Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “As crass as Councilman Coldmine might be, he has the truth of it,” said Guster. His tone warbled, his wattle flopped. “But that is only part of it. The whole truth is that besides being a young and attractive woman, you are also highborn and quite clever. You are relatively new to the Council, whereas the rest of us have been advising King Eldrich since the crown was passed to him.”

  “Which means,” said the king, “that you are relatively unknown outside these walls.”

  Laurel glanced at each of her companions in turn, taking in Vaelor’s creased brow, Dirk’s knowing smirk, and the concerned droop of Guster’s jowls. Karl Dogon appeared disgusted by the proceedings, though it was hard to tell—that look of contempt never seemed to leave his face.

  “I don’t understand,” she finally said.

  The king began to tap restlessly on the tabletop. “In order to ensure our survival should the worst occur,” he said, his tone that of a teacher berating an inattentive student, “we need the high merchants on our side. The Garlands, the Mudrakers, the Conningtons, the Blackbards, the Brennans—even the Gemcrofts, if Peytr still lives. Before the gods’ clash in Haven, all but Peytr were dutiful citizens, paying far beyond their levies and supplying whatever goods we requested. Since the rumblings of war, however, they’ve become invisible. The house leaders have retreated to their estates and are either too fearful—or too smart—to emerge. We need their coin and resources if we are to protect ourselves from the possibility of an extended conflict.”

  “Why don’t you make them give it to you?” Laurel asked, cringing as the question left her mouth.

  The king frowned, his arms extending outward. “We have a powerful enemy west of the rivers. We do not need to make more here in our own land. No, what I need is a messenger, an individual who will not attract the wrong type of attention, someone these men will listen to and trust. And who is a powerful man more likely to trust than a beautiful young woman?”

  “I can think of many examples, actually,” said Dirk with a laugh.

  Vaelor silenced him with a look, then turned his gaze back to Laurel.

  “Do you accept my offer, girl? Will you be my messenger?”

  “Do I have a choice?” she asked.

  Dogon tapped the hilt of his sword, answering her question without words. Again she heard Soleh Mori’s voice in her head. “It is our duty to silently nurture that power, especially when the men try to strip it from us, or force us to play their game.”

  “Very well then,” she said with a sigh, tightening the threads on the front of her bodice. The room seemed to grow even colder, making her shiver. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Velixar bent over his desk in the forgotten throne room inside the Tower Keep, still dressed in his nightclothes despite the fact that it was past noon. He scribbled feverishly in his journal, a feeling of elation pulsing in his veins. It had been many months since he’d swallowed the essence of the demon whose name he had adopted, since he’d destroyed the last vestiges of his previous life. Jacob Eveningstar, the immortal First Man of Dezrel, now existed solely in the memories of his former friends, and when their bodies were rotting in the dirt, the only ones who would know of his prior existence would be his god and himself.

  Each passing day was an adventure for him as he traversed the locked caverns within his mind. The knowledge of the demon Velixar, the Beast of a Thousand Faces, was immense. It seemed as though every hidden mental doorway he unlocked, however small, hid some long-lost secret. The secrets of ancient magics were spread out before him like a blanket of shimmering entrails. Biology, necromancy, otherworldly travels, the snaring of souls lost in the afterlife, the history of the universe itself—they all lay at his fingertips, his present understanding a mere hint at the possibilities that simmered beneath the surface.

  His fingers cramped and he placed down his quill, shaking the ache from his hand. With the onset of that cramp, his frustration grew. Even with the strength he’d gained during the ritual, he was still trapped by the limitations of his physical form. Glancing to the side, he saw his reflection in the dragonglass mirror that had once belonged to Crian Crestwell. Despite the cataclysmic change that had occurred within him, he looked much as he always had: the same black hair, the same strong jaw, the same perfect posture. The only true difference was that his eyes were now rimmed with pale red, a color that flashed brightly whenever he accessed the magics trapped within him. In some ways he thought Clovis Crestwell lucky. Clovis, pathetic and egocentric fool that he was, had not possessed the strength to sever the ties that bound the creature’s consciousness from its essence. Darakken had infused every fiber of Clovis’s being, shoving aside the personality that had once resided there, altering his body’s form to make room for its much larger presence. The Clovis that existed now only retained passing similarities to the man he had been. In that way, and that way only, he envied the former Highest.

