David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

She thought again of her own mother, whom she had not seen for nearly a year. She missed her so, just as she did her father, although she would never have admitted it in the past, for it would have meant admitting to weakness, and Lord Commander Avila Crestwell was not weak.

Sighing, she placed Willa’s hands over her chest and rose from her lounging position. Fastening a curtain to shield the girl from the brightness, she lit the candles on her desk. The light danced off the canvas walls of the pavilion, creating shadows that became formless monsters, beasts bent on destroying the child behind the curtain. There was nothing out there, she knew, but she shivered nonetheless. That was another thing Avila had learned since she’d taken Willa in; while she felt no fear in the face of death, the thought of harm coming to the girl filled her with dread.

She sat down in her chair and moaned at the sudden onset of a backache. This was new as well; her bones constantly throbbed, her hands and feet felt hot all the time, and she was having trouble sleeping. She had often heard of the healing magic possessed by those most devout to Ashhur, and right about now she wished for a touch of it. Her hand came up to trace the scars Crian had given her.

Yes, I could use some healing magic indeed.

Something soft scraped past the entrance flap of the pavilion, making her jump. She instinctively reached for Integrity ( Crian’s old sword ), but it was far away, hanging from a hook beside her bedroll. Tensing, she glanced behind her, listened for Willa’s tiny breaths, and then turned toward the entrance once more. A hand snuck through the fold, pulled the flap aside. For a fleeting moment she thought it was a demon of living shadow, coiling and writhing and ready to suck the life from her little girl. But then Malcolm stepped into the pavilion, and that image faded.

“What are you doing here?” she asked harshly. Realizing she wore nothing but her smallclothes, she hastily grabbed the blanket from the back of her chair, draping it over her body. The impulse surprised her. She had never been one for modesty.

“I wish to talk,” Malcolm said, respectfully bowing his head.

“It is late, Captain, and I require sleep. Return in the morning.”

“This is important, Lord Commander.”

“Important enough to deny my orders?”

Malcolm raised the eyebrow over his good eye. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

She shook her head in resignation and kicked at the chair opposite her, knocking it back a foot. Malcolm took the hint and approached, sitting down beside her. His posture was rigid, professional, but then again, that was Malcolm. She had only seen him drop his soldier’s discipline once, and that had been the night she’d kicked him out of her bed.

“So speak, Captain. I do not wish to be up all hours.”

Malcolm leaned forward, his elbows jabbing into his knees. His fingers traced the knobby scars that crossed over his milky left eye.

“Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?”

“Everyone knows, Captain. They were given to you by the Final Judges, when you proved your loyalty to Karak and earned your life.”

“Yes, but do you know why I was placed before the Judges in the first place?”

Avila drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting.

“I was a wild youth,” he said with a grimace. “I loved my liquor, I loved to fight, and I loved the ladies. I entered the academy, expecting a high position in the City Watch. It was the same position my father had, so I was owed it, right? That’s how I felt anyway. I was lazy, too self-confident for my own good, and I thought my future would be handed to me.

“I lagged in my training, and Vulfram Mori, who was Watch Captain at the time, sent me away. My father tossed me from the house, saying I had brought disrespect to the family, and my mother did nothing to stop him.” He smiled then, though his expression brimmed with disappointment. “That evening I went to the tavern, spent countless hours drowning in my cups. A certain girl struck my fancy, and though I cannot remember her name, I remember her face clearly. Eyes like sapphires, hair like soft wheat, skin pale and supple. I advanced on her, but she wanted none of it. Just like my father, she turned me away. For the rest of the night I watched her laugh and dance with the other maidens, even steal a kiss or two from dullards who could not hold a candle to my strength or station.”

His voice changed, growing cold, distant. Avila shivered, guessing at what came next.

“When the girl left, I followed her. I dragged her into an alley beside the tavern, and then I raped her, stabbed her, and left her to die. Afterward, I made my way to my parents’ house and killed them both as they slept.”

Avila swallowed hard, unsure of how to react. The deed was horrific, far worse than she’d anticipated, yet he spoke of it as though someone else had performed the vile crimes. She felt scared to speak, lest she break the spell and release the drunken, murderous beast from his tale.

“A member of the Watch caught me later,” Malcolm continued. “I was drunk off my heels and covered in blood. Someone had found the girl’s body by then, and it didn’t take them long to put it all together. They found my parents soon after, and by then my fate was sealed. I was arrested and brought before the court, where the Minister sentenced me to death. I called on the Judges, as was my right.”

Rocking forward in his chair, Malcolm met Avila’s gaze.

“Have you ever been in the same room as those lions?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Malcolm chuckled.

“Then you know the Judges are truly frightening creatures. I’m not one to scare easily, but the first time I saw them in that arena I knew true fear. I looked deep into their eyes as they stalked me, and I saw a world charred and broken, a world of death and desolation in which there was no law, no order. It was the underworld, of that I am certain-the embodiment of chaos. Then I saw my own reflection in their eyes. The chaos I saw in their eyes was the same chaos they saw in me. I’m not sure how I knew, but I did. I had become an agent of everything our god strives against. My life was one of slothfulness, pride, anger, drunkenness, and hate. Worthless. I felt more insignificant than the scum at the bottom of a festering wheat barrel. I fell to my knees, but I did not pray for forgiveness, for there is no such thing. Sin can only be absolved through sacrifice, as Karak has long taught. So I lifted my chin to the ceiling of that damned cold arena and offered my neck to the Judges so they could rip it out, releasing me from my sin.”

He rocked again, and he swallowed as if he’d just chewed something.

“Yet they did not kill me. Instead the male, Kayne, held me down while Lilah raked my face, taking my left eye and scarring me for life, ensuring that all who look on me know of my past sins. They then ambled back to their cages, leaving me alive and breathing. After that, Highest Crestwell took me into employ in the Palace Guard. Not once, not in all my days and nights of servitude, have I ever forgotten my sins, nor that the servants of our Lord allowed me to live.”

He stopped then, staring at her with his one good eye without moving.

“An interesting story,” Avila said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “Though I fail to see why the telling of it was worth disobeying my orders and interrupting my rest in the middle of the night.”

“I tell it so you may understand me when I say that though we bear similar scars, we are very different.” He reached out to touch the side of her face. Avila batted his hand away, and he frowned at her. “You have lost your way, Lord Commander. You have forgotten that forgiveness is foreign to us. You have turned your back on our god.”