The Broken Pieces

by David Dalglish

  “Will you carry a message for me back to my brother?” Arthur asked him. Gregane bowed low.

  “So long as he lives, I will deliver it.”

  Arthur’s cheek twitched at the statement. Jerico didn’t know if he thought it a lie or not, but either way the idea of the priesthood killing Sebastian angered him greatly.

  “Tell him I will hear his offer from his own lips, not from a scroll lacking the stamp of his ring. I give no promises, not to his life, not to anything. All I promise is to come with an open mind, and hear out his plea.”

  “As you wish,” Gregane said.

  “Kevin, if you could get him a fresh horse, and something to eat or drink if he so desires.”

  Kevin gave an elaborate bow.

  “As milord requests,” he said pleasantly enough, but a twinkle in his eye showed it was anything but. With the two of them gone, Jerico was left alone with Arthur. He stepped close, thinking how he could try to press the lord to act more firmly against the priests, but instead it was Arthur who approached, his voice rising as he talked.

  “I hope you appreciate all I have done for you,” he said.

  “Me?” Jerico asked, baffled.

  “I want no war with Karak’s temple, not if I am to have any hope of ruling the North. And no matter how dangerous you claim they are, I have eyes to see, and what I saw at the end of Gregane’s siege was Karak’s followers saving my castle, and my life. Yet from the word of my enemy alone, you’d have me declare war against the entire temple, riding off to prevent the most ludicrous of possibilities. No temple will ever own the King’s lands. No priest will ever rule as a lord. The King would never allow it, nor a single knight of the North.”

  “If you believed this, then why did you not say so?” Jerico asked, feeling stung by the complete lack of faith in his deciphering of events.

  “Because you are the one who inspires my men more than anything I’ve ever seen before. I still hear them talking of your stand at the gates of my castle, of how you held the line at Green Gulch. Many think you’ll walk right up to the Castle of the Yellow Rose and beat down its doors with your mace and shield. I would not ruin that now, not unless you give me no choice. We’ll move cautiously, and give no hint as to our stance toward Karak’s priests. If they want my brother removed from power, I see no reason not to accept their help.”

  “They’re dangerous,” Jerico insisted. “You’ve seen the power Luther wields. Why would you desire to be allies?”

  “You just answered your own question,” Arthur said, plopping down into his chair and groaning. “There are only two gods worshiped in all of Mordan, yours, and Karak, and you know damn well which one is stronger.”

  “Not stronger,” Jerico said quietly.

  “More popular, then,” Arthur said, waving a hand dismissively. “Either way, if I’m to rule, I cannot alienate either temple. I risk their ire just by having you as a symbol of my victories. Don’t make me risk more.”

  That was it, Jerico knew. There was nothing left to argue.

  “I will trust your decision,” he said, “and I will do all I can to help, so long as my conscience permits.”

  Arthur closed his eyes, the chair steadily rocking.

  “Go on out,” he said. “I need rest. And Jerico…let us make a promise, together. I’ll never go against my conscience, and you’ll never go against yours. Will that be enough to earn your trust?”

  Jerico smiled.

  “I trust you to be a good lord, and a good man. You don’t need to buy that from me with a promise.”

  “Earned trust is the strongest trust,” Arthur said. “You’re wiser than you look. Good night, paladin.”

  Jerico left the tent, and was surprised to find Kevin waiting for him. The man stood with his arms crossed, staring at his fingernails as if he were supremely uninterested.

  “Did you change his mind?” Kevin asked, looking up.

  “Arthur makes his own decisions,” Jerico said, trying to step past him, but failing. Kevin shifted to the side and put a hand on Jerico’s breastplate.

  “Decisions influenced by counsel,” Kevin said. His eyes narrowed. “Did you sell him your fanatic delusions? Do we rush toward a holy war for the glory of gods?”

  Jerico grabbed Kevin’s wrist. Both tensed, and Jerico sensed Kevin dangerously close to reaching for the shortsword strapped to his thigh.

  “There’s rarely anything holy about war,” Jerico said softly.

