Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  Azariah hesitated, the maul in his hands lowering ever so slightly.

  “I sense no lie in your words, Jacob, but you speak a truth shrouded in gray.” The Warden looked deeply saddened, almost beyond repair. “You speak no truth at all,” he whispered. “I wonder if you ever have.”

  “You’re a fool, Azariah. Always have been. And my name is Velixar.”

  With those words, Jacob lunged toward Azariah. Roland watched as Azariah sidestepped his former master’s swipe, swinging the maul around and slamming the handle into the back of Jacob’s skull. Jacob fell face-first into the muck, a muted gurgle leaking from his lips. The Warden then hefted the weapon high in the air, prepared to bring its spiked head down for the killing blow. He stood there for a long moment it seemed, frozen in time. He slowly lowered the maul, letting it dangle in his grasp as if it weighed more than the world itself.

  The Warden hung his head, then looked at Roland in dismay.

  “I cannot,” he said. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Roland forced himself off the ground. Beyond them, on the other side of the Gods’ Road, the soldiers and the remaining three wolf-men were still locked in combat. The soldiers were winning. Roland looked at his friend and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Gifts from our god,” Azariah whispered. “They will not last long. Come, we must hurry.”

  After one final glance at Jacob’s unmoving body, Azariah mounted his patiently waiting horse and helped Roland climb onto the rear of the saddle. He then whipped the reins, and they moved away from the melee in a wide arc, circumventing the barricade of earth Azariah had magically summoned as they approached the Wooden Bridge. Roland eyed the nine dead Wardens and ten dead men from Lerder, and he offered a prayer to Ashhur that they would find their way safely through Afram to the Golden Forever. The horse’s hooves thumped onto the bridge, and he thanked the gods that none of the corpses they passed had Kaya’s curly black hair, even though the thought filled him with guilt.

  They had almost reached the other side when Roland lurched forward, his chest feeling strangely tight. He tasted salty liquid in his mouth that he couldn’t keep down. It dribbled over his lips and down his chin. He glanced at his own chest, saw the red liquid there, and then the thin brown shaft jutting from the torn section of his filthy tunic. Roland felt his whole being go numb.

  “Az?” he said. “I think…I think I see…”

  Azariah turned, saw the arrow jutting out of him, and paled. He started shouting something, but Roland couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything as he felt the world growing dark, his body strangely foreign and no longer needing him anymore.

  CHAPTER

  28

  Avila marched her horse back and forth in front of the sixteen prisoners. They were dressed in roughspun, their faces dirty, their eyes downcast. Their unnamed village burned behind them, its protective wall shattered.

  Letting out a sigh, Avila examined each and every face before her. The sixteen were all old. It had been the same in the other settlements they’d recently liberated. No young men or Wardens had stayed behind to fight. Just the old and sick. Her nerves were frayed, and her men were growing lazy and foul tempered.

  Feeling a tug on her hair, Avila glanced behind her. Willa, sitting firmly on the rear of the saddle with her arms wrapped around Avila’s waist, gazed up at her with innocent blue eyes.

  “Miss Avila, will they follow Karak too?” the girl asked.

  “We shall see, young one.”

  Her soldiers, formed into ranks behind her, shuffled on restless feet. She spied Malcolm standing at the forefront, his helm resting in the crook of his arm as his one good eye stared at her with interest. His sword hand flexed. She knew what he wished her to do: There is no mercy. There is order, or there is death. Once more Avila looked at the little girl.

  I give my own mercy, she thought, her heart welling with pride. Karak has granted me that freedom.

  She nudged her mare toward the awaiting prisoners. One of them, a woman with thinning white hair, fell to her knees and wept. Avila nodded, drew Integrity, and pointed it toward the ground.

  “You have been liberated!” she shouted at them. “Karak has shown his compassion by allowing you to live. All who relinquish belief in the false deity of Paradise, fall to your knees like your sister has done. You will be granted a life of liberty for the rest of your days.”

