Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 35

Where there had been one corpse, there were now two.

Mother and daughter were laid out beside each other, both pale in death. Velixar leaned in closer to get a better look. Avila had been stripped of her armor, and he squinted as he examined the hole in her chest. The flesh around the wound was blackened and charred as if it had been touched by a great flame, while the meaty bits inside were a mass of blackish-pink soup. Whatever had run her through seemed to have melted her breastbone, three of her ribs, her left lung, and half her heart. It was as awe inspiring a display of mutilation as any he’d seen. He raised his eyes to Karak, who lingered silent in the corner, and took a deep breath.

“And to think,” he said, “only a few hours ago she was right here in this tent, mourning the loss of her mother.” He looked at the man who kneeled opposite him. “Tell me, do you mourn as well?”

Captain Gregorian kept his head bowed in reverence when he said, “I do, High Prophet, with all of my heart. The loss of the Lord Commander weighs heavily on my soul.”

“Yet it was your blade that felled her.”

“It was.”

“And you still feel remorse?”

“Not remorse. Only sadness…Avila was a mighty soul, perhaps our Divinity’s most able warrior. I could not bear to see her fall so far from grace. I challenged her to save her from herself.”

Velixar glanced once more at the body. “You said she was Karak’s best warrior, and yet you bested her. Does that mean you are the best of us now?”

Malcolm shook his head. “No, High Prophet. I am but Karak’s humble servant.”

“I see.”

The captain’s sword, Darkfall, was displayed next to the bodies on a slab of its own. Velixar circled around to it and lifted the heavy weapon, which he himself had presented to Gregorian in the aftermath of Vulfram Mori’s demise. The steel was polished and shining, not a scratch on its surface. When Gregorian had marched into Karak’s pavilion, a few of his underlings carrying Avila’s body behind him, he had immediately confessed to killing the Lord Commander and handed over the sword, which he claimed not to have cleaned since the clash took place. Yet it looked as new as the day it had first left the smithy, not a spot of blood on it.

“How did you defeat her?” he asked the man.

“I drove that very sword through her chest, High Prophet,” the captain replied. “I thought that part was obvious.”

“Yes, but how. Avila Crestwell was trained in the art of swordplay since she was still sucking her mother’s tit. The only man in all of Neldar who even approached her skill was her younger brother.” He looked at Gregorian once more. “You, Captain, are a meager swordsman by your own admission. So how did you manage to strike the killing blow?”

“Karak,” he answered.

“Karak?”

“Yes. Karak.” The captain lifted his lone good eye, which was ringed with a nasty-looking bruise, and stared at the silent deity. “You granted me the power I needed. It is only because of you that I emerged victorious.”

“Is that so?” said Velixar.

“It is.”

“And yet Karak was here, with me, the entire time. That being the case, how is what you say possible?”

“I don’t know, High Prophet. All I know is that I prayed for the strength to end Avila’s chaos, and Darkfall alighted in purple flame.”

“Hmm.”

Velixar lowered the sword and approached the kneeling man. Ever since their first meeting at the door to the Tower Keep, Captain Gregorian had greatly interested him. He was truly devoted to their god, that much was obvious, yet Velixar sensed an irresponsible and frenzied streak in him, a trait the captain tried to conceal beneath layer after layer of ritual, routine, and convention. Still, he had always been loyal, obeying Karak’s edicts without question. It would be a shame if the man were lying, and his clash with Avila involved some personal issue. He sighed, wishing again that his ability to detect truth from lie had not fled him when he turned his back on Ashhur.

Though in the end, it didn’t matter.

Velixar reached down and ran his fingers over the scar that marred the left side of the captain’s face, where the Final Judges had made their everlasting mark.

“I believe you,” he told the man.

The captain bowed even lower. “Thank you, High Prophet.”

“I deserve no thanks, Captain, for though I find you to be truthful, the fact remains that you convinced your men to slaughter two hundred converts who had sworn their lives to Karak. And despite your good intentions, you still took the life of the Lord Commander, named so by our god. The proper channels were not followed; none were told. You acted on your own. This army is about order, Captain, and you catered to chaos.”

