The Old Ways

23

Cyric’s men brought food and water into the barn only once, just after dawn. Darius reluctantly took his share. The people of Durham were clearly malnourished, but if he were to protect them in battle, it wouldn’t help to do so on an empty stomach.

“Is there a way up to that window?” he asked Jacob when he noticed the light streaming in through it. The window was up in the loft, and in answer, Jacob pointed to where a ladder had been.

“They broke it when they locked us in here,” he said.

“Where are the rest?” Gregory asked.

Jacob shrugged.

“They’ve got plenty at whatever they’re building in the center. Don’t know where the rest are. Maybe in a home or two, locked up like we are.”

Time crawled, and Darius spent much of it pacing and wondering what was going on outside.

“I trust my men to do their job,” Gregory said, relaxing in a pile of hay.

“And if they’re noticed? Interrogated?”

Gregory shrugged.

“Least we have our weapons. We’ll get to die fighting.”

Darius chuckled, and he leaned against a wall of the barn, wishing he could see out.

“You’re right, Gregory. That makes it so much better.”

“You whine like a child.”

Slowly, so slowly, but the day continued to pass. As night approached, a cold tension filled the air. Even locked away, the two could sense it, could hear it in the way the guards outside the barn talked, and in how the noise of the village dwindled. The many people around them started to fidget, murmur, or cry silently. Darius paced before the door, eager for the night to start, yet dreading it as well.

“What if they don’t come for us?” Jacob asked as the sun began to set.

“They will,” Darius said.

“And if they don’t?”

The paladin shrugged.

“I’ll break the damn door down.”

Jacob gestured to where Darius’s greatsword lay on the ground.

“Time’s running out. If you want to hide it, better get started.”

Darius looked about the men and women. He’d told them his plan, but he still did not like it.

“Who would be best?” he asked.

“I’ll do it,” said an elderly woman. Darius tried to remember her name. Ezre Reed-that was it. Gary’s mother.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I already walk with a limp,” she said. “No one will question an old woman hiding from the chill.”

Darius and Gregory exchanged a look.

“Your decision,” said the soldier.

Using some twine, they tied his sword to her side, the tip at her feet, the hilt tucked underneath her armpit. She took a few awkward steps. A smile lit up her wrinkled face.

“Not so heavy as I feared. Carrying my children was worse.”

Darius smiled back.

“Good. Now let’s get you protected from that cold, cold wind.”

Another couple handed over their blanket, and they wrapped her from head to toe. Her elbow hiding the bulge of the handle, she clutched the two edges of it and walked again. No sign of a weapon.

“Excellent,” Gregory said. “But next time, just bring a dagger.”

“Stay with me, near the very back, if you can,” Darius told her as she leaned against a wall, unable to sit because of the sword. “When I draw it, I might be in a hurry. My apologies in advance if I hurt you.”

“My son died when that evil man came,” she told him. “You could never hurt me more than you did then.”

Her bitter words stung, but whether that was her intent or not, he didn’t know. Looking to Gregory, he saw the man had hidden his shortsword by tying it against his inner thigh.

“Step carefully,” Darius told him, earning himself a rude gesture.

The door was flung open, startling them all. Six soldiers stood there, half holding torches. The light stung their eyes, and several let out cries.

“On your feet, all of you,” said one. “You all should be proud to bear witness to tonight’s miracle.”

Darius bit his tongue, and offered his hand to Ezre. She took it, then began limping along. Unable to bend her right knee, she hobbled forward, and put more and more weight against Darius. He helped her, always careful that the blanket did not pull back to reveal the blade.

“Hurry it up,” one of Cyric’s mercenaries told him.

Darius started to retort, but Ezre beat him to it.

“Hush you. I’ll get there when I get there.”

The soldier blinked for a moment, stunned by the outburst, then laughed.

“Remind me of my own ma,” he said, then struck her across the face. “Hated my ma.”

Darius caught her, and his heart skipped as he felt the handle of his sword press against him. Ezre straightened herself out, moaning only a little. The blanket fell loose, covering the blade again. The guard did not notice, instead turning his back to them and ushering others along.

“I’m sorry,” Darius whispered to her.

“I’ll be fine,” Ezre said. “Took worse from my husband for saying less.”

“Stay near the back. When we take our place, start untying the twine.”

She lifted a curled hand as they walked toward the center of the village, far behind the other people of Durham.

“My hands can’t thread a needle like they used to,” she said. “You’ll have to do it.”

He nodded, not sure how he would do it, but knowing he had little choice in the matter. Trying to fight his nerves, he brought his attention to the spectacle at hand. A great altar waited in the clearing, and it looked like something out of his old lessons at the Stronghold. Stone slabs joined together to form an enormous altar, propped up by wood where necessary. At least four men could lie flat on top of it, but Darius felt certain that Cyric would do just one at a time. He wanted this to last. He wanted to revel in his return to the old ways.

