The Old Ways

8

Cyric helped his master and teacher prepare for departure, and did his best to hide his excitement. It wasn’t that he bore any ill will toward Luther-far from it. But this meant a chance to finally be on his own, to have a measure of trust placed upon him. With it came expectations, but he felt confident he could handle whatever the world threw at him. His faith in Karak was strong, after all.

“Remember to keep your patience when speaking to Daniel and Sir Robert,” Luther said as he folded together similar colored robes, then cinched the container tight. “They will never be faithful to Karak, but they can still be of use in our crusade against chaos.”

“They should be replaced if they will not bow to the true god,” Cyric said, hoisting a trunk of Luther’s things onto his shoulder.

“In time, my student. In time, all the world will bow. But it does not yet, and expecting perfection from this chaotic world will only lead to disappointment.”

Cyric led the way down the stairs to the outer wall, where the wagons waited.

“What you say sounds like defeat,” he said. He didn’t like arguing with Luther, but today he felt confident, proud. Luther was to leave fifty men in his care. He had every intention of using that gift to its utmost potential.

“Defeat and acceptance are not the same thing,” Luther said. Cyric could not see him, but he heard the impatience creeping into his voice. “You’ll understand one day, when you have walked across Dezrel as much as I.”

Cyric put the chest into the wagon and shoved it into place, then took Luther’s bag and gently tossed it in as well. That was the last of it, and all around them the armed men of Karak prepared to leave. Luther crossed his arms and looked Cyric over. The younger man held down a shiver. He hated when his master analyzed him so.

“What will you do?” Luther asked. Cyric stood up straight, and did not hide the pride in his voice.

“Continue to spread the faith. Weaken Sir Robert’s control over the Blood Tower until he acknowledges our right to rule over him. With that done, I will find the remnants of Durham. They will learn the folly of accusing a paladin of Karak of causing chaos and destruction.”

“And how will you do that?”

Luther’s voice had grown quieter, more guarded. Cyric knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but didn’t care. He’d put much thought into this, and it was time to reveal the truths he’d uncovered.

“I’ve read the older tomes,” said Cyric. “There are spells in them, rituals of such power and strength it overwhelms the mind. That strength will be mine. With it, I will renew the faithful, and crush those that worship the false god, or deny Karak’s power. It is time to bring the old ways back to the North.”

“I told you to avoid those tomes,” Luther said. “Our council has deemed them too dangerous to the cause of Karak.”

“But why? With them, I can force the will of Karak upon all chaotic life!”

“You would enslave them, Cyric! Don’t you understand? We must use a firm hand when reshaping this world, but we must also ensure that there is still a choice, no matter how illusionary it may be. Man will struggle against foreign chains about his neck, but if he binds himself willingly, humbly, he will remain free of chaos forever. That is why you must not use the old ways.”

Cyric felt his temper rise at such a rebuke, and his pride stung deeply.

“Not all the priesthood feel as you do,” he said, trying to stand tall before his imposing master. “Hayden often laments the loss of the old ways, and I’ve read Pelorak’s teachings from…”

“Enough,” Luther said, striking the wagon. Dark magic flared across his fist, and the wood splintered from the blow. “You are my disciple, not theirs. How can I pass on my wisdom to you if you would ignore me, and go only by the books you read and the dreams that fill your head? If you resurrect the old ways, you will bring about terrible ruin, to yourself, and to the North.”

He stepped into the wagon and called out for the rider to begin.

“You may not approve,” Cyric said, walking behind it as it started to move. “But I am yet to hear you forbid me from doing so.”

Luther leaned back, his arms crossed.

“It is still your choice,” he said. “I will not deny you that. Be mindful of your prayers, and listen for the whispers of Karak. I trust he will dissuade you from this naive hope. If you find yourself lost, trust in Salaul’s advice.”