  The woman who had collapsed looked up at her with confusion and then raised her hands. At first Avila thought she was about to sing Karak’s praises, but the elderly men beside her took hold of her arms, lifting her up. She stood there, swaying, head down, white hair dangling in front of her face. None moved to kneel.

  Another woman stepped forward, stared at Avila with sadness in her eyes, and began to sing. The rest of the sixteen joined in, one after another, until the morning air was filled with joyous song. Avila recognized the tune and the words coming from their mouths; it was one of the songs of the Wardens, taught to her when she was still a child, just a year or so removed from her mother’s breast.

  The singing echoed throughout the valley. Avila gaped at the sixteen in disbelief. Not only had they turned aside the chance to live, they were actively denouncing Karak with their song. It was an audacious act, one she had not expected. Those who had been given this same offer in the previous three settlements had acquiesced immediately. Avila felt her soldiers tense behind her, felt Malcolm’s hard stare on her back. Lifting Integrity, she pointed it at the sixteen, made a quick swiping motion. It did nothing to silence them; their song only grew louder.

  “Enough!” she shouted, her voice cracking so that she sounded like a pubescent girl instead of the Lord Commander of Karak’s Army. The sixteen closed their eyes, lifted their chins to the sky, and kept right on singing. Avila spotted movement behind her, and she knew exactly who it was.

  “These are my prisoners, Captain,” she told Malcolm, halting his path with her sword. “Mine to do with as I choose.”

  Malcolm stared up at her, head tilted to the side. Strangely enough, he did not seem angered by Avila’s show of authority; he appeared more intrigued than anything. He bowed his head and rejoined the soldiers to the rear.

  Avila knew what she must do.

  “You must get down now, little Willa,” she said, turning to look at Willa. “Miss Avila has duties to attend to.”

  Willa glanced at her sword. Avila followed her gaze and saw the child’s reflection in the blade. “You’re going to cut them, aren’t you?” the girl asked.

  “I am,” she replied.

  “Why?”

  “Remember your lessons? To worship Ashhur is to turn away from Karak, and to turn away from Karak is to invite chaos into your life. It is a mortal sin, and one that cannot go unpunished.”

  Willa sucked in her lips, looking to be deep in concentration. “But what if they don’t know any better?” the girl finally asked. “What if they just want to sing pretty, and they need a good teacher, like you?”

  “Well,” Avila began, but no reply came to her.

  “I’ll talk to them, Miss Avila,” Willa said. “Can I? Please?”

  She stared at the girl, uncertainty washing over her. She knew hundreds of eyes watched her this very moment, knew that her men were judging her. But in that moment, she realized she didn’t care. Sheathing Integrity, she threw her leg over the saddle and dismounted, then helped Willa down as well.

  “I’ll do good,” the girl said. “I promise.”

  With that, Willa toddled toward the sixteen. Almost as soon as she reached the old woman in front, the one who had sung the first note, the song faltered. The woman gawked down at the young girl, who was insistently yanking on the front of her smock.

  “What is it, child?”

  Willa beckoned her forward with her finger, and the old woman bent her arthritic back so the girl could whisper in her ear. The old woman nodded once, twice, and then gave Willa a soft smile. By that time the others had sto
pped singing as well, staring at Willa and the old woman. They gathered around the two of them, and Avila could hear soft murmurs from the knot of wrinkled flesh.

  When finally they ceased their talk, the elders nodded at the young girl with the bouncing golden curls as she skipped away from them. A few even had the audacity to smile. The old woman who had first spoken with Willa stepped forward. She bowed her head in Avila’s direction while those behind her milled about.

  Willa took her place at Avila’s side, and Avila felt a tiny hand slip into hers. The little girl was beaming, all dimples and tiny teeth as she stared up at her. Avila’s heart fluttered as she brought her attention to her captives.

  “Do you renounce Ashhur?” she asked once more. “Do you reject chaos and allow Karak into your hearts?”

  “No,” they all replied, one after the other. Their voices sounded weary yet strong. Beside Avila, Willa let loose a high-pitched whimper filled with anguished surprise.