Darius hoped to ruin all his fun.

They stopped at the back of the crowd. Soldiers kept them separated from the original inhabitants of Willshire, who were lined up on the opposite side of the altar. Tied to it were the twenty he’d seen the night before. They looked haggard and tired, and he knew many of them. They’d endured the wolf-men, survived Velixar’s assault, and now this. It was amazing that any still clung to life, given the horrors they’d faced. If Ashhur were kind, he’d make sure this was the last.

Standing at the center of the altar was Cyric. The very sight of him twisted Darius’s stomach. His eyes were a deep red. They weren’t the burning fire of Velixar’s, but his smile, his robes, were all eerily similar. Most remarkable was how young he was, and how overwhelmed he was by his faith. Beside him was a paladin of Karak, steadfast and quiet as he protected his master, an enormous ax strapped to his back. Darius vaguely recognized him from his time training in the Stronghold, an old veteran named Salaul.

“A joyous night!” Cyric kept repeating. “Such a joyous night!”

Gregory slipped through the crowd and took up a spot beside him.

“See the others?” Darius asked, speaking low, as if he were just muttering to himself.

“Behind Cyric, the house with two windows.”

Darius saw the building, but the windows looked empty to him.

“Gavin and Kris?”

“Believe so. Let’s pray their arrows are accurate.”

“The other three?”

Gregory nodded toward the large group of people from Willshire.

“He’s in there. Spoke to him for a moment. No one came in or out. We should have them…shit.”

Cyric had been speaking, and then he gestured grandly toward the road. Marching in was a small group of mercenaries, about fifteen in number. In the center walked a woman wearing a silver crown upon her forehead, a long violet cloak, and armor that was both regal and deadly with its sleek lines and dark silver hue.

“Valessa,” Darius whispered.

The crowd parted as if they were royalty. Cyric beckoned her to join him upon the altar, and she did, accepting his hand reluctantly. Her face was an emotionless mask, and Darius could not read it. Something about it didn’t feel right, though. Where was her smile? Where was that same triumphant faith that Cyric exuberated with every movement he made?

And then came the lion. Fire burned across its molten skin, and Darius felt terror grip his heart. It was like something out of the tales he used to listen to as a child, when his teachers would lay them down to bed in the Stronghold. The ancient times, when Karak walked the land, his armies of wolf, bird, and lion at his side.

“Welcome, Valessa, my queen,” Cyric said to her before turning his attention to the lion. “Welcome, Kayne. You two are my most honored guests.”

“Let it all be done in the name of Karak,” Kayne said, sending fear rippling through the gathered crowds.

“Indeed,” Cyric said, smiling. “In Karak’s name.”

Darius took in their numbers. He counted about sixty in total, not including the more dangerous players, like Valessa or the dark paladin. The numbers would be in their favor, for the most part. But how many might Kayne kill? How great was Cyric’s power? As for Valessa…

She would have to be his first target, he realized. No one else could harm her, and she would tear through their ranks.

“Welcome, all of you!” Cyric cried, and as his voice thundered over them, suddenly many times louder than before, the crowd quieted, but for the soft sobs of a few tied to the altar. “This night, this most sacred night, will be one for all of Dezrel to remember. Consider yourselves blessed to bear witness. Consider yourselves beloved. Few look upon their god while still walking this world, but you shall. All of you shall!”

He gestured to those at the altar.

“These here spoke out against Karak. They spoke out against me! They dared believe themselves wiser than gods. They dared believe they could turn the worldly law to their side, could ally with the imperfect structures of man to bring down the divine constructs of our priesthood. They will atone for this, for I am not here to destroy, but to save! The old ways will reignite true faith in Dezrel. That faith will preserve them, purify them, instead of eternal condemnation burning them away in Karak’s fire. True Order! Let it be known!”

He reached his hand to Valessa, and she gave him one of her crimson daggers. With a nod from Cyric, the dark paladin went to the first of the many tied to the altar. He was a man Darius knew well: Jeremy Hangfield, the wealthiest and most influential man in Durham. He’d lost a lot of weight, leaving him haggard and thin. He didn’t resist as they cut him free and dragged him to the wood steps. The dark paladin held him down, but Cyric would not be satisfied.

“His daughter, too,” he said.

A stabbing pain hit Darius’s gut. All around him people stood frozen, as if unwilling to believe it. Ezre turned away, and she pressed herself against Darius as if crying.

“Hurry now,” she whispered. “Take your sword, damn you.”

