Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 39

For days without end, Ceredon blinked in and out of consciousness, the potions the Quellan healers had given him to ease his pain leaving him in a state of delirium. At times he cursed his foolishness for demanding that Thane be so brutal.

He rolled over in bed, a spike of pain stabbing through him. His left arm had been broken, along with five ribs, his right foot, and his nose. His body was covered with lacerations and deep gouges which the healers had treated with boiling wine to ward off infection. Biden, sworn healer to the Neyvar, had told him he was lucky to have survived. Ceredon had chuckled at that, knowing as he did that luck had nothing to do with it.

Ceredon had been found on the path to the hills by the retreating Ekreissar, who were fleeing from the rebel’s supposed hideaway. Sixteen had been killed by booby traps-swinging spiked logs, deep covered holes, and bolts fired by tripwire. After stumbling on Ceredon’s unmoving body, they’d scooped him up and carried him back to Palace Thyne. Ever since, he had resided in the room down the hall from his father’s.

The human Clovis Crestwell had come to question him more than once, asking him why he and Aeson had been separated from the rangers, a question to which Ceredon always shrugged in response. He claimed he couldn’t remember, which wasn’t a complete lie. His brain had been jarred by Thane’s beating, leaving him with only spotty memories of that night.

At least he was spared questions regarding Aeson’s whereabouts, as pieces of the Neyvar’s cousin had been found scattered throughout the forest in the days following the attack. Iolas had broken the sad news to him, the old bastard nearly in tears as he sat on the edge of the younger elf’s sickbed. Ceredon found it quite humorous that Iolas trusted him enough to show weakness, considering the fact that the last living member of the Triad was the final one on his hit list.

Thoughts of Iolas brought him to wakefulness. He sat up groggily, glancing about his shimmering emerald room, then through the window at the night sky twinkling with stars. He wore no clothes, and the wounds covering his body still stung beneath their wrappings. His mouth felt parched, so he reached over and snatched a cup of water from atop the table next to his bed. After he downed the liquid in one gulp, his senses began to return to him, which was when he smelled the lingering odor of the half-full chamber pot on the floor beside him. He doubled over, gagging, then reached for the wooden jug that sat on the table for more water. It was empty.

Groaning, he swung his feet over the side of the featherbed, making sure he gave the chamber pot a wide berth. When his bare toes touched the cool crystal of the floor, a shiver rocked his spine, bringing on a new spasm of pain. He accepted the torment, flattening his feet against the ground until the feeling subsided. He flexed his broken right foot, which was expertly wrapped. The bones had been set and were healing nicely, or so Biden had told him. Still, he’d been assured that he would feel echoes of this injury for a long while, possibly even decades.

Once again, Ceredon cursed Thane’s effectiveness.

There was a long walking rod propped against the wall, and Ceredon grabbed it before standing up. He wedged the padded top of the rod into his right armpit and rose to his feet. Using the rod to put as little weight as possible on his broken foot, he hopped toward the door, the empty pitcher dangling from his other hand.

He knew he could shout for help, but the hour was late, and most in the palace were likely asleep. Besides, he couldn’t stand to be alone in his room any longer. He felt completely in the dark, limited by the knowledge that Iolas and Clovis were willing to share. He knew nothing about the status of the rebellion or how his father felt about the whole situation. The Neyvar hadn’t once come to see him, and that fact alone led Ceredon to wonder if he had completely misread his father from the beginning. He hoped not.

The hall was empty when he exited his room, just as he’d expected. He hobbled down the stairs, taking care to hop down a step at a time, and each time he landed, new agony shook his battered body. He paused and glanced down. His room was on the seventh story. That meant he had a hundred steps and six turns to go until he reached the ground level. He groaned, sucked in a deep breath, and hopped down yet another step.

It took him nearly a full hour to reach the bottom, and by the time he got there, he was in so much misery that he had to lean against the wall to wait for the worst of the pangs to ebb. When they did, he got moving once more, working his way slowly through the vestibule, heading for the Chamber of Assembly, where a fountain of water bubbled up from a spring far below the palace.

