The Broken Pieces(67)

“Thank you,” she said, but there was only rage in her voice.

Cyric cast a bolt of shadow at her, but she ducked it, instead rushing for Darius’s sword. Grabbing the hilt, she shoved it into Darius’s hands. The white light shone, and Cyric noticed it did nothing to her now. If anything, it made the life in her skin grow more vibrant. But the curse coursing through Darius’s flesh broke, and together they stood to face him.

“What blasphemy is this?” Cyric asked. “Have you so fully abandoned your god that you would turn to Ashhur in your folly?”

“What god is that?” Valessa asked. “You?”

In answer, Cyric pushed his hands together and released wave after wave of pain and torment. There was no blocking it, no avoiding it, and he saw it immediately reflected upon Darius’s face. That he stood at all was a miracle. Valessa, however, only stepped closer with a look of maddening calm.

“You’re not a god,” she said. “You’re not even a man. You’re a mad dog, Cyric. And we will put you down.”

Her hand became a shining blade of light. He crossed his arms, but it punched right through, burning a hole in his robes and leaving a gaping wound in his chest that bled shadow. With a cry he flew back, back across the hills and over the Gihon to where his body lay on the grass, gasping. With a moment of disorientation he plunged into it. The pain hit him then, and he screamed out into the night.

“You bitch,” he moaned as he curled onto his knees and tore at the grass. “You would deny me even now?”

Deep in his chest he felt a fire burning. With each passing moment it lessened, but still the ache was unbearable, and greater was the insult it represented. Not a god, she’d told him. Not a man. Who was she to declare such things? She was Ashhur’s last resistance, he realized. She and the traitor were the best the failed god could do to protect himself, and both had been stolen from the ranks of Karak. Of course they were stronger. Of course they were dangerous. Twisted faith always was.

“I will show you,” Cyric said as he rose to his feet. He stared south, and in his mind’s eye the miles were but inches. He beheld the tower, and the many tents alongside it.

“I will show you all. I will not be mocked, nor denied. I am a god, you fools, a god!”

His voice echoed across the camp so that all there heard his proclamation, bearing witness to his fury in the final moments before their deaths. With all his power he clutched the ground. Let the very earth tremble! Let it swallow the cowards, the traitors, the disloyal! And in his hands it did. The sound of a great crack echoed over the hills. Tents shook on their poles, and fires scattered. Greatest of all was Tower Silver, whose stones cracked as its foundation was rocked side to side. All around men and women screamed as it fell. Those within it were crushed instantly, as were many of the tents. Cyric felt exultation at the sight, but he was not done.

“All of you,” he cried. “All of you will know only darkness!”

More and more the earth churned. He tried to split it wide, to open a great chasm to swallow them all. A line spread like a spider web through the remains of the tower, but it would not split. Cyric felt himself at a loss for breath, and his vision of the camp blurred the more he pressed on. At last he pulled back, and with a gasp fell to his knees. The earth grew still.

Close, he knew. So close. With every prayer, every broken village, he felt his power being freed from the Abyss and pouring into his soul. While he wasn’t there yet, they’d seen it now. They’d watched their tower crumble, felt the earth rage beneath their feet. Such a shame the two he most desired to die had managed to escape the rubble and quake.

“Time,” he breathed as he pushed himself to a stand. “All I need is time. I am the infinite, and you are the dust. You will not escape, Valessa, nor will your bastard lover. Pray for salvation. Pray for mercy. I am coming, and when I exact my glory upon your souls, you will wish for death.”

Exhausted and bathed with sweat, Cyric returned to his camp, where the wolf-men waited. He called for Redclaw, and the giant beast came.

“The survivors are by the river many miles south,” he told him. “Hunt them down, and stop for neither day nor night.”

“And the tenth?” Redclaw asked, his head tilted to one side as he asked his question.

“No,” Cyric said. “There will be no tenth, no professions of faith, no salvation. Kill them all, Redclaw, and let your pack feast upon the remains. They are wretched. Let their souls burn.”

Redclaw smiled wide, and he reared back and let out a howl. One after another the rest of the wolf-men joined him, and then in a river of fire and fur they ran for the hunt.