Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “All will be fine, little one,” she said.

  “What’s happening, Miss Avila?”

  “We are going to fight now.”

  “You and the bad man who hurt me?”

  She nodded.

  “Will you hurt him?”

  “I will. For you, my love.”

  Willa stared back at her, tears in her eyes.

  “What if he hurts you?”

  She leaned in close. “Then you run, little one,” she whispered. “You run as fast as your little legs will carry you and do not stop until I am nothing but a memory. Understand?”

  Willa nodded yes.

  Avila stood and turned away from the girl. The swarm of onlookers had created a fifty-foot circle, and Malcolm stood at the far end, his legs shoulder-width apart. One of the soldiers handed him his sword, and he snatched it firmly in both hands. He ripped off the scabbard and lifted Darkfall high into the air. “Karak!” he shouted, which drew cheers from the crowd.

  So you have all turned against me.

  “Mother, I love you,” Avila heard a tiny voice say. She glanced behind her and saw Willa kneeling, holding tight to the pole that supported her pavilion’s canopy. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “I love you too,” Avila said. “Do not fear for me.” Then, after taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the ring. Malcolm did the same.

  Malcolm had the advantage in both size and reach. Though not an overly large man, he was taller than her by half a head and outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. Also to her disadvantage was the fact that Darkfall, Vulfram Mori’s old sword, was a massive blade that dwarfed Integrity. His arms were strong—they had to be to wield such a mighty weapon—and his fighting style was technically flawless, though robotic. Although Avila relied more on grace and fluidity to best her opponents, she knew deep down that she understood more about technique than the captain. She had the advantage of having been raised under Clovis Crestwell’s wing while Gregorian had been busy indulging in drunkenness. She was also wearing her light chainmail and solid breastplate, whereas he had on only his boiled leather under armor. Another advantage.

  The largest advantage she had, however, was the rage that surged in her veins. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and pictured Willa’s face, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, as Malcolm choked the life from her. When she opened them again her entire body tingled. She raised Integrity so the hilt rested beside her ear, gripping it with both hands, wrists twisted so that the blade hovered in front of her. She hollered her mother’s name, then kicked her back heel and ran forward.

  Malcolm brought Darkfall up in front of him, breathing heavily. Avila leaped into the air at the last moment, driving downward with the tip of her blade as she soared past him instead of attacking head on. Malcolm was caught off-guard by the maneuver, and he had to stumble backward to avoid the piercing tip. The crowd gasped at the near miss.

  Avila landed and spun around, dropping into a low crouch while Malcolm regained his footing. His good eye stared at her, but there seemed to be no hatred there, no wrath. There was no panic either. The sight only made her angrier.

  “Fuck you!” she yelled, and hawked a wad of spit onto the ground.

  “So lost,” replied Malcolm sadly.

  He came at her then, rushing forward with Darkfall held straight up in the air. Avila uncoiled her legs, springing herself upright and swinging Integrity in a sideways arc. Malcolm shifted his giant blade, and the two swords collided with a raucous clang. The impact jarred Avila’s shoulders, almost forcing her to her knees. She spun Integrity around just in time to deflect a two-handed thrust, and Darkfall’s silver blade soared past her, so close she could see her reflection in the steel.

  Grabbing hold of Malcolm’s sleeve, she used it as leverage to pull herself up, spinning at the same time. She swung her elbow mid-spin, catching him square on the side of his face. He grunted, spittle flying from his lips as he tottered to the side. Avila lashed downward once she completed her revolution, hoping to slice through his ankle, perhaps sever a tendon. Malcolm proved quicker than expected, however. He instinctively stepped to the side, and her blade found nothing but dirt.

  He was on her again an instant later, charging with a vicious downward hew that Avila easily deflected. She danced away, hopping on the balls of her feet. Malcolm’s nose was bleeding, and she could see that the good side of his face was starting to swell.

