David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Smart man,” replied Velixar with a smile, though inside he was seething. He knew Captain Wellington’s decision was logical, but Mordeina was close, so close. “Since you are free, I would like for you to stay with me. There is much for you to learn.”

“Yes, High Prophet,” said Boris. The soldier then snapped his heels together, moved to the pavilion’s canvas wall, and stood there, still as a statue.

Velixar turned his attention to the old man seated before him.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Cotter Mildwood,” the old man answered in a strained voice. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting his faded brown eyes to see more clearly. “I know you,” he said. “I know that voice.”

“I assure you, you do not,” said Velixar. He grabbed a blank sheet of parchment, lifted his quill, and wrote down the man’s name and description. “Now tell me, Cotter, why did you bow to Karak when we arrived in your village? Why not leave with Ashhur when he passed through?”

“I have no stomach for strife,” old Cotter replied. “And a hurried march would end me. My body is breaking, and I near the end of my days. My hope was that Karak would forgive an old man and allow him to end his life in peace.”

It made sense, of course, though Velixar’s chest tightened at the thought of the man abandoning his allegiance to his deity so easily, so callously.

“Tell me, Cotter, how old are you?”

The old man smiled, revealing a mouth half-filled with pearly white teeth.

“Ninety-four,” he said with pride.

Velixar hesitated. “Ninety-four, you say?”

“Yes. I’ve been alive for ninety-four years.”

“That cannot be so.”

“It is.”

Cotter clumsily lifted the bottom of his ratty tunic, exposing his wrinkled midsection-a midsection that lacked a bellybutton. Then he dropped his shirt and leaned so far forward his elbow struck the desk. He winced a bit, but it did not break his concentration as his squinting eyes stared at Velixar’s face.

“I knew it,” he said, clapping his misshapen hands together. “I do know you. The First Man. Jacob Eveningstar. Still so handsome. You look not a day older than the last time I saw you…had to be at least fifty years ago…though your eyes seem strange.” His expression dropped as a spark of memory flashed in his eyes. “I heard of your exploits in the delta. Ashhur spoke of it when he gathered up the willing and took them from my village.”

Velixar remained silent. He glanced at Boris, but the soldier simply watched, stoic.

“So it’s true,” Cotter said. “But of course it is. Ashhur tells no lies.”

“He does not,” said Velixar.

Cotter nodded. “You were always such a nice man to us. My son was born in my second year, and you brought a bale of hay and twigs to help build his cradle. I don’t remember what you told me that day, but I remember your voice plain as if it were my own.”

“A shame I do not remember you,” said Velixar. “I have met so many over the years. And age has not been kind to you.”

“It is true, it is true.” Cotter’s frown grew deeper. “I have a question for you, Jacob. Why? Why have you turned your back on your god?”

“I am Jacob no longer,” he said, keeping his voice level and his pulse steady. “I am Velixar now, High Prophet of Karak, and I would appreciate it if you would offer me the respect of addressing me as such.” He sighed. “As for my actions, I never turned my back on my god, old man. I am a child of two gods, not one, and I chose Karak. Choosing one god does not mean I turned my back on the other.”

The old man looked confused. “But…that makes no sense. You were Ashhur’s most trusted. Now you seek to destroy him. Though I am not one to talk given that I bended my sore knee to Karak, but it seems like a betrayal to me.”

“My aim is not to destroy,” Velixar said, “but to liberate. Ashhur’s notions are grand, but he is wrong , Cotter, wrong about what is best for humanity. I would show Ashhur the error of his ways, but he is not prone to change. If that means killing him, if a god can even be killed, then so be it. What I’m doing, what we’re all doing in this army, is fighting for humanity’s future. It is mankind I serve, and what is best for mankind. Karak is the truer deity. He is the god of freedom and prosperity, not chains and sacraments.”

“But Jacob-”

Velixar slammed his fist on the desk, silencing him. “Enough, old man,” he said. “I am the one who asks questions here, not you. And do not call me Jacob again.”

“I apologize…Velixar,” the old man said, bowing his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

Breathing deep, Velixar gathered his patience once more. He glanced at Boris and nodded to the soldier, who returned the gesture.

“Let us speak on other matters,” he told Cotter. “You have sworn yourself to Karak, which means you are now a part in our god’s ever growing congregation. And an important one at that.”

“Important? How?”

“You will assist me in the quest for knowledge.”

Cotter’s thin lips twisted in confusion.

“Can you read, old man?” asked Velixar.

“I can.”

Velixar turned to his journal, opened to a page he had inscribed just the night before, when another surge of the demon’s ancient knowledge dripped into his brain like sweet nectar. He turned the journal to face Cotter and slid it across the desk to him.

“The way the human mind works is a mystery to me, to all of us,” he told him. “There are certain words and images that mean something to one person and something completely different to another.”

“I don’t understand.”

Velixar gestured at the journal. “Please, all I ask is that you read the words written on that page and then study the diagram drawn beneath. After you do so, tell me what it is you see.”

Cotter leaned over the pages, cloudy eyes squinting even more as they traced letters and illustrations drawn in black ink.

“The words make no sense,” he muttered.

“Sound them out best you can,” Velixar said. “They’ll feel natural in time.”

Cotter’s thin lips mouthed unintelligible words, his brow furrowing. Velixar leaned forward, watching with interest as the old man’s mouth slowly sagged, his neck growing taut and his hands clenching and unclenching on the desk. It looked like the beginning of a seizure. Faster and faster he spoke the words, now an audible whisper. Then a moan escaped Cotter’s lips, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The old man threw himself back in his chair. He forced out laughter between violent coughing fits, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

Velixar stood, and though Boris looked frightened, the Highest only smiled.

“Fascinating,” he whispered.

Cotter began to shout animalistic bellows and nonsensical phrases. His body rocked in his chair, and then he lurched to a standing position, arms held out to his sides. His ragged tunic was soaked with the blood that seeped from his mouth, nose, and ears. The old man’s eyes bulged, his pupils the size of the tiniest pinprick. He gaped at everything and nothing, his stare as empty as the dead. His lips continued to move, spewing yet more blood. He stuck out his tongue and in a swift motion his mouth snapped shut, his remaining teeth gnashing the appendage in two. The severed portion flopped to the ground while the mouth in which it once resided continued to speak in soundless chants.

“So fascinating.”

Cotter began slamming his blood-soaked face into one of the pavilion’s heavy support struts. Velixar heard a crunch as the man’s nose shattered, and he glanced at Boris. The young soldier was watching the scene with abject horror, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, tiny rivulets of sweat beading on his neck.