It wasn’t a valley below them, but a ravine, a bowl-shaped gorge of blackened rock and glistening crystal. A large group of cloaked individuals had gathered, hundreds of them, all arranged in five tightly packed groups. They were on their knees, folded over at the waist as if in appeal to a god, their outstretched arms pointing toward a gigantic bonfire so bright it was as if the sun itself had dropped from the sky and settled there. They chanted in a language Roland didn’t recognize. It sounded nothing like Elvish, and was as far removed from human dialect as the chirping of insects.
Hands grabbed either side of his head and moved it, shifting his field of vision. “Look at that,” Jacob whispered into his ear. “I knew it.”
Jacob had brought his attention to at a single man who was standing on the outskirts of the gathered worshippers. From a distance, Roland couldn’t make out his facial features, but he could tell that the man was bald and wore a long black robe. His arms were lifted up toward the star-dappled sky. This was the man who was leading the chanting, and each time words exited his mouth, the rest of the congregation answered.
“Who is it?” Roland whispered.
“Uther Crestwell,” Brienna answered. She gave Roland a grave look, then Azariah, and finally turned about to fix Jacob with an intense, knowing stare. “The mad priest. You were right.”
“Unfortunately,” Jacob replied.
“Is that Karak’s Army?” asked Roland, not understanding what they were talking about.
Jacob swallowed hard, gesturing for Roland to keep watching what was going on below. “Part of it, I assume,” he said in a soft voice. “But it’s worse than I thought.”
“Why?”
“Uther Crestwell, better known as the mad priest, is a zealot. Before I left Neldar for good, he and I argued about the practicality of having a land divided by three deities. He was an outcast of his own family, yet so dedicated to Karak that no one dared deny him his birthright, as they did his sister Moira. He believed Karak and only Karak should rule Dezrel, and even went so far as to suggest genocide for not just those created by the other gods, but the other gods themselves. Hence his more common name, for those brave enough to use it. Twenty years ago he retreated to the Crestwell stronghold in the north, at the base of Mount Hailen. Then, from what I’ve heard, he began researching the magics of blood and darkness, which were expelled from this realm long before the dawn of humanity.”
“The same sort of magics that were used by those demons you told me about?” asked Roland.
Jacob smiled. “Yes, Roland. It is good to know you listened.”
“What does he mean to do?”
At that, Jacob frowned. His lips compressed a thin white line and he shrugged.
“I guess we need to find out,” he said, turning his attention back to the happenings below.
A change had come over the assembly during their short conversation. The worshippers were standing now, and the man in charge—Uther, the mad priest—had moved into the throng and was standing directly in front of the raging, unnaturally bright bonfire. He motioned with one outstretched hand, and six more cloaked figures appeared from the other side of the ravine. Roland felt his blood rush through his veins as he watched them drag three individuals—a man, a woman, and a young girl—dressed in torn and filthy rags across the blackened, uneven floor of the culvert. They were handled roughly, without any care for their well-being, treated like they were less than animals. Roland remembered what Turock had said about the family that had been taken—the Rodderdams, that was it—and his breath caught in his throat.
The prisoners screamed and pleaded, and Roland watched the woman pound her fists into the hard-packed ground. Her keeper, faceless behind his black hood, violently yanked her arm until she stopped.
“We must do something,” he heard Azariah say, a frightened sort of rage rising in his voice.
“And what is that?” Jacob asked. “The four of us against hundreds? We watch and learn, so others may learn as well. That is the best we can do here.”
The Warden had no reply to that, and Brienna began to silently sob.
Back in the gully, the prisoners were forced to their knees, facing the blaze. Uther took his place before them, hands clasped in front of him, head down so that the fire reflected off his bald pate. Then he reached into the sleeve of his cloak and withdrew a dagger. The mother and daughter shrieked and began to struggle once more, this time so fiercely that it took eight men from the congregation to hold them in place.
