Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 19

It was a sprawling machine of organized chaos, and Avila was the architect.

She sat astride her mount at the forefront of the vanguard, Integrity held out before her like an extension of her arm. Her charges obeyed every word that leapt from her mouth, holding back from the left, pushing in on the right, fastening ropes to the spires atop the twelve-foot wall surrounding the village-the same ineffectual barrier they’d encountered at nearly every settlement during their long campaign first to the north and then the west, circling around the lands dubbed Ker, where she had been forbidden to venture.

The arrows that fell from the sky were also familiar, crude bolts of wobbling wood with frayed bits of vulture feathers for fletching. Most dropped harmlessly to the parched earth, and those that did find purchase in flesh rarely sank deep. One thudded off Avila’s silver breastplate while she screamed commands to the right flank, reinforcing the notion that they were mere aggravations.

In this village, no one had emerged from behind the wall to drop to their knees in submission to Karak, as had happened at many of the other small villages. Another change was that there was no clumsily constructed gate for them to storm. Instead, a heavy boulder had been rolled in front of the lone gap in the barricade. Her cheeks flushing with annoyance, she directed the vanguard to part in the center, allowing a trio of sturdy chargers to come through. Her archers fired just above the wall, keeping those on the other side from cutting the thick ropes that were slung around the timber spires, while soldiers fastened the ropes to the harness binding the three horses. When it was done, she gave the order, and the horsemaster lashed at the chargers. Hooves pounded the dusty ground, and the muscular beasts grunted with exertion. The wall creaked slightly, causing the horsemaster to push his pets all the harder, until a section of the wall cracked beneath the pressure. Timber splintered and fell as the chargers began galloping away, dragging the downed section with them.

Shouts rang out from inside the village as Avila sounded the battle cry, then kicked the sides of her mount and galloped through the gap. It was a sufficient breach, the width of at least ten men, which allowed ample room for the rest of the vanguard to follow her through. On entering, she was greeted by eight Wardens. The tall and elegant creatures lined up shoulder to shoulder, holding rudimentary shields, while those behind them-humans all-brandished polearms. She tugged back on the reins, her horse rearing up on its hind legs, while her men charged past her into the wall of wood. The humans with the polearms thrust between their protectors’ shields, impaling two soldiers through the shoulders and nicking the cheek of a third. Swords, maces, and axes began chopping with abandon, sending splinters into the air. An agonized bellow sounded as one of the Wardens had his hand severed above the wrist. Blood spewed from the stump, blinding one of her soldiers, giving a skinny, olive-skinned man the chance to spear him in the face with his pike.

More of her men streamed through the opening, only to be rushed from the right by a charging mob of at least thirty humans and Wardens, each wielding basic bludgeons and stone axes as they shouted the name of their god. The two sides met in a flurry of hacks, slashes, and bashes, the anger and will of the defenders making up for the steel and skill of the attackers. Avila glanced at the red cliff behind her. The remainder of her unit waited on the Gods’ Road. She had assumed this tiny community would be as easy to defeat as the countless others they had obliterated on their journey, so she had only brought seventy men in the vanguard-ten horsemen, forty-five foot soldiers, and fifteen archers. Now it looked as if she might have to do the unthinkable: flee the village, scale the rise, and order more men to come to her aid.

She shook her head, anger boiling in her gut. That would be failure, and a Lord Commander could not fail.

Shrieking, she stormed ahead on her mount once more, entering the melee. She swung Integrity in measured arcs, bloodying her blade on the gathered mass of flesh. Something heavy thudded against her knee, drawing a sharp breath from her throat. The resulting throb rankled her all the more, and she hacked and slashed, her slender sword piercing flesh and chopping down to the bone.

The horsemen entered the village last, charging the town’s defenders with deliberate thrusts and hews. From their advantageous positions atop their steeds they avoided major injury while dishing out the maximum punishment. The tide turned, the Wardens and townspeople dying by the handful, their meager weapons of stone and wood no match for those fired in the Mount Hailen kilns. The foot soldiers formed a circle around the survivors, cutting down any who still lived.

Avila continued her breathless assault, every fiber of her being alight with energy. Someone grabbed her from behind, and instinctually she swiveled, lashing out with Integrity in a sideways cleave, thinking she was about to behead a Warden. Instead, her strike was parried with a powerful clang, the vibration traveling up her arm and stinging her shoulder. It was Malcolm, Darkfall clutched tightly in both hands, his steel kissing hers. Avila glared as she pulled her sword back and flipped its hilt to her opposite hand, clenching and unclenching the fingers of her sword hand.

“The battle is done here, Lord Commander,” her lieutenant said. He backed his large stallion away and sheathed Darkfall on his back. “Please allow me to finish off the miscreants.”

