The Old Ways

2

Sir Robert Godley was at the top of the Blood Tower when Karak’s army arrived.

“Robert?” asked Daniel Coldmine, Robert’s most trusted companion. The lieutenant stood at the half-open door, his fingers still wrapped about the handle.

“I know,” Robert said, staring out the window at the reinforced doors of the walls surrounding the tower. Beyond were tents, caravans, and many, many armed men. His heavy hands lay flat across his desk. Between them were a bottle and an empty glass. “Send whoever is in charge up to me.”

Daniel hesitated.

“Sir, we still have the option to turn them away. The worst they can do is voice their complaint back at Mordeina. They can’t be mad enough to attack servants of the King and expect no retribution.”

“I said bring their leader to me,” Robert said, still refusing to turn around. “I will show no fear, not to the likes of them. Now go.”

Daniel bowed.

“I’ll return shortly.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Robert said to no one. He reached for the bottle, then pushed it away. He wasn’t drunk, but he was getting damn close. It was shameful enough using the liquor to bolster his courage. Confronting the priests shit-faced was an embarrassment he’d never let himself live down. He was better than that, and more importantly, he owed his men better than that.

It hadn’t taken long. Within two weeks of his bounty on the paladin Darius, he’d received message that an envoy from Mordeina would soon arrive to represent the Stronghold. Robert had put a death sentence on the head of one of their own. At the time, Daniel had warned him such an action would not go unnoticed, and he’d been right. As to how Karak’s children would respond, he could only guess, but seeing over five hundred private soldiers bearing the mark of the Lion surrounding his tower, Robert’s imagination didn’t need to work too hard.

A knock at the door sent him slowly to his feet.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened, and Daniel escorted two men inside. One was older, with thin gray hair that hung down to his bony shoulders. He stood straight, though, and walked without a limp. He offered a wrinkled hand, and when Robert shook it, he squeezed with impressive strength.

“Greetings, knight,” said the priest. His voice was deep, well-aged. “My name is Luther, priest of our glorious god, Karak. With me is my pupil, Cyric.”

The other man stepped forward. Unlike Luther, he looked young, barely into his twenties. He bowed low, in a manner more respectful than Luther had shown. His hair was a deep brown and cut short, so that his forehead seemed much larger than it was. Combined with his blue eyes and slender nose, it gave him an awkward, youthful look. When he spoke, though, his voice echoed with an authority and a certainty that immediately revealed why he’d been chosen as Luther’s pupil.

“I am honored to meet the man who devised the banishment of the heathen elves from our lands,” said Cyric. “You did Mordan a great service.”

“You’d have been at your mother’s breast when that happened, if not still in her belly,” Robert said. “How could you know much of that?”

“He’s a voracious reader,” said Luther. “I doubt there is a book in our library he has not read. But come, we have not traveled all this way to discuss forgotten battles. Word of your bounty on one of the Stronghold’s paladins reached us quickly, Sir Godley.”

Robert exchanged a look with Daniel, who shifted his stance so his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not a fool,” said Robert. “I knew you’d come, but if there were ever a guilty man in the North, it would be Darius. I have over a hundred people who’ll swear that he…”

“We have not come to question his guilt,” Luther interrupted. “Darius is a fallen servant, and has rejected Karak’s teachings. We have reason to believe he killed several of our paladins, good men sent to find and ascertain his faithfulness to our ways.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed. They weren’t here to argue, or to protect Darius? It sounded too good to be true, which made him all the more suspicious.

“Then why have you come, Luther? I can see your armed men from my window. The North is dangerous, but not so much to require that large an escort for only two priests.”

“Indeed,” said Luther, smiling. “I pray we have not frightened you, but yes, we have come with a request. You handed Darius a sentence of death, but we ask that you deliver him unto us instead.”

“You want to spare his life?” asked Daniel, and Robert could see his anger ready to burst forth.

“Spare it?” asked the young Cyric, laughing. “Our tomes detail quite clearly the fate blasphemers and traitors must suffer. Whatever death you think Darius deserves, I assure you, ours will be worse.”

Luther shot his pupil a look, and Robert recognized it well. It was a warning against speaking out of turn. Robert had just sent Daniel that same look for his own outburst.

