The Old Ways (18 page)

“What is it?” he asked.

“Cyric’s extended an invitation to the rest of our soldiers,” Daniel said. “Many want to go. What do I say?”

Robert scratched at his chin and looked out his window. He couldn’t see the altar from there, but he could imagine it, grand in size and surrounded by a large crowd.

“Much as I hate that bastard, he’s right. I won’t stand in the way of a man and his god. Whoever wants to go can go, so long as their duties are completed.”

Daniel clearly felt otherwise, but he held his tongue. Once he’d left, Robert peered down from his window. He might not be able to see the altar, but he could see the path there. He counted seventy men heading north. A third of his men.

“So much for king and country,” Robert muttered.

He belted his sword to his waist, flung on a heavy cloak, and descended the stairs. Joining in the ceremony was out of the question, but he would not remain in the dark about whatever Cyric planned.

The altar was even more impressive than he’d expected. The stone slab had been painted a dark black, though how he did not know. Fires burned at the corners in the thick pits, while crisscrossing outward in seemingly random directions were tall torches whose fire gave off no smoke. Over a hundred men encircled the altar. Atop the stone were three men. Robert recognized Cyric, but the other two were unknown to him. They were naked from the waist up, their bodies covered with red paint. They knelt with their heads bowed, their eyes blindfolded, and their hands bound behind their backs. The crowd sang a song Robert vaguely recognized, though it lacked any joy, just the sound of a droning litany of faith toward Karak. The chant made his skin crawl.

Robert remained in the far back, as close as possible to his tower while still able to hear the words Cyric spoke. As the last light of the sun dipped below the horizon, Cyric called for silence.

“My friends. My soldiers. My faithful. Welcome to this glorious night. Beneath these stars, you will witness the might of Karak laid bare before you. Long have the gods fought over Dezrel, but at last we will find victory. The blood moon approaches. At last, the true god returns to these lands. At last, the Lion walks among us!”

“The Lion!” cheered the fifty soldiers who had remained with Cyric when Luther left. An ill feeling tightened Robert’s throat, and he found his eyes drawn to the bound men. Who were they? What was to be done with them? Any normal day he would have forced an answer, but he was no fool. He felt the electricity in the air. If he protested, or came back with armed men, he’d have a battle on his hands.

“The Lion has returned!” Cyric cried, all smiles, all victory. “And he has returned in me. But I know there are many here who are doubtful, many who are not ready to believe. I pray that you come to wisdom, and quickly. We are owed nothing, not even our very next breath. ‘A sign,’ I’m sure you cry in your hearts. ‘Give me a sign!’ And so I will.”

This was it, thought Robert. He couldn’t imagine what sign Cyric would produce. He hoped it would be a meager one, born of smoke and visions. His men were better than that. Despite all the priest’s words, they wanted action, wanted something firm. Cyric had made many promises. Now it was time to see if he could deliver.

A cold wind blew over them as Cyric motioned for someone to join him atop the altar. Robert recognized him as the dark paladin, though he did not know his name. The paladin knelt behind the first of the two bound men and lifted his axe.

“These two men have given their lives to Karak,” Cyric told the crowd as a wave of unease stirred through them. “They are sinful, wretched beings. They stole. They killed. Perfection will never be possible for them in this life, but their faith is great. And so comes their reward.”

The paladin swung. His axe tore through spine and flesh, and showered the altar with gore. Karak’s soldiers cheered, and to Robert’s horror, so did many of his men. Blood dripped across the stone and down its black sides.

“Praise be to Karak,” cried the other bound man in a quivering voice. The paladin went to his side. No hesitation, no preaching, just another brutal chop, and down he went. More blood. More cheers.

“Their bodies are destroyed!” Cyric cried. “But they are not! Their souls burn in purifying fire, changing, becoming greater than ever before. Lift your voices! Lift your hearts! I am Karak. I am your god, now witness my power!”