“The battle is done when I say it is done, Captain,” she snapped at him. With that, she jerked the reins to the side, spinning her mount around. She took in the scene around her, the dead humans and Wardens who were sprawled out on the ground, their blood painting the sand red. A few of her charges moved among them, thrusting daggers through the eyes of those who still moaned. Though she had felt fear when the townspeople fought back so bravely, she found that fear to have been completely misplaced. As far as she could tell, they had lost only seven soldiers during the raid-the most casualties in any conflict so far, but according to the books Karak had given her, tomes from far-off worlds translated into the common tongue by the god, such losses were acceptable. She kicked her mount and tramped farther into the village.

The place was more an encampment than a true village, and it had been set up strangely: there was a single giant firepit in the center, and countless tents spun outward from it in a spiral. At the far end of the spiral was a large building surrounded by a myriad of raised garden beds. The building was most likely the granary, and given its sturdy construction, it was the one shelter in the village that offered the illusion of safety.

The afternoon sun shone down on her as she rode through the spiral of tents, gazing at the unsophisticated bedding and clothing that spilled from each. The sounds of the battle-if it could still be called a battle-grew quieter behind her. She heard sobs as the few remaining humans fell to their knees, begging uselessly for mercy. Avila grunted and rode onward. They had lost their chance when they’d refused her call to surrender.

The granary was made from crisscrossing logs held together by sturdy twine. There was a single door tall enough for a Warden to step through without stooping. Avila dismounted and grabbed the door’s handle, holding Integrity at the ready in case anyone inside meant to surprise her. It occurred to her for a moment that she should leave this task for her men, but she shrugged the notion aside. There was no challenge to be met here, at least not one she couldn’t handle.

The door was heavy, its wooden hinges swollen from the heat, so it took a few tugs to open it. She stepped inside, smelled the musty odor of old vegetables mixed with the sharp scent of pickling herbs. There were portholes in the ceiling, allowing sunlight to filter inside. To her right was a mountain of sacks presumably filled with grain and perhaps corn kernels; to her left piles of potatoes, carrots, pomegranates, turnips, and onions.

A strange noise reached her ears, almost like one of the feral cats that roamed the forests of Brent. She approached the bags of grain, her each deliberate footstep causing the boards to creak, and then stopped. Reaching out, she grabbed one of the sacks and pulled it down violently, lifting Integrity in a defensive position as she leapt backward.

The heavy sacks tumbled in an avalanche, and when the dust cleared, a young woman came into sight. She was wearing a smock that seemed to be made from the same material as the grain sacks, and she held something in her hands. Her hair was dark and quite curly, tied in a knot at the top of her head, and her skin tone was tanned almost to brownness. She had wide, pretty azure eyes, and thick rosebud lips. The woman trembled, edging away from Avila until her backside struck the mountain of sacks behind her.

That odd mewling came again, and Avila glanced down. The thing in the woman’s arms shifted, a grimy blanket falling away to reveal the unsullied pink flesh of a very young child. The baby clucked and cried, kicking its chubby legs. Willa once looked like that, Avila thought, then shook her head to banish the invading thought.

The woman held the child closer to her chest. There were tears in her eyes.

“Please,” she said, her voice high and pleading. “Please, don’t hurt my baby.”

Avila paused, uncertainty washing over her. The whole of her body went numb, and prickles danced beneath her flesh. It was as if she had been wrapped in invisible chains.

The woman slid along the sacks behind her, heading toward the granary door.

“Stop,” Avila said, the word coming out as barely a whisper. If the woman heard, she didn’t show any sign of it. She continued moving along the wall of sacks, heading for the bright opening.

“Stop!” Avila shouted, finally regaining her voice, and the woman froze in her tracks.

The beautiful young mother trembled in fear. Avila still felt numb, even as she raised Integrity into the air. The woman dropped to her knees, tears cascading down her cheeks in torrents now. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, her mouth working in a silent plea.

“Do you renounce Ashhur, the false god of this land?” asked Avila. She sounded shaky even to her own ears. “Will you dedicate yourself to Karak, the Divinity of Dezrel, with all your heart and eternal soul?”

The woman shook her head, not looking at her.

“Ashhur, I pray to you. Ashhur, keep me safe, and keep my baby safe-let no harm come to him.” She then nodded, as if a voice had given her a reply. She lowered her eyes, and strangely, she smiled. It might have been the most frightening thing Avila had ever seen. “His name is Quentin,” said the woman.

The mother stood and stepped away from the wall, holding the baby out for Avila to see. Avila retreated one step, then another. Her mind began playing tricks on her; she saw this child as Willa, herself as its mother, holding those puckered lips to her breast, waiting for the tiny thing to suckle, the sustenance produced within her body.

