Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 9

As Lord Commander Avila Crestwell marched her regiment south, she fondly recalled the moment three weeks ago when the raven had arrived under the cover of darkness, its wings flapping like the charred cloak of an old ghost. She had known what the letter strapped to the bird’s leg would say before her fingers ever brushed the wax seal that bound it.

She was as restless as she’d been since setting camp in what was left of the township of Haven. The ruins of the Temple of the Flesh, which Karak had decimated with a fireball from the sky, marked their northern boundary, whereas what remained of the township itself lay to the south. In between were erected hundreds of simple tents, inside of which the five thousand men (and a few women) who had been placed under her command rested their weary bones.

Avila had hated every moment of their stay in the delta. The marshy land, the humid air, the fluctuating temperature, the aggressive insects that pecked away at her perfect skin, raising inflamed welts that she constantly scratched without realizing what she was doing-all these made life near impossible to endure. It was difficult to train men for battle under such conditions. The weight of their armor caused them to sink in the mud during exercises, the heat of the day inflicting dehydration and heatstroke. She ended up allowing the soldiers to train wearing only their smallclothes, using wooden practice swords instead of the genuine article.

Not that these men required much training. Other than a few green boys, they were the best of the best, those she and her traitor brother had instructed back at the Omnmount staging grounds. Yet no matter how skilled they were, a stagnant soldier was one step closer to falling on the wrong end of a blade, so she kept hounding them. The morning horns were always blown at the first hint of sunrise. Such practice was needed to keep them limber, for daily tramps through the southern portions of the delta did not do the job. Whereas Avila had expected pockets of well-trained and devoted opponents like those who had defended Haven the day the brother gods had come to blows, her search parties had discovered that the remainder of the delta was a deserted wasteland. There were few stragglers, just old hermits or some of the more unsavory bandits who dwelled deep within the swamp. These castoffs were easily dispatched once discovered, and their heads ended up gracing pikes when the squads returned from their searches. It seemed as though the rest of the populace had lifted their banners and fled.

Avila found the situation more than frustrating. She was a general without an opponent, which made her useless. The coming of the raven had given her purpose.

Yet as she trotted her mare south along the humid, packed-dirt road, leading her fighting men beneath a burning sun, part of her wished to be back in the encampment. The gurgling sound of one of the Rigon’s tributaries flowed to her left, just off the beaten path, taunting her with its ease of movement. She had grown used to the immobility, to the lack of action. Her legs were developing sores and her back ached from sleeping the previous night on the hard ground. And that didn’t take into account the ache of her loins…

“Something troubles you?”

A hand brushed the silver hair from the left side of her face, an almost tender gesture, and Avila jerked in her saddle. She stared incredulously at Malcolm Gregorian, the former Captain of the Palace Guard who had been chosen to serve as her new lieutenant. Malcolm’s arm retreated swiftly, and his sudden movement caused his charger to take an unexpected step away. He grabbed tight to the reins and squeezed his thighs against the horse’s side to keep from falling.

“Never touch me that way again,” she spoke imperiously, keeping her voice low so the troops marching behind her would not hear.

Malcolm, stunning in his silver mail overlaid with deep blue plate, gained control of his steed. His lone good eye glimmered in the afternoon haze, light brown and soulful, matching the hair atop his head, which flowed in loose curls down to his pauldron. His left eye was milky white, forever encased between the four wicked scars that ran diagonally across his formerly handsome face.

Self-consciously, Avila tugged her silver locks back into place and turned away, hiding the gash of reddened tissue that slanted across the left side of her head-Crian’s gift. She greatly disliked looking at Lieutenant Gregorian’s scars. They reminded her too much of her own.

“Why do you cover yourself so?” asked Malcolm. “I wish to see your beauty in full.”

She scowled at him, grabbing her sword and pulling it slightly from its scabbard.

“Do not speak to me of beauty. We are warriors in the Army of Karak, and I am your Lord Commander. You will address me as such, not treat me the way you would some tavern wench.”

He bowed low. “Yes, Lord Commander,” he replied gravely, though his scarred lips smiled. “Once more, you have my apologies. I will leave you in peace.”

With that, Malcolm pulled back on the reins, circling his charger around. Darkfall, the broadsword that had been the property of the deceased Lord Commander Vulfram, bounced on his back. She heard him shout a phrase to the soldiers, who replied in unison, filling the moist air with their dedicated voices.

Avila glanced over her shoulder as he rode away, catching a glimpse of the seemingly endless procession of soldiers and supply carts that packed practically every inch of the southern pass. She could barely see their faces, for the gleam off Malcolm’s silver armor had blinded her. She turned back around, closed her eyes, and offered a silent prayer to her deity. Once more her loins felt a twinge, and she inhaled sharply in frustration.

