The Broken Pieces

by David Dalglish

  A few protested, but they were not many. They’d run themselves ragged fleeing from Cyric, and now a new enemy came from the west. There was nowhere left to go.

  “Come with me,” Valessa said, touching Darius’s shoulder. “Something bothers me, and I want you to see.”

  “If you wish,” Darius said. “But we might need to flee, and soon. The peasants might get away unscathed, but I doubt any army of Karak will be happy to let us slip through their fingers.”

  About five hundred yards from the camp the army halted. The people gathered in groups, fearfully watching for the slightest sign of violence. Daniel waited with his most trusted men, and from somewhere amid the rubble they managed to find a flag of Mordan they might wave. With it high above their heads they went to meet Karak’s delegation. Against the twenty red, black, and gold banners of the lion, it looked meek. Just to the side of the crowd Valessa stood, and when the delegation marched out from Karak’s army, she pointed, unable to hide her excitement.

  “There,” she said. “That is who I sense. Do you know him, Darius? Is he who I think he is?”

  The group walked closer, and there was no disguising the red hair, the silvery armor, and the giant shield strapped to his back. Darius’s grin spread wide, and for the first time that morning both dared hope.

  “That crazy whoreson,” Darius said. “What in blazes is he doing with them?”

  “A captive, perhaps?”

  “A captive who keeps his weapons and armor?”

  Darius suddenly ran to join Daniel, and Valessa hurried after. She kept herself in the guise of a commoner, not wanting to upset a precarious situation because of her former allegiances as a gray sister. Daniel gave them a glare, and she could sense his worry about what them joining him meant. But then they heard Jerico cry out in surprise.

  “Darius?”

  Beside Jerico was a priest, who clearly led the army, and when Daniel bowed low to him he bowed in return.

  “I am Luther of Mordeina,” he said, “loyal priest of Karak.”

  “And I’m Daniel Coldmine, and I control what’s left of the wall of towers. Please tell me you’ve come to help, not kill.”

  Before he could answer Jerico and Darius embraced, and they both laughed with joy to see each other again. Valessa watched with her eyes downcast, feeling like an outsider. She stepped back so she might stand behind Daniel, and her presence go unnoticed.

  “I’ve come to kill,” Luther said, glancing at the paladins. “But it is not you, so you may stand down your men. Tell me truthfully, Sir Daniel, do you run from the one known as Cyric?”

  “We do,” said Daniel. “That bloody priest has hounded us all the way from Willshire. Why, is he a friend of yours?”

  “No friend,” Jerico said, stepping back and smacking Darius across the shoulder. “We’re here to kill him.”

  “Consider us come to your rescue,” Luther said, and his smile was ice to Valessa’s nonexistent veins.

  Redclaw could smell them from miles away. They’d left a trail of fear on their passage south. As he led his pack through the forest that grew alongside the river, he felt his excitement rise. At last they could give in to their every instinct. Leaving the surrendered alive, and being given only a tenth, had worn on even his most loyal. But this was his promise, his land of feasts and blood. A thousand of them ran, in a pack of such strength he’d never seen in his life. Only the rising sun tempered his excitement. What he’d have given to arrive while the moon was still high in the sky, shining down upon them.

  They were near now, having run all night. At last they approached the forest’s edge. Past that were the humans and their tents, their wagons, and their broken fortress. His pack took up his cry, and with the echoes of a thousand howls they burst from the forest and out into the hills beyond.

  Immediately Redclaw knew something had gone amiss. There were far more than he’d expected. With his keen eyes he saw the scattered tents, most placed around a giant pile of rubble. But at the edge, coming in along the road, was a great force of men. They wore dark armor, and above their heads flew flags of lions. Combining their might with the group they’d already chased, Redclaw knew that his pack was suddenly outnumbered by a significant amount.

  “Our feast will be great,” Warfang said, running beside him with his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.

  “Cyric said nothing of them,” Redclaw said, pointing his nose toward the second army.

  “Is that piss I smell running down your leg, Redclaw? None can stand. None will stand!”