“It is true,” Gregorian whispered. “I knew it was true the moment I lifted my sword against my leader.” He held his arms straight out before him, threw his chin back, and squeezed his good eye shut. Disturbingly, the milky one remained wide open. “My life is my god’s to do with as he wishes. Take it from me, purge the turmoil from my veins, for I have sinned, and there is no mercy for agents of chaos.”

Velixar raised his eyebrows. “You would give your life away so freely?”

“My life is not mine to give.”

“Enough,” said Karak. He strode toward them across the open space.

“Yes, my Lord,” said Velixar. He backed away from the captain, bowing.

Karak stepped up to the kneeling man and placed a massive hand atop his head.

“You are indeed my humble servant, Captain. Your actions prove it more than your words. Now stand up, my child, and have a physician mend that arm.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the captain replied. When he looked at the god, tears flowed in twin streams from his good eye. “Forever for you, my Lord.”

Gregorian rose to his feet and kissed Karak’s hand. The god smiled down on him, then reached behind him and grabbed Darkfall off its slab. He handed it to the captain.

“The instrument of your faith,” he said, his voice soothing. “And the instrument of the Lord Commander, as well.”

The captain’s eye bulged and his lips quivered, but he said nothing.

“Now go, Malcolm, and uphold my word as you always have.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“One last thing,” Velixar chimed in before the man could leave. Gregorian halted and pivoted toward him, stiff as a good soldier should be, even while his injured limb dangled uselessly.

“What is it, High Prophet?”

“Some of the men reported that the Lord Commander’s fall came about because of a young girl. Is that true?”

The captain nodded.

“And where is this girl now?”

“No one knows, High Prophet. She seems to have disappeared.”

“Interesting,” Velixar replied. “That is all, Lord Commander Gregorian. You may go now.”

“Thank you, High Prophet.”

When Gregorian left the pavilion, Velixar examined Karak’s expression. The god looked pensive, perhaps even whimsical. It was an odd way for a deity to look-dangerous, even-but Velixar decided it best not to question him. Given his own failures over the last few days, the last thing he needed was to give his god a reason to strike him down.

“He is a devoted man,” Karak said finally.

“It would appear so,” Velixar said. “And his story is true?”

“Of course. Gregorian has proven that he believes my teachings completely. I do not think any human alive loathes chaos as much as he does.”

“But what of his slaughter of those of Ashhur’s children who bended their knees? Should he not suffer punishment for that?”

“He ended those lives out of love for order, not because he was a curious man intent on meddling with powers he does not understand.”

Velixar winced at the slight. He hesitated before speaking again, but in the end he decided that if he was to be the High Prophet, he should not fear questioning his deity’s decisions.

“However, I must point out, my Lord, that he did end the life of the Lord Commander. Should that sort of insubordination be rewarded? What if every underling who wishes to be rid of a pesky superior does the same to achieve a higher station?”

Karak stared at him in disappointment. “You should know better than to ask that question, Velixar. None will rise up that way, for I reward my children with titles as I please. If I were to take the lowest delinquent in the dungeons of Veldaren and place on him the mantle of Lord Commander, the men would treat him with just as much respect as they do you. Do you understand why?”

“Because you were the one who named him,” he said, lowering his head.

“Correct. As a god, my title was neither earned nor given to me. It was a station I was created to hold, and none can strip it from me.” His eyes blazed. “I, on the other hand, can strip any man of his title, deed, and even life if I so desire.”

Mine as well, Velixar thought, but kept it to himself.

Karak continued: “While the death of Lord Commander Crestwell is indeed unfortunate, Gregorian believed, with all his heart, that she had turned her back on me.” He pointed to her face. “You made mention of her different appearance earlier, and you were correct. Look closely at her eyes and mouth, Prophet, and you will see it: the lines of age, the withering of skin on bones. She was no longer ageless.”