  He had knowledge in abundance. He understood more secrets of the universe than Karak and Ashhur combined. But power…power was the one thing he lacked, and it shamed him. There were constant limitations to his abilities. He’d assumed that by absorbing the demon’s core he’d be able to transcend those limitations, transcend his humanity, but that hadn’t happened. There are no limits to how strong you will become in time, he told himself. He hoped it would happen sooner rather than later, for the march into Paradise was rapidly approaching. Dropping his head, clenching and unclenching his fists, he once more begged for patience.

  Soft footfalls sounded, and Velixar glanced up. The cavernous room he had taken as his own was the one he’d designed many years before as the throne room for the castle of Veldaren. It was four stories high and a hundred feet in either direction, empty but for his desk, which stood against the eastern wall, and his featherbed and small breakfront, which were positioned beneath the painting of the gods coming forth into Dezrel that graced the raised dais on the northern wall. There were no other furnishings or decorations, Velixar having removed all remnants of the statues carved by Ibis Mori, finished or unfinished, and interspersed them throughout the city.

  A lithe form appeared in the doorway, taking a few cautious steps forward. Lanike, the wife Clovis Crestwell had created for himself, entered the light of the torches burning on the drab, gray walls. She was the keep’s only other occupant, brought here as an insult to her husband, who was a prisoner in his own body. Lanike took care of the wash and cooking in Velixar’s home like a lowly household servant. Small and fragile looking, her hair was slightly disheveled and her eyes wary. She was ageless, just as her creator had been, and not horrible to look at despite her mousiness. The draping cobalt robe she wore was satin, and it caught the womanly figure beneath with every other step she took. Velixar thought of the dead elf Brienna Meln, who had loved the First Man with all her heart and whose pendant he had long ago smashed to demonstrate the cleansing of his past. She had owned a robe like that; she would traipse through the cabin in Safeway wearing it, before he stripped her and ravaged her perfect form. For a moment he felt arousal, thinking perhaps Lanike would be a viable replacement. She was of the First Families, ageless just as he, and if he could make her love him…

  “Enough!” he commanded, and the thought disappeared.

  Lanike stopped in her tracks, staring at him with fearful eyes. She took a step back, tugging nervously on the sleeves of her robe.

  “I apologize,” she said, her voice soft.

  “Not you,” Velixar said. He groaned and stepped toward her. “Why have you interrupted my studies, Lanike? I told you I am not to be disturbed when I am at work.”

  The mousy woman refused to look him in the eye. “I understand, and I mean no disrespect, Ja—Highest Velixar. But there is a man here to see you. A man in armor. Captain Handrick, he said his name was.”

  Velixar nodded. “I see. Tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”

  “Very well.”

&nb
sp; Lanike hastily curtseyed and then left the room. She nearly tripped over her robe, crashing into the archway before she exited. In sharp contrast to his earlier feelings of desire—a weakness, he thought—Velixar felt a rush of loathing. He should have ended the pathetic woman’s life long ago, and would have if he didn’t need her to keep Darakken in line.

  He changed out of his nightclothes, putting on a clean tunic, black leather breeches, and a surcoat edged with expertly stitched lions. He couldn’t greet Captain Handrick looking slovenly. Harlan Handrick was a rough sort, headstrong and stubborn, in charge of the two hundred soldiers stationed just outside Karak’s private temple on the outskirts of Veldaren. Having been a member of the Palace Guard for nearly twenty years, Handrick was one of the few in the city who had known Jacob Eveningstar before the First Man had pledged himself to Ashhur. They’d often come to disagreements about the proper use of armed force, but Handrick was a capable man, and Velixar hadn’t thought twice before ordering him and his unit to march to Erznia three weeks ago, after Dimona Mori’s attempt to flee the realm. Though he’d sent them to the hidden forest stronghold in Erznia under the pretense of a demand for fealty, what he truly wanted was for Oris Mori and his nephew Alexander to be rounded up and brought to the capital. The fire-scarred Oris was a beast with a sword, and Vulfram’s son was a true child of Karak. They were respected throughout the kingdom, just as Vulfram had been. Having them pledge their fealty to him would only heighten his influence.

