Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 29

The back of his head throbbed, and when he touched the sore spot, he felt a massive knot beneath his sodden hair. It was a burning pain, very much unlike the gash on the side of his face, which stung like a hundred needles poking him at once. Velixar grunted and spit onto the wet ground. He peered over his shoulder, spied the Wooden Bridge sitting there vacant, surrounded by the corpses of Wardens, wolf-men, and humans, both his soldiers and those who had tried to defend the bridge. He would have cursed aloud at the sight of them, but a hacking fit overtook him and he doubled over.

“Here, take it.”

Velixar saw a man holding a cloth down to him, and he took it, using it to wipe the phlegm from his lips, the blood from his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said, offering the cloth back. Captain Wellington stuffed it into a side pocket. The captain appeared nervous as he paced between Velixar and his remaining troops, the healthy tending to the injured. Velixar sighed and touched the knot on the back of his head once more. He fully understood the captain’s edginess, for in the distance was the sound of thousands of marching feet.

This time he did curse, though it didn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

They had been right there. Roland and Azariah, the closest remnants of his past had been standing right before him, ripe for the slaughter. They should have been defenseless against his might, yet the power he was so proud of had fled from him at the moment of his conquest. One moment he had been Velixar, master of demons; the next, he had been Jacob Eveningstar again-learned, ageless, superior in his own way, yet still merely a man. His insides ran hot with rage. He promised himself that the next time their paths crossed, the two would suffer long, torturous deaths.

The muted thump of marching feet grew ever louder.

If Karak doesn’t end me first, he thought.

He reached beneath his surcoat and pulled out his pendant. It felt heavy in his hands, as great a weight as a lifetime of sin on a man’s soul. He released the pendant, letting it dangle from its leather strap. For the briefest of moments he considered tearing it from his neck, tossing it to the ground and stomping on it before climbing onto his horse and galloping into the forest. If the gods were kind, he could make the Tinderlands in a week and disappear into the rocky, desolate wilderness for the rest of his endless days.

Foolish dreams, he thought. The gods are not kind.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” he whispered to himself. When Captain Wellington approached him once more, offering him a sip from his waterskin, Velixar turned him away. He would seek no comfort, not in the aftermath of abject failure. He would simply await his god’s judgment.

It was an hour before the army came into view, looking like a serpent composed of thousands of bustling ants as the forces marched along the distant road. Another three hours after that, beneath the full heat of midday, they drew close enough for him to make out the roaring lion emblazoned on the banners held aloft at the lead of the procession. Velixar heard one of his soldiers shout. When he turned his head to the left, he saw that Captain Wellington had formed his troops into a defensive horseshoe, pointing arrows and swords at the forest from which the wolf-men had appeared. The foliage shook, the trees swayed, and then men emerged from the woods. Most wore the familiar silver mail over black leather of Karak’s Army, but a few were dressed in russet pants and cured deerhide tunics dyed a deep shade of green. Their skin and hair was like dark satin, their ears pointed. Elves. They were Darakken’s regiment from Dezerea, arriving at the bridge as had been planned. He did not yet sense the demon’s presence. He prayed it had obeyed orders this time and remained in Dezerea. The last thing he wanted was to see that disgusting beast before he had a chance to speak with Karak.

Wellington and the rest of his men retreated to him as the soldiers marching from both directions began setting up camp. The field on the east side of the Wooden Bridge was huge, nearly a half-mile wide, but the combined force overflowed from it like fizz at the head of a mug of ale. They raised tents from the edge of the northern forest to the beginning of the southern grasses, and when Velixar craned his neck to watch the distant road, he saw countless more tents being erected. Only the Gods’ Road itself remained bereft of obstruction, allowing room for the supply wagons to make their way up the line. Food was distributed among the fighting men, and those from Darakken’s regiment, who had been traveling in rougher conditions, began singing boisterous and crude songs as they tore into the salted pork and pickled vegetables that were brought to them.

The whole while, men worked around Velixar and his crew, some offering words of greeting, most giving confused stares. One group of soldiers, their eyes bloodshot and tired, shouted at them to get off their asses and help.

“We should do as they say,” Captain Wellington said, fidgeting on his feet. His men chimed in their agreement.

“No,” Velixar replied. “We stand here, and we wait.”

“For what?”

“For Karak to call on us.”

“Why would he call on us?”

“He won’t,” Velixar admitted with a shake of his head. “He will call on me. But you joined me on this quest, and so our fates are tied together.”

“As you command, High Prophet.”

