Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  Cleo grinned, nodding vociferously.

  “You’ve already begun planning,” said Laurel, amazed. Her heart began to beat out of control.

  “We have,” said Romeo, “and that plan is underway. We have made our own pacts with the other merchant lords. Even Matthew Brennan has agreed to our terms. We have formed alliances even in Paradise, and our spies have infiltrated Karak’s Army, working to weaken it from within like the lowly termites we are. The pieces are moving, the betrayals are coming, and soon important people will die…and it will all lead to our freedom from those annoying brother gods.”

  “How can you be so sure about that?” asked Laurel.

  “Because when the people see how little their gods care, when we show them we can control our own destiny, they will turn their backs on Karak and Ashhur. Once that happens, whichever deity survives this war will have two choices: end it all, or set us free.” He laughed heartily. “Either way, we will no longer be in chains.”

  Cleo perked up. “So listen closely, Councilwoman. We have a new message for you to bring back to King Eldrich. He might not like hearing it, but he is a puppet of Karak as well, and should understand what we say more than any other man in this realm. When our plan comes to fruition, we will be the ones in power, the ones who hold the materials of life at our fingertips, the ones who can sway the people. Remind him that if men can turn their backs on something so powerful as a god, what hope is there for a king?”

  Laurel leaned back in her chair. “I would say no hope at all,” she said. “Do you think this plan of yours will succeed?”

  “Of course,” said Romeo with a grin.

  “Why?”

  “Because we have the support of the most powerful men in all of Neldar behind us, including your father.”

  “I speak for my father.”

  Cleo laughed. “And you are still here, listening to our gravest secrets without running away. I would say that is a telling sign in and of itself.”

  Even with uncertainty swelling inside her, Laurel nodded. “It is.”

  “Are you with us?”

  “I am.”

  “Then this is what I would like you to tell our dear king…”

  CHAPTER

  21

  Boris Marchant entered Velixar’s pavilion, dragging behind him a man older than sin. The man’s hair was long and white, brittle as straw in the middle of a drought. His face was creased and wrinkled, his gait stooped and painful to watch. Velixar looked up from what he was doing and gestured for the soldier to deposit the man in the chair opposite his writing desk.

  “What are your plans for him?” Boris asked, a queer sort of curiosity shining behind his deep brown eyes as they flicked toward the journal that lay open on the table. He rubbed at the teardrop scar on his cheek, as if impatient. Velixar took that to mean the young soldier was eager to learn. In fact, with his curly hair, thick build, and flawless skin, Boris reminded him of Roland. A wave of both revulsion and longing washed over him. He forced himself to veer toward the latter. Roland had been a good apprentice. Perhaps Boris could take his place.

  “Do you have duties to tend to?” he asked the soldier.

  Boris shook his head. “Too many men fell ill, so camp has been set for the afternoon. The practitioner thinks it may be heatstroke and scurvy. Captain said we are only a hundred miles from the Wooden Bridge, and since the rejoining is not for another week or two, we’ll remain here to tend to our sick. ‘Let no one be left behind needlessly,’ he said.”

  “Smart man,” replied Velixar with a smile, though inside he was seething. He knew Captain Wellington’s decision was logical, but Mordeina was close, so close. “Since you are free, I would like for you to stay with me. There is much for you to learn.”

  “Yes, High Prophet,” said Boris. The soldier then snapped his heels together, moved to the pavilion’s canvas wall, and stood there, still as a statue.

  Velixar turned his attention to the old man seated before him.

  “Your name?” he asked.

  “Cotter Mildwood,” the old man answered in a strained voice. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting his faded brown eyes to see more clearly. “I know you,” he said. “I know that voice.”

  “I assure you, you do not,” said Velixar. He grabbed a blank sheet of parchment, lifted his quill, and wrote down the man’s name and description. “Now tell me, Cotter, why did you bow to Karak when we arrived in your village? Why not leave with Ashhur when he passed through?”

