Wrath of Lions

PROLOGUE

Oris Mori stood at the edge of a pond deep within the forest behind Mori Manor and watched the water ripple as he threw small stones into it.

“I miss him still,” said Alexander from beside him.

Oris turned to gaze at the boy, a near perfect mix of his parents. He had Yenge’s thin nose and kinky-curly black hair and Vulfram’s broad shoulders, rigid jaw, and soulful hazel eyes. Alexander’s hands were also like his father’s, thick fingers meant for gripping a sword’s handle. Oris stared down at his own hand as he bounced a stone in his palm. The flesh was scarred and rippled, forever misshapen by the fire that had charred his body, leaving him in constant pain. Once those hands had been perfect. Once they had been just as strong as Vulfram’s had been, which was quite strong indeed.

He let out a sigh.

“I know,” he told his nephew. “I miss him as well.”

“Will they send his body soon?” Alexander asked. “It has been six months. Mother promised they would send his body. All of their bodies.”

“In time, son. I’m sure they will send them in time.”

It was a lie, of course. Months ago he had learned of his family’s horrible fate in Veldaren, the capital city to the northwest. His brother Vulfram, accused of murder, had been killed by the Final Judges; and then his other siblings, Ulric and Adeline, and his parents, Soleh and Ibis, had been executed for treason and blasphemy. As proof, the courier had presented Oris with a swathed package along with his letter. Inside was Vulfram’s sturdy hand, severed at the wrist and blackened with rot. Still affixed to the pale index finger was a ring adorned with the image of the leaping doe, the sigil of House Mori. Oh, how Yenge had wailed. She’d held the severed hand to her chest, her tanned cheeks streaked with tears, pleading with the courier, “This isn’t true-tell me this isn’t true!”

But it was.

That had happened in autumn, before the worst winter in recent memory had flung its chill across northern Neldar. Oris should have gone to the capital then, he knew, to try and convince the king, Highest Crestwell, or even the Divinity himself to let him bring the corpses of his loved ones home for burial. Instead he had stayed in Erznia, doing his best to comfort his sister-in-law, no small feat considering she’d already lost her daughter Lyana to the Sisters of the Cloth. His lips drooped into a frown, his scarred flesh crumpling almost audibly. Winter had come and gone, and by now it was too late to hope for a burial. The sight of rot and bone would only make their losses worse.

“Why didn’t Karak come to see us?” asked Caleigh.

Oris glanced at Vulfram’s youngest child, who was squatting beside the pond. The bottom ridge of her heavy woolen smock was smeared with mud. She was only twelve, yet she’d experienced as much pain and loss as Oris had in his sixty-six years of life.

“He will come,” replied Oris.

“Does he still love us?” the child asked.

“Don’t ask that,” snapped Alexander. “You’ll end up like Lyana.”

Oris silenced his nephew with a look. “Of course he still loves us,” he told Caleigh. “We are Karak’s children. He will always love us.”

Her eyes gazed up at him, full of grief and skepticism.

“But Father was Karak’s child too. And Grandmeem and Papa and Uncle Ulric…”

“Yes, Caleigh, but what happened was…complicated.”

“How?”

“Stop asking questions!” her brother shouted, suddenly losing his temper.

Oris whirled, his misshapen hand grabbing the boy by the lapel of his surcoat. He pulled him in close, and though Alexander was nineteen and strong as an ox, he was helpless in Oris’s clutches.

“Mind your tongue,” he growled into his nephew’s ear, “or I will mind it for you.”

Alexander sniffled, then dropped his head in submission.

Releasing the boy, Oris stepped toward Caleigh and lifted her from the muddy ground, wrapping her up in his arms. She pressed her face into his shoulder but didn’t shudder, didn’t cry. She simply allowed him to hold her, like one of the dolls his wife, Ebbe, had made for his daughters when they were born. He wished he could remind the child how much wonder there was in the world, how their lives were gifts from Karak. The Moris were one of Karak’s First Families. Their god would never bring undue hurt to them, he knew that.

At least, he had once known that. So much had changed over the last few months: the treasons for which his beloveds had been executed, the ever-growing army, the destructive attack on Haven, and the bloody clash between the brother gods. All of it had powered the tongues of merchants, bandits, and smallfolk alike. Keeping his surviving family calm and united had proved a near impossible task. The events had cast a pall of sadness over what had once been a sparkling outpost of Neldar.