Darius reached his hand underneath her blanket and clutched the hilt. There would be no time to untie the twine. Their walk over had loosened the ties enough that he could lift the sword straight up. His fingers tightened, and he stared at the altar. Drawing now would risk ruining their plan, but how could he wait?

Valessa was the one to get her, slicing Jessie Hangfield free from the altar and tugging on her wrist. Jeremy struggled, but the dark paladin kept him pinned, the edge of his axe pressed against his neck.

“A glorious night!” Cyric cried. “A night to remember! Do not weep, do not know fear. Let the blood spill upon the altar, and with it, cleanse away their failures, their transgressions against the most holy and true. We abide by the highest law.”

“What are you waiting for?” Ezre asked him as Darius watched. “Are you a coward?”

“Not yet, Darius,” Gregory said beside him, no longer needing to whisper because of the crowd. “Damn it, not yet!”

“He’ll kill her, just a little girl!”

“I said not yet, that’s an order!”

Jessie lay flat against the stone, and her sobs rent Darius’s heart. He felt Ezre against him, waiting for him to take the sword, and Gregory’s hand on his shoulder, his fingers digging into him with determined strength. Sixty soldiers stood between him and Cyric, not counting Valessa and the lion. Revealing their presence now might doom them all…but why else were they there?

His indecision was enough, his inaction all that was necessary. He clenched his teeth and begged Ashhur not to condemn him for it. Cyric lifted the dagger above his head as he stood over Jeremy. The dark paladin rolled him over to expose his heart. Darius swallowed. The crowd went eerily silent as dark power swelled across the blade.

And then an arrow pierced Cyric’s hand, sending the dagger clattering across the altar and to the ground.

“Gavin, you idiot,” Gregory said.

Another arrow flew from the window of the home, catching Cyric in the shoulder. The priest roared, all his earlier joy and celebration replaced with mindless fury. Fire spread across his hands, and the next few arrows exploded before reaching him. The two men dove beneath the window as Cyric waved his hand, the arrow piercing it shattering. The building rocked side to side as dark projectiles of fire struck across it, bursting it into flame.

“Warriors of Karak!” cried Kayne, suddenly pulling their attention south. “An army comes along the road!”

“Thank Ashhur,” Darius whispered.

The sixty soldiers readied their weapons and rushed to meet the gathered might of those loyal to Sir Robert, two hundred strong. Kayne led the way, and Darius hoped the greater numbers might help them endure his unholy might. The path to the altar was clear. Darius carefully pulled his sword free, and held it high, casting its light across the altar. From high above, the blood moon shone upon him, and he defied it with all his heart.

“With me!” he cried, and together he and Gregory rushed the altar.

Cyric had not yet seen, for he was casting another spell, which exploded the remnants of the home Gavin and Kris were inside. People ran in all directions. Those from Durham not tied were suddenly left unguarded, and many of them fled for safety, but not all. Darius’s heart swelled as he saw others rushing the altar, yanking at the ropes to free their families and friends. Many died as the dark paladin swung his axe and Valessa stabbed with her dagger, but then Darius was there, his greatsword clashing against the axe and its dark fire.

“A paladin?” Salaul exclaimed, stunned.

“Damn straight.”

Darius shoved the axe aside, stepped forward, and thrust. His foe tried to block, but then Gregory lunged in. His sword could not block, but his body did. As Gregory died, Darius’s sword pierced the dark paladin through the belly. Blood spilled across the altar. Darius twisted the blade, then yanked it free. The motion sent Salaul’s body tumbling off the side, and he landed beside Gregory’s split corpse. Seeing the young man slain only increased his fury, and he turned it on the remaining two atop the altar.

“Darius?” Valessa asked, stunned to see him there. Darius laughed, and he attacked again and again, his sword with greater reach versus her lone dagger. Cyric turned to help, but then Zeke and the others slashed and stabbed with their own weapons.

“You heathens!” Cyric cried to them, falling from the altar to avoid their daggers. They leapt upon him, but he beat them back with fire and shadow. Darius saw only a little of it, for Valessa had jumped off the stone toward him and launched into a vicious series of attacks. His sword shifted side to side, parrying away her thrusts.

“What is this?” he asked her, a grin on his face despite his exhaustion and sorrow. “What good is that armor? What good is that crown? What kingdom do you rule?”

“With your death, I will be redeemed,” she said.

“You’re wrong, Valessa. You’ll be lady of the dead, a princess of graves. All hail her majesty.”

He could see the desperation in her eyes and knew she could endure no more. Her thrust came in wild, and he smacked it aside. Stepping in, he swung his sword. It passed straight through her waist, the armor nothing but an illusion, her flesh nothing but shadow. The light of his blade burned, and her form dwindled, changed, became only a beaten woman stumbling naked away from him in fear.

