The Old Ways (25 page)

“I am most comfortable at night,” Cyric said. “As is Lilah. Ashhur is slave to the sun. Let us find solace in the stars and moon.”

“The people of Willshire will be asleep.”

“Then we will wake them.”

Soon they reached worked fields. In the distance, she saw hints of smoke, and tiny flickers of torches. Valessa kept silent as she wondered why they came. Had the village done something to earn Karak’s ire? Did they come as messengers, or executioners?

At the edge of the village, the lioness stopped. Cyric turned to her, and he rubbed his chin as he thought.

“I once read that the unfinished can change their appearance at will. Is that true?”

Unfinished
, thought Valessa. Was that what she was? Unfinished? Was it because of her failed task, or did the term refer to her faith, her very form?

“I can,” she said. “Is my form...unpleasing to you?”

“You are beautiful, Valessa, but I do not ask for myself. It is you. You cloak yourself as if you were still a gray sister, but you are not. You have been granted a rare second chance. Accept it, and be glad. Your very presence should inspire fear and awe. You are not meant to hide in a crowd, not anymore. Let the crowds bow to you. I am Karak, come to this village. Let them see a mighty queen at my side.”

Valessa nodded, and tried to picture herself as a queen. Why did Cyric always make her so uncertain? Was it Karak’s presence? She did not know, and tried not to think on it, instead thinking on how she should appear. She’d been in the presence of Queen Annabelle in Mordeina once before, and she thought of her regal dress, her crimson cloak, and the gold crown upon her head. A bit garish for the wilderness, but Cyric demanded a queen. Opening her eyes, she saw herself clothed in similar flowing robes and cloak. Turning to the priest for approval, she instead saw disappointment.

“A mortal queen,” he said, shaking his head. “I ask for the bride of Karak, a mighty warrior for order. Is that how you would picture her?”

No, it wasn’t. Valessa knew how she pictured a woman equal to her god, but feared it might be blasphemous. Cyric demanded it of her, though, so she obeyed. This time, when she opened her eyes, she wore dark platemail, full of sharp edges and painted with the red lion across her chest. A thin silver circlet rested upon her brow, a single ruby in its center. Her cloak had shrunk, and was now a deep violet. Her skin was the color of milk, her eyes like sapphires. She was a woman dressed for battle, yet still bearing the trappings of a queen. She crossed her daggers and curtseyed to Cyric, who, to her relief, was greatly pleased.

“Magnificent,” he said, smiling. “Right now you are but an illusion, a form without substance. Serve me well, and I will make you whole. Make you real. Do you understand me, Valessa? Never doubt, never question, only serve.”

“And Darius?”

His smile grew.

“We’ll sacrifice him together, both our hands upon the dagger that pierces his heart. His blood will flow, and it will make you complete.”

Instead of unfinished.

The unspoken fact took whatever joy she might have felt at his words. Suddenly feeling foolish in her farcical armor, protecting flesh that would not bleed, she gestured to the rows of wood and straw homes full of sleeping villagers.

“We are here, and I am as you desire. What are we to do?”

“Bring them out from their homes. The people of Durham are here, hiding. I want to see them for myself, to look upon those who would dare speak against Karak’s greatness.”

“They will run in fear,” Lilah said, glancing at them. Valessa tried not to shudder at the sound of her voice. Every time, it startled her, made her afraid.

“Let none escape,” said Cyric. “But kill as few as possible. I have greater plans for them than a quick death at your claws.”

“Any mortal should feel blessed to suffer death by my claws,” Lilah growled, but did not object to his request. Cyric walked toward the village center, and Valessa kept at his side. Closing his eyes, he whispered the words of a prayer, then spoke aloud. His voice thundered across the village, magically enhanced.

“People of Willshire, I am Cyric, the Lion made flesh. Come to me, for I await you. Do not run, and do not be afraid. Those who give in to fear will die. Come to me.”