He paused at the sound of someone’s approach. A shadow appeared at the end of the long hallway that led to the chamber where Clovis was residing during his stay in the emerald city. The shadow grew longer, taller, and the sound of metal clinking on crystal echoed all around the approaching figure. Ceredon froze in place, a feeling of dread coming over him. In his pain-wracked mind he saw the spirits of those he had helped slay, from Teradon to Conall, to Aeson, coming for him. He wished he had brought a weapon with him-a dagger, a length of rope, anything. He then realized that he’d be in no shape to defend himself in any case.

The shadows were eventually cast aside by the flickering torches, revealing the figure to be neither a ghost nor Clovis, but a young soldier. He was handsome in a human way, wearing his armor adorned with the roaring lion as if it were a second skin. His eyes were kind, and he possessed a head of wavy dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. Ceredon teetered to the side and lost his balance. Taking in the sight of him, the young man squinted and picked up his pace.

“By Karak, you look like shit,” the soldier said, hastily throwing his arms around Ceredon to keep him from falling. “Whoa there, I have you.”

Ceredon leaned into the man, thankful for his strong arms and quick actions. When he took a closer look at the soldier, he saw that he had an odd, diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.

“Thank you,” Ceredon said in the common tongue. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

The soldier paused, then said, “You can call me Boris Morneau. And there’s a good reason we haven’t met. I only arrived a few hours ago.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

“Information,” Boris said proudly. “I had an urgent message for Master Clovis.”

“Oh. And what was that message?”

Boris looked at him sidelong. “I’m sorry, my message was for Master Crestwell’s ears only,” he said. “And besides, you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“My apologies,” Ceredon said with a chuckle. “Ceredon Sinistel, at your…actually, in your service.”

“Ceredon? As in son of the Neyvar?”

“The one and only.”

“Well, what do you know? I just arrived in Dezerea, and I’ve already met a prince.” His head cocked to the other side. “Granted, a very injured prince, but still. What in the world happened to you?”

“Short, uninteresting story. However, do you think you could do me the favor of helping me to the big room down the hall?” He lifted the wooden pitcher, an action that hurt like hell with his broken arm. “I was not thinking and attempted to retrieve some water for myself despite my…condition. If you were to lend me your shoulder, I promise you this prince will never forget it.”

“Of course. Consider me at your service.”

With Boris’s help, it took no time at all to reach the Chamber of Assembly. The young soldier even went so far as to fill the pitcher for him, then fetched a cup for him to drink from. It was while he was mid-gulp that a shrill scream pierced the night air.

“What was that?” he asked Boris.

The soldier shook his head. “I told you. I came with a message for Master Crestwell. I never said it was a good message.”

“I see.”

Boris steered him out of the chamber and back down the hall, heading for the stairwell. It was then that Biden came tearing around the corner, eyes wide with fright. When the healer spotted Ceredon, he stopped short.

“My lord, what are you doing down here?” Biden exclaimed in elvish.

“I needed water,” Ceredon said, as if the agonizing trip down to the lowest floor had been nothing.

“You should have told someone,” the healer said, panting. “You frightened me half to death. If you had been taken…”

“Why would I have been taken? By whom?”

“Why, by the rebellion.” Biden looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“There was an attempt on Councilor Iolas’s life tonight. One of the insurgents snuck into his room and attempted to put a dagger through his heart. If the guard on duty had not gone in to check on him, he would have perished.”

Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. “Oh,” was all he could say.

Biden walked up to him, looking him over. “At least you seem to be healing, my lord. How does your foot feel?”

“Like it’s the size of a watermelon.”

“But at least you can feel it. This young man assisted you down the stairs?”

He thought of telling the truth, but instead said, “He did.”

“Thank goodness for him.” Biden looked at Boris. “And what is the human’s name?”

Boris stared at him, dumbfounded.

Biden chuckled and switched to the common tongue. “Many apologies. I am simply wondering the name of the human who assisted my prince in his time of need.”