  He let out another howl, and Redclaw’s pride had him join in, his legs pumping harder. The two took the lead, the rest veering out behind them at either side. They’d hit like a wave, bury their foes before they could bring their strength to bear. There were no walls to stop them, no river to protect their prey. His footfalls left fire in the grass, and with a great burst of smoke he launched himself at the first of the humans.

  There was no contest. The man was unarmored, and he held no blade. Blood splashed across his claws, and the human’s head fell from its body. The rest of the wolf-men slammed into the fleeing forces. Redclaw urged his pack on, wanting them to stay together. They swept through the camp, Redclaw leading. It wasn’t until they reached the road, and the secondary force, that they encountered true resistance. The humans stood in a straight line, and something about their organization worried Redclaw. He paused only slightly, and Warfang took the lead. Their fur glowed with fire as they leapt against the line, their weight crushing shields, their claws crunching in armor. Redclaw slashed aside a feeble attempt to stab with a sword, then buried his claws in the man’s heart. With a cry he ripped it out, let it’s blood drip across his tongue.

  Then a unified cry rose from the men, and it’s sound filled Redclaw with fear and doubt.

  “For Karak!” they cried.

  For Karak? But Redclaw followed Karak made flesh, the priest named Cyric. Who were these men, and were they foes at all? But it didn’t matter, not now. The bloodlust had begun, the battle engaged. Wolf-men pushed forward, but every inch was bought in blood. Redclaw returned to the fray, and against his strength the humans were but pups. Tearing at steel the wolf-men pushed again and again, and he knew that, despite the casualties, they’d still conquer.

  But then came those he hated most. Men with blades burning with black fire rushed to the forefront, cutting down his pack. Redclaw watched his wolf-men try to bury them with sheer size, but these were not the same as other humans. Their strength was great, and their blades cut even the wolf-men’s muscled bodies in half.

  “Press on!” Warfang roared, unafraid. “Do not fear their fire, for we are fire itself!”

  It seemed Warfang was, for smoke billowed off him. The swords of the normal humans could barely scratch him, and Redclaw rushed to his side, knowing that only together could they make a stand against the paladins. Their claws slashed against steel, blocking and pushing. What had begun as an easy advance became a crawl. When the men in robes joined in, the crawl became a halt. Redclaw’s doubt heightened, for these men dressed like Cyric, and from their hands leapt dark spells that flooded his pack with electricity and broke their bones with bolts of shadow. Even their very presence seemed to sap the strength of his wolf-men. Still Redclaw pressed on, and with sheer pleasure his claws tore through the throat of a paladin, putting an end to the damned fire surrounding his blade.

  “Redclaw!” roared a human voice, and he could hardly believe the sound. It couldn’t be him. Why here? Why now?

  The glowing shield advanced, and at the sight of that red-haired paladin Redclaw knew real terror. This was the human he had failed to defeat in their very first attack across the river. This was the man who had left a score of wolf-men dead at his feet.

  Jerico Wolf Smacker pushed to the front of the human forces, and at sight of him the human grinned.

  “You’ve gotten bigger,” said Jerico. “And uglier.”

  One of his pack tried t
o leap at the paladin, but Redclaw snarled at him, forcing the wolf-man to go around, striking at those who tried to come to Jerico’s aid.

  “I was alone when you beat me,” Redclaw said. “Now I wield the power of a god.”

  “Whose?” asked Jerico. “Karak’s? Look behind me, Redclaw. So do they.”

  Redclaw’s eyes flicked to the many banners, and that was when the paladin struck. His shield led the way, along with that damnable light. It burned into his flesh with a pain far worse than their first encounter. It seemed the embers of his fur faded under its glow, the fire dripping from his claws dimmer and lacking any true heat. As Redclaw crossed his arms against it, Jerico struck with his mace, tearing open a strip of flesh across his wrist.

  “No!” Redclaw roared, slamming both his fists against the shield. The blow sent the paladin back a step, and despite the terrible agony it inflicted on his hands, Redclaw struck again, wanting the shield out of the way. Its position shifted, he swung, his claws catching the interior edge and shoving it all the way to the side.

