Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 2

Velixar bent over his desk in the forgotten throne room inside the Tower Keep, still dressed in his nightclothes despite the fact that it was past noon. He scribbled feverishly in his journal, a feeling of elation pulsing in his veins. It had been many months since he’d swallowed the essence of the demon whose name he had adopted, since he’d destroyed the last vestiges of his previous life. Jacob Eveningstar, the immortal First Man of Dezrel, now existed solely in the memories of his former friends, and when their bodies were rotting in the dirt, the only ones who would know of his prior existence would be his god and himself.

Each passing day was an adventure for him as he traversed the locked caverns within his mind. The knowledge of the demon Velixar, the Beast of a Thousand Faces, was immense. It seemed as though every hidden mental doorway he unlocked, however small, hid some long-lost secret. The secrets of ancient magics were spread out before him like a blanket of shimmering entrails. Biology, necromancy, otherworldly travels, the snaring of souls lost in the afterlife, the history of the universe itself-they all lay at his fingertips, his present understanding a mere hint at the possibilities that simmered beneath the surface.

His fingers cramped and he placed down his quill, shaking the ache from his hand. With the onset of that cramp, his frustration grew. Even with the strength he’d gained during the ritual, he was still trapped by the limitations of his physical form. Glancing to the side, he saw his reflection in the dragonglass mirror that had once belonged to Crian Crestwell. Despite the cataclysmic change that had occurred within him, he looked much as he always had: the same black hair, the same strong jaw, the same perfect posture. The only true difference was that his eyes were now rimmed with pale red, a color that flashed brightly whenever he accessed the magics trapped within him. In some ways he thought Clovis Crestwell lucky. Clovis, pathetic and egocentric fool that he was, had not possessed the strength to sever the ties that bound the creature’s consciousness from its essence. Darakken had infused every fiber of Clovis’s being, shoving aside the personality that had once resided there, altering his body’s form to make room for its much larger presence. The Clovis that existed now only retained passing similarities to the man he had been. In that way, and that way only, he envied the former Highest.

He had knowledge in abundance. He understood more secrets of the universe than Karak and Ashhur combined. But power…power was the one thing he lacked, and it shamed him. There were constant limitations to his abilities. He’d assumed that by absorbing the demon’s core he’d be able to transcend those limitations, transcend his humanity, but that hadn’t happened. There are no limits to how strong you will become in time, he told himself. He hoped it would happen sooner rather than later, for the march into Paradise was rapidly approaching. Dropping his head, clenching and unclenching his fists, he once more begged for patience.

Soft footfalls sounded, and Velixar glanced up. The cavernous room he had taken as his own was the one he’d designed many years before as the throne room for the castle of Veldaren. It was four stories high and a hundred feet in either direction, empty but for his desk, which stood against the eastern wall, and his featherbed and small breakfront, which were positioned beneath the painting of the gods coming forth into Dezrel that graced the raised dais on the northern wall. There were no other furnishings or decorations, Velixar having removed all remnants of the statues carved by Ibis Mori, finished or unfinished, and interspersed them throughout the city.

A lithe form appeared in the doorway, taking a few cautious steps forward. Lanike, the wife Clovis Crestwell had created for himself, entered the light of the torches burning on the drab, gray walls. She was the keep’s only other occupant, brought here as an insult to her husband, who was a prisoner in his own body. Lanike took care of the wash and cooking in Velixar’s home like a lowly household servant. Small and fragile looking, her hair was slightly disheveled and her eyes wary. She was ageless, just as her creator had been, and not horrible to look at despite her mousiness. The draping cobalt robe she wore was satin, and it caught the womanly figure beneath with every other step she took. Velixar thought of the dead elf Brienna Meln, who had loved the First Man with all her heart and whose pendant he had long ago smashed to demonstrate the cleansing of his past. She had owned a robe like that; she would traipse through the cabin in Safeway wearing it, before he stripped her and ravaged her perfect form. For a moment he felt arousal, thinking perhaps Lanike would be a viable replacement. She was of the First Families, ageless just as he, and if he could make her love him…

“Enough!” he commanded, and the thought disappeared.