Wellington crossed his arms over his chest and began to gnaw on his bottom lip. Velixar turned away from him. A small part of him wanted to assure the captain that all would be fine, but he knew there was no such certainty.

Finally, when the sun burned low and red on the horizon, Karak’s colossal carriage snaked its way along the Gods’ Road. The carriage was three times the size of any of the other sixty they had brought with them on the long march west. Drawn by a team of eight massive chargers, it stood twenty feet tall and fifteen feet wide and rolled forward on twelve wheels. The weight was considerable, particularly when Karak was inside, so it moved slowly, a fact that only heightened Velixar’s tension.

When the carriage stopped at last, a mere thirty feet from where Velixar and his men waited, the rest of the camp had been set up; soldiers were relaxing outside their tents, cookfires had been lit, and the horde of smiths that traveled with both parties was collecting weapons for sharpening and armor for oiling. Just as always, the recently erected encampment was deafening. All the noise-numerous voices speaking at once, the clink of the smiths’ hammers, the crackle and pop of fires-mixed into a single, ear-numbing din. Still, Velixar and his company were ignored.

Beside him, Captain Wellington’s stomach rumbled audibly.

When the sun began to set behind the subtle rise of the western mountains, the twenty soldiers who had come in behind Karak’s carriage removed roll after roll of canvas from the storage space beneath the coach and started to assemble the god’s pavilion. Other groups of soldiers tore down their own tents to make room. Only once the pavilion was finished, complete with Karak’s banner fluttering from the pole at the top, did the door to the carriage open and the deity himself step out. All sound, save the snorting of horses and the crackle of flames, immediately ceased.

Velixar fell to his knees, and he heard Wellington and the rest of his personal charges do the same.

Karak cast an imposing shadow in the growing darkness. His dark hair flowed above his shoulders as if alive, while his glowing golden eyes observed everything around him. Unlike three nights ago when Velixar had left camp, the god seemed pleased by what he saw. He did not face his High Prophet, however, nor did he even acknowledge his presence. Instead, he turned north, toward an approaching brigade of thirty elves, who were led by a wide-shouldered beast of a creature dressed in oily black armor that looked like the skin of a reptile. Two swords, just as black as his armor, were crisscrossed over his back.

Karak greeted them with a nod, then began to converse with their leader in the elven tongue. The other captains approached to greet the elves as well. Captain Wellington inched forward on his knees

“What are they saying?” he whispered into Velixar’s ear.

“Karak is thanking the elves for joining his righteous fight,” Velixar whispered back. In truth he could only hear every third word that came from the god’s mouth, but judging from what he could hear and the deity’s body language, he supposed his assumption was correct.

When the conversation ended, the elves bowed as one and made their way back to their camp site. The congregation around Karak dispersed, leaving the deity alone in the center of the Gods’ Road. Finally, Karak pivoted to face Velixar. The sudden silence seemed to stretch for miles. Karak’s hands went to his hips, and he shook his head. Velixar could see no anger in his stare, only disappointment. In a way, that worried him more.

“High Prophet,” said the deity, “you have failed me.”

Velixar lowered his eyes to the ground. “I have, my Lord. We came on the enemy from behind, ready to strike them down, but they proved resilient. Wolf-men from the forest came to their assistance, and though we killed all the beasts, we were too badly wounded and beaten to make chase.”

Karak crossed his arms, tilted his head.

“Are you not Velixar, my High Prophet, swallower of demons and betrayer of nations? You have told me your power was beyond measure. Yet a few pups and a fleeing band of Wardens managed to hold back you and your best?”

Karak was openly mocking him, drawing subdued snickers from the massive crowd of onlookers. Velixar refused to fall into the trap. Instead of reacting, he dropped even lower and stared at the ground.

“My power fled me, my Lord, and has not returned. For that, I was unprepared.”

“Are you certain, Prophet? Can you not feel the power surging through you even now?”

“I…”

Velixar closed his eyes, and sure enough, there it was, the force of the demon he’d swallowed, bubbling up within him like magma deep in a volcano. Confusion filled him, numbing any elation he might have felt. Why had it not been there when he needed it? What weakness of his had allowed it to vanish in his time of need?

“What do you have to say?” asked Karak.

He lifted his eyes to his god, rose to his knees, and held his arms out in supplication.

“I beg you to allow me to atone for my sins, my Lord,” he said, pleading, “I was weak and deserve to be punished.”

“And what should that punishment be? Your life?”

“My life is already yours to do with as you choose, my Lord.”

He closed his eyes and waited for Karak’s deathblow, but it never came.

