the rest of her body was another matter. Wearing clothes, or using her knee as a weapon, was far more difficult. But when her right foot dipped into the water, her mind recoiled with a horrible sensation of cold emptiness. The water was shifting, swirling, threatening to pull her away. She was shadow and smoke, she knew, and while the wind was something she could resist, the river was not.

Pulling free, she saw a shriveled stump where her leg should have been. Slowly, feeling returned, and while it hurt, at least it was not as terrible as enduring Ashhur’s light. Fighting down her panic, she told herself she still had all the time in the world. Darius would be their prisoner, yet those walls would mean nothing to her. Racing along the water’s edge, she followed the boat as it traveled upstream, toward one of their towers.

Except the tower was on the wrong side. They pulled their boat to shore and exited into the Wedge, while she remained in the opposite forest. There was no bridge.

“Damn you,” she whispered, trying to think. Perhaps she could not pass through water like she could wall or tree, but what about atop it? Closing her eyes, she gathered her concentration, then stepped again. Her foot remained firm when pressed against the water, which for the moment, held.

Light as air, she thought. I am as light as air. Light as a moth’s wing. Calm as a crow’s feather.

She stepped out, now both feet atop the water. Her balance shifted, and her concentration wavered. No good. The water was always in motion, the surface never the same. Her ankle sank, and as the water poured across her, she screamed. Flinging herself to the shore, she crawled free. On her stomach, she closed her eyes and waited for her body to heal. Again she wondered if her form were a blessing, or a curse. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the tower. Darius was inside, she knew, but how to get to him?

Looking to the skies, she saw the bright red star, wafts of its light shining down on the tower. Yet there was something more, and though she did not know why, she trembled. She had known its presence before, just a subtle kiss in the back of her mind, but now it was closer. A black star shone in the sky, darker than the night itself. Others might not see it, but she could. It pulsed in her mind, swallowing all other light.

Karak’s presence was upon Dezrel; it was strong, and it was near. Could she even go to it amid her failure?

When at last she could stand, she knew she had no other choice. It called to her, even stronger than the red.

“What is it you desire from me, my god?” she asked. “Who is it I am to meet that is so dear to you?”

She ran, careful not to stray too close to the water. Her eyes remained on the black star, and she passed through tree and rock without thought. Her daggers itched in her hands. If only she could give them blood to drink, and life to take. The moon dipped, the sun rose, yet even in the daylight the black star still shone, a pockmark on the blue sky. Who might it be? Whose presence left her enslaved to its call? She told herself it did not matter, that she trusted Karak fully…but the doubt still remained.

The day passed, and she saw no signs of life. Even though she made not a sound, the wild creatures sensed her approach and fled. The sunlight burned, but the trees were plentiful, and mostly guarded her from it. At last, as sunset came again, she reached where the black star shone down its darkness: the garrison of the Blood Tower. She thought to hide, but decided it was unnecessary. She could feel the presence of whomever the black star beckoned her to. If he was truly so powerful, she would not need to hide her allegiance.

Assuming her normal form, she approached the gate to the wall surrounding the tower. It was shut, and three soldiers stood above it on the wall, calling for her to halt.

“What is your name,” one asked, “and why do you come here?”

“I am to speak with he who is most faithful to Karak,” Valessa said.

This seemed to surprise them, for no doubt it was far from the answer they expected.

“Cyric is the embodiment of Karak’s will here,” said another of the men. “His duties are many, though, and I must ask the reason you would speak with him.”

Cyric…the very name gave her chills.

“I am Valessa of the gray sisters. I answer to none but the priests of Karak. Let me through, so I may speak to Cyric.”

The three debated with one another, then gave her their answer.

“Wait here, Valessa. We will find Cyric, and see if he will allow you to enter.”

Valessa rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the patience for this nonsense. She walked right through the outer gate, emerging on the other side. As the men stared down at her, their mouths agape, she blew them a kiss.

“Escort me, if you wish,” she told them. “But I will not be stopped.”

One of them grabbed his bow and loosed an arrow, which flew through her breast as if she were but an illusion. Another rushed down the steps, his sword drawn. Growling like a feral animal, she blocked the sword strike with a dagger, then stepped forward and clutched the soldier’s throat with her other hand.

“I do not mean him harm,” she said. “But I will harm you, if I so desire. Take me to Cyric.”

The soldier nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

“As you wish, milady,” he said.

“Good.” She let him go, and sent a glare to the man with the bow. “Lead on.”

They crossed the empty space to the tower, then walked around it to the other side. Two soldiers with pikes guarded the door, and they saluted at their arrival.

“Lady Valessa of the gray sisters wishes a word with our master,” the soldier told them. The guards exchanged a glance, then opened the door for her. Valessa followed her guide inside. They traversed the steps that wound along the inner walls, until stopping at a room near the top. The guard moved to knock, but Valessa pushed him aside and walked straight through the door.

