David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“I’m a monster.”

“You were always a monster, Clovis, only not a very good one. You are much more efficient now.”

The naked monstrosity turned away from him.

“Leave me alone, Jacob,” he said. “Go away. You don’t understand how horrible it is to exist like this.”

Velixar lurched forward, grabbing Clovis by the shoulder. It sickened him to feel the clammy, sodden flesh beneath his fingers, and he had to restrain a wince.

“You will not turn away from me, Crestwell. I am Highest; I am your master now. You will do as I say.”

Clovis swiveled toward him. His form was already starting to lose its extra weight as Darakken’s essence swallowed the nutrients.

“What would you have me do?”

“I left you alive for a reason. I could have allowed the demon to devour your soul as it devours everything else, but I need you. You are what keeps the beast in line. And yet you shirked that duty by allowing it to slaughter this entire settlement.”

“I had no choice. He is too strong!” Clovis pleaded.

“And were the Quellan too strong as well?”

Clovis tilted his head, confused.

“Another example of your failure, you weak fool,” seethed Velixar.

“But…but the Quellan elves are loyal to our cause. Dezerea is ours now that they’ve taken it! Just as you asked…just as the Whisperer asked…”

“You were also told to protect the Meln family from harm. Yet the Lord of Stonewood and many of his underlings are dead, and his wife and younger daughter have fled and are in hiding.”

“They acted on their own!” he shouted. “My son…my poor dead son…he told them the terms, and they ignored him!”

Velixar shook his head as if disappointed with his answer. “The betrayal of the Quellan only goes to prove that you never had any true power.” He grinned and said, “Tell me, do you love your wife, Clovis?”

The swollen man stared back dumbly, then nodded.

“Would you like to see any harm come to her?”

Clovis dropped to his knees and clawed at Velixar’s breeches. “No, Jacob, please no! Lanike is my creation and all that I have. Please don’t harm her!”

He shoved the pleading half-man away. “I won’t lay a finger on her,” he said, disdain dripping from every word. “But you will. Should you not learn to keep this creature under control, should you allow him to disobey my decrees again, I shall cut the thread that connects you to your body. But I will not kill you. No, I will allow you to look through your own eyes as I set the demon on your wife, letting him use her in whatever way he pleases. What do you think will happen then, you miserable wretch? Will you enjoy watching Lanike flayed alive by your own hands, perhaps from the inside out?”

Tears streamed down Clovis’s face. “I will try! I will do it! I will try! I will do it!” he shouted.

Velixar turned his back on the blubbering half-man and sauntered away from him, all smiles.

“Oh, and Clovis, one more thing,” he called out over his shoulder as he approached the rapidly darkening forest. “If you call me Jacob one more time, you’ll suffer that same fate. Remember that the next time I free you from your cage.”

The sores covering Patrick DuTaureau’s thighs stung to high heaven as they rubbed back and forth against his saddle. He cursed softly and pulled back on his horse’s reins, slowing to a mild canter so he could adjust himself. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a vial of greasy salve a man in Lerder had given him, uncorked it with his teeth, gathered a dollop on his finger, and shoved his hand down the front of his breeches. He closed his eyes in relief as the elixir worked its magic. His head lolled back until it rested against the hump in his misshapen spine. Ecstasy, he thought. Pure fucking ecstasy.

“What are you doing?” someone asked.

Patrick turned his head. Barclay Noonan, a youngster from the southern village of Nor, was trotting along beside him atop a scrawny mule. Barclay was all of fourteen, yet his chin was already covered with rugged stubble that put the sporadic growth on Patrick’s cheeks to shame. The boy was quite strapping-tall and handsome, with a lean build-and Patrick was sure he had captured the heart of near every girl in his village, living a life of which he, with his twisted, uneven body and grotesquely malformed features, could only dream.

“Tending my aches,” he told the boy.

“People are staring,” said Barclay.

“Why should they?”

“Well, you moaned quite loudly. And your hands were down your pants.”

Patrick shrugged. “Eh, I’ve never been big on modesty.”

“You could have asked Father to heal you.”

“I could have, yes. But your father’s touched me enough already. Frankly, it makes me a bit uncomfortable.”

Barclay gave him a queer look. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Just pretend that didn’t sound near as terrible as it did,” Patrick told him with a wink.

The boy furrowed his brow and backed his mule away without another word. Patrick swiveled in his saddle to watch as Barclay rejoined the massive swarm of humanity-some on horses, most on foot-which swallowed the Gods’ Road behind him.

Turning back around, he adjusted his crotch and settled in for the long haul ahead. The sun shone brightly in the center of a pearly white sky, the type of clear spring day that promised warmth even though a chill wind still blew. The landscape was awash with contrasts of color-the vibrant purples of crocuses, the cheery yellow splashes of daffodils, and the brilliant dotted whites of bloodroot on the northern edge of the road seemed to wage a war of attrition with the jade green grasses that grew to the south. Even the landscape was in conflict. While rolling hills packed with wildflowers and thatches of trees lined one side; a sprawling flatland lay on the other. This part of the Gods’ Road had always been Patrick’s favorite. It was a conjoining of separate worlds that created a singular, complementary canvas.

It didn’t seem so inspiring now, however-not after six months of traveling north and south, east and west, sleeping atop his bedroll at night and sitting in his saddle each day. Much of that time had been spent negotiating terrain that had never seen a single hoof of traffic as they visited one settlement after another. At least we’re on the actual road again, he thought.

Yet as irritating as the travel had been, the duties he’d performed in each of the villages had been unnerving. In Lockstead, Po, Foldenville, Henkel, and countless other locales, both named and not, Patrick would climb down from his horse and join Ashhur’s side as the god warned his children of the terrors that would soon befall them. Most often they were greeted with expressions just as queer as the one Barclay had given him. Even when Ashhur spoke of the destruction that had befallen Haven, the township of pariahs that had been nestled in the unclaimed lands of the Rigon Delta before it was blown to bits, or warned of Karak’s gathering army, the people tended to just stare in confusion. Patrick wished there were more Wardens with them. The tall, elegant creatures who’d helped raise most of Ashhur’s children would have been able to get the point across much better than Patrick, but nearly ten score of them, half of those from Safeway, had been left behind in Lerder to help prepare the most advanced township in all of Paradise for what lay ahead. Many other Wardens had been asked to stay in other townships to similarly prepare, greatly reducing their numbers.

Then again, even Ashhur was having trouble getting through to his people, so perhaps more Wardens would only have muddied the message. The people of Paradise simply did not understand what was coming. They had been sheltered for the entirety of humanity’s existence on Dezrel. Theirs were lives of simplicity, of worship and play, of farming and breeding. None had experienced sickness, hunger, or terror. When someone grew ill, a healer mended him or her. When the crops refused to grow on their own, runes were carved in the dirt, and roots took hold. Lives free of hardship had left the people of Paradise with no knowledge of nightmares, and there could be no concern for life in a place where none feared an early death. When confronted with the possibility of war, a concept for which they had no frame of reference, they were helpless. In the end, Ashhur had decided he had no choice but to teach his children to defend themselves as much as he could in the short time they spent in each village, inviting those who were too afraid to remain in their homes to accompany them on the journey west to Mordeina. Few stayed behind. Patrick had once been as innocent as they were.