The Broken Pieces(43)

The minutes passed in horror as he listened to the wolf-men feast.

“You’re a frustrating one,” Cyric said, walking up the stairs to join him upon the wall. Brute heard his approach, but could not see, his head locked so he could only stare upward at the stars.

“I do my best,” Brute said, his voice cracking.

“A hundred men, you say? I count twenty at best. Willshire was empty, and I expected them here. Where are your men? Where are the refugees?”

“They’re safe from you,” Brute said as Cyric loomed over him, a sick smile on his pale face.

“You cling to old ideas,” Cyric said. “Nowhere is safe, not anymore.”

He turned to his wolf-men, and with a clap of his hands, they backed away from the bodies.

“I promised them a feast,” the priest said. “No doubt they feel cheated, but the North is plenty large enough. But you must be humbled. You won’t join them, not like the others. Your soul will move on to the fire, and the fault will be yours alone.”

Cyric stood, putting his back to Brute. He raised his hands, and they shone with a dark power. Words reached Brute’s ears, indecipherable. The very sound of them made his skin crawl. When Cyric stopped, he saw nothing, and could only hear the soft growls of the many wolf-men. He struggled against the creatures holding him, but they pushed down harder, one popping his shoulder out of joint. Brute choked down his scream.

Walking into view, his ghoulish body missing large chunks from where the wolf-men had feasted, was Alex. Cyric turned and stood beside him, rubbing Alex’s bloodied face lovingly.

“His soul will be saved,” Cyric said, pulling away. “But yours will not.”

The wolf-men holding him howled, as if terribly amused. Alex approached, and he held no weapon. His hands reached out, and his knees bent as if he were an elderly man. When the cold fingers closed around his neck, Brute gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Even in death, he’d deny the priest, deny him the satisfaction, deny him everything.

“It’s not you, Alex,” Brute said while he still had air in his lungs. “I know it.”

Stars of all colors swam before his eyes. His chest heaved in futile attempts to draw in breath. Then nothing.





14



The dark paladin Grevus rode toward the Blood Tower amid the howls of wolves. The sound chilled his blood, and he was not one prone to fear. Had the wolf-men of the Wedge launched another attack across the Gihon, as they had in Durham? But why such a well-fortified place as the Blood Tower? Grevus paused a moment so he could dismount. Grabbing the reins, he pulled his horse’s head low, then carefully put his fingers upon its eyes so he might cast a spell.

“You’ve done me fair,” he said. “But I need haste.”

When his fingers moved away, the horse’s eyes shimmered red. Mounting once more, Grevus spurred it on, his horse now blessed to see in the darkness as well as if it were midday. He felt an urgency, and he prayed to Karak he was not too late. Luther had told him Cyric would most likely be at the tower, but what if he was not? Or what if he was in danger? Would it be right to help him, or let him be? The answer might be in the scroll Luther had given him, but Grevus had not dared break the seal to read it along the way. Luther had insisted it be for Cyric’s ears only.

Grevus had spent so much time thinking on how he would judge Cyric’s deeds, he’d not entertained notions that things might differ so greatly. He didn’t consider himself a quick thinker on his feet. More and more he prayed that he misunderstood the sounds, and that all was well. But when he neared the gates, he saw the torches there extinguished. Trusting his horse to react to any danger with his blessed eyes, Grevus rode closer. Just as he’d feared, the gates were broken, the metal mangled as if hit by a battering ram. As Grevus rode through, he realized they were twisted oddly, almost as if they had been pulled outward instead of battered inward.

What madness has happened here? Grevus wondered.

The sound of the wolves had grown louder, and Grevus drew his heavy blade from its sheath. He didn’t know their numbers, and if the combat had turned badly, he’d need to come riding in like a beast to change the tide, however poor the odds. The Blood Tower was before him, and he saw no outward damage, nor defenders manning the windows. Curling around toward the northern side, he saw the expanse between the tower and the wall, and it was then he stopped, mouth agape.

Hundreds and hundreds of wolf-men filled the space, tearing through the remains of the tents, gathering together into groups and feasting on meat of a type he dared not think about. More were along the walls. Grevus saw no defenders, no corpses. Had the defenses been abandoned? He barely had time to consider this before the nearest of the wolf-men sensed his arrival. A howl went up, and a hundred others matched it. Turning his horse about, Grevus kicked his sides to flee, but it was already too late. The wolf-men swarmed to either side of him, moving with terrifying speed. They bit at his horse’s feet to slow him down, then fully surrounded him.