The Old Ways

24

Valessa did not know what to expect as she exited the shadow portal. She could barely think through the pain that filled her. Stumbling out, she fell to knees that became her arms, then her hands, then back again to her knees. Her form kept fighting, twisting, and she could barely remember who she once was. Her eyes opened, and she looked about. They were in rolling hills, the grass a pale yellow. Glancing behind her, she saw a river.

“The Wedge?” she asked. Was that where he’d taken her?

“It seems appropriate,” Cyric said. His voice was behind her, and with great effort, she turned to face him. Blood dripped from his hand, and more stained his robe from where the arrow remained embedded in his shoulder. His head dipped low, as if he were humbled for the first time in his life. Most frightening were his eyes: the wild, angry loathing that grew with every word he spoke.

“Is this not where we trap the monsters and other frightening creatures no longer of use to us?”

“Cyric?” Valessa asked, struggling to stand. She felt herself coming together, and pale skin started to form across the shadow that was her. “What are you doing?”

“Ashhur has stolen away my victory, but the blame is mine. Karak does not bestow mercy on those who deserve punishment.”

He lifted his hand, and from the center of his bleeding palm she saw stars swirling together amid a black void. And then the pain hit. It was different than when the light of Darius’s sword or Jerico’s shield touched her. That burned from the outside, dissolving away at her being. This was so, so much worse. She felt the very center of her soul cracking from within, her limbs shaking, her mind breaking into pieces as the very substance holding her together was taken away.

“I should have struck you down the moment I saw you,” he said as the pain increased. “The unfinished are all failures in Karak’s eyes, unworthy of a place of honor at his side. I gave you a chance, yet now we suffer. I suffer! Your burden was to kill Darius, and you did not, you worthless, faithless bitch! What you feel, that is Karak’s anger.”

His words were becoming a jumble in her mind. Her skin burst, and gray shadows bubbled to the ground. To her knees she went, clawing wildly at the earth. This was how he would repay her? She suffered in agony, denied an eternity with her god, and yet he would blame her for his own failures? Darius had defeated him as well. Where was Karak’s fury for him?

“Karak,” she whispered. “Please…Karak…save me.”

She prayed for strength, for escape from the torment, for the mad priest to suffer…but heard only laughter. Her limbs were gone, as were her legs; she was nothing but a writhing puddle of shadow struggling to retain form. Still she could see Cyric looming over her, nothing but hatred and faith. Yes, she saw it, his faith burning bright, his skin alive with ethereal fire. Karak loved him still, but why?

Then there was no love for her. Closing her eyes, she cursed her god, and fell through the world.

The rock and stone passed over her as she fell. Caverns and empty spaces flew past, but still she fell. She thought to fall forever, to see if at the very bottom she might find the Abyss her god ruled over. But instead she felt water, a great river rolling beneath the surface. This time she did not fight it, despite the horrible pain and discomfort it caused. She didn’t care for her form, didn’t care for her survival. It carried her for a moment, and then at last, she slipped from its current and into stone.

Something stopped her from falling further. The pain was ebbing, however little. Within the rock, her heart hardened, and with a tentative hand reaching upward, barely more than a tendril of smoke, she yearned for the surface. It was strange, the way it felt as she climbed, melding parts of her body with the stone to lunge higher. But she endured. Crawling, crawling, time meaningless in that darkness, the hours passed. Higher and higher. Many times she thought herself confused, and feared she crawled downward, but she fought through the disorientation.

At last, her hand burst through the grass, and like a woman emerging from a deep river, she crawled upon the surface. She didn’t know where she was, saw nothing but trees and thorn bushes in all directions, but it didn’t matter. The red star still burned in the sky, and she followed it. Hours passed as she ran, her form steadily regaining strength. Her surroundings grew familiar, and she realized she was on the correct side of the Gihon, thankfully.

On and on, to Darius.

The night was young when she found Daniel’s men camped at the outset of Willshire. Darius was among them, she knew, but they would not let her pass, not if they recognized her. Adopting the look and dress of a plain village woman, she wandered through them, smiling meekly at any who looked her way. In the center she found Darius’s tent, him sitting within it. His sword was at his side, but so far, it lacked its damnable glow.

“Darius,” she said, stepping within. He looked up from his bed, confused, but then she dropped the facade, and stood naked before him, her own body, her own face, with nothing to hide. He reached for his sword, but she did not move.

“Have you not had enough?” he asked, his hand closing about the hilt.

“I have,” she said, even as her skin flaked away under the growing light of his sword. “I promise you nothing, for the blood between us remains. But that is not why I am here.”

She hated doing so, but she must. Valessa fell to one knee, bowed her head, then looked up into Darius’s eyes so he might see the searing hatred in them.

“Help me,” she asked. “Help me kill Cyric.”