“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 lo
oped 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.”
“Even so,” said Jeremy, “we did nothing but tell Sir Robert the truth of what happened.”
“Truth? What truth is that?”
“Karak destroyed our village. We all know it.”
Cyric shook his head.
“Karak did not destroy your village,” he said.
“Prove it.”
“You were asked to kneel, and you did not. But I commanded the same. Tell me, Jeremy, what did you then do?”
Jeremy glared but said nothing. Cyric knelt closer, as if he were sharing a secret. His voice was soft, like a whisper, but somehow the entire village still heard.
“You knelt, because while you refused a prophet, and one of his paladins, you cannot refuse me. I am no paladin, no priest, no prophet. I am Karak, and you will worship my might by the rise of the blood moon. I was not there in Durham, but I am here now.”
Lilah roared, and her power rolled over the villagers.
“Kneel!” cried the lioness. Those from Willshire obeyed, though the people of Durham did not.
“Valessa, my queen.” Cyric’s words startled Valessa. She felt like she’d been lost in a dream, unable to interfere.
“Yes, Cyric?” she asked.
“Go to the Blood Tower. Fetch me twenty of my guard, and send them here. I will need them to help keep order while we await the blood moon.”
“I am a stranger to them,” she said. “They may not listen.”
“Go as you are,” he said. “No one will refuse you. But for your peace of mind, Lilah will also accompany you, and her presence will prove you speak my will.”
Valessa bowed her head, then put her back to the spectacle. She thought to ask him if he would be safe on his own, but knew it a foolish question. The power of Karak was with him, even if he wasn’t Karak made flesh.
“Must I lead the way?” Lilah asked as they put the village behind them.
“If you could,” Valessa said. In truth, she knew the path, but preferred to have the lioness farther ahead instead of traveling beside her. At least then she might be alone with her thoughts.
She glanced back toward Willshire, and suppressed a shudder.
At least then she might not be afraid.
“I will serve,” she whispered. “I will obey. I am faithful. I am faithful.”
And all the while, a soft voice in her head cried, liar, liar, liar.
17
Sandra’s wrists bled from struggling against her bonds, yet she did not stop. The blood only made them slicker, gave her hope to pull free. Jerico had not returned from his meeting with Luther, and despite Luther’s act of kindness, she still feared for her friend’s life. Or was he her lover now? She didn’t know, didn’t want to think about it. Morning was rapidly approaching, and come daylight, she knew escape would be nearly impossible.
“Come on,” she whispered as she pulled. Her hands were on fire now, and she felt more skin scrape away as she worked her right arm. No guard remained to watch her between the two wagons. If only she could...if only...
She stopped for a moment, biting her tongue to hold down her sobs. Her hands shook, whether from pain, blood loss, or fear, she didn’t know. She wanted to believe she was brave. She wanted to believe that no matter how expertly tied her bonds were (and make no mistake, they were very expertly tied) she would still be strong and escape.
But Luther had only looked at her, brushed away her hair from her face, and asked for her full name. That was all, yet she had given it. But it wasn’t because she was afraid, she told herself. It wasn’t because she saw a horrible evil lurking in those eyes. It wasn’t because she felt like little more than meat in his presence, and that his touch had swirled with shadows most unnatural. No, she’d just been foolish, made a mistake and forgotten he might use her against her brother. That was it. Better a fool than afraid.
Tears running down her face, she pulled once more against the ropes. Better bleeding and maimed than that man’s prisoner. He’d told her he meant her no harm. He’d whispered that she was beautiful, and he would protect her from his men so long as she told him what he wanted. Just her name, that was all he’d wanted. What did it matter that she gave him her name? Jerico was the one they wanted. Jerico was the one they hunted, and he might still be in there, suffering at the hands of that...
“Sandra?”
She screamed. Her right hand slipped free, and she stood. Luther caught her fist with his hand and held it firm. He said nothing, only stared into her eyes. She felt her stomach heave at the look.
“Do not strike at me again,” he said. He glanced at the rope, and her bloodied hands. “I must commend you, despite this foolishness. You are not in danger, Sandra. I have use for you.”
“I won’t help you,” she said. “Where is Jerico?”
“I sent him away,” Luther said. He still held her fist, and her blood trickled across his fingers as he forced her hand downward. “I told him I would sacrifice you to Karak if he interfered any further with Karak’s work in the North.”
“You said I was not in any...”
“I told him what he needed to hear,” Luther interrupted. “I know him, as much as he might try to deny it. He loves you greatly, and will be reluctant to put your life in danger.”
“You think you know him?” she asked. She pulled her hand free, then slipped out of the rope. The two stood alone between the wagons, in a darkness away from the light of any fire. In the starlight, Luther looked healthier, more alive than he had in the tent. Worse, he looked far more dangerous.
“I think I know him rather well,” he said. “Do I not?”
“He won’t run, Luther. He knows me, too. He knows I’d rather he kill every single one of you than give in to your demands, even if it costs me my life.”
She expected him to argue, or be angry, but instead he let out a tired chuckle.
“I know, Sandra. Right now, I expect him to be running toward the Castle of Caves with every shred of strength left in his body. He’ll hate himself, yet still believe he honors your...feisty spirit in refusing to give in to my threats. Foolish, really, but that stubbornness and sense of honor are why he has survived as long as he has. I want him at the castle, especially after the da
mage done to our wagons, which has given us a delay we can ill afford. As for you...”
He took her bleeding wrists in his hands. She told herself to run, but again she saw the danger lurking in his eyes. If she tried that, she’d be dead, and that death would not be quick, or painless.
“I have a request involving your brother. I wish you to take him a message.”
“I don’t know where he is,” she insisted.
“Then you’ll find him. There are many villages nearby, and I’m sure all of them are loyal to the bandit. He marches to Lord Arthur’s aid, if he is not there already. Can you carry my words to him? And not just repeat them, Sandra, but make him believe? Make him listen?”
“What is it?” she asked, daring to hope.
“Tell him to pull back his men from the Castle of Caves, and avoid any battle with Lord Sebastian. Do this if he wants to spare the lives of his men, and ensure his safety. I know of his rebellious desires, and the grudge he bears against Sebastian...but make him listen. Make him understand. I ask this in his best interest. Should he listen, well...”
He grinned.
“Karak’s mercy will smile down upon him for it.”
The very notion of Karak’s mercy made Sandra want to spit in the priest’s face, but she did not. He was letting her go, quietly in the night. He didn’t want the rest of his men to know, but why? What game was he playing?
“I’ll do it,” she said. “But I won’t promise any more than that. Kaide will do as he desires, regardless of what I say.”
“Of course,” Luther said, releasing her wrists. When she looked down, the bleeding had stopped, and the pain was gone. “If he did as he was told, he’d never have resisted Sebastian in the first place. But for the sake of his men, for your sake, too, convince him. Now go, to the east, quickly. There are no guards watching, I made sure of that.”
She glanced behind her, fearing a trap. But it didn’t seem like it, and furthermore, it made no sense. Games, she thought. The priest was playing games, and she didn’t know the rules. She looked at him, almost thanked him, then bit her tongue. What insanity was that, that he should have her thanks? Without a word, she ran east, off the road and into the fields. The grass resisted, but she pushed on. Her heart pounded, and her lungs burned, but still she ran, until the fires of the wagons were out of sight. Falling to her knees, she finally allowed herself to cry, to tremble in fear.
The Paladins Page 55