“Boris,” he replied. He looked as if he were about to speak his last name as well, but he tripped over the word and fell silent.

Ceredon grabbed the healer by the sleeve of his robe. “Biden,” he said, switching back to his native tongue, “enough of this, I feel fine. Tell me what happened to Iolas. You said he was attacked, but was he injured? If so, was it serious?”

The healer shook his head. “The guard put an arrow through the rebel’s heart before he had a chance to do him any harm. However…”

“Go on, Biden. Tell me.”

The healer looked around, then said, “Iolas does not feel safe here any longer. As the last of the Triad, he is returning to Quellassar to name two new members of the sacred trinity. It is an obligation he has been putting off for weeks.”

“And the attack gave him reason,” Ceredon muttered.

“Indeed,” said Biden.

“When does he leave? Has he decided?”

“Three days.” The healer cocked his head, staring closely at Ceredon’s face. “My prince, do you wish for my help in returning to your room? You have grown pale.”

Ceredon shook his head. “I am sure my friend Boris can manage. You must have things to do.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Very well,” Biden said. “I must check on your father. But I will be back to look in on you as well. Try to remain in your bed from now on. I will send two guards to keep watch over you until morning.”

Ceredon nodded to the healer, who then ambled away, heading for the main entrance to the palace. He shook his head, feeling his insides tense. Iolas could not be allowed to perish by any hand other than his, but he could not be allowed to return to Quellassar either. Ceredon would need to take care of him in the next two days…which, given his condition, would be a near impossible task.

“What was that about?” Boris asked.

Ceredon looked at the young soldier and shook his head. “You weren’t the only one delivering bad news this night,” he said, leaving it at that.

“Oh. I see. What will you do about this ‘bad news’?”

“Honestly, my new friend? I have not a clue.”

Two days later, Ceredon set his plan in motion. Lord and Lady Thyne had visited him briefly, and before they left, Orden had dropped a scrap of paper into Ceredon’s hand. Scrawled on it were five words:

Two days-light a fire.

Ceredon hoped he was strong enough to pull it off and that he understood what it meant. Luckily, Biden had come to him with a new concoction of wickroot, ground coffee, and ground poplar seeds to help ease his agony. The potion was strong, and the pain wracking his body subsided less than an hour after the bitter fluid had slipped down his gullet. In fact, it was as if his flesh had been made numb. Even the ache of his mending bones was reduced to a dull throb. That, combined with the jug of strong brandy he had requested earlier in the day, made him feel better than he had in ages.

He waited for the song of the whippoorwills to begin, the irksome whooping that signaled the witching hour, before slipping out of bed, a box of tindersticks clenched between his teeth. Dragging the jug of brandy behind him, he crawled across the floor. Once he reached the window, he rose up on his knees, ripped a piece of cloth from his nightshirt, and stuffed it inside the mouth of the bottle. When it was firmly in place, he struck one of the tindersticks against the flint, setting it alight. He held the flame to the cloth, and it caught quickly. It took a few moments for the fire to gain force, and then he threw the jug from the open window as hard as he could. He watched it soar through the air, unseen by the Ekreissar who paced below, until it struck the ground. The jug shattered, the fire igniting the brandy inside. Spigots of flame shot in all directions, and the guards began to shout. Then came the whoosh of arrow and the battle cry of the insurgents. Steel clashed and rangers bellowed out orders. Ceredon ducked from the window before any could see him, then crawled to the door.

He rose unsteadily and opened it.

The guards turned to him quizzically. “Prince Ceredon?” one said.

“Do you not hear that?”

The walls of the palace were thick and almost soundproof.

“No,” one of the guards said.

“The insurgency is attacking! Your brothers need you.”

“Huh?”

Ceredon hobbled to the side, opening the door wider. “Go, see for yourself,” he said.

The two guards rushed into the room and peered out the window, from which emanated a red glow and the unmistakable sounds of conflict. They turned to him and nodded, then rushed into the hall.