“Rise, Prophet,” said the god. “Come to me.”

Velixar stood on rubbery legs and crossed the short expanse between them. Strangely, he felt the might inside him growing stronger with each step he took toward Karak. The deity stared down at him, a frown stretching his face.

“Disobedience of my law is the first step toward chaos,” Karak said. “I told you that if these men are to crush our opponents, they will do so at my side. That includes you, Prophet. And yet you disregarded my word and went out on your own.”

“I am sorry, my Lord.”

“Your admission of guilt means little, Prophet. You have sinned against me, and now must pay the price.”

Velixar cringed. “I accept your judgment.”

“Good.” Karak raised his head, his voice booming across the entire camp. “Failure to abide by my law is blasphemy, and the penalty for such a sin is harsh and unyielding.” He looked down at Velixar. “Prophet, your punishment is death.”

Velixar felt his entire body freeze, his heart stop, and the air in his lungs come to a halt.

“My Lord…” he whispered.

“However,” Karak said, “you may offer me a sacrifice in your stead. Turn to those who accompanied you in your betrayal, use your power, and destroy them.”

Velixar’s head shot up and he stared at his deity with confusion.

“What? But why?”

“This is not a time for questions, Velixar, but decisions. Kill those who joined you in disobedience. Let their deaths be a lesson to all.”

Velixar hesitated a moment, then gradually turned to look at Captain Oscar Wellington, who was standing in line with the rest of the surviving men who had rode out with him. The captain’s expression was filled with shock and betrayal. His hand lowered to the hilt of his sword, but he did not have time to yank it from its scabbard. Other soldiers encircled them, weapons drawn. The injured were hefted from the ground and thrown to the front of the line, where they cringed, begging for mercy. One of the men tried to flee, only to have the tendon on the back of his ankle sliced from behind. He too was tossed, wailing, into the place of judgment.

“Bastard,” Wellington muttered. He stepped forward, head held high. It saddened Velixar to see the strength the man portrayed, knowing what he had to do. It was either their lives or his.

In the end, it was no choice at all.

Without a word, Velixar brought his hands up. The power inside him flowed from his pores, shadows swirling around his hands as he lifted them, facing the thirteen who had survived his failed mission. The other soldiers backed away, shouting in fear at the display of dark magic. The tendrils of pulsing darkness then surged forward, pouring into the mouths, noses, and eyes of Captain Wellington and the rest of his men. Their mouths opened, but they could not scream; their eyes bulged, but they could not see. The shadows crushed them, both inside and out, snapping bones, liquefying organs. Soon their bodies were formless masses, empty shells of flesh encased in armor. Velixar dropped his hands, the shadows retreating back into him, and what remained of Captain Wellington and his men collapsed with the clank of steel and the thud of flesh on flesh.

“So be it,” said Karak. He addressed the camp once more. “It is done. Order has been served. Burn the bodies and carry on. We are done here.”

With that, the deity turned and disappeared inside his massive pavilion. Velixar stood horrified, watching as the soldiers built a large pile of wood, then stripped the armor from the corpses and tossed the remains atop it. The bonfire was lit, and the flames filled the burgeoning night sky. The soldiers stood around the fire for a few moments, their heads bowed in reverence, then went about their business. They gave Velixar a wide berth, glancing at him with fear in their eyes.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and swept into Karak’s pavilion. There he found the god sitting in the center of the huge space, legs crossed, hands on his knees. While sitting, the god’s gaze was level with his own, and those divine eyes snapped open when Velixar cleared his throat.

“Leave me, Prophet. Your tent was erected by the hawk carriage. Go there and think on what you have done.”

Velixar shook his head, willing himself to be strong. “Those were good men,” he told his god. “They were the best of the lot, the most brutal and loyal. It was a useless loss of life.”

Karak sighed.

“I expected more from you, Prophet. More knowledge, more understanding. Humans cling to their own lives above all else, and after that show of force, they will be more inclined to resist their chaotic impulses. None will betray me if they know it will mean their death.”

“You did not have to kill them. There are other ways to teach a lesson.”

“I did not kill them,” said Karak, tilting his head. “You did.”

“I…” Velixar began, but words failed him.

“You think you understand so much, Velixar, yet your pride will be the end of you. You have lived a little more than a hundred years, while I have existed for an eternity. Do not begin to think you know as much as I do.”

What game is this, wondered Velixar. What trick?

“You told me to execute them,” he said.

“I did, but the choice was yours. I am not blind to your selfishness, Prophet. I gave you a choice between killing the men who loyally followed your orders and sacrificing your own life. You chose to preserve your life, your power, and let others suffer the consequences of your failure. Consider that a lesson.”