It was entirely her fault Malcolm acted the way he did. She had been so energized after the raven’s arrival, a sort of nervous vigor with only one cure. In the past her brother Joseph had satisfied such cravings for her, though on a few occasions her father the Highest would fill the void. But Joseph was dead now, slain on the battlefield of Haven by the twisted beast DuTaureau, and her father remained in Veldaren, no longer his own man after giving his deity the greatest sacrifice possible-the use of his body as host to the demon Darakken.

With no other outlet, she had turned to Malcolm, who’d surprised her by being a more than willing participant. A man who had always been stoic and methodical, whose devotion to Karak was surpassed by none in all of Neldar, he’d taken her on her bedroll with a verve that bordered on violence, performing each thrust like he was driving a sword into an enemy. The aggression had at first enthralled her, and she’d accepted his cock as she would a divine tool, in worship and adoration, as she bit down hard on her lower lip, hard enough to make it bleed. But the man’s passion had turned to frightful aggression, his grunts and shouts those of some feral beast wishing for nothing more than to spread its seed. At last she’d shoved him away with all her might before he could finish. At first she’d thought he would strike at her or scream, but when her chest began to hitch, his gaze had softened. He’d sidled up to her, trying to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders. She’d ordered him from her tent immediately.

Afterward, she’d drawn her legs to her breast and cried. It was the first time Avila could remember breaking down, and it frightened her more than anything she had ever experienced. I am an immortal Crestwell, Lord Commander of Karak’s Army, she chided herself. Not some weak peasant girl. But still the sorrow had come, and she’d longed for not only Joseph and her father, but for her mother and Thessaly, who had disappeared the night the Moris were executed for treason. She even missed Crian and Moira. In that moment of weakness she had become a weak peasant girl, one who wanted nothing but her family.

She clenched her fists, squeezing the reins as tightly as she could. Stop this. Stop being a weakling. She grabbed hold of her sword’s hilt and drew it. The sword was Integrity, which had been Crian’s before he’d turned his back on their family, and Avila had taken it as her own when she’d been named Lord Commander by the newly dubbed Velixar. She had allowed Malcolm to keep Darkfall, as the heft of the weapon proved far too great for her narrow frame.

She held the slender sword before her face, looking at her reflection in its smooth polished steel. She flipped her hair, exposing the ruined left side of her face. She looked hard, determined, her jaw rigid and her eyes intense. Immediately she began to feel better about herself. Her womanly weakness fluttered away like bubbles from a drowning man’s nose. I am Lord Commander, she thought. Karak’s emissary, the bearer of Karak’s law, the wielder of Karak’s sword.

She had barely slid Integrity back into the scabbard when she spotted shadowy figures by the side of the road, in the fields of swaying wheat. The figures halted in a small clearing between the rows of wheat, staring at the massive army with their hands cupped over their eyes to block out the sun. Avila squinted, trying to see them more clearly. It was hard to know for sure, but they appeared to be holding staffs. Or perhaps spears.

Malcolm appeared beside her once more. He was businesslike this time, which pleased her.

“The first of the flock,” he said flatly. “Do you wish for me to take care of them?”

She tied her hair back in a knot, exposing her entire face, scars and all. “I think not,” she said. “If any are to draw first blood, it will be your Commander. Captain, prepare the torches. This field will burn once we pass it.”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Malcolm replied.

Avila kicked her mare and the horse turned off the road, bounding across the field. The heavy heads of wheat slapped at her knees, but she paid no mind. She relished the wind beating her face, even the insects that caused welts to rise on her arms when they slammed into her as she rode. The ache in her abdomen became but an echo of what she had felt before, and by the time she redrew Integrity, the sensation had all but disappeared.

The figures didn’t move as she approached, as if they were scarecrows instead of people, and when she drew closer she saw that they were but children; one boy and one girl dressed in roughspun, both holding irrigation rods meant to poke holes in the hard soil. Their faces were dirty, but their teeth shone white when they smiled and began to wave. It took Avila a moment to register the sight in her mind. They were smiling. A rapid wave of confusion made her slow the gallop of her mare and drop Integrity to her side.

She sidled up to them, staring down, allowing the tip of the blade to hover and bounce a foot from their faces. The children, their locks golden and curled and their eyes a deep shade of blue, didn’t pay the sword any mind. They did not even seem to see it. Their smiling gazes were locked on her.

“Hello,” said the boy cheerily.