“This is about more than punishment,” Luther said, clearing his throat. “Darius is a dangerous man, and your bounty invites much unnecessary death. If he can kill our skilled paladins, then poor farmers and soldiers desperate for a bit of coin stand little chance. I ask that you retract the bounty, and instead make it for information only. Let the Stronghold deal with Darius. He will not remain hidden for long, not from me.”

Robert crossed his arms and tried to think. The offer was tempting, but something about it bothered him. The two priests were acting too kind, too understanding. No doubt they were trying to save face for their order by having Darius executed in private. Hardly the example Robert wanted to set.

“His crimes are against the King’s citizens,” Robert said, trying to stall.

“Whose protection has been left to Lord Sebastian,” said Luther. “But has he done anything? Of course not. He’s too busy squabbling with his brother for land, leaving this matter to you. Speaking of which…”

The old man walked over to the map on the far side of Robert’s wall, and he rubbed his chin as he stared at it with bloodshot eyes.

“How goes the North?” he asked. “We hear only rumors in Mordeina, and struggle to know what is true and what is not.”

“Lord Arthur met Lord Sebastian in fair battle, and lost,” Robert said. “He retreated to his castle, which Lord Sebastian has put under siege. That is the last I have heard, but I expect it to take months before the Castle of Caves falls.”

“Sebastian is a good friend of Karak,” Cyric said, more to Luther than Robert. “We must ensure his victory over his brother.”

“I thought the priests and paladins of Karak remained neutral in political matters,” Daniel interrupted again. Robert knew well his distaste for the priests, and if he couldn’t hold his tongue…

“Go prepare lodging for Luther’s men,” he ordered. Daniel looked displeased, but he bowed low and left to carry out his orders.

“A rebellious man,” Luther said, softly chuckling.

“He only asks what I myself am thinking,” Robert said.

“And you are right, in a way. We are neutral in most politics, but when it comes to Karak and his children, we are ever vigilant. Sebastian is a faithful servant, whereas Arthur is under the delusion we are a… detriment to the North. Besides, is Sebastian not the lawful ruler of these lands? We only uphold the law, Robert.”

“As do I,” said Robert. “And Darius has broken it. Forgive me, but my bounty stays. If he is no longer a paladin of the Stronghold, then he should be of no concern to you.”

“We do not operate under your laws,” Cyric said. “We live under the law of Karak, which is wise as it is…”

Cyric looked furious, but Luther remained calm, not even turning from the map.

“Enough, Cyric,” said Luther. He gestured to the door. “Leave us. I will speak with our host in private.”

Cyric’s look was bitter, but he bowed low and obeyed. As the door closed, Luther sighed.

“May I sit?” he asked.

“By all means.”

Luther walked over to a chair pressed against the wall that was usually reserved for Daniel. His joints creaked as he sat. His eyes bored into Robert, who sat at his desk. Something about that look shriveled his testicles and made him wish he could call Daniel back in.

“You must forgive my pupil,” Luther said. “He is still young, and has difficulty understanding that the way of the world is rarely as easy as his books would imply.”

Robert grunted.

“Very little of the world is easy, especially here in the North.”

“Indeed. I do not think he would understand what I have to say to you, for I know what he expects me to say. The will of Karak is lord of all things, and for you to resist speaks blasphemy against that which is holy.”

Robert decided to the Abyss with it, and poured himself another glass.

“And what would you say?” he asked before taking a drink.

“That such a claim would be an insult to your honor. You have the safety of many people in your hands, and the lawful authority to do what you have done. You also fear our power, for you know how strong our influence is in Mordeina. You also fear Karak. I can see it in your eyes. Yes, what you did is within your power, but not all we do is wise. You may have the authority to lay judgment on a priest or paladin of Karak, but it is not your place to do so. I need to be convinced you are aware of that.”

“You just said Darius was no longer a paladin of the Stronghold.”

“Something you were unaware of when you offered that bounty.”

Robert tried to summon fury at having his station challenged, his authority mocked. Instead he could only stare into Luther’s eyes and feel the power of the entire priesthood prepared to move against him.

“I fail to see how you are any different from your pupil,” he said, putting aside his glass.

“Cyric would view your resistance as blasphemy, worthy of punishment and purging with cleansing fire. He would threaten you with the Abyss, and escalate this into a conflict of wills and pride. I only hope that we might see eye to eye. You do not have to agree with me, Robert, only acknowledge who wields the greater power, and act as the pragmatic man I know you are.”

