Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

“Your place is coming to the aid of others,” he said. “And your earlier example is shit. You may not blame the wolf for attacking a boy who wanders into the forest—I get that. But only a coward would stay outside the forest after discovering a child was missing.”

  Patrick turned his horse, glaring over his shoulder as he rode away.

  “And the gods help the man who would watch that child die instead of defending him from the wolf.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  The figurine was a foot tall, illuminated by ambient light reflecting off the chamber walls. Ceredon knelt to study it, his elbows pressed into the round oaken table. It was of a naked woman, wide at the hips and bosom, her hair flowing about her in unruly spirals. Though the statuette had been carved from plain sandstone, he still thought he could see the peach hue of her flesh. Her eyes were black, bottomless pits where mere mortals such as he lost themselves.

  The figure’s stance was odd: arms stretched up above her head, fingers fanned out, waist slightly bent, legs bowed and crossed at the ankles, head thrown back, mouth opened wide. The placement and pose invited wildly divergent interpretations: The upheld arms could represent a gesture of freedom or the stance of a bound woman; the arrangement of the bowed legs was common in both dance and swordplay; the opened mouth could be screaming in either pleasure or pain. Her every feature seemed to be wholly human, yet the curvature of her body was unmistakably elven. Ceredon shook his head. There was no contradiction here, no duplicity. This was the goddess, and for her, there was only balance.

  “Celestia,” he whispered, placing his hands on either side of the icon and closing his eyes. “Please, tell me what I do is right.”

  He sat listening to the rumble and creak of the massive crystal structure above him, waiting for some sign from his creator. But none came, not even a subtle shudder that might have suggested she was listening. Perhaps Father was right; perhaps Celestia no longer cared for her people.

  “So be it,” he said. His eyes snapped open, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on Celestia’s bosom. “We may not be worthy of your love, but I have never stopped loving you. If you’re watching, please know that what I do now is out of love—love for the people you created, love for the wisdom you taught us.”

  He stood up, took off his belt, from which his khandar still hung, and placed it on the table. He then removed a short dagger from his boot and examined it. The blade was sharp enough to slice down the length of a piece of thread. “I serve you always,” he whispered. “Even in the darkest of moments.”

  Sheathing the dagger in a leather wrap and tucking it back into his boot, he lifted his eyes to his surroundings.

  It is time, he thought.

  He was in a chamber far underneath Palace Thyne, accessible via a passage in the crypts hidden beneath the sarcophagus of Ra’an Dultha, the first Lord of the Dezren. Tantric Thane, leader of the rebels fighting his father’s regime, had revealed the passage’s existence to him. “From the tunnels you can access any section of the palace unnoticed,” he’d said. “We have tried to use them before, but to no avail. The palace is too large, the tunnels too narrow, the rooms too numerous. It took us three full evenings just to examine eight chambers, and all we found inside were servants and underlings…and your quarters. However, if you could tell us exactly where to look…”

  “No,” Ceredon had replied. “I must be the one to do the deed.”

  He had first he met Tantric in his bedchamber in Palace Thyne on the evening when his room was discovered. It had happened after yet another patrol during which Ceredon had protected the very rebels he’d been assigned to exterminate. They’d talked for only a short time before Tantric handed him the dagger that was now stowed in his boot, marked with the Thane family crest, which would help steer suspicion away from Ceredon when he used it. After that, the old elf had told him of the secret door behind the emerald fireplace that connected to a series of narrow, interlocking tunnels, one of which led to Lord Orden Thyne’s secluded shrine, where Ceredon now prayed.

  The time for prayers was over, though, and the elf breezed past the table, fingers sliding over the chamber’s glimmering green walls as he disappeared inside a geometrical trick: one wall was positioned slightly forward from the other, creating a nearly invisible gap wide enough to slip through.

