The Broken Pieces (5 page)

Mostly right, though he should have said ‘Karak’s strength’, not ‘my strength’. The priest took a step back, to the far edge of the bones, so that Redclaw stood at the top, towering over them all. This was it. Cyric had thought long on this, and knew exactly what he desired. Karak had already blessed him with the arrival of the two lions, Kayne and Lilah. Pulling two creatures of the Abyss into the world of the living was a tremendous boon, but it was not enough. The world needed cleansing. He didn’t need two lions. He needed an army.

And so he would make it, for he was Karak made flesh, was he not?

“I will not be denied the pleasure of a blasphemer’s blood on my tongue!” Gutdancer cried, leaping past Warfang before the other could react. Redclaw crouched low, and when Gutdancer came lunging in, he rose up. In a sudden display of speed and strength, he caught Gutdancer by the throat, twisted him in the air, and then flung him on his back amid the pile of bones.

The wolf-men were howling, the Gathering reaching a frenzy as Redclaw licked blood from his claws. Now was the time. Cyric lifted his arms, calling forth all his power. The world of Dezrel needed a cleansing flood, a purging force of claws and muscle to tear away the life of the faithless.

“Be my champion,” Cyric whispered. “Be my blade.”

High above, where there had once been clear sky, a dozen thick clouds rumbled with lightning. It struck the pile of bones once, twice, the power of its thunder rattling teeth and sending wolf-men to the ground. Fire burned, swarming over Redclaw, the lightning having set his fur aflame. Redclaw let out a cry of immense pain, but it meant little to Cyric, for he could see the transformation had already begun.

As the wolf-men regained their senses, their eyes recovering from the sudden blinding flashes, they looked upon the changed Redclaw. His fur glowed a deep crimson, as if he were made of living embers. From his claws dripped molten rock, sizzling upon the bones beneath him. When he took a step forward, his footprints trailed fire. He sucked air deep into his belly, and then his roar breathed red in the dark night.

“Demonflesh!” cried Many-Bruises. Cyric had been told that wolf-men knew no fear, and he saw the proof of it then. Many-Bruises flung himself onto the pile of bones, accusing Redclaw again and again of being demonflesh. Redclaw did not even bother to block the claws that swiped at his skin. When they pierced his flesh, liquid flame poured across Many-Bruises paws, and he let out a pained scream. Redclaw slashed open his throat, then ripped off the head to hold it up to the stars. In his grip, the head shriveled black as it burned.

Cyric climbed the pile of bones, standing beside his champion.

“You are beautiful,” he told Redclaw, who glanced his way.

“I am strength,” Redclaw said. “I am fire. Give me something to kill.”

Cyric gestured to the hundreds gathered about.

“Those who do not bow,” he said. “Those you may slaughter.”

“Wolf must not kill wolf. It is law.”

“Who’s law, Redclaw?” Cyric asked. “Yours? The pack’s? You follow Karak’s law now, and the unfaithful must be punished.” He turned to the crowd and lifted his arms. “Kneel!” he shouted to them, using magic to enhance his voice. “Kneel, and accept your true god. Either Karak is your master, or Death. By your choice, one or the other will claim you this night.”

All at once Redclaw’s tribe dropped to the ground, their nuzzles pressed to the dirt. Within the rest of the crowd bowed various wolf-men. Some were mocked, others even assaulted, but not for long. With a smile on his face, Cyric watched his champion leap into the crowd, a wave of fire in his wake. His molten claws tore through their ranks, and his howl was louder than all others. Within moments the meeting was in chaos, and Cyric reveled at its center.

Redclaw spun and fought in the largest group, his long arms leaving afterimages of red with each slash. Each kill, each step, some leapt to attack Redclaw, while many more fell to their knees and shoved their noses to the dirt. But not all focused on him. Many-Bruises’ pack rushed Redclaw’s, and with them bowed face to the dirt, Redclaw’s faithful would die in seconds. Cyric shook his head, knowing he should not be surprised by the pitiful creatures’ stupidity and stubbornness. It was like trying to teach a child a complicated truth. There’d always be a few who’d never believe, no matter how intelligently explained.

“You defy a god!” Cyric yelled to Many-Bruises’ pack, lifting his arms to the sky. Cracks split the earth, and they belched fire as the wolf-men leapt over. Dozens burned, and others yelped and fled. About a third continued on, clawing and biting at the bowed members of Redclaw’s tribe. Others rushed through their ranks, their target solely Cyric, who smirked at their approach. A handful of wolf-men sought to take down Karak’s physical manifestation? They’d have better hope of ripping the moon out of the sky with their claws.

Cyric crossed his arms over his chest, summoning his magic, but was given no chance to use it. Another pack of wolf-men struck from behind, overcoming them with impressive speed. In moments the entirety of the Gathering either knelt in submission or lay bleeding. From the ranks of Redclaw’s tribe emerged Warfang, who dipped his head low before Cyric.

“I see the strength given to Redclaw,” he said. “I would have that blessing.”

“What of Karak?” Cyric asked him. “What of your faith to the moon?”

“The moon would let us die this night,” Warfang said, glancing upward. “The moon has never blessed my claws with fire. I trust what I see. I will bow to Karak.”

“You?” asked one of the dying wolf-men that lay near Warfang’s feet, his intestines piled in his paws. “You would bow to a human?”

“I bow to no human,” Warfang said, his eyes meeting Cyric’s. “I bow to a god.”

Careful with this one, thought Cyric. He knew Redclaw intelligent for his kind, but this one might be even wiser. Still, he’d slain his attackers, and professed faith. Such things should not go unrewarded.

