“You know what must be done,” Cyric said to him. “Do it.”
With Redclaw’s howl, the rest of his pack approached, filling the road and the fields to either side. At his charge, they followed, storming into the dark streets of the village. The defenses were meager. No wall, no soldiers, just a few men who patrolled for thieves and brigands. Redclaw raced ahead of the others, determined to take what little sport there would be that night. He found one of the few wielding a sword and leapt upon him, opening his throat with a single slash. There was no satisfying splash of blood, his claws so hot they cauterized the wound as they cut. Redclaw’s disappointment was crushing. Putting his teeth to the man’s neck, he bit down, and at last he tasted the blood he craved.
Through the straw huts ran the rest of his pack, smashing open doors and dragging out men, women, and children. Some were bitten, others slashed, but nothing lethal. They had to obey their god. Redclaw stalked through them as the work was done. The village was small, maybe two hundred people. Compared to his thousand wolves, they were nothing, and in minutes the entire town was gathered in the square. They stood huddled and sobbing, rightfully frightened by the great mass of wolf-men that formed a living cage of claw and fur around them.
And then Cyric went to them with open arms.
“I come to you as the living embodiment of your god,” he said. “I am Cyric. I am Karak made flesh. Kneel, profess your faith, and live.”
Redclaw watched, trying to fight his frustration. His wolf-men were hungry, he knew that, for he was hungry as well. But what they were about to receive didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like a hunt. Of the two hundred, all but fifty knelt. Redclaw snorted. No matter how sincere their worship sounded, he doubted even a sliver of the kneeling actually believed Cyric was who he claimed he was. Mankind was a cowardly race, terrified of death. Why would they not bow to spare their lives?
To fight, of course, yet the ones who remained standing were not fighting. They only stood there, shivering, and it made no sense to the wolf.
“Those still standing, step forward,” Cyric called to them.
They did. Redclaw saw old people, young, even a few children clutching their parents’ hands. He waited, knowing what was to happen next. Calmly Cyric walked to them, and he pulled out five healthy men and women, guiding them to stand separate from the others.
I will claim the faithful, Cyric had told him. As for the unfaithful, their souls are mine by right, but I will give you a tenth.
Without a word, Cyric gestured to the five, and that is when the pack descended upon them. They tore and bit at one another, fighting to get at the bodies that were quickly shredded to pieces. Redclaw watched, careful to show no disapproval. It wasn’t a hunt, he kept thinking. They were being fed scraps.
Amid the sobs and cries of the rest, Cyric turned on the remaining forty and lifted his hands.
“Your faith is lacking,” he said. “But across the tides of time you will repent, and your souls will be spared torment. Know that I do this out of mercy. I do this out of love.”
From his hands shot dark fire and lightning, and it tore through their ranks, killing them in ways Redclaw could only guess. Many doubled over, coughing blood, others shaking so violently he thought their bones might break. It was a brutal spectacle, lacking the pride of a claw tearing into flesh. Such strange strength Cyric possessed, but he could not deny it. Within moments the forty-five were dead.
They did not stay dead for long.
“They are not enough,” Redclaw said as he rejoined Cyric’s side.
“Brick by brick we build the kingdom,” Cyric said. “Not wall by wall.”
“No,” Redclaw insisted. “Them. We are a thousand, and you give us five? My wolves starve.”
His god finally looked his way, and something dangerous was in his eyes.
“This village will have many cattle in the outlying fields,” he said. “Slaughter half. I trust that will be sufficient until the next village. And if not, see if they have goats as well.”
“Goats?” roared Redclaw. “Cattle? We were promised the blood of man, not beasts!”
“Lower your voice,” Cyric said.
Redclaw looked away, and though the furious pumping of his heart did not slow, he at least kept his rage in check.
“If you insist,” he growled.
“You lose your temper when you are hungry,” Cyric said as the wolf-men dispersed into the fields, not needing to be told that they might take the cattle. They would take them anyway. As the remaining people of the village bowed, Cyric walked among them, blessing them, telling them to pray.
“When might I be hungry no longer?” Redclaw asked, thinking the question phrased safely enough to ask.