  Although the exterior of Palace Thyne was of shimmering emerald, the foundation and what lay between the walls was pure granite, hard and compacted and bleak. When Ceredon exited the breach, leaving behind the twinkling green chamber, he was thrown into near darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust and then placed his foot on the first step of a constricted staircase. The well was a steeply angled upward climb, the walls so close on either side that he had to move sideways so as to not scrape his shoulders against the rough stone. Every thirteen steps, a level ended, and four narrow openings in the floor led to small, circular tunnels containing access points to concealed entrances in dozens of rooms in the palace.

  He climbed floor after floor, keeping count of how many times the stairwell rotated, until he reached the ninth story. After another quick prayer to Celestia, he dropped on his belly and pulled himself forward on his elbows, entering the north tunnel and a darkness so bleak that even his elven eyes could not adjust to it.

  Panic tickled at the hairs on the back of his neck. The blackness was a living thing, squeezing in on him, trying to crush him. He had never experienced its like before, not even in the deep caves or the catacombs beneath the city. An urge to retreat to his room filled him, and he had to fight it. He felt ashamed of his cowardice. It was only darkness, and he would navigate the tunnel as he must, his claustrophobia and fears be damned.

  He inched himself along, shooing a few squeaking rats away, sounding like a rat himself as his cured elk-skin breeches scratched against the rough stone. His hand fell on one portal to the right, one to the left, one to the right, one to the left, each emitting a soft, whispery puff of fresh air. He counted seven openings before stopping, swiveling on his stomach, and steeling himself for the task at hand.

  Reaching above, his fingers found a thin stone shaft. He latched onto it with both hands and pulled himself upward, sliding from the tunnel like a snake. The world brightened, the air growing pleasantly warm. There was a second shaft above him and he ascended that as well. The heat grew with each passing moment, and when he drew himself up, he met a haze of smoke.

  Just like all the portals, this one opened up behind a wide hearth. Ceredon carefully placed his feet on the sooty stone ledge and inched his way to the side. He had to hold his breath to keep from coughing, and every so often one of the dying embers would pop and leap, threatening to scorch him. Luckily none did. Perhaps Celestia was looking out for him after all.

  There was a latch on the far side of the interior of the hearth, and when he pulled it, the corner bent away with a quiet rumbling, opening space for him to exit. He crawled out, not bothering to slide the corner back into place. He’d need it ready for his escape. Brushing himself off, he pulled the dagger from his boot and stepped into Conall’s bedchamber.

  The room’s emerald walls lightly twinkled with the fading glow from the coals. The room’s eastern-facing windows were covered with heavy drapes, blocking out light from outside. Still, Kindren could make out a pair of dressers arranged on one side of the room, a wardrobe positioned along another. Straight ahead was a four-poster bed, finely crafted from lacquered mahogany. The sheets on the feather mattress were silken and glossy, bulging in the center where a sleeping form lay.

  Creeping across the room, Ceredon made sure his soft-booted feet made no sound. One wrong move and Conall would awake, summoning the Ekreissar to protect him.

  When he reached the bed, he stopped, hovering over it for a moment. His father’s cousin rolled onto his back, eyes firmly shut, chest rising and falling at steady intervals. Ceredon slowly knelt, even the faint creak and crumple of his clothing sounding much too loud to his ears. With one hand he
grabbed a pillow. With the other he pressed the dagger against the side of Conall’s neck.

  In a single smooth motion he ripped it across the jugular. As blood erupted across the bed, Ceredon shifted, slamming the pillow against the older elf’s mouth to hold in the sudden surprised shriek he emitted when he woke from his dream. Conall thrashed, clutching at his gushing throat, and from beneath the pillow came a subdued gurgle. Ceredon pressed harder, keeping the pillow positioned so that no blood splashed on his own clothes. The crimson fluid soaked the satin sheets, forming macabre patterns.

  When Conall finally fell still, Ceredon pulled back the pillow, and he shuddered involuntarily at the sight of the ghost-white look of horror on the dead elf’s face. Swallowing down bile, he moved to the window, careful not to step in the puddle of blood that had dribbled down to the floor. Pulling aside the curtain, he gave the pane of stained glass a quick strike with his gloved hand. The glass shattered, the shards tinkling when they struck the shimmering emerald floor.