“The rebels are attacking!” they shouted to the other guards. A dozen booted feet thudded against the crystal floor as the Ekreissar raced down the stairwell and disappeared from view. Only one remained behind in Ceredon’s room.

“Should you not join them?” he asked.

“My duty is to watch over you, my prince,” the ranger replied. “You are injured. Should any insurgent climb the walls, you would be an easy target.”

The guard turned toward the door, readying his khandar. Ceredon had expected this turn of events, though he was surprised that only one of them had stayed.

With the guard’s back to him, Ceredon stealthily grabbed his walking rod and raised it above his head. He took a few hobbling steps forward and, just as the ranger began to swivel in his direction, brought it down as hard as he could. The wood thumped against the side of the guard’s head, and Ceredon heard a snap as the fragile bones of the elf’s temple broke. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed backward, thudding on the crystal floor.

Ceredon stood over the felled ranger, giving him another two violent whacks to make sure he stayed dead. The elf’s face was a bloodied mess when Ceredon painfully bent over and slipped the dagger from his belt. When the body was found, it would be plainly obvious what had happened, but Ceredon did nothing to cover his tracks. He no longer cared to hide his involvement, even though he knew what that might mean for him. Killing Iolas was all that mattered.

He took a deep breath and tucked the weapon into the rope around his waist, before hopping on one foot into the hallway and then dropping to his hands and knees. Luck seemed to be smiling down on him. Not only had Iolas moved to the seventh floor of the palace from the sixth-“to consolidate our protection,” he had said-but every other part of his cobbled together plan had come together perfectly. He just hoped the rebels could hold on for a little while longer.

The door to Iolas’s chambers swung open, and Ceredon flopped to the side in a panic. He groaned and held his side, hoping that the old elf hadn’t seen him crawling down the hall. Iolas was beside him a moment later, holding up his head with hands twisted from the weight of nearly five hundred years on Dezrel.

“Ceredon, my prince, what are you doing out of bed?” he asked. Ceredon glanced up at him, saw the way his eyes were flicking from one corner of the hall to the other. “What is that noise outside? Where are the guards?” Iolas asked, panic creeping into his voice. “There were supposed to be guards!”

“Insurgents…attacking…” Ceredon said, feigning injury. “Fires spreading…outside.”

Iolas’s face went even whiter than it normally was.

“Come, young prince,” he said, grabbing tight to Ceredon’s nightshirt and pulling him along the crystal floor. “Come into my room, and we will be safe there together.”

One of us will be, Ceredon thought.

Iolas might be old, but his strength was impressive. In no time at all, he had dragged Ceredon the thirty feet or so into his quarters and slammed the door shut. After barring it from the inside, he bolted for the opposite side of the room, cracking open the blinds to peer down at the courtyard. From his position on the floor, Ceredon could hear the guards still running and shouting below them and the clang of steel, but the sounds were less urgent than before. He didn’t have much time, though he allowed himself a moment to pray that Tantric hadn’t lost too many men.

“It seems quiet out there now,” said Iolas. He glanced at Ceredon and offered a nervous smile. “Perhaps the rebels have moved on.”

“Perhaps.”

Grinding his teeth, Ceredon dug his knuckles into the hard floor and pushed himself upright. This time pain did come, and he grunted against it. Iolas turned to him as Ceredon forced his body to stand.

“Stay on the ground,” the older elf said. “You will be safer that way.”

Iolas turned his back, and Ceredon sat up, pulling the dagger from within his breeches. The blade reflected the light bouncing off the emerald walls, which he had not expected. Iolas caught sight of the glimmer and spun around.

“My prince, what are you doing?”

Ceredon staggered to his feet, stalking the old elf with the dagger.

“I am correcting a wrong,” he said, huffing. “Correcting a great many wrongs, as a matter of fact.”

Iolas moved away from him, his back to the wall. He hopped up on the bed, then jumped down on the other side, and Ceredon mimicked his movements, like a desert cat playing with its prey.

“Stop this, Ceredon!” Iolas said, panic in his voice. “If you kill me, you are done for. Everyone will know.”