Uther lifted his gaze skyward, and Roland thought he could make out the whites of the mad priest’s eyes in spite of the distance. Then he shouted a series of nonsensical phrases into the air, barking like a dog, twirling his hands in circles, firelight dancing off the dagger’s blade. Jacob gasped, and Roland felt the First Man’s hand wrap around his arm, squeezing so tightly that his fingers began to numb.
“No, no, no,” repeated Jacob.
“What?” asked Brienna, sniffling.
Jacob pointed to the far wall of the ravine, where a strange symbol, three diagonal lines intersected and overshadowed by a large circle, had been carved.
“I know why the villagers were taken. I know that symbol. I know this place. According to legend, back when Kal’droth still existed and this ravine was filled with rushing water, it was here that the war with the demon kings ended. It was here that Celestia banished the monsters from Dezrel, sending them to an unknown point in the universe.”
“So that means what, exactly?” Azariah asked.
A red shadow crossed Jacob’s face.
“Uther is trying to resurrect them.”
“And will it work?” Azariah asked, the blood seeming to drain from his face.
Jacob shook his head.
“But how can you be sure?” asked Roland.
“Because they’re in the wrong place,” Jacob said, adamant.
A scream split the night, and Roland glanced through the rocky portal to see Uther standing above the woman. He clutched her hair in one hand, yanking back her head, while the other lifted the dagger. The zealot plunged the blade into her neck, and even from high above Roland could see blood gushing from the wound, soaking the front of Uther’s robe. Brienna threw her hands over her mouth and backed away from the portal, eyes squeezed shut.
Shrieks reverberated from down below. Uther moved to the man next, performing the same duty with his sharp blade, and then finished off the young, sobbing girl. In moments, the Rodderdams were no more than three bodies bleeding out on the ground. Uther then went about tearing open their tattered clothes, using the dagger that had taken their lives to carve dreadful runes on their backs.
Roland felt like he was going to be sick. It was the first time he had ever watched anyone die, let alone in such a violent manner. Life with Jacob was steadily becoming a never-ending string of unwanted firsts.
When the mutilation of the corpses was complete, those who had dragged the prisoners before the congregation returned. One by one they tossed the bodies into the bonfire, the flames rising higher as each corpse was fed to it. Uther turned to face the blaze, dropped to his knees, raised his hands, and began chanting once more.
Bolts of black and purple lightning danced from Uther’s fingertips, growing both deeper and brighter in the same instant. Jacob and Azariah gasped, while Roland simply watched, spellbound and horrified. The raging of the bonfire diminished, darkening the air, and an inky pool of blackness appeared above the flames. It started out the size of an apple but grew with each passing second, until it looked large enough to swallow a man whole. The sphere of blackness undulated and writhed, as if alive, the meniscus stretching into ungodly shapes.
For the first time, Roland heard the sadistic man’s true voice as he shrieked up at the writhing orb.
“Come, beasts of the underworld, lords of death, emissaries of the darkness, reveal yourselves now and bow before the glory of Karak!”
The floating sphere rippled, looking like a school of tin
y fish were pecking at it madly just beneath the surface. The bonfire’s flames flared once more, licking the bottom of the orb. Uther shouted in disbelief, and the orb seemed to collapse in on itself, folding over and over again, a shriek emanating from within that was so shrill, Roland thought it might burst his eardrums. He covered his ears, the pain so intense it whitewashed his thoughts, and he screamed along with the orb, his voice completely drowned out.
And then he could hear his own voice, as well as Brienna’s and Azariah’s. He felt hands on his back, shoving him, pulling him, shaking him. He opened his eyes to find his three companions staring back at him, each of their faces a mask of panic.
“Run,” Jacob said, but he could barely hear the words through the echo inside his skull. He stood still, frozen by his lack of understanding, even as Brienna and Azariah scampered away, disappearing around the bend of the narrow causeway. Roland turned toward the portal, saw a multitude of eyes staring up at him. Their screams had lasted longer than that of the sphere, alerting the murderous bastards to their presence. Some of the men began to dart out of sight, disappearing below the wall.