Robert swallowed. There was no doubt about who wielded the greater power. It took months of begging just to get King Baedan to send a fraction of their needed resupplies, yet meanwhile, the priests of Karak whispered into his ear day and night.

“You want the bounty changed to capture only, correct?” he asked.

“I do,” Luther said. He smiled, as if sensing Robert’s breaking resolve.

“I want you to make me a promise,” Robert said, “and swear to it in writing on the same parchment upon which I alter the bounty.”

“And what do I promise?”

“That your order will execute Darius for his crimes. I don’t care how, and don’t care when. I just need to know he will suffer for what he did to Durham.”

“He has turned his back on our god,” Luther said, rising to his feet. “The stars may fall from the heavens, and our sun dwindle and die, yet his suffering will continue amid darkness and fire. Never ending. Never relenting. If you wish, you may write so on your parchment, and I will sign it with my blood. Will that suffice?”

“It will suffice,” Robert said, but he felt no comfort. Cyric may have been a fanatic, but this man…he truly believed what he said, that he would capture Darius and force him to endure such tortures. But even amid the fanatic belief, he could still see through Robert’s eyes, understand his motives, and react accordingly. Luther had left him with no argument against accepting his request other than basic pride. Should he resist anyway, it would only take the time for a letter to reach King Baedan and back before he was reprimanded and overruled.

“Excellent,” Luther said, clapping his hands. “My men will stay here while we await word of Darius’s location, as well as plan our conflict with this rebellious Lord Arthur. Oh, and before I forget…”

He pulled out a scroll from one of his lengthy robe pockets.

“I know your provisions are low, so as a measure of gratitude, we have brought gifts from Mordeina.”

Robert accepted the scroll, unfurled it, and began to read. His jaw dropped. Bread, butter, caskets of ale, jars of honey, clothes, coats, furs, blankets…He could reinforce nearly every tower along the Gihon for the winter, just with what their wagons had brought.

“Thank you,” he said, stunned.

“No, thank you,” said Luther, “for your cooperation.”

Robert heard his meaning loud and clear.

“My men thank you as well.”

Luther smiled.

“I am glad. Do not worry about finding my men a place to sleep. They will bunk in our wagons and tents, to lessen our burden upon you. I must insist upon a room for Cyric and myself, though. Now, if you do not object, I must oversee my companions.”

He left, and Robert leaned back in his chair. His eyes flicked over the list, still stunned by the donated wealth. A rock built in his stomach as he thought of how refusing the priests would have kept him from receiving a single crumb of bread. His men would have found out, too. His blood chilled. They’d hear of the warm coats, the abundant food, and then hear how they’d lost it all because of a single criminal. As dissension spread, Luther would have remained outside his tower, surrounding it with his wagons…

“Damn it,” he said, tossing the scroll to his desk. It had never been an option. The result had never been in doubt. In time, Luther would have had his way.

Once more he felt the power of the priesthood arrayed against him, and knew how helpless he was before it. His only consolation was knowing that that same power had turned its focus to Darius. Deep down, he believed Luther would find him, and bring him back to the Stronghold in chains. It would only be a matter of time.

V alessa stood naked before the door of the farmhouse. She wanted to barge in, but knew she had to find out for certain. She had to know how much was left of her humanity. Her knuckles rapped against the wood, its solidity against her touch reassuring. At least there was that. As the door opened, she tried her best to act the poor, wounded girl. She held her daggers behind her back.

“Bandits,” she stammered to the heavyset farmer and his wife.

Her body shivered like she was cold, yet her red hair was singed in places as if by fire. The husband set aside the dagger he’d been holding while the wife reached for her, sympathy in her eyes.

“You poor dear,” said the woman. “Come in, please. Cale, go see what you can find for her to wear.”

The ceiling was low, but the house was large enough for several rooms. The walls were old wood, but clean, as the floor was meticulously swept. A fire burned in the hearth, and she fought an urge to sit beside it. As Valessa stepped inside, the woman reached for her. Both flinched at the contact, the woman’s fingers touching her shoulders only briefly.

