“What is it?” he asked, in no mood for courtesy. The door swung open, and the soldier stuck in his head.
“Sir, Cyric wishes me to give you a message. You’re invited to join him at tonight’s ceremony. He says you’ll be given a place of honor.”
Robert snorted.
“I’m sure I will. Tell him I’d rather fuck a goat.”
The soldier blanched.
“I’ll tell him you declined,” he said, turning to leave.
“No, damn it,” Robert said, flinging the door open. “I gave you an order, and I expect you to carry it out. Now what message are you to deliver?”
The soldier stood erect and saluted.
“That you’d rather fuck a goat, sir.”
He made it sound so urgent, so important, Robert grinned.
“That’s right. Now leave me be.”
He slammed the door in the soldier’s face and poured himself another glass of wine. Half an hour later, the door reopened, and Daniel stepped inside.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Cyric’s extended an invitation to the rest of our soldiers,” Daniel said. “Many want to go. What do I say?”
Robert scratched at his chin and looked out his window. He couldn’t see the altar from there, but he could imagine it, grand in size and surrounded by a large crowd.
“Much as I hate that bastard, he’s right. I won’t stand in the way of a man and his god. Whoever wants to go can go, so long as their duties are completed.”
Daniel clearly felt otherwise, but he held his tongue. Once he’d left, Robert peered down from his window. He might not be able to see the altar, but he could see the path there. He counted seventy men heading north. A third of his men.
“So much for king and country,” Robert muttered.
He belted his sword to his waist, flung on a heavy cloak, and descended the stairs. Joining in the ceremony was out of the question, but he would not remain in the dark about whatever Cyric planned.
The altar was even more impressive than he’d expected. The stone slab had been painted a dark black, though how he did not know. Fires burned at the corners in the thick pits, while crisscrossing outward in seemingly random directions were tall torches whose fire gave off no smoke. Over a hundred men encircled the altar. Atop the stone were three men. Robert recognized Cyric, but the other two were unknown to him. They were naked from the waist up, their bodies covered with red paint. They knelt with their heads bowed, their eyes blindfolded, and their hands bound behind their backs. The crowd sang a song Robert vaguely recognized, though it lacked any joy, just the sound of a droning litany of faith toward Karak. The chant made his skin crawl.
Robert remained in the far back, as close as possible to his tower while still able to hear the words Cyric spoke. As the last light of the sun dipped below the horizon, Cyric called for silence.
“My friends. My soldiers. My faithful. Welcome to this glorious night. Beneath these stars, you will witness the might of Karak laid bare before you. Long have the gods fought over Dezrel, but at last we will find victory. The blood moon approaches. At last, the true god returns to these lands. At last, the Lion walks among us!”
“The Lion!” cheered the fifty soldiers who had remained with Cyric when Luther left. An ill feeling tightened Robert’s throat, and he found his eyes drawn to the bound men. Who were they? What was to be done with them? Any normal day he would have forced an answer, but he was no fool. He felt the electricity in the air. If he protested, or came back with armed men, he’d have a battle on his hands.
“The Lion has returned!” Cyric cried, all smiles, all victory. “And he has returned in me. But I know there are many here who are doubtful, many who are not ready to believe. I pray that you come to wisdom, and quickly. We are owed nothing, not even our very next breath. ‘A sign,’ I’m sure you cry in your hearts. ‘Give me a sign!’ And so I will.”
This was it, thought Robert. He couldn’t imagine what sign Cyric would produce. He hoped it would be a meager one, born of smoke and visions. His men were better than that. Despite all the priest’s words, they wanted action, wanted something firm. Cyric had made many promises. Now it was time to see if he could deliver.
A cold wind blew over them as Cyric motioned for someone to join him atop the altar. Robert recognized him as the dark paladin, though he did not know his name. The paladin knelt behind the first of the two bound men and lifted his axe.
“These two men have given their lives to Karak,” Cyric told the crowd as a wave of unease stirred through them. “They are sinful, wretched beings. They stole. They killed. Perfection will never be possible for them in this life, but their faith is great. And so comes their reward.”
The paladin swung. His axe tore through spine and flesh, and showered the altar with gore. Karak’s soldiers cheered, and to Robert’s horror, so did many of his men. Blood dripped across the stone and down its black sides.
“Praise be to Karak,” cried the other bound man in a quivering voice. The paladin went to his side. No hesitation, no preaching, just another brutal chop, and down he went. More blood. More cheers.
“Their bodies are destroyed!” Cyric cried. “But they are not! Their souls burn in purifying fire, changing, becoming greater than ever before. Lift your voices! Lift your hearts! I am Karak. I am your god, now witness my power!”
The red markings on the two bodies flared, then suddenly burst into flame. High above, thunder rumbled. Wind blew. And then red lightning struck in rapid succession, hitting the center of the corpses. Cyric laughed as the altar split down its center. The corpses exploded, showering the crowd with blood. And then, from within those torn bodies, the lions emerged.
They were enormous creatures, easily the size of horses. Their skin cracked from the heat of their own bodies, which were made of a rough, dark stone. Along the cracks in their flesh shimmered the yellow glow of molten rock. One’s neck was bare, the other with a thick mane of shadow, which billowed in the wind. Their obsidian claws glimmered. In unison they pulled back and roared, the force of it knocking many to their knees. Deep in their throats, Robert saw liquid fire.
The two lions circled about Cyric, eyeing him with their red eyes. Robert thought he would bow, show fear and respect to such amazing creatures, but instead it was the lions that lowered their heads. Cyric turned to the crowd and lifted his arms.
“Now is the time,” said the priest. “Make your choice. Serve the true god, or be consumed by his fury. Kneel, or know death.”
All but twelve kneeled, not counting Robert, who suddenly felt very exposed, and very alone. Before they could react, the lions leapt, moving with speed that seemed impossible for creatures of such size. They dove upon the men, slicing open flesh with a swipe of their obsidian claws and snapping necks with a single bite of their jaws. Those who knelt remained perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might bring the beasts bearing down upon them as well. Of the twelve, only one managed to run, and it was not far. His blood boiled across the tongue of a lion.
Robert had seen many horrors in his years as a soldier and a commander, but he’d never known such fear as when those lions turned their eyes to him. He felt his legs go weak, his stomach twist into his throat.
“Shit.”
He ran as Cyric lifted his arms to the sky and cried out his worship.
“Glory and power to our beloved Karak! Arms, my brethren, take up your arms. We follow the old ways now, the way of sword and blood and faith. Kneel, or be made pure in death.”
Robert heard a familiar sound, that of many swords being simultaneously drawn from their scabbards. His tower was not far, but he’d seen the speed of the lions. He did not expect to make it, but he didn’t have to. The two men standing guard at the door rushed to meet him, their weapons ready.
“Inside!” they cried.