Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 34

The body was laid out on a slab, dressed in an elegant gown of the deepest blue, its eyes and mouth stitched closed. The wavy chestnut hair was draped over the pillow in a way that made it look like the corpse’s head rested on a bed of curls. The flesh was pallid, the woman’s normally rosy cheeks off-white like dirty snow.

Lanike Crestwell was no more.

Avila brushed her fingers against her mother’s skin, which was cold and rubbery to the touch. Despair welled in her heart as she bit back any tears that might come. Her mother, like her father, was supposed to be perpetually young. They were supposed to have lived forever, guiding Karak’s children through the wilderness of life, helping them to reach the heights her god had promised them. Avila suffered from the realization that her family was no more. Lanike, Joseph, and Crian were dead; Thessaly was missing; and her father might as well be dead or missing, given that an ancient demon now resided in his skin. Moira, the sister who had shamed her family, was far away, perhaps dead herself. She touched the mess of scars that marred the left side of her face, the wound Crian had given her, and felt a pang of regret. She was alone in the world.

“When did it happen?” she asked, lifting her eyes.

She was in Karak’s pavilion, the god towering over her on the other side of the slab. The First Man, he who now called himself Velixar, stood beside the deity. They were the only three in the tent. Velixar’s gaze was fixed on her mother’s corpse. He seemed almost as despondent as she was.

“Three days ago,” Karak said, his voice low and soothing, like a gentle breeze on a summer day. “Her handlers discovered her dead in her carriage. I have kept her body here since then. As her only surviving child, you deserved to see her before I disposed of her shell.”

“I see.”

Avila leaned over the body. Lanike’s arms had been crossed respectfully over her chest. Avila grabbed the one on top, lifted it, and examined the underside. On the wrist was a deep gash that ran almost the length of the forearm. The wound yawned wide as she attempted to swivel her mother’s stiff, lifeless arm, the cut deep enough to expose bone.

“The other is the same,” said Karak.

“And the weapon?” Avila asked. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice as level and free of emotion as her position demanded.

Velixar extended his hand, and Avila took the proffered knife. It was slender, a simple serrated blade meant for slicing meat at dinner. She looked again at her mother’s corpse and handed it back.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Commander,” her god said.

“And yours as well,” she said, glancing up at him.

“Yes. And mine as well.”

Avila shook her head. “I do not understand, my Lord. Why would she take her own life? What tormented her so?”

“Only Lanike knew for certain, my child,” said her god. “And that knowledge died with her.”

She looked up at them, the two who had greeted her that morning when she guided her faction of the god’s army into the camp. They had insisted she come with them immediately, ordering Captain Gregorian to get the soldiers situated. Avila had followed without question, thinking she was about to be briefed on any updates to the plan now that the three major regiments had been combined. She was excited by the opportunity to finally command the full force, as was her destiny. She’d never expected this.

“Why was she even here?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?” asked Velixar.

“Why was my mother here? Why was she not at home in Veldaren, tending to the king? She had no purpose on a battlefield.”

“She was with us so we could protect her,” Velixar said, and there was something off-putting about the way he spoke his answer.

Avila’s voice cracked when she spoke. “You seem to have done a piss-poor job of that.”

“An oversight, Lord Commander,” Karak said in a scolding tone. “There was a skirmish at the bridge. Something important was stolen from us.”

“And your mother was forgotten in the confusion,” added Velixar.

“When my father finds out about this, he will be furious,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the First Man. “We will see then what your-”

“Silence!” Karak boomed, and Avila recoiled. The god’s eyes glowed brighter than before as he leaned forward, massive hands propped on her mother’s slab.

“You have been granted information others have not,” the god said harshly. “You know what Clovis is now, what he means to our cause. He will remain in the dark for so long as I see fit. The results could be disastrous otherwise. Darakken is not an entity to be taken lightly.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Remember your place, child. I named you Lord Commander because you have proven time and again to be my most loyal and capable servant. Should that change, should your emotions override your common sense, I will strip you of that title.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Avila said, dropping to a knee before him. “I understand.”