  “And there’s rarely war without holy men. Release my hand, or say goodbye to yours.”

  Jerico did so, pushing the man back a step. Kevin fixed his sleeve, then gave Jerico a vulture’s smile.

  “He’ll see through you one day,” he said. “All wise leaders eventually do. The wisdom of men must rule, not the whims of gods.”

  Jerico brushed past without giving him the dignity of a response, even though Kevin’s words burned like fire in the back of his mind.

  9

  When he’d first converted the wolf-men at the Gathering, Cyric had been happy with four hundred of the brutes. But what he’d thought was the bulk of their numbers had only been the tip. For days on end he watched as his pack swelled, creatures from all over the Wedge making their way to his camp. More and more hunters had to seek out food, and it seemed they dined on orc meat as much as they did anything else. Not that Cyric would partake in such cursed flesh. There was always a bit of rabbit for him come time for his meal.

  “Why does a god care what he eats?” Redclaw had asked him once when he refused the cooked flesh of an orc, still connected to a bit of bone. “A god is a god.”

  “I am a god made flesh,” Cyric had said, glaring. “And I will not spoil that flesh with such filth.”

  Redclaw had laughed, as he often did lately. Whatever it was that gave him such good humor, Cyric could not say. That he ruled a pack over a thousand strong, and possessed the strength of demons and the speed of angels, might have something to do with it.

  An endless parade of tribal leaders came to Cyric, all kneeling with their snouts pressed to the dirt upon his introduction. They did the same to Redclaw, professing their loyalty. At first the idea of serving two masters had confused them, but eventually Cyric had enlisted the aid of one of their shamans, a wily old female with gray fur by the name of Silver-Ear.

  “We once served both moon and pack,” she’d tell the newcomers just before their introductions. “You will bow to the leader of all packs, the Wolf King, and then you will bow to the moon made flesh, the maker of the moon, the god made human.”

  A crude explanation, perhaps, but Cyric allowed it. So many were reluctant to give up their worship of the moon that it was becoming easier to just let them think he was the moon. So long as they worshiped him, and therefore Karak, their souls would find a place safe from the fires of the Abyss.

  Silver-Ear had taken a spot in his council, though it was a lie to call it that. They did not counsel, only listen to his orders and obey. Around a large bonfire they gathered, given a respectful distance from the rest of the packs. Redclaw was there, his claws flaring with flame each time he flexed his paw. Warfang was the last of the four, a valuable addition. While Redclaw was Wolf King, there were so many to control, and the beasts’ aggressive nature was only heightened by their worship of Karak, not diminished. Warfang helped enforce his word, and denied any chance of protest. Every last wolf was eager for bloodshed, and they eyed the river to the west with a hunger that Cyric himself could not deny.

  And now, after two weeks of gathering, of preparing and praying for the wisdom to succeed in such an ambitious plan, he called together his council and gave them the orders of their god.

  “Our numbers are sufficient,” he said. “Have your hunters kill all they can of the nearest tribes, and bring back many live prisoners. We will need food between the villages. Tomorrow night, we swim across the Gihon. Tomorrow night, the great cleansing begins.”

  Redclaw and Warfang yipped and howled, but Silver-Ear
remained silent. The old female stood, dipped her head, and slowly limped back toward camp.

  “Go hunt,” he told the two males. Something wasn’t quite right with the shaman, and he felt like having a word with her to discover why. Perhaps she was having a crisis of faith. Not the most opportune time for such weakness, not when he relied on her to calm the more religious of the savages. Calling Silver-Ear’s name, Cyric quickened his pace so he might walk beside her as she limped.

  “Something troubles you?” he asked her.

  “Do the gods care about our troubles now?” she asked, stopping her walk so she might bow respectfully.

  “Have we not always?”

  “Always?” She shook her head. “For years we prayed to the moon. We prayed as wounded wolves died and bled. We prayed as pups were born without a beat in their heart.”

  “You prayed to a lie,” Cyric said, frowning. “How could you expect an answer from a lie?”