“I wish Julian was still here,” whispered Caleigh.

Oris nodded. Julian had been Ulric’s youngest, a merry lad with an odd preference for dolls over swords and shields. He had been close to the girls-Oris’s as well as Vulfram’s-but Ulric’s widow had taken her three boys in a fit of grief, leaving Erznia during a raging winter storm. Oris feared the worst for them. Yet another loving soul gone, yet another beloved family member taken away, making a place that had once seemed safe feel anything but.

“We will see them again,” he said, keeping his voice low. He heard Alexander grunt behind him-the youth’s failed attempt at hiding his sobs-and Caleigh leaned back in Oris’s arms.

“In Afram?” she asked, her young eyes sparkling with hope.

Oris chuckled. “Hopefully sooner than that, sweet pie,” he replied. “But yes, if we never again see them in this life, we will most certainly greet them in Afram.”

If we can find our way through, he thought, but did not say.

Seeming to accept that, she once more rested her head on his shoulder.

A thick layer of clouds passed over the sun, and Oris released his niece, stretching to his full height. A strange feeling came over him, like an invisible phantasm whispering into his ear, and he shuddered. He turned to look at Alexander, and he could tell his nephew felt it too. The young man stared around wildly, his fingers playing across the hilt of the shortsword hanging from his belt. A wolf bayed, and the sound was far nearer than should have been possible. A fifteen-foot wall of pine and steel encircled Erznia. The only way a wolf could get inside was if someone let it in.

Then the beast howled again, and Oris realized it was no wolf.

Another sound emerged beneath the howling, a muted bang and clank that reminded him of the time he’d taken a tour of the Mount Hailen Armory in the far north.

Swords.

A queer sort of panic surged through him. Grabbing Caleigh’s hand, Oris ran toward the Manor through the cover of the trees. Alexander fell in step behind him. Oris’s lungs, scarred after inhaling copious amounts of smoke while foolishly rescuing three whores from a burning brothel in Veldaren, no longer worked as well as they should. After a few paces he was breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears, his heart about ready to give up on him. The sound of clattering steel grew louder in his ears.

But his heart did not give up, and he was very much alive when they neared the end of the wood and the rear courtyard of Mori Manor. It was empty, nothing but a flattened, pale green lawn populated by a few scattered goats. At the end of the courtyard rose the manor itself, a boxy construction of elm, pine, and oak that stretched a hundred feet in either direction. Despite its size, it was a simple construction, all earthy browns and deep burgundy, its great slanted roof spackled with tar and clay, seeming to mist beneath the overcast sky. Alexander began to push toward the manor, shoving aside vegetation, but Oris stilled him, pressing his palm against the young man’s chest. Alexander’s eyes were wide with the same terror Oris felt-a terror that grew as strange voices emerged from the other side of the manor.

“Stay hidden,” he told the children. Caleigh, her hand still firmly gripped in his, nodded her understanding.

They progressed along the forest’s boundary, using the copious overgrowth and piles of fallen limbs to keep out of sight. It felt strange to Oris that he should feel the need to take such precautions. Not very long ago, the sound of strangers within Erznia’s walls would have been cause for excitement. But all that had changed when Vulfram returned to the township to punish his own daughter. That horrid turn of events, coupled with the courier’s haunting message some months later, had caused the mood to shift. Now the presence of uninvited guests was a reason for fear.

Oris led his niece and nephew around the side of the manor, and the horror before him confirmed every misgiving. A legion of men in boiled black leather, decked out with pikes and swords, formed a row on either side of the beaten dirt road leading through the center of the settlement. Four flags of Karak fluttered on the bannermen’s poles at the front line. The surviving members of Oris’s family stood on the lawn of the manor, in the shadow of the peach tree to the left of the cobbled walk. Yenge stood front and center, her dark, curly hair cascading over shoulders that were thrown back in pride. Oris’s wife, Ebbe, was beside her, her normally tan skin a pale russet after long months of sparse sunlight, and their children, Conata and Zeppa, were huddled in her skirts, tears running down their cheeks. Oris’s heart went out to them. He wanted to run from his veil of twigs and leaves and gather them in his arms.

It was the sight of a man on horseback that stilled him. Naked and hairless, his skin looked as though it had been polished to a crystalline sheen. Yet muscles bulged and stretched beneath, as if they were too large and powerful for the shell that concealed them. A warhorn, the source of the baying Oris had heard, was cradled in his large hands. His eyes glowed an unnatural red, burning like the fires of the underworld, and the sight brought a lump to Oris’s throat. He then took in the naked man’s face-smooth and long, with a pointed chin and an upturned nose-and realized with horrible certainty who he was.

