The Broken Pieces(45)

“What is the meaning of this?” Grevus asked. “Why do you make the dead walk?”

“They walk because I command them to walk,” Cyric said. “And I command them for I would save them.”

Grevus looked at the rotting horde, walking in perfect, orderly manner, and fought down a shiver.

“Save them?” Grevus asked. “How? From what?”

“Let me present you a simple parable,” Cyric said as he looked over his undead like a parent would his offspring. “There are two doors. One leads to happiness, the other to death by fire. Before the doors stands a child. He must choose, one or the other, for not choosing would also lead to death by fire. You know the correct way, but the child does not. Tell me, Grevus, what would you do?”

“I would show the child the way,” Grevus said. “For that is our role in this world.”

“Yes, you could show him,” Cyric said. “But the other door is covered with gold, and its way is easy, and from the other side come whispers of temporary pleasures. The child may not listen. What then?”

Grevus shrugged his shoulders.

“Then the child will have made his choice. Not all are meant for peace in the eternity.”

“No,” Cyric said. His voice thundered over Grevus, and within it the dark paladin felt a furious certainty that set his heart racing. “That is a coward’s way. Wash our hands of the blood while calling it fate, or destiny, or the free will of man. It is wrong, paladin. It has always been wrong and it will forever be so. You say you would instruct the child, then let him make his choice? You give him power he should never have. You put the weight of his soul in his foolish, impulsive hands.”

“Then what would you do?” Grevus asked as Cyric walked over to one of the undead and caressed its pale cheek with his fingers.

“I’d do what is right,” Cyric said. “I’d nail the other door shut.”

That was it, then, exactly as Luther had described. Even worse, he already had an army to do it. What if Luther was right, and other paladins and priests of Karak joined his side, swelling his ranks? Grevus swallowed, and he reached for the message.

“I bring word,” he began, but Cyric ignored him.

“Their souls are still here, you know,” the priest said, pushing a finger against the forehead of the walking corpse of an elderly man. “Right here. They refused to bow, Grevus. They refused, shouted angry, ignorant denials. Some, like this man here, were even worse. They professed a faith in Ashhur, as if that would save them. As if that meant something. He thought by going to the Golden Eternity he would be safe from my grasp. But he doesn’t understand. He isn’t safe from me there. No one is. I’ll ascend, and on a glorious day tear down those gates. Order must be made above all things. I will find and judge every soul, even the ones that flee to Ashhur.”

“You speak as if you are Karak himself,” Grevus said, such blasphemous words bitter on his tongue. He looked to the rows of undead, thinking of the torment the souls must be enduring within. Did Grevus think shallow obedience in a desiccated form would lead to their salvation?

“Why such serpentine words?” Cyric asked. “I know what you wish to ask, so why not ask it? Are you afraid of the answer, paladin?”

“There are only two possibilities,” Grevus said. “You are who you say you are, or you’re a blasphemy against our god. You cannot be both, and you cannot be neither. Let me hear the words from your own tongue, Cyric. Let me judge for myself.”

Cyric smiled, but for once that glow about him faded.

“Then let this be my answer; you cannot judge me, Grevus. No one in this world can.”

For a moment it seemed time stopped in that dark night. Grevus heard his heart thundering in his ears, and his mouth turned dry as sand. There was power in Cyric’s words, and whether they were true or not, the priest fully believed them. But how could he speak such blasphemy yet not be condemned by Karak? That the dead followed his command showed Karak had not abandoned Cyric, nor turned his back to him. What did that mean? What other choice did he have?

“I bring message,” Grevus said. “Let me read from Luther’s hand, and then I will decide what it is I believe.”

“If you must,” Cyric said, but Grevus could tell he was irritated by the mention of Luther’s name.

Pulling out the scroll, Grevus looked at the seal, and with trembling hands he broke it. Slowly unrolling the parchment, he saw the priest’s handwriting, and something about it calmed him. Luther was a wise man, brilliant both in the ways of the world and of gods. He’d know how to reconcile the apparent contradiction in Cyric’s power remaining amid such blasphemy. Because Cyric was not Karak made flesh. Despite all his confusion, Grevus was certain of that one truth. Because if Karak did come to the world, Grevus knew he’d fling himself to his knees in worship the moment he saw him. Cyric did not inspire that devotion. Cyric didn’t inspire devotion at all. There was a tantalizing promise to him, though. A nation devoted to Karak, one sworn to the proper way…how many of his brethren would rally behind that ideal?