Cyric bowed respectfully, but the moment Luther was gone, he shoved his teacher from his thoughts. He would not listen to a man so closed-minded against the wisdom of the great fathers of their faith. Hurrying through the now largely abandoned campsite, Cyric searched out the man left by Luther to aid him in spiritual matters, the dark paladin Salaul. He found him reorganizing the layout of the camp because of their far fewer numbers, relocating them into the inner walls of the Blood Tower.

“My friend,” Cyric said, bowing to the paladin. Salaul leaned back and crossed his arms. He was an older man with graying hair, now living a life of training and teaching instead of actual combat. But he was a paladin of Karak, and his strength was still greater than that of most mortals. A greataxe hung on his back from several leather straps. Cyric could only begin to guess how many lives it had claimed.

“Young priest,” Salaul said, his voice incredibly deep. “Luther told me you would be assuming control of the situation here at the Blood Tower. I offer you my wisdom, for I have seen much in this world, for good and ill.”

“Your wisdom will aid me greatly,” Cyric said, trying to sound even half as authoritative as Salaul. “But for now, I have a task for you, one that must be done away from prying eyes.”

Salaul narrowed his gaze.

“I will do nothing that might dishonor my god,” he said. “What is it you would ask of me?”

It was a gamble, Cyric knew. He’d learned everything he could of Salaul, of his many battles against bandits, his periodic trips to Mordeina to preach on the streets, and most of all, of his total lack of hesitation in using that greataxe of his to enforce the will of Karak.

“Tonight, I will cross the Gihon and into the Wedge,” Cyric said, nodding toward the river. “I wish to communicate with our god. All I require is one man or woman to accompany me, someone loyal to Karak above all else.”

“Any of our men would gladly volunteer,” Salaul said, gesturing about the camp.

“Then find me the most faithful, and have them meet me at the river come nightfall. Understood?”

Salaul tugged at his armor, adjusting the padding underneath.

“They will want to know what it is they volunteer for,” he said.

Cyric sensed the real question beneath it, the paladin’s desire to know the truth. He had to be careful here, but his gut told him Salaul would be open to the old ways, more so than many.

“I will not say, but you may accompany me, Salaul. Karak surely will hear my prayer if you are there to lend it strength.”

“Perhaps.”

Salaul bowed, and Cyric returned to his room in the Blood Tower. His heart raced. It was time. All his patience would now be rewarded. In his room, he retrieved a book from his satchel. He’d read many things in the Stronghold’s library, as well as the priests’ library in Mordeina. In the dark corners, he’d found tomes untouched for over a hundred years. At the Stronghold, he’d discovered one in particular that had sent his fingers tingling just by touching its leather-bound frame, and set his heart racing by reading the faded cover.

The Collected Words of the Prophet.

It had no drawings, no gold lettering, nothing that might indicate the immense knowledge within. He still remembered the first sentence, the moment that had put his entire life into order, and given him a purpose for his discipleship. He opened it now, fingers lovingly touching the paper, and then read aloud.

“To the best of my abilities, here within I recount the wisdom granted to me by the man with a thousand faces, Karak’s most holy servant…”

He flipped through, stopping at a section he’d marked with a thin, dried leaf.

Tonight, he thought. Tonight!

The hours crawled as in seclusion he read over passages he’d studied a hundred times. There could be no error, no slip of the tongue. This was the first of the rituals, his childlike step into the old ways. Should he be successful, all of Dezrel would soon know his name. Within the temple, he’d be revered for his accomplishments.

At last the sun began to set. He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. Before going, he reached into his trunk and pulled out a bundle of cloth tied shut with string. Hiding it within his robes, he left the Blood Tower. Waiting for him at the river was Salaul and another man who Cyric did not recognize.

“We are here,” Salaul said at his arrival. “Cyric, this is Pat Arenson.”

“Karak saved me from my sinful life of murder and rape,” said Pat. He was a shorter man, with black hair that curled about his neck and ears. “I owe everything to you priests. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it with a song on my lips.”

Cyric smiled.

“Excellent. I can sense your faith, Pat. Stand tall, and be proud. I have selected you for a great honor, unbestowed for far too many years.”

