David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“The battle is done here, Lord Commander,” her lieutenant said. He backed his large stallion away and sheathed Darkfall on his back. “Please allow me to finish off the miscreants.”

“The battle is done when I say it is done, Captain,” she snapped at him. With that, she jerked the reins to the side, spinning her mount around. She took in the scene around her, the dead humans and Wardens who were sprawled out on the ground, their blood painting the sand red. A few of her charges moved among them, thrusting daggers through the eyes of those who still moaned. Though she had felt fear when the townspeople fought back so bravely, she found that fear to have been completely misplaced. As far as she could tell, they had lost only seven soldiers during the raid-the most casualties in any conflict so far, but according to the books Karak had given her, tomes from far-off worlds translated into the common tongue by the god, such losses were acceptable. She kicked her mount and tramped farther into the village.

The place was more an encampment than a true village, and it had been set up strangely: there was a single giant firepit in the center, and countless tents spun outward from it in a spiral. At the far end of the spiral was a large building surrounded by a myriad of raised garden beds. The building was most likely the granary, and given its sturdy construction, it was the one shelter in the village that offered the illusion of safety.

The afternoon sun shone down on her as she rode through the spiral of tents, gazing at the unsophisticated bedding and clothing that spilled from each. The sounds of the battle-if it could still be called a battle-grew quieter behind her. She heard sobs as the few remaining humans fell to their knees, begging uselessly for mercy. Avila grunted and rode onward. They had lost their chance when they’d refused her call to surrender.

The granary was made from crisscrossing logs held together by sturdy twine. There was a single door tall enough for a Warden to step through without stooping. Avila dismounted and grabbed the door’s handle, holding Integrity at the ready in case anyone inside meant to surprise her. It occurred to her for a moment that she should leave this task for her men, but she shrugged the notion aside. There was no challenge to be met here, at least not one she couldn’t handle.

The door was heavy, its wooden hinges swollen from the heat, so it took a few tugs to open it. She stepped inside, smelled the musty odor of old vegetables mixed with the sharp scent of pickling herbs. There were portholes in the ceiling, allowing sunlight to filter inside. To her right was a mountain of sacks presumably filled with grain and perhaps corn kernels; to her left piles of potatoes, carrots, pomegranates, turnips, and onions.

A strange noise reached her ears, almost like one of the feral cats that roamed the forests of Brent. She approached the bags of grain, her each deliberate footstep causing the boards to creak, and then stopped. Reaching out, she grabbed one of the sacks and pulled it down violently, lifting Integrity in a defensive position as she leapt backward.

The heavy sacks tumbled in an avalanche, and when the dust cleared, a young woman came into sight. She was wearing a smock that seemed to be made from the same material as the grain sacks, and she held something in her hands. Her hair was dark and quite curly, tied in a knot at the top of her head, and her skin tone was tanned almost to brownness. She had wide, pretty azure eyes, and thick rosebud lips. The woman trembled, edging away from Avila until her backside struck the mountain of sacks behind her.

That odd mewling came again, and Avila glanced down. The thing in the woman’s arms shifted, a grimy blanket falling away to reveal the unsullied pink flesh of a very young child. The baby clucked and cried, kicking its chubby legs. Willa once looked like that, Avila thought, then shook her head to banish the invading thought.

The woman held the child closer to her chest. There were tears in her eyes.

“Please,” she said, her voice high and pleading. “Please, don’t hurt my baby.”

Avila paused, uncertainty washing over her. The whole of her body went numb, and prickles danced beneath her flesh. It was as if she had been wrapped in invisible chains.

The woman slid along the sacks behind her, heading toward the granary door.

“Stop,” Avila said, the word coming out as barely a whisper. If the woman heard, she didn’t show any sign of it. She continued moving along the wall of sacks, heading for the bright opening.

“Stop!” Avila shouted, finally regaining her voice, and the woman froze in her tracks.

The beautiful young mother trembled in fear. Avila still felt numb, even as she raised Integrity into the air. The woman dropped to her knees, tears cascading down her cheeks in torrents now. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, her mouth working in a silent plea.

“Do you renounce Ashhur, the false god of this land?” asked Avila. She sounded shaky even to her own ears. “Will you dedicate yourself to Karak, the Divinity of Dezrel, with all your heart and eternal soul?”

The woman shook her head, not looking at her.

“Ashhur, I pray to you. Ashhur, keep me safe, and keep my baby safe-let no harm come to him.” She then nodded, as if a voice had given her a reply. She lowered her eyes, and strangely, she smiled. It might have been the most frightening thing Avila had ever seen. “His name is Quentin,” said the woman.

The mother stood and stepped away from the wall, holding the baby out for Avila to see. Avila retreated one step, then another. Her mind began playing tricks on her; she saw this child as Willa, herself as its mother, holding those puckered lips to her breast, waiting for the tiny thing to suckle, the sustenance produced within her body.

“Stop it,” she whispered, waving Integrity as if to ward off an evil spirit. “Come no closer.”

The woman did not seem to understand. She tilted her head as she continued her approach.

“Hold him,” she said. “Go ahead. Ashhur’s teachings say you can feel the innocence in children, and it fills the soul. Here, take him.”

She extended her arms outward, the squirming child in her hands. For a moment Avila almost accepted. She found herself drawn to them, her heart rate quickening in a way it never did in times of conflict, whether on the battlefield or between the sheets. The sensation frightened her, and she skittered away from the woman. Integrity fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.

“Get away from me!” she screamed.

A shadow passed through the open doorway, and in rushed Malcolm. His lone good eye glanced first at Avila, then the woman. Hearing the clunk of his boots, the young mother turned in time to see Malcolm heft Darkfall from the sheath on his back. The smile left her face.

Malcolm hauled his massive sword back and swung it with all his might, his neck taut, his teeth grinding together in anger. The blade cut through the woman where neck met shoulder, snapping easily through bone and tendon. Before Avila could react, both mother and child had been sliced through. Blood spurted everywhere as Darkfall’s tip smacked against the wood floor. The woman dropped both halves of her now silent child, her eyes wide and glossy as her upper torso and right arm slid away from the rest of her body and landed with a thud . The remainder of her collapsed shortly thereafter.

Malcolm looked up at Avila, his hoary left eye opened wider than the good right one.

“Karak hears no pleas for mercy,” he said, panting. “There is order, or there is death.”

Avila stood frozen, staring from her lieutenant to the butchered mother and child and the ever-widening lake of blood. Malcolm rose and wiped the gore from his sword with a rag from his belt. The sun from above lit him strangely, and for a moment it appeared to Avila as if his blade were glowing a deep purple.