The King of the Vile

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The King of the Vile Page 18

by David Dalglish


  Umber turned his horse about and snapped the reins. Neither Lathaar nor Jerico said a word as he rode away, up and down the gentle slopes toward the distant gray mass that was the Kerran army.

  “What do we do?” Lathaar asked.

  Jerico buckled his mace to his belt and flung his shield over his shoulder.

  “We go,” he said.

  “There’s only two of us, and they have an entire army behind them. What do you think we’ll accomplish?”

  “I don’t know,” Jerico said. “But we won’t leave our students there to die.”

  “As you wish,” Lathaar said. He sheathed his blades. “We’ll go, and pray for a miracle.”

  “This is the land of miracles, after all,” Jerico said, and whether he intended it or a not, a hint of sarcasm colored his words.

  Lathaar stared at the smoke drifting on the wind above the approaching army. “Perhaps once, but it’s hard to believe it still is.”

  The two followed the road south, each step seemingly heavier than the last. The distant army of Ker grew clearer as the minutes passed. Though they had thousands of soldiers, Lathaar wondered how they intended overcome Mordeina’s great walls. Perhaps that’s not their goal. If it was angels they wanted to kill, then the winged protectors would no doubt come right to them.

  And if paladins of Karak had joined the army of Ker...

  It should have been a ridiculous thought, given Bram’s distrust of the gods, but the ten paladins waiting at the forefront of the vanguard proved it true. Their black armor shone in the sunlight. Kneeling before them, hands bound, mouths gagged, were four of their oldest students from the Citadel. Their faces were bruised, eyes swollen, hands cut. Lathaar’s chest filled with sorrow and rage.

  A dark-skinned paladin with long brown hair stood among the bound youths, and he stepped out from the line and rubbed a hand lovingly through young Gareth’s hair.

  “That’s close enough,” the paladin said. “For now, we only need to talk.”

  Lathaar and Jerico halted in the center of the road. Beyond the paladins, Lathaar noticed how the army of thousands had stopped as well. Did the dark paladins commanded that much power in King Bram’s army?

  “We’re here,” Lathaar said, keeping his voice calm. About thirty feet separated him from the dark paladins, and the urge to cross that distance with blades drawn was nearly overwhelming. “I assume you are the Stronghold’s new puppet master, Xarl?”

  “I am,” the man said. “I must admit, it is so exciting to finally meet you two. The mighty paladins of Ashhur, towering men of might and power, stories of whom have reached even our walls over the passing years.” He smiled. “To be honest, Jerico, I expected your shield to be bigger, but I guess you’re used to hearing that, aren’t you?”

  “Especially from the ladies,” said Umber beside him.

  The rest of the dark paladins laughed.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Jerico muttered.

  “Get in line,” Lathaar whispered back.

  Xarl patted the top of Gareth’s head, then playfully slapped his face.

  “Gareth here was kind enough to tell us they were trying to catch up to you,” he said. “So now that you’re here, let’s lay things out nice and simple. No lies, no insults, no posturing or making grand speeches. Just the truth.”

  “And what would that be?” Lathaar asked.

  Xarl drew a long sword from his hip. Black fire roared to life around the blade, and he slowly put it atop Gareth’s right shoulder. The boy screamed into his gag as the fire burned through his bloody shirt and into his flesh.

  “Lay down your weapons, fall to your knees, and accept your deaths,” Xarl said. “Otherwise the children will die in your place while you watch.” The fire burned deeper into Gareth’s shoulder. “The choice is yours, now make it.”

  Lathaar’s vision ran red as he watched Gareth slump over, tears running down his face as he whimpered. Xarl pulled free his blade and stalked behind the other three prisoners. His violet eyes never left theirs. Without even looking, the dark paladin stopped behind Mal, whose normally thin face was lumpy and swollen from bruises.

  “Maybe hearing their screams will help you decide,” Xarl said as he pressed his blade against the back of Mal’s neck.

