20
When Cyric’s specter left their tent, defeated by the glowing blade of her hand, Valessa turned to where Darius lay on his back, tears running down his face.
“Do not fight it,” she told him, kneeling down. “Breathe in, breathe out. The pain will pass as the spell fades.”
He nodded, closed his eyes, and did as he was told. Valessa stayed at his side, a strange peace overcoming her. She took Darius’s hand in hers as his breathing calmed, the pain on his face slowly ebbing away. A part of her wanted to think on what had happened, to understand the meaning of what Cyric had done to her, but she dared not. The peace she felt, the comfort, she couldn’t risk ruining it. The pain was gone. The guilt was gone.
“Valessa,” Darius whispered. He sounded like he’d just run a hundred miles. “I think we need to move.”
And then Cyric’s cry washed over them, howling in mad fury. The ground shook along with it. Still clutching Valessa’s hand, Darius pulled himself to his feet. His arms wrapped around her as they staggered away. Screams of panic and pain filled the camp. Still pushing on, the first of many cracks splintered from the base of the tower. With a groan it suddenly tipped, then fell. Valessa ran faster, nearly dragging Darius away from the shadow it cast as the falling tower blotted out the stars. Mere feet behind them it struck, the impact sending dirt and dust billowing over them. Darius fell forward, rolling as stones flew all about them.
The ground below continued to groan and shake, but the greater fury was spent. Cyric could do no more. Just as suddenly as it began the quake stopped, and in the following silence the cries of the frightened and dying filled the air.
Despite how weak he seemed, Darius forced himself to a stand. He looked to the broken tower and shook his head.
“Thank you,” he said, glancing her way.
“For what?”
“Saving me.”
He trudged toward the tower, to help the others swarming it in a desperate attempt to locate survivors. Valessa remained behind, and in the momentary privacy she dared banish the illusion of skin so she might see what lay beneath. At the sight of shining light, and nothing else, she quickly brought back her illusion, then went to join Darius’s side. At first she stood about, feeling like an intruder, until Darius beckoned her over.
“I know you’re stronger than I,” he said. “Help us lift the stones.”
And so she did, pushing aside pieces of rubble that three men together could not move. They pored over the remains, but of the fifty that had slept inside, only four had lived. The rest of the bodies they piled together, and come the rising of the morning sun, they prepared a pyre. Twenty more bodies joined it, those whose tents had been crushed by the tower’s fall.
Daniel Coldmine demanded he be the one to light the pyre.
“I got out just in time,” he said, having slept on the bottom floor. “But it should have been me. Those men, they were young. They were loyal. Damn it all, I’m tired of watching the young die.”
All around were refugees of the various villages, and they remained respectfully quiet as Daniel stood before them, torch in hand. For a brief moment Daniel looked at Darius, as if the paladin might speak. Changing his mind, he shook his head and flung the torch onto the bodies. They’d been soaked with oil and covered with kindling, and they caught with ease. At the far back of the crowd Valessa watched, and she felt her condemnation of Cyric growing.
Burn the sick branches with fire, she thought. It was one of the axioms they’d been taught. Burn them so the healthy may live. But they weren’t burning the sick. Cyric was killing at will, slaughtering anyone that might deny his claims of godhood. If they were to judge by fruits and not by words, then Cyric was not a saver of souls but a butcher of thousands. And there, at the front of the crowd, was Darius, who had counseled all that he could, and had been the last man to leave the crumbled pile of stones. The last man to give up.
She thought once more about the being she was now, and for once it did not frighten her.
If I am a blasphemy, so be it, she thought as she watched the smoke rise. But I see no hope in Karak. I see no life. Gods help me, I think Darius might have been right from the start.
The crowd had begun to disperse, to ready their things for another day’s march, when a cry came from the western guard. Valessa rushed to the front, for a vague feeling had plagued her since the early morning. It was faith in Karak, and it rode ahead of the approaching army like a stench. At least a thousand marched along the road toward them, their flags showing the roaring lion. At first Valessa had to calm herself, lest she panic like the many about her. But a glance to the sky showed the black star was far away to the north.