Velixar stepped around the deity and approached her. He held out his hand, which she accepted, and helped her stand. When she brushed the hair from her face, she noticed he was staring at her, head cocked to one side.

“You look…different,” the First Man said.

She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound. Velixar’s hand rose up, and he lightly touched the corner of her eye, where new crow’s-feet were beginning to appear. The First Man shrugged, brushed back his long, dark hair, and returned to his god’s side.

Avila breathed a sigh of relief, and when her heart slowed its pace, she approached her mother’s body once more, placing a final kiss on her cold forehead. She then bowed to her Divinity.

“I am at your command, my Lord,” she said. “I apologize for my weakness.”

Karak nodded. “I will forget this oversight in light of your grief,” he said. “You have served me well, Lord Commander. Your fires have sealed in the south, causing my brother’s more capable children to retreat toward the sea. They will not be a part of this war until we bring it to them, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Now rejoin your men. My Prophet and I need to speak. I will call on you, and perhaps Captain Gregorian, this evening. Until then, find peace with your loss. We must be strong when we face whatever Ashhur has planned for us.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, and bowed one last time before leaving the pavilion.

It was a mile walk back to where her regiment had set up camp, and the entire distance was packed with tents, carriages, and makeshift stables. She was glad for the respite, even though the hearty laughter of the fighting men as they gathered around their late morning cookfires felt at odds with her deep misery. She did her best to fight off the feeling, to force the tears from her eyes, before any saw the weakness that was growing within her.

At one point she ducked into a temporary privy shack and bawled. She wept for her mother, for her poor trapped father, for all her lost siblings. The weight of her sorrow threatened to crush her, and though it was horrible to experience, she latched onto it, immersed herself in it, allowing her whole body to be infused with sadness.

It was an indulgent act, but at the same time it felt right. She had lived her whole life as a coldhearted servant to her god, denying herself the simple pleasures Karak had promised to his children.…And now that her family was gone, now that she had no one, she realized how little it all meant.

But I do have someone. I have Willa.

She straightened herself up, wiping her face clean of tears. She wanted to see the girl. Needed her to fill the emptiness she felt growing inside. Thinking of Willa, she understood why her mother had taken her own life. Lanike Crestwell was not a warrior. She had always been the caretaker, the doter, the silent strength that lurked in the shadows behind the husband who had created her. With her children gone, with Clovis a monster, she’d thought herself useless.

She left the privy and continued her march through camp. A few minutes later she saw that her men had been hard at work; her own pavilion stood tall on a slight hill to the right, bordering the southern grasslands that her soldiers would burn on the morrow after Karak’s Army crossed the Wooden Bridge. She turned off the road, her feet plodding across the overturned dirt as she wove in and out of the many tents. The sun bore down on her, making her bake in her armor, and she began to sweat. Her heart thumped in her chest in anticipation of seeing Willa.

As she approached her pavilion she hesitated, looking to the right, at the beige marquee housing the converts from Ashhur. Whereas the rest of the camp was a din of chattering voices and the clanging weaponry of those practicing their swordsmanship, the massive canvas structure was eerily silent. She approached it cautiously, her soles squishing on the damp earth. When she glanced down, she realized the bottom ridges of the canvas were stained a deep red. She ran toward the huge tent and stopped short once she reached the cavernous entrance.

There were bodies everywhere, more than two hundred of them. The blood of the slain flowed from beneath the canvas walls, pooling on the sodden dirt like miniature lakes. A few still moaned. She took a couple of steps into the tent, watching in horror as spurts of red issued from the neck of a man who clawed weakly at his mortal wound. She knelt, her knee sloshing into a puddle of blood when it struck the ground. The dying man’s eyes flitted toward her, his mouth making gurgling sounds as he tried to form words. An instant later, a violent spasm rocked his body, and he fell still.

Her head swiveling, she took in the grisly scene before her. All of them, every single convert they had taken from Ashhur’s villages before they’d sacked them, had been murdered. She had only been gone for two hours at most, leaving Captain Gregorian in charge of raising their camp. What could have happened between then and now to make…

Malcolm’s words to her during their encounter in her pavilion echoed in her head.

“Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. You love her…you must cut her down.”

“No!” she screamed as she stumbled to her feet and burst into the sunlight. She emerged to find a great many soldiers gathered around the tent, their hands stained with blood, scowling at her as if she were a common criminal. Irman Freemantle, the young warrior with the kind face she had placed in charge of caring for Willa while she was gone, was one of them.…

Cursing her stupidity, Avila turned on her heels, sprinting as fast as she could toward her pavilion. It was no more than two hundred feet away, yet it seemed like time slowed down, stretching the distance. Panic made it difficult to breathe. When she was close to the pavilion, she made a desperate leap, diving through the entrance flap, curling her body up in the air so that she rolled to a stop.

In a single motion, she rose up on one knee and yanked Integrity from its sheath. The curved saber rattled, pointing in the direction of two bodies locked in a struggle. Willa was on the ground, her face blue, and her tiny hands grasped at the thin bit of rope around her throat. Malcolm was behind her, mouth drawn back in a grimace as he pulled the rope taut, choking the little girl’s life away. He glanced up at Avila but didn’t stop his assault.

“I am…sorry, Lord Commander,” he said between labored breaths. He pulled tighter, forcing Willa’s head back. The little girl’s eyes bulged from their sockets; saliva poured from her mouth. “I must help you…save yourself.”

Avila didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, swiping at his neck with her sword. At the last moment Malcolm ducked out of the way, but he was a tad too slow. The very tip of the blade caught him just north of his collarbone, opening a cut. His hands lost their grip on the rope as he spun away, and Willa dropped onto her back, coughing and crying. Avila snatched the girl up, holding her tight against her breastplate, keeping Integrity pointed at Malcolm all the while.

“I’m trying to save you!” he shouted at her.

“You killed them all,” Avila said, growling. “You will not kill my daughter.”

Malcolm laughed. “Your daughter? Your daughter? This is one of Ashhur’s bitches, Lord Commander, not the fruit of your loins.”

She didn’t hear his words. “Why, Captain? Why?” she screamed.

“I told you I would demonstrate to Karak how you had failed him,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I took compassion on you. I will tell Karak nothing, Avila. I intended to give you one last chance to take control of your emotions. Yet now you are proving to me again just how lost you have become.”

“You think this is proof that my faith has wavered?” she shrieked. “You have proven nothing!”

“Why argue?” he asked, shrugging. “Let Karak be the judge.”

“Miss Avila?” croaked Willa, who drooled across Avila’s breastplate. Her eyes looked sleepy, confused.

“Hush, child,” she said, bouncing a bit to calm her. “All is well.”

“I’m scared.”

“As well she should be,” snapped Malcolm. “She is a lamb in a den of lions. She is not of our ilk, Avila. Cast her out now, restore order to your soul before it is too late.”

Avila lashed out at Malcolm, striking the side of his head with the flat of her blade.

“Outside. Now.” The captain’s eyebrows rose, and then he walked around her and out of the pavilion. Avila followed close behind, keeping Integrity trained on him, her other arm still holding Willa. The crowd that had gathered around the slaughtered converts had moved, forming a semicircle around her pavilion. It also seemed to have at least doubled in number. A murmur worked its way through the throng, and hundreds of expectant eyes turned toward her.

She placed Willa on the ground. The little girl gingerly touched her neck, which flared an angry shade of red. Avila knelt beside her and forced herself to smile as she gently brushed aside a bobbing blond curl.

“All will be fine, little one,” she said.

“What’s happening, Miss Avila?”

“We are going to fight now.”

“You and the bad man who hurt me?”

She nodded.

“Will you hurt him?”

“I will. For you, my love.”

Willa stared back at her, tears in her eyes.

“What if he hurts you?”

She leaned in close. “Then you run, little one,” she whispered. “You run as fast as your little legs will carry you and do not stop until I am nothing but a memory. Understand?”

Willa nodded yes.