The sight of Cyric immediately sent her to her knees. Outwardly he was but a simple looking man, wearing the garb of a priest. He was only a pupil, she realized, given the chains he wore about his neck. But her sight was not like that of mortals, and as Cyric turned to greet her, a smile on his face, she saw the ethereal fire. It was a dark gray, flickering violently across his clothes and skin. It made no noise, and gave forth no heat, but the power within it would have taken her breath away, if she had breath to take.

“I…I am Valessa,” she said, lowering her head. She wasn’t sure what else to say. “Karak has guided me to your presence, and I am but your humble servant.”

“Servant?” asked Cyric. His voice was deep, commanding. “I do not want servants. I desire followers. A servant obeys without thought or choice. A follower obeys all the same, but with a loyal heart. You do not strike me as a slave, gray sister.”

“I am a slave to our god,” she said. “For I would be a fool to think I could ever exist without his mercy.”

“Then you are as wise as you are beautiful,” Cyric said, gesturing for her to stand. As she did, her body swirled with shadow, and she knew he saw it. His eyes widened for a moment, and his smile thinned.

“You have a gift about you, Valessa. What is it?”

Valessa knew not how to answer, so she closed her eyes and let the image of herself fade. She became darkness, then bowed as her skin returned along with her clothing. When she looked into Cyric’s eyes, his smile was gone.

“I have read of your kind,” he said. No charm remained in his voice. No bemusement. “That is no blessing upon you. How did you fail Karak, gray sister? What is it you have done that would anger our god so greatly?”

To hear her spoken of so poorly, to hear her blessing from Karak denied, filled her with fear.

“I was to kill a traitor to our order, a paladin named Darius,” she said. “I failed, and died by his blade. Karak showed me mercy, and gave me this form that I might bring his vengeance upon the traitor.”

“Darius?” asked Cyric. “How…interesting. I am aware of him, for his bounty was a disgrace against our faith. If Karak has given you a second chance at removing him, then I will aid you, if I can. Do you know where Darius is now?”

“South along the river,” she said, feeling shame at letting him slip away. “He was taken into the nearest tower, but I could not cross the river to follow. My…form…does not allow it.”

“That close? Then he is with Daniel and the rest of Robert’s unfaithful lot.”

Cyric turned to the large map against a wall, which showed much of the North, and the many towers along the Gihon River. He rubbed at his smooth chin.

“If he joins with that rabble, then you will yet have your chance. Have patience, Valessa. From what I have read of your curse, none have ever failed Karak in killing their target. For now, I would have you accompany me as I travel. There is a village nearby, and I think your talents might have use for me.”

“As you wish,” Valessa said, dipping her head. The sight of that fire was so unearthly, so unnatural, that she wished for any chance to not look upon him. He was a man most faithful to Karak, she knew. She should feel comfortable in his presence, but for some reason, did not.

“Where is it we go?” she asked as he opened the door for her. Prudence kept her from mocking the unnecessary, chivalrous act.

“A small place of little importance, other than who I believe hides there. It’s called Willshire, and is not far.”

Exiting the tower, Cyric nodded to the guards, but dismissed them when they tried to follow.

“I will be safe with Valessa at my side,” he said. “And I trust Lilah to be close behind as well.”

“Lilah?” Valessa asked as he led her toward the gate.

“You will see.”

His smile only unnerved her further. They crossed the compound, exited the gate, and then turned north. Waiting along the path, fur bristling with embers, was a creature Valessa had never believed existed. It was a lioness of the Abyss, fire burning deep within her throat, her yellow eyes watching with frightening intelligence.

“What dream is this?” Valessa asked as Cyric rubbed the creature across its back. It turned and nipped at him once, but he did not flinch.

“No dream. This is Lilah. Karak sent her to me, along with her brother, Kayne.”

“You named them?”

“I would never dishonor them so. Lilah is her name, for she told me herself.”

“If you say so,” Valessa said, walking past the lioness, who continued to watch her.

“Do you question me?” Lilah asked, her voice a deep, feline growl. The sound sent shivers down Valessa’s nonexistent spine. The force of it was like wind pushing against her being. The lioness padded alongside her, eyes never leaving hers. Valessa’s mind spun. The creatures could talk?

“Of…of course not,” Valessa stammered. “I only…forgive me, Lilah. You are truly a wondrous gift to this world.”

The lioness growled, and Valessa feared she had somehow offended her further. But then Lilah stepped aside, allowing her to pass. Cyric’s eyes sparkled with amusement at her discomfort.

“Karak is power and fury,” he said. “These lions represent his strength, and they serve me now, for I am Karak in this world, his physical incarnation. We shall bring the truth to this hollow wasteland.”

