David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Get her cleaned up,” he said. “I want her ready for the rite in half an hour.”

The handmaiden led a still horrified Lanike from the rectory. The woman leaned on her as if the muscles in her legs had turned to jelly. Velixar turned away in disgust, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Some of the powder had rubbed off his cheeks. He reapplied it, took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and marched out of the room toward his destiny.

The streets of Veldaren were packed with onlookers beneath an overcast sky. The people stared-women, children, and the elderly-their faces drawn and pale, their expressions blank, much like those of the corpses Velixar had ordered hung from the castle walls. Captain Wellington led a small brigade of troops, fifty in all, down the center of the road. The bannermen in front held their flags high, the lions emblazoned upon them roaring down at the populace. None of the onlookers seemed to notice the banners at all; instead, their gazes were fixed on Velixar, who marched at the rear of the procession, feet landing in time to the beat of the war drum. He was disappointed by their reaction to him. They had no love for him, and no fear either, just simple uncertainty. None of them understood his motives; none realized what he had done to help them realize their potential.

Let them be skeptical, he thought. Karak knows, and that is all that matters. When Paradise burns, they will understand, and they will bow in appreciation.

Lanike walked in front of him. The handmaidens had done an admirable job of making her presentable; her hair was styled in an elegant sidelong swoop, her ripped cobalt dress replaced with a flowing white gown that made her look like a spirit of the wind. She walked with her shoulders held back, a prideful posture, but Velixar knew it was a façade. He saw it in the way her right leg shuddered beneath her weight, the way her left shoulder sagged ever so slightly. It seemed the only thing holding the woman together was the hand of the young soldier who marched beside her.

The most important being in all of Neldar. What a twisted joke.

The procession turned, and Veldaren’s central hub came into view. Smallfolk were replaced with countless soldiers, their armor unblemished, their spears held high in one hand, their swords crossed over their hearts with the other. The great fountain loomed at the end of the column, the waypoint of traffic moving in all four directions throughout the city, its gray likeness of Karak standing rigid in the center, rising ten feet tall. Behind the fountain stood the god himself, standing on a dais that had been raised for just this event, resplendent in his sacred black platemail. His glowing golden eyes met Velixar’s, and the god smiled.

Captain Wellington segmented his charges to either side once they reached the end of the line. Finally the whole of the dais could be seen. A throng of people stood atop it, clearly intimidated by the size and presence of their god. There was King Eldrich, his bodyguard, every member of the Council of Twelve, six Sisters of the Cloth, twenty red-cloaked young acolytes, and Joben Tustlewhite, the castle cleric whom those around the castle called “the mumbling priest.” Also standing there, fully dressed this time in a draping gray robe, was Darakken in its Clovis Crestwell disguise. When Velixar squinted, he noted that the eyes of the beast were only slightly tinged with red, which meant Crestwell had assumed at least a semblance of control. Good for you, Clovis, he thought.

He almost laughed aloud when he saw Lanike pause at the bottom of the stairs, staring up with her mouth hanging open at the bald thing that used to be her husband. Her hand trembled as she grabbed hold of Joben, who had offered his assistance. Her feet were unsteady, even when they reached the top of the platform. Joben led her to her husband’s side, but she refused to look at him. Even when Clovis’s bulging arm draped over her shoulder, she did nothing but stand and shudder.

Shaking his head, Velixar climbed the dais. Once he reached the top and stopped, awaiting the signal to kneel, he heard the crowd below, smallfolk and soldiers alike, pressing in toward him. He knew that if he were to turn around, he would no longer see the road, just a never-ending sea of watchful eyes. The thought filled him with pride, and it took great effort to keep from swiveling his head for the tiniest of glimpses. Instead, he kept his stare fixed on his chosen god, ignoring the white noise of the crowd.

Joben stepped away from Lanike, nodding to his acolytes before taking his place by Karak’s side. He spoke a few words that Velixar couldn’t hear. Karak then held out his hand, and the cleric took whatever was in it. Clenching his fingers around the object, he cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice easily rose over the noise of the crowd.

“Citizens of Veldaren,” he said, his usual mutter suddenly magnified tenfold. “We come here today on the brink of war. Our very way of life is threatened by the cretins of the west, by the brother god who heinously tossed aside his pact with our Divinity. So many of our good men perished that day to Ashhur’s rage, men who were sons and fathers, men who died well before their time. It is past due that we avenge their deaths.”

The murmur of the crowd rose slightly in volume.

“But today is also a wondrous day. With dark times ahead, let us bask in the light of new leadership that will help lead us to heights we have never dared dream possible.”

With that, Joben nodded to Velixar, then bowed and backed away. Velixar’s heart raced as he dropped to a knee before his deity. The glow of Karak’s eyes was like the explosion of twin stars. The god stepped forward, raising his hands to his creations.

“My children, I come to you today as the father you have always wished me to be,” Karak said, his voice many times louder than Joben’s. “I have been apart from you for too long, but my forty years in seclusion were spent wisely. While I was away, you blossomed from the infants you were into the capable men and women you are now. You have built a great society that will be written about in the tomes of legend. You are the mighty, you are the worthy, and it is for you that I lead our brave fighting men to war. For a poison has infiltrated our kingdom, a poison spread by my brother himself. He thinks you are still children! He lords over his Paradise, refusing to allow his people the simple freedoms a human life warrants. However, those poor souls are not your enemy ! They are like you, people of flesh and blood and a desire for liberty, who have been denied that freedom by the very god who created them.”

The crowd grew deathly silent. To Velixar, it sounded as if no one even breathed.

“We embark on this great conflict,” Karak continued, “not as invaders, but as liberators . We will free this supposed Paradise of my brother’s tyrannical reign, and we shall spread our virtues of order, responsibility, and honor throughout Dezrel. By the time we are through, all of humanity will be united, a true brotherhood of man in which no further war is ever needed.”

A single female voice shouted, “Praise Karak!” It stood alone for a brief moment, but a buzz slowly gathered as more joined the first. In a matter of moments the whole of the hub was awash in the united voices of the populace chanting, “Karak! Karak! Karak!” Once more, Velixar wished for a momentary glimpse of the spectacle.

The deity held his arms out wide, and the throng abruptly silenced.

“This will be no easy venture,” he said, his words rumbling throughout the street, echoing off the gray stone buildings. “There will be sacrifice, there will be horrors, and many of our brave men will perish. For though we seek to liberate those in Paradise, many will not freely toss aside the shackles they wear. Those shackles are all they have ever known, and it will take force to break them.”