The Broken Pieces Read online

  “Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Daniel said, finishing his third slice. “After eating bugs for a week, you’d be surprised how close to tears a sliver of butter will bring you.”

  Darius chuckled, sitting in a rickety chair opposite the cot. Beside him stood Brute, arms crossed and patiently waiting for his returned commander to tell his tale.

  “We assumed everyone lost,” Darius said. “Did anyone else survive? What of Sir Robert?”

  Daniel stopped eating, and the bread trembled in his hands.

  “No,” he said. It was as if he were suddenly an inch from breaking down. “No, no one lived, especially not Sir Robert.”

  He glanced up, and Darius realized it wasn’t tears that made Daniel tremble. It was seething rage.

  “That bastard, Cyric, he turned Robert into an abomination. His throat was cut, yet somehow he still lived. Still moved. They kept him chained in the tower, writing letters south, telling people that Cyric’s takeover of the Blood Tower was all a lie, and that the priest was only advising him. I…I cut off his head. It was his order, his last order. Gods help him find peace.”

  “What happened then?” Brute asked.

  Daniel gestured to the dirty child in the corner.

  “Not sure I wish to say more with the lad here.”

  Darius tried to reveal nothing with his gaze, and shrugged off the comment.

  “That lad’s my helper, and he’ll hold his tongue. Tell us, what happened at the tower?”

  “The rest of my men gathered at the door of Robert’s tower, sacrificing themselves so I could escape out a window. Nearly died even then. One of those abyssal lions spotted me. If you’d care to look, you can see the scars he left on my back with his breath.”

  “Her,” Darius said. “It was a her, by the name of Lilah.”

  “How the fuck do you know?” Daniel asked.

  “Because I killed Kayne, the other.”

  Daniel shook his head in disbelief.

  “If you faced one of them down, you have greater stones than I do. Only way I escaped was by crossing the river. Fled into the Vile Wedge, and lived among the monsters. Shouldn’t have had problems staying hidden, but something’s amiss in there. Too many wolf-men, and not enough of anything else. You’d think they’d have learned after we slaughtered them at Durham.”

  The man drank down the rest of his ale, then tossed the cup to the floor.

  “Are you two really the ones in charge?” They nodded. “Shit.”

  “We stopped Cyric’s plans here,” Darius said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “His soldiers were killed, and his sacrifices halted. Cyric lived, though. Ran before I could shove my sword through his belly. After all that, we weren’t sure what else to do. Our numbers are too few to recapture the Blood Tower, and the town lacks the supplies for any lengthy travel. The only way to reach civilization would be to sail down the river, right past the Blood Tower. The garrison there would crush us if we tried. So we’ve stayed here.”

  “Hoping for the best?” Daniel asked. “That’s your plan?”

  “Put simply, yes,” Brute said. “You disagree?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “Cyric will be returning to the Blood Tower. With Robert gone, their ploy will fail if they can’t tie up all the loose ends. That’s what we are, one giant loose end. He’ll come, and then we’ll die.”

  “I saw what Darius could do on his own,” Brute said. “Get some food and drink in your belly, then sleep away the day. You do us a disservice as you are. None of us have any plans of dying.”

  “You misunderstand me,” Daniel said, putting aside his plate and standing. “I didn’t survive all that just to play the coward or the fool. Sir Robert was a great man, a good man, and what Cyric did…I can’t forgive it. I won’t. We’ll find that madman and make him pay. And the first step to that is retaking Robert’s tower.”

  “Robert’s dead,” Darius said. “It’s not his tower anymore.”

  “Then we’ll take back my goddamn tower,” Daniel said. “We’ll fling those mercenaries into the river, and maybe you can kill yourself another of those forsaken lions. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds impossible,” Darius said, even though he smiled. “But I’ve been doing the impossible lately. What’s one more attempt at it among friends?”

  “Not quite impossible,” Brute said. “We do have that woman of yours.”

  Daniel leaned back in his chair, setting aside the last of his meal and drink.

  “Woman?” he asked. “What woman do we have that can make the impossible possible? Because I’d be glad to meet her.”

  “You already have,” said the boy in the corner. He stood up straighter, and suddenly looked so much taller than before. His build thickened, and his hair turned red, growing longer so that it curled about his neck. No longer a boy but a woman with breasts beneath her sleek black tunic, which matched the leather of her pants. Brute frowned, clearly unhappy with the display, while Daniel tensed as if expecting some sort of attack.