Avila felt at a loss for words. She swiped the sword back and forth before them, trying to elicit a fearful response, but the children simply bobbed their heads away as if avoiding a pesky fly. It made no sense that they would show no fear.

“Who are you?” she asked finally, lifting Integrity and resting the blade against her shoulder.

“Will,” said the boy. He puffed out his chest and held his staff out to the side. “I’m eight.”

“Well, Will,” she said, “where are you from? Are your parents close?”

“We’re from Nor,” Will replied. He then snickered, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Back thataway, past the tall grass. That’s where Mother and Father are.” His face grew suddenly serious. “You won’t tell them you saw us, will you? Mother told us to stay put, but we ran off.”

“Why did they say that?”

The little boy shrugged. “Everyone’s acting strange.”

“How so?”

“They built a wall, and now everyone’s playing hide-and-find-me.”

“That so?”

Will nodded.

Avila took a deep breath. She’d never related well to children, but if there were one thing she did know about young ones, it was that they were honest.

“So tell me Will,” she said, “whom do you worship?”

He gave her a queer look.

“Whom do you worship?” she repeated. “Who created you?”

“Ashhur,” the boy said, matter-of-factly.

“And would you die for your god?”

He looked like he didn’t understand the question. “Um…yes?” he replied.

“And what of Karak?” she said. “What do you feel for the God of Order?” At the mention of that name, the little girl backed up a step, but Will remained right where he was.

“Karak’s stupid,” the boy said.

“He is?”

“Yeah. He’s stupid and Ashhur’s gonna send him back to the heavens.”

“Fateful words, boy.”

That was when Will squinted, gazing up at her as if truly seeing her for the first time. Avila held her arms back, revealing the painted symbol of the roaring lion that adorned her black breastplate. His smile slowly faded, his eyes widened, and his opposite hand began to move toward his staff.

Avila slashed Integrity in a tight circle. The sword passed through the staff, severing it in half, then crossed Will’s neck effortlessly. A contrail of red followed the tip as it looped back up. The boy tottered where he stood, blood oozing down the front of his roughspun, and then fell over, landing flat on his face. The crunch of his nose breaking echoed in Avila’s ears. She looked on solemnly as the boy’s blood mixed with the red clay of the earth, deepening its color. Her heart grew heavy, a weakness she knew she had to quash if she were to fulfill her duty. They are not children, she told herself. If they do not bend knee to Karak, they are merely wild dogs.

The little girl stared down at the unmoving boy, then up at Avila. Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not openly cry. She appeared more confused than anything, nudging Will with her foot, watching as his body rocked and then fell still once more. She gaped up at Avila.

“Why won’t he move?” she said. “What did you do to my brother?”

Avila lowered Integrity, and this time the girl reacted to its presence, her eyes focusing on its still dripping blade as she backed away.

“He insulted the one true god,” Avila said.

“Will he get up?”

“No. He will lie there forever, rotting until he becomes one with the soil.” She cleared her throat. “What is your name, girl?”

“Willa,” the girl replied, sniffling now.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

Avila took in the sight of the girl’s blond curls and supple, dirt-streaked flesh. She had not been this girl’s age in sixty-seven years, even though she still looked the same as she had on her eighteenth birthday. She wondered how she would have reacted if her brother had been killed before her eyes. And then she realized it had happened just seven months earlier, on that damned soggy soil of Haven.

Stop it, she thought. Do your duty. Forget the rest.

“I will ask you the same thing I asked your brother,” she told Willa. “Do you love Ashhur? What do you feel for Karak?”

Willa shuffled on her feet, still staring at her brother’s corpse. Tears cascaded down her plump red cheeks. She looked ready to run, yet too terrified to do so.

“I await your answer.”

“I don’t know,” said Willa, her voice small. “Ashhur’s our god. That’s what Mother and Father say.”

“But what do you feel? What has Ashhur done for you?”

The little girl’s perplexed eyes rose to meet hers. “Gave me life?” It was said with uncertainty.

“No,” replied Avila. “Ashhur might have created your ancestors, but your parents gave you life. Now tell me, what has Ashhur done for you?”

The girl shrugged. “Told us stories?”

“Is that all?”

Willa nodded.

The little girl looked so lost. Avila sheathed Integrity and swung her leg over the saddle, leaping to the ground. Little Willa winced but did not retreat. The girl was an ignorant simpleton to be sure, unable to comprehend death, the most basic of life’s tenets. Even so, Avila felt a shard of pity. This girl was remaining remarkably strong given what she’d just witnessed.