“Very good,” Salaul said, hardly sounding impressed. He gestured to the river. “Do you have a way for us to cross? Otherwise, I procured us a boat.”

“A boat will suffice.”

The three men rode to the opposite side, Cyric standing in the center while the other two rowed. He felt the cold night air blowing through his hair, and it did nothing to diminish his smile. Instead, it made him feel more alive, closer to the stars and, therefore, closer to his god. When they hit the shore, Salaul hammered down a stake in the dark earth and tied the boat to it. Meanwhile, Cyric hurried across the grass, searching for a flat section. It was all flat, so he chose a spot at random upon which to begin.

“Be with me, Karak,” he said, closing his eyes in prayer.

Priests of Karak could wield great power, but so far Cyric had been given little chance to demand it. It was not something that could be practiced, for Karak frowned on pointless use of his power. But now-now was the time. Fire burned across his hands, and he felt pride at its strength. The grass caught, and he controlled it like he might his own limb, guiding it in a circle. The heat grew, the fire roared, and then the interior of the circle was also consumed. With a clap of his hands, it died, leaving him a space to perform his ritual.

“Clear out the ash,” he told Pat.

The man knelt and scooped away with his hands without complaint. Meanwhile, Cyric flipped to the marked section and fought down a last moment of nerves. This was it. He would show no fear, no hesitation. The words of the prophet soothed him. When Pat finished, Cyric glanced at Salaul, who was watching with his arms crossed. Was that mistrust in his eyes, or merely boredom? The paladin might not be impressed yet, but he would be soon. Cyric read aloud a passage, feeling the power of Karak flowing through him. The burned ground flashed red for the briefest moment, then faded.

Falling to his knees, Cyric slowly dipped a finger in the dirt and scratched a symbol. It was as if he were opening a wound into the world, revealing an angry red glow burning across melted rock. Cyric hurried about the circle’s perimeter, drawing rune after rune. His confidence grew as each one flared with power. There was no boredom in Salaul’s eyes when he finished, only a growing awareness of the momentous event.

“You dabble in ancient powers,” he said.

“I awaken what was forgotten,” Cyric said. “I practice what our god once preached. Will you stop me?”

The paladin shook his head.

“I still remember a time when the Stronghold held to the old ways. I was only a child, but I remember their faith.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Pat.

“Step into the center,” Cyric said, pointing. “Close your eyes, lift your arms up and your head to the stars. Pray to Karak with all your strength. Beg for his mercy, his wisdom. Let it flow upon us all.”

“As you wish.”

Pat hesitated only a moment, impressing Cyric with his determination. The runes shone about him, bathing him in crimson light. Pat lifted his head, closed his eyes, and began to pray. It was a constant drone, but it was sincere. Heart pounding in his chest, Cyric pulled out the cloth package and broke the string with his fingers. He let the wrappings fall, and he held the dagger hidden within.

There was a time when Karak himself walked the world, and he gave his wisdom to his priests and followers. There were a few who recorded those words, and the rituals demanded therein. Time had diminished their power, and council after council had challenged their use. They were rules for a more barbaric time, they claimed. Primitive practices, filled with superstition, exaggerations, and uncivilized ways. The priesthood had moved on. It had evolved. But Cyric knew the truth.

The world had not changed. People had not changed. Only their faith, their determination, had changed, and it was not for the better.

“Place your blessing upon me,” Cyric said, lifting his dagger to the heavens. “Let it flow upon us, opening our eyes, our hearts, and our minds.”

This was it, the only time Salaul could stop him. But he did not.

Cyric stepped forward, into the circle, where Pat continued to pray.

“Praise be,” whispered Cyric, and he felt a chill run up his spine at the words.

He slashed open Pat’s throat, then grabbed his jaw and held him still. Pat’s eyes opened wide, and his arms convulsed, but he was helpless before the power that flooded into the runes. Blood poured down Cyric’s arm, and it splashed across the circle. The runes burst with fire that stretched ever higher, but the heat did not burn-at least, not him. Pat’s body flickered orange and red. The skin blackened. In Cyric’s hand, the sacrifice was consumed.