“Is aging a sin, my Lord? Only a select few have been blessed with agelessness, and even those who denied that gift were not cast aside. Vulfram was mortal, and you never once expressed distrust in him…at least until the end.”

“They were different people, with different ways of thinking. Vulfram was a man who balanced the love of his family and his dedication to me. He was objective. Avila was not. Her beliefs were strident, singular. If she grew to love that girl more than me, as she visibly did, it would only have been a matter of time before she deserted me.”

“I see. That does, however, beg one question, my Lord.”

“Which is?”

Velixar wandered toward the bodies again, poking his finger inside Avila’s gaping chest.

“This wound,” he said. “I have seen none like it, burned the way it is.”

Karak joined him, peering down into the scorched cavity.

“Faith and power are interchangeable, Prophet,” the deity said, lowering his voice to a soothing whisper. “And occasionally faith can manifest itself as power in times of great need, leading to greatness. I have observed it time and again throughout the journeys my brother and I have embarked on, though this is the first instance I have seen the phenomenon here on Dezrel. It makes perfect sense that Gregorian, the only man to survive my Judges, would perform such a miracle.”

Velixar frowned, mulling it over.

“So his belief in you gave him strength and power beyond himself?” he asked.

Karak shook his head. “How disappointing that you do not see the truth even now. The universe is fickle, and that which is given always requires payment. Gregorian’s faith was a conduit for power…my power. He was in a dire moment of need, with order hanging in the balance, and his belief reached through the ether, borrowing a small piece of the fire that burns within me.”

“The same as with my own abilities? All of your followers’ power must come from you?”

“Correct.”

“So without you, we would merely be human.”

“Without me, none of you would exist.”

Good point, Velixar thought. “Did you feel it when it occurred?”

The god laughed. “The energy he borrowed was tiny, like a single blade of grass in a field hundreds of miles wide. I felt nothing.”

“How much power do you have at your disposal?”

Karak glanced away, raising an eyebrow.

“It is finite,” he said. “For now, that is the only answer I can give.”

Excitement hummed through Velixar’s veins, and on reflex, he searched for writing implements. The space was empty but for the two slabs and the bodies that rested on them. With a pang, he remembered what had been stolen from him, and he curled his hands into fists, breathing heavily. A disgusted grunt left his mouth.

“You are fretting about the book,” Karak said.

“It is not just any book, my Lord. All of the knowledge I have gleaned since you and Ashhur created me is written within it. There are passages of great power in there, ones that may be used against us if your brother recognizes the journal’s worth, which he most certainly will. Should that occur, any advantage we have may be lost.”

“The journal may not be on its way to Ashhur,” Karak said. “Your certainty in Patrick DuTaureau’s thievery is unwarranted.”

“Who else might have taken it?” Velixar asked. “The book vanished that very night, while I was away from my tent. I can think of no other reason for the mutant’s presence in our camp. Besides, Ashhur knows of the journal, as do many others in this godsforsaken land. It would not surprise me in the slightest if your brother were the one who sent Patrick after it. And if he knows of my plan with the demon…”

Karak looked at him sidelong, a glance Velixar returned.

“Darakken, my Lord. I have studied his memories, and within the elven tombs I found many secrets, some showed to me by Errdroth Plentos, some of which he would have preferred I never discovered. The spells to banish the beast are complicated and cannot be remembered, but I did find them in writing. Over the past months, I’ve worked to reverse the spell, to resummon-”

Karak shook his head, interrupting him, and he seemed strangely undisturbed.

“Once again, Prophet, you forget your place. Why would I, a part of the deity who originally created the beast, require a book written by you to make it whole again?”

“You know the spell?”

Karak laughed. “There is no spell, Prophet. What these hands created, these hands can bring back once more.”

Velixar stepped back, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Ashhur lied,” he whispered.

“My brother is incapable of lying, Prophet.”

“He told me resurrection is impossible. He would not bring Brienna back to…would not bring the elf girl back for Jacob.”

“The elf was not his creation.”

“But if I were to perish, he could have brought me back? You could do the same?”