Valessa looked at him, saw the fire burning hidden on his skin, the black star shining down upon him, and could not deny the possibility that he spoke truth. Could Karak truly have found a way to break free of his prison and assume mortal form? But why Cyric? Why a young priest in the relatively empty North? But the lion served him, and Lilah did not dispute his claim.

“I will listen and learn, so long as I may bring vengeance upon Darius,” she said, dipping her head in respect.

Again that smile from Cyric. She tried to see wisdom in it, to revel in his presence, but only saw madness instead.

“Lilah, we go to Willshire,” the priest told the lioness. “Do you know the way?”

“I have watched these lands bloom and fade over the centuries,” Lilah said. “There are few corners of this dark earth that I have not looked upon. Yes, I know the way.”

Lilah leapt ahead, and Cyric and Valessa followed. While there was no road, Valessa soon saw signs of wear along their path. Perhaps a farmer or two traveled from Willshire to the tower every week, just enough to beat down the grass. Ahead, the cracks in Lilah’s skin burned deep, like red embers. Every graceful step sent ripples through her muscular body. Valessa yearned to see the creature in combat, yet feared it as well.

“Why do we go at night?” she asked as they passed over the gentle hills.

“I am most comfortable at night,” Cyric said. “As is Lilah. Ashhur is slave to the sun. Let us find solace in the stars and moon.”

“The people of Willshire will be asleep.”

“Then we will wake them.”

Soon they reached worked fields. In the distance, she saw hints of smoke, and tiny flickers of torches. Valessa kept silent as she wondered why they came. Had the village done something to earn Karak’s ire? Did they come as messengers, or executioners?

At the edge of the village, the lioness stopped. Cyric turned to her, and he rubbed his chin as he thought.

“I once read that the unfinished can change their appearance at will. Is that true?”

Unfinished, thought Valessa. Was that what she was? Unfinished? Was it because of her failed task, or did the term refer to her faith, her very form?

“I can,” she said. “Is my form…unpleasing to you?”

“You are beautiful, Valessa, but I do not ask for myself. It is you. You cloak yourself as if you were still a gray sister, but you are not. You have been granted a rare second chance. Accept it, and be glad. Your very presence should inspire fear and awe. You are not meant to hide in a crowd, not anymore. Let the crowds bow to you. I am Karak, come to this village. Let them see a mighty queen at my side.”

Valessa nodded, and tried to picture herself as a queen. Why did Cyric always make her so uncertain? Was it Karak’s presence? She did not know, and tried not to think on it, instead thinking on how she should appear. She’d been in the presence of Queen Annabelle in Mordeina once before, and she thought of her regal dress, her crimson cloak, and the gold crown upon her head. A bit garish for the wilderness, but Cyric demanded a queen. Opening her eyes, she saw herself clothed in similar flowing robes and cloak. Turning to the priest for approval, she instead saw disappointment.

“A mortal queen,” he said, shaking his head. “I ask for the bride of Karak, a mighty warrior for order. Is that how you would picture her?”

No, it wasn’t. Valessa knew how she pictured a woman equal to her god, but feared it might be blasphemous. Cyric demanded it of her, though, so she obeyed. This time, when she opened her eyes, she wore dark platemail, full of sharp edges and painted with the red lion across her chest. A thin silver circlet rested upon her brow, a single ruby in its center. Her cloak had shrunk, and was now a deep violet. Her skin was the color of milk, her eyes like sapphires. She was a woman dressed for battle, yet still bearing the trappings of a queen. She crossed her daggers and curtseyed to Cyric, who, to her relief, was greatly pleased.

“Magnificent,” he said, smiling. “Right now you are but an illusion, a form without substance. Serve me well, and I will make you whole. Make you real. Do you understand me, Valessa? Never doubt, never question, only serve.”

“And Darius?”

His smile grew.

“We’ll sacrifice him together, both our hands upon the dagger that pierces his heart. His blood will flow, and it will make you complete.”

Instead of unfinished.

The unspoken fact took whatever joy she might have felt at his words. Suddenly feeling foolish in her farcical armor, protecting flesh that would not bleed, she gestured to the rows of wood and straw homes full of sleeping villagers.

“We are here, and I am as you desire. What are we to do?”

“Bring them out from their homes. The people of Durham are here, hiding. I want to see them for myself, to look upon those who would dare speak against Karak’s greatness.”

“They will run in fear,” Lilah said, glancing at them. Valessa tried not to shudder at the sound of her voice. Every time, it startled her, made her afraid.

“Let none escape,” said Cyric. “But kill as few as possible. I have greater plans for them than a quick death at your claws.”

“Any mortal should feel blessed to suffer death by my claws,” Lilah growled, but did not object to his request. Cyric walked toward the village center, and Valessa kept at his side. Closing his eyes, he whispered the words of a prayer, then spoke aloud. His voice thundered across the village, magically enhanced.

