David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Foolish dreams, he thought. The gods are not kind.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” he whispered to himself. When Captain Wellington approached him once more, offering him a sip from his waterskin, Velixar turned him away. He would seek no comfort, not in the aftermath of abject failure. He would simply await his god’s judgment.

It was an hour before the army came into view, looking like a serpent composed of thousands of bustling ants as the forces marched along the distant road. Another three hours after that, beneath the full heat of midday, they drew close enough for him to make out the roaring lion emblazoned on the banners held aloft at the lead of the procession. Velixar heard one of his soldiers shout. When he turned his head to the left, he saw that Captain Wellington had formed his troops into a defensive horseshoe, pointing arrows and swords at the forest from which the wolf-men had appeared. The foliage shook, the trees swayed, and then men emerged from the woods. Most wore the familiar silver mail over black leather of Karak’s Army, but a few were dressed in russet pants and cured deerhide tunics dyed a deep shade of green. Their skin and hair was like dark satin, their ears pointed. Elves. They were Darakken’s regiment from Dezerea, arriving at the bridge as had been planned. He did not yet sense the demon’s presence. He prayed it had obeyed orders this time and remained in Dezerea. The last thing he wanted was to see that disgusting beast before he had a chance to speak with Karak.

Wellington and the rest of his men retreated to him as the soldiers marching from both directions began setting up camp. The field on the east side of the Wooden Bridge was huge, nearly a half-mile wide, but the combined force overflowed from it like fizz at the head of a mug of ale. They raised tents from the edge of the northern forest to the beginning of the southern grasses, and when Velixar craned his neck to watch the distant road, he saw countless more tents being erected. Only the Gods’ Road itself remained bereft of obstruction, allowing room for the supply wagons to make their way up the line. Food was distributed among the fighting men, and those from Darakken’s regiment, who had been traveling in rougher conditions, began singing boisterous and crude songs as they tore into the salted pork and pickled vegetables that were brought to them.

The whole while, men worked around Velixar and his crew, some offering words of greeting, most giving confused stares. One group of soldiers, their eyes bloodshot and tired, shouted at them to get off their asses and help.

“We should do as they say,” Captain Wellington said, fidgeting on his feet. His men chimed in their agreement.

“No,” Velixar replied. “We stand here, and we wait.”

“For what?”

“For Karak to call on us.”

“Why would he call on us?”

“He won’t,” Velixar admitted with a shake of his head. “He will call on me . But you joined me on this quest, and so our fates are tied together.”

“As you command, High Prophet.”

Wellington crossed his arms over his chest and began to gnaw on his bottom lip. Velixar turned away from him. A small part of him wanted to assure the captain that all would be fine, but he knew there was no such certainty.

Finally, when the sun burned low and red on the horizon, Karak’s colossal carriage snaked its way along the Gods’ Road. The carriage was three times the size of any of the other sixty they had brought with them on the long march west. Drawn by a team of eight massive chargers, it stood twenty feet tall and fifteen feet wide and rolled forward on twelve wheels. The weight was considerable, particularly when Karak was inside, so it moved slowly, a fact that only heightened Velixar’s tension.

When the carriage stopped at last, a mere thirty feet from where Velixar and his men waited, the rest of the camp had been set up; soldiers were relaxing outside their tents, cookfires had been lit, and the horde of smiths that traveled with both parties was collecting weapons for sharpening and armor for oiling. Just as always, the recently erected encampment was deafening. All the noise-numerous voices speaking at once, the clink of the smiths’ hammers, the crackle and pop of fires-mixed into a single, ear-numbing din. Still, Velixar and his company were ignored.

Beside him, Captain Wellington’s stomach rumbled audibly.

When the sun began to set behind the subtle rise of the western mountains, the twenty soldiers who had come in behind Karak’s carriage removed roll after roll of canvas from the storage space beneath the coach and started to assemble the god’s pavilion. Other groups of soldiers tore down their own tents to make room. Only once the pavilion was finished, complete with Karak’s banner fluttering from the pole at the top, did the door to the carriage open and the deity himself step out. All sound, save the snorting of horses and the crackle of flames, immediately ceased.

Velixar fell to his knees, and he heard Wellington and the rest of his personal charges do the same.

Karak cast an imposing shadow in the growing darkness. His dark hair flowed above his shoulders as if alive, while his glowing golden eyes observed everything around him. Unlike three nights ago when Velixar had left camp, the god seemed pleased by what he saw. He did not face his High Prophet, however, nor did he even acknowledge his presence. Instead, he turned north, toward an approaching brigade of thirty elves, who were led by a wide-shouldered beast of a creature dressed in oily black armor that looked like the skin of a reptile. Two swords, just as black as his armor, were crisscrossed over his back.

Karak greeted them with a nod, then began to converse with their leader in the elven tongue. The other captains approached to greet the elves as well. Captain Wellington inched forward on his knees

“What are they saying?” he whispered into Velixar’s ear.

“Karak is thanking the elves for joining his righteous fight,” Velixar whispered back. In truth he could only hear every third word that came from the god’s mouth, but judging from what he could hear and the deity’s body language, he supposed his assumption was correct.

When the conversation ended, the elves bowed as one and made their way back to their camp site. The congregation around Karak dispersed, leaving the deity alone in the center of the Gods’ Road. Finally, Karak pivoted to face Velixar. The sudden silence seemed to stretch for miles. Karak’s hands went to his hips, and he shook his head. Velixar could see no anger in his stare, only disappointment. In a way, that worried him more.

“High Prophet,” said the deity, “you have failed me.”

Velixar lowered his eyes to the ground. “I have, my Lord. We came on the enemy from behind, ready to strike them down, but they proved resilient. Wolf-men from the forest came to their assistance, and though we killed all the beasts, we were too badly wounded and beaten to make chase.”

Karak crossed his arms, tilted his head.

“Are you not Velixar, my High Prophet, swallower of demons and betrayer of nations? You have told me your power was beyond measure. Yet a few pups and a fleeing band of Wardens managed to hold back you and your best?”

Karak was openly mocking him, drawing subdued snickers from the massive crowd of onlookers. Velixar refused to fall into the trap. Instead of reacting, he dropped even lower and stared at the ground.

“My power fled me, my Lord, and has not returned. For that, I was unprepared.”

“Are you certain, Prophet? Can you not feel the power surging through you even now?”

“I…”

Velixar closed his eyes, and sure enough, there it was, the force of the demon he’d swallowed, bubbling up within him like magma deep in a volcano. Confusion filled him, numbing any elation he might have felt. Why had it not been there when he needed it? What weakness of his had allowed it to vanish in his time of need?