Lanike stopped in her tracks, staring at him with fearful eyes. She took a step back, tugging nervously on the sleeves of her robe.

“I apologize,” she said, her voice soft.

“Not you,” Velixar said. He groaned and stepped toward her. “Why have you interrupted my studies, Lanike? I told you I am not to be disturbed when I am at work.”

The mousy woman refused to look him in the eye. “I understand, and I mean no disrespect, Ja-Highest Velixar. But there is a man here to see you. A man in armor. Captain Handrick, he said his name was.”

Velixar nodded. “I see. Tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”

“Very well.”

Lanike hastily curtseyed and then left the room. She nearly tripped over her robe, crashing into the archway before she exited. In sharp contrast to his earlier feelings of desire-a weakness, he thought-Velixar felt a rush of loathing. He should have ended the pathetic woman’s life long ago, and would have if he didn’t need her to keep Darakken in line.

He changed out of his nightclothes, putting on a clean tunic, black leather breeches, and a surcoat edged with expertly stitched lions. He couldn’t greet Captain Handrick looking slovenly. Harlan Handrick was a rough sort, headstrong and stubborn, in charge of the two hundred soldiers stationed just outside Karak’s private temple on the outskirts of Veldaren. Having been a member of the Palace Guard for nearly twenty years, Handrick was one of the few in the city who had known Jacob Eveningstar before the First Man had pledged himself to Ashhur. They’d often come to disagreements about the proper use of armed force, but Handrick was a capable man, and Velixar hadn’t thought twice before ordering him and his unit to march to Erznia three weeks ago, after Dimona Mori’s attempt to flee the realm. Though he’d sent them to the hidden forest stronghold in Erznia under the pretense of a demand for fealty, what he truly wanted was for Oris Mori and his nephew Alexander to be rounded up and brought to the capital. The fire-scarred Oris was a beast with a sword, and Vulfram’s son was a true child of Karak. They were respected throughout the kingdom, just as Vulfram had been. Having them pledge their fealty to him would only heighten his influence.

He found Captain Handrick standing in the foyer, looking dignified in his mailed suit over boiled leather. Almost immediately Velixar knew something was wrong. The captain’s greaves were coated with deep burgundy stains, as was his longsword’s scabbard. The gruff, older man eyed him with distaste as he approached, but Velixar saw something hidden beneath the veneer of loathing.

Fear. Guilt. Failure.

“Captain,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of the man.

Handrick’s heels snapped together. He offered a slight bow but neither spoke nor offered any show of reverence.

Velixar frowned and said, “How went the journey? I assume the men I asked you to retrieve are in the garrison readying to greet me?”

The captain’s nose twitched.

“As a matter of fact, they are not,” he replied.

Velixar’s blood began to rush faster through his veins.

“And why not?”

“They are dead.”

“Who are? Oris and Alexander?”

“All of them. The entirety of Erznia.”

Velixar’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. All of Erznia…dead? But why? His anger began to churn once more, but he held it in check. He thought he knew who was responsible, but he had to go through the charade, had to find out for sure.

“They fought back?” he asked, knowing that not to be the case.

The captain shook his head. “They didn’t. We fell on them before they had the chance.”

“Before who had a chance to react?”

“Every man, woman, and child.”

His fury boiled over, but he refused to release it. Yet. This captain who was so brazen in his defiance would be made to understand who had the power. Velixar stepped forward and grabbed Handrick by the front of his mail, pulling him close. The armor’s rings cut into his fingers the tighter he gripped, but he felt no pain.

“Why did you kill them?” he asked. “I gave orders that none were to be hurt, and yet your men slaughtered the entire settlement? Does that sound acceptable to you?”

“The orders were changed,” replied the captain.

Velixar laughed, though the sound was without a hint of humor.

“Changed by who?”

“Highest Crestwell,” said the man proudly. “Or whatever our Highest has become. He joined us on the road and took command over our unit.”