  The deed done, he hurried back to the hearth, sparing only a single look back at the mess he’d created, at the corpse of one of the three powerful members of the Triad in his fine satin sheets.

  “And then there were two,” Ceredon whispered before crawling back through the raised corner of the hearth.

  The occupied forest city of Dezerea was thrown into chaos in the aftermath of Conall’s death. Countless Dezren men were taken from their treetop homes and brought to the palace courtyard. They were forced to bow, near two thousands of them crowding the grass, while the Ekreissar stalked up and down the lines, prodding them, taunting them, trying to force a confession. Aerland Shen paraded Lord Orden and Lady Phyrra before the stooped masses. The former rulers of the city had been beaten so badly, they were barely recognizable, and the plain white robes hanging off their backs were torn and speckled with dried blood.

  “One of our own has been murdered!” screamed Neyvar Ruven, standing on the dais in front of the emerald palace’s gate. “Who was it? Who leads the rebellion? Come forward, speak, and spare yourselves pain and suffering.”

  None did, though a murmur began to rise from the sea of bowed heads.

  Ceredon felt his stomach clench as he watched the spectacle from his position at his father’s side. A part of him did not understand the Dezren’s lack of action. They numbered greater than eight thousand, their ranks more than adequate to overwhelm the scant forces the Neyvar had brought with him. It seemed absurd that the only ones standing against them were Tantric’s rough and battered group of brave souls. Yet then he remembered his conversation with his father. Many of the Dezren were farmers, teachers, philosophers, musicians, and spellcasters. They were not warriors. The Quellan Ekreissar, on the other hand, were trained in the art of battle and had been since the Demon War a thousand years before.

  “If the brother gods were not draining the power of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us,” his father had said. Now their spells were but a sad echo of the deadly force they had once wielded. The Dezren had been lessened by measures not of their own choosing, and Ceredon promised himself not to forget that.

  His father, the Neyvar, continued to pace back and forth on the dais, shouting at the cowering male populace. Ceredon could see through his façade now. The anger in his voice was too righteous, his gestures overly exaggerated. Ruven was acting a part, and it seemed as though others were beginning to notice as well, for Aerland Shen scowled when he looked at the Neyvar, his hideous, wide-set face crumpling into an animal expression. Neyvar Ruven scowled in return and then turned in a huff and left the dais.

  Aeson took the Neyvar’s place, continuing the verbal assault on the kneelers. It was he who ordered Shen to lash Lord and Lady Thyne’s backs with five-pronged whips while they were strapped to the feet of Celestia’s grand monument. The lord and lady wailed, their eyes locked onto the goddess’s likeness as their clothes and skin were flayed from their backs. Ceredon had to fight his urge to end their torment. Killing Conall would help them in time, he knew, but it was a shallow comfort. Ceredon’s deed had brought them suffering. He had to remind himself that this was only further proof of the necessity of his nighttime assassinations.

  They won’t be killed, he thought as Lord and Lady Thyne slumped before the statue, the beating finally over. They’re being used to keep the people in line. Once the last two members of the Triad were dead, once his father had regained full influence over the Ekreissar, the Thynes’ suffering would end.

  Aeson ushered the anguished and limping royal family away, then ordered the masses to rise. They did, hesitantly, and Ceredon could see the hatred painting each and every face. His father’s cousin offered closing remarks to the Dezren men, and his words worried Ceredon.

  “You are free to go,” Aeson said, his lips twisted downward with anger. “But think twice if you consider turning against us. Come the morrow, you will know the full scope of the power we have at our disposal.”

  The next morning, Ceredon discovered the elf’s meaning.