  “I have no stomach for strife,” old Cotter replied. “And a hurried march would end me. My body is breaking, and I near the end of my days. My hope was that Karak would forgive an old man and allow him to end his life in peace.”

  It made sense, of course, though Velixar’s chest tightened at the thought of the man abandoning his allegiance to his deity so easily, so callously.

  “Tell me, Cotter, how old are you?”

  The old man smiled, revealing a mouth half-filled with pearly white teeth.

  “Ninety-four,” he said with pride.

  Velixar hesitated. “Ninety-four, you say?”

  “Yes. I’ve been alive for ninety-four years.”

  “That cannot be so.”

  “It is.”

  Cotter clumsily lifted the bottom of his ratty tunic, exposing his wrinkled midsection—a midsection that lacked a bellybutton. Then he dropped his shirt and leaned so far forward his elbow struck the desk. He winced a bit, but it did not break his concentration as his squinting eyes stared at Velixar’s face.

  “I knew it,” he said, clapping his misshapen hands together. “I do know you. The First Man. Jacob Eveningstar. Still so handsome. You look not a day older than the last time I saw you…had to be at least fifty years ago…though your eyes seem strange.” His expression dropped as a spark of memory flashed in his eyes. “I heard of your exploits in the delta. Ashhur spoke of it when he gathered up the willing and took them from my village.”

  Velixar remained silent. He glanced at Boris, but the soldier simply watched, stoic.

  “So it’s true,” Cotter said. “But of course it is. Ashhur tells no lies.”

  “He does not,” said Velixar.

  Cotter nodded. “You were always such a nice man to us. My son was born in my second year, and you brought a bale of hay and twigs to help build his cradle. I don’t remember what you told me that day, but I remember your voice plain as if it were my own.”

  “A shame I do not remember you,” said Velixar. “I have met so many over the years. And age has not been kind to you.”

  “It is true, it is true.” Cotter’s frown grew deeper. “I have a question for you, Jacob. Why? Why have you turned your back on your god?”

  “I am Jacob no longer,” he said, keeping his voice level and his pulse steady. “I am Velixar now, High Prophet of Karak, and I would appreciate it if you would offer me the respect of addressing me as such.” He sighed. “As for my actions, I never turned my back on my god, old man. I am a child of two gods, not one, and I chose Karak. Choosing one god does not mean I turned my back on the other.”

  The old man looked confused. “But…that makes no sense. You were Ashhur’s most trusted. Now you seek to destroy him. Though I am not one to talk given that I bended my sore knee to Karak, but it seems like a betrayal to me.”

  “My aim is not to destroy,” Velixar said, “but to liberate. Ashhur’s notions are grand, but he is wrong, Cotter, wrong about what is best for humanity. I would show Ashhur the error of his ways, but he is not prone to change. If that means killing him, if a god can even be killed, then so be it. What I’m doing, what we’re all doing in this army, is fighting for humanity’s future. It is mankind I serve, and what is best for mankind. Karak is the truer deity. He is the god of freedom and prosperity, not chains and sacraments.”

  “But Jacob—”

  Velixar slammed his fist on the desk, silencing him. “Enough, old man,” he said. “I am the one who asks questions here, not
you. And do not call me Jacob again.”

  “I apologize…Velixar,” the old man said, bowing his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Breathing deep, Velixar gathered his patience once more. He glanced at Boris and nodded to the soldier, who returned the gesture.

  “Let us speak on other matters,” he told Cotter. “You have sworn yourself to Karak, which means you are now a part in our god’s ever growing congregation. And an important one at that.”

  “Important? How?”

  “You will assist me in the quest for knowledge.”

  Cotter’s thin lips twisted in confusion.

  “Can you read, old man?” asked Velixar.

  “I can.”

  Velixar turned to his journal, opened to a page he had inscribed just the night before, when another surge of the demon’s ancient knowledge dripped into his brain like sweet nectar. He turned the journal to face Cotter and slid it across the desk to him.