“A lesson of what?” he asked. “That I am worth more than a few pathetic soldiers whose bones will be dust before a single gray hair sprouts from my head?”

Karak’s face seemed to darken.

“The lesson is that you fear death as much as any human. The lesson is that whenever you betray me or ignore my wisdom, people will die. With me you are powerful, Velixar. Without me, you are nothing.”

“I am nothing?” he exclaimed. His anger grew, and with it his audacity, however misplaced. He began to shout without thinking. “I know things, my Lord. I have knowledge you wish to keep hidden, about you and Ashhur and your long, sordid history. You speak of failure? What of your failure, the one that led to the creation of humanity on this world? Yes, I know how you came to be, who you and Ashhur were before. I know of Kaurthulos’s destruction of countless worlds-and he attempted to do the same here in Dezrel. Darakken, Velixar, Sluggoth, they were your creations, weren’t they?”

“That was before we became who we are now,” Karak said softly.

“Before you split into pieces,” Velixar said. “Before you became Karak and Ashhur and countless others. I’ve seen your failures in the demon’s memory; I’ve seen how your brother, Thulos, another aspect of your fragmented former self, slew the other gods and began his conquest. Celestia saved you from ruin and brought you and Ashhur here to redeem yourselves from your misdeeds. You two fled here from your own mirrored reflection, and yet you would call me nothing? I have seen it all, Karak.”

Karak said not a word. Feeling emboldened, Velixar continued.

“Without you, I am nothing? Where would you be without my aid? You were hiding in the mountains when I set into motion the events that would lead to your reign. I poisoned Vulfram Mori into renouncing you. I manipulated Clovis into building the temple in the delta to incur your wrath. I served Ashhur for seventeen years-seventeen years! — biding my time, working my fingers into his subconscious, earning his trust and ultimately leading him to Haven. Your fight with that discarded piece of yourself you call a brother was my doing. I was the one who thought humanity could reach greatness, I paved the way for this war, and I am the one who first believed it was you who should rule all of Dezrel! And all I receive in retu-”

“YOU…KNOW…NOTHING.”

The god’s words hit Velixar like a fist to the face, knocking him to his knees. He stared up at Karak, unable to breathe, as the deity rose to his full height above him.

“You think yourself greater than you are, Prophet,” Karak said. His tone was chilling, and the invisible fist around Velixar’s throat squeezed tighter. “Do you really think I am blind to what happens in my own kingdom, blind to the actions of my own creations? I knew your plans the moment you hatched them, and I allowed you the freedom to carry them out. I even allowed the death of Soleh Mori, the child who had proved her love and loyalty to me beyond all others.”

The grip around his throat loosened.

“Why?” Velixar was able to gasp.

“Because I was disappointed with the immaturity of my children. Because I tired of watching Ashhur’s degeneration into a weak, cowardly being. Because I knew in my heart that order would only thrive if all of Dezrel were mine to lord over as I chose. But mostly, I was curious to see if you, the First Man, could accomplish the grand schemes you had set in motion.”

“You knew…and you said nothing.…You let me believe…”

Karak nodded, his eyes burning into Velixar’s soul.

“All you have done, all you think you are-it is because I have given you the power you required. Power that I can take away, power that I have taken away, the moment you disobeyed me, the moment you let your pride and arrogance place you above me in your heart and mind.”

Velixar’s eyes widened as he stared at his god in disbelief.

“Yes, Prophet, you understand nothing. You have spent more than a century chronicling the history of magic on this world, yet you never once knew that so long as my brother and I walk among you, the only true power you will ever possess must be channeled through us.” The deity sighed. “I stripped you of your power last night so you would learn. So you would know, once and for all, that everything you have accomplished has been through my hand. Your power, your station, even your wisdom, has come through me or my creations. And that which I have given…I can take away.”

The god reached down, tugged the pendant out from under Velixar’s tunic. His finger traced the bas-relief of the peak on which the lion stood.

