The Broken Pieces(28)

“They’re dangerous,” Jerico insisted. “You’ve seen the power Luther wields. Why would you desire to be allies?”

“You just answered your own question,” Arthur said, plopping down into his chair and groaning. “There are only two gods worshiped in all of Mordan, yours, and Karak, and you know damn well which one is stronger.”

“Not stronger,” Jerico said quietly.

“More popular, then,” Arthur said, waving a hand dismissively. “Either way, if I’m to rule, I cannot alienate either temple. I risk their ire just by having you as a symbol of my victories. Don’t make me risk more.”

That was it, Jerico knew. There was nothing left to argue.

“I will trust your decision,” he said, “and I will do all I can to help, so long as my conscience permits.”

Arthur closed his eyes, the chair steadily rocking.

“Go on out,” he said. “I need rest. And Jerico…let us make a promise, together. I’ll never go against my conscience, and you’ll never go against yours. Will that be enough to earn your trust?”

Jerico smiled.

“I trust you to be a good lord, and a good man. You don’t need to buy that from me with a promise.”

“Earned trust is the strongest trust,” Arthur said. “You’re wiser than you look. Good night, paladin.”

Jerico left the tent, and was surprised to find Kevin waiting for him. The man stood with his arms crossed, staring at his fingernails as if he were supremely uninterested.

“Did you change his mind?” Kevin asked, looking up.

“Arthur makes his own decisions,” Jerico said, trying to step past him, but failing. Kevin shifted to the side and put a hand on Jerico’s breastplate.

“Decisions influenced by counsel,” Kevin said. His eyes narrowed. “Did you sell him your fanatic delusions? Do we rush toward a holy war for the glory of gods?”

Jerico grabbed Kevin’s wrist. Both tensed, and Jerico sensed Kevin dangerously close to reaching for the shortsword strapped to his thigh.

“There’s rarely anything holy about war,” Jerico said softly.

“And there’s rarely war without holy men. Release my hand, or say goodbye to yours.”

Jerico did so, pushing the man back a step. Kevin fixed his sleeve, then gave Jerico a vulture’s smile.

“He’ll see through you one day,” he said. “All wise leaders eventually do. The wisdom of men must rule, not the whims of gods.”

Jerico brushed past without giving him the dignity of a response, even though Kevin’s words burned like fire in the back of his mind.





9



When he’d first converted the wolf-men at the Gathering, Cyric had been happy with four hundred of the brutes. But what he’d thought was the bulk of their numbers had only been the tip. For days on end he watched as his pack swelled, creatures from all over the Wedge making their way to his camp. More and more hunters had to seek out food, and it seemed they dined on orc meat as much as they did anything else. Not that Cyric would partake in such cursed flesh. There was always a bit of rabbit for him come time for his meal.

“Why does a god care what he eats?” Redclaw had asked him once when he refused the cooked flesh of an orc, still connected to a bit of bone. “A god is a god.”

“I am a god made flesh,” Cyric had said, glaring. “And I will not spoil that flesh with such filth.”

Redclaw had laughed, as he often did lately. Whatever it was that gave him such good humor, Cyric could not say. That he ruled a pack over a thousand strong, and possessed the strength of demons and the speed of angels, might have something to do with it.

An endless parade of tribal leaders came to Cyric, all kneeling with their snouts pressed to the dirt upon his introduction. They did the same to Redclaw, professing their loyalty. At first the idea of serving two masters had confused them, but eventually Cyric had enlisted the aid of one of their shamans, a wily old female with gray fur by the name of Silver-Ear.

“We once served both moon and pack,” she’d tell the newcomers just before their introductions. “You will bow to the leader of all packs, the Wolf King, and then you will bow to the moon made flesh, the maker of the moon, the god made human.”

A crude explanation, perhaps, but Cyric allowed it. So many were reluctant to give up their worship of the moon that it was becoming easier to just let them think he was the moon. So long as they worshiped him, and therefore Karak, their souls would find a place safe from the fires of the Abyss.

Silver-Ear had taken a spot in his council, though it was a lie to call it that. They did not counsel, only listen to his orders and obey. Around a large bonfire they gathered, given a respectful distance from the rest of the packs. Redclaw was there, his claws flaring with flame each time he flexed his paw. Warfang was the last of the four, a valuable addition. While Redclaw was Wolf King, there were so many to control, and the beasts’ aggressive nature was only heightened by their worship of Karak, not diminished. Warfang helped enforce his word, and denied any chance of protest. Every last wolf was eager for bloodshed, and they eyed the river to the west with a hunger that Cyric himself could not deny.