“Stop it,” she whispered, waving Integrity as if to ward off an evil spirit. “Come no closer.”

The woman did not seem to understand. She tilted her head as she continued her approach.

“Hold him,” she said. “Go ahead. Ashhur’s teachings say you can feel the innocence in children, and it fills the soul. Here, take him.”

She extended her arms outward, the squirming child in her hands. For a moment Avila almost accepted. She found herself drawn to them, her heart rate quickening in a way it never did in times of conflict, whether on the battlefield or between the sheets. The sensation frightened her, and she skittered away from the woman. Integrity fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.

“Get away from me!” she screamed.

A shadow passed through the open doorway, and in rushed Malcolm. His lone good eye glanced first at Avila, then the woman. Hearing the clunk of his boots, the young mother turned in time to see Malcolm heft Darkfall from the sheath on his back. The smile left her face.

Malcolm hauled his massive sword back and swung it with all his might, his neck taut, his teeth grinding together in anger. The blade cut through the woman where neck met shoulder, snapping easily through bone and tendon. Before Avila could react, both mother and child had been sliced through. Blood spurted everywhere as Darkfall’s tip smacked against the wood floor. The woman dropped both halves of her now silent child, her eyes wide and glossy as her upper torso and right arm slid away from the rest of her body and landed with a thud. The remainder of her collapsed shortly thereafter.

Malcolm looked up at Avila, his hoary left eye opened wider than the good right one.

“Karak hears no pleas for mercy,” he said, panting. “There is order, or there is death.”

Avila stood frozen, staring from her lieutenant to the butchered mother and child and the ever-widening lake of blood. Malcolm rose and wiped the gore from his sword with a rag from his belt. The sun from above lit him strangely, and for a moment it appeared to Avila as if his blade were glowing a deep purple.

He stuffed Darkfall back into its scabbard and the glow vanished. He approached her.

“Lord Commander, you do not seem well,” he said, reaching for her. “Take my hand.”

She batted his offer away, scooping Integrity up off the floor. She ran past him with clenched teeth, ran until she reached the wall, ignoring the queer looks she received from her men, who were lining up the village’s dead for burning. All she could think about was getting out of this place, away from the prying eyes of those who would judge her, away from thoughts of how disappointed her deity would be in her. But she did not desire to be alone; more than anything, she longed to put a knife through the throat of the one who had made her this way, the one who had weakened her and turned her into a shell of the great warrior of Karak she had once been.

The Gods’ Road was packed with the remainder of her division; nearly five thousand made camp in dirt that looked like it had already been packed down by a previous, even larger congregation. A few stood on the edge of the cliff watching the action down below. This was the fourteenth settlement they had liberated over the last few weeks, and their duties had become gradually more uninteresting with each stop. The men gained more enjoyment in their cups or sitting around cookfires telling lewd jokes than in combat. Many soldiers stood as she approached. Avila slowed to a brisk walk, but when the men caught sight of her face, their expressions grew quizzical, even perplexed. Avila did her best to scowl, hoping a derisive look might make them turn away. Of course she looked out of breath and odd. She’d just been in battle!

She passed a grouping of twenty crude, slanting tents. This was where the converts stayed, those from Paradise who had accepted Karak into their hearts instead of facing the executioner’s sword. They were positioned at the center of the encampment to ensure they were surrounded by soldiers at all times. Standing up as she approached, each haggard soul looked on her with a mixture of hope and fear. They are not converts, she told herself. They had no love of Karak. They had simply pledged their loyalty to save their own skins.

The mere concept made her want to cry, which in turn made her angrier.

Two guards stood outside the pavilion of the Lord Commander. She stopped short of them, giving herself a moment to wipe her damp cheeks and take a deep breath. Marching forward, she demanded that none bother her until morning, when they were to continue their western trek. These were two of her best soldiers, and they simply nodded when she gave the command, neither looking directly at her, for which she was thankful. One held open the pavilion’s entrance flap, and she ducked beneath it.

Though the walls of the pavilion were only canvas, thin enough for soft light to filter through, the material still seemed to make the noises of the outside world disappear. All was silent but for a single voice, soft and gentle and innocent, nearly angelic. The voice sang a somber tune. Avila undid her belt, letting it drop to the ground. She knelt before the travel chest at the foot of her bedroll to remove a sharp knife.

“Karak’s will be done,” she whispered.

A curtain hung on the opposite end of the pavilion from her sleeping area. She could clearly see the outline of a tiny figure there, the source of the singing. Avila crept across the space, crouching, holding the knife blade down. When she reached the curtain, she ripped it aside.