The red markings on the two bodies flared, then suddenly burst into flame. High above, thunder rumbled. Wind blew. And then red lightning struck in rapid succession, hitting the center of the corpses. Cyric laughed as the altar split down its center. The corpses exploded, showering the crowd with blood. And then, from within those torn bodies, the lions emerged.

They were enormous creatures, easily the size of horses. Their skin cracked from the heat of their own bodies, which were made of a rough, dark stone. Along the cracks in their flesh shimmered the yellow glow of molten rock. One’s neck was bare, the other with a thick mane of shadow, which billowed in the wind. Their obsidian claws glimmered. In unison they pulled back and roared, the force of it knocking many to their knees. Deep in their throats, Robert saw liquid fire.

The two lions circled about Cyric, eyeing him with their red eyes. Robert thought he would bow, show fear and respect to such amazing creatures, but instead it was the lions that lowered their heads. Cyric turned to the crowd and lifted his arms.

“Now is the time,” said the priest. “Make your choice. Serve the true god, or be consumed by his fury. Kneel, or know death.”

All but twelve kneeled, not counting Robert, who suddenly felt very exposed, and very alone. Before they could react, the lions leapt, moving with speed that seemed impossible for creatures of such size. They dove upon the men, slicing open flesh with a swipe of their obsidian claws and snapping necks with a single bite of their jaws. Those who knelt remained perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might bring the beasts bearing down upon them as well. Of the twelve, only one managed to run, and it was not far. His blood boiled across the tongue of a lion.

Robert had seen many horrors in his years as a soldier and a commander, but he’d never known such fear as when those lions turned their eyes to him. He felt his legs go weak, his stomach twist into his throat.

“Shit.”

He ran as Cyric lifted his arms to the sky and cried out his worship.

“Glory and power to our beloved Karak! Arms, my brethren, take up your arms. We follow the old ways now, the way of sword and blood and faith. Kneel, or be made pure in death.”

Robert heard a familiar sound, that of many swords being simultaneously drawn from their scabbards. His tower was not far, but he’d seen the speed of the lions. He did not expect to make it, but he didn’t have to. The two men standing guard at the door rushed to meet him, their weapons ready.

“Inside!” they cried.

Robert did not slow, did not dare look back. He heard the brief sound of combat, and screams of pain. Then he was at the door, slamming into it at full speed. Once inside, he flung it closed, shut the locks, and leaned his forehead against the wood.

“Dear gods,” he whispered. “What have I allowed?”

No time for that. The makings of a battle were upon him, and it was his task to lead his men. He could not be afraid, could not hesitate. Rushing up the stairs, he searched the barracks. Perhaps they could hold the tower, but how many were in there with him?

The second floor was empty, but on the third, he saw a dozen men gathered before the windows, bows in hand.

“Sir!” one said, seeing his entrance. “What word from Daniel?”

Robert didn’t understand, so he pushed aside the archer and looked out at the battlefield below. Cyric’s men had come pouring in from their camp, already within the outer wall. Near the tower and stables Daniel had formed a battle line. A hundred of his men stood firm, challenging the mercenaries sworn to Karak. Despite their inferior gear, the men seemed to be holding. The archers rained arrows down upon the enemy ranks, with perfect position from the windows.

“Daniel prepared for this,” Robert said, realizing what he was seeing.

“He did,” said one of the archers. “Forgive us, sir. We were told to say nothing in case he was wrong.”

“We can hold them,” Robert said, analyzing the fight. Karak’s soldiers fought with religious fervor, but his own men defended their homes, their lives. They also had greater numbers, plus the advantage of the archers. Yes, they could hold...

“What the fuck is that?” asked the man at the northernmost window. Robert leaned out, and there he saw the lions approaching, flanking Cyric at either side. They seemed to be in no great hurry.

“Put every arrow you have into those things,” Robert ordered. “And pray one pierces an eye.”