  “Die at last,” he said, flinging all his weight forward. He’d expected to crush the exposed paladin, but instead a blade slashed through his left arm, cutting all the way to bone. He twisted in mid-air, crashing at the feet of Jerico.

  “You didn’t forget the Wolf Slayer, did you?” asked Darius, greatsword in hand. In his delirium Redclaw saw it glowed blue instead of the dark fire it once possessed, but he didn’t know what that meant. He couldn’t think, not with such terrible pain flooding his body. He struggled to stand, but Jerico slammed his shield against his forehead. The blow nearly knocked him unconscious. Clutching his bleeding arm, he thrashed on the ground. His quick glance about saw much of his pack defeated or already in retreat.

  Together the two paladins approached him as on either side the rest of the human army surged forward, letting out cries of victory.

  “Last words?” Darius asked, pointing his sword at him.

  Before he could utter any, Warfang slammed into the paladin’s side, flinging him through the air and into Jerico. The two rolled along the ground in a clanking pile of armor. Without any care to be gentle, Warfang reached down, grabbed Redclaw’s wounded arm, and yanked him to a stand. Redclaw howled, and he used the pain to focus.

  “Run,” Warfang told him, and together they did. A howl left Warfang’s tongue, subtle in its inflection. A human might not hear the difference, but all the wolf-men there heard the anger and shame embodied in the howl. It was their call to retreat. Some ignored it, giving in to their bloodlust and dying in a flurry of blows against their superior opponents. The rest turned and fled, easily outrunning the slow humans in their armor. Only the spells of the priests gave chase, slaying a few before they could reach the forest.

  Within the trees Warfang stopped, turning on Redclaw. Before Redclaw could say a thing, Warfang’s claws were digging into his chest, slamming him against a tree.

  “You are not worthy of your gift,” he snarled. “I smell your fear, you coward. You did not revel in the fight! You did not trust Cyric’s power!”

  “You want this power?” Redclaw asked, fighting down the impulse to snap at Warfang’s neck. “Then take it.”

  Warfang’s eyes narrowed.

  “Some gifts can’t be taken by force,” he said. “And some cannot be given away. Remember your place, Redclaw. Remember who you are.”

  “Or what?”

  The claws dug deeper into his chest.

  “Or our god will find a new champion.”

  With that, Warfang pulled free and then ran. Redclaw waited a moment for his bloodlust to settle, then followed. Without a word spoken between the entire pack they fled back to Cyric’s camp, leaving a trail of spilled blood behind them.

  21

  With the sun well on its rise they staggered into the camp. It had been difficult to count numbers with so many hidden behind trees, but as they stepped into the open, Redclaw saw that nearly half his pack had been crushed in battle. How many humans had they slain in return? Two hundred? Three? At least his arm had stopped bleeding. It seemed the very fire of his blood had sealed the wound.

  Most of the pack collapsed at the edge of Cyric’s camp. For many, it seemed the run was all that had kept them alive. Redclaw knew the feeling, and with head low he slunk through his pack. All he felt was shame and confusion. Who did he serve? Had they attacked the followers of his own god? Or was he a god at all?

  And then Cyric called his name. He looked up, met his eyes briefly, then once more cast them to the dirt.

  “Warfang told me of the force you faced,” said Cyric. “Fifteen hundred strong, all sworn to Karak. Even more fearsome, you fought priests and paladins as well. Do not be ashamed of your loss. They are the greatest foe we will face in all the North, for they no longer follow the true god of their faith. I would not expect you to defeat them without my presence.”

  The words helped, but only a little.

  “Master,” said Silver-Ear, the shaman rushing up to them as fast as her old bones would allow. “I have gathered the wounded. Please, you are our god. I beg you to heal them.”

  “Of course,” Cyric said, smiling at her. “The faithful must always be rewarded.”

  At the far edge of the camp was where the shaman tended the wounded. Redclaw followed them there, and counted at least fifty that Silver-Ear deemed in mortal peril. Cyric walked among them, scanning their wounds and nodding his head as if privy to a conversation none of them could hear.

  “Hold faith,” Cyric said at last. “It must be done.”