Willa sat cross-legged on the floor, bent over, her lips drawn tight in concentration. She did not look up, even as the curtain fell from its hook and fluttered to the ground like drifting smoke. The little girl hunched over a sheet of parchment, one hand holding the paper flat while the other held a slender piece of charcoal. Black covered the girl’s clothes, arms, cheeks, and painted the ends of her curly golden locks. She drew feverishly, and when she was finished, she pushed the sheet aside, where it joined at least twenty others. The simple act of watching the child caused Avila’s anger to wane.

“Willa,” she asked, “what are you doing?”

“Drawing,” the little girl said. She looked up from a new blank sheet of parchment and smiled. There was a twinkle in her eye, a blithe happiness that seemed to narrow the world to the two of them. Her blue eyes shifted to the knife Avila held above her, and she flinched.

Quick as a whip, Avila slid the weapon behind her back. With its disappearance, Willa seemed to forget it had ever been there. The smile returned to her face almost immediately.

“Sit with me, Avila,” she said, virtue oozing from her mouth like poisonous sludge.

Ashhur’s teachings say you can feel the innocence in children.…

Avila joined the girl against her better judgment, folding her legs over each other as she nestled in beside her. Willa smelled sweet, like powder and strawberries, and Avila both hated that scent and longed for it to be with her always. She had hesitated in the granary. In the past she would never have hesitated, which meant she had changed. It was Willa who had changed her, who was actively changing her. She needed to end the deception this child embodied, and quickly.

Yet when she looked into blue eyes so similar to her own, she saw the mother and child who had been shorn in two by Malcolm’s sword, and the horror of it made her insides twist and coil.

“Do you want to see one?” asked Willa. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a sheet and lifted it to her. Avila squinted, staring at a black blocky image surrounded by seemingly random black slashes.

“What is it?” she asked.

“My favorite place in all the world,” Willa answered, bouncing enthusiastically on her little rump. Her finger jabbed at the picture, smearing her rough lines. “That’s where you said Ashhur lived. In the grasses.”

The Sanctuary. Safeway, Ashhur’s home, had been the third stop on their journey before heading back to the north. They’d found it completely abandoned. They had camped there for four days, giving the men time to rest by the sea before the longest and hardest part of their quest commenced. The Sanctuary, a majestic, round building of smooth stone and impeccable architecture, had become Malcolm’s obsession. Her captain had declared that he would return one day, and that Ashhur’s Sanctuary would become Karak’s seat of power in the west, a final posthumous insult to the false deity. Avila had brought Willa there, showing her the many etchings that depicted the false stories the God of Justice had told his creations.

Avila had been surprised by the beauty of the Sanctuary, which was filled with such light and joy and serenity. There was no place like it in all of Neldar, not even in the Castle of the Lion, which she had once thought the pinnacle of splendor and achievement.

Willa touched her leg, and she realized she was drifting.

“Karak can live there too,” she said. “When he beats up Ashhur, he can go back there and live in the building. He can tell us stories and keep us safe. Is that right?”

“Yes, that is right.”

It hit her all at once. Willa had not been poisoning her mind. No, the child was starting to understand and accept Karak’s teachings. She was always excited when Avila visited her during the afternoon meal to give her lessons about the glory of the God of Order. If Avila was feeling doubt, she was the one at fault, not this innocent young thing. And was there anything wrong with doubt? Despite her misgivings, she still obeyed her god’s commands, still worked to purge this heathen land of all the devotees of the weak, pathetic deity.

There is nothing wrong with allowing myself a small amount of joy, she thought, staring at Willa. Mother did the same with us when we were young, and she never lost her faith.

Avila spent the rest of the day within the confines of the Lord Commander’s pavilion, drawing alongside her tiny companion. She told the child stories, played games with her, and instructed her as best she could on the proper way to live in an ordered society. The latter concepts were obviously beyond a seven-year-old’s comprehension, but she admired how intently Willa listened, how her face scrunched up in the most adorable of ways when she was concentrating. For the first time, Avila answered the girl without hesitation when asked for the hundredth time what had caused her facial scars.

She felt happy, truly happy, and the memory of the slain mother and child started to lose its grip on her.

That night they took their dinner inside, and when Avila blew out the candles, Willa asked her to lie down beside her. Avila allowed the child to curl up in her arms, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath her cotton nightclothes. Soon the girl was snoring, and Avila uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Karak before nodding off herself. Her sleep was black and dreamless.

Come morning, when the horns blew and the sounds of her division dismantling the camp invaded the thin canvas walls of her pavilion, Avila stretched her arms high above her head. Her back cracked and she felt a twinge of pain in her side. She was sore, unusual given the pure blood of the First Family that flowed in her veins. She glanced at the still sleeping Willa, rosebud lips puckered, tiny chest rising and falling with each breath she took. I slept in an uncomfortable position is all, she thought, and went about packing up her things as well, allowing the child to doze until she awoke on her own.