  Mal howled as he burned. Lathaar’s feet remained rooted in place, his whole body shaking with rage. Xarl grabbed Mal by the hair to hold him still, the grin on his face full of white teeth and sick pleasure. Lathaar had felt that fire firsthand many times, and he knew it didn’t burn like normal fire. Skin blackened far slower than it should have, all so the pain one experienced could drag on and on.

  Jerico shifted closer and lowered his voice. “We have to surrender.”

  “We surrender, they kill our students after we die,” Lathaar said.

  “If we don’t surrender, they die anyway!”

  Mal’s screams pierced Lathaar’s mind. He’d give his life to save the boy, to save any of the three. But to offer himself up to the dark paladins, to die after all he’d done? Was that how his life must end? They’d crushed Karak’s army. They’d defeated the prophet. The times of sacrifice were over...weren’t they?

  “Lathaar,” Jerico said. “We have no choice.”

  That was the worst part of it. They did have a choice. One meant cowardice, and one meant death.

  “Still not come to a decision?” Xarl asked. He pulled the blade away from Mal’s neck and moved down the line until he hovered over Samar. He patted the youngster’s, then skipped both him and Elrath to return to Gareth.

  “Maybe you think I’m lying,” Xarl shouted as he kicked Gareth in the stomach to make him roll onto his back. “Let’s put that to rest right here and now.”

  Before they could say a word, before they could realize what was happening, Xarl plunged his sword into Gareth’s neck. The steel hit bone and slid to one side, ripping open the throat further.

  Lathaar screamed and the dark paladins laughed, some cheering, others calling for Lathaar to come fight and die. He almost did. Jerico leapt in his way, shoving him in the chest.

  “We have no choice,” Jerico said, grabbing Lathaar’s face with his hands and forcing their gazes to meet.

  “I can’t,” Lathaar said.

  “We give ourselves over, and the other three live,” Jerico said. “What else can we do?”

  Lathaar felt tears building in his eyes.

  “You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t bring myself to give him that victory. We can kill him, Jerico. You know that. You know we can, if given the chance.”

  Jerico swallowed hard.

  “The moment we attack, they’ll execute our students,” he said. “And if we don’t attack, then we’ll stand here and watch them die. Are you willing to do that, Lathaar? Are you willing to endure that horror just so you can one day meet them on the battlefield? Because I’m not.”

  “I want a decision, paladins!” Xarl shouted, pacing and smiling like a serpent about to strike. “Three lives for two, that’s more than a fair trade. It would have been four, if you’d not been so tardy in making a decision.”

  Three lives for two, thought Lathaar. Three lives for two. He’d risked his life for others a hundred times before, how could he not do it again?

  Xarl kicked Samar in the spine, knocking the red-haired boy onto his stomach. Putting a boot on the small of Samar’s back, Xarl lifted his blade up for a thrust.

  “You’re running out of time,” the dark paladin shouted.

  Lathaar opened his mouth to answer, to beg for Samar’s life, but a loud crack silenced him. A burning whip wrapped around Xarl’s blade. The dark paladin spun around, looking as shocked as Lathaar felt to see Qurrah Tun and his bride Tessanna approach.

  “That is enough!” the half-orc shouted. Lathaar was stunned by the power in his voice, raw anger overwhelming each word. Seeing the couple allied with the army of Ker soured Lathaar’s mood even further, but at least it seemed like his students might have a c
hance.

  “This matter doesn’t concern you,” Xarl growled. “Go roll in the grass with Celestia’s whore while we deal with Ashhur’s faithful.”

  The way the man said it, so calmly, so pleasantly, made him seem all the more vile. Shadow swirled about Tessanna’s hands, and he wondered if Xarl would ever get the chance to speak again. Xarl pulled his sword free of Qurrah’s whip, and the other paladins readied their weapons. The soldiers who’d been watching rapidly retreated, wanting no part of such a potentially deadly battle.

  “Insult her again,” Qurrah said, and though he whispered, it sounded as if his words traveled for miles. “Call her a whore, just one more time. Give me reason to rip the bones from your flesh while you scream.”

  The paladins tensed as magic flared around both Tess and Qurrah’s hands. Lathaar shot a look at Jerico, and his friend nodded. Should battle begin, they would race into the melee to save their students.