For several long moments, they heard little. Children cried from several of the scattered homes, waking frightened at the sound of the priest’s voice. Valessa watched, waited, trying to harden her heart against their fear. The faithful should show no fear in the presence of Karak, was not that what she’d always been taught? Then why did she feel fear when Lilah looked upon her, as if she were one wrong word away from being a meal? Why did she shiver when Cyric cast his smile upon her? Was he not Karak? Were they not his most trusted servants?

Doors opened, and the first of many stepped out into the night.

Don’t run,
she thought, unsure of the reason for her sympathy. The lioness lurked at the village edge, and despite Cyric’s request, people would still die. A creature of that size, that strength, could only do so much to subdue without killing. The way Lilah looked upon her, she knew the idea of bloodless subjugation was nowhere in the lioness’s nature.

“The priests say they should kneel by choice,” Cyric said as he waited for the villagers to gather. “My teacher, Luther, always taught me that the common folk would resist if they felt otherwise. Little more than children, he would say. But I have read the words of the prophet. I know Karak’s true desire. For what reason does it benefit a man to let him burn in fire through his choice, when he might be saved through the strength of others? Let them see the strength of Karak; let them cower in fear. That fear will strip away their pride, their selfishness, and their delusion that somehow they have worth apart from Karak.”

The crowd was gathering about them now. A few asked questions, but Cyric ignored them as if they were not there. Valessa stood tall, trying to feel regal, beautiful, dangerous...instead of little more than an imposter. Her daggers yearned for blood. She wanted to descend upon the crowd in a slaughter, to lose herself in the flow of combat, to rely on instinct. In battle, she could feel no doubts. In life, she had never known them, either. What was happening to her? What cruel sort of penance led her to doubt her faith, instead of reaffirming it as she rectified her failure?

In the distance, Lilah roared, and Valessa heard screams.

“Go to the priest, or suffer my claws,” she heard the lioness say, that terrifying voice booming throughout the village.

Men and women cowered, and children cried. Grief and terror all around her, Valessa realized, and in the center Cyric smiled and lifted his arms as if they were his beloved children.

“I have come,” he said. “I hear your questions. Hush your babies, listen, and you shall hear your answers. Valessa, my queen...is it not right that you should introduce me?”

Valessa felt so many eyes upon her. She tilted her head and spoke what was expected of her.

“You stand in the presence of Karak,” she said. “All with faith shall kneel.”

Only a scattered few did so. Valessa was last, and she bowed her head, unwilling to look at the accusing faces.

“I see so many without faith,” Cyric said, sadly shaking his head. Of the several hundred gathered, hardly more than twenty knelt. “A shame, but this world is a shameful place. People of Willshire, I come not for you, but those whom you harbor. The people of Durham, brought to you by Sir Robert at the Blood Tower. Let them come forth. I wish to look upon their faces.”

“You’ll kill them,” a brave man said from amid the crowd.

“I will kill you all if you do not obey,” said Lilah, stalking in from the outer edge of the village. Blood sizzled across her muzzle and jaw. “And do not presume to know the will of Karak.”

“I will commit no murder,” Cyric said. “No one will die tonight, that I promise you. As I said...I wish to look upon their faces.”

Still the gathered villagers did not move. Valessa glanced at Cyric, wondering how he would react. Would he unleash Lilah upon them, or would he expect his ‘queen’ to do his bloody work? Perhaps neither. Perhaps she would see a display of the raw power that burned within him and consumed his soul with gray fire.

“Is this how you treat your god?” Cyric asked as the painful silence stretched on.

“You ain’t our god!”

A different man. Valessa caught sight of him, just a young redhead no older than twenty. The crowd murmured along with him. She looked to the priest, waiting for the order to punish him for his insolence. But instead, Cyric breathed in deep, then let it out. His shoulders sagged as if he were greatly disappointed.

“Yes,” he said, his deep voice eerily quiet. “I am.”

He lifted his arms.