Kneeling before the girl, Avila placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Ashhur is a false god, child. He has raised his people in chains. And he broke his oath with his brother when he tried to destroy holy Karak on a battlefield where he had no place. Our Divinity then swore to cross the great river to free Ashhur’s people from the chains with which they’ve been shackled. And what does Ashhur do? He leaves you, a mere child, alone to face the coming army. My army. Is this the kind of god to whom you wish to dedicate yourself? A god who would allow your brother to perish in his name?”

“Um…no?” replied Willa.

Avila ruffled her hair. “That is a better answer.” She then grabbed the child’s head and forced her to look down at her brother’s body. She shoved the corpse over, exposing the gaping second mouth that still leaked blood below his chin. “Karak will give you the freedom to live your life as you wish. So long as you stay true to Karak’s law, your life will be yours to live. Does that sound appealing to you?”

Willa stared at her dumbly and shrugged.

“Idiot,” Avila muttered, and then, “Child, would you like to join me and see what befalls those who insult the true god of Dezrel?”

“I don’t know…”

Avila grabbed dead Will by his ratty shirt collar and lifted him. Torrents of red poured over her hand, dripping on Willa’s feet. The child shrieked and leaped backward.

“Or you could end up like your brother,” Avila said.

The girl nodded her head up and down as she sobbed.

“Good,” said Avila. “Now tell me where your village is. Just point girl, point!”

She did so, her sobs growing louder with each moment. When she outstretched her arm to the southwest, Avila nodded in approval. She rode to the supply carts and deposited the girl on the back of one of them before rejoining her company. The fighting men fidgeted, sweat drenching their smallclothes and leaking through the heavy leather and mail they wore. Malcolm frowned at her, but she ignored him. She knew what he was thinking, had known since he’d treated her like some craven weakling earlier. But Avila knew better, she knew herself. Malcolm might be stringent in his loyalty to Karak, but so was she. The girl would prove useful down the road, and when her usefulness ended, she would either bow before the deity or perish.

The convoy followed Willa’s occasional directions, marching down a slender pathway cut through the fields of grain. Far behind, at the rear of the five thousand men, soldiers used buckets to spread a sticky concoction across the fields. Torches were touched to ground, and the fire spread rapidly, swallowing the land and the vegetation that grew on it. When the first crackle reached her ears, Avila glanced behind her, and all she saw was a thick wall of billowing black smoke that blotted out the sky.

The village of Nor came into view after an hour of riding. A makeshift wall surrounded it, constructed from jagged stone and twisted, unnatural-looking trees. It was almost as if the wall had sprouted from the very land beneath them. Avila held out her hands, halting the progress of her troops. Best she could tell, the wall was only ten to fifteen feet high. It was a laughable defense against the might she had at her disposal.

“Archers, forward,” she said loudly, and sixty men stepped to the front of the procession, fanning out wide, thirty on either side of her.

“Did they think that shoddy wall would protect them?” asked Malcolm.

“I don’t care,” Avila snapped back. “They kneel, or they die.”

Heads began appearing over the wall. She counted seventeen.

“With me, archers,” she said. “March.”

Gently snapping the reins, she walked her mare toward the walled village. Malcolm remained beside her, and the archers kept in stride with the horse, their feet moving in unison, a perfectly tuned machine of her creation. Pride filled her belly with warmth. Father taught me well, she thought. A slight pang of sorrow followed when she thought of him. The man’s gorgeous platinum hair was gone now, his body warped by the presence of the otherworldly demon inside him.

Think. Concentrate. Lead.

When she was a mere fifty yards from the village, she shouted the order to stop. All came to a silent halt. She could hear the archers breathing heavily, and she knew it had little to do with the day’s warmth.

Malcolm glanced at her and nodded.

“The moment is yours, Lord Commander,” he said. An expectant gleam shone in his milky eye.

She lifted her chin to the sky and spoke.

“People of Nor, hear my voice! Open your gate and let us enter. None shall perish if you bend your knee to Karak, the rightful god of all Dezrel. We come here to release you from the bonds imposed by your hateful deity. Do not turn us away. Refusal to kneel is tantamount to blasphemy, and we shall not hesitate to batter down your weak wall and run you through.”

Behind her legions, the raging inferno of the crops sputtered and hissed. A light rain of ash had begun to fall all around them.

Pausing, she edged her mare a few steps forward. She heard voices raised in panic on the other side of the wall. The front gate creaked open, catching on the dirt, and someone cursed in a familiar yet foreign tongue. Grunts came next, and the gate swung outward as far as it could go.

