The Broken Pieces(47)

Cyric stepped to one side, then reached out with his hands. One grabbed ahold of Grevus by the throat, the other clutched the extended blade. The fire did not burn his fingers, nor did the edge cut his skin.

“How long will you doubt me?” Cyric said, his face inches away. “Will it take death to teach you the truth of my claim?”

“In death we will know all things,” Grevus said, and it was his words this time. Already he felt Luther retreating. “But I’ll learn nothing of you, save the nakedness of your lies.”

Even as the spell enacted around his neck from Cyric’s hand, Grevus still reached forward. All he needed was a touch. Fire burned his throat, and he dared not try to breathe. His free hand touched Cyric’s chest, and then he unleashed it all, his full fury against the sinful and unrighteous. Ashhur’s paladins could cleanse the wounded with their hands. Karak’s could destroy the wicked.

Grevus dropped to the ground, Cyric’s hand releasing him. Lightheaded, Grevus tried to remain upright on his knees, but his muscles were starting to betray him. His throat was charred shut, and he could not breathe. His lungs burned like fire, but he forced himself to watch, to see the results of his ability. Cyric had staggered back, as if struck in the chest by a mallet. The dark power washed over him, and on a normal man it’d have killed muscle, exploded blood, and shattered bone. But Cyric still stood, and when he looked at Grevus, it was with a smile on his face.

“You would use my power against me?” he asked. “You’re a fool, both of you, damned fools.”

Forgive me, Grevus, Luther whispered into Grevus’s mind. I wasn’t strong enough. You are a good man, a faithful man. Greet me when my own time comes.

Cyric knelt before him, cupping his face as if he were a loved one.

“Not yet,” the mad priest whispered after kissing his forehead. “You’re not done serving just yet.”

Grevus could not see him anymore, his vision overwhelmed with red and yellow as his lungs strained repeatedly, desperate for clean air. Blessed darkness started to take him, coupled with a strange lightening of his body and a vanishing of his pain. That sensation suddenly halted, and the wrongness of it left him screaming in his mind, for his lungs could not scream of their own accord. The terrible swirl of colors dissipated. His eyes could see once more, but it seemed they no longer functioned as they should. He could not look anywhere but directly into Cyric’s smiling face.

His legs pushed him to a stand. They did so against his will.

“I gave you every warning,” Cyric said. “But I will not punish a puppet of Luther. I was similar once, and so I shall show you mercy.”

Grevus’s lungs did not breathe. His heart did not beat. He felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, coupled with a claustrophobic certainty of imprisonment within his own body. No matter what he tried to do, his arms and legs refused to obey.

And then he was walking.

“You’ll serve as a loyal man should,” Cyric said, staying at his side. “Whenever the sun rises or sets you’ll kneel in prayer. With your own eyes you’ll witness the unveiling of Karak to the world. I hope that, in time, you will open your heart to the truth. I’m trying to save you from an eternity of fire, Grevus. You may not believe me now, but I have time, paladin, so much time…”

Deep inside, Grevus screamed and screamed as he joined the ranks of the other hundred, and to his horror, he realized he could hear their screams as well, pleading for freedom, for forgiveness, for death.





15



Jerico stood before the crumbled remains of the Citadel. He saw the broken stone and billowing dust with a clarity and certainty of his dreaming status that he knew himself in no ordinary dream. The sun was high, the grass green and blowing in a smooth summer wind. The stables were crushed, thick sections of stone wall having collapsed on top of them. Toward the river was the rest of the former structure, toppled as if the very foundations had been thrown up from the dirt. A deep crater remained where the Citadel had once stood, like a wound on the land.

While he once might have felt fear or despair walking toward such a scene, Jerico now only felt a timid sadness. Was this what awaited him should he finally have the courage to travel south? Was this the scene that would confirm his earlier dreams?

And then the clouds swirled, and Darius stood before him. He wore the same armor as always, except now made of gold, and with a silver symbol of the mountain carved into the chestplate

“Darius?” Jerico asked.

Darius smiled, and did not confirm nor deny.

“You’ll soon be betrayed,” the dream apparition said. “Show no fear, no anger, and no surprise. Into the hands of the enemy you must go.”