“Kneel,” he told Warfang. The wolf-man did so as Redclaw returned to his side, the gore on his fur sizzling. Cyric put a hand on Warfang’s head, and he bestowed a fraction of the strength given to Redclaw. Warfang breathed in deep, and when he flexed his claws, they flared red, like embers being blown upon.

“To all of you who kneel,” Cyric cried, taking a step back. “To all of you shoving your snouts into the dirt, professing faith to a name you have never known before, know this! Your faith is weak, your knowledge pitiful. But you will still be blessed! You will learn of the god you serve. You will gain wisdom and power beyond anything your kind has possessed since the day the gods waved their hands and bade you to stand. You were made for war, and I will bring you that war again. The humans beyond the river, they are weak, and tremble at the thought of you crossing into their lands. But you will cross the rivers, you will tear down towers, and you will surround their villages and farms. Those who do not bow, as you have bowed, must know death. Bring it to them!”

“We are one tribe now,” Redclaw said as Cyric fell silent, and the hundreds of wolf-men rose to their feet. “Not Warfang, not Many-Bruises, not Gutdancer. One tribe, Karak’s tribe, and Redclaw is his champion!”

Chants filled the clearing as the burning wolf-man climbed the bones and let his full strength flare.

Redclaw! Redclaw!

Cyric frowned, even though he knew he’d blessed Redclaw for such a reason. Beside him, Warfang stood with his mouth open, chest shaking, a gesture he recognized as laughter.

“Careful,” Cyric whispered to him.

“Glory to Karak’s champion,” Warfang growled before resuming laughing. “All the glory…”

L
ater that night, Cyric sat before an enormous bonfire. It was the pile of bones, used by the wolf-men in their heathen ceremonies. With a wave of his hand, Cyric had set it to burning, commanding the dead and dying to be thrown into its flames. Not all of them, of course. His wolf-men were hungry. A few had grumbled seeing their sacred bones destroyed, but not many, not after the display they’d just witnessed. Not when they could count the dead being tossed into the fire.

Redclaw hunched down beside Cyric, a large slab of meat in his left hand.

“Am I to be like this even when asleep?” the wolf-man asked, the grass where he sat shriveling black from the heat. “Can I not touch a mate without burning her fur?”

“The power is yours to control,” Cyric told him. “So control it.”

Redclaw growled but did as commanded. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing from concentration. Slowly the red glow faded from his fur, the tips of his claws becoming the deep brown they once were. When Redclaw opened his eyes, his lips pulled back in a macabre smile.

“Better,” he said. “But I am still not pleased. You blessed Warfang. Why?”

Cyric stood so he could step closer to the fire, feel its heat against his skin.

“You dare to question a god?” he asked.

“When a god does stupid things, I question, yes.”

Cyric shook his head.

“You are not the only wolf I may use for my ends, Redclaw. Remember that the next time you would insult me. Warfang was faithful, and with his aid the disjointed tribes will be far more loyal. Nearly four hundred wolf-men, all blessed in some way for when we cross the river. With your speed, your strength, we can swarm the North and crush armies ten times your number. But your faith must be strong. Karak’s name must be on their lips…not Redclaw’s.”

“I am fire,” Redclaw said. “I am their champion. Why not let them cry my name?”

In answer, Cyric stepped into the bonfire. Bones crushed beneath his feet, and the flames licked at his robes. The fire swirled across his skin, like sand blowing across a desert, and not a hair on his body was burned. Cyric turned about, let Redclaw see.

“Because I cannot be burned with fire,” Cyric said, pleased to see the wolf-man intelligent enough to fall to his knees. “I am of the Abyss, Redclaw, and your strength is my strength, and mine alone. Send out runners, and gather every wolf-man scattered about the Wedge. I want them here, all part of a single, unified army. And when we march into the first village, one of very many, I assure you, I want to know that it will be my name my army cries out in worship.”

“They will worship Karak,” Redclaw said. “I promise.”

“No,” Cyric said, shaking his head. “Not Karak. Karak made flesh. Cyric.”

“As you wish,” Redclaw said, the tips of his fur glowing. “Forgive me, I must go see that my pups are well fed.”

“You are a father?” Cyric asked, honestly surprised. He thought the brute would be a solitary creature for some reason.

“Two pups,” Redclaw said. “They are not old enough for names. But they will have them soon.”

“Do you know what you’ll call them?”

Redclaw hesitated, then nodded.

“I do,” he said. “But only if you are who you say. Only if we conquer. Manslayer and Manfeaster, they will be called.”

“Names to be feared throughout the North,” Cyric said, and he smiled. “Though if we conquer, perhaps you should name them after the god that has led them to such glory.”

“Perhaps,” Redclaw said, and left without saying more.

5

“I
t is a stupid thing to shut me in here,” Valessa said as Darius prepared his bed.

“I’m sorry if my snoring keeps you awake,” he said. “But surely it isn’t that bad.”

“I do not sleep.”

Darius shrugged.

“Well, then never mind about the snoring.”

“Just because I do not sleep doesn’t mean the sound is pleasant.”

Darius laughed. He pulled off his armor piece by piece, setting it beside his bed. His sword he put by his feet, and was careful not to touch it for long. He didn’t want its light to burn Valessa, for though she would not admit it, he knew it caused her tremendous pain.

“You once served Karak,” Darius said, easing into his bed, which was really a cot with a bit of extra padding. “Surely you can understand Daniel doubting you, especially after all he saw at the Blood Tower.”

“You once served Karak as well,” Valessa said, crossing her arms. “How easily they forget.”