Velixar’s eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what Clovis has become, Captain. I told you explicitly that the beast is neither to be trusted nor heeded. You follow my commands, not the demon’s.”

“I guide my men the way I see fit,” replied Handrick “The demon may have altered our Highest’s form, but Clovis still lives.…”

“He is not the Highest-I am!” Velixar roared. Admirably, Handrick managed not to tremble before such an outburst, though it seemed to take him a moment to gather himself.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But Clovis declared the citizens of Erznia blasphemers, and I agreed. They were to be punished, no different from how we punished those in Haven.”

Amazingly, the captain’s fear seemed to be diminishing, replaced by stubbornness and pride. Velixar could never let such defiance go unanswered.

“You did this even though your god ordered you otherwise,” he said.

“Karak gave me no orders.”

“I gave you the orders. I speak for Karak in our Divinity’s absence.”

“Like you spoke for Ashhur? Will you betray Karak as well?”

A deep throaty noise rose in Velixar’s throat.

“Watch your words, mortal,” he said.

Captain Handrick shoved him backward with one mailed fist, moving his other hand to the hilt of his sword. “You are no god, Jacob. And you could never take the place of the Highest. You are a delusional turncoat, and you can perish just as easily I can.”

The man went to pull out his weapon, but Velixar was quicker. One violent swing batted Handrick’s sword arm aside, shattering bone. A shriek left the captain’s throat as he stared at his flopping appendage. Velixar grabbed him around the back of the neck with his left hand, then latched onto his lower jaw with his right, his fingers beneath the captain’s chin, his thumb pressed against the inset of his lower teeth. Handrick struggled, but his strength was no match for his opponent’s.

“You sealed your fate,” Velixar whispered in his ear. “You shall never utter that accursed name again.”

With one mighty tug, he tore Captain Handrick’s lower jaw free from his face, ripping tendons and crushing bone and cartilage. The tongue severed from the lower palette and flopped against the captain’s chest in a great spray of blood. Handrick tottered backward, eyes bulging as he desperately swiped at the empty space where his jaw had been, gripping his flopping tongue like it was a slithering worm. He collapsed onto the floor, his whole body quaking, a red stain spreading from his chest all the way down to his belt. A wheezing gurgle was the only form of protest he could offer.

Velixar tossed the mess that had been the man’s lower jaw aside, closed his eyes, and spoke a few words of magic. The spurting blood vessels sealed themselves as the gaping wounds were gradually covered by a layer of new flesh, creating a wrinkled divot in the middle of which was the black cave of his throat. The teeth of his upper jaw hung over the cave like yellowed stalactites. In a matter of moments the captain stilled, his breath coming in short rasps as his dangling tongue still waggled in his hand. Velixar knelt before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Handrick’s eyes lifted to him, overflowing with soundless terror.

“As I said, you will never speak that name again,” Velixar said. “Nor any other for that matter. You have disgraced your god, your kingdom, and your title, and so I leave you as the helpless, ugly bastard you have proved yourself to be. You have two choices, Captain: you can either learn to live like this or you can take your own life. It is your decision. If I were you, I’d choose the latter.”

He stood up and turned away as Handrick began to sob. Lanike appeared on the stairwell, drawn out of her quarters by the sounds of conflict. Her hand rose to her mouth when she saw the horror below her. Velixar looked up at her and smiled.

“Lanike, my dear, please assist the good captain with anything he might need. And as you can see, there is some blood on the floor. Please clean it before I return. I feel it is time to pay our god a visit.”

Traversing the miles to Karak’s private temple took the rest of the afternoon. Velixar walked the entire way, his heavy black cloak draped over his head, his face hidden by the darkness inside his cowl. No one accosted him on his journey; those he saw in the streets gave him a wide berth, often crossing to the other side of the road when he came within sight. Even the thieves and other unsavory individuals let him be. His legend had grown since he’d return as the dark-cloaked confidant of Karak. He was the undying punisher of the blasphemous, the tamer of demons.