Avila stood and turned away from the girl. The swarm of onlookers had created a fifty-foot circle, and Malcolm stood at the far end, his legs shoulder-width apart. One of the soldiers handed him his sword, and he snatched it firmly in both hands. He ripped off the scabbard and lifted Darkfall high into the air. “Karak!” he shouted, which drew cheers from the crowd.

So you have all turned against me.

“Mother, I love you,” Avila heard a tiny voice say. She glanced behind her and saw Willa kneeling, holding tight to the pole that supported her pavilion’s canopy. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I love you too,” Avila said. “Do not fear for me.” Then, after taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the ring. Malcolm did the same.

Malcolm had the advantage in both size and reach. Though not an overly large man, he was taller than her by half a head and outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. Also to her disadvantage was the fact that Darkfall, Vulfram Mori’s old sword, was a massive blade that dwarfed Integrity. His arms were strong-they had to be to wield such a mighty weapon-and his fighting style was technically flawless, though robotic. Although Avila relied more on grace and fluidity to best her opponents, she knew deep down that she understood more about technique than the captain. She had the advantage of having been raised under Clovis Crestwell’s wing while Gregorian had been busy indulging in drunkenness. She was also wearing her light chainmail and solid breastplate, whereas he had on only his boiled leather under armor. Another advantage.

The largest advantage she had, however, was the rage that surged in her veins. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and pictured Willa’s face, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, as Malcolm choked the life from her. When she opened them again her entire body tingled. She raised Integrity so the hilt rested beside her ear, gripping it with both hands, wrists twisted so that the blade hovered in front of her. She hollered her mother’s name, then kicked her back heel and ran forward.

Malcolm brought Darkfall up in front of him, breathing heavily. Avila leaped into the air at the last moment, driving downward with the tip of her blade as she soared past him instead of attacking head on. Malcolm was caught off-guard by the maneuver, and he had to stumble backward to avoid the piercing tip. The crowd gasped at the near miss.

Avila landed and spun around, dropping into a low crouch while Malcolm regained his footing. His good eye stared at her, but there seemed to be no hatred there, no wrath. There was no panic either. The sight only made her angrier.

“Fuck you!” she yelled, and hawked a wad of spit onto the ground.

“So lost,” replied Malcolm sadly.

He came at her then, rushing forward with Darkfall held straight up in the air. Avila uncoiled her legs, springing herself upright and swinging Integrity in a sideways arc. Malcolm shifted his giant blade, and the two swords collided with a raucous clang. The impact jarred Avila’s shoulders, almost forcing her to her knees. She spun Integrity around just in time to deflect a two-handed thrust, and Darkfall’s silver blade soared past her, so close she could see her reflection in the steel.

Grabbing hold of Malcolm’s sleeve, she used it as leverage to pull herself up, spinning at the same time. She swung her elbow mid-spin, catching him square on the side of his face. He grunted, spittle flying from his lips as he tottered to the side. Avila lashed downward once she completed her revolution, hoping to slice through his ankle, perhaps sever a tendon. Malcolm proved quicker than expected, however. He instinctively stepped to the side, and her blade found nothing but dirt.

He was on her again an instant later, charging with a vicious downward hew that Avila easily deflected. She danced away, hopping on the balls of her feet. Malcolm’s nose was bleeding, and she could see that the good side of his face was starting to swell.

“Almost,” she muttered, and then feigned a lunge. Malcolm reacted predictably, spinning Darkfall to the side to parry, and Avila took her opening. She skipped to the right, flipped her sword around so she was holding it backward, and then thrust the tip into his breast. Malcolm’s eyes widened as the tip pierced his leathers, sliding into the flesh beneath. The captain fell to one knee, dropping his sword and clutching Integrity’s blade with his bare hands, trying to keep Avila from shoving it in any deeper. His blood dripped from his clenched fists as Avila pushed harder, the cutting edge slicing his hand.

“You are not my better,” she said with pride.

The smile left her face when Malcolm fell backward, bringing up one leg in the process. Integrity slid out of him and the pointed toe of his boot caught Avila in the groin, sending spikes of pain through her midsection. She stumbled away, gasping. The silent crowd roared back to life, cheering and jeering with equal aplomb. She whipped her head around, sending death stares at each of them.

