Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “That was when Karak’s Highest, Clovis Crestwell, visited Quellassar with a proposal for the Triad, a proposal that was finalized by his son and the Triad soon after the betrothal. His plan was to crush the western god and the Paradise he had created. If we assisted him and his people, Karak would grant us whatever land we desired, upon his victory. We came here under the pretense of friendship, becoming conquerors instead.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Ceredon had to lean close to his father’s lips just to hear him. “If not for the brother gods’ damage of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us with their magic the moment we attempted to usurp them. But instead they have become the weaker race that many have always assumed they were.” His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Sometimes I wonder if this was Celestia’s design all along. A final test we have failed.”

  Ceredon sat back, shaking his head. “I am truly lost, Father,” he said. “Why tell me all this now? Why enslave this city and its people when you don’t believe it is right…or righteous?”

  When the Neyvar looked at him then, his eyes had regained their hardness.

  “I am the leader of my people. It is my duty to carry out the wishes of the best and brightest among us, even if I do not agree. And I tell you now because you are to one day replace me. I am nearly five hundred years old, son. I will not live forever. You must know how to lead, how to sacrifice your personal beliefs for the good of the Quellan Empire. If you do not, our cousins will destroy you.”

  “I thought you said the Dezren were helpless?”

  “Not the Dezren. My cousins, your second cousins. The Triad, Ceredon.”

  Ceredon gaped at his father. The Triad consisted of Conall, Aeson, and Iolas Sinistel. They had held the Neyvar’s ear for two hundred years, offering him counsel during times of strife. But the way he spoke of them in that moment…there was fear hidden beneath the Neyvar’s outward confidence.

  “Are you saying the Triad forced you to do this?”

  “I said nothing of the sort. Though there are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

  “So if you had your choice, you would not have overtaken this city?”

  Neyvar Ruven did not reply. He simply grunted and turned his back to his son.

  “Our time here is done,” he said, gazing once more at the bright city beyond the solarium’s windowpane. “Leave me.”

  “Very well, Father,” he replied.

  “One last thing,” said the Neyvar as Ceredon was about to get up and leave.

  “What is it?”

  “There will be other raids, ones that have nothing to do with the rebellion. Conall is steadfast in his desire to show his strength for…what comes later. Do not interfere with those like you have others. They will involve humans, not elves. And the affairs of elves should always retain primacy in our hearts.”

  Ceredon bowed, replaced his chair, and left the solarium. He thought he heard his father, the great and powerful Neyvar of the Quellan Empire, moaning quietly as he walked away. A rush of embarrassment flooded him, followed by disappointment. This was what his father truly was? Not some immovable beacon of strength, but a tired, broken old elf? Who was he to bemoan his fate? Aullienna had remained hopeful and defiant despite her imprisonment and the murder of her people. Then it struck him.

  “Do not interfere with those like you have others.…”

  So his father knew. Of Ceredon’s role in the Dezren’s escaping the dungeons, his slaying of the Ekreissar ranger…he knew it all. Ice formed across Ceredon’s spine as he stood unmoving in the stairwell, trying to understand what it meant. He viewed the lengthy speech in a new light, and one part in particular stood out above all else.

  “There are times, far too many now, when their power overshadows mine.”

  Conall, Aeson, Iolas. The Triad, his father’s cousins. They were the ones who pulled the great leader’s strings; they were the ones who’d ordered the torture and murder of so many innocent Dezren. His father didn’t want Ceredon to offer him absolution or pity. No, he wanted to refocus Ceredon’s rage, to give him a target worthy of such a risk. The Triad would pay, and pay with pain. All Ceredon needed was the opportunity…and a wickedly sharp knife.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Velixar ignored those around him as he stared at his own reflection. He was pleased with what he saw. He looked like the leader of men he’d always known he was meant to be, his long black hair greased and tied back from his scalp, his face dashed with fine powder that lightened his usually tanned complexion. His clothes—horsehide breeches sun-splashed to a golden brown and a pale blouse bearing Karak’s sigil beneath a heavy black doublet woven with metal rings—had been specially made for the occasion by the Castle of the Lion’s most talented seamstress. The sword hanging from his hip was also custom made—the steel strong but nearly weightless, the pommel carved from moonstone in the shape of a yawning lion, fashioned so that his fingers were engulfed in the lion’s mouth when he clutched it. He’d dubbed the blade Lionsbane, a fitting name for a sword that would help bring about the victory of his god.