  “Almost,” she muttered, and then feigned a lunge. Malcolm reacted predictably, spinning Darkfall to the side to parry, and Avila took her opening. She skipped to the right, flipped her sword around so she was holding it backward, and then thrust the tip into his breast. Malcolm’s eyes widened as the tip pierced his leathers, sliding into the flesh beneath. The captain fell to one knee, dropping his sword and clutching Integrity’s blade with his bare hands, trying to keep Avila from shoving it in any deeper. His blood dripped from his clenched fists as Avila pushed harder, the cutting edge slicing his hand.

  “You are not my better,” she said with pride.

  The smile left her face when Malcolm fell backward, bringing up one leg in the process. Integrity slid out of him and the pointed toe of his boot caught Avila in the groin, sending spikes of pain through her midsection. She stumbled away, gasping. The silent crowd roared back to life, cheering and jeering with equal aplomb. She whipped her head around, sending death stares at each of them.

  The sound of boots sinking into wet earth brought her back around, and she saw Malcolm running at her, Darkfall in hand once more. His left arm hung useless by his side, and he hefted the colossal sword in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Avila gaped, then rolled out of the way as the blade passed through the space where her head had been. Her legs were still numb from the blow to the groin, but she tried to tell herself she had the advantage. Malcolm only had the use of one arm, for Karak’s sake!

  She managed to get to her feet again just as Malcolm swiveled on her, chopping down with his sword. Their blades met once more, only to separate again a moment later. He drew back and swung, and their swords met yet again with a sound like the dinner bell when it rang out over the fields of Omnmount.

  He was relentless and seemingly tireless, shoving her backward with every thrust and swipe. She retreated, trying to circle the larger man, but he cut her off each time. Eventually, she found herself pressed against a wall of flesh, colliding with the soldiers who surrounded them. Greedy, intruding hands grasped at her, and she flung her free elbow back to clear some room. The men were mauling her, distracting her from the duel. Someone squeezed her thigh, and in surprise she ducked down to swipe the hand away. An instant later, blood fell in sheets, drenching her neck and shoulders. She dropped to her belly and rolled, and when she looked back, she saw a soldier with half a head teeter and fall while his friends screamed and stared in horror at the convulsing body. Malcolm, his sword bloodied, ignored the carnage and continued his assault.

  His blows rained down with ever-increasing brutality, and Avila breathed heavily as she blocked them, the force weighing on her muscles, tiring her out. She was losing speed, and her sidesteps came a half second too late to allow her to spin around her foe. Integrity began to weigh her down, and after one particularly brutal strike, she had to grasp the sword with both hands lest she lose it.

  Malcolm swung his upper body and his limp left arm flailed out, striking Avila on the shoulder and throwing her off balance. She stumbled and almost fell, shrieking as Malcolm swung Darkfall in a wide arc. The blade pierced below her breastplate, where the mail was thin. It easily sliced through the metal and dug deep into her flesh. She felt one of her ribs snap at the impact, and blood began to pour from the gaping maw. She staggered backward, staring down in horror. Joseph had died from a similar wound, given to him by that ogre Patrick DuTaureau.

  She lifted her eyes to see Malcolm take an offensive position, holding Darkfall high so it crossed in front of his face. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief
. The blood on the blade, her blood and that of the soldier, began to glow. Purple fire erupted from the steel. It was the same phenomenon she had seen in the village of Grassmere, after Malcolm had sliced the young mother and infant in two. She had thought it a mirage then, and it seemed no more real to her now. She wondered if it were a fever dream from loss of blood, but then an energized buzz came from the crowd of soldiers, proving that yes, it was real.

  “Karak blesses me,” Malcolm said, the purple flames dancing in his milky eye. “You were wrong, Avila. I was the faithful one.”