“Give Karak my greetings,” he said to her, thrusting for her neck.

She screamed, dropped her dagger, and fled. His thrust missed by an inch. She was nothing but a shapeless darkness as she ran to Cyric, who stood over the corpses of Gregory’s three men. All of them were dead, but they’d stopped the sacrifice. Darius lifted his sword, determined to not let it all be in vain. He pointed it at the priest, who looked down at Valessa with disgust.

“A night to remember,” Darius said, no humor in his voice. “You were right about that, Cyric.”

“I’ll rip your heart from your chest,” Cyric said. “I’ll crush it between my fingers before the altar.”

Cyric turned his blade to the side, the light across it burning brighter.

“Try it.”

The priest stretched out his hand, and a beam of pure darkness shot from his palm. Darius blocked it with his sword, bracing his legs to endure the blast. He felt his arms jar, felt the incredible strength beat against him, but he held his ground. He thought of the way Jerico had endured far greater, of how he had withstood the onslaught of wolf-men as if it were nothing. Darius would do the same. The magic would not defeat him. He would prove Cyric wrong. The night was theirs, not Karak’s.

Cyric ended the attack, instead hurling a curse. Darius felt it latch onto his limbs like invisible chains, but he shrugged it off, breaking the magic with a plea to Ashhur. Lightning followed, but it swirled into the sword and died.

“Where’s your strength?” Darius asked, slowly approaching.

Fire this time. Darius leapt to one side, then slammed his sword into the dirt. The light of his blade flared, and the flames could not abide it. Drawing it free, he resumed his approach.

“Where’s the awesome power?”

Cyric clapped his hands together, summoning a thick wall of shadow. Darius cut through it like it was paper.

“I thought you were a god?”

Cyric’s eyes were full of fear. His strength was insufficient. He’d been challenged, and defeated. To Darius’s words, he had no counter. Power swelled across his hands, and Darius prepared for one last barrage, one last attempt to prove his might. Instead, a dark portal emerged behind the priest, swirling with stars. As he leapt through, Valessa grabbed onto him, shrieking for him to not abandon her. Together they vanished within. The portal closed, and with that, they were gone.

Darius fell to his knees and gasped for air. The moment passed, and his exhaustion returned. He could hardly believe what he’d done. Sounds of battle pierced his daze, and he looked to the road leading into the village. The soldiers still fought, and worse, the lion still roared. The paladin forced himself to a stand, clutching his greatsword with both hands. That abomination needed to be returned to the Abyss from whence it came. Blood pounding in his ears, he ran toward the enemy flank.

Most of Karak’s soldiers had died, overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Their bodies lay strewn across the road, still in haphazard lines. Kayne, however, remained. The lion tore through their ranks, their chainmail nothing to his massive teeth and claws. The soldiers struck at his side and thrust for his underbelly, but to no avail. Kayne was too quick, too strong. A few pieces of rock had chipped off his side, and strangely enough, it appeared he bled liquid fire.

“To me, beast!” Darius cried as he came running, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Do not waste your time with pups when you could fight a wolf!”

Kayne heard his voice and turned. A deep snarl emitted from his throat.

“Traitor,” he rumbled.

To this, Darius laughed.

“I was loyal to Karak,” he said. “Karak turned on me, sent his followers to kill me, and now would have a priest sacrifice hundreds in his name. I dare say Karak’s the one who betrayed us.”

Kayne tensed, and his claws dug into the hard earth.

“You speak blasphemy and false truths,” he said. “I’ll tear your lying tongue from your head!”

The lion leapt, reaching his full speed in the blink of an eye. Darius fought his instincts to dodge aside, for Ashhur’s voice did not cry retreat in his ear, nor danger. It told him to stand. Trusting it, he thrust his greatsword to meet Kayne’s charge, putting every ounce of his strength into the attack. The lion filled Darius’s vision, throat full of fire, roar rolling against him like a physical force. But a light shone from his blade, and it grew, and grew. Kayne tried to bat the sword aside as he descended, to clear the way for his kill.

His paws sliced clean off instead. The sword remained unmoved. Mouth open, charge in full, Kayne fell upon Darius. The paladin’s blade went up to the hilt inside his jaws, the tip piercing out his back. Fire burned, and Darius felt its heat, but the light enveloped him, protected him. Rock cracked, turned molten and rolled in all directions as the creature howled and broke. In the center of the corpse, Darius stood, sword held in hand as the fire slowly dwindled away. He took a deep breath, then smiled. At his feet, the grass was burned black but for where he stood.

“Thank you,” he whispered, then lifted his sword high so all there might see its immaculate shine. Cyric had fled, the lion was dead; Ashhur had not abandoned them just yet.