He spent his walk in a sour mood, reflecting on the beast sharing Clovis Crestwell’s body and its apparent disregard for Velixar’s plans. Darakken had been more burden than help in the months since its awakening. It was a base creature, bred for violence, and its colossal appetite required constant nourishment. Ironically, this was perhaps its most useful aspect, as its voracious appetite had helped clear out the dungeons. Several times the demon had dropped to its knees before him, begging to be released of the chains of a shared body, pleading to be made whole once more so its true form could roam free. Velixar always denied it that wish. “When the war begins,” he would tell the beast, “when Celestia descends from the heavens to assist her lover, Ashhur, in battle, only then will I free you. Only then will your true purpose be needed.”

The city proper disappeared behind him, replaced by fields of turned and muddy soil. There were still patches of snow and ice, sparkling beneath the glare of the descending sun. Few resided here, but he could see the progress that had been made in expanding the city, before preparations for war had taken away all the craftsmen. Incomplete stone foundations dotted the road, and a few rough shanties had been erected. He saw a group of five women huddling inside an open-faced tent, warming their hands over a quaint fire while their children wailed behind them. Their faces were dirty, their teeth rotting from their jaws. These were the downtrodden, the lazy, who accepted their lives of squalor and filth without pursuing something more, something better. When the war was over and the soldiers returned to their civilian lives, construction would continue, and these creatures would be pushed out even farther, until they were forced to leave Veldaren’s boundaries altogether.

They were agents of chaos, and Velixar felt no pity for them.

He finally arrived at Karak’s black-bricked temple and scaled the steps, passing between the twin statues of onyx lions, mirrors of the ones guarding the gates to Veldaren’s castle. He rapped on the heavy, oaken door, noting that the three dots that had always adorned it, representing the three gods, had been sanded away. The door was now smooth and black, ominous in its emptiness. When none answered his knock, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.

Just like the unused throne room of the Tower Keep, Karak’s monastery had been cleaned out. The plants that used to line the walls now resided in the courtyard behind the temple. The pews that had filled the center of the room had been disassembled and used as timber for ax handles, bows, wagons, and other such items the army required. In their place a giant map of Dezrel had been painted on the floor by the god himself, a painstakingly detailed atlas showing every hill, valley, township, and holdfast both east and west of the Rigon River.

It was there he found his towering god, bent at the waist and hovering over the map, his giant feet following a path north along the great river that split the land in two, his glowing yellow eyes narrowed in concentration. Velixar said nothing as he approached. He stood in the god’s shadow while torchlight flickered all around them. Karak was twice Velixar’s height, and his hands were large and powerful enough to crush his head by simply making a fist. Most men were awed by his mere presence, forced to their knees by the Divinity’s might. Velixar was not most men. When he bowed, he did so because he wanted to.

“My Lord,” he said, dropping to a single knee before the deity.

“Velixar, my son,” replied Karak in his booming voice. Rather than looking up, the god continued to trace lines over the huge map with his eyes. “I am glad you have come.”

“Is that so, my Lord?” he replied. He rose to his feet once more and stood by Karak’s side, where he should have been standing since his creation. Though he had been made by both brother gods, Velixar was convinced that Karak’s path of order and discipline was the better.

“It is. I have put much thought into our last discussion and have come to a decision.”

“Which is?”

The god’s finger, as big as Velixar’s forearm, pointed down at his feet. “I have near twenty thousand fighting men in my service, and my brother’s Paradise is expansive. Our men are to be divided into four separate factions. One faction will head south, pass through the delta, and fall on my brother’s Sanctuary.” His finger moved north along the river. “One will cross the river here, across from the west’s largest eastern settlement.” Again the giant finger moved north. “The third will join with our allies in Dezerea.” This time the finger traced a line to the northwest. “And the fourth shall sail along the Gihon, uniting with those Uther left behind in the northern deadlands, and face the spellcasters who live there. The three southern factions will slowly maneuver across the land, burning the areas where they find resistance, gathering as many converts as they can, and they will finally merge in Mordeina, which I am sure my brother will have fortified.”

Velixar nodded. “And you will heed my advice and leave Ashhur’s dark children alone?”