  He lifted his arms, and from his hands shone a deep red light. It flared brighter, brighter than even the sun. Redclaw watched one of the wounded beside him, a wolf whose belly was sliced open. He must have run the whole distance while holding in his innards. His mouth was open, and he was gasping for air at a feverish pace. Then the red light shone upon him, and he breathed no more. A quiet sense of terror settled on Redclaw as he saw the wolf-man stand. Intestines roped out, hanging like decorations from a belt. All around stood the rest, their backs straight, their mouths and eyes perfectly still.

  “You killed them,” Silver-Ear growled, and Redclaw could hear the shock in her voice.

  “I saved them,” Cyric said. “Their bodies failed them, but now they will fight for me still. Their souls remain, and even now I can hear them praying to me in worship.”

  Silver-Ear bared her fangs.

  “You are not the moon,” she snarled. “You are not the giver of life. You bring only death, and then slavery after.”

  “I am your god,” Cyric said, his expression still calm. “Do you dare question me, shaman?”

  “Question?” Silver-Ear shook her head. “No. Not question.”

  She lunged at him, snapping her yellow teeth. In a single smooth motion Cyric waved his arm, and from his palm a single orb of black shot forward. It struck Silver-Ear in the snout, sank into her skin, and then activated. Her body convulsed, twisting in ways painful to watch.

  “I will not be doubted, nor questioned, nor betrayed,” Cyric said, and he looked straight at Redclaw when he did. “Today we will rest, and your pack will sleep. Come tomorrow you will be my vanguard as we crush those foolish enough to stand against us. The North will be ours, Redclaw. It’s only a matter of time. As for you, shaman…”

  He knelt down before her. Silver-Ear had finally stilled, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth as she slowly breathed.

  “You are important to me,” he whispered to her. “But even without you I can still rule these dogs. Know your place, unless you’d rather join the wounded you cared for.”

  With a command, the fifty undead wolf-men followed, taking up ranks with the rest of the dead Cyric had marching with him. The sight of his brethren standing side by side with the human corpses was nearly enough to empty Redclaw’s stomach. Looking to Silver-Ear’s limp form helped matters none, either.

  As his pack settled down to sleep, Warfang sought him out
.

  “When the moon rises, we will have a Gathering,” he told him.

  “Who has called for one?” Redclaw asked, earning himself a massive grin.

  “Why, you did,” said Warfang as he left. “At least, that is what I told them.”

  Redclaw laid down for the day, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. His mind, however, refused to stop churning, and when it turned to the coming Gathering, he felt an idea take root. Its audacity frightened him, but he knew, for the safety of his pack, and the life of his pups, it must be done. Silver-Ear’s punishment had been a message, one delivered with both clarity and brutality. To ignore it now would mean to be a fool. Even if Warfang was right, even if he was a coward, Redclaw refused to be a fool. Not anymore.

  Sleep did not come for him, so instead he watched his pups as the sun crawled along the sky.

  Cyric had stayed up for much of the day, meditating with his body facing the south, so when Redclaw rose for the Gathering they were free of his presence. For this, Redclaw was thankful. They had no mound of bones, no sacred places to meet, but the nearby hill made do for their purpose. The five hundred gathered about it, and in their center burned a small fire, made at Redclaw’s demand. The hill, however, he had not chosen. The pack had gravitated toward it, and it was no surprise to him. They were on the side furthest away from the dead that marched in obedience to their god. None of them, whether they were aware of it or not, wanted to be anywhere near those mockeries of life. Their presence was like a thorn in the eye.

  Think of your pups, thought Redclaw as his breath caught in his throat when he stepped into the center. Think of them, and act.

  “Wolf-men of the Wedge!” he roared, the volume of his voice earning their attention. “I have called this Gathering, and would have you hear me now!”

  “We have not come to listen!” Warfang roared back. Redclaw glared at him but was not surprised. Warfang would not risk losing control of the Gathering. He’d had a plan in mind from the start, and through the strength of his personality he would dominate proceedings as he desired. What he didn’t know, however, was that Redclaw desired the exact same set of events.