The Lion roared.

Cyric felt a force fling him to his knees. The stars were gone, replaced by a solid black sky that rumbled angrily. Red lightning crackled, though there were no clouds. The ground shook, and he realized it was from the approach of a great stampede in the distance. He saw their eyes, their molten skin. Lions, thousands of them, racing toward him. As one they roared, and it seemed all of Dezrel quaked with their fury. The pack grew closer, swirling about him like a river. He did not see Salaul, and in truth, hardly even remembered he had been there.

What is it you seek?

The voice came from everywhere, as if spoken by the sky, the earth, the lions, and his own mind. It overwhelmed him to tears. He struck the ground with his fists, crying out for strength. The voice was so deep, so cold, but he would not be afraid. He would not cower.

“I am a servant,” he shouted, but his voice was lost in a sudden wind. It blew in from the west, and in its fury came fire, consuming the very air. Cyric closed his eyes as he felt his hair burn away, and his flesh peel.

Whom do you serve?

“You!” he cried. “I serve Karak!”

The fire poured down his throat, igniting his insides. His tongue dried to dust. The ground beneath him turned molten, and he sank within. His legs were gone, his arms…

What do you desire?

He opened his mouth to scream, but he had no tongue, no voice. It didn’t matter. He cried it out with his heart, with the last vestiges of his strength. It was the truth, for he could not lie, not in that storm. Not with the fires of the Abyss consuming the chaos of his very soul.

“To bring order to all I touch!”

The wind blew again, and it left a shocking cold. He saw nothing, heard only the growls of the legion of lions. Their tongues licked at his flesh. Their teeth bit into his bones. Again he shrieked his cry for order. He would banish the chaos by blade and fire. He would take life away from the unfaithful, deny them the gifts their wretched, ungrateful souls did not deserve. All of it, he screamed, he would do all of it in Karak’s name.

And then, in a sudden silence, he was given his wish.

Then stand.

The vision left him. The pain was gone. Cyric looked about, feeling tears running down his face. It was still night. The circle at his feet was gone, the runes smeared with dirt. They no longer shone with power. Before him knelt Salaul, his greataxe laid flat across his knee. Nothing remained of Pat, not even dust.

“Blessed be,” said Salaul, looking up to him with nothing but admiration. “I am honored to serve.”

Cyric lifted his hands, and as he looked at them, he felt the immense power dwelling within. Karak’s strength flowed through him, giving him a confidence he could hardly comprehend. Whatever he wished, he could make it so. He knew this, somehow. Overcome with a desire to test it, he told the paladin to stand.

“How long was I…gone?” he asked him.

“I do not know, milord,” said Salaul.

“Lord? Why do you call me lord?”

Salaul swallowed. Something had clearly shaken him, but what?

“You disappeared among the fire,” he said. “But Karak spoke to me, and told me to remain. I did, for many long hours. I heard lions roaring, and then you were here, within the blink of an eye. I heard Karak speak one last time…I heard him call you beloved.”

Salaul knelt once more.

“You have been to the fires of the Abyss, and then returned. I cannot imagine being worthy of such a gift, but you are. You are worthy in Karak’s eyes. Speak the word, and I will obey.”

Cyric looked back to where the Blood Tower rose high above the river, its lanterns shining bright amid the night.

“Let us earn their faith,” he said, thinking of Sir Robert’s soldiers. “Let us show them miracles, show them power.”

“As you wish, milord.”

“Lord…yes. There is no other lord but Karak, but you are right to call me that. He is here, isn’t he?”

“Cyric…your eyes!”

Cyric did not know what he saw, but he assumed it was another sign. Returning to the river, he saw their boat, then chuckled.

“Take my hand, Salaul.”

The paladin did so, and together they walked across the river to the other side, where the faithless waited to be converted.