  Warhorns blared as the swarm descended over the hills bordering the Gihon River, using the same route Shen and the Ekreissar had traveled a lifetime ago, then poured into the heart of Dezerea. The humans were wearing black and silver armor, and the banners of the eastern god, Karak, flew high above them, the wrathful lion roaring down on all who witnessed its fluttering countenance. Ceredon watched the endless procession from the dais, where he stood beside his father. He tried to count the troops as they formed into brigades before the palace steps, but he could come to no solid number. There had to be near a thousand men on horseback, bearing long spears, heavy axes, and sharp swords. There were at least four times that number on foot, with a hundred horse-drawn wagons trailing behind. The entirety of the human force overwhelmed the forest city like an invading colony of deadly ants. The Ekreissar, who lingered around the humans, seemed nervous and resentful in the same instant. Of those on the dais, including the entire consulate that had originally traveled to Dezerea for the betrothal, only Aeson and Iolas appeared content.

  The horseman in front approached the dais. He was a hefty, bald man, his black leather overlaid with bronze chain, and he rode a majestic white charger. Everything about him seemed wrong: his face was too broad, his posture too hunched, and his eyes emitted a reddish glow. His flesh was also abnormal, for it seemed stretched to the point of translucency. Ceredon could see a web of red and green veins running beneath it. Every so often part of the man’s body would throb, as if there were things lurking beneath his skin that might burst through the surface.

  Then the man spoke, and the strangeness doubled.

  “In the name of the mighty Karak,” he said, his voice quite odd, almost as if two beings were speaking as one, “we come to your fair city in the trees. We seek food and shelter, as was our agreement. This shall be our base of operations in the west: our ferries shall remain untouched in the river, and you will give us all we require.”

  Ceredon opened his mouth to protest the strange bald man’s demands, but his father squeezed his arm, silencing him. The Neyvar stepped forward and offered the odd horseman a slight bow.

  “It is our pleasure to assist Karak and his soldiers, Highest Crestwell,” he said in the human’s tongue. “You will have all that was promised. We Quellan do not break our vows.”

  The leering, bald man offered a queer half grin, then bowed in the saddle.

  “I was assured that would be the case,” he said. “But I am Highest no longer, great Neyvar. Clovis will suffice.”

  “As you will,” Neyvar Ruven replied.

  Iolas stepped forward. “Will you come inside the palace, so we can discuss further terms?” the ancient elf asked. “Our rangers will assist your soldiers in situating themselves while we are detained, if that is acceptable to you?”

  Clovis nodded, dismounted his charger, and wobbled up the steps. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, a strange trait for one with so much authority. Ceredon lingered
behind as the man passed him, and he noticed a strange odor, like sulfur. Aerland Shen began barking orders, as did a second human on horseback, and the soldiers broke rank. All was deafening chaos as Ceredon followed his father into the palace, and he could hear grumbled complaints from many of his brethren. Being forced to assist humans was anathema to them.

  The group settled into the Chamber of Assembly. Aeson and Iolas covered the statue of Celestia with a large tapestry at the request of the odd-looking human, and then they all took their places at the great table, Neyvar Ruven at one end, Clovis Crestwell at the other. Ceredon found it hard to hide the affront he felt when Celestia’s likeness was concealed. Why should they do so for this human who came into an elven city under another god’s banners? It was blasphemous.

  Clovis sat board-straight, and it looked like it took his every effort to retain that posture.

  “You wished to speak of terms,” he said. His voice sounded even stranger when it echoed in the cavernous chamber.

  The Neyvar nodded. “We risk much by giving you access to our city. You know our goddess demands neutrality in the affairs of humanity. I understand our cooperation was already agreed on, but if we are to break that pact—at great risk, I may remind you—we require further compensation.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Neyvar Ruven gestured to Aeson, who spoke next.

  “We seem to have encountered some resistance during our occupation. We would like your men to assist us in seeking out these rebels and eliminating them.”

  “How great are their numbers?” asked Clovis.

  “A hundred, perhaps a score more.”

  The human laughed, and it sounded like the utterance of a hideous creature from the ocean depths.

  “I bring with me five thousand troops,” he said when his laughter died down. “And you would require their aid to defeat a mere hundred mutineers? We had always thought the Quellan to be great warriors. Perhaps we were wrong.”