  “Is it permission you seek?” Xarl asked, pacing before Qurrah with a smile on his face. “If so, then you have it. If you wish me dead, then try. Let us see the power of the greatest traitor Dezrel has ever known. Karak will exalt me for eternity for sending him your soul to burn.”

  Before it could come to blows, a man pushed through their ranks. His skin was tan, his face scarred along the right eye, and he wore a crown. King Bram, Lathaar assumed. The man certainly commanded the respect of a king as he roared for everyone to stand down. Beside him, observing silently, was a frowning woman with a long nose and dangling silver earrings.

  “What is going on here?” Bram demanded.

  “Matters of the gods,” Xarl said. “Of no concern to you.”

  “Ever since armies of the gods started invading sovereign lands, such matters concern me greatly,” Bram said. He gestured to Gareth’s body, then turned to Lathaar and Jerico. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “A ransom,” Lathaar said before the others could answer. “Our deaths so the children might be spared. Gareth was killed as a show of force.”

  Qurrah put himself between Xarl and Bram, his whip curling about his shoulder like a living snake, the fire that surrounded it fading down to a whisper of smoke.

  “We do not invade at Karak’s behest,” Qurrah said. “The dark paladins serve you like any other soldier, do they not? Then make them follow your rules. Let the young be treated as prisoners, not tortured and executed in a gruesome display. Overthrowing the angels accomplishes nothing if you simultaneously establish Karak’s authority over you.”

  Bram’s miserable mood only worsened. Stepping past Qurrah, he addressed Karak’s paladins directly.

  “The young paladins are my prisoners, and they will be treated as such,” he said. “Not tortured, not maimed, and not executed without reason.”

  Before Xarl could protest, Bram turned to Lathaar and Jerico. “As for you two, the time will come when Mordan finally fights, be it with angels or soldiers. Should I see you at their side, I will execute your students. This war we fight, you are no longer a part of it. Is that clear?”

  Lathaar swallowed down a mouth full of razors. “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” King Bram spun about, glaring at every party involved in the tense gathering. “My army’s stalled long enough. It’s time to march out. Sir Ian, bring the prisoners to my tent so we can set up more long-term accommodations.”

  “Yes, milord,” Sir Ian said, gesturing to the three young men. Soldiers grabbed them from the dark paladins, who watched with weapons still drawn.

  “Forgive us for letting our passions overwhelm reason,” Xarl said, and he bowed low to the king.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” Bram said, vanishing back into the sea of soldiers. With his departure, Xarl turned to Lathaar and Jerico, and he saluted with his sword.

  “I pray we meet again,” he said. “Even if the war between Mordan and Ker ends, I’m sure we’ll still have much to discuss.”

  The dark paladin shot a look at Qurrah that Lathaar couldn’t interpret, and then ordered his paladins to move out. They marched into the heart of the army. Tessanna finally released the dark magic about her hands. She kissed Qurrah’s cheek and headed out to the grasslands adjacent to Bram’s army.

  “Why march with them?” Lathaar asked before the half-orc could leave. “It was Ashhur’s forgiveness that granted you new life. Why now turn against his angels?”

  “I never turned on them,” Qurrah said, shaking his head. “They came for me, seeking to revoke that forgiveness and take my life. If you want to cast blame, cast it at their feet, not mine. Grace enforced at the edge of a blade means nothing, paladin. There is no redemption in murder, no forgiveness in executions. If this is what it takes for Tess and I to live a free life, then this is what we will do.”

  Jerico put a hand on Lathaar’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “We need to put distance between us before nightfall.”

  Lathaar gave him no answer. His friend walked away, leaving him alone with Qurrah on the road.

  “I was ready to exchange my life for theirs,” Lathaar said. “If they die...”

  “I will do what I can to keep your students safe,” the half-orc promised. “I am no friend of Karak, nor his paladins. In that, you can trust me.”

  “Karak doesn’t need your friendship to burn the world anew,” Lathaar said, shoving his swords into their sheaths. “He just needs you to stand aside and do nothing.”