The former Highest, Clovis Crestwell. He looked inhuman; he was much larger than before, and he no longer had his long, silver hair. The Highest grinned, and it seemed as though he had grown extra teeth. Magister Muren Wentner, the decrepit old man responsible for upholding Karak’s law within the settlement, stepped out from the crowd that had gathered behind the row of soldiers. His billowing gray robe flowed around him, making him appear to be a skeleton swathed in a mound of moldy fabric. From the look on the old man’s face, Oris could tell Wentner too was shocked by Clovis’s strange appearance and unabashed nakedness.

“We are…grateful for your arrival, Master Crestwell,” Wentner said, falling to his knees before Clovis’s horse. “I wish I had known of your visit sooner, however, for I would have prepared a more…appropriate greeting.”

Clovis didn’t respond. He simply smiled that horrible, toothy smile.

Wentner shuffled on his knees, clearly uncomfortable.

“Er…what is the nature of your visit? Please tell me, so I can be of service.”

Without responding, Clovis dropped the warhorn and grabbed his horse’s reins. The horse stepped to the side of the road, appearing slightly agitated, as if frightened by its rider. A heavy cart approached between the two rows of soldiers, drawn by a pair of huge chargers. The townsfolk behind the soldiers gasped, but the contents of the cart were hidden from Oris’s view. Magister Wentner rose from the ground, hastily stepping out of the way. Once it reached the end of the line, the cart pulled to a stop, exposing its ghastly contents to all.

While Oris’s wife shrieked, lifting their children and backing away, Yenge seemed to be frozen in shock, the tight line of her lips and the twitch of her jaw the only signs of her distress. Oris was helpless to avert his eyes from the four bodies hanging from the slatted side of the cart-a woman and three young men. Even from a distance he could tell the corpses were in a terrible state, the decaying remnants covered with gashes and splashed with old blood. He recognized the tattered and bloody dress hanging from the carcass of the lone woman and the ruby-encrusted necklace Ulric had given Dimona on their wedding day.

The ball of terror that had built up in Oris’s gut broke apart, its fragments spreading waves of vigor through his limbs. His body shook and his mind raced, but still he did not move. Instead, he clamped his hand over Caleigh’s lips before a shriek could leave her throat, giving them away. He hoped Alexander had the good sense to still his tongue as well.

Out on the lawn, Clovis proudly marched his horse to the front of the cart.

“The traitors have been found and punished,” Clovis said. Oris cringed at the sound of his voice, which was so unlike Clovis’s. His tone still held the same gravelly quality, but there was something more there-it almost sounded as if two voices were speaking at once. “They have gone to the underworld to burn for eternity because of their sins against Karak’s glory.”

Caleigh began struggling, biting into Oris’s palm, but he refused to let go.

“Why have you done this?” pleaded Yenge, her voice cracking.

“Yes, why?” asked Magister Wentner. His pale gray eyes stared in disbelief, his usually cocksure manner rapidly deflating. “The wife and children of Ulric Mori did nothing to deserve this fate.”

The bald, naked man laughed, the sound assaulting the air like a wave of roaring flame.

“Did nothing, you say? The lady and her sons were heirs to a traitor and blasphemer, and they were set to follow in the footsteps of the one they called husband and father. They proved it when they attempted to flee west, into the arms of the bastard god who rules there.”

“But what of us?” asked Yenge, bravely stepping forward to meet Clovis’s burning red gaze. “Is our entire family considered as such? We have not fled. We have remained loyal to Karak despite our losses.”

Clovis’s sickening grin grew ever wider. “You have remained loyal, have you? Loyalty requires sacrifice, and you have sacrificed nothing. When your god asked for every able-bodied man to join the ranks of his army in preparation for the coming war, did you offer your son to the cause?” He turned in his saddle, addressing the townsfolk who had huddled in fear behind the soldiers. “Did any of you? Of all of Neldar’s provinces, Erznia stood alone in her defiance. Not a single young man has joined the holy ranks, not a single woman has offered her services as a seamstress or nursemaid. You all huddled in your guarded forest, living apart from the god who created you. You dare call this loyalty?” Clovis spat on the ground. Magister Wentner tried to argue but was quickly shouted down. “I think not. The Mori family has disgraced our Lord, as has every other soul within these walls. Karak is the God of Order, and his ways are fair. You have turned your backs on your god, and so he has turned his back on you. May you all find forgiveness in the afterlife…if forgiveness is to be had for such cowardly scum.”