The god pursed his lips and squinted. After a few moments of silence, he replied, “It depends.”

“On what?”

“Think on it, Prophet. The demons were cast away from this dimension by Celestia, their bodies destroyed while their essences were trapped in nothingness. Yet there was one demon who perished in the great war with the elves, was there not?”

“Yes. Sluggoth.”

“You brought back the other two. Why not him?”

Velixar closed his eyes, thinking back to the moment when his entire life had been obliterated into something new.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I reached for it, but it just wasn’t…there.”

“It was killed, not banished,” Karak said. “And as time passes, the essence continues on to its final resting place. It populates the abyss below Afram, a ghost among ghosts. The longer it is there, undisturbed, the greater the difficulty. To bring it back to mortality? A soul can be separated from a body, but it must immediately be trapped or placed within another. The moment the soul transcends the barriers between this world and Afram, bringing it back becomes near impossible. Perhaps Ashhur could have brought back this Brienna, but it would have only been a shadowed form of her, disjointed and in a body doomed to rot and break. Either that, or she could have been brought back as a ghost, barely able to hear or understand the sight and sound of you. I am surprised that you did not realize this in all your wisdom.”

“I am sorry to have disappointed you,” Velixar said, dropping to one knee. Again, he’d been shown that he was lesser than he thought himself to be, yet instead of letting it frustrate him, he let it remind him why he had sworn his life to Karak. Better to think on that than to relent to thoughts of Brienna.

The god dismissed his apology with a wave. “Enough. Stand up.”

With that, Karak stepped up to the two corpses and placed his hands on them. Both burst into layers of raging black flames. Their dead flesh charred and melted off their bones, and then their bones caught fire as well, succumbing to the flames’ hunger until the slabs contained nothing but two human-shaped outlines in ash. Velixar drew back from the scene, remembering a similar one that had taken place many months before, when the lifeless form of that beautiful elf had been handed the same fate by Ashhur.

Velixar cringed, his heart sinking once more.

“Do not be dismayed,” the god told him, misreading his expression. “Fret not about Darakken, Prophet. If what I plan comes to pass, we will have no more need for the creature. But I need you, Velixar, the swallower of demons. No matter what your failings, you are still my greatest disciple. I handed you the medallion and named you High Prophet for a reason.”

Velixar bowed, taken aback by the uncommon espousal, but the taint of his failure was still like a festering boil on his soul. No matter what his god told him, no matter how strongly the pendant pulsed on his chest, he could not let it go. He wanted to discuss these matters with someone other than his deity, wanted to talk with someone like Roland, a receptive ear with a desire to learn, only one who would not turn away from him.

That man exists, he reminded himself. I will seek him out tomorrow, and perhaps I will ride with him all the way to Mordeina.

“Now go get your rest, High Prophet,” Karak said. “Tomorrow we march, and victory will not be very far behind.”

Come high noon the following day, after fifteen thousand men packed up their belongings, donned their armor and weapons, and joined their formations, the new Lord Commander gave the order to advance. Line by line they marched over the bridge, armor clattering, horses plodding, banners floating limply in the stifling summer air.

Velixar remained at the side, watching man after man clomp onto the Wooden Bridge. Nearly six hours had passed by the time the wagons that took up the rear, including the one that had housed Lanike Crestwell, bounded onto the bridge’s sturdy slats. Velixar sat tall on his charger, fingers tapping Lionsbane’s hilt, his lips tightening into a thin white line of concern, before he finally shook his horse’s reins and guided the beast to follow the rest.

He had spent the morning searching for Boris Marchant, questioning the young soldier’s superiors and even those who served in his platoon. None of them knew Boris’s whereabouts, so Velixar had resigned himself to carefully examining every soldier who crossed the bridge. Still, he had never once seen Boris’s face. He concluded that the young man must have fallen prey to one of the wolf-men’s claws. He shook his head, feeling foolish for his sorrow. There were other capable students here, young men who would serve him just as well. When all was said and done, he would find another.