  Velixar stepped back from the mirror. He was in Tower Honor’s rectory, where each day servants prepared the Highest’s garments, stirred the ceremonial wine, and copied onto parchment the articles of Karak’s law that were to be read before the royal court. Large tomes of law were stacked on an oaken slab engraved with claw marks and red roses. The space was large and lavish, each countertop holding jar upon jar of incense, and the walls hung with portraits of Karak. The cupboards were filled with spices, carafes of wine, and clay ewers packed with ryegrass and fennel. The windows were stained glass, each depicting a scene of the gods’ arrival in Dezrel. The floor was solid marble, the swirls of dark brown, black, and crimson playing across the expanse like dust in a high wind.

  The rectory teemed with activity, the servants bustling to and fro, lighting candles, creating bouquets of flowers, fixing the hair of the young girls who would be carrying bouquets. It was like they were gearing up for an extravagant wedding, but in truth, the preparations were for the ceremony to present the new Highest to the people. Though many in the ruling class knew of Velixar’s position, it had never been announced publicly. His time in the sun was about to begin.

  The door to the rectory swung open, and the servants stopped what they were doing, bowing low when Oscar Wellington stepped inside. The soldier’s mail rattled with every step he took. Oscar was young and eager, and each time Velixar looked into his eyes, he saw only loyalty. He had been second in command of the Palace Guard when Velixar handpicked him to take command of Harlan Handrick’s unit. The jawless man had hung himself in a back alley. A lowly death for a lowly cretin, he’d thought. No loss. Velixar had randomly selected fifteen other men who had taken part in the decimation of Erznia and gutted them in front of the castle. Now their bodies hung beside those of the other traitors. It was a hard lesson, but one the rest of the fighting men needed to learn. According to what Oscar had told him in the weeks since he’d assumed command, they had. Velixar’s orders were to be followed, always and forever.

  Oscar dragged Lanike Crestwell into the room behind him. The noblewoman appeared flushed and frantic, her cobalt, sapphire-encrusted dress askew. Curls from the mop atop her head drooped into her eyes. He could tell she wanted to brush them away, but Captain Wellington held both her wrists.

  “Here she is, Highest, as you requested,” Oscar said with a bow, shoving Lanike toward him.

  Velixar caught her by the shoulders, keeping her upright. The woman’s teeth rattled as she stared up at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and he noticed a few of those loose curls were sticking to a small gash on her forehead.

  “You hurt her?” he asked, leveling his gaze at Oscar.

  The young captain appeared unflustered.

  “We did not, sir. She tried to get away when we took her from the keep. She slipped on the cobblestones and struck her head. Not a hand was laid on her other than to pick he
r up and haul her here, I promise.”

  He sensed no lie in the man, although it was hard to tell for certain. His ability to read the truth, a gift from Ashhur, had been slowly fading ever since he turned his back on the god in the delta. In its place, his ability to traverse the shadows was growing in potency, though it was nowhere near as strong as he would have liked it to be.

  He forcibly moved Lanike to the side. “Very well, Captain Wellington. Shall I see you at the rite?”

  “Of course you will, sir. The whole of Veldaren will be there, and my unit will be front and center, marching you through the city and cheering you on.”

  “They will not be your unit for much longer,” he replied.

  Oscar appeared confused. “Is that so, sir?”

  “Yes. The unit will remain in Neldar, under command of the acolytes, to scour the kingdom for those who have not yet volunteered for service.”

  “Am I not to stay with them?”

  “No, Oscar, for I have need of you. You are a man deserving of the title and privilege of the Highest’s Right Hand.”