The men changed their aim and let their arrows fly. Cyric stepped back, as if sensing he was in danger, but the lions continued on. Several struck true, but they bounced off the dark skin as if hitting stone. The archers showed no worry, unleashing a second and third volley. Still the arrows hit, and did nothing.

And then the lions burst forward, the sudden change in speed horrifying to see. They were too big to move that fast, they had to be. The lions crashed through their own ranks, then leapt upon Daniel’s men. Swords could not pierce their flesh. Shields could not deflect their strikes. In seconds, the rout was on. Robert could not see Daniel, but he hoped he made it out somehow. Someone needed to tell the world what happened there.

The lions gave chase, but Karak’s men did not. They turned their attention to the tower, and the locked doors. The archers continued firing at the men, but they were hesitant, and Robert  caught many glancing his way. Worse, he saw Cyric lift his arms, darkness shimmering about his fingers.

“Get back,” he ordered.

Two did not retreat in time. Arrows made of blood pierced their sides. One slumped by the window, the other fell through, his skull cracking on the ground below. Silence filled the room as the men stood there, looking to their leader. Robert knew they wanted hope, wanted victory, but he had none to offer them.

“Men, you have served me well, as you have your lords, and your country,” he said. “I don’t know how much your life is worth to you, or what gods you believe in. If any one of you wants to fall to your knees, I won’t blame you. But as for me, I’ll be in my room with my door barred. When they break through, I plan on killing as many as I can before tasting death. Any who still wish to fight, grab a sword and follow me.”

Every man there took up arms, and Robert couldn’t have been more proud.

At the top of the tower, they put his desk, chair, and chest of clothing against the door. Two men stood at the far side, bows in hand. The rest waited, swords drawn, listening to the cries of pain intermixed with worship outside.

“King Baedan won’t allow this,” said one, rubbing his sword with an oiled cloth. “When he finds out, he’ll send his whole army. Wish I could see the look on that priest’s face when he sees how doomed he is.”

“He ain’t going to hear shit,” said another. “Who’s going to tell the king what happened? You?”

“Daniel will. He escaped. I saw it.”

“Enough,” Robert said to them both. “Just...enough. I won’t spend what little time I have left listening to you two bicker.”

“Then how will we spend it?” asked a third. Footsteps echoed from the stairs beyond the door, and they heard scattered shouts.

“Like men,” Robert said, drawing his sword. “Clear the door. I won’t have them starve us out, and I won’t wait for that priest to weaken us with his sorcery. Let those bastards in, and we’ll give them a proper Blood Tower welcome.”

Even facing death, none there would disobey their commander. They pushed away the barricade. So far nothing heavier than a man’s shoulder pressed the door from the outside, so the locks still held. Robert held up his fingers, counting down for them to fling open the bolt. On three, he let out a cry and raised his sword.

The door burst open, and several men came barging in, their armor painted with a red lion. The first fell, two arrows in his throat. Another tried and failed to block a trio of attacks as Robert’s men assaulted him from all sides. More soldiers poured inside, the archers abandoned their bows, and at last Robert joined in. He parried and twisted, but he felt none of the youth he had when he fought the wolf-men in Durham mere months ago. He felt old, tired. He was watching his men die before him, and for what? The whims of a mad priest?

They killed two for every one of their own, but still they fell. Robert plunged himself into the gap, drenching his sword with blood. Every time he watched the life fade out from those fanatical eyes, he felt a smile stretch across his face. A counter-riposte, and another died. They were down to four, but the mercenaries were beaten back to the door. Robert dared to think they’d hold, that they’d build a wall of the dead across the stairs.

Cyric stepped into the room.

Robert felt both fear and hope. Fear, for he knew the priest’s power. Hope, because with one thrust he might end the entire conflict, maybe even send those blasted lions back to the Abyss where they belonged. The paladin was with him, but his attention was turned to the other men slashing and thrusting. The way was clear. Robert held the hilt of his sword with both hands and swung with every last remnant of his strength.