The Broken Pieces(72)

“Hold faith,” Cyric said at last. “It must be done.”

He lifted his arms, and from his hands shone a deep red light. It flared brighter, brighter than even the sun. Redclaw watched one of the wounded beside him, a wolf whose belly was sliced open. He must have run the whole distance while holding in his innards. His mouth was open, and he was gasping for air at a feverish pace. Then the red light shone upon him, and he breathed no more. A quiet sense of terror settled on Redclaw as he saw the wolf-man stand. Intestines roped out, hanging like decorations from a belt. All around stood the rest, their backs straight, their mouths and eyes perfectly still.

“You killed them,” Silver-Ear growled, and Redclaw could hear the shock in her voice.

“I saved them,” Cyric said. “Their bodies failed them, but now they will fight for me still. Their souls remain, and even now I can hear them praying to me in worship.”

Silver-Ear bared her fangs.

“You are not the moon,” she snarled. “You are not the giver of life. You bring only death, and then slavery after.”

“I am your god,” Cyric said, his expression still calm. “Do you dare question me, shaman?”

“Question?” Silver-Ear shook her head. “No. Not question.”

She lunged at him, snapping her yellow teeth. In a single smooth motion Cyric waved his arm, and from his palm a single orb of black shot forward. It struck Silver-Ear in the snout, sank into her skin, and then activated. Her body convulsed, twisting in ways painful to watch.

“I will not be doubted, nor questioned, nor betrayed,” Cyric said, and he looked straight at Redclaw when he did. “Today we will rest, and your pack will sleep. Come tomorrow you will be my vanguard as we crush those foolish enough to stand against us. The North will be ours, Redclaw. It’s only a matter of time. As for you, shaman…”

He knelt down before her. Silver-Ear had finally stilled, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth as she slowly breathed.

“You are important to me,” he whispered to her. “But even without you I can still rule these dogs. Know your place, unless you’d rather join the wounded you cared for.”

With a command, the fifty undead wolf-men followed, taking up ranks with the rest of the dead Cyric had marching with him. The sight of his brethren standing side by side with the human corpses was nearly enough to empty Redclaw’s stomach. Looking to Silver-Ear’s limp form helped matters none, either.

As his pack settled down to sleep, Warfang sought him out.

“When the moon rises, we will have a Gathering,” he told him.

“Who has called for one?” Redclaw asked, earning himself a massive grin.

“Why, you did,” said Warfang as he left. “At least, that is what I told them.”

Redclaw laid down for the day, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. His mind, however, refused to stop churning, and when it turned to the coming Gathering, he felt an idea take root. Its audacity frightened him, but he knew, for the safety of his pack, and the life of his pups, it must be done. Silver-Ear’s punishment had been a message, one delivered with both clarity and brutality. To ignore it now would mean to be a fool. Even if Warfang was right, even if he was a coward, Redclaw refused to be a fool. Not anymore.

Sleep did not come for him, so instead he watched his pups as the sun crawled along the sky.



Cyric had stayed up for much of the day, meditating with his body facing the south, so when Redclaw rose for the Gathering they were free of his presence. For this, Redclaw was thankful. They had no mound of bones, no sacred places to meet, but the nearby hill made do for their purpose. The five hundred gathered about it, and in their center burned a small fire, made at Redclaw’s demand. The hill, however, he had not chosen. The pack had gravitated toward it, and it was no surprise to him. They were on the side furthest away from the dead that marched in obedience to their god. None of them, whether they were aware of it or not, wanted to be anywhere near those mockeries of life. Their presence was like a thorn in the eye.

Think of your pups, thought Redclaw as his breath caught in his throat when he stepped into the center. Think of them, and act.

“Wolf-men of the Wedge!” he roared, the volume of his voice earning their attention. “I have called this Gathering, and would have you hear me now!”

“We have not come to listen!” Warfang roared back. Redclaw glared at him but was not surprised. Warfang would not risk losing control of the Gathering. He’d had a plan in mind from the start, and through the strength of his personality he would dominate proceedings as he desired. What he didn’t know, however, was that Redclaw desired the exact same set of events.