“People of Willshire, I am Cyric, the Lion made flesh. Come to me, for I await you. Do not run, and do not be afraid. Those who give in to fear will die. Come to me.”

For several long moments, they heard little. Children cried from several of the scattered homes, waking frightened at the sound of the priest’s voice. Valessa watched, waited, trying to harden her heart against their fear. The faithful should show no fear in the presence of Karak, was not that what she’d always been taught? Then why did she feel fear when Lilah looked upon her, as if she were one wrong word away from being a meal? Why did she shiver when Cyric cast his smile upon her? Was he not Karak? Were they not his most trusted servants?

Doors opened, and the first of many stepped out into the night.

Don’t run, she thought, unsure of the reason for her sympathy. The lioness lurked at the village edge, and despite Cyric’s request, people would still die. A creature of that size, that strength, could only do so much to subdue without killing. The way Lilah looked upon her, she knew the idea of bloodless subjugation was nowhere in the lioness’s nature.

“The priests say they should kneel by choice,” Cyric said as he waited for the villagers to gather. “My teacher, Luther, always taught me that the common folk would resist if they felt otherwise. Little more than children, he would say. But I have read the words of the prophet. I know Karak’s true desire. For what reason does it benefit a man to let him burn in fire through his choice, when he might be saved through the strength of others? Let them see the strength of Karak; let them cower in fear. That fear will strip away their pride, their selfishness, and their delusion that somehow they have worth apart from Karak.”

The crowd was gathering about them now. A few asked questions, but Cyric ignored them as if they were not there. Valessa stood tall, trying to feel regal, beautiful, dangerous…instead of little more than an imposter. Her daggers yearned for blood. She wanted to descend upon the crowd in a slaughter, to lose herself in the flow of combat, to rely on instinct. In battle, she could feel no doubts. In life, she had never known them, either. What was happening to her? What cruel sort of penance led her to doubt her faith, instead of reaffirming it as she rectified her failure?

In the distance, Lilah roared, and Valessa heard screams.

“Go to the priest, or suffer my claws,” she heard the lioness say, that terrifying voice booming throughout the village.

Men and women cowered, and children cried. Grief and terror all around her, Valessa realized, and in the center Cyric smiled and lifted his arms as if they were his beloved children.

“I have come,” he said. “I hear your questions. Hush your babies, listen, and you shall hear your answers. Valessa, my queen…is it not right that you should introduce me?”

Valessa felt so many eyes upon her. She tilted her head and spoke what was expected of her.

“You stand in the presence of Karak,” she said. “All with faith shall kneel.”

Only a scattered few did so. Valessa was last, and she bowed her head, unwilling to look at the accusing faces.

“I see so many without faith,” Cyric said, sadly shaking his head. Of the several hundred gathered, hardly more than twenty knelt. “A shame, but this world is a shameful place. People of Willshire, I come not for you, but those whom you harbor. The people of Durham, brought to you by Sir Robert at the Blood Tower. Let them come forth. I wish to look upon their faces.”

“You’ll kill them,” a brave man said from amid the crowd.

“I will kill you all if you do not obey,” said Lilah, stalking in from the outer edge of the village. Blood sizzled across her muzzle and jaw. “And do not presume to know the will of Karak.”

“I will commit no murder,” Cyric said. “No one will die tonight, that I promise you. As I said…I wish to look upon their faces.”

Still the gathered villagers did not move. Valessa glanced at Cyric, wondering how he would react. Would he unleash Lilah upon them, or would he expect his ‘queen’ to do his bloody work? Perhaps neither. Perhaps she would see a display of the raw power that burned within him and consumed his soul with gray fire.

“Is this how you treat your god?” Cyric asked as the painful silence stretched on.

“You ain’t our god!”

A different man. Valessa caught sight of him, just a young redhead no older than twenty. The crowd murmured along with him. She looked to the priest, waiting for the order to punish him for his insolence. But instead, Cyric breathed in deep, then let it out. His shoulders sagged as if he were greatly disappointed.

“Yes,” he said, his deep voice eerily quiet. “I am.”

He lifted his arms.

“And I said kneel! ”

The word rolled off his tongue like a shockwave. Men and women flung themselves to the ground. It didn’t matter if there was no room, or if they held babes in their arms. Children, even the elderly, lurched to their hands and knees. Valessa was no exception. As she quivered, unable to resist the compulsion, she listened to the sounds of the crowd. Abandoned babes sobbed, the elderly cried out from broken bones, and many whimpered from strained and torn muscles. All throughout, she smelled the stench of fear, so palpable it was as if she could reach out and pluck strands of it from the air. With great effort, she forced her head up to look. The only one in the entire village without knee bent to Cyric was Lilah.

“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.