The Old Ways (9 page)

He turned a corner, approaching the bottom door to the Blood Tower, when he encountered one of the priests. It was the young one, Cyric. The way he leaned against the door with his arms behind his back made it seem like he’d been waiting for him.

“Morning,” Daniel said, hoping to barge right past without conversation.

“Morning,” Cyric said, stepping in the way. “A word, if you please?”

Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

“Of course. What do you need?”

Cyric rubbed his knuckles against his robe and then looked at them, as if oblivious to Daniel’s impatience.

“Something has been bothering me. Luther insists I not worry, but perhaps you might indulge me anyway. I would like to speak with the witnesses of the attack on Durham.”

The young man looked up and smiled. Daniel felt his blood chill. It was a serpent’s smile, a killer’s grin.

“For what reason?” he asked. “Sir Robert has already judged they speak truthfully.”

“I do not mean to doubt Robert’s decision,” Cyric said. “Only to hear with my own ears what happened. I find it hard to believe that just one man caused such destruction. Don’t you?”

Daniel swallowed. The townsfolk had spoken of another man that came after Darius’s warning. Fire had leapt from his hands and demonic words from his tongue. They’d given no name, and among them all, couldn’t even agree on a description, other than the color of his eyes: a deep red that shone as if the fires of the Abyss burned behind them. With so little to go on, Robert had restricted the bounty to the one person whose blame no one could deny: Darius.

“A paladin of Karak can be a very powerful foe,” Daniel said.

“Indeed,” Cyric said, his smile growing. “I am not ignorant of their power. Five traveled with Luther and me from Mordeina, after all.”

Daniel sensed the implied threat and did his best to pretend he hadn’t.

“That’s fine, but I don’t think it appropriate you speak to the townsfolk. They have suffered enough without you bringing up bad memories.”

“I am afraid I must insist, Daniel.”

“Then insist to Robert. You have my answer.”

He grabbed the handle to the door. Cyric remained leaning against it, as if daring Daniel to pull it open.

“We’ll be holding a service tomorrow,” said the fledgling priest. “You should attend.”

“The Abyss will freeze over before I do.”

“Careful,” said Cyric, stepping out of the away. “The time of judgment approaches on the backs of lions. I would hate to be caught unaware.”

Daniel stormed outside, glad to be away. He’d hoped to take his frustration out on his men in a grueling training session, but it seemed one of the gods was conspiring against him, and it took little wit to guess which one. Normally they held practice in a wide area of trampled dirt, within the small courtyard that stretched between the tower and the outer walls. That morning, Luther stood in its center, a book in hand. A tenth of the Blood Tower’s fighting men stood about, listening as Luther preached in a firm, steady voice. The mere sight sent Daniel’s blood boiling.

“What is going on here?” he asked, pulling one of his men aside.

“Just listening,” said the man, though he looked away, as if guilty of something. Daniel bit his tongue as he realized Luther was in mid-prayer. He felt awkward interrupting it, especially when he realized several others were praying along. Karak or Ashhur, Sir Robert had never cared, so long as it didn’t interfere with his soldiers’ duties. Despite his anger, Daniel tried to honor that, and let the priest finish.

“...and may we always abide by the strength and wisdom of the Lion,” said Luther. “And all those with wisdom say amen.”

Five or six echoed the word ‘amen’, and for whatever reason, it set the hair on the back of Daniel’s neck to standing. The prayer over, the men scattered, all shooting glances toward Daniel, who approached Luther.

“A word,” he said, grabbing Luther’s robe by the shoulder.

“Of course,” Luther said, nothing but calm. “Though remember whose robe you grab, and perhaps show wisdom the next time you would act in anger.”

Daniel accepted the rebuke, and forced his temper in check. Their situation was no less precarious now than it had been at the priests’ first arrival.

“My apologies,” Daniel said dryly. “But this place is for my men to train every morning, and I cannot have you occupying them with speeches and sermons.”

“Does the soul not need training as well?” Luther asked as he led him toward the gate to the outside. “What good does it to teach men how to kill if they know not when or why to use those abilities?”

“That’s why we have a chain of command, why we teach them to follow orders.”

“Exactly,” Luther said, sounding pleased. It made Daniel feel like he was just another of the old priest’s students, and he didn’t like it. “Chain of command. Such a good term to describe what we do. Imagine the Blood Tower represents our world. You are to your men as I am to my flock, a teacher. Above you is Sir Robert, just as above me are the old masters in Mordeina and the Stronghold. And as the King is above Sir Robert, so is Karak above us all. We are in the same field of work, Daniel, and I would hope you appreciate my difficulties.”

“I’m training men to defend all the West from the bloodthirsty creatures in the Vile Wedge.”

“And I’m training men to defend their souls from the evils of the world. I dare say that my task is more important, wouldn’t you?”

They stepped out the gate. Across the lush field fed by the Gihon was Karak’s encampment, formed of several dozen tents. Over five hundred men were there, well armed and armored. Their very look made him uneasy. They were like private mercenaries, only worse. The Stronghold might pay them with gold or jewels, but they viewed their service as a religious duty. They served no king, only Karak. The very notion made Daniel nervous. Once a man invested his loyalty in something other than his own king, it made him unpredictable and dangerous.