  He charged her one last time, flaming sword leading like a lance. Avila tried to bat aside the attack, but when Integrity met its counterpart, the trusty curved saber broke in two. The upper half flew through the air and fell harmlessly to the ground, and then Darkfall’s fiery tip pierced Avila’s breastplate as if it were made of paper. The flames scorched her as the blade entered her chest, burning her from the inside out, yet when they licked off Malcolm’s flesh, they did not seem to make a mark. She gasped, smoke rising up her throat and billowing from her mouth as she fell to her back. The mass of onlookers, their bloodlust brought to a boil, began to hoot and holler like madmen. Beneath it all, she heard a young girl shriek in anguish.

  Malcolm yanked Darkfall from her chest.

  Avila’s world grew hazy, her strength fading. Before her world went dark, she gathered enough strength to look to the side. She saw, for the briefest of moments, a flash of golden hair disappear behind a tangle of grubby legs. For the first time ever, she prayed to a different god from the one who had created her.

  Keep her safe, Ashhur. Let this not be for nothing. And please let me find my mother and siblings in the afterworld.

  “Karak’s will be done,” proclaimed Malcolm, standing over her in victory.

  “Fuck Karak,” she blurted out, blood spewing from her lips along with the words.

  Avila allowed herself to smile as darkness took her.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Where there had been one corpse, there were now two.

  Mother and daughter were laid out beside each other, both pale in death. Velixar leaned in closer to get a better look. Avila had been stripped of her armor, and he squinted as he examined the hole in her chest. The flesh around the wound was blackened and charred as if it had been touched by a great flame, while the meaty bits inside were a mass of blackish-pink soup. Whatever had run her through seemed to have melted her breastbone, three of her ribs, her left lung, and half her heart. It was as awe inspiring a display of mutilation as any he’d seen. He raised his eyes to Karak, who lingered silent in the corner, and took a deep breath.

  “And to think,” he said, “only a few hours ago she was right here in this tent, mourning the loss of her mother.” He looked at the man who kneeled opposite him. “Tell me, do you mourn as well?”

  Captain Gregorian kept his head bowed in reverence when he said, “I do, High Prophet, with all of my heart. The loss of the Lord Commander weighs heavily on my soul.”

  “Yet it was your blade that felled her.”

  “It was.”

  “And you still feel remorse?”

  “Not remorse. Only sadness…Avila was a mighty soul, perhaps our Divinity’s most able warrior. I could not bear to see her fall so far from grace. I challenged her to save her from herself.”

  Velixar glanced once more at the body. “You said she was Karak’s best warrior, and yet you bested her. Does that mean you are the best of us now?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No, High Prophet. I am but Karak’s humble servant.”

  “I see.”

  The captain’s sword, Darkfall, was displayed next to the bodies on a slab of its own. Velixar circled around to it and lifted the heavy weapon, which he himself had presented to Gregorian in the aftermath of Vulfram Mori’s demise. The steel was polished and shining, not a scratch on its surface. When Gregorian had marched into Karak’s pavilion, a few of his underlings carrying Avila’s body behind him, he had immediately confessed to killing the Lord Commander and handed over the sword, which he claimed not to have cleaned since the clash took place. Yet it looked as new as the day it had first left the smithy, not a spot of blood on it.

  “How did you defeat her?” he asked the man.

  “I drove that very sword through her chest, High Prophet,” the captain replied. “I thought that part was obvious.”

  “Yes, but how. Avila Crestwell was trained in the art of swordplay since she was still sucking her mother’s tit. The only man in all of Neldar who even approached her skill was her younger brother.” He looked at Gregorian once more. “You, Captain, are a meager swordsman by your own admission. So how did you manage to strike the killing blow?”

  “Karak,” he answered.

  “Karak?”

  “Yes. Karak.” The captain lifted his lone good eye, which was ringed with a nasty-looking bruise, and stared at the silent deity. “You granted me the power I needed. It is only because of you that I emerged victorious.”

  “Is that so?” said Velixar.

  “It is.”

  “And yet Karak was here, with me, the entire time. That being the case, how is what you say possible?”

  “I don’t know, High Prophet. All I know is that I prayed for the strength to end Avila’s chaos, and Darkfall alighted in purple flame.”

