And now, after two weeks of gathering, of preparing and praying for the wisdom to succeed in such an ambitious plan, he called together his council and gave them the orders of their god.
“Our numbers are sufficient,” he said. “Have your hunters kill all they can of the nearest tribes, and bring back many live prisoners. We will need food between the villages. Tomorrow night, we swim across the Gihon. Tomorrow night, the great cleansing begins.”
Redclaw and Warfang yipped and howled, but Silver-Ear remained silent. The old female stood, dipped her head, and slowly limped back toward camp.
“Go hunt,” he told the two males. Something wasn’t quite right with the shaman, and he felt like having a word with her to discover why. Perhaps she was having a crisis of faith. Not the most opportune time for such weakness, not when he relied on her to calm the more religious of the savages. Calling Silver-Ear’s name, Cyric quickened his pace so he might walk beside her as she limped.
“Something troubles you?” he asked her.
“Do the gods care about our troubles now?” she asked, stopping her walk so she might bow respectfully.
“Have we not always?”
“Always?” She shook her head. “For years we prayed to the moon. We prayed as wounded wolves died and bled. We prayed as pups were born without a beat in their heart.”
“You prayed to a lie,” Cyric said, frowning. “How could you expect an answer from a lie?”
“And now we pray to Karak,” she said, ignoring his question. “You promise conquest, and power, and I believe you will give us all we could want, and more. But tell me, will pups still die when born? Will their mothers bleed out, while I can only give herbs to dull the pain?”
These were dangerous questions, and for some reason they quickened his breath.
“You’re smart for your kind,” he said, stalling.
“We shamans often are. I mean no disrespect. I am loyal, I am your servant. Looking upon Redclaw shows me the blessings you can bestow, and if you lead us into the promised land beyond the river, I will lower my head and call you the moon made flesh. But you are not a god.”
Cyric’s hand caught her by the throat and held her still. Her yellow eyes, already red with veins, began to water as he squeezed tighter and tighter.
“You would challenge me?” he asked. His voice quivered, and it surprised him. “You, a stupid little thing with fleas, would look upon your god and deny the truth of him?”
“My god is Karak,” she rasped. “Who are you?”
He flung her to the ground, then stood over her with shaking fists.
“I am Karak,” he said. “Do you hear me, shaman? I am Karak!”
“Then remake the world,” she said. Her request stunned Cyric silent. “Wave your hand, and see it change. Cast the moon down from the sky. Make life from the dust. Show me the power of a god.”
Cyric took a step back. He felt an attack of panic coming on, and it frightened him. He shook his head violently from side to side.
“I will kill you,” he said.
“Men can kill. Wolves can kill. Try better.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Struggling for words, he tried to wrap his mind around exactly what she asked. Who was he? What was he?
“I am Karak made flesh,” he said, staring into her iron gaze. “I am Karak, but I am not yet completed. I am not yet whole. His power is mine, and it enters me gradually. That is why I must do what I do. You tell me to remake the world, and I will. Should the people of Dezrel listen, they will know true order in their lives. Should they bow, they will know true peace. I will not do it with a wave of my hand, but with tooth, claw, and blood. I am a shadow of the god that created you, but when all of Dezrel worships my name, you will see me in my true glory. Does that satisfy you, wolf?”
“Yes,” Silver-Ear said, slowly crawling onto her knees so she might bow. “I know who you are now.”
“Good. Tell the rest what you must, so long as they obey. Have them worship Karak as their god and me as his physical manifestation. Do you understand?”
“I do,” she said. “If it pleases you, may I leave? There will be wounded to attend to after the hunt.”
He dismissed her with a wave, and she limped off without a word. Cyric watched her go while something ate at the corners of his mind. Of course Silver-Ear would have trouble understanding such a complex concept. These aspects of gods were beyond even the wisdom of a shaman. But why had the answer been so difficult for him? Unspoken fears assailed him, and he tried to shrug them off, to think on them no more, but he couldn’t.
Every night, he prayed to Karak, and it was those prayers that strengthened him, gave him power and understanding. Who was he, to pray to himself? Why did he have no memories of the centuries before? His limitations were painfully human, painfully created by the mere mortal that was Cyric. But Karak was imprisoned in the celestial lands, and this vessel, his vessel, would be imperfect until the elven goddess was defeated and her prison destroyed. Cyric knew he had to be strong, to keep faith in all he did.