  Avila frowned at the young girl. “You wish to seal your fate in the eyes of Karak?” she said to the sixteen.

  The old woman who had begun the song lifted her eyes.

  “Our god is our god,” she said. “Ashhur is love and forgiveness, and we will not forget that, even though the sprite has begged us otherwise.”

  Avila turned toward her charges, summoning Malcolm and four underlings to come forward. She then addressed the sixteen once more.

  “You have been found guilty of blasphemy,” she proclaimed. “The penalty is death.” She looked to Malcolm. “Be brutal in the face of our god, captain.”

  “As always, Lord Commander,” said Malcolm, smiling.

  The captain nodded to his underlings and began to slide Darkfall from its sheath on his back. Willa broke down in tears, causing the sixteen to frown and shake their heads. The old woman even mouthed I’m sorry to her. The girl started to tug violently on Avila’s armor. She glanced down, saw those tiny, perfectly smooth cheeks stained with tears.

  “Please no, Miss Avila,” Willa said, her lower lip quivering. The girl’s eyes kept darting toward Malcolm, who drew ever closer to the blasphemers.

  “You know what must happen, Willa,” Avila reminded her. “They have decided their fates.”

  “But they sang.”

  “Yes…the songs of Ashhur. They turned their backs on Karak.”

  Willa tugged harder on her armor. “But maybe they just don’t know better, Miss Avila!” she cried. “Couldn’t we just…capture them? You could teach them like you’ve taught me. Wouldn’t Karak like that better than killing them?”

  Avila stared down at her, uncertainty washing over her. When she tore her eyes away from the girl, she saw Malcolm grab the old woman at the front of the sixteen and toss her to the ground while the four underlings prepared a large stone to place beneath her head. She looked at Willa once more, saw the tears that were now flowing in torrents.

  What would Karak want? Converts or destruction?

  “Captain, stop!” she called out.

  Malcolm slowly turned toward her, Darkfall held out by his side. His good eye narrowed. Willa squeezed her hand, the warmth of her flesh giving Avila strength.

  “These sixteen are not to be harmed,” she declared. “Bring them to the other converts. They will be shown the glory of the Divinity, whether or not they wish it.”

  The captain cocked his head, a look of disappointment on his scarred face, but he did not move.

  “Now, Captain Gregorian,” she said. “Get them out of my sight.”

  Malcolm stepped back and sheathed Darkfall while the underlings helped the old woman back to her feet, leading the sixteen to the massive tent where the converts of Paradise were kept. The soldiers gathered around, many of them shaking their heads in apparent disgust. But they did not concern Avila. Her focus was on the sixteen; she watched the expressions on their faces, the tiny waves the women gave Willa as they passed her. Avila then looked down at the girl, whose smile stretched wide across her rosebud lips as she returned their waves. She heard Malcolm shouting for the men to return to the camp on the other side of the Gods’ Road. The repetitive clomping of their boots kicked up a massive cloud of dust, echoing the smoke that rose into the air from the smoldering village.

  Only after her soldiers had disappeared over the ridge did she lift Willa into the saddle. The girl was still smiling, and she seemed reluctant to release Avila’s hand. When she finally did, Avila removed her glove and petted the child’s satiny golden locks.

  “I’m sorry they didn’t say yes to Karak,” Willa said.

  “I know, and so am I. But worry not, young one, they will. We will make sure of that.”

  The girl kicked her legs happily. “Good.”

  “I am curious, though. What did you tell them?”

  Willa’s head bounced from side to side.

  “I told them they could learn to love Karak just like I had. That I really, really wished they would, because I didn’t want to see them get cut.”

  Avila chuckled. “Very smart of you, Willa. Very smart indeed. I am proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Miss Avila.”

  She patted the girl’s back. “I give praise where praise is due, little one. Now slide back onto the saddle and hold on tight. We are heading back to camp. I think Varshrom the cook is making mushroom stew this evening, and I, for one, am famished.”

