David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Clovis dragged two sacks behind him, one large and one small. He stopped when he reached Ceredon’s cell, his meaty fingers releasing the scrunched end of the larger bag. The smaller one he placed almost gingerly on the ground, propping it against the wall. That was when Clovis finally glanced at him, his eyes glowing a red so intense that looking at them would be enough to sap most mortals’ inner strength.

Ceredon did not turn away from whatever this man had become. He remained standing, the words of his goddess infusing his heart with power.

With a chuckle, Clovis turned away and bent over the larger sack, removing four long iron stakes from within. One after another he drove the stakes with his bare hands into the solid bedrock that formed the dungeon floor. Ceredon watched his show of strength with awe. Then, once all four stakes had been set, the beast of a man reached into the bag once more, creating a wet sloshing sound.

Clovis worked with his back to Ceredon, a back that had grown so wide that the elf could not see what he pulled from his bag. He watched the rippling shoulders tense as the arms came down, heard the thwump of something soggy being wedged atop the stake. Three more times Clovis repeated the task, until finally he sighed, cracked his neck, and stepped aside.

It took every ounce of faith in Ceredon to keep from screaming.

A head was propped atop each stake, eyes bulging in horror, mouths hanging open, lifeless tongues lolling. Ceredon took them in one by one, refusing to look away, etching the memory of their last expressions in his mind’s eye. There was Orden Thyne and Lady Phyrra, their flesh battered and bruised; Tantric Thane, his nose cut from his face, a wicked gash running from the right side of his lip to his stunted right ear, exposing broken teeth and blackening gums; and finally, and most horrifically, was Ruven Sinistel. The most grave of insults had been reserved for the Neyvar of the Quellan. His eyes had been plucked from his skull and now rested on his tongue, a pair of dead orbs staring from the center of his gaping mouth.

Unyielding. Unmoving. Forever.

“I thought you might like some company,” the man said, only it was not Clovis Crestwell who spoke. The dual voices were now singular-throaty, like the grunt of a wild boar.

Ceredon stared back at him with a façade of indifference. Inside, he was reeling.

Clovis breathed in deep, his chest expanding all the more. He stepped up to Ceredon’s cell, wrapped his fingers around the bars. The atrocity was mere feet from him, and Ceredon could smell the rankness of its breath.

“What are you?” he asked. Amazingly, his voice did not crack.

“I am the teeth in the dark, the shadow that descends over all, the devourer of races, the fire that burns all. I am the one after which the abyss was named.”

It was a stanza from a popular children’s story, told with a personalized touch. The story had been taught to nearly every elf child in all of Dezrel. It cannot be. He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to the bars, determined to show no fear. The reek of the thing’s breath assaulted him anew.

“You know what I am,” Darakken said. It almost sounded like it was laughing.

Ceredon nodded, and the demon smiled, revealing row upon row of sharp teeth within that human mouth. Ceredon took another step closer, now near enough to grab the bars, positioning his hands just below the beast’s. The sharp-toothed smile faltered ever so slightly.

“You do not fear me?” the beast asked. Strangely, even with its deep, inhuman baritone, it sounded almost childlike.

“I do not,” Ceredon lied. “What is there to fear? All I once had has been stripped from me.” Though it nearly brought him to tears again, he pointed through the bars to the Neyvar’s head. “I do not have a father any longer, or a kingdom, or my freedom. There is nothing else of value you could take from me.”

“I could take your life.”

Ceredon threw his head back and laughed. It took a great amount of effort to do so.

“A life without freedom is no life at all,” he said. “There are a great many things worse than death.”

“And I am one of them,” the beast snarled.

“So I have heard.”

The demon in the Clovis suit plunged its hand through the bars, fingers wrapping tightly around Ceredon’s tunic. The beast yanked him so hard that his forehead smacked against the iron, bringing stars to his vision. Still, he refused to show his terror.

“You will fear Darakken,” the beast said.

“I will not.”

It glanced down at itself. “This body is not menacing enough?” it said.

“That is part of it.”

The meaty fingers released him, and Ceredon dropped back down onto the balls of his feet, rubbing the lump that was rapidly growing above his left eye. It was a wholly casual action, and Darakken’s head tilted to the side, those glowing red eyes studying him as if he were some puzzle to be solved. The thing whirled around suddenly and snatched the smaller satchel off the floor. It tore apart the twine binding it, yanked a large tome from within, and held it up for Ceredon’s inspection. It was a large book, nearly a foot and a half tall and a foot wide. Strangely, its leather cover was adorned with the three stars symbolizing the cooperation of the three gods of Dezrel.

“This vessel,” Darakken said, “is a prison.”

“The body of the human Crestwell?”

The beast nodded. “A weak vessel.” The thing laughed, revealing those sharp teeth once more. “It might have been forged by the hands of the gods themselves, but it was still a slave to human needs and despair. And just like all mortal beings, when its soul was wrapped in that despair, it ebbed away, leaving this body to Darakken and Darakken alone.”

“What brought about this despair?”

“News from afar,” the beast said. “An unexpected gift from Darakken’s creator.”

Ceredon drew back, squinting. He recalled the young human Boris Morneau, the newcomer to Dezerea who had assisted him on his quest for water.

“The soldier,” he whispered. “The one with the scar beneath his eye.”

“Yes. A useful mortal, that one.”

“What did he bring you?”

“News of the death of the vessel’s wife. News that Karak, a fraction of the mighty Kaurthulos, changed his mind. And this.” Darakken lifted the book even higher.

“What is it?”

“The journal of the one who swallowed my brother.”

He leaned forward, staring at the book, but the beast yanked it away quickly, as if Ceredon might try to reach through the bars and snatch the book from it.

“It is mostly useless, save for a few wondrous pages. But those pages hold the key to my rebirth.”

“Rebirth?” asked Ceredon, dreading what it might mean.

The beast inclined its head, staring at him from beneath its brow.

“The means to rebuild my true form.”

Ceredon pursed his lips and fell back a step. It was an involuntary motion, but one that did not go unnoticed. The beast chuckled then, issuing coughlike fits of laughter that flung pink spittle from its almost human maw.

“So you do fear me,” the demon said.

Ceredon gathered himself, shook his head, and defiantly stepped toward it once more. “I do not, and I do not fear death. Come and cut me down. End this game.”

The beast seemed uncertain, its fingers flexing. For a moment, Ceredon thought it looked as if Darakken were afraid of him .

“No,” the demon finally said in a growl. “You must live, elf. You must watch as Darakken leads your people into war, as their lifeblood is spilled, and you must look on in horror as I use that blood to bring the order of Karak to this land. You must watch”-the glow of its eyes intensified, appearing more hopeful than confident-“and you must understand.”