The gate was only six feet tall at most, and beneath it ducked two Wardens to join the third who had shoved open the substandard entryway. She was unsurprised to find she knew all three. They were Benedictus, Azrial, and Gabriel, Wardens from the east who had relocated to Ashhur’s Paradise after Karak sent them away from Neldar. They stood tall and proud, their silken auburn hair hanging down to their waists. The simple hemp-spun clothing they wore made them look like absurdly giant elves, and the staffs they held in their hands, sharpened to points, made them resemble elegant barbarians.

All three stepped toward her, Benedictus taking the point, his two brothers falling to his flank. From the top of the short wall appeared human heads holding improvised bows, the stone tips of arrows aimed at Avila and her archers. It was a truly pathetic sight, and Avila couldn’t help but laugh.

“Avila, turn around and go back home,” said Benedictus. He stood before her, tall and proud, the porcelain sheen of his flesh so much like hers.

“You have heard my words, Warden,” she replied. “Your people shall kneel, or they shall die.”

The Warden shook his head, an action copied by the other two. “You have no place here, my dear,” he said. “I have known you since birth, and while I realize your heart is cold, you must see that these people have no way to defend themselves save the shanty wall raised by their creator.”

Ah, so it was Ashhur who raised the wall, she mused.

“It shall be as I said,” she replied. “They kneel or they perish.”

Benedictus took a step forward, and Avila’s archers tensed.

“These people are innocent,” he said in an angry whisper, leaning close to her. “You would kill them without cause?”

“There are no such things as innocents,” replied Malcolm. “The only virtue that exists lies in the glory of Karak.”

It was Gabriel who came forward this time, waggling his spear at Malcolm. “This is not Karak’s land,” the Warden growled, not attempting to hush his voice as Benedictus had. “You have no right to be here, let alone threaten the lives of seventy innocents!”

There are only seventy. This should be simple.

“We are well within our rights,” said Avila. “Our authority was given by Karak himself, who claimed this land after your beloved Ashhur broke his oath.” She trotted her mare before them, pulling out Integrity and wielding it above her head. “All three of you know me, so you know how I love my creator.…And you know that I am a woman of my word. If I promise them death should they not kneel, then nothing less will suffice.”

The Wardens glanced at one another, then huddled together. Avila waited patiently, letting the heat from the sun prickle her flesh while a light breeze played her hair. She felt preternaturally calm, just as she always did before an attack.

Benedictus separated from his brothers. “If we kneel, we live?” he asked her. “Is that a promise?”

Avila chuckled. “If they kneel, they live. That is what Karak decreed, that is what shall be done.”

“They?” said Azrial, blinking. “What of us?”

“The Wardens have no place in the Dezrel to come,” she replied. “Your time is passed, and you will now rejoin your brothers and sisters who perished so long ago.”

She turned her head slightly, lips locked tight, and nodded to Malcolm.

“Now!” shouted Malcolm.

Benedictus, Azrial, and Gabriel had no time to do anything but turn back toward the walled village, screams on their tongues, before sixty archers released at once, peppering them with arrows. The Wardens fell to the earth, wooden shafts still assaulting them, and their blood saturated the ground.

Avila sat tall in her saddle once their bodies had stilled. She lifted her chin high.

“People of Nor,” she called out, “I will say this only once more. You are no longer the slaves of your Wardens and Ashhur. Step out from behind your wall, kneel before your liberators, and dedicate your lives to the true god of Dezrel. Do this, and none will perish!”

There was no surrender. From inside the wall people shouted, and the archers of Nor loosed their own arrows from their crude bows. Most fluttered harmlessly to the ground, and only one flew true over the heads of Avila and her men. It clanked off Malcolm’s pauldron, barely missing his ear.

“They wish to fight!” Avila shouted, scooting her mare backward and summoning the horsemen from the flank. “Batter the walls, flood the gate, and kill them all!”

The horsemen sped past her, all galloping hooves and frenzied shrieks. Malcolm summoned the vanguard, which ran screaming toward the walls, those in front lugging a heavy oaken log with a curved tip. The villagers desperately tried to close the swinging gate, but it had been hung at an angle and the corner was wedged in the clay soil.

The men of Nor retreated inside, followed by those at the front of the vanguard, who’d tossed aside their ram once they realized the gate needed no cracking. Avila leapt from her mare when she reached the gate, arcing and slashing with Integrity as she ducked inside, finding purchase with each swing. Through her veins pulsed a sudden terror and excitement-with her words, her soldiers, the war against Paradise had begun. As her armored force streamed through the narrow gap in the wall surrounding the puny village, swords were drawn and pikes were thrust, her soldiers killing all they came across. The blood of Ashhur’s children leaked in streams from the wedged-open gate, ash sprinkling atop it from the burning fields.

It was a glorious moment, but through the deafening clamor of it all, Avila could swear she heard young Willa’s screams.