  Willa’s cherubic face scrunched up in a grimace. “I don’t like mushrooms.”

  Avila leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I don’t either, little one. But I hear they will have lemon cakes too.”

  The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement. “Yes!” she said in an urgent whisper. “I love lemon cakes!”

  Avila thought her heart could melt.

  She watched the girl sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her rosebud lips parting every so often to mutter dream-speak. Avila stroked her hair the whole time, unable to stop herself, even when Willa whimpered and rolled onto her side. There was no mistaking it; for as much as she might have once wished it weren’t the case, Avila was smitten.

  Not that it was such a bad thing. Having spent countless days with the little girl, Avila had begun to give her the same sort of doting attention she’d received from her own mother at that age. It felt as if she had discovered something missing from her life. She had always felt a sort of emptiness, a hole that she’d once thought could only be filled by Karak. Now that hole was slowly disappearing. She lifted Willa’s limp hand and kissed her chubby little fingers one after another. With each kiss she promised the child that she would never leave her, that once Karak won the war she would build a homestead at the base of the mountain range that bore her family’s name, and they would settle there. She would become a mother instead of a soldier. Perhaps she would even find a mate to fill her with seed, giving Willa a sister or brother, perhaps several, a whole lot of brats who would bicker and cry and fight and call her Mother. She would get old and die, and she would be happy for it.

  She thought again of her own mother, whom she had not seen for nearly a year. She missed her so, just as she did her father, although she would never have admitted it in the past, for it would have meant admitting to weakness, and Lord Commander Avila Crestwell was not weak.

  Sighing, she placed Willa’s hands over her chest and rose from her lounging position. Fastening a curtain to shield the girl from the brightness, she lit the candles on her desk. The light danced off the canvas walls of the pavilion, creating shadows that became formless monsters, beasts bent on destroying the child behind the curtain. There was nothing out there, she knew, but she shivered nonetheless. That was another thing Avila had learned since she’d taken Willa in; while she felt no fear in the face of death, the thought of harm coming to the girl filled her with dread.

  She sat down in her chair and moaned at the sudden onset of a backache. This was new as well; her bones constantly throbbed, her hands and feet felt hot all the time, and she was having trouble sleeping. She ha
d often heard of the healing magic possessed by those most devout to Ashhur, and right about now she wished for a touch of it. Her hand came up to trace the scars Crian had given her.

  Yes, I could use some healing magic indeed.

  Something soft scraped past the entrance flap of the pavilion, making her jump. She instinctively reached for Integrity (Crian’s old sword), but it was far away, hanging from a hook beside her bedroll. Tensing, she glanced behind her, listened for Willa’s tiny breaths, and then turned toward the entrance once more. A hand snuck through the fold, pulled the flap aside. For a fleeting moment she thought it was a demon of living shadow, coiling and writhing and ready to suck the life from her little girl. But then Malcolm stepped into the pavilion, and that image faded.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked harshly. Realizing she wore nothing but her smallclothes, she hastily grabbed the blanket from the back of her chair, draping it over her body. The impulse surprised her. She had never been one for modesty.

  “I wish to talk,” Malcolm said, respectfully bowing his head.

  “It is late, Captain, and I require sleep. Return in the morning.”

  “This is important, Lord Commander.”

  “Important enough to deny my orders?”

  Malcolm raised the eyebrow over his good eye. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  She shook her head in resignation and kicked at the chair opposite her, knocking it back a foot. Malcolm took the hint and approached, sitting down beside her. His posture was rigid, professional, but then again, that was Malcolm. She had only seen him drop his soldier’s discipline once, and that had been the night she’d kicked him out of her bed.

  “So speak, Captain. I do not wish to be up all hours.”

  Malcolm leaned forward, his elbows jabbing into his knees. His fingers traced the knobby scars that crossed over his milky left eye.

  “Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?”

  “Everyone knows, Captain. They were given to you by the Final Judges, when you proved your loyalty to Karak and earned your life.”