David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Yet what he smelled wasn’t fire. It was meatier than that, more visceral. He took a step forward, fastening Lionsbane’s scabbard to his belt, while he peered in the opposite direction. Karak stepped out of his pavilion, which was three times the size of Velixar’s, and stood eerily still, his arms crossed, his glowing eyes glaring at the chaos around him.

He looked disappointed.

Someone collided with Velixar from behind; uttered a hasty, halfhearted apology; and then ran off toward a cluster of soldiers gathering at the northwestern ring of forest. Velixar studied the man’s face, committing it to memory. The High Prophet of Karak was to be respected, and this soldier would receive a scolding once all was settled.

Velixar hurried across the empty space separating his dwelling from his god’s. Karak’s head slowly turned, those soul-crushing eyes making him feel small as he approached. The god’s face was still as stone in that moment-forever unmoving, forever unmoved.

“I sense power here,” Karak said. His booming voice made the din of bedlam seem tranquil by comparison.

“Power?” he asked. “What kind of power?”

“A god’s power,” Karak answered, remaining stoic. “My brother has brought the fight to us.”

Velixar felt his heart leap.

“Ashhur is here?”

“No, Prophet. He sent pets to do his business for him.”

Wheeling around, Velixar looked on as three soldiers came tramping out of the forest, dragging a screaming man behind them. The man’s armor had been frayed, his legs a ghastly mess of shredded flesh and exposed bone, his teeth gnashed together, his face scrunched up in pain. His fellow soldiers thrust swords and spears into the thick copse of elms and evergreens, fighting unseen attackers.

What looked to be a huge black shadow darted across the murky forest, appearing and disappearing as it crossed behind the trees. Then he saw another and another and another. Soon the forest was filled with dark outlines, black on black, growing ever closer to the clearing. The soldiers retreated, stumbling over the first line of tents, collapsing several of them.

Eyes appeared next. One pair, two, twenty, fifty-slanted and bloodthirsty, reflecting the day’s dying light. Velixar took a step forward, unsnapping the leather strap across Lionsbane’s hilt. He drew the sword slightly, exposing steel, but remained on the hill with his god just behind him.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Monsters,” Karak replied.

“Ashhur made them?”

“Yes. I feel his essence dripping from them even now.”

One of the beasts lunged from the trees, crushing a fleeing soldier beneath its bulk. It was tall as a man, but it hunched as it ambled. Suddenly, Velixar knew what it was-a wolf that walked on two legs. The creature was covered in gray fur streaked with black, each hair rippling as its powerful muscles flexed and relaxed. Its jaws were open, saliva dripping from wicked incisors. The fur below its jaws glistened with red all the way down to its breast. Its stare was haunting and primitive, projecting hunger, wrath, and the most frighteningly basic form of intelligence. The soldiers froze before the thing, weapons extended in shaking hands. It seemed everyone had stopped breathing. The wolf-man paced back and forth before them, dropping down on all fours occasionally, as if to show off the powerful build of its long arms. When it raised its eyes, they seemed to stare right through Velixar, shining invisible beams of hatred at the god behind him.

The wolf-man turned toward the forest and let loose a mighty howl, throwing its head toward the crimson and purple sky. A second later a wall of fur, muscle, and angry eyes erupted from the shelter of the forest, driving into the frightened column of soldiers. The men did their best to hold the line, but soon the wolf-men overwhelmed them, claws slashing and jaws, filled with sharp teeth, snapping. Men screamed, armor crunched, and steel fell harmlessly to the ground.

The sound of escalating slaughter drew the sick and the early sleepers from their tents. They glanced about with surprise and apprehension, none understanding the scene of carnage before them. A few of the wolf-men spotted them, and they disengaged from their victims, claws and teeth dripping blood, and leapt over their already fallen prey to greet the newcomers. Always, it seemed, they remained aware of Karak and his larger than life presence.

And still more rushed from the forest, a seemingly endless wave. Velixar stood agape as he watched them approach. There had to be a hundred of them. Already they had butchered fifty or more soldiers and left many more on the ground, who screamed as they held stumps where their hands had been, cradling gaping wounds in their chests, long gashes on their faces.

“The ease of our path has made our men soft,” said Karak, sounding disgusted. “These beasts have size and form, but they are no wiser than when they ran on four legs and howled at the moon. Our men have armor, weaponry, tactics. My brother sends a half measure, and we are not prepared.”

The deity stepped forward then, his glowing eyes becoming twice as bright as usual. He extended his massive arms out to both sides of him, bolts of purplish electricity encircling his palms like bands.

“Wait, my Lord!” Velixar shouted.

Karak paused, glaring back at him. “Why do you stop me, Prophet? The slaughter continues.”

He rushed forward. “It does, my Lord, but let the men fight. Let me fight with them. Our army has experienced nothing but the Wardens’ token resistance. Please, Lord, let me guide them. Let me help them win .”

Karak cocked his head and frowned in thought.

“Be swift and brutal,” he said. “I do not enjoy losing more resources than necessary.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Velixar said. He drew Lionsbane and charged down the hill toward the approaching horde. Many of those who had stumbled from their tents were now being slaughtered, but as the wolf-men pushed deeper into the camp, they’d begun to encounter groups of men who’d had time to throw on their armor and ready their weapons. At least ten wolf-man carcasses lay between the trampled tents, bleeding out on the grass.

Concentrating, Velixar focused his power.

“Come to me, men!” he shouted, his voice magnified a hundred times, echoing across the grassland as if he himself were a god. “Come to your Prophet! Come fight in the name of your god! To me! Let us defend our brothers!”

Velixar leapt into the air, narrowly avoiding a wolf-man’s swiping claws. He spun once and hacked down with Lionsbane, cleaving through the beast’s snout and leaving a gaping, leaking hole. The thing shrieked from its mutilated face, the sound like a buzzing nest of wasps, only to be silenced when Velixar plunged his blade through the bloody maw. It fell to the ground and stilled.

More came at him from behind, barreling on all fours. Spinning around, he held out his hand and shouted words of magic. The power flowing through him was robust, and bolts of shadow and black lightning leapt from his fingertips, scorching one of the beasts, its fur erupting with purple flame as it fell, thrashing and writhing in pain. More flames danced onto a second, but it extinguished them with its paw. The third carried on unabated, bearing down on him, leading with outstretched claws.

Velixar dove to the side, and the closest wolf-man stumbled past him. He pointed a finger at the second, muttering, “ Wither ,” and the creature suddenly lost all form. The flesh beneath its fur undulated, its legs became like rubber, its body caved in on itself. The only form of protest it could offer was a pathetic whine before it fell.

Lost in the glory of his spell, Velixar almost failed to notice the third wolf-man had circled around back for him. Claws ripped through the air, shredding the back of his cloak but missing flesh. Velixar pitched himself into a forward roll, avoiding a second deadly swipe, before rising up on his knees and holding Lionsbane out before him. The wolf-man collided with the sword, the blade sinking deep into its chest. The beast’s hungry eyes bulged in surprise. Velixar ducked beneath another of its strikes, then released the weapon so he could roll out and away. When he came to his feet, he felt a strong surge of power, and he recognized the weapon as the primitive thing it really was.