Jacob grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard.
“Come on, Roland!” he shouted. “Snap out of it!”
He did, albeit sluggishly. Jacob took his hand and yanked him around the bend, heading back the way they had come. Only this time they didn’t break off where they had originally entered the chasm, instead continuing to follow it in a wide circle, even as the sound of shouted orders and the clank of metal on rock sounded all around them.
“We missed the opening!” said Roland.
Jacob pulled him harder.
“I know a different way.”
It was a different way indeed. Just as the cloaked men appeared ahead of them, brandishing swords and daggers, Jacob leapt on top of the passage’s low-standing wall. The First Man still had a grip on Roland’s wrist, so he had little choice but to follow his lead. They dashed across the thin ridge until Roland noticed that his rapid footfalls were now splashing instead of thumping. Jacob then leapt off the other side, dragging Roland along with him. They hit a slope, ice-cold water cascading all around them, propelling them downward. The freezing water made every nick and scrape Roland had amassed on the way down hurt far more.
They hit solid ground without warning, because the moon was shielded from them by what Roland now realized was a hollowed-out mountain. He scampered to his feet, no longer attached to Jacob, and tried to follow the sound of his master’s voice as he scurried across the hard, slate-like ground.
“It’s only a few more feet!” Jacob shouted. “Stay with me!”
The sound of rushing water reached his ears, and suddenly Roland was grabbed from behind. His feet flew out from under him and he dangled in the air, as if flying, until his legs swung back down and his heels collided with the earth.
“Shit,” he heard Jacob mutter.
“What now?” asked Brienna’s voice, and Roland was thrilled to realize that the elf was with them.
“Look at them all,” said Azariah, revealing his presence as well.
Roland’s eyes began adjusting to the dark, and he glanced down and saw that his feet were positioned perilously close to the rocky riverbank. Only Jacob’s arm, firmly wrapped around his waist, had spared him from a terrible fall. The river was wide and moving swiftly, numerous white caps appearing and disappearing, seeming to glow in the faint light. There were a great many rafts floating there, bobbing up and down, stretching the ropes that tethered them to shore.
The rumble of countless running feet seemed to be closing in from behind them. Jacob pulled Roland away from the river’s edge, depositing him a few feet away, and then shouted, “You two—get in a raft!”
Roland heard swishing and clunking as Brienna and Azariah climbed aboard one of the rickety boats.
“I’ll meet you in Drake,” Jacob said, and Roland saw the reflection of light off steel as Jacob whipped out his knife and slashed through the rope. The raft began to drift away quickly, as if it were being pulled by an invisible string on the other side.
Still the robed men came closer.
“Are we next?” asked Roland, bracing himself on the edge of the bank and testing the solidity of the next raft.
“No water for us, son. We’re sticking with dry land.”
Before he could protest, Jacob leapt to action, working his way down the line, cutting the tethers that held the rafts in place. When he was done, he rushed back to Roland and grabbed him again. The mob of angry Karak worshippers sounded like it was right on top of them.
“Sorry, but I had to do that,” panted Jacob as he dragged him quickly along. “Couldn’t let the bastards chase after the others. If they go on foot, they’ll have a much harder time catching them.”
“And what…about…us…?” Roland was able to wheeze. His lungs felt like they were on fire as his exhausted, frozen limbs struggled to keep up.
“You and I, we hit the high ground. Lose them in the cliffs.”
As the land beneath his feet began to rise sharply upward and the burn in his muscles became so intense, it felt as though he’d been dipped into a vat of magma, Roland couldn’t help but wish his master had let them climb onto the last raft before cutting the rope.
CHAPTER
25
Bardiya felt his god’s presence long before he arrived. It was an itch that spread inward from his extremities, settling in his chest, making his heart thrum quickly with anticipation. His knees began to quake as he sat cross-legged on the hot desert sand. He opened his eyes, which had been closed for untold hours while he honored the memory of his dearly departed parents, and stared at the black monument before him.
