Wrath of Lions

EPILOGUE

The courtyard of Palace Thyne was filled to near capacity. The Quellan Ekreissar were situated to the right, heads held high and fists pressed firmly over their hearts. The elves glared across the courtyard at the human soldiers, who stood tall and proud as well, their polished armor gleaming under the late afternoon sun.

There was obvious dislike between the two groups, and Ceredon couldn’t help but think that was foolish, seeing as they were the same beings wearing different skins. Both sides followed the orders of their superiors, seemingly without question; both sides would take an innocent life if it were demanded of them. All of which made the disdain they showed one another laughable.

“A soldier is noble,” he whispered through his gag. “A soldier protects those who cannot protect themselves.”

Those had been the words of Cleotis Meln, the dearly departed Lord of Stonewood. Ceredon had heard him say that to his father, the Neyvar, during the Tournament of Betrothal so many months ago. He knew not the topic of their discussion or why such a subject would even be broached. All he knew was that there was noble wisdom in the simple statement, the type that seemed to have been banished from Dezrel.

Cleotis was dead, so was the Neyvar, so were the Thynes, so was Tantric and the rebellion. All those who had sought to end suffering and fight for goodness, had themselves been ended. Celestia, he thought, you wished me to be your champion, but champion of what?

His forearm itched, and he instinctively attempted to scratch it, but the effort was futile. His hands and feet were strapped to a pair of crisscrossing beams, which were themselves strapped to a tall pole that was displayed high above the congregation. He sighed and worked his arm up and down, but he only succeeded in worsening the sensation. Sucking in his lip, he let his body fall forward, feeling his hips and shoulders stretch as gravity pulled at him. He wondered how long it would take before his joints were strained to their limits and popped.

Down below, the soldiers from either side ignored him, but that did not mean he went unseen. Many of the Dezren, gathered in a massive throng between the ranks of elf and human warriors, looked in his direction. He could not see their expressions, but he knew they must be terrified. He tried to smile even as pain wracked his body. If I can only give them hope.…

A door slammed, and the engorged form of Clovis Crestwell exited Palace Thyne. The demon in human clothing paced along the dais, with a limping Iolas on one side and the young soldier Boris Morneau on the other. Of the three, only Boris, the human with the odd scar, looked up at Ceredon, wincing when their eyes met. He quickly turned away.

Clovis-Darakken-stopped pacing, moved to the edge of the dais, and held its arms out wide to the thousands gathered there.

“Today,” he shouted, his inhuman voice bounding throughout the valley, “a great bond is being forged. Today, not only do the Quellan, the Dezren, and humans set aside their differences, but all three races unite under the banner of a single cause.”

He paused as if waiting for the crowd to react. The humans and the Ekreissar remained stoic; the Dezren murmured among themselves. The man-creature stepped back, lowered its head, and appeared to argue with itself. Only a moment passed before it was on the edge of the platform once more. This time, it faced the human soldiers.

“Soldiers of the Divinity!” it roared. “Who is it you fight for?”

“KARAK!” they shouted in unison.

“Who is the only true god of this land?”

“KARAK!”

“Who is the order in the chaos whose word is law?”

“KARAK!”

The demon turned to the Quellan. “Do you hear that?” it said. “Your brothers in arms have spoken! Will you not raise your voices along with theirs, proclaiming your loyalties to the heavens?”

Silence.

Iolas touched the massive half-human thing on the arm, wincing when its head snapped around. He moved in front of Darakken to address the crowd.

“Ekreissar, our leader is no more. The Neyvar died a traitor, and his son will die the same. Celestia has abandoned us in our time of need. We are alone in this world, but we need not be! Karak is willing to accept us into his arms, if only we will join his cause. Although he might not be able to restore all that we have lost, he will give us land aplenty, fertile land where our crops will grow, expansive lands where our children can grow up happy, living lands where there is rich game! It is Karak who has promised this to you, not Celestia, not the fickle goddess who ripped our homes from us!”

Ceredon struggled in his restraints, biting down on his gag. He could not believe what he was hearing, could not believe the muttering that washed through the ranks of the Ekreissar. They would never, he thought. We may be a cynical race, but we would never turn our backs on the one who created us.…

“All you must do,” said Darakken, “is bend your knee and pledge your loyalty to the Divinity! All you must do is submit, and not only will you receive the lands you desired, but all of Paradise, to live on as you choose! No longer will you be subservient to any god. You will be conquerors!”

A voice rose up, but not from the Ekreissar. Ceredon strained his eyes and peered into the throng of Dezren.

“Karak, Karak, Karak,” it began, a low murmur and nothing more. “Karak, Karak, Karak.” From his vantage point above it all, Ceredon could see what was really happening. A pair of young Dezren males was making the cries at knifepoint, threatened by humans dressed in the simple greens and browns of the elves. They raised their voices louder. “Karak, Karak, Karak!”

Darakken turned to face the downtrodden citizens.

“The nation of Ker must burn!” he shouted. “Unleash your vengeance on those who have surrounded your lands, pushing you deeper into your forests, hunting your game, betraying your lawful boundaries. By the sword, by the spear, and by the bow, slaughter my enemies and take these lands for your own. Join your brothers in praise. Your bonds will be lifted, and your emerald city will be set free if you pledge your love to Karak!”

“Karak, Karak, Karak!” echoed all the louder.

The demon leapt off the dais and stormed toward the Ekreissar. Now the chants were virtually deafening as the soldiers joined their voices with the desperate Dezren. Darakken tilted its head slightly, its eyes glowing faintly in the blinding sun, and winked at Ceredon. “Glory will be yours!” it shouted, turning around once more. “Prosperity will be yours! Paradise will be yours! Ker must burn!”

Then it began. The rangers in front holding staffs began to beat them into the ground, creating a cadenced beat, followed by thousands of voices. “KARAK, KARAK, KARAK!” shouted the crowd. Iolas fell to his knees, shouting the name of the deity along with the rest. Soon everyone in the courtyard was on their knees save Darakken, all with the same name on their lips.

The voices filled Ceredon’s head, squeezing his brain inside his skull. The demon then turned to face him again, holding its almost-human arms out wide in victory, baring its pointed teeth as the refrain was chanted over and over again.

“KARAK!”

“KARAK!”

“KARAK!”