The Broken Pieces(37)

Luther’s men surged forward, and despite their heavy casualties, the dark paladins themselves would not go down. Their push was unstoppable, until at last they were free of the gateway entrance. With more room to fight, and greater numbers of mercenaries rushing in, Sebastian saw the turning point had arrived at last. His men died, and there were many who saw the end and flung down their blades. They were not spared. Sebastian stood tall, and he stood alone. Those before him died, and then a dark paladin towered over him, ax in hand. The fire on its heavy blade was hot enough to feel from where he stood.

“On your knees, dog,” the dark paladin said, striking him across the temple with the hilt of his ax. Sebastian collapsed to his side, and he felt blood running down his face and neck. As the screams of the dying slowly faded, he looked up with blurred vision at the rest of Karak’s forces surrounding him. They kept a wide berth, and Sebastian knew they planned to torture him somehow.

“All this, just for me?” he asked the paladin with the ax. His remark earned him a boot to his teeth.

“Damn coward,” the paladin muttered.

Sebastian laughed even as he spat blood. Despite everything, despite the loss and death, he could at least die knowing that the paladin was wrong. He might have lived as a coward, but he wasn’t dying as one.

The crowd of mercenaries parted. Sebastian rubbed his eyes, craning his neck up from where he lay to see who approached. It was Luther, held in the arms of two other priests so he might walk. The arrow was still embedded in his chest. By his guess, it was a mere two inches from his right lung.

“So close,” Sebastian said, laughing despite his terror. Luther lifted a hand. He said nothing, no mocking words, no bitter remarks. Any desire the priest had to lord over his victory was gone. Luther’s palm flashed with darkness, and within it Sebastian saw fire. Pain flooded his body, a great pressure swelled within his skull, and then the darkness took him far, far away.





12



All throughout the preparations for departure, Valessa accompanied Darius. She said nothing, and whenever he asked her a question she refused to respond. Perhaps it was childish, but Valessa didn’t care. The paladin had certainly earned a cold shoulder, at least for a single day. The combined people of Willshire and Durham reacted with a numb calm when hearing of their need to flee. They’d been through too much to react otherwise, Valessa knew. No one argued. The memory of Cyric’s initial attempt at subjugation was far too recent.

Through it all, Daniel kept their spirits high. He hollered and shouted, acting like his soldiers were incompetent sods while the villagers were the bravest of heroes. Boat after boat filled, as many crammed in them as possible without capsizing. And then, while the sun was beginning its final descent, they left without fanfare or goodbyes. Only Daniel made the shortest of speeches to Brute and his seventeen volunteers.

“Bloody their noses for me,” Daniel said. “And I’ll make sure the king builds you a memorial right here at the tower engraved with the names of every last one of you. And then we’ll grind Cyric’s bones atop it, put them into a bowl, and fill it with my own piss before tossing it to the Wedge.”

“An elegant hope,” Brute said, grinning. “Now get out of here, you old bastard.”

With that, they were alone, twenty total to guard the walls of the Blood Tower. Valessa looked to the sky, saw the steady approach of the black star. Twenty soldiers, when they’d need two thousand to stand a chance. What was the point, she wondered. What gave the men the jubilance they showed? What allowed them to laugh and joke as they prepared their armor for battle?

Only Darius looked bothered by his fate, and even then she wasn’t sure. He sat atop the northwestern section of the wall, staring into the distance. Waiting for Cyric, she knew. Was he nervous about the meeting? Valessa shook her head, berating herself. Of course he was. The thought of meeting Cyric, of hearing his voice speak her name, filled the center of her blasphemous body with terror.

“Hey Darius,” Brute called from down below, having finally found the paladin. “Time’s getting short, so come join us, be sociable.”

Darius chuckled, and his gaze flicked over to Valessa. She kept silent, refusing to offer any input. Being there at all was lunacy. What did it matter if they drank themselves stupid or remained sober and at attention?

“Be right there,” Darius said.

He climbed down the stairs, and Valessa followed.

The seventeen volunteers gathered in the mess hall of the tower, drinking to their heart’s content. Brute waited in a far corner, and he had two cups ready, along with a pitcher.