  Lathaar turned his back to the half-orc, head hung low, and offered a prayer to his students as he left them in the hands of his foes.

  17

  It had been a long three days, and despite the impending assembly, Harruq feared they had not seen the last of the unrest.

  “Aubby’s asleep in Gregory’s room,” Aurelia said, returning to find Harruq preparing. “There’s enough guards to stop a small army, so they should be safe while we’re gone.”

  “Good,” Harruq said as he adjusted his collar. The shirt was blue, the sleeves ended in ridiculous poofs, and the collar felt painfully tight. His fingers tugged, and tugged, until the material ripped. Harruq froze, checking to see if he’d damaged the shirt.

  “One of these days I’ll learn to wear my armor everywhere,” he said, sighing. The thread around the high collar had only torn the tiniest bit, and shouldn’t be noticeable.

  “If you go into that conclave dressed for a fight, then a fight will be what you get,” Aurelia said. “You’re effectively a nobleman now, so you’re going to dress like one.”

  Aurelia helped him button the rest of his shirt and put on his outer jacket. She wore an elegant blue dress, with streams of silver swirling about it from top to bottom.

  “Can I at least bring my swords?” Harruq asked.

  “What’d I just say about dressing for a fight?”

  Harruq grinned at her.

  “That it’s better than looking like this?”

  She kissed his nose.

  “Cute. You ready to go?”

  “I am,” Harruq said, offering his arm. “Are you going to open us a portal there?”

  “Just outside. I think it’d be best for us to walk into Devlimar. With how much the city changes daily, and how many people are swarming about it, I’d hate to kill someone with an errant teleport.”

  “You can do that?” Harruq asked.

  Aurelia slipped from his grasp, her fingers waggling as she began to cast her spell.

  “Reappearing inside matter, particularly living matter, causes a fusion of both, as well as rapid bodily expansion of the unlucky person in the way of the teleport.”

  “Sounds like a lovely way to die,” Harruq said.

  “There’s worse. If you’re really unlucky, neither person dies, and you live a life fused together, looking like something Qurrah would create while in a particularly foul mood.”

  She vanished into the swirling blue portal. Harruq paused before it and swallowed.

  “Some things are better off not knowing,” he said, the
n stepped through.

  Harruq felt an immediate distortion. The room vanished, the ceiling replaced by stars, his carpet now pale grass. Though he took but a single step, deep down he knew he’d crossed a large distance. Aurelia waited for him.

  “It took you a moment,” she said. “Did I make you nervous?”

  He kissed her cheek.

  “Never.”

  Aurelia had taken them beyond the outer wall of Mordeina, to a field perpendicular to the main road leading out the city gates. Normally those gates were shut at night, but Harruq had ordered them to remain open. The people would only find other ways outside the city if he tried to prevent them. The road was filled with people, many carrying torches and lanterns despite the bright starlight. Hand in hand, Harruq and Aurelia walked to the road, joining the many others traveling to Devlimar.

  The earthbound city of the angels sparkled, its outer buildings lit by dozens of evenly spaced torches. The progress the angels had managed in a relatively short time was remarkable. Harruq saw several towering spires, and at least thirty buildings stood in a small cluster within the enormous field beside the wreckage of Avlimar. It was still a pale imitation of the original, but Harruq figured a few more months would fix that.

  Devlimar’s beauty was marred by the ugliness taking place just outside its limits. Over a thousand people gathered to protest, the number swelling with each passing minute as the steady flow from Mordeina continued. A wall of soldiers held them at bay, Harruq placing them at Azariah’s request. Judarius’s fate would be decided by the collective will of all angels, which meant none could remain outside on guard duty to prevent the looting of their newly built home.

  “Azariah says Judarius slew the man for stealing from Avlimar’s ruins,” Harruq said as they walked, voicing something that had been bothering him all day.

  “Thomas,” Aurelia said. “His name was Thomas.”

  “Right,” Harruq said. “Well, Thomas didn’t have a single scrap of gold, silver, or pearl on him when the guards found his body.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Aurelia said. “Whatever he stole might have been taken by someone else during the riot.”

 

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