“Oh my,” she said, pulling back and rubbing her hands together. Her face looked a mixture of sadness and fear. “By gods, you’re cold.”

Cale returned holding a blanket, and he made a point to stare at her eyes instead of elsewhere.

“Here you go, miss,” he said, wrapping it about her shoulders. As the blanket settled over her, she forced herself to concentrate, to remain calm. Part of her expected it to fall right through her, as if she were a ghost, but it did not. There was no warmth to it, no comfort, but at least she wasn’t standing there naked.

“Care to sit with me by the fire?” asked the woman. She gestured to two chairs carved of wood, each on opposite sides of the fireplace.

“I…yes,” said Valessa. She shuffled as if she had been wounded. In a way, she had been, though of her own volition. Every time she closed her eyes to rest, she relived the memory of impaling herself on Darius’s blade. Darius, the betrayer…

“My name’s Dora, and this is my husband, Cale,” said the woman, settling down in her chair. “Might I have your name?”

“Valessa,” she said, wrapping the blanket tighter about her. It wasn’t her nakedness she was trying to hide. It was how with every movement she made, her skin thinned, its color draining away as it became liquid shadow. She was darkness given form, and a soul. That she could hold the blanket gave her hope. Perhaps there was still a chance she might have some decency and normality, even in the form her god had cursed her with.

“Forgive me,” she muttered. Blessed, not cursed. She’d been given a chance to hunt down the traitor, to make amends for her failure. Never should she spit in the face of her god and his gifts.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” said Dora, misunderstanding her. “Truth be told, neither of us were sleeping. The older we get, the more the night seems to like us better than the day.”

Valessa settled in the chair, focusing on every inch that touched her body. There could be no give, no shift. There was still plenty she had to experiment with, but if she were to be the assassin she needed to be, simple acts like sitting in a chair needed to be mastered. So far, so good. Feeling confident, she set her daggers beside her, still hidden by the blanket.

Cale returned, a meager assortment of clothes in his calloused hands.

“It’s not much,” he said, holding them out for her to take. “But it’ll do until we can get you back to your family.”

Valessa tried to smile. As a gray sister, she’d been trained in a hundred different personas, from obedient servants to wealthy noblewomen. She tried to be the wounded victim, to keep her motions quick and startled, her eyes wide, her speech rare. Concentrating amid the pain, though…

“Thank you,” she said, reaching a hand out from underneath her blanket. Her reaction was too fast, despite it being appropriate to the persona she channeled. A wisp of smoke trailed over her skin. Cale didn’t seem to notice, and she thanked Karak for that. Grabbing the clothes, she felt the rough fabric, its touch almost painful. She set them on her lap, and assumed correctly the couple would understand if she remained there, still warming.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

Dora stood, and she motioned for Cale to take her seat.

“I think we still have a bit of soup from earlier,” she said, nodding to a pot set near the fireplace. Retrieving a wooden bowl and spoon from a cupboard, she knelt and scraped up a meager portion of soup. It was a dark brown broth, with hints of meat and vegetables floating inside. It looked appetizing enough. Valessa had yet to eat or drink a thing since her…what should she call it? Resurrection? Recreation? Salvation? It didn’t matter. That was over a week ago. She should have been dead, but she was not. Or perhaps she was.

She took the bowl, slowly. This was it, she knew. She dipped the spoon into the bowl, then brought it to her lips. Her hand shook, and its color faded. Opening her mouth, she slipped the spoon inside. She imagined the taste, heavy and meaty, but it was not there. No sensation, just the texture, and an awareness of its lukewarm temperature. The only thing she felt was pain. Every second, day and night, she felt a throbbing ache everywhere she once had muscle and flesh. The taste of food was just another sensation, without pleasure or satisfaction. She wanted to cry, but tears would not come. Her new form refused such a weakness.

Valessa swallowed. Instead of traveling down her throat, the liquid passed through the bottom of her chin and neck, dripping across her blanket.

“Careful dear,” Dora said when she saw the mess. Cale had not seen at all, too busy staring into the fire with a half-asleep expression on his face. Fighting down her fury, Valessa offered the bowl back to Dora with one hand. Too fast, her hand became shadow and smoke. The bowl fell right through her, hitting the floor with a dull thud. This time Dora saw, and her mouth dropped open.

