David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

The captain’s eye bulged and his lips quivered, but he said nothing.

“Now go, Malcolm, and uphold my word as you always have.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“One last thing,” Velixar chimed in before the man could leave. Gregorian halted and pivoted toward him, stiff as a good soldier should be, even while his injured limb dangled uselessly.

“What is it, High Prophet?”

“Some of the men reported that the Lord Commander’s fall came about because of a young girl. Is that true?”

The captain nodded.

“And where is this girl now?”

“No one knows, High Prophet. She seems to have disappeared.”

“Interesting,” Velixar replied. “That is all, Lord Commander Gregorian. You may go now.”

“Thank you, High Prophet.”

When Gregorian left the pavilion, Velixar examined Karak’s expression. The god looked pensive, perhaps even whimsical. It was an odd way for a deity to look-dangerous, even-but Velixar decided it best not to question him. Given his own failures over the last few days, the last thing he needed was to give his god a reason to strike him down.

“He is a devoted man,” Karak said finally.

“It would appear so,” Velixar said. “And his story is true?”

“Of course. Gregorian has proven that he believes my teachings completely. I do not think any human alive loathes chaos as much as he does.”

“But what of his slaughter of those of Ashhur’s children who bended their knees? Should he not suffer punishment for that?”

“He ended those lives out of love for order, not because he was a curious man intent on meddling with powers he does not understand.”

Velixar winced at the slight. He hesitated before speaking again, but in the end he decided that if he was to be the High Prophet, he should not fear questioning his deity’s decisions.

“However, I must point out, my Lord, that he did end the life of the Lord Commander. Should that sort of insubordination be rewarded? What if every underling who wishes to be rid of a pesky superior does the same to achieve a higher station?”

Karak stared at him in disappointment. “You should know better than to ask that question, Velixar. None will rise up that way, for I reward my children with titles as I please. If I were to take the lowest delinquent in the dungeons of Veldaren and place on him the mantle of Lord Commander, the men would treat him with just as much respect as they do you. Do you understand why?”

“Because you were the one who named him,” he said, lowering his head.

“Correct. As a god, my title was neither earned nor given to me. It was a station I was created to hold, and none can strip it from me.” His eyes blazed. “I, on the other hand, can strip any man of his title, deed, and even life if I so desire.”

Mine as well, Velixar thought, but kept it to himself.

Karak continued: “While the death of Lord Commander Crestwell is indeed unfortunate, Gregorian believed, with all his heart, that she had turned her back on me.” He pointed to her face. “You made mention of her different appearance earlier, and you were correct. Look closely at her eyes and mouth, Prophet, and you will see it: the lines of age, the withering of skin on bones. She was no longer ageless.”

“Is aging a sin, my Lord? Only a select few have been blessed with agelessness, and even those who denied that gift were not cast aside. Vulfram was mortal, and you never once expressed distrust in him…at least until the end.”

“They were different people, with different ways of thinking. Vulfram was a man who balanced the love of his family and his dedication to me. He was objective. Avila was not. Her beliefs were strident, singular. If she grew to love that girl more than me, as she visibly did, it would only have been a matter of time before she deserted me.”

“I see. That does, however, beg one question, my Lord.”

“Which is?”

Velixar wandered toward the bodies again, poking his finger inside Avila’s gaping chest.

“This wound,” he said. “I have seen none like it, burned the way it is.”

Karak joined him, peering down into the scorched cavity.

“Faith and power are interchangeable, Prophet,” the deity said, lowering his voice to a soothing whisper. “And occasionally faith can manifest itself as power in times of great need, leading to greatness. I have observed it time and again throughout the journeys my brother and I have embarked on, though this is the first instance I have seen the phenomenon here on Dezrel. It makes perfect sense that Gregorian, the only man to survive my Judges, would perform such a miracle.”

Velixar frowned, mulling it over.

“So his belief in you gave him strength and power beyond himself?” he asked.

Karak shook his head. “How disappointing that you do not see the truth even now. The universe is fickle, and that which is given always requires payment. Gregorian’s faith was a conduit for power… my power. He was in a dire moment of need, with order hanging in the balance, and his belief reached through the ether, borrowing a small piece of the fire that burns within me.”

“The same as with my own abilities? All of your followers’ power must come from you?”

“Correct.”

“So without you, we would merely be human.”

“Without me, none of you would exist.”

Good point, Velixar thought. “Did you feel it when it occurred?”

The god laughed. “The energy he borrowed was tiny, like a single blade of grass in a field hundreds of miles wide. I felt nothing.”

“How much power do you have at your disposal?”

Karak glanced away, raising an eyebrow.

“It is finite,” he said. “For now, that is the only answer I can give.”

Excitement hummed through Velixar’s veins, and on reflex, he searched for writing implements. The space was empty but for the two slabs and the bodies that rested on them. With a pang, he remembered what had been stolen from him, and he curled his hands into fists, breathing heavily. A disgusted grunt left his mouth.

“You are fretting about the book,” Karak said.

“It is not just any book, my Lord. All of the knowledge I have gleaned since you and Ashhur created me is written within it. There are passages of great power in there, ones that may be used against us if your brother recognizes the journal’s worth, which he most certainly will. Should that occur, any advantage we have may be lost.”

“The journal may not be on its way to Ashhur,” Karak said. “Your certainty in Patrick DuTaureau’s thievery is unwarranted.”

“Who else might have taken it?” Velixar asked. “The book vanished that very night, while I was away from my tent. I can think of no other reason for the mutant’s presence in our camp. Besides, Ashhur knows of the journal, as do many others in this godsforsaken land. It would not surprise me in the slightest if your brother were the one who sent Patrick after it. And if he knows of my plan with the demon…”

Karak looked at him sidelong, a glance Velixar returned.

“Darakken, my Lord. I have studied his memories, and within the elven tombs I found many secrets, some showed to me by Errdroth Plentos, some of which he would have preferred I never discovered. The spells to banish the beast are complicated and cannot be remembered, but I did find them in writing. Over the past months, I’ve worked to reverse the spell, to resummon-”

Karak shook his head, interrupting him, and he seemed strangely undisturbed.

“Once again, Prophet, you forget your place. Why would I, a part of the deity who originally created the beast, require a book written by you to make it whole again?”

“You know the spell?”