David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Stay on the ground,” the older elf said. “You will be safer that way.”

Iolas turned his back, and Ceredon sat up, pulling the dagger from within his breeches. The blade reflected the light bouncing off the emerald walls, which he had not expected. Iolas caught sight of the glimmer and spun around.

“My prince, what are you doing?”

Ceredon staggered to his feet, stalking the old elf with the dagger.

“I am correcting a wrong,” he said, huffing. “Correcting a great many wrongs, as a matter of fact.”

Iolas moved away from him, his back to the wall. He hopped up on the bed, then jumped down on the other side, and Ceredon mimicked his movements, like a desert cat playing with its prey.

“Stop this, Ceredon!” Iolas said, panic in his voice. “If you kill me, you are done for. Everyone will know.”

“I don’t care,” Ceredon snapped back. “I tire of games, I tire of the quest for power, I tire of the gods and their useless pissing match. What I do now, I do for revenge. Conall, Aeson, and now you. You say death to traitors, Iolas? I agree completely.”

The elder elf’s mouth went slack. “My cousins…”

“Yes,” Ceredon said, and then lunged with the dagger, forcing Iolas to scamper over the bed once more.

“But why?” Iolas pleaded. “We are your people…your family !”

“Family?” Ceredon barked, unable to suppress a laugh. “My family would not murder children. My family would not enslave an entire race. No, you’re no family of mine.”

He lunged again, and Iolas ran from the bed. Ceredon noticed him eyeing the door, and he silently hoped the old elf would try for it. If he did, his struggles with the bar would give Ceredon time to fall upon him. As things were, this was taking far too long.

“This has been your plan…all along…,” Iolas said, backing toward the opposite side of the room.

Ceredon lurched after him, not saying a word.

“The delegation from Stonewood escaping…skirmishes with the rebels…the constant traps and ambushes. Those were you, as well?”

Ceredon dug his broken foot into the floor, pushing himself onward, getting ever closer.

“Answer me, Ceredon,” Iolas said. He had reached the far wall and was trapped beside the closet door. “I deserve that much.”

“Yes,” Ceredon growled. “All me.”

He lunged, dagger leading, its killing edge aimed for Iolas’s throat. Iolas screamed and threw his hands up to block the blow. The blade sank into his forearm, causing him to shriek all the louder. Blood spurted when Ceredon ripped the dagger free, splashing against his cheeks, dripping off his chin.

“Now, damn you!” Iolas bellowed in the common tongue. “He has confessed! Do it now!”

Before Ceredon could react, the closet door burst open, striking his left arm as it swung violently outward. New rivers of agony flooded him, and he collapsed to the floor, howling. He lost his grip on the dagger, which skittered across the floor. From the closet emerged three armored humans bearing the sigil of Karak who descended on him, showering him with fists, thrusting the back of his head against the crystal floor again and again. The whole while, Iolas shrieked.

Then came a loud cracking sound, and the room was bathed in light.

“Stop!” a familiar, terrible voice shouted. Those who had beaten him backed away, allowing him to rise on his elbows. Blood dripped from his lips, and his entire body was awash with torment.

“You hit…like human girls,” the newcomer spat.

Black boots entered his vision, the right foot tapping. Ceredon could hold himself up no longer. He collapsed onto his side and craned his neck to see the face of Clovis Crestwell staring down at him. The human’s features appeared larger than normal, and his eyes glowed a brilliant crimson. It looked as if something alive were squirming beneath his scalp. Ceredon began to laugh at the absurdity of it, clutching at his newly cracked ribs with each painful guffaw.

“Please…a healer…help me…,” he heard Iolas whine.

Clovis’s twin voice spoke again, only this time the gruffer layer, the one that sounded much less than human, took precedence.

“Get the sniveling fool out of here. And you had best silence yourself before I decide you look too tempting not to have a taste, old elf.”

Ceredon stopped his laughing and watched as two soldiers dragged Iolas from the room. The wicked gash in his arm left a trail of blood on the floor behind him, and Clovis ogled it like a starving man eyeing a roasting chicken. The red-eyed human then returned his attention to Ceredon. He smiled, revealing a mouth that was too wide, filled with too many teeth.

“You know not whom you deal with,” the man said, only to call him a man would be sacrilege. His cheeks shifted, his ears bulged, and his forehead retreated. His every feature was in a constant state of flux, and his voice now seemed to hold no human qualities whatsoever. Ceredon squeezed his eyes shut, certain the potion he had taken was giving him illusions.

“You will learn,” that bestial voice spoke into his ear. “I will keep you alive, and you will watch them suffer for what you’ve done.”

A sharp blow landed in the center of Ceredon’s face, bringing stars to his vision. A moment later, his world went black.

Thousands of women packed the streets of Rat Harbor. They formed a stinking horde on either side of the road as they craned their necks to watch the armor-clad soldiers march past.

Matthew waited for the soldiers in front of the same theater where he’d met with the Conningtons months before. The location was symbolic as well as strategic; if they were to accuse him of treason, which was his fear, it seemed appropriate for it to happen in front of the very place where that treason had been hatched, while keeping Karak’s representatives off-guard by meeting in a place of filth rather than the relative luxury of his estate.

Catherine squeezed his hand, and he passed her a worried glance.

“All will be fine,” she said, winking.

“How can you be so confident?” he asked.

“Because you are powerful and strong, and a worthy leader for this city.”

“Ha! A city of women and children. What a bounty.”

She smiled. “Remember who you’re speaking to, darling. And chin up. Here they come.”

Matthew turned toward the approaching soldiers, and the three billowing red cloaks who led the charge. He took a deep breath and shook his head to ease his nerves. An elbow jabbed into his left shoulder.

“Stop fidgeting,” Bren said. “You look too damn nervous. Might as well hang a sign above your head that says, ‘I done bad things.’”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one set to lose his head if this goes wrong.”

“Shush, both of you,” said Catherine.

I don’t know you at all, thought Matthew, a thought that had rarely left his mind since Catherine’s confession. Though she had returned to being the demure and doting wife he had always known, he could now see the layer of strength hidden just beneath her frilly garments and rouge-painted cheeks. He wondered if that strength had been there all along, and he had simply been blind to it.

The cloaked figures drew closer, and now Matthew could see their faces clearly. They were the same ones who had arrived months before to secure use of his river barges, their red robes bearing the roaring lion of Karak. They walked with their heads down and their hands clasped. The soldiers followed behind dutifully, more than two hundred of them. Matthew’s grip on his wife’s hand tightened. He peered at his remaining eighty-six sellswords, who formed a line on either side of the street in front of the gathered women, then at those standing beside him, which included his maids Penetta and Lori, and finally back to the soldiers. Moira was nowhere to be found, and his men were outnumbered more than two to one. If talks went sour, they were in trouble.