Valessa moved before she could scream. She grabbed her daggers and shot from her chair. She didn’t cast aside the blanket, for she passed right through it. In a single smooth motion, she slashed open the woman’s throat, then turned to Cale. The man was still trying to get up from his chair when she jammed a dagger into his chest and twisted. He coughed once, his knuckles white as he clutched the arms of his chair, and then he died. Blood poured across the handle of her dagger, but when it reached her quivering flesh, it slid past and down to the floor.

She dropped the dagger, and naked on her knees, she howled out in mindless fury. Softness, pleasure, comfort, a loving embrace…all denied to her. And why? Because she had failed her duty, failed to kill that bastard, Darius. Hatred seethed in her heart at the mere thought of his name. He’d suffer, oh, how she’d make him suffer. Her new form might be a penance imposed by Karak, but there would be no penance for Darius, only torment. When finished, she’d use her daggers to send him to Karak, and let her deity deliver for an eternity all the suffering Darius deserved.

Stop it, she told herself even as she continued to shriek. Karak was not a god of love. He was a god of order. Darius had broken that order, as had Valessa in failing to kill him. She couldn’t be angry. Not at Karak. No, that wasn’t fair. It took all her willpower to choke down her fury at her beloved deity. Now was not the time for weakness. It was time for revenge.

She looked down at her naked form. Valessa was not ashamed of exposing her body in any way (and in truth, had seduced many in the name of her god, all to execute the unfaithful), but trying to go about unnoticed would be impossible. She needed clothes. Returning to her chair, she grabbed a shirt and slid it over her head. It was too big, and left much of her breasts exposed, but it was better than nothing. Pausing for a moment to focus her thoughts, she took a single step. Every inch of fabric brushing against her shadowed flesh itched in her mind, but she remained solid. Another step, still good. But she could not waddle everywhere like a lame animal. The real test came as she lifted her arms above her head and twirled in a half-remembered dance that had been common in court.

The shirt fell through her to the floor, her body a whirling creature of shadow and smoke.

“Why?” she shrieked. Her fists pounded against the floor until her hands began to pass through, striking nothing. It made no sense! How could she perform her god’s will when saddled with such difficulty? How could he expect her to stroll naked through open streets in a hunt for his fallen paladin?

“Please,” she prayed. Her body might not create tears, but she was sobbing anyway, her grief overwhelming her. “Please, help me, Karak. Show me the way.”

She heard no answer, which perhaps she deserved. Trying to overcome her grief, she looked at her naked body and began to think. Her body was not real, only an illusion. She could make parts of it solid, particularly through concentration. Was her skin not also an illusion? As she stared at herself, she tried to see what she truly was, not what she remembered. Before her eyes, she became darkness. The sight terrified her, but in it, she found hope. Perhaps there was more to it than that. Closing her eyes again, she imagined her old leather armor, covered with dull plain clothes, and a long gray cloak wrapped about her shoulders. She’d worn such an outfit so often it was natural to her. She could still imagine the way it felt, and how her cloak would billow in the wind.

When she opened her eyes, she was no longer naked.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She moved her arms, watched the sleeves fade along with her skin. Her body was just an illusion, a projection of how she imagined herself. Which meant…

She closed her eyes again. Thinking of her former partner, Claire, she tried to imagine Claire’s blonde hair falling down to her shoulders over her more slender form. And then she opened her eyes, saw the hair, saw the subtle shift of her hands. The true power of Karak’s gift came to her then, and she might have wept for joy. Yes, she would have to endure pain, but all gifts came with a price. She could be anyone, limited only by her imagination.

Valessa retrieved her daggers. Only they would remain in her grasp when she moved at full speed, somehow blessed by Karak during the process of her…revival. One last thought came to her, one she had to finally test. Turning to a wall, and without any time to think, and therefore frighten herself off her course of action, she ran straight at it. No slowing. At the last moment, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she was outside, daggers still in hand.

She laughed.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking to the stars. “Where is the traitor?”

When she lay down to sleep, she relived her moment of death, thrusting her neck upon his blade. But when she focused on his name, his face, she could always look to the sky, day or night, and see a red star burning, showing her the way. Sure enough, she saw it, and forgetting her hunger, her pain, her sorrow, she left the corpses inside the farmhouse and headed southwest.

Toward Darius.