“I don’t care,” Ceredon snapped back. “I tire of games, I tire of the quest for power, I tire of the gods and their useless pissing match. What I do now, I do for revenge. Conall, Aeson, and now you. You say death to traitors, Iolas? I agree completely.”

The elder elf’s mouth went slack. “My cousins…”

“Yes,” Ceredon said, and then lunged with the dagger, forcing Iolas to scamper over the bed once more.

“But why?” Iolas pleaded. “We are your people…your family!”

“Family?” Ceredon barked, unable to suppress a laugh. “My family would not murder children. My family would not enslave an entire race. No, you’re no family of mine.”

He lunged again, and Iolas ran from the bed. Ceredon noticed him eyeing the door, and he silently hoped the old elf would try for it. If he did, his struggles with the bar would give Ceredon time to fall upon him. As things were, this was taking far too long.

“This has been your plan…all along…,” Iolas said, backing toward the opposite side of the room.

Ceredon lurched after him, not saying a word.

“The delegation from Stonewood escaping…skirmishes with the rebels…the constant traps and ambushes. Those were you, as well?”

Ceredon dug his broken foot into the floor, pushing himself onward, getting ever closer.

“Answer me, Ceredon,” Iolas said. He had reached the far wall and was trapped beside the closet door. “I deserve that much.”

“Yes,” Ceredon growled. “All me.”

He lunged, dagger leading, its killing edge aimed for Iolas’s throat. Iolas screamed and threw his hands up to block the blow. The blade sank into his forearm, causing him to shriek all the louder. Blood spurted when Ceredon ripped the dagger free, splashing against his cheeks, dripping off his chin.

“Now, damn you!” Iolas bellowed in the common tongue. “He has confessed! Do it now!”

Before Ceredon could react, the closet door burst open, striking his left arm as it swung violently outward. New rivers of agony flooded him, and he collapsed to the floor, howling. He lost his grip on the dagger, which skittered across the floor. From the closet emerged three armored humans bearing the sigil of Karak who descended on him, showering him with fists, thrusting the back of his head against the crystal floor again and again. The whole while, Iolas shrieked.

Then came a loud cracking sound, and the room was bathed in light.

“Stop!” a familiar, terrible voice shouted. Those who had beaten him backed away, allowing him to rise on his elbows. Blood dripped from his lips, and his entire body was awash with torment.

“You hit…like human girls,” the newcomer spat.

Black boots entered his vision, the right foot tapping. Ceredon could hold himself up no longer. He collapsed onto his side and craned his neck to see the face of Clovis Crestwell staring down at him. The human’s features appeared larger than normal, and his eyes glowed a brilliant crimson. It looked as if something alive were squirming beneath his scalp. Ceredon began to laugh at the absurdity of it, clutching at his newly cracked ribs with each painful guffaw.

“Please…a healer…help me…,” he heard Iolas whine.

Clovis’s twin voice spoke again, only this time the gruffer layer, the one that sounded much less than human, took precedence.

“Get the sniveling fool out of here. And you had best silence yourself before I decide you look too tempting not to have a taste, old elf.”

Ceredon stopped his laughing and watched as two soldiers dragged Iolas from the room. The wicked gash in his arm left a trail of blood on the floor behind him, and Clovis ogled it like a starving man eyeing a roasting chicken. The red-eyed human then returned his attention to Ceredon. He smiled, revealing a mouth that was too wide, filled with too many teeth.

“You know not whom you deal with,” the man said, only to call him a man would be sacrilege. His cheeks shifted, his ears bulged, and his forehead retreated. His every feature was in a constant state of flux, and his voice now seemed to hold no human qualities whatsoever. Ceredon squeezed his eyes shut, certain the potion he had taken was giving him illusions.

“You will learn,” that bestial voice spoke into his ear. “I will keep you alive, and you will watch them suffer for what you’ve done.”

A sharp blow landed in the center of Ceredon’s face, bringing stars to his vision. A moment later, his world went black.