“I shall. Ker will fall after my brother has perished and his surviving creations have joined our cause, swelling our numbers. I fear you are correct about the risk they pose should their current desire for neutrality be broken. Once we have victory over Ashhur, I will leave them no choice but to bend the knee.”

“Will you spare them if they do?”

Karak nodded. “Most, yes, but there are few who are too dangerous, their thinking too stubborn. The giant Bardiya, for example. Let those who would cling to Ashhur’s simple-minded weakness find order in the life beyond instead.”

“A wise choice, my Lord.”

Karak stood to his full height, his majestic black platemail shimmering in the torchlight. He truly was an imposing figure. Velixar couldn’t understand how any man, even Bardiya Gorgoros, Ashhur’s greatest pupil, could deny him.

When the god looked down on him, his expression shifted to bemusement. “Why have you come, my son?” he asked. “I see something troubles you.”

“I bear ill news,” said Velixar. “Erznia is no more.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. The demon Darakken took control of the detachment I sent there. Instead of bringing back the Moris as I requested, it ordered the slaughter of every living being.”

Karak’s expression darkened. “All of them?”

“Every man, woman, and child, according to Captain Handrick.”

“And the captain let it happen?”

“Not only that, he relished it. He arrived at the keep this very afternoon, gloating. I taught the man the lesson he deserved, but even that will not bring back the lives lost, lives that would have been valuable to our cause.”

The air seemed to grow hot, and Karak’s arm shot out. He smashed his fist into the floor, disintegrating the painted depiction of one of Neldar’s southern townships. An angry roar left his lips, and the vibration knocked Velixar back a step.

“This will not do!” the god shouted, gazing at him with eyes that seemed capable of burning out his soul.

“I understand, my Lord,” replied Velixar, breathing deep to stay calm in face of the deity’s wrath. He dropped to both knees. “I like it no better than you, but please understand that all is not lost. As much as you love your children in Erznia, the fact remains that they have ignored your edicts for months. I sent Handrick there to force their complicity. Darakken is a simple beast, one that understands only death, destruction, and loyalty to you. It simply doled out punishment in the only way it knows how.”

Karak scowled at him, and for a moment Velixar thought the deity would strike him dead.

“You said you could control the beast,” Karak said. “This is not the first time it has acted on its own. I do not want my people killed without reason. Chaos lies that way.”

“I can control it, and I have. The spirit of Clovis Crestwell still lives and still elicits a small amount of influence on Darakken’s actions.”

“Yet it went against my decree.”

Velixar shook his head. “It did not. It was the soldiers who disobeyed, not the beast. They all knew what was expected of them, but they succumbed to their bloodlust. The demon had no part in the plan, had no knowledge of the plan. It is they who should be held accountable, not Darakken.”

Karak’s visage softened ever so slightly. “We cannot have disorder in the ranks of our fighting men.”

“I agree, my Lord, but that is the way of humanity. They are weak creatures, guided by instinct and emotion. That is the reason I chose you over your brother. He wishes to nurture their deficiencies, whereas you wish to mold them into something more, for only then will their freedom mean anything.”

“You speak of them as if they are separate from yourself. You too are human.”

“Not any longer, my Lord. Now I am something greater.”

Karak chuckled at those words that caused anger to rise up in him once more. So even his chosen deity wished to mock him as Handrick had.…

Velixar cleared his throat, trying to swallow down his frustration.

“My Lord,” he said evenly, “I understand all of this, and I will work with the leaders of our army to instill a greater level of order and respect among the fighting men. I am Highest now, and they will learn to respect that. However, I must first confront the demon. Although I understand its actions, I agree that it cannot be allowed to operate in such a way, and will show it the error of its ways.”

“Do you know where it is?” the god asked, his giant head tilting to the side.

“I do. A scrying spell revealed that the demon remains in Erznia.” He swallowed hard, dreading his next words. “I wish to confront it immediately but lack the power to do so on my own.”

“You are weakened.”

