The Broken Pieces(10)

“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 about 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?”