  “Always one for the dramatic,” Darius said, shaking his head. “Daniel, I’d like you to meet Valessa, formerly a gray sister of Karak, and my current guest.”

  “Who…” Daniel said, then paused to swallow. “No, what are you?”

  “I was one of Karak’s most faithful,” Valessa said. Even now, Darius could hear the pain in her voice. “And now I am accursed and abandoned. Cyric stripped everything from me, betraying me to excuse his own failures. I am shadow, I am death, and I will have my revenge upon him, same as you.”

  “There must be something stronger in my drink than I thought,” Daniel said, standing. Darius met his gaze, which had hardened tenfold. “Are you a madman, paladin? You invite a creature of Karak into our tent because she claims a desire for revenge? How do you know she doesn’t report our every move to Cyric? How do you know she won’t kill us all in our sleep?”

  “I don’t,” Darius said. “But I trust her.”

  “You trust her?” Daniel said. “That’s great. But can you guard her?”

  Darius looked to Valessa, trying to read her. It was nearly an impossible task, her very image that of an illusion, an exquisite mask to hide the shadows. In her eyes, he thought he saw anger, perhaps wounded pride.

  “I do not fear pain,” she said to him. “If you must, show Daniel the manacles you hold over me, if he needs such a display to sleep at night.”

  It didn’t feel right. It felt akin to when he drew his sword to cut off Conn’s head, but he would not refuse Valessa’s request. He pulled his sword off his back and held it with both hands. The blade shimmered with light, and even though it did not seem bright in the tent, it immediately began to burn Valessa’s flesh. Her pale skin flaked away inch by inch, and her body trembled as whatever held it together steadily broke. Daniel watched, his mouth open. Darius pulled his blade back to sheath it, but Valessa stepped closer, grabbing his wrist. She stared into his eyes as the light burned her deeper, until even her face was lost in shadow and darkness.

  “Enough!” Daniel cried. Valessa’s hand released his wrist, and he quickly sheathed the sword onto his back. The light faded away. Now a mass of darkness on her knees, Valessa slowly regained her strength, her form solidifying with each passing moment.

  “Satisfied?” Darius asked Daniel, feeling irate.

  “Not even close,” Daniel said, watching the skin reappear on Valessa’s hands and face. “I think you’ve only disturbed me further.”

  “We’ve kept her presence hidden from the others,” Brute said, putting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “So far she’s done nothing suspicious, nor threatened harm upon anyone other than Cyric.”

  “So be it,” Daniel said, pointing at Darius. “If you can control her, then she stays in your tent. I take it she’s been going out in the disguise of a boy?”

  “She has,” Darius said. “We call him Vale.”

  “Cute.” Daniel grabbed the blanket off his chair and wrapped it ab
out his shoulders. “If she wants to kill Cyric, she can get in line. We don’t need tricks and charlatans to retake the Blood Tower. We need men, able-bodied killers.”

  “There are fewer killers finer than I,” Valessa said.

  “My comfort only grows in your presence,” Daniel said.

  Darius tried to keep his temper down. He knew Daniel had little patience or tact when frustrated, but this felt unfair. Valessa had come to him willingly, offering aid.

  “She knows where Cyric is,” Darius said as he put a hand on Valessa’s shoulder. It felt cold to his touch, but he gently squeezed anyway. “At all times, she knows. We can use her, Daniel, track Cyric no matter where he goes, evade any ambush while planning our own.”

  “A good trick,” Daniel said, settling back into his chair. “Can she do that with anyone, or just Cyric?”

  “Only two,” Valessa said, her voice soft, eloquent. She’d adopted the habits and persona of a highborn lady, and Darius knew she did it to seem superior to the soldier. “Men who have wronged me greatly, and who by my very creation I am called to kill. Cyric is one.”

  “And the other?”

  Valessa smiled, and then she was the boy, Vale. Without a word she left the tent. Darius smirked at Daniel, and he found himself needing to talk to Valessa, to apologize for the agony his blade had inflicted upon her.

  “The other’s me,” he told the lieutenant. “Good night, gentlemen. Rest well. We’re going to need it if we’re to overthrow the Blood Tower.”

  4

  Cyric stood in the center of the bones, unafraid of the hundreds of wolf-men gathered around him, snarling and howling amid a fit of rage. Redclaw had repeatedly warned him of such a reaction.