  “And now we pray to Karak,” she said, ignoring his question. “You promise conquest, and power, and I believe you will give us all we could want, and more. But tell me, will pups still die when born? Will their mothers bleed out, while I can only give herbs to dull the pain?”

  These were dangerous questions, and for some reason they quickened his breath.

  “You’re smart for your kind,” he said, stalling.

  “We shamans often are. I mean no disrespect. I am loyal, I am your servant. Looking upon Redclaw shows me the blessings you can bestow, and if you lead us into the promised land beyond the river, I will lower my head and call you the moon made flesh. But you are not a god.”

  Cyric’s hand caught her by the throat and held her still. Her yellow eyes, already red with veins, began to water as he squeezed tighter and tighter.

  “You would challenge me?” he asked. His voice quivered, and it surprised him. “You, a stupid little thing with fleas, would look upon your god and deny the truth of him?”

  “My god is Karak,” she rasped. “Who are you?”

  He flung her to the ground, then stood over her with shaking fists.

  “I am Karak,” he said. “Do you hear me, shaman? I am Karak!”

  “Then remake the world,” she said. Her request stunned Cyric silent. “Wave your hand, and see it change. Cast the moon down from the sky. Make life from the dust. Show me the power of a god.”

  Cyric took a step back. He felt an attack of panic coming on, and it frightened him. He shook his head violently from side to side.

  “I will kill you,” he said.

  “Men can kill. Wolves can kill. Try better.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Struggling for words, he tried to wrap his mind around exactly what she asked. Who was he? What was he?

  “I am Karak made flesh,” he said, staring into her iron gaze. “I am Karak, but I am not yet completed. I am not yet whole. His power is mine, and it enters me gradually. That is why I must do what I do. You tell me to remake the world, and I will. Should the people of Dezrel listen, they will know true order in their lives. Should they bow, they will know true peace. I will not do it with a wave of my hand, but with tooth, claw, and blood. I am a shadow of the god that created you, but when all of Dezrel worships my name, you will see me in my true glory. Does that satisfy you, wolf?”

  “Yes,” Silver-Ear said, slowly crawling onto her knees so she might bow. “I know who you are now.”

  “Good. Tell the rest what you must, so long as they obey. Have them worship Karak as their god and me as his physical manifestation. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” she said. “If it pleases you, may I leave? There will be wounded to attend to after the hunt.”

  He dismissed her with a wave, and she limped off without a word. Cyric watched her go while something ate at the corners of his mind. Of course Silver-Ear would have trouble understanding such a complex concept. These aspects of gods were beyond even the wisdom of a shaman. But why had the answer been so difficult for him? Unspoken fears assailed him, and he tried to shrug them off, to think on them no more, but he couldn’t.

  Every night, he prayed to Karak, and it was those prayers that strengthened him, gave him power and understanding. Who was he, to pray to himself? Why did he have no memories of the centuries before? His limitations were painfully human, painfully created by the mere mortal that was Cyric. But Karak was imprisoned in the celestial lands, and this vessel, his vessel, would be imperfect until the elven goddess was defeated and her prison destroyed. Cyric knew he had to be strong, to keep faith in all he did.

  That he might not be Karak at all, he dared not let that thought enter his head, as much as it screamed at him from every subdued part of his intellect with voices that were steadily growing stronger, belonging to demons infesting his soul.

  The hunt went well, though it’d taken longer to reach the nearest rival encampment than expected. It seemed the massing number of wolf-men had made the other races of the Vile Wedge skittish. They’d run beneath the stars, until at last Redclaw’s hunting party encountered a tribe of a hundred bird-men. Gangly things, their meat would not be pleasant, but he dared not continue further looking for more appetizing game, not with how far they’d already traveled. Descending upon them like a monster of the Abyss, Redclaw led the attack, crushing all but a scattered few that fled every which way in the night.

  Each of the fifty wolf-men carried a body over their shoulder, some dead, some not. Back at the camp they were greeted with much celebration. Redclaw ate little, his appetite strangely missing for having just completed a hunt. He stripped feathers off a thick slab of thigh, gave it to his two pups, and then watched them eat. They were only a year old, and not yet speaking or walking on their hind legs. One day, they’d challenge him for rule, but what would they rule if they won? Would it be a wretched stretch of yellow grass beside a cold river, or would it be miles and miles of green hills filled with bountiful game?