It was a statement, not a question, and unfortunately it was true. Velixar had no dragonglass mirror to step through in Erznia, a tactic that had in the past allowed him to move from one point to another in an instant. And though the essence of the Beast of a Thousand Faces had strengthened his innate abilities, and he could ride the shadows, using them as portals just as Karak did, his ability to do so was weaker now than ever, presumably because that power was being exhausted by his newer talents. It would take him hours to cross the hundred miles between Veldaren and the Erzn Forest, and by the time he reached his destination, he would not have the strength to return.

“I am,” he said.

Karak flicked his wrist at the torches on the far wall, extinguishing them, creating a deep pool of darkness between cascades of light. He then looked Velixar in the eye, his mouth firm, his glowing gaze as serious as a blade to the throat.

“My power is yours to use, my Highest,” he said. His booming voice grew softer, but it still possessed a threatening undertone. “You are my greatest ally, the best of all my children. I trust you with the fate of my kingdom. Do not prove that trust unwise.”

Velixar bowed his head. “I will not, my Lord. That is my solemn promise to you.”

The god held out his hand, and Velixar took it. Energy surged through him, prickling his fingertips, making every hair on his body stand on end. It felt as if his chest had swelled to twice its size by the time he released the deity’s hand and stepped into the darkness between the torches. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his destination, and was overwhelmed by the sensation of his body being broken down atom by atom.

An instant later he opened his eyes to find himself in complete darkness. When his senses returned to him, he muttered a few words. Flames licked from his fingers, revealing his surroundings to be a small room. Faint streaks of daylight shone through the gaps above and below the door in front of him, intruding only a few scant centimeters before being swallowed up by blackness. When he pushed open the door and stepped outside, the sun was beginning to dip behind the treetops.

The room was an empty shed on the edge of Mori Manor. The pillars on which the house banners once flew had been toppled. There was blood everywhere, smeared on the sides of the houses, the grass, and the dirt path leading through the center of the settlement. Hundreds of corpses hung upside down from the rooftops on ropes that creaked as they swayed. The stink of death was virtually unbearable.

Velixar moved among them. Men and women, boys and girls, young and old, even infants; none had been spared. Their bellies had been ripped open and their insides devoured, leaving them nothing but empty shells. Judging from the amount of decay, he guessed they had been dead for at least five days, perhaps as much as a week. The beast has been busy, he thought. In a way he admired Darakken’s fastidiousness. There was an exacting nature to the way the corpses had been hung-by height, ascending and descending and ascending again, as if the creature were trying to perfect its own sort of morbid symmetry.

Hearing the sound of tearing flesh, he stepped away from the dangling cadavers. He strolled down the center of the dirt road, the grooves from the carts brought by Handrick’s men still etched into the soft ground. Glancing to the left, he spotted a massive creature sitting cross-legged in front of a small log home. The glimmering pate of the thing reflected the rays of the dying sun as its head moved up and down, up and down, ripping tubes of intestines from the body of the young boy that rested across his lap.

Velixar approached the beast. Clovis was completely naked, and his flesh had been stretched almost beyond recognition, to the point where it was virtually transparent. Hearing his approach, the beast’s head shot up. Its eyes glowed brilliant red from the center of Clovis’s bloated face, meaning the demon was in full control.

“You seem to have eaten more than your fill,” Velixar said.

“My brother-made-master, did you come for me?” the demon asked, chunks of meat and strings of viscera dangling from its swollen lips. It was still strange to hear its odd inflection-the voices of two entities speaking simultaneously.

“I have,” he said, stopping before the beast and folding his arms over his chest. “And I am not happy.”

“Why is Velixar not happy?”

“Look around you. These people were my god’s children, just like myself, just like you. And yet you destroyed them.”

“They were blasphemers against the mighty Karak. I promised to sheer the flesh from thy enemies. Have I not done so?”

Velixar sighed. Darakken was indeed a simple beast.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Darakken. I wish to speak with Clovis. Bring him forth.”

The beast grinned, showing its sharp, red-stained teeth.

“The little man is sleeping,” it said.

“Wake him up.”