  “Hmm.”

  Velixar lowered the sword and approached the kneeling man. Ever since their first meeting at the door to the Tower Keep, Captain Gregorian had greatly interested him. He was truly devoted to their god, that much was obvious, yet Velixar sensed an irresponsible and frenzied streak in him, a trait the captain tried to conceal beneath layer after layer of ritual, routine, and convention. Still, he had always been loyal, obeying Karak’s edicts without question. It would be a shame if the man were lying, and his clash with Avila involved some personal issue. He sighed, wishing again that his ability to detect truth from lie had not fled him when he turned his back on Ashhur.

  Though in the end, it didn’t matter.

  Velixar reached down and ran his fingers over the scar that marred the left side of the captain’s face, where the Final Judges had made their everlasting mark.

  “I believe you,” he told the man.

  The captain bowed even lower. “Thank you, High Prophet.”

  “I deserve no thanks, Captain, for though I find you to be truthful, the fact remains that you convinced your men to slaughter two hundred converts who had sworn their lives to Karak. And despite your good intentions, you still took the life of the Lord Commander, named so by our god. The proper channels were not followed; none were told. You acted on your own. This army is about order, Captain, and you catered to chaos.”

  “It is true,” Gregorian whispered. “I knew it was true the moment I lifted my sword against my leader.” He held his arms straight out before him, threw his chin back, and squeezed his good eye shut. Disturbingly, the milky one remained wide open. “My life is my god’s to do with as he wishes. Take it from me, purge the turmoil from my veins, for I have sinned, and there is no mercy for agents of chaos.”

  Velixar raised his eyebrows. “You would give your life away so freely?”

  “My life is not mine to give.”

  “Enough,” said Karak. He strode toward them across the open space.

  “Yes, my Lord,” said Velixar. He backed away from the captain, bowing.

  Karak stepped up to the kneeling man and placed a massive hand atop his head.

  “You are indeed my humble servant, Captain. Your actions prove it more than your words. Now stand up, my child, and have a physician mend that arm.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” the captain replied. When he looked at the god, tears flowed in twin streams from his good eye. “Forever for you, my Lord.”

  Gregorian rose to his feet and kissed Karak’s hand. The god smiled down on him, then reached behind him and grabbed Darkfall off its slab. He handed it to the captain.

 
“The instrument of your faith,” he said, his voice soothing. “And the instrument of the Lord Commander, as well.”

  The captain’s eye bulged and his lips quivered, but he said nothing.

  “Now go, Malcolm, and uphold my word as you always have.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “One last thing,” Velixar chimed in before the man could leave. Gregorian halted and pivoted toward him, stiff as a good soldier should be, even while his injured limb dangled uselessly.

  “What is it, High Prophet?”

  “Some of the men reported that the Lord Commander’s fall came about because of a young girl. Is that true?”

  The captain nodded.

  “And where is this girl now?”

  “No one knows, High Prophet. She seems to have disappeared.”

  “Interesting,” Velixar replied. “That is all, Lord Commander Gregorian. You may go now.”

  “Thank you, High Prophet.”

  When Gregorian left the pavilion, Velixar examined Karak’s expression. The god looked pensive, perhaps even whimsical. It was an odd way for a deity to look—dangerous, even—but Velixar decided it best not to question him. Given his own failures over the last few days, the last thing he needed was to give his god a reason to strike him down.

  “He is a devoted man,” Karak said finally.

  “It would appear so,” Velixar said. “And his story is true?”

  “Of course. Gregorian has proven that he believes my teachings completely. I do not think any human alive loathes chaos as much as he does.”

  “But what of his slaughter of those of Ashhur’s children who bended their knees? Should he not suffer punishment for that?”

  “He ended those lives out of love for order, not because he was a curious man intent on meddling with powers he does not understand.”

  Velixar winced at the slight. He hesitated before speaking again, but in the end he decided that if he was to be the High Prophet, he should not fear questioning his deity’s decisions.