village woman, she wandered through them, smiling meekly at any who looked her way. In the center she found Darius’s tent, him sitting within it. His sword was at his side, but so far, it lacked its damnable glow.
“Darius,” she said, stepping within. He looked up from his bed, confused, but then she dropped the facade, and stood naked before him, her own body, her own face, with nothing to hide. He reached for his sword, but she did not move.
“Have you not had enough?” he asked, his hand closing about the hilt.
“I have,” she said, even as her skin flaked away under the growing light of his sword. “I promise you nothing, for the blood between us remains. But that is not why I am here.”
She hated doing so, but she must. Valessa fell to one knee, bowed her head, then looked up into Darius’s eyes so he might see the searing hatred in them.
“Help me,” she asked. “Help me kill Cyric.”
Epilogue
Cyric wandered further into the wild lands trapped between the rivers. There were many creatures there, he knew. He’d read the books, seen the maps. When the gods’ war had sundered the land, Ashhur and Karak had given strength and form to the beasts so they might fight as soldiers. But now the creatures had abandoned their gods, or was it their gods who had abandoned them? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.
The camp of wolf-men was small, but it would grow larger with time. He trusted his strength, the strength of Karak. Darius was only a dying vessel, one of the last paladins of Ashhur that his enemy might throw at him. Desperate, and wild in faith. Such a man would fall in time.
At the edge of their camp the weaker wolf-men slept. Cyric stopped just before them, for he knew his scent would alert them soon. Growls confirmed this. The first to see him snarled, leapt from his sleep, and attacked. Cyric waved his hand, crushing his throat with a heavy stone made of shadow. Two more leapt at him, and with a word he burst the blood from their eyes and nostrils.
“I have not come to fight,” he told them as more and more gathered. “Where is your leader?”
“I am pack leader,” said a large wolf-man, pushing through the rest. His claws were sharp, his whole body lean with muscle. Cyric smiled at him.
“My name is Cyric, priest of your god, Karak, the god you worshipped before you turned to the moon and in falseness gave her your faith.”
“You speak lies,” said their leader. “I will enjoy the taste of your blood on my tongue.”
“Try, if you wish. The strongest leads the tribe, after all.”
The wolf-man feinted a direct rush, then circled to the side before leaping. It was a clever move, but Cyric did not fall for it. Clapping his hands together, he summoned manacles born of dark magic. They broke through the dirt and wrapped about the wolf-man’s wrists and ankles, slamming him to the ground. All around him, the rest of the tribe yipped with fear. A small tribe, maybe thirty at most; Cyric knew they would be the first of many. And he also knew that, as a human, he could never inspire their complete loyalty. He looked down at the captured wolf-man, then knelt mere inches from his snapping teeth.
“I will give you great power,” Cyric said. “All you must do is accept the love of Karak, and swear your life to me. Can you do that? If you do, I will help you make your tribe a thousand strong. At my side, you will fight as we retake the north in Karak’s name. Heathen men will die before you, and your feasting will be great. What do you say?”
The wolf-man looked up at him with startling intelligence in his eyes. The tribe fell silent as they waited for an answer from their pack leader.
“I will serve Karak, if Karak will lead us to blood and battle,” he said.
“Excellent.” Cyric banished the chains. “Rise, wolf, and tell me your name.”
The creature rose to his full height, towering over him. His voice deepened as he spoke, a heavy growl eager for conflict.
“Redclaw,” said the wolf.
L uther knelt before his bed, hands clasped in prayer. They were not far from Lord Sebastian’s castle, and he expected an envoy from him at any time. Not that it would matter. His host marched beside him, and Sebastian’s army had been left tattered and in ribbons. If Sebastian wanted to retain power, he would have to turn to them, regardless of his own feelings.
“All for you,” Luther prayed. “All I have done, I do for you. The lawless shall be broken upon the immovable law. In time, the North will be yours, not just in heart but in deed and law. May I remain strong, and break the will of Sebastian. We have left him nothing, as you desired. Let him know his strength is in his loyalty to Karak, not his own might and men.”
Movement at the entrance of his large tent alerted him to a man’s arrival. Luther turned, saw one of his paladins holding a scroll.
“My priest, forgive me,” said the paladin.
“Yes, Grevus?”
The paladin crossed his arms, and he looked uneasy.
“We’ve received disturbing reports from the towers. It’s about Cyric.”
Luther sighed, and with a groan, rose from his knees.
“What has my pupil done now? Don’t bother reading the message, just tell me.”
Grevus’s cheek twitched.
“We hear he’s overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and also assaulted the village of Willshire. Worse…I do not know what to make of this, my priest. Perhaps the messenger lies, or has heard wrong.”
“Out with it,” Luther said, feeling anger growing in his breast.
“Luther, among many other things, it says Cyric preaches that he is Karak made flesh, now free to walk the land and remake it in his image.”
Luther swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded to the lengthy message the paladin held in his hand.
“Tell me everything.”