“I do not wish to.”

The creature plunged its claws into the gaping chest of the corpse in his lap, pulling out another sloppy pile of entrails and stuffing them in its mouth. Velixar calmly lowered his head, muttered a few words, and lifted his hands. Karak’s borrowed power still flowed through him, and his fingertips crackled with black lightning and swirls of shadow. He pictured the demon’s soul dangling by a slender thread, and he snipped at it, severing tiny strand after tiny strand. Darakken winced in pain, spitting out a mouthful of meat and gagging.

“I submit, I submit!” it shrieked.

The thing pitched forward, the body in the beast’s lap rolling away as it collapsed face-first into the mud. It lay still for a moment, its rippling, distended form falling still, and then its head lifted and a pained gasp left its lips. Velixar could see the beast’s eyes alight with panic, and they were no longer glowing. He stood over the thing-turned-man and laughed.

“Clovis, you fool, get up.”

He did so, awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable with his stuffed, swollen bulk. He looked down at himself, at the bulbous forearms and sagging breasts, at the penis that vanished beneath a rolling gut. Recognition slowly shone through in his stare, and Clovis Crestwell gazed on Velixar with fear and hate.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he choked out.

“Whatever happened to you, you did it to yourself,” Velixar replied.

“I’m a monster.”

“You were always a monster, Clovis, only not a very good one. You are much more efficient now.”

The naked monstrosity turned away from him.

“Leave me alone, Jacob,” he said. “Go away. You don’t understand how horrible it is to exist like this.”

Velixar lurched forward, grabbing Clovis by the shoulder. It sickened him to feel the clammy, sodden flesh beneath his fingers, and he had to restrain a wince.

“You will not turn away from me, Crestwell. I am Highest; I am your master now. You will do as I say.”

Clovis swiveled toward him. His form was already starting to lose its extra weight as Darakken’s essence swallowed the nutrients.

“What would you have me do?”

“I left you alive for a reason. I could have allowed the demon to devour your soul as it devours everything else, but I need you. You are what keeps the beast in line. And yet you shirked that duty by allowing it to slaughter this entire settlement.”

“I had no choice. He is too strong!” Clovis pleaded.

“And were the Quellan too strong as well?”

Clovis tilted his head, confused.

“Another example of your failure, you weak fool,” seethed Velixar.

“But…but the Quellan elves are loyal to our cause. Dezerea is ours now that they’ve taken it! Just as you asked…just as the Whisperer asked…”

“You were also told to protect the Meln family from harm. Yet the Lord of Stonewood and many of his underlings are dead, and his wife and younger daughter have fled and are in hiding.”

“They acted on their own!” he shouted. “My son…my poor dead son…he told them the terms, and they ignored him!”

Velixar shook his head as if disappointed with his answer. “The betrayal of the Quellan only goes to prove that you never had any true power.” He grinned and said, “Tell me, do you love your wife, Clovis?”

The swollen man stared back dumbly, then nodded.

“Would you like to see any harm come to her?”

Clovis dropped to his knees and clawed at Velixar’s breeches. “No, Jacob, please no! Lanike is my creation and all that I have. Please don’t harm her!”

He shoved the pleading half-man away. “I won’t lay a finger on her,” he said, disdain dripping from every word. “But you will. Should you not learn to keep this creature under control, should you allow him to disobey my decrees again, I shall cut the thread that connects you to your body. But I will not kill you. No, I will allow you to look through your own eyes as I set the demon on your wife, letting him use her in whatever way he pleases. What do you think will happen then, you miserable wretch? Will you enjoy watching Lanike flayed alive by your own hands, perhaps from the inside out?”

Tears streamed down Clovis’s face. “I will try! I will do it! I will try! I will do it!” he shouted.

Velixar turned his back on the blubbering half-man and sauntered away from him, all smiles.

“Oh, and Clovis, one more thing,” he called out over his shoulder as he approached the rapidly darkening forest. “If you call me Jacob one more time, you’ll suffer that same fate. Remember that the next time I free you from your cage.”