David Dalglish: Wrath of Lions

“Stay hidden,” he told the children. Caleigh, her hand still firmly gripped in his, nodded her understanding.

They progressed along the forest’s boundary, using the copious overgrowth and piles of fallen limbs to keep out of sight. It felt strange to Oris that he should feel the need to take such precautions. Not very long ago, the sound of strangers within Erznia’s walls would have been cause for excitement. But all that had changed when Vulfram returned to the township to punish his own daughter. That horrid turn of events, coupled with the courier’s haunting message some months later, had caused the mood to shift. Now the presence of uninvited guests was a reason for fear.

Oris led his niece and nephew around the side of the manor, and the horror before him confirmed every misgiving. A legion of men in boiled black leather, decked out with pikes and swords, formed a row on either side of the beaten dirt road leading through the center of the settlement. Four flags of Karak fluttered on the bannermen’s poles at the front line. The surviving members of Oris’s family stood on the lawn of the manor, in the shadow of the peach tree to the left of the cobbled walk. Yenge stood front and center, her dark, curly hair cascading over shoulders that were thrown back in pride. Oris’s wife, Ebbe, was beside her, her normally tan skin a pale russet after long months of sparse sunlight, and their children, Conata and Zeppa, were huddled in her skirts, tears running down their cheeks. Oris’s heart went out to them. He wanted to run from his veil of twigs and leaves and gather them in his arms.

It was the sight of a man on horseback that stilled him. Naked and hairless, his skin looked as though it had been polished to a crystalline sheen. Yet muscles bulged and stretched beneath, as if they were too large and powerful for the shell that concealed them. A warhorn, the source of the baying Oris had heard, was cradled in his large hands. His eyes glowed an unnatural red, burning like the fires of the underworld, and the sight brought a lump to Oris’s throat. He then took in the naked man’s face-smooth and long, with a pointed chin and an upturned nose-and realized with horrible certainty who he was.

The former Highest, Clovis Crestwell. He looked inhuman; he was much larger than before, and he no longer had his long, silver hair. The Highest grinned, and it seemed as though he had grown extra teeth. Magister Muren Wentner, the decrepit old man responsible for upholding Karak’s law within the settlement, stepped out from the crowd that had gathered behind the row of soldiers. His billowing gray robe flowed around him, making him appear to be a skeleton swathed in a mound of moldy fabric. From the look on the old man’s face, Oris could tell Wentner too was shocked by Clovis’s strange appearance and unabashed nakedness.

“We are…grateful for your arrival, Master Crestwell,” Wentner said, falling to his knees before Clovis’s horse. “I wish I had known of your visit sooner, however, for I would have prepared a more…appropriate greeting.”

Clovis didn’t respond. He simply smiled that horrible, toothy smile.

Wentner shuffled on his knees, clearly uncomfortable.

“Er…what is the nature of your visit? Please tell me, so I can be of service.”

Without responding, Clovis dropped the warhorn and grabbed his horse’s reins. The horse stepped to the side of the road, appearing slightly agitated, as if frightened by its rider. A heavy cart approached between the two rows of soldiers, drawn by a pair of huge chargers. The townsfolk behind the soldiers gasped, but the contents of the cart were hidden from Oris’s view. Magister Wentner rose from the ground, hastily stepping out of the way. Once it reached the end of the line, the cart pulled to a stop, exposing its ghastly contents to all.

While Oris’s wife shrieked, lifting their children and backing away, Yenge seemed to be frozen in shock, the tight line of her lips and the twitch of her jaw the only signs of her distress. Oris was helpless to avert his eyes from the four bodies hanging from the slatted side of the cart-a woman and three young men. Even from a distance he could tell the corpses were in a terrible state, the decaying remnants covered with gashes and splashed with old blood. He recognized the tattered and bloody dress hanging from the carcass of the lone woman and the ruby-encrusted necklace Ulric had given Dimona on their wedding day.

The ball of terror that had built up in Oris’s gut broke apart, its fragments spreading waves of vigor through his limbs. His body shook and his mind raced, but still he did not move. Instead, he clamped his hand over Caleigh’s lips before a shriek could leave her throat, giving them away. He hoped Alexander had the good sense to still his tongue as well.

Out on the lawn, Clovis proudly marched his horse to the front of the cart.

“The traitors have been found and punished,” Clovis said. Oris cringed at the sound of his voice, which was so unlike Clovis’s. His tone still held the same gravelly quality, but there was something more there-it almost sounded as if two voices were speaking at once. “They have gone to the underworld to burn for eternity because of their sins against Karak’s glory.”

Caleigh began struggling, biting into Oris’s palm, but he refused to let go.

“Why have you done this?” pleaded Yenge, her voice cracking.

“Yes, why?” asked Magister Wentner. His pale gray eyes stared in disbelief, his usually cocksure manner rapidly deflating. “The wife and children of Ulric Mori did nothing to deserve this fate.”

The bald, naked man laughed, the sound assaulting the air like a wave of roaring flame.

“Did nothing, you say? The lady and her sons were heirs to a traitor and blasphemer, and they were set to follow in the footsteps of the one they called husband and father . They proved it when they attempted to flee west, into the arms of the bastard god who rules there.”

“But what of us?” asked Yenge, bravely stepping forward to meet Clovis’s burning red gaze. “Is our entire family considered as such? We have not fled. We have remained loyal to Karak despite our losses.”

Clovis’s sickening grin grew ever wider. “You have remained loyal, have you? Loyalty requires sacrifice, and you have sacrificed nothing . When your god asked for every able-bodied man to join the ranks of his army in preparation for the coming war, did you offer your son to the cause?” He turned in his saddle, addressing the townsfolk who had huddled in fear behind the soldiers. “Did any of you? Of all of Neldar’s provinces, Erznia stood alone in her defiance. Not a single young man has joined the holy ranks, not a single woman has offered her services as a seamstress or nursemaid. You all huddled in your guarded forest, living apart from the god who created you. You dare call this loyalty?” Clovis spat on the ground. Magister Wentner tried to argue but was quickly shouted down. “I think not. The Mori family has disgraced our Lord, as has every other soul within these walls. Karak is the God of Order, and his ways are fair. You have turned your backs on your god, and so he has turned his back on you. May you all find forgiveness in the afterlife…if forgiveness is to be had for such cowardly scum.”

At the Highest’s command, a row of archers stepped forward, leveled their bows, and fired on those standing on the manor’s lawn. Oris could only watch as pointed shafts buried themselves in his wife, Magister Wentner, and Yenge. Ebbe attempted to shield Conata and Zeppa with her own body, but arrow after arrow embedded in her back until she collapsed. Their daughters suffered the same fate; Zeppa, all of seven, received a bolt in the neck, and nine-year-old Conata was pierced through the back of the head as she attempted to flee. An agonized roar forced its way through Oris’s clenched lips, but it was drowned out by the bloodcurdling shrieks of the gathered crowd.