“What is it you’re here for?” Daniel asked as Luther stopped to view his camp. He kept his voice low, as if they were discussing secrets. “You have what you wanted. We’ll take Darius alive, and deliver him to you. Why do you stay?”

“There is the matter of the two Hemman brothers.”

“Lord Arthur is trapped in his castle, and will starve in the next few months. You have nothing to fear there.”

“Do we not?” Luther turned to face him, and with those eyes staring into him, Daniel felt naked. He tried not to meet his gaze, but was powerless against it. “This is more than a mere squabble between brothers, more than a war between fellow lords. I have long heard of the North’s faith to Karak. We believed it, for the tithes were great, and Lord Sebastian was ever eager to please. But now that I walk these lands, I find myself doubting. So few of your soldiers practice
any
religion, let alone the truth of Karak. In the villages we stayed in during our journey here, many harbored hidden sympathy for Ashhur. When most spoke of Karak, I heard no love, no loyalty. A sickness grows in our most faithful of territories, and I must find out why.”

“Fascinating, but why should we give a damn?”

Luther smiled.

“You’re much like Sir Robert, and if you would trust me, we might get along well. You are a practical man, as am I. Perhaps I deal with spiritual matters, but I understand we will never achieve perfection, and there will always be men like you who, as you might say, don’t give a damn.”

Luther gestured to the three hundred. Daniel watched them closely, and realized they were preparing their things to move out.

“Where will you be heading?” he asked. “To the Castle of Caves?”

“You are correct,” Luther said. “Most of them will leave tomorrow. They’ll go to ensure victory for the lord that is most obedient to Karak, at least on the surface. I now wonder how faithful Sebastian is, but even if he is false, his actions and tithes are real enough. My student will stay here, for there is still much work to be done.”

Daniel didn’t like the sound of that, but he feared to say so. If the three hundred men were leaving, then at least he might walk about Robert’s tower without fear of an impending coup. But what work remained? Would he proselytize the rest of his soldiers? Or would they strike out for the nearby villagers in an attempt to root out the reason for the ‘sickness’, as Luther put it?

“For all your gracious gifts, we will try our best to accommodate your student,” he said, bowing slightly. “For now, I must go train my men.”

“Of course.”

Daniel started to hurry back, but Luther spoke his last parting words of wisdom.

“You are a good man, Daniel, but you must soon bring your mind to the things beyond this world. The hour comes when a war will bathe Dezrel with blood, fire, and death. I would hate to see you caught on the wrong side.”

Daniel couldn’t help himself.

“And what side would that be?” he asked, glancing back.

“There is safety in Karak’s arms,” said Luther, his smile kind but his eyes glinting with danger. “Good day, lieutenant.”

Daniel snorted and pulled at the collar of his shirt as he returned to the Blood Tower.

“Safety,” he muttered, thinking of those cold eyes. “Bullshit.”

V
alessa had thought she knew pain. She thought she understood torment. But she’d never known this. In the light of the moon, she knelt on her hands and knees and prayed for death. It didn’t matter if it was a blasphemy. It didn’t matter if she cursed the gift her god had bestowed upon her. She wanted the agony to stop. That was all that mattered. To make it stop.

Her form shifted and twisted, and she felt every interminable inch. It throbbed, unending, with pain and failure. She felt knives twisting inside her, felt fire burning outside her, felt hatred within her non-existent veins. The light of Jerico’s shield had left her weak, and nearly broken whatever essence kept her together. It had taken all her focus to flee, and in the shadows of the forest she waited for her strength to return.

“Damn you,” she whispered. She felt her lungs solidify by her thoughts so that air might press through, felt her tongue gain form so that it might speak the curse. Each moment was torture. But she said it anyway. “Damn you, Jerico, damn you to the Abyss a thousand times.”

This was her failure, of course. She’d been given a second chance at taking down Darius, not Jerico, but she had ignored the wishes of her god. She’d thought to impress him, as if that were possible, using a life and form granted by
his
hands. She was nothing without her deity, and despite the hatred and agony, her confrontation with Jerico had helped her remember that. She tried to be thankful. It was better than crying out her fury against Karak. She worshipped him, loved him, accepted his authority over her, but never before had she hated him so. Not like this.

It was no longer a matter of pride, revenge, or faith. She needed to kill Darius for her freedom. The fires of the Abyss surely would not burn her so. She was a child of Karak.

Valessa focused her prayers, begging for forgiveness, begging for his touch. Day and night swirled over her, but she was aware of it only distantly. She did not sleep. She did not eat. She did not
live.
With each minute, each prayer, she felt herself growing whole. Her skin regained its color, and her naked form assumed the clothes she once wore. Her daggers, having never left her hands, started to glow once more. The pain in the center of her being faded, becoming only the constant ache she had learned to accept. Looking to the sky, she hoped Karak had not yet abandoned her, had forgiven her for her weaknesses.

Seeing the red star, she smiled. An even greater surprise, she felt liquid running down the sides of her face. Valessa touched her cheek, and when she pulled her fingers away, she saw them stained red. Tears of blood. Perhaps grief was not yet lost to her.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the night. “I will make you proud.”

It had been several days, though how many she did not know. But darkness was about her, the red star above her, and with a single-minded purpose she ran.