David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“And what of two days from now? What of the delegation?”

“You will have me at your side,” she said, a wry smile appearing on her face. “And you will promise to hand over everything they request in time. Karak is a thousand miles away. Who is to say he has not already received whatever the priests come begging for?”

His gaped at her, startled. “Who knew you could be so devious?”

Her eyelids fluttered demurely. “Why, my lord of freight, whatever do you mean? I am but your humble servant, your wife and the mother of your children, nothing more.”

Matthew laughed at that, genuine, hearty laughter. “If only that were true.”

“As far as anyone else knows, it is. Now come here, Matthew Brennan, and pleasure me. I think I deserve at least that much.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He rolled atop her and worked his way down her womanly body, placing tiny kisses all over, even as he stripped off his own clothing. When he entered her, she howled and bucked, and Matthew understood just how lucky he truly was.

The body was laid out on a slab, dressed in an elegant gown of the deepest blue, its eyes and mouth stitched closed. The wavy chestnut hair was draped over the pillow in a way that made it look like the corpse’s head rested on a bed of curls. The flesh was pallid, the woman’s normally rosy cheeks off-white like dirty snow.

Lanike Crestwell was no more.

Avila brushed her fingers against her mother’s skin, which was cold and rubbery to the touch. Despair welled in her heart as she bit back any tears that might come. Her mother, like her father, was supposed to be perpetually young. They were supposed to have lived forever, guiding Karak’s children through the wilderness of life, helping them to reach the heights her god had promised them. Avila suffered from the realization that her family was no more. Lanike, Joseph, and Crian were dead; Thessaly was missing; and her father might as well be dead or missing, given that an ancient demon now resided in his skin. Moira, the sister who had shamed her family, was far away, perhaps dead herself. She touched the mess of scars that marred the left side of her face, the wound Crian had given her, and felt a pang of regret. She was alone in the world.

“When did it happen?” she asked, lifting her eyes.

She was in Karak’s pavilion, the god towering over her on the other side of the slab. The First Man, he who now called himself Velixar, stood beside the deity. They were the only three in the tent. Velixar’s gaze was fixed on her mother’s corpse. He seemed almost as despondent as she was.

“Three days ago,” Karak said, his voice low and soothing, like a gentle breeze on a summer day. “Her handlers discovered her dead in her carriage. I have kept her body here since then. As her only surviving child, you deserved to see her before I disposed of her shell.”

“I see.”

Avila leaned over the body. Lanike’s arms had been crossed respectfully over her chest. Avila grabbed the one on top, lifted it, and examined the underside. On the wrist was a deep gash that ran almost the length of the forearm. The wound yawned wide as she attempted to swivel her mother’s stiff, lifeless arm, the cut deep enough to expose bone.

“The other is the same,” said Karak.

“And the weapon?” Avila asked. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice as level and free of emotion as her position demanded.

Velixar extended his hand, and Avila took the proffered knife. It was slender, a simple serrated blade meant for slicing meat at dinner. She looked again at her mother’s corpse and handed it back.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Commander,” her god said.

“And yours as well,” she said, glancing up at him.

“Yes. And mine as well.”

Avila shook her head. “I do not understand, my Lord. Why would she take her own life? What tormented her so?”

“Only Lanike knew for certain, my child,” said her god. “And that knowledge died with her.”

She looked up at them, the two who had greeted her that morning when she guided her faction of the god’s army into the camp. They had insisted she come with them immediately, ordering Captain Gregorian to get the soldiers situated. Avila had followed without question, thinking she was about to be briefed on any updates to the plan now that the three major regiments had been combined. She was excited by the opportunity to finally command the full force, as was her destiny. She’d never expected this .

“Why was she even here?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?” asked Velixar.

“Why was my mother here? Why was she not at home in Veldaren, tending to the king? She had no purpose on a battlefield.”

“She was with us so we could protect her,” Velixar said, and there was something off-putting about the way he spoke his answer.

Avila’s voice cracked when she spoke. “You seem to have done a piss-poor job of that .”

“An oversight, Lord Commander,” Karak said in a scolding tone. “There was a skirmish at the bridge. Something important was stolen from us.”

“And your mother was forgotten in the confusion,” added Velixar.

“When my father finds out about this, he will be furious,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the First Man. “We will see then what your-”

“Silence!” Karak boomed, and Avila recoiled. The god’s eyes glowed brighter than before as he leaned forward, massive hands propped on her mother’s slab.

“You have been granted information others have not,” the god said harshly. “You know what Clovis is now, what he means to our cause. He will remain in the dark for so long as I see fit. The results could be disastrous otherwise. Darakken is not an entity to be taken lightly.”

“But-”

“But nothing . Remember your place, child. I named you Lord Commander because you have proven time and again to be my most loyal and capable servant. Should that change, should your emotions override your common sense, I will strip you of that title.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Avila said, dropping to a knee before him. “I understand.”

Velixar stepped around the deity and approached her. He held out his hand, which she accepted, and helped her stand. When she brushed the hair from her face, she noticed he was staring at her, head cocked to one side.

“You look…different,” the First Man said.

She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound. Velixar’s hand rose up, and he lightly touched the corner of her eye, where new crow’s-feet were beginning to appear. The First Man shrugged, brushed back his long, dark hair, and returned to his god’s side.

Avila breathed a sigh of relief, and when her heart slowed its pace, she approached her mother’s body once more, placing a final kiss on her cold forehead. She then bowed to her Divinity.

“I am at your command, my Lord,” she said. “I apologize for my weakness.”

Karak nodded. “I will forget this oversight in light of your grief,” he said. “You have served me well, Lord Commander. Your fires have sealed in the south, causing my brother’s more capable children to retreat toward the sea. They will not be a part of this war until we bring it to them, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Now rejoin your men. My Prophet and I need to speak. I will call on you, and perhaps Captain Gregorian, this evening. Until then, find peace with your loss. We must be strong when we face whatever Ashhur has planned for us.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, and bowed one last time before leaving the pavilion.

It was a mile walk back to where her regiment had set up camp, and the entire distance was packed with tents, carriages, and makeshift stables. She was glad for the respite, even though the hearty laughter of the fighting men as they gathered around their late morning cookfires felt at odds with her deep misery. She did her best to fight off the feeling, to force the tears from her eyes, before any saw the weakness that was growing within her.