The Broken Pieces(6)

Grevus tried to think like that, to understand, but could not. The past was the past, nothing better, nothing worse.

“In all times, there are men who are faithful, and men who are weak,” he said. “Cyric is a fool to think it wasn’t always this way.”

Luther smiled as he put down the candle and wax.

“So true, paladin. Thank you for reminding me why I chose you.”

He pressed his ring into the wax, placing his seal upon it.

“Ride alone to the Blood Tower,” Luther said, offering the missive to him from his seat. Grevus accepted it, hoping the priest didn’t notice his nervousness. Even through his gauntlets, it felt like the paper shocked his skin. “If Cyric is not there, he might be at a nearby village named Willshire. When he is alone, break the seal and read him my message.”

“Shall he not read it himself?” Grevus asked.

“No, no. From your lips, Grevus. I want there to be no doubt, no confusion. I trust you to believe what I say, and to know what to do after the message is delivered. Act with faith, and do not hesitate. There is more at stake here than you know.”

“And what is that?” Grevus dared ask, even if it revealed him to be lacking in wisdom.

Luther leaned back into his chair, and his eyes glazed over as his thoughts traveled inward.

“A man who yearns for the past now claims to be Karak,” he said. “A man who would make things as they once were. His faith is strong, and his words will be seductive. He’ll speak of power, of conquest and subjugation. He’ll speak of enforcing faith throughout the land, denying people even the illusion of choice. And if given the chance he’ll crush every last remnant of our order, which he views with such contempt, all to remake a world that never existed except in his foolish dreams.”

“The words I carry, they are the words of Karak?” Grevus asked, looking at the parchment.

“They are,” Luther said, his eyes refocusing. “And if they are not, they should be. Prepare your things quickly, and ride out before the dawn.”

Grevus bowed low, but had one last question before he left.

“Luther,” he said. “I must ask. I must. If Cyric claims he is Karak made flesh when he is not, then he speaks blasphemy of the highest order. You know our law. You know what I am called to do.”

Luther stood from his chair and walked over, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“Read the message,” he said. “And then act with the wisdom and faith I know you have.”

Grevus’s insides hardened, and despite all his training, he felt fear and uncertainty facing such a task. To judge the life and faith of a priest, knowing that blood must be spilled should he not deny the blasphemy…

“I will do my best,” he said, standing up straighter.

“I know you will. Now go.”

As Grevus went to leave, Luther gave him one last command.

‘Oh, and while you’re up there,” he said, his old eyes sparkling, “should you find out where Darius is hiding, hunt him down and kill him. An embarrassment like that to our order has no right to live.”

“Of course,” Grevus said, bowing low. He felt a smile pull at his lips. Everything else might worry him, especially being caught between two powerful priests of Karak, but in this, he knew there was no debate.

Darius, the traitor paladin, deserved to die.





3



The people of Willshire rose with the sun, for there was work to do. For them, it meant dealing with the fields, their homes, with baking bread and dirty clothes. For Darius, it was an execution.

The paladin strode from his tent toward the town square, the new day sun shining off his polished armor. Where once had been the sigil of Karak was now a golden mountain. It’d taken many meticulous hours scraping away at it with a dagger to clear off the original paint, and his drawing, while careful, was still crude. Skill in art had always eluded Darius growing up, not that he’d had much practice beyond a few doodles made while learning his letters in the Stronghold. But he was proud of it nonetheless, though it now worried him greatly. He bore the symbol of Ashhur on his chest, but on his face he would wear the hood of the executioner.

An older man, Brute, saw him along the path through town and strode to join him.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Brute said.

Darius shook his head.

“You know it does.”

They continued on, neither speaking. After the defense of Willshire and the arrival of Daniel Coldmine’s soldiers, they’d remained in town. They’d fortified the outer roads and built up some barricades, but not with any real expectation of defense. In truth, they’d not known what else to do. Daniel himself was lost, presumed dead after a failed attack on the Blood Tower. Once casualties were counted and done, Brute had assumed leadership, though only in name. Darius had become their leader after that battle. He’d defeated Cyric and sent him running, and it was his sword that had killed the demon lion, Kayne. They looked to him, expecting a miracle that Darius simply did not have to offer.