“I gave you this to show you my trust, but also to demonstrate the scope of my plan. A mountain is the highest place one can stand. Those with the strength to conquer it can forever clutch what is rightfully theirs, defeating any challengers. It is a symbol of might, of conquest, of power. I have watched humanity in all its forms for eons. I have watched your struggles and your unpredictability; I have seen how you clutch chaos to your breast as if it offers you sustenance, when all it ever gives you is pain. I have always known this…yet I dared hope my brother or myself might finally find a way. We began our grand experiment, but within a single generation the old ways began anew. It was either coddle humanity forever, as my brother would do, or let you all succumb to a life spent with your backs to your gods and your hearts filled with lust and greed and fear. I will not allow it. All of Dezrel will either bend the knee or know the peace of the grave. I am tired of this world, Velixar. I am tired of the way mankind scratches at my mind, every sinful act carving into me like a grain of sand carves away at a rock wall. Your race could achieve such great heights, but too many of your kind are sick. You are like a great oak held down by rotting branches. There is only one recourse; burn the sick branches with fire; otherwise, the whole tree will die.”

Karak turned away from him, returning to a seated position in the center of the tent. He closed his eyes, an eerie calm washing over his godly form.

“You shall live, because I will it,” he said calmly. “My brother and I created Jacob Eveningstar to be a guiding light for humanity, and that purpose has not changed simply because your name has. You will remain my prophet, and you will teach the people of my glory for the rest of your days. Be my greatest disciple. Be my wisest friend. The world is changing, the new future coming, and I would have you at my side. But if you are not at my side…then your ageless body will, for the first time in its life, know pain, know fire, know death. Now leave my quarters, Velixar. We are to cross the bridge in four days’ time, and I need to gather my strength for what is to come.”

Velixar needed no other invitation. He staggered to his feet and left the pavilion, collapsing the moment he was outside. His body was sore, the wounds on his head barked, and his mind spun a mile a minute. Everything he’d thought he knew suddenly seemed so limited and pathetic.

The moon was low on the horizon, and wisps of smoke and cloud passed over it like floating snakes. Most of the soldiers had turned to the safety of their bedrolls, and those few who remained out were well into their cups. Velixar began to walk toward the Gods’ Road, avoiding the glowing rubble of snuffed out cookfires until he reached his destination. He then followed the beaten path east, passing row after row of tents. There were so many of them. As he looked toward the undulating horizon, he realized he could still see them dotting the landscape in the far distance. Now that the force from the north had arrived, Karak’s Army was near ten thousand strong. Once Lord Commander Avila’s regiment arrived, they would swell to fifteen thousand.

The numbers were staggering.

It took him nearly an hour to find his own pavilion, which had been assembled beside the cart that acted as the rookery, just as Karak had told him it would be. He walked into the pavilion and lit a few candles. The place had been set up just the way it always was, complete with his desk, bedroll, and dresser. The three squires who tended to his belongings certainly knew how to perform their duties.

“What choice have I left?” Velixar asked as he hung Lionsbane on its hook in the center of the open space. All the confidence he had in himself, all the pride he had in his own wisdom, now seemed like a mockery. What wisdom was there in bragging to Karak about his knowledge of things Karak already knew? What wisdom in glorifying a power that came from Karak? He was a princeling bragging to his father about his great wealth. All that was his had been inherited.

So what did it mean?

“What choice,” Velixar whispered again. He could rebel, denying Karak’s power and wisdom. Or he could find a way to draw power without the need of his deity; he could seek to learn what even his god did not know.

Velixar closed his eyes, and he felt the power of the demon surge up within him. There was the other way. The more frightening way. He had always believed Karak’s path was the wiser. He had always trusted his laws and desires to be superior to Ashhur’s naïve, foolish hopes. But had he ever given himself over? Had he ever let his trust become faith? No, he’d always held back, relied on his own wisdom to confirm each decision. He followed Karak not because he believed in him, but because his mind agreed with him.

He fell to his knees, and as he prayed, he knew his god would hear.

“My life for you,” he whispered. “Before my faith was hollow. Make it overflowing. Before my faith was weak. Make it strong. Whatever I have done, whatever I may do, it is now all for you. Let your words pass through my lips. I am your prophet, and may I forever speak your truth. Burn away my doubts with fire. The time for them has passed.”

Bleary and weak, he rose to his feet. He felt a strange lightness. Part of him wondered if anything had changed, but deep in his heart he knew. He felt a vast power growing inside him.

The moment was already fleeing, and he felt an intense desire to record it. He rushed to his desk, and then paused, his brow furrowing. He knelt down, searching the shelf beneath it. When his fingers found nothing, he raced through the rest of his pavilion, tearing through his chest of books, his sacks of clothing, his dresser, the coffer where he would store his armor once he removed it, beneath his bedroll. Panic rushed through his veins, causing his wounded temple to throb.

“No, no, no,” he repeated over and over again.

He hunted through the night, even going so far as to question his squires and the soldiers who were camped nearby, but all his searching was for naught. His precious journal was nowhere to be found.