The sound of boots sinking into wet earth brought her back around, and she saw Malcolm running at her, Darkfall in hand once more. His left arm hung useless by his side, and he hefted the colossal sword in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Avila gaped, then rolled out of the way as the blade passed through the space where her head had been. Her legs were still numb from the blow to the groin, but she tried to tell herself she had the advantage. Malcolm only had the use of one arm, for Karak’s sake!

She managed to get to her feet again just as Malcolm swiveled on her, chopping down with his sword. Their blades met once more, only to separate again a moment later. He drew back and swung, and their swords met yet again with a sound like the dinner bell when it rang out over the fields of Omnmount.

He was relentless and seemingly tireless, shoving her backward with every thrust and swipe. She retreated, trying to circle the larger man, but he cut her off each time. Eventually, she found herself pressed against a wall of flesh, colliding with the soldiers who surrounded them. Greedy, intruding hands grasped at her, and she flung her free elbow back to clear some room. The men were mauling her, distracting her from the duel. Someone squeezed her thigh, and in surprise she ducked down to swipe the hand away. An instant later, blood fell in sheets, drenching her neck and shoulders. She dropped to her belly and rolled, and when she looked back, she saw a soldier with half a head teeter and fall while his friends screamed and stared in horror at the convulsing body. Malcolm, his sword bloodied, ignored the carnage and continued his assault.

His blows rained down with ever-increasing brutality, and Avila breathed heavily as she blocked them, the force weighing on her muscles, tiring her out. She was losing speed, and her sidesteps came a half second too late to allow her to spin around her foe. Integrity began to weigh her down, and after one particularly brutal strike, she had to grasp the sword with both hands lest she lose it.

Malcolm swung his upper body and his limp left arm flailed out, striking Avila on the shoulder and throwing her off balance. She stumbled and almost fell, shrieking as Malcolm swung Darkfall in a wide arc. The blade pierced below her breastplate, where the mail was thin. It easily sliced through the metal and dug deep into her flesh. She felt one of her ribs snap at the impact, and blood began to pour from the gaping maw. She staggered backward, staring down in horror. Joseph had died from a similar wound, given to him by that ogre Patrick DuTaureau.

She lifted her eyes to see Malcolm take an offensive position, holding Darkfall high so it crossed in front of his face. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief. The blood on the blade, her blood and that of the soldier, began to glow. Purple fire erupted from the steel. It was the same phenomenon she had seen in the village of Grassmere, after Malcolm had sliced the young mother and infant in two. She had thought it a mirage then, and it seemed no more real to her now. She wondered if it were a fever dream from loss of blood, but then an energized buzz came from the crowd of soldiers, proving that yes, it was real.

“Karak blesses me,” Malcolm said, the purple flames dancing in his milky eye. “You were wrong, Avila. I was the faithful one.”

He charged her one last time, flaming sword leading like a lance. Avila tried to bat aside the attack, but when Integrity met its counterpart, the trusty curved saber broke in two. The upper half flew through the air and fell harmlessly to the ground, and then Darkfall’s fiery tip pierced Avila’s breastplate as if it were made of paper. The flames scorched her as the blade entered her chest, burning her from the inside out, yet when they licked off Malcolm’s flesh, they did not seem to make a mark. She gasped, smoke rising up her throat and billowing from her mouth as she fell to her back. The mass of onlookers, their bloodlust brought to a boil, began to hoot and holler like madmen. Beneath it all, she heard a young girl shriek in anguish.

Malcolm yanked Darkfall from her chest.

Avila’s world grew hazy, her strength fading. Before her world went dark, she gathered enough strength to look to the side. She saw, for the briefest of moments, a flash of golden hair disappear behind a tangle of grubby legs. For the first time ever, she prayed to a different god from the one who had created her.

Keep her safe, Ashhur. Let this not be for nothing. And please let me find my mother and siblings in the afterworld.

“Karak’s will be done,” proclaimed Malcolm, standing over her in victory.

“Fuck Karak,” she blurted out, blood spewing from her lips along with the words.

Avila allowed herself to smile as darkness took her.