“My friend,” Cyric said, bowing to the paladin. Salaul leaned back and crossed his arms. He was an older man with graying hair, now living a life of training and teaching instead of actual combat. But he was a paladin of Karak, and his strength was still greater than that of most mortals. A greataxe hung on his back from several leather straps. Cyric could only begin to guess how many lives it had claimed.
“Young priest,” Salaul said, his voice incredibly deep. “Luther told me you would be assuming control of the situation here at the Blood Tower. I offer you my wisdom, for I have seen much in this world, for good and ill.”
“Your wisdom will aid me greatly,” Cyric said, trying to sound even half as authoritative as Salaul. “But for now, I have a task for you, one that must be done away from prying eyes.”
Salaul narrowed his gaze.
“I will do nothing that might dishonor my god,” he said. “What is it you would ask of me?”
It was a gamble, Cyric knew. He’d learned everything he could of Salaul, of his many battles against bandits, his periodic trips to Mordeina to preach on the streets, and most of all, of his total lack of hesitation in using that greataxe of his to enforce the will of Karak.
“Tonight, I will cross the Gihon and into the Wedge,” Cyric said, nodding toward the river. “I wish to communicate with our god. All I require is one man or woman to accompany me, someone loyal to Karak above all else.”
“Any of our men would gladly volunteer,” Salaul said, gesturing about the camp.
“Then find me the most faithful, and have them meet me at the river come nightfall. Understood?”
Salaul tugged at his armor, adjusting the padding underneath.
“They will want to know what it is they volunteer for,” he said.
Cyric sensed the real question beneath it, the paladin’s desire to know the truth. He had to be careful here, but his gut told him Salaul would be open to the old ways, more so than many.
“I will not say, but you may accompany me, Salaul. Karak surely will hear my prayer if you are there to lend it strength.”
“Perhaps.”
Salaul bowed, and Cyric returned to his room in the Blood Tower. His heart raced. It was time. All his patience would now be rewarded. In his room, he retrieved a book from his satchel. He’d read many things in the Stronghold’s library, as well as the priests’ library in Mordeina. In the dark corners, he’d found tomes untouched for over a hundred years. At the Stronghold, he’d discovered one in particular that had sent his fingers tingling just by touching its leather-bound frame, and set his heart racing by reading the faded cover.
The Collected Words of the Prophet.
It had no drawings, no gold lettering, nothing that might indicate the immense knowledge within. He still remembered the first sentence, the moment that had put his entire life into order, and given him a purpose for his discipleship. He opened it now, fingers lovingly touching the paper, and then read aloud.
“To the best of my abilities, here within I recount the wisdom granted to me by the man with a thousand faces, Karak’s most holy servant…”
He flipped through, stopping at a section he’d marked with a thin, dried leaf.
Tonight, he thought. Tonight!
The hours crawled as in seclusion he read over passages he’d studied a hundred times. There could be no error, no slip of the tongue. This was the first of the rituals, his childlike step into the old ways. Should he be successful, all of Dezrel would soon know his name. Within the temple, he’d be revered for his accomplishments.
At last the sun began to set. He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. Before going, he reached into his trunk and pulled out a bundle of cloth tied shut with string. Hiding it within his robes, he left the Blood Tower. Waiting for him at the river was Salaul and another man who Cyric did not recognize.
“We are here,” Salaul said at his arrival. “Cyric, this is Pat Arenson.”
“Karak saved me from my sinful life of murder and rape,” said Pat. He was a shorter man, with black hair that curled about his neck and ears. “I owe everything to you priests. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it with a song on my lips.”
Cyric smiled.
“Excellent. I can sense your faith, Pat. Stand tall, and be proud. I have selected you for a great honor, unbestowed for far too many years.”
“Very good,” Salaul said, hardly sounding impressed. He gestured to the river. “Do you have a way for us to cross? Otherwise, I procured us a boat.”
“A boat will suffice.”
The three men rode to the opposite side, Cyric standing in the center while the other two rowed. He felt the cold night air blowing through his hair, and it did nothing to diminish his smile. Instead, it made him feel more alive, closer to the stars and, therefore, closer to his god. When they hit the shore, Salaul hammered down a stake in the dark earth and tied the boat to it. Meanwhile, Cyric hurried across the grass, searching for a flat section. It was all flat, so he chose a spot at random upon which to begin.
“Be with me, Karak,” he said, closing his eyes in prayer.
Priests of Karak could wield great power, but so far Cyric had been given little chance to demand it. It was not something that could be practiced, for Karak frowned on pointless use of his power. But now-now was the time. Fire burned across his hands, and he felt pride at its strength. The grass caught, and he controlled it like he might his own limb, guiding it in a circle. The heat grew, the fire roared, and then the interior of the circle was also consumed. With a clap of his hands, it died, leaving him a space to perform his ritual.
“Clear out the ash,” he told Pat.
The man knelt and scooped away with his hands without complaint. Meanwhile, Cyric flipped to the marked section and fought down a last moment of nerves. This was it. He would show no fear, no hesitation. The words of the prophet soothed him. When Pat finished, Cyric glanced at Salaul, who was watching with his arms crossed. Was that mistrust in his eyes, or merely boredom? The paladin might not be impressed yet, but he would be soon. Cyric read aloud a passage, feeling the power of Karak flowing through him. The burned ground flashed red for the briefest moment, then faded.
Falling to his knees, Cyric slowly dipped a finger in the dirt and scratched a symbol. It was as if he were opening a wound into the world, revealing an angry red glow burning across melted rock. Cyric hurried about the circle’s perimeter, drawing rune after rune. His confidence grew as each one flared with power. There was no boredom in Salaul’s eyes when he finished, only a growing awareness of the momentous event.
“You dabble in ancient powers,” he said.
“I awaken what was forgotten,” Cyric said. “I practice what our god once preached. Will you stop me?”
The paladin shook his head.
“I still remember a time when the Stronghold held to the old ways. I was only a child, but I remember their faith.”
“What would you have me do?” asked Pat.
“Step into the center,” Cyric said, pointing. “Close your eyes, lift your arms up and your head to the stars. Pray to Karak with all your strength. Beg for his mercy, his wisdom. Let it flow upon us all.”
“As you wish.”
Pat hesitated only a moment, impressing Cyric with his determination. The runes shone about him, bathing him in crimson light. Pat lifted his head, closed his eyes, and began to pray. It was a constant drone, but it was sincere. Heart pounding in his chest, Cyric pulled out the cloth package and broke the string with his fingers. He let the wrappings fall, and he held the dagger hidden within.