  The young soldier froze for a moment, then beamed.

  “Thank you, Highest. Thank you!”

  The servants hurriedly climbed to their feet and continued with their preparations as Captain Wellington stood, offered a sturdy bow, and then swept out of the rectory. Velixar felt a swell of pride as he watched the young man go. Deep down he knew he’d made the correct choice.

  He heard whimpering beneath the clamor of hustling feet and clanking pottery. Turning to the side, he saw that Lanike Crestwell was slowly moving toward the rectory’s side exit, her hands held before her, her head down. Her wild auburn curls blocked her face. She looked like a woman who thought the whole world would disappear if only she could blind herself to it. It was pathetic.

  “Come over here, Lanike,” he said. She froze, her body shaking, and then shuffled forward, the soles of her feet never truly leaving the ground. Velixar reached out and swept the hair from her eyes. Taking a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his armored doublet, he spat on it and proceeded to wipe away the tears from her cheeks and the dried blood from her forehead.

  “All of you, leave,” he said, raising his voice, and the servants scurried away. He returned his attention to Lanike. “Why did you run?” he asked.

  Lanike opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her sprite’s face caved in on itself in despair, and she broke down completely.

  He clutched her chin firmly in his fingers and lifted her gaze to his. “There is no need for dramatics, Lanike. Tell me why you tried to run.”

  “I…I…I didn’t want to come,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “And why not? Do you not want to see my coronation?”

  She shook her head wildly. “No, Velixar. I don’t wish to see…him.”

  He knew of whom she spoke. A soft chuckle rattled his throat.

  “But he is your husband, Lanike. Do you not love him?”

  “No,” she said, her words gaining strength. “No, he is not my husband.”

  “Oh, but he is. He is still the one who created you, the one who loves you with all his heart. And he always will be.”

  She brought her trembling hands to her mouth, covering her face with them.

  Velixar sighed. Here was a member of the vaunted First Families, set upon Dezrel to guide the children of her god with strength and honor, yet she cowered with fear. She was as useless as the rest of them. Yet despite that fact, he couldn’t help but feel for her. With her nymphlike features and agelessness, she still looked like a child, innocent and frail. His fingers gently touched her neck, feeling the softness of her flesh, and those urges he tried so hard to repress resurfaced. A painful face, a damned name he’d sworn never to think of again, entered his mind.

  Brienna…

  His pity turned to anger, and he quickly drew back his comforting hand and slapped her face. Lanike’s head snapped to the side, snot and spittle flying from her nose and mouth.

  “Stop your sniveling,” he told the weeping woman. “You will attend the ceremony, and you will stand at your husband’s side as our Lord presents me to the populace. You will do it, and you will not complain.”

  Lanike shrank from him. “Yes…yes, Velixar,” she murmured into her fists.

  He swept her hands away, and she gawped at him, wide eyed. “Cease your muttering,” he ordered. “What is it? Do you wish to be free of this? Do you wish to do no more than sit in your room and mourn the loss of your former life like a broken child?”

  She nodded while sniveling.

  “You will not.” He grabbed her by the front of her dress, ripping the bodice as he pulled her close. “There is so much you don’t know, woman,” he told her. “You don’t realize how important you are to the realm. Your husband is key to everything, and you are the only one who can still reach that shredded sliver of humanity lingering within the beast. Whatever happens, you will live, you will endure, and you will stay by my side when we leave tomorrow to crush the people of Paradise.”

  He released her, and Lanike stumbled backward. She ran into one of the countertops, spilling a jar of incense, which tumbled to the marble floor and smashed to bits. She kept herself from falling, hands braced on the counter, knuckles whitening, staring at Velixar in horror.

  “Does this surprise you?” he asked. “In a way, it’s almost romantic. Every day, Clovis looks on as the demon inside him warps his body, works his limbs, fills his stomach with raw meat. His hands butcher anyone we place within them, and their flesh is shoved into his maw, feeding the beast. It takes tremendous control for him to sway Darakken’s desires. Even when given his own daughter, he was unable to deny its hunger.”

