David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Self-consciously, Avila tugged her silver locks back into place and turned away, hiding the gash of reddened tissue that slanted across the left side of her head-Crian’s gift. She greatly disliked looking at Lieutenant Gregorian’s scars. They reminded her too much of her own.

“Why do you cover yourself so?” asked Malcolm. “I wish to see your beauty in full.”

She scowled at him, grabbing her sword and pulling it slightly from its scabbard.

“Do not speak to me of beauty. We are warriors in the Army of Karak, and I am your Lord Commander. You will address me as such, not treat me the way you would some tavern wench.”

He bowed low. “Yes, Lord Commander,” he replied gravely, though his scarred lips smiled. “Once more, you have my apologies. I will leave you in peace.”

With that, Malcolm pulled back on the reins, circling his charger around. Darkfall, the broadsword that had been the property of the deceased Lord Commander Vulfram, bounced on his back. She heard him shout a phrase to the soldiers, who replied in unison, filling the moist air with their dedicated voices.

Avila glanced over her shoulder as he rode away, catching a glimpse of the seemingly endless procession of soldiers and supply carts that packed practically every inch of the southern pass. She could barely see their faces, for the gleam off Malcolm’s silver armor had blinded her. She turned back around, closed her eyes, and offered a silent prayer to her deity. Once more her loins felt a twinge, and she inhaled sharply in frustration.

It was entirely her fault Malcolm acted the way he did. She had been so energized after the raven’s arrival, a sort of nervous vigor with only one cure. In the past her brother Joseph had satisfied such cravings for her, though on a few occasions her father the Highest would fill the void. But Joseph was dead now, slain on the battlefield of Haven by the twisted beast DuTaureau, and her father remained in Veldaren, no longer his own man after giving his deity the greatest sacrifice possible-the use of his body as host to the demon Darakken.

With no other outlet, she had turned to Malcolm, who’d surprised her by being a more than willing participant. A man who had always been stoic and methodical, whose devotion to Karak was surpassed by none in all of Neldar, he’d taken her on her bedroll with a verve that bordered on violence, performing each thrust like he was driving a sword into an enemy. The aggression had at first enthralled her, and she’d accepted his cock as she would a divine tool, in worship and adoration, as she bit down hard on her lower lip, hard enough to make it bleed. But the man’s passion had turned to frightful aggression, his grunts and shouts those of some feral beast wishing for nothing more than to spread its seed. At last she’d shoved him away with all her might before he could finish. At first she’d thought he would strike at her or scream, but when her chest began to hitch, his gaze had softened. He’d sidled up to her, trying to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders. She’d ordered him from her tent immediately.

Afterward, she’d drawn her legs to her breast and cried. It was the first time Avila could remember breaking down, and it frightened her more than anything she had ever experienced. I am an immortal Crestwell, Lord Commander of Karak’s Army, she chided herself. Not some weak peasant girl. But still the sorrow had come, and she’d longed for not only Joseph and her father, but for her mother and Thessaly, who had disappeared the night the Moris were executed for treason. She even missed Crian and Moira. In that moment of weakness she had become a weak peasant girl, one who wanted nothing but her family.

She clenched her fists, squeezing the reins as tightly as she could. Stop this. Stop being a weakling. She grabbed hold of her sword’s hilt and drew it. The sword was Integrity, which had been Crian’s before he’d turned his back on their family, and Avila had taken it as her own when she’d been named Lord Commander by the newly dubbed Velixar. She had allowed Malcolm to keep Darkfall, as the heft of the weapon proved far too great for her narrow frame.

She held the slender sword before her face, looking at her reflection in its smooth polished steel. She flipped her hair, exposing the ruined left side of her face. She looked hard, determined, her jaw rigid and her eyes intense. Immediately she began to feel better about herself. Her womanly weakness fluttered away like bubbles from a drowning man’s nose. I am Lord Commander, she thought. Karak’s emissary, the bearer of Karak’s law, the wielder of Karak’s sword.

She had barely slid Integrity back into the scabbard when she spotted shadowy figures by the side of the road, in the fields of swaying wheat. The figures halted in a small clearing between the rows of wheat, staring at the massive army with their hands cupped over their eyes to block out the sun. Avila squinted, trying to see them more clearly. It was hard to know for sure, but they appeared to be holding staffs. Or perhaps spears.

Malcolm appeared beside her once more. He was businesslike this time, which pleased her.

“The first of the flock,” he said flatly. “Do you wish for me to take care of them?”

She tied her hair back in a knot, exposing her entire face, scars and all. “I think not,” she said. “If any are to draw first blood, it will be your Commander. Captain, prepare the torches. This field will burn once we pass it.”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Malcolm replied.

Avila kicked her mare and the horse turned off the road, bounding across the field. The heavy heads of wheat slapped at her knees, but she paid no mind. She relished the wind beating her face, even the insects that caused welts to rise on her arms when they slammed into her as she rode. The ache in her abdomen became but an echo of what she had felt before, and by the time she redrew Integrity, the sensation had all but disappeared.

The figures didn’t move as she approached, as if they were scarecrows instead of people, and when she drew closer she saw that they were but children; one boy and one girl dressed in roughspun, both holding irrigation rods meant to poke holes in the hard soil. Their faces were dirty, but their teeth shone white when they smiled and began to wave. It took Avila a moment to register the sight in her mind. They were smiling . A rapid wave of confusion made her slow the gallop of her mare and drop Integrity to her side.

She sidled up to them, staring down, allowing the tip of the blade to hover and bounce a foot from their faces. The children, their locks golden and curled and their eyes a deep shade of blue, didn’t pay the sword any mind. They did not even seem to see it. Their smiling gazes were locked on her.

“Hello,” said the boy cheerily.

Avila felt at a loss for words. She swiped the sword back and forth before them, trying to elicit a fearful response, but the children simply bobbed their heads away as if avoiding a pesky fly. It made no sense that they would show no fear.

“Who are you?” she asked finally, lifting Integrity and resting the blade against her shoulder.

“Will,” said the boy. He puffed out his chest and held his staff out to the side. “I’m eight.”

“Well, Will,” she said, “where are you from? Are your parents close?”

“We’re from Nor,” Will replied. He then snickered, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Back thataway, past the tall grass. That’s where Mother and Father are.” His face grew suddenly serious. “You won’t tell them you saw us, will you? Mother told us to stay put, but we ran off.”

“Why did they say that?”

The little boy shrugged. “Everyone’s acting strange.”