  “The way the human mind works is a mystery to me, to all of us,” he told him. “There are certain words and images that mean something to one person and something completely different to another.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Velixar gestured at the journal. “Please, all I ask is that you read the words written on that page and then study the diagram drawn beneath. After you do so, tell me what it is you see.”

  Cotter leaned over the pages, cloudy eyes squinting even more as they traced letters and illustrations drawn in black ink.

  “The words make no sense,” he muttered.

  “Sound them out best you can,” Velixar said. “They’ll feel natural in time.”

  Cotter’s thin lips mouthed unintelligible words, his brow furrowing. Velixar leaned forward, watching with interest as the old man’s mouth slowly sagged, his neck growing taut and his hands clenching and unclenching on the desk. It looked like the beginning of a seizure. Faster and faster he spoke the words, now an audible whisper. Then a moan escaped Cotter’s lips, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The old man threw himself back in his chair. He forced out laughter between violent coughing fits, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

  Velixar stood, and though Boris looked frightened, the Highest only smiled.

  “Fascinating,” he whispered.

  Cotter began to shout animalistic bellows and nonsensical phrases. His body rocked in his chair, and then he lurched to a standing position, arms held out to his sides. His ragged tunic was soaked with the blood that seeped from his mouth, nose, and ears. The old man’s eyes bulged, his pupils the size of the tiniest pinprick. He gaped at everything and nothing, his stare as empty as the dead. His lips continued to move, spewing yet more blood. He stuck out his tongue and in a swift motion his mouth snapped shut, his remaining teeth gnashing the appendage in two. The severed portion flopped to the ground while the mouth in which it once resided continued to speak in soundless chants.

  “So fascinating.”

  Cotter began slamming his blood-soaked face into one of the pavilion’s heavy support struts. Velixar heard a crunch as the man’s nose shattered, and he glanced at Boris. The young soldier was watching the scene with abject horror, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, tiny rivulets of sweat beading on his neck.

  Boris stepped forward wordlessly, drawing his sword. He grabbed Cotter by the shoulder and whirled him around. The old man’s hand lashed out, striking the soldier across the cheek. Boris released him, stumbling backward in surprise, and Cotter lunged forward, mouth opened wide, baring his remaining teeth, his gnarled hands bent into claws.

  The soldier thrust upward with his sword, the tip piercing the underside of the old man’s chin, then exiting the back of his head with a pop. Cotter’s arms went limp, and his body collapsed against Boris, who stepped back, letting him fall. The young soldier looked like he wanted to turn on Velixar, to scream and rant and perhaps drive a blade into him, but he shook it off as if physically shedding his anger. He then calmly reached down, wrenched his sword from Cotter’s head, and wiped it clean before returning it to its sheath.

  “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” Boris said when he was done. Despite the delay, his voice still quivered a bit.

  “And I did not. He hurt himself, and then you ran him through.”

  The soldier gaped at him.

  Velixar leaned forward, gazing with disappointment at the stilled body on the ground, before sitting down and grabbing the sheet of parchment on which he’d written Cotter’s name and age, and then he started scribbling with his quill. “A shame,” he said. “There is much I could have learned from this one.”

  “Learned?” asked Boris. The tiniest quaver in his voice betrayed the calm he was trying to portray. “What could you possibly learn from that? That was…that was…unnatural.”

  “No,” Velixar said, lifting his head from his writings. “It might not have appeared so, but it was actually quite natural. It is fascinating the effects certain stimuli have on the human mind. Everything has a cause and consequence. The only failure was on my part, for I did not know what outcome this passage would bring. It could have made the man calmer, or more intelligent, or reduced his mind to that of a child.” He shrugged. “Instead it drove him mad.”

  Boris strode up to the desk, grabbed the corner of the journal, and turned it toward himself.

  “What kind of witchcraft is this?” he asked, his eyes dipping to the opened page.

  Velixar’s arm quickly shot out, slamming the massive tome closed.

  “Do not read that!” he shouted at the soldier. “Do you wish to die? There are some things the human mind was not meant to comprehend. That passage is obviously one of them.”