  He found Captain Handrick standing in the foyer, looking dignified in his mailed suit over boiled leather. Almost immediately Velixar knew something was wrong. The captain’s greaves were coated with deep burgundy stains, as was his longsword’s scabbard. The gruff, older man eyed him with distaste as he approached, but Velixar saw something hidden beneath the veneer of loathing.

  Fear. Guilt. Failure.

  “Captain,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of the man.

  Handrick’s heels snapped together. He offered a slight bow but neither spoke nor offered any show of reverence.

  Velixar frowned and said, “How went the journey? I assume the men I asked you to retrieve are in the garrison readying to greet me?”

  The captain’s nose twitched.

  “As a matter of fact, they are not,” he replied.

  Velixar’s blood began to rush faster through his veins.

  “And why not?”

  “They are dead.”

  “Who are? Oris and Alexander?”

  “All of them. The entirety of Erznia.”

  Velixar’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. All of Erznia…dead? But why? His anger began to churn once more, but he held it in check. He thought he knew who was responsible, but he had to go through the charade, had to find out for sure.

  “They fought back?” he asked, knowing that not to be the case.

  The captain shook his head. “They didn’t. We fell on them before they had the chance.”

  “Before who had a chance to react?”

  “Every man, woman, and child.”

  His fury boiled over, but he refused to release it. Yet. This captain who was so brazen in his defiance would be made to understand who had the power. Velixar stepped forward and grabbed Handrick by the front of his mail, pulling him close. The armor’s rings cut into his fingers the tighter he gripped, but he felt no pain.

  “Why did you kill them?” he asked. “I gave orders that none were to be hurt, and yet your men slaughtered the entire settlement? Does that sound acceptable to you?”

  “The orders were changed,” replied the captain.

  Velixar laughed, though the sound was without a hint of humor.

  “Changed by who?”

  “Highest Crestwell,” said the man proudly. “Or whatever our Highest has become. He joined us on the road and took command over our unit.”

  Velixar’s eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what Clovis has become, Captain. I told you explicitly that the beast is neither to be trusted nor heeded. You follow my commands, not the demon’s.”

  “I guide my men the way I see fit,” replied Handrick “The demon may have altered our Highest’s form, but Clovis still lives.…”

  “He is not the Highest—I am!” Velixar roared. Admirably, Handrick managed not to tremble before such an outburst, though it seemed to take him a moment to gather himself.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But Clovis declared the citizens of Erznia blasphemers, and I agreed. They were to be punished, no different from how we punished those in Haven.”

  Amazingly, the captain’s fear seemed to be diminishing, replaced by stubbornness and pride. Velixar could never let such defiance go unanswered.

  “You did this even though your god ordered you otherwise,” he said.

  “Karak gave me no orders.”

  “I gave you the orders. I speak for Karak in our Divinity’s absence.”

  “Like you spoke for Ashhur? Will you betray Karak as well?”

  A deep throaty noise rose in Velixar’s throat.

  “Watch your words, mortal,” he said.

  Captain Handrick shoved him backward with one mailed fist, moving his other hand to the hilt of his sword. “You are no god, Jacob. And you could never take the place of the Highest. You are a delusional turncoat, and you can perish just as easily I can.”

  The man went to pull out his weapon, but Velixar was quicker. One violent swing batted Handrick’s sword arm aside, shattering bone. A shriek left the captain’s throat as he stared at his flopping appendage. Velixar grabbed him around the back of the neck with his left hand, then latched onto his lower jaw with his right, his fingers beneath the captain’s chin, his thumb pressed against the inset of his lower teeth. Handrick struggled, but his strength was no match for his opponent’s.