  Thinking himself alone, Redclaw looked down at his upturned paw. With a single flex, he watched fire trace through his veins, watched the heat turn the tips of his claws a vibrant red. Cyric had told him they would melt through even the finest armor of men, but Cyric had promised lots of things.

  “Greetings, Wolf King,” Silver-Ear said, disrupting his thoughts. Redclaw bowed his head in respect.

  “You honor me, shaman,” he said.

  “Then I ask that you honor me in return, and walk with me for a bit. I wish to speak.”

  Redclaw rose to his feet. The bigger of his two pups turned his way and yipped once. Redclaw reached down, then stopped, remembering the heat of his claws. He’d learned to control it, mostly, but he dared not risk it.

  “Stay here,” he told them, and the firmness of his look conveyed his desire. Both whimpered, then returned to eating. Redclaw took up step beside Silver-Ear, and together they walked west, toward the river and away from the rest of the camp.

  “It seems so long ago, doesn’t it?” Silver-Ear said, her voice dry, as if she’d been coughing a lot recently. “Do you remember when you were first named Wolf King, and faced the moonless dark?”

  “I do,” Redclaw said. “I remember it well. You had me breathe in the smoke of Goldmoon petals, then crawl through a cave of bat shit.”

  Silver-Ear smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

  “That I did, though do not pretend I did it for no reason.”

  “I know. You did it to amuse yourself. That is reason enough for most.”

  This time Silver-Ear’s laugh did reach her eyes. She glanced back at the camp, let out a sigh.

  “You command a great force, Wolf King,” she said. “Far greater than before. The last time we crossed the river, there were many who fled, and many more who stayed away. They did not believe you their king. They thought you would die, and they would steal your lands. Such simple dreams they have, and always will.”

  “That is why they need their king,” Redclaw said.

  “Is it now?” Silver-E
ar asked. “What if we were meant for simple dreams?”

  Redclaw stopped, and he let out a soft growl to show his disapproval. They were far from the camp now, at the base of a stump of a hill. Large sections of it were bare, the grass long ago dried up and dead.

  “You speak in riddles, shaman,” he said. “Speak plainly, if you would speak at all.”

  “Warfang has broken the packs up to fight, each numbering one hundred. We have ten, Redclaw, ten such packs to cross the river. And what is it we aim to do? What is it our god commands us to accomplish?”

  “We’re to conquer,” Redclaw said.

  “Yes,” Silver-Ear said. “Conquer all of mankind, forcing every village to kneel. We attacked one such village, Redclaw. Do you remember? Do you remember our dead, numbering greater than we could count? We shamans speak ill of humans, but not because we are fools. We do this so great wolves like you will not be afraid. But listen to me now, and hear what we’ve always known. You are not the first to have crossed the river west, nor will you be the last. A hundred times it has happened, many miles south and north, and not just by wolf-men. We listen, we watch, and then we return to tell the others what we have known since the birth of our fathers’ fathers: we will never, ever escape the Wedge.”

  Such words were close to blasphemy in the ears of Redclaw, and he could scarcely believe them. Not long ago he’d gathered wolves together, rallied them to attack the village of Durham. Yes, they’d lost, but their foes had been vicious, and possessing such strange magics. One man had fought with a shield shining with painful light, another a blade consumed with dark fire. They’d defeated his pack, but he was stronger now, gifted with similar otherworldly magic.

  “Why did you not tell me this before?” he asked. “When you led me into the cave, when you called me Wolf King…why, if you thought it hopeless?”

  Silver-Ear let out a sigh.

  “Because we have always hoped. We pray to the moon to deliver us a paradise full of fat game and warm blood. The humans fight among themselves, no different than us. One day they may not be ready, and we may claw a tiny scrap of land for our own. And then we would guard it closely, like we guard our pups, so it can grow. So it becomes something strong. But even that is still a dream.”