“And I said
kneel!
”

The word rolled off his tongue like a shockwave. Men and women flung themselves to the ground. It didn’t matter if there was no room, or if they held babes in their arms. Children, even the elderly, lurched to their hands and knees. Valessa was no exception. As she quivered, unable to resist the compulsion, she listened to the sounds of the crowd. Abandoned babes sobbed, the elderly cried out from broken bones, and many whimpered from strained and torn muscles. All throughout, she smelled the stench of fear, so palpable it was as if she could reach out and pluck strands of it from the air. With great effort, she forced her head up to look. The only one in the entire village without knee bent to Cyric was Lilah.

“I promised safety if obeyed,” Cyric told them. “But I make no such promise to the disloyal. Karak’s fire will burn the weak, the foolish, and the disobedient. I would ask for those from Durham to come forth, but I know they hold no faith to Karak. So I ask the rest of you, lift your fingers, and reveal to me the outsiders to your village.”

“I can tell you who they are,” a ragged man offered. Cyric turned to him, then beckoned him to rise. He looked wafer-thin, an uneven growth of beard on his face.

“Your name?”

“Billy,” said the man. “Lived here all my life. I can show you who don’t belong.” He turned to the rest of the village, and he snapped at them, as if he could sense their disdain. “And they don’t belong! They ain’t us! No reason for us to die for them.”

“Walk among them,” Cyric said, all emotion gone from his face. “Touch them, so I may know. As for the rest of you...are there any here who would serve their god? The Lion stands before you, and your reward will be great.”

Eleven men lifted their arms, and with a wave of Cyric’s hand, they stood. Valessa knew she should view them as faithful converts, but instead saw them as traitors to their village. Cyric bade them come to the front, where he put his thumb against each of their foreheads. It burned there for a moment, then faded, leaving only a black scar.

“If any harm you, or resist you, I will know,” he told them. “Now find me the people of Durham, and bring them here.”

No doubt they knew as well as Billy who the traitors were, but they did not scatter amid the crowd. Instead, they followed him as he walked, and grabbed every man, woman, and child he touched. Some struggled, only to be beaten by the eleven. Others burst into tears, but most remained stoic, saying not a word as they walked toward the front. The minutes crawled along. Valessa felt the villagers grow restless and angry, but Lilah’s presence was more than enough to keep them in check. The lioness prowled around the perimeter of the crowd, softly growling.

When nearly a hundred stood before them, Billy looped through the crowd a few more times, then shrugged.

“I think that’s it,” he said.

“Very good,” Cyric said. “Kneel at my right hand, as is your reward.”

Billy did so, and Valessa hated how pleased he looked. Cyric would give him no reward, other than perhaps rule over the pathetic little village. What he’d done, he’d done out of fear, not faith. There was little to cherish in that.

Cyric looked over the people of Durham, and Valessa did the same. There was nothing special about them; they were just tired and frightened farmers, herders, mothers and their children. They had a defiance to them that impressed her, though it was foolish, as she knew it would be.

“Who will speak for you?” Cyric asked.

“I will,” said a man, stepping forward. He was tall but heavyset, and dressed in finer clothing than the others. “My name is Jeremy Hangfield. I am the one who came to Sir Robert and told of the destruction Karak brought to our village. Strike me down, and get this over with.”

“You say Karak brought destruction upon your village,” Cyric said, approaching Jeremy. “But it wasn’t Karak, was it?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“A priest of his, then. He wore your robes, and his eyes shone like fire. Darius told us to kneel, or suffer. And we suffered, unjustly, unfairly.”

Cyric laughed in his face.

“Unjustly? Unfairly? You deserve nothing, not even the breath that fills your lungs. You were commanded to kneel, and warned of the punishment that would ensue if you did not. How is that unfair? You spat in the face of your god, the god who created you, who demanded worship lest he revoke your gift of life. Did you think you might resist without consequence? You are a spoiled child, angry at the punishment after willfully committing the misdeed.”