David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Avila’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you enter my chambers and speak so to me? Have you forgotten your place, Captain ?”

“I have not,” Malcolm said. “I am here to be your council, your advisor. And I advise you that the path you are taking is wrong.”

“I am a free women, a child of the First Family of Neldar. I will take whatever path I choose.”

“Even if that path leads away from Karak? You are being influenced by a demon in an angel’s guise.” He pointed toward the curtain hiding Willa. “You have fallen from Karak’s grace. Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. Those whose lives you spared today were unworthy of such a gift. They should have been cut down where they stood.”

“They are to be converted,” Avila answered. Inside she was shaking. “Our purpose is to bring order to the people of the west, not death. Which would Karak rather have, an army of corpses, or an army of believers?”

Malcolm shrugged. “It matters not what I think, only what I know you must do. If you do not sacrifice them, then another is required. I know you love the girl…and now you must cut her down to prove to Karak you still love him most of all.”

Avila stared him down, her two eyes to his one.

“Get…out,” she seethed, then shot up from her chair to retrieve Integrity.

“You wake up each morning sore,” Malcolm said. “You suffer from headaches, your muscles spasm, and your legs grow weaker each day. Where once your hands were smooth, now they are rough to the touch.”

On hearing his words, she stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Malcolm approached her slowly, measuring each step, until he was close enough to touch her. He lifted his hand and traced the outline of her eye with his finger.

“There are grooves here now, the creases of age. They are small at the moment, but they will grow larger, more prevalent, as time goes on. You are no longer ageless, Avila. Karak is no longer first in your heart.”

She closed her eyes as he sketched out the new lines in her flesh. He didn’t lie. She had noticed the signs herself. His hand withdrew, and he held her close, palm resting on the small of her back.

“You have lived your whole life in servitude, Avila,” he said softly. “I understand this. You have removed yourself from people, from the human pleasures all of Karak’s children seek out every day. You want to feel like a woman. Let it be me who makes you feel that way. Use my body, decimate it if you wish, wring my throat if you must. That is my sacrifice to you, so that you may find your way back to our god. But you must turn away from this lie that has enraptured you. There can be no more forgiving those that do not deserve forgiveness. This child is slowly warping you, turning you into a creature I do not know. I want the old Avila back, the woman who was the most trusted child of the Highest himself, who judged the guilty with swiftness and brutality, who would never once think of turning her back on her god. That woman, the true Lord Commander, needs to return. Do you not want the same?”

Avila let out a short gasp of air, confused by his words, his touch.

“I do,” she whispered, though there was no thought behind the words. All she felt was horror at the idea that Karak might be displeased with her.

“Then do what must be done,” Malcolm whispered. “Lay her on the altar of order and become the lioness once more.”

Her eyes snapped open. She saw Malcolm’s face before her, the candlelight washing out his features into sickly yellows and reds. She glanced at the curtain, then back at his nodding head. In her mind’s eye she saw Willa, broken and bloodied, laid out on the ground just like the girl Malcolm had raped and murdered in his life before. Karak would never demand such atrocities! she silently screamed. Rage filled her, and she shoved him away. Dashing to her bedroll, she yanked Integrity from its scabbard and pointed it at him. Despite her anger, the tip did not waver.

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and seething. “Get out and do not return to my quarters.”

Malcolm straightened himself, his soldier’s resolve restored, and bowed.

“As you wish, Lord Commander. I only desired to help.”

“To help? To help ? Instructing me to slaughter an innocent child is not helping, you bastard.”

He shook his head.

“Innocence is a false principle,” he said quietly. “It saddens me you that have become so lost.”

“Leave. Now .”

The captain turned and headed for the entrance, pausing once he shoved the flap aside. He turned to her one final time.

“We will reach the Wooden Bridge in two days’ time,” he said. “The other divisions will be there, Karak with them. Do not think that the changes in you will go unnoticed by the Divinity. I will tell him myself if I must. My loyalty is to him, Avila, not you. Best you remember that.”

Malcolm slipped out the entrance, and the flap fell down behind him, fluttering like ocean waves. Panic hitting her full in the chest, Avila dashed across the pavilion, tore aside Willa’s curtain, and dropped down beside the girl, gathering her in an embrace. The child’s eyes flickered opened, and she offered a sleepy yawn.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing, little one. Close your eyes. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear.”

For the rest of that night Avila didn’t sleep, proving how little she believed her own words.

The back of his head throbbed, and when he touched the sore spot, he felt a massive knot beneath his sodden hair. It was a burning pain, very much unlike the gash on the side of his face, which stung like a hundred needles poking him at once. Velixar grunted and spit onto the wet ground. He peered over his shoulder, spied the Wooden Bridge sitting there vacant, surrounded by the corpses of Wardens, wolf-men, and humans, both his soldiers and those who had tried to defend the bridge. He would have cursed aloud at the sight of them, but a hacking fit overtook him and he doubled over.

“Here, take it.”

Velixar saw a man holding a cloth down to him, and he took it, using it to wipe the phlegm from his lips, the blood from his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said, offering the cloth back. Captain Wellington stuffed it into a side pocket. The captain appeared nervous as he paced between Velixar and his remaining troops, the healthy tending to the injured. Velixar sighed and touched the knot on the back of his head once more. He fully understood the captain’s edginess, for in the distance was the sound of thousands of marching feet.

This time he did curse, though it didn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

They had been right there. Roland and Azariah, the closest remnants of his past had been standing right before him, ripe for the slaughter. They should have been defenseless against his might, yet the power he was so proud of had fled from him at the moment of his conquest. One moment he had been Velixar, master of demons; the next, he had been Jacob Eveningstar again-learned, ageless, superior in his own way, yet still merely a man. His insides ran hot with rage. He promised himself that the next time their paths crossed, the two would suffer long, torturous deaths.

The muted thump of marching feet grew ever louder.

If Karak doesn’t end me first, he thought.

He reached beneath his surcoat and pulled out his pendant. It felt heavy in his hands, as great a weight as a lifetime of sin on a man’s soul. He released the pendant, letting it dangle from its leather strap. For the briefest of moments he considered tearing it from his neck, tossing it to the ground and stomping on it before climbing onto his horse and galloping into the forest. If the gods were kind, he could make the Tinderlands in a week and disappear into the rocky, desolate wilderness for the rest of his endless days.