  “You sealed your fate,” Velixar whispered in his ear. “You shall never utter that accursed name again.”

  With one mighty tug, he tore Captain Handrick’s lower jaw free from his face, ripping tendons and crushing bone and cartilage. The tongue severed from the lower palette and flopped against the captain’s chest in a great spray of blood. Handrick tottered backward, eyes bulging as he desperately swiped at the empty space where his jaw had been, gripping his flopping tongue like it was a slithering worm. He collapsed onto the floor, his whole body quaking, a red stain spreading from his chest all the way down to his belt. A wheezing gurgle was the only form of protest he could offer.

  Velixar tossed the mess that had been the man’s lower jaw aside, closed his eyes, and spoke a few words of magic. The spurting blood vessels sealed themselves as the gaping wounds were gradually covered by a layer of new flesh, creating a wrinkled divot in the middle of which was the black cave of his throat. The teeth of his upper jaw hung over the cave like yellowed stalactites. In a matter of moments the captain stilled, his breath coming in short rasps as his dangling tongue still waggled in his hand. Velixar knelt before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Handrick’s eyes lifted to him, overflowing with soundless terror.

  “As I said, you will never speak that name again,” Velixar said. “Nor any other for that matter. You have disgraced your god, your kingdom, and your title, and so I leave you as the helpless, ugly bastard you have proved yourself to be. You have two choices, Captain: you can either learn to live like this or you can take your own life. It is your decision. If I were you, I’d choose the latter.”

  He stood up and turned away as Handrick began to sob. Lanike appeared on the stairwell, drawn out of her quarters by the sounds of conflict. Her hand rose to her mouth when she saw the horror below her. Velixar looked up at her and smiled.

  “Lanike, my dear, please assist the good captain with anything he might need. And as you can see, there is some blood on the floor. Please clean it before I return. I feel it is time to pay our god a visit.”

  Traversing the miles to Karak’s private temple took the rest of the afternoon. Velixar walked the entire way, his heavy black cloak draped ov
er his head, his face hidden by the darkness inside his cowl. No one accosted him on his journey; those he saw in the streets gave him a wide berth, often crossing to the other side of the road when he came within sight. Even the thieves and other unsavory individuals let him be. His legend had grown since he’d return as the dark-cloaked confidant of Karak. He was the undying punisher of the blasphemous, the tamer of demons.

  He spent his walk in a sour mood, reflecting on the beast sharing Clovis Crestwell’s body and its apparent disregard for Velixar’s plans. Darakken had been more burden than help in the months since its awakening. It was a base creature, bred for violence, and its colossal appetite required constant nourishment. Ironically, this was perhaps its most useful aspect, as its voracious appetite had helped clear out the dungeons. Several times the demon had dropped to its knees before him, begging to be released of the chains of a shared body, pleading to be made whole once more so its true form could roam free. Velixar always denied it that wish. “When the war begins,” he would tell the beast, “when Celestia descends from the heavens to assist her lover, Ashhur, in battle, only then will I free you. Only then will your true purpose be needed.”

  The city proper disappeared behind him, replaced by fields of turned and muddy soil. There were still patches of snow and ice, sparkling beneath the glare of the descending sun. Few resided here, but he could see the progress that had been made in expanding the city, before preparations for war had taken away all the craftsmen. Incomplete stone foundations dotted the road, and a few rough shanties had been erected. He saw a group of five women huddling inside an open-faced tent, warming their hands over a quaint fire while their children wailed behind them. Their faces were dirty, their teeth rotting from their jaws. These were the downtrodden, the lazy, who accepted their lives of squalor and filth without pursuing something more, something better. When the war was over and the soldiers returned to their civilian lives, construction would continue, and these creatures would be pushed out even farther, until they were forced to leave Veldaren’s boundaries altogether.