The Black Spire was a magnificent natural creation, a twenty-foot-high slab of sparkling onyx, granite, and clay that had broken through the thin earthen crust when the world was first created, rising into the desert sky like the giant finger of a deity pointing the way toward salvation. The Dezren elves called it Ker-dia, which meant “the light of night” in their peculiar native tongue. Bardiya’s father had told him the Black Spire was the first landmark they’d come across after Ashhur gave life to his First Families, when Ezekai and his fellow Wardens led Bessus, Damaspia, and the litany of wailing babes to the land that would become their home. Bessus thought the Spire, a beacon that swallowed moonlight and cast it out tenfold, was a gift from Ashhur, a lighthouse in the middle of a tranquil yet hazardous sea of sand, and he’d dubbed this land Ker in its honor.
The endless stretch of rolling dunes around the Black Spire, miles from the nearest vegetation or water source, became a secluded holy place. It was also the final resting site for all Kerrians; their bodies were buried beneath the shifting sands, and the light emanating from the Spire guided their souls to the gateway of the golden afterlife.
An ache of sadness overcame Bardiya as he thought once more of the corpses buried here. It did not escape him that Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros, along with the rest of their brethren who had been slaughtered by Stonewood elves, were the first individuals in all of Ashhur’s Paradise to expire before their time. Never before had anyone lost their lives due to a fit of rage or perished from sickness or an animal attack—though Lamarto Dusoros, one of Bardiya’s childhood friends, had come close once, when a hunt went badly and he found himself on the wrong end of a hyena’s claws. Bardiya remembered the blood spilled that day, the screams as Lamarto lay writhing in the tall grasses of western Ker, crying out for his god, his mother begging the healers to come quickly.
And yet the healers had arrived, and after Warden Ezekai channeled Ashhur’s power, it was as if Lamarto had never fallen beneath the beast’s attack. But no Wardens or healers had been there when Ethir brought his elves to destroy Bardiya’s parents.
Bardiya placed his hands on the sand before him, sifting it, feeling its tiny granules as they rubbed against his flesh. They were under there, two supposed immortals whose bodies were now rotting, becomin
g one with the land that had created them. Yet he could feel no sorrier for them than any of the others who had died that day—Zulon, Tunitta, Hermano, Cruckus, and Drieson, good men and women, all so young, so full of life. They would never breathe the air again, nor run with the horses across the plains, nor hunt, nor splash in the river, nor help raise the side of a cabin—and that fact hurt Bardiya more than anything.
He touched his shoulder, where Ethir’s sword had tried to halve him, and felt the soreness beneath his fingers. The wound was stitched and scabbed over, hidden beneath a thick layer of healing mud. He had refused the healers’ magic, insisting that the gash should heal on its own. Had it been wiped from his body, he feared he might one day forget it had ever been there, and if he forgot that, then what of the rest of his memories? Forgetting was something he could not do, would not do, and he allowed that horrible day to linger in his mind even as the shimmering loveliness of his god’s looming presence washed over him.
Heavy footsteps pounded the sand. Bardiya glanced to the east and saw Ashhur’s towering figure span a dune’s crest, though somehow he looked shorter than usual. The god was dressed simply, in a plain white robe and a pair of sandals. The last time Bardiya had seen him, his hair had been long, almost down to the middle of his back, but now both his hair and his beard were trimmed and neat. His stride was purposeful, each step seeming almost rigid or angry, making Ashhur appear much unlike the whimsical and peace-loving deity he had known all his life.
Bardiya’s heart clenched with fear.
Ashhur didn’t once look at him directly, even when the god stopped before the Spire, his chin tilting back so that he could gaze on its gleaming apex. A hand did fall to his shoulder, however—his injured one, at that—and Bardiya breathed a sigh of relief. He felt Ashhur’s calming energy flow through him, just as constant and reassuring as it had ever been. Ashhur began whispering to the spire. Bardiya bowed his head and prayed along with him.
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