  Boris slowly backed away.

  “I was…I just wanted to see what it said, what it looked like,” he said.

  “Then you would have ended up like the man you just ran through,” Velixar said, jutting his chin at Cotter’s corpse.

  “Oh. But did you not write it? Why can you look on it when others can’t?”

  Velixar withdrew his hand, sighing.

  “Because I am beyond humanity now. I am the High Prophet of Karak, privy to knowledge that transcends mortality—that transcends the fabric of the universe itself. Do not insult me by insinuating that the sniveling old man’s mind was of equal strength to mine.”

  Boris considered the now closed journal. “Is that book full of similar…things?”

  Velixar smiled, amused by the soldier’s almost reverence toward his personal writings.

  “There are more than a few spells in here that might render a man mad, Boris. It is a chronicle of my life and all I have learned, from ten years before the gods created you until this very day. The history of the elves, the first baby steps of man, Karak helping to erect the city of Veldaren and the commune of Erznia, Ashhur forging the Sanctuary and adopting the cast-out Wardens, countless remedies and spells—all are within these pages.” He patted the tome’s leather cover. “I once wrote this as my gift to the race of man, a legacy of wisdom and knowledge in case of my death.”

  The soldier gave him a wry smile.

  “Once?” he asked.

  “Now I do not know who I write it for,” Velixar said, surprised by how he was revealing himself to the soldier. “Not even the brother gods have seen what is written here. The spells are archaic, many of them dangerous.…Still, I find myself driven to record them, to test the limits of my newfound wisdom. I should destroy the book; part of me knows that, yet I cannot bear the thought. It will no longer be a gift for mankind, though, I do know that. There is danger in too much knowledge. After all, one might accidentally loose a demon on the world.”

  Boris frowned, looked at Cotter’s body, and shifted awkwardly on his feet.

  “I suppose I should clean up the mess,” he said, bending over and hefting a stiff arm over his shoulder. “I will send a squire to wipe up what is left.”

  He began dragging the corpse along the ground, leaving a t
rail of blood behind him.

  “Young man,” Velixar said, halting the soldier in his tracks. Boris turned to him, expectant. Once more Velixar was reminded of Roland. So much potential. So much desire to learn, consequences be damned.

  “There is no need to send a squire,” he told him. “I will handle this mess. And though you may never look within the journal, I would not deny you some of the wisdom inside. Prove yourself, Boris. Dedicate your service to Karak, and show our god the true cleverness of your mind. I have been without a capable steward for some time now. When our Divinity claims Paradise as his own, I may require another one.”

  “Yes, High Prophet,” he said, grinning. And then he ducked beneath the flap.

  When he was gone, Velixar snatched up an empty inkwell, stood, and circled his desk. He hovered over the trail of blood and raised his free hand. With a few chanted words of magic, the blood began to shimmer and rise up off the ground, the droplets shimmying and swaying like hovering puffs of cotton. The liquid rippled, drawing together the higher it floated, until it became a single massive bubble. Velixar held out the inkwell, and the blood formed into a narrow tube, gliding through the air and entering the open top of the bottle. When the tail of the crimson serpent disappeared inside, he placed a cap on it and set it down.

  He slowly shook his head as he stared at the capped container. A shame Cotter had died. To have custody of one of the first humans crafted by Ashhur, his blood pure and unmixed with others, could have been useful. Still, he couldn’t blame Boris for killing him. The boy was only human, prone to fear and doubt. Still, it bothered him, for there were many more pages of mystical transcriptions he longed to experiment with, all written within his journal over the last five days. He shrugged. No matter. They had collected a great many refugees from the towns they’d sacked, all of whom had bent their knee to Karak. There were plenty of other subjects for his experiments. Perhaps even Lanike Crestwell would do. The wife of Clovis was locked in her private wagon on the other end of camp, likely chomping on her fingernails and crying herself to sleep. All it would take was a word and she would be brought before him, eyes wide and pleading. It was tempting, if not for his need to keep Darakken in line.…