At the Highest’s command, a row of archers stepped forward, leveled their bows, and fired on those standing on the manor’s lawn. Oris could only watch as pointed shafts buried themselves in his wife, Magister Wentner, and Yenge. Ebbe attempted to shield Conata and Zeppa with her own body, but arrow after arrow embedded in her back until she collapsed. Their daughters suffered the same fate; Zeppa, all of seven, received a bolt in the neck, and nine-year-old Conata was pierced through the back of the head as she attempted to flee. An agonized roar forced its way through Oris’s clenched lips, but it was drowned out by the bloodcurdling shrieks of the gathered crowd.

Still, Oris did not advance. Releasing Caleigh, he whirled around and grabbed Alexander by the shoulders. The young man’s eyes were rimmed with tears, and his body was quaking uncontrollably.

“Listen to me!” Oris shouted at him. “Leave now! Take your sister and go. Climb the wall and head east, across the river. Few live there, and there is a chance you might make it to the coast unharmed. Ask for favors-beg if you must-but stay alive. Do you understand?”

Alexander stared dumbly ahead.

“Do you understand?” he screamed, shaking the young man by the shoulders.

Slowly Alexander’s eyes came to focus on his, and he nodded his understanding. Oris pulled his nephew into a tight embrace, then removed the shortsword from Alexander’s belt.

“You won’t be needing this,” he said, handing over his own dagger in its stead. “It will only slow you down. The smaller the blade, the better. Now go.”

Alexander took the dagger in one hand, snatched Caleigh’s wrist with the other, and sprinted away. Oris watched them go, ignoring the clang of steel from the area beyond the wood as he waited until the two youngsters had distanced themselves before revealing himself.

He counted to twenty, grief and wrath causing him to bounce on his heels as he gripped the shortsword with both scarred hands. Then he turned sharply and barreled through the overgrowth. Twigs snapped and brittle branches slapped his disfigured face as he leapt out of cover and into the open.

It was a massacre. The soldiers had turned on the populace, murdering everyone in sight. Swords and pikes thrust again and again, the blood they spilled creating a pinkish fog. Oris saw Bracken Renson, a man he had known since childhood, have his head split down the middle by an ax. Carlotta Littleton, the woman who had been nursemaid to his children, was gutted by a spear, her body viciously kicked off the shaft once she ceased moving. A sparse few fought back, only to be overwhelmed by the soldiers who had superior training and weapons.

Bellowing like a wild beast, Oris forced his sore legs to carry him forward. Something sharp pierced his side, but he ignored the pain and kept running, his sword held high, his sights fixed on one man and one man only: Clovis Crestwell. The man’s gaze shifted to him, and those blazing red eyes widened with what looked to be excitement.

Clovis leapt off his horse, his naked body bulging with muscle, his evil grin growing larger and larger. His mouth seemed to open wider than was humanly possible. It looked hungry enough to swallow the whole world. But Oris didn’t care. A wider opening to plunge my sword through was all he thought as he lunged forward, the tip of his blade aiming for Clovis’s gaping maw. It was then that he saw the man’s teeth extending, growing outward, becoming sharp daggers.

He thrust with all his might, the shortsword plunging into the gaping maw with both hands. Clovis’s inhuman red eyes widened as the blade exited the back of his skull. His expression shifted, and his dagger-filled mouth snapped shut on Oris’s arms, tearing through flesh, tendon, and bone. Oris teetered backward, his arms severed just below the elbow, the stumps spurting blood. Clovis ripped the sword from his mouth as if it were naught but a splinter, then rushed forward, ramming its cutting edge into Oris’s gut and twisting until his insides spilled all over the ground. Oris lost feeling in his lower half and collapsed, the rest of him awash with white-hot pain. He knew the end was near, but he forced himself to roll over nonetheless, staring back toward the forest, hoping beyond hope that Alexander and Caleigh had escaped. These thoughts persisted even as claws ripped into his back, even as teeth tore into his neck, even as his own blood washed over his eyes, even as the screams of those dying all around him faded away, leaving him with nothing but the agony he felt in his every nerve as he was slowly devoured.