David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Velixar glanced up at his deity in curiosity.

“Should we not have left it intact for our return?” he asked.

Karak swiveled, taking in the sight of the sacked town. “We can raise another bridge if necessary, my Prophet,” he finally said. “For now, I find it best to eliminate an easy route of escape into our own lands.”

“I understand, my Lord,” Velixar replied with a bow.

The soldiers began stacking timber over the corpses, pouring from clay jugs a sticky, flammable concoction over the various hovels and buildings. The last of the supply wagons rumbled away, heading toward the main column, which awaited a mile or so down the western spine of the Gods’ Road. Velixar remained behind with his god and a small regiment of men to take care of one final piece of business.

The surviving Wardens were bound hand and foot to the front stoop of the inn. Eighteen in total. Velixar ambled past them, studying each face, remembering each name: Loen, Crenton, Gabbrion, and Mordecai, among others. None of them spoke or so much as glanced his way, keeping their eyes fixed instead on the blood-splattered grass before them. Bareatus was there too, the Warden who had greeted him when he’d returned to Safeway from his journey to the Temple of the Flesh with the corpse of Martin Harrow strapped to the back of a donkey. So long ago, thought Velixar. Much had transpired since that day, and he was a completely different man now…if he could be called a man at all. More and more he understood himself as something greater, something transcendent.

He reached the end of the line, where the broadest of the Wardens knelt, his arms tied behind him at such an extreme angle that his back was arched. Yet this specimen showed no visible signs of discomfort and, unlike the rest, he did not bow. His head was thrown back, exposing his thick neck and broad chest. With his platinum hair, crystal blue eyes, and porcelain skin, he could have been a very, very tall member of House Crestwell.

“Ezekai,” Velixar said. “You look well.”

Ezekai had been the Master Warden of House Gorgoros before Bessus, Ashhur’s first child, had sent the Wardens away from Ker. He was towering and headstrong, a natural leader. And unlike most of his brethren, Ezekai had received training as a soldier before fleeing his home world. It was fortuitous-and imbecilic on Ashhur’s part-that he had been wasted on such a feeble defense.

“Any final words, Warden?” came a booming voice from behind Velixar. As Ezekai looked up at Karak, who stood with his hands on his hips, his godly head blocking out the sun, his eyes grew somber.

“Why?” the Warden whispered.

Karak ignored the question. Instead, he stepped in front of his High Prophet, grasped Ezekai by his hair, and wrenched back his head. Ezekai made not a whimper, simply staring up at Karak, tears running silently down his cheeks.

The god released him.

“You have outlived your welcome,” Karak said. “Your presence is no longer required in my kingdom.”

“Your kingdom?” the Warden spat. “You lord over a kingdom of rats and leeches. You are no true god. You are a disease. Ashhur created peace and harmony, yet all you bring is strife and death.”

Karak laughed, and the sound echoed as if there were a hundred of him. “You know nothing, Warden, and never have.”

Ezekai smiled sadly.

“I have eyes to see, ears to hear. You’re creating everything you swore to avoid, Karak. You are a disgrace, a travesty.”

Karak struck the Warden with the back of his hand. He did it slowly, as if it meant nothing to him, yet the power of it knocked Ezekai into the wall of the inn. His head struck hard enough to crack the wood, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he instead let out a soft moan as blood dribbled down his chin.

“You speak with a creature of the heavens,” Karak said. “For one as lowly as you to question a god insults us both. You should learn from the examples of your brothers, who have accepted their fate with dignity. Come, my Prophet: put an end to this folly, so we may leave this place.”

Karak stepped back, crossing his arms. He was waiting, watching. Velixar swore not to let his deity down. With a snap of his fingers, men came forward, dousing all eighteen Wardens with oil.

“What happened to you, Jacob?” Ezekai asked as the flammable liquid ran over his forehead and into his eyes. “You were once the best, and now…”

“I still am,” Velixar said, cutting him off. He snapped his fingers, and fire spread about his hand, burning without consuming any flesh. Velixar felt the power rise up in him and reveled in it. Before him was life, and he was the deliverer of death. The power of it was intoxicating. The Wardens began to plead for mercy, some crying for Ashhur, others shouting the name of the long-dead god from their long-dead world. All but Ezekai.

“I should have butchered you in the delta, Jacob,” he said coldly.

Velixar matched his coldness.

“Neither man nor Warden can kill me, Ezekai. Only a god.”

As Karak looked on in approval, Velixar brought his fingers to his lips and blew. Blue flame soared into the sky, accompanied by the sound of the great roar of a lion. The homes, the hovels, the grass. The Wardens. They all caught. They all burned.

The rains had stopped and the air had grown warm, but the weather did little to brighten Laurel Lawrence’s mood. They’re all selfish imbeciles, she thought. Every last one. She cursed aloud and tossed a spent apple core into a thatch of wildflowers.

The cart she sat in bounced along on its way to Veldaren, the wooden bench in the back thumping her spine. The thin white canvas over her head shone purple and pink, promising that dusk would soon stretch its menacing fingers over the land. She glanced at the young boy beside her, no more than ten, who was staring at his dirt-caked fingernails. Swiveling in her seat, she pulled aside the curtain at her back.

“Moren, we need to go faster,” she said.

The old man steering the wagon glanced over his shoulder. He snapped the reins, and the pair of exhausted horses that pulled the carriage leapt forward. The wagon pulled taut for a moment, jostling Laurel from her seat. She offered a small cry, but the carriage slowed down again almost immediately.

“’Fraid that’s fast as I can make ’em go, Miss Lawrence,” Moren told her, spit flying from between his wooden front teeth. “These beasts’re old. Ain’t been pullin’ no wagon for years now.”

Laurel sighed.

“Then why did we take them?” she asked, exasperated.

The old man shrugged and slapped the reins once more. “Because these are all I had, Miss Lawrence. My good horses got recruited just like my boys…’cept for Mo back there.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the curtain drop back into place. It was petty for her to blame Moren for their situation. The old farmer had been kind enough to offer his services when she needed them. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that she’d given him two gold pieces from the stash King Vaelor had provided for her mission.

With each day, the task placed on her by Guster Halfhorn, Dirk Coldmine, and the king seemed to grow more daunting. She had spent weeks charting which high merchants to visit and when, going so far as to pick the brains of the other members of the Council of Twelve about the personalities of the merchants and choosing her wardrobe accordingly. After the assembly at the Great Fountain, where Velixar was named High Prophet of Karak and the army left the city in its quest to conquer Paradise, she put all that planning in motion. At the time she’d been confident it would be quick work. She was a young, pretty, and very persuasive woman.