  He rubbed Lanike’s face with the side of his hand.

  “That he can control it for you shows just great his love is for his little wife. Like I said…romantic.”

  “My poor Thessaly…” Lanike whispered, trembling. “Tell me you lie.”

  “I never lie,” said Velixar with a sigh. He stepped closer to her, grabbing her arm and yanking her off the countertop. “Your husband understands what will happen should he fail. Too much rides on the power of the demon. Too much, and therefore I have done everything I can to ensure its obedience. And if it doesn’t obey, well…I will sever all ties that bind him to the beast. The first one to fall prey to it will be you, Lanike. It’s that twisted fate that gives your husband the power to resist. Imagine what would happen if the worst came about. Imagine what it would be like for him to helplessly inhabit the body of a monstrous creature fucking his beloved wife with its twisted cock, tearing her body apart with its jagged teeth.…”

  The woman slipped from his grasp, mouth ajar but unable to speak. Without another word to her, Velixar called one of his handmaidens back into the room.

  “Get her cleaned up,” he said. “I want her ready for the rite in half an hour.”

  The handmaiden led a still horrified Lanike from the rectory. The woman leaned on her as if the muscles in her legs had turned to jelly. Velixar turned away in disgust, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Some of the powder had rubbed off his cheeks. He reapplied it, took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and marched out of the room toward his destiny.

  The streets of Veldaren were packed with onlookers beneath an overcast sky. The people stared—women, children, and the elderly—their faces drawn and pale, their expressions blank, much like those of the corpses Velixar had ordered hung from the castle walls. Captain Wellington led a small brigade of troops, fifty in all, down the center of the road. The bannermen in front held their flags high, the lions emblazoned upon them roaring down at the populace. None of the onlookers seemed to notice the banners at all; instead, their gazes were fixed on Velixar, who marched at the rear of the procession, feet landing in time to the beat of the war drum. He was disappointed by their reaction to him. They had no love for him, and no fear either, just simple uncertainty. None of them understood his moti
ves; none realized what he had done to help them realize their potential.

  Let them be skeptical, he thought. Karak knows, and that is all that matters. When Paradise burns, they will understand, and they will bow in appreciation.

  Lanike walked in front of him. The handmaidens had done an admirable job of making her presentable; her hair was styled in an elegant sidelong swoop, her ripped cobalt dress replaced with a flowing white gown that made her look like a spirit of the wind. She walked with her shoulders held back, a prideful posture, but Velixar knew it was a façade. He saw it in the way her right leg shuddered beneath her weight, the way her left shoulder sagged ever so slightly. It seemed the only thing holding the woman together was the hand of the young soldier who marched beside her.

  The most important being in all of Neldar. What a twisted joke.

  The procession turned, and Veldaren’s central hub came into view. Smallfolk were replaced with countless soldiers, their armor unblemished, their spears held high in one hand, their swords crossed over their hearts with the other. The great fountain loomed at the end of the column, the waypoint of traffic moving in all four directions throughout the city, its gray likeness of Karak standing rigid in the center, rising ten feet tall. Behind the fountain stood the god himself, standing on a dais that had been raised for just this event, resplendent in his sacred black platemail. His glowing golden eyes met Velixar’s, and the god smiled.

  Captain Wellington segmented his charges to either side once they reached the end of the line. Finally the whole of the dais could be seen. A throng of people stood atop it, clearly intimidated by the size and presence of their god. There was King Eldrich, his bodyguard, every member of the Council of Twelve, six Sisters of the Cloth, twenty red-cloaked young acolytes, and Joben Tustlewhite, the castle cleric whom those around the castle called “the mumbling priest.” Also standing there, fully dressed this time in a draping gray robe, was Darakken in its Clovis Crestwell disguise. When Velixar squinted, he noted that the eyes of the beast were only slightly tinged with red, which meant Crestwell had assumed at least a semblance of control. Good for you, Clovis, he thought.