David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“One of our own has been murdered!” screamed Neyvar Ruven, standing on the dais in front of the emerald palace’s gate. “Who was it? Who leads the rebellion? Come forward, speak, and spare yourselves pain and suffering.”

None did, though a murmur began to rise from the sea of bowed heads.

Ceredon felt his stomach clench as he watched the spectacle from his position at his father’s side. A part of him did not understand the Dezren’s lack of action. They numbered greater than eight thousand, their ranks more than adequate to overwhelm the scant forces the Neyvar had brought with him. It seemed absurd that the only ones standing against them were Tantric’s rough and battered group of brave souls. Yet then he remembered his conversation with his father. Many of the Dezren were farmers, teachers, philosophers, musicians, and spellcasters. They were not warriors. The Quellan Ekreissar, on the other hand, were trained in the art of battle and had been since the Demon War a thousand years before.

“If the brother gods were not draining the power of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us,” his father had said. Now their spells were but a sad echo of the deadly force they had once wielded. The Dezren had been lessened by measures not of their own choosing, and Ceredon promised himself not to forget that.

His father, the Neyvar, continued to pace back and forth on the dais, shouting at the cowering male populace. Ceredon could see through his façade now. The anger in his voice was too righteous, his gestures overly exaggerated. Ruven was acting a part, and it seemed as though others were beginning to notice as well, for Aerland Shen scowled when he looked at the Neyvar, his hideous, wide-set face crumpling into an animal expression. Neyvar Ruven scowled in return and then turned in a huff and left the dais.

Aeson took the Neyvar’s place, continuing the verbal assault on the kneelers. It was he who ordered Shen to lash Lord and Lady Thyne’s backs with five-pronged whips while they were strapped to the feet of Celestia’s grand monument. The lord and lady wailed, their eyes locked onto the goddess’s likeness as their clothes and skin were flayed from their backs. Ceredon had to fight his urge to end their torment. Killing Conall would help them in time, he knew, but it was a shallow comfort. Ceredon’s deed had brought them suffering. He had to remind himself that this was only further proof of the necessity of his nighttime assassinations.

They won’t be killed, he thought as Lord and Lady Thyne slumped before the statue, the beating finally over. They’re being used to keep the people in line. Once the last two members of the Triad were dead, once his father had regained full influence over the Ekreissar, the Thynes’ suffering would end.

Aeson ushered the anguished and limping royal family away, then ordered the masses to rise. They did, hesitantly, and Ceredon could see the hatred painting each and every face. His father’s cousin offered closing remarks to the Dezren men, and his words worried Ceredon.

“You are free to go,” Aeson said, his lips twisted downward with anger. “But think twice if you consider turning against us. Come the morrow, you will know the full scope of the power we have at our disposal.”

The next morning, Ceredon discovered the elf’s meaning.

Warhorns blared as the swarm descended over the hills bordering the Gihon River, using the same route Shen and the Ekreissar had traveled a lifetime ago, then poured into the heart of Dezerea. The humans were wearing black and silver armor, and the banners of the eastern god, Karak, flew high above them, the wrathful lion roaring down on all who witnessed its fluttering countenance. Ceredon watched the endless procession from the dais, where he stood beside his father. He tried to count the troops as they formed into brigades before the palace steps, but he could come to no solid number. There had to be near a thousand men on horseback, bearing long spears, heavy axes, and sharp swords. There were at least four times that number on foot, with a hundred horse-drawn wagons trailing behind. The entirety of the human force overwhelmed the forest city like an invading colony of deadly ants. The Ekreissar, who lingered around the humans, seemed nervous and resentful in the same instant. Of those on the dais, including the entire consulate that had originally traveled to Dezerea for the betrothal, only Aeson and Iolas appeared content.

The horseman in front approached the dais. He was a hefty, bald man, his black leather overlaid with bronze chain, and he rode a majestic white charger. Everything about him seemed wrong: his face was too broad, his posture too hunched, and his eyes emitted a reddish glow. His flesh was also abnormal, for it seemed stretched to the point of translucency. Ceredon could see a web of red and green veins running beneath it. Every so often part of the man’s body would throb, as if there were things lurking beneath his skin that might burst through the surface.

Then the man spoke, and the strangeness doubled.

“In the name of the mighty Karak,” he said, his voice quite odd, almost as if two beings were speaking as one, “we come to your fair city in the trees. We seek food and shelter, as was our agreement. This shall be our base of operations in the west: our ferries shall remain untouched in the river, and you will give us all we require.”

Ceredon opened his mouth to protest the strange bald man’s demands, but his father squeezed his arm, silencing him. The Neyvar stepped forward and offered the odd horseman a slight bow.

“It is our pleasure to assist Karak and his soldiers, Highest Crestwell,” he said in the human’s tongue. “You will have all that was promised. We Quellan do not break our vows.”

The leering, bald man offered a queer half grin, then bowed in the saddle.

“I was assured that would be the case,” he said. “But I am Highest no longer, great Neyvar. Clovis will suffice.”

“As you will,” Neyvar Ruven replied.

Iolas stepped forward. “Will you come inside the palace, so we can discuss further terms?” the ancient elf asked. “Our rangers will assist your soldiers in situating themselves while we are detained, if that is acceptable to you?”

Clovis nodded, dismounted his charger, and wobbled up the steps. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, a strange trait for one with so much authority. Ceredon lingered behind as the man passed him, and he noticed a strange odor, like sulfur. Aerland Shen began barking orders, as did a second human on horseback, and the soldiers broke rank. All was deafening chaos as Ceredon followed his father into the palace, and he could hear grumbled complaints from many of his brethren. Being forced to assist humans was anathema to them.

The group settled into the Chamber of Assembly. Aeson and Iolas covered the statue of Celestia with a large tapestry at the request of the odd-looking human, and then they all took their places at the great table, Neyvar Ruven at one end, Clovis Crestwell at the other. Ceredon found it hard to hide the affront he felt when Celestia’s likeness was concealed. Why should they do so for this human who came into an elven city under another god’s banners? It was blasphemous.

Clovis sat board-straight, and it looked like it took his every effort to retain that posture.

“You wished to speak of terms,” he said. His voice sounded even stranger when it echoed in the cavernous chamber.

The Neyvar nodded. “We risk much by giving you access to our city. You know our goddess demands neutrality in the affairs of humanity. I understand our cooperation was already agreed on, but if we are to break that pact-at great risk, I may remind you-we require further compensation.”