David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions
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- Название:Wrath of Lions
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“Karak blesses me ,” Malcolm said, the purple flames dancing in his milky eye. “You were wrong, Avila. I was the faithful one.”
He charged her one last time, flaming sword leading like a lance. Avila tried to bat aside the attack, but when Integrity met its counterpart, the trusty curved saber broke in two. The upper half flew through the air and fell harmlessly to the ground, and then Darkfall’s fiery tip pierced Avila’s breastplate as if it were made of paper. The flames scorched her as the blade entered her chest, burning her from the inside out, yet when they licked off Malcolm’s flesh, they did not seem to make a mark. She gasped, smoke rising up her throat and billowing from her mouth as she fell to her back. The mass of onlookers, their bloodlust brought to a boil, began to hoot and holler like madmen. Beneath it all, she heard a young girl shriek in anguish.
Malcolm yanked Darkfall from her chest.
Avila’s world grew hazy, her strength fading. Before her world went dark, she gathered enough strength to look to the side. She saw, for the briefest of moments, a flash of golden hair disappear behind a tangle of grubby legs. For the first time ever, she prayed to a different god from the one who had created her.
Keep her safe, Ashhur. Let this not be for nothing. And please let me find my mother and siblings in the afterworld.
“Karak’s will be done,” proclaimed Malcolm, standing over her in victory.
“Fuck Karak,” she blurted out, blood spewing from her lips along with the words.
Avila allowed herself to smile as darkness took her.
CHAPTER 35
Where there had been one corpse, there were now two.
Mother and daughter were laid out beside each other, both pale in death. Velixar leaned in closer to get a better look. Avila had been stripped of her armor, and he squinted as he examined the hole in her chest. The flesh around the wound was blackened and charred as if it had been touched by a great flame, while the meaty bits inside were a mass of blackish-pink soup. Whatever had run her through seemed to have melted her breastbone, three of her ribs, her left lung, and half her heart. It was as awe inspiring a display of mutilation as any he’d seen. He raised his eyes to Karak, who lingered silent in the corner, and took a deep breath.
“And to think,” he said, “only a few hours ago she was right here in this tent, mourning the loss of her mother.” He looked at the man who kneeled opposite him. “Tell me, do you mourn as well?”
Captain Gregorian kept his head bowed in reverence when he said, “I do, High Prophet, with all of my heart. The loss of the Lord Commander weighs heavily on my soul.”
“Yet it was your blade that felled her.”
“It was.”
“And you still feel remorse?”
“Not remorse. Only sadness…Avila was a mighty soul, perhaps our Divinity’s most able warrior. I could not bear to see her fall so far from grace. I challenged her to save her from herself.”
Velixar glanced once more at the body. “You said she was Karak’s best warrior, and yet you bested her. Does that mean you are the best of us now?”
Malcolm shook his head. “No, High Prophet. I am but Karak’s humble servant.”
“I see.”
The captain’s sword, Darkfall, was displayed next to the bodies on a slab of its own. Velixar circled around to it and lifted the heavy weapon, which he himself had presented to Gregorian in the aftermath of Vulfram Mori’s demise. The steel was polished and shining, not a scratch on its surface. When Gregorian had marched into Karak’s pavilion, a few of his underlings carrying Avila’s body behind him, he had immediately confessed to killing the Lord Commander and handed over the sword, which he claimed not to have cleaned since the clash took place. Yet it looked as new as the day it had first left the smithy, not a spot of blood on it.
“How did you defeat her?” he asked the man.
“I drove that very sword through her chest, High Prophet,” the captain replied. “I thought that part was obvious.”
“Yes, but how . Avila Crestwell was trained in the art of swordplay since she was still sucking her mother’s tit. The only man in all of Neldar who even approached her skill was her younger brother.” He looked at Gregorian once more. “You, Captain, are a meager swordsman by your own admission. So how did you manage to strike the killing blow?”
“Karak,” he answered.
“Karak?”
“Yes. Karak.” The captain lifted his lone good eye, which was ringed with a nasty-looking bruise, and stared at the silent deity. “You granted me the power I needed. It is only because of you that I emerged victorious.”
“Is that so?” said Velixar.
“It is.”
“And yet Karak was here, with me, the entire time. That being the case, how is what you say possible?”
“I don’t know, High Prophet. All I know is that I prayed for the strength to end Avila’s chaos, and Darkfall alighted in purple flame.”
“Hmm.”
Velixar lowered the sword and approached the kneeling man. Ever since their first meeting at the door to the Tower Keep, Captain Gregorian had greatly interested him. He was truly devoted to their god, that much was obvious, yet Velixar sensed an irresponsible and frenzied streak in him, a trait the captain tried to conceal beneath layer after layer of ritual, routine, and convention. Still, he had always been loyal, obeying Karak’s edicts without question. It would be a shame if the man were lying, and his clash with Avila involved some personal issue. He sighed, wishing again that his ability to detect truth from lie had not fled him when he turned his back on Ashhur.
Though in the end, it didn’t matter.
Velixar reached down and ran his fingers over the scar that marred the left side of the captain’s face, where the Final Judges had made their everlasting mark.
“I believe you,” he told the man.
The captain bowed even lower. “Thank you, High Prophet.”
“I deserve no thanks, Captain, for though I find you to be truthful, the fact remains that you convinced your men to slaughter two hundred converts who had sworn their lives to Karak. And despite your good intentions, you still took the life of the Lord Commander, named so by our god. The proper channels were not followed; none were told. You acted on your own. This army is about order, Captain, and you catered to chaos.”
“It is true,” Gregorian whispered. “I knew it was true the moment I lifted my sword against my leader.” He held his arms straight out before him, threw his chin back, and squeezed his good eye shut. Disturbingly, the milky one remained wide open. “My life is my god’s to do with as he wishes. Take it from me, purge the turmoil from my veins, for I have sinned, and there is no mercy for agents of chaos.”
Velixar raised his eyebrows. “You would give your life away so freely?”
“My life is not mine to give.”
“Enough,” said Karak. He strode toward them across the open space.
“Yes, my Lord,” said Velixar. He backed away from the captain, bowing.
Karak stepped up to the kneeling man and placed a massive hand atop his head.
“You are indeed my humble servant, Captain. Your actions prove it more than your words. Now stand up, my child, and have a physician mend that arm.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the captain replied. When he looked at the god, tears flowed in twin streams from his good eye. “Forever for you, my Lord.”
Gregorian rose to his feet and kissed Karak’s hand. The god smiled down on him, then reached behind him and grabbed Darkfall off its slab. He handed it to the captain.
“The instrument of your faith,” he said, his voice soothing. “And the instrument of the Lord Commander, as well.”
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