  “They will never lower their heads to a human and call him pack leader. Not unless you are a man of miracles.”

  The moon shone high above, its light illuminating the near four hundred wolf-men. They were in a circle surrounding him, and gathered together in various packs. If the wolf was to be believed, Redclaw had once united them all and declared himself Wolf King. His attack on the village of Durham had been disastrous, the defeat stripping him of any claim to such a title. Cyric had promised him he’d have it back, earning a mocking chuckle from the gigantic beast.

  “You insult us all, Redclaw,” said a hulking wolf-man with red fur pocked with scars. He was known as Many-Bruises, and was leader of the largest tribe at the Gathering, nearly two hundred strong. Redclaw’s pack was the only one sworn to Cyric, and therefore sworn to Karak. At last count, that number was barely more than fifty. Cyric looked to Redclaw, curious how he’d react. The wolf-man was not as big as Many-Bruises, but he was quicker, more agile. He was also stronger, Cyric knew, despite his size. Karak must have blessed Redclaw at birth, Cyric decided. The creature was destined to be his champion here in the beginning of the end times.

  “This human speaks of our past,” Redclaw said, his voice carrying through the wild hills of the Vile Wedge. “He speaks of gods, the gods we worshipped before we bowed to the moon. He is strong, stronger than any wolf, and promises us we will be even stronger.”

  Curses filtered through the crowd from the various pack shamans, all insulted that one would dare claim they had once worshipped something other than the moon.

  “I would rather follow the weakest wolf than the strongest human,” Many-Bruises snarled. “For even the weakest wolf is stronger than the greatest human.”

  “Such impeccable logic,” Cyric said, chuckling at the stupid thing. “Would you care to prove it, Many-Bruises? Or would you rather let Redclaw tear open your throat instead? I’d hate for you to die at the hands of anything other than a wolf.”

  “Let me be the one to spill his blood,” shouted another pack leader, this one an ugly creature with one eye by the name of Gutdancer. He was the only one with a pack as small as Redclaw’s. Cyric turned on him and lifted a hand.

  “I have heard of you from Redclaw,” Cyric said. “You are stupid, and always eager for blood. Would you fight me, young wolf?”

  Gutdancer howled, but another stepped in his way, blocking him. It was a wolf-man with golden fur, and his red eyes shone with intelligence that rivaled Redclaw’s. His name was Warfang, and above all others, Cyric had been warned that he would be the one to fear most.

  “No,” said Warfang, hurling Gutdancer back toward his pack. The wolf-man spun to face Redclaw, even though his eyes remained on Cyric. “What you say is blasphemy. You speak against our mother in the sky. You speak against the shamans. Now you want us to kneel, and worship a human? We will not, Redclaw. You know this. Why have you come to the Gathering with lies on your tongue?”

  Redclaw and Cyric stood in the center of the Gathering, on a small mound of bones brought by the various packs. Some were old, some were fresh, and piled together they formed a place of religious importance. Should any pack leader step onto the bones, they’d battle, most likely to the death. Whoever remained standing on the bones afterward would be declared the stronger. Cyric knew he could best any of them, but Redclaw was his champion, and Redclaw was right. None of them would swear allegiance to a human. At least, not yet.

  “The moon is not your mother,” Cyric shouted, using magic to enhance his voice so it was heard by all. “You were not born of its light. You were made for war, in an age long past. Two gods battled, and my god, Karak, was the one who gave you life. He gave you legs to walk upon, and minds to lift you up beyond those of your four-legged brethren. You have strength, and bloodlust, all born not from the moon but from Karak. You have moved away from him now, turning to the blasphemy of your shamans. I offer you a chance to return to Karak’s embrace, to worship the Lion in the way you were always meant to worship: in servitude.”

  They looked ready to bury him in a wave of claw and fur, but against their rage, he smiled. It was the flailing of children, angry at their parent for a scolding. They would come to know his wisdom, one way or another. As much as it pained him to rely on Redclaw, he would have to let the beast prove the truth of his words. Many times before the Gathering he’d coached Redclaw on what to say and when to say it, and this was that moment. Cyric tensed, eager to see how his champion reacted.

  “I am strong,” Redclaw roared to the rest of his race. “But I will be made stronger still. The moon is false. We bow to the Lion now. Come, any of you. Face me upon the bones, and I will show you my strength!”

  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 mean
t 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.