David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“I don’t need steel,” he said, walking toward the beast as it ripped the sword from its chest. “I don’t need a blade. All I need, I have.”

He lunged, grabbing the creature’s face while it still struggled to remain standing. The power channeled through him, down his arm, out his palm, and into twisted flesh. It released a shockwave and a thunderous sound. The wolf-man howled as it died, the bones in its body shattering as the spell rolled through it. When Velixar released his hand, it dropped, an unrecognizable sack of meat and fur.

Velixar had no time to bask in the glory of his success, for still more wolf-men charged. Countless dead soldiers lay before him, their wounds feeding the soil with their blood. Many of the wolf-men stopped to feed. Others still were locked in combat with those soldiers who had not yet fallen, their claws and teeth easily besting armor and steel. Velixar ripped Lionsbane from the wolf-man’s carcass and glanced behind him. More men ran up from the camp to join the fight, but their movements were slow and hesitant, their hearts not engaged. A great many glanced toward Karak’s towering figure in the distance, as if waiting for him to come to their aid. The sight filled Velixar with fury, and he addressed them again.

“For glory!” he shouted, magnifying his voice once more. “For victory! For Karak!”

A group of nine joined his side, several of them bloodied from combat-a sign that they’d killed some of the wolf-men. He cried out a charge, and the ten of them raced toward the hill and the thick of the combat.

“Form ranks!” he cried. “Form ranks, shoulder to shoulder!”

The creatures were all around them, swarming and panting and growling. Velixar saw that one was about to descend on a lone man, and he pointed his finger at it, letting his rage fuel his power. An arrow of darkness shot forth, spearing the creature in the eye, before dissolving.

“I said form ranks !” Velixar roared, and the man scrambled to join the others. Turning, Velixar opened his palms as he speared several more of the creatures with lightning, targeting the ones that appeared the largest and most threatening. Two charged him head on, and Velixar was proud when soldiers at either side of him stepped forward, their swords and shields forming a protective wall. Velixar sent out several more arrows of concentrated darkness, the projectiles shimmering red and purple as they plunged into the beasts’ thick flesh. The two wolf-men weakened and were then hacked to pieces by his guardians’ swords.

Still the wolf-men crashed into the ever-growing lines of soldiers. They were single minded and deadly, stronger than mere humans, and their weapons were always in hand. Velixar felt himself beginning to tire, his magic only wounding the beasts upon whom he unleashed it, instead of killing them outright. One of the beasts crashed through the line, tossing aside a soldier to slash Velixar’s chest. He fell back as another of the creatures ripped a gash across his right forearm. Landing in the blood-soaked earth, he lifted his arms as a hungry maw lowered for his throat.

The thought of falling before the war had even begun, and to such a creature, flooded him with terror.

“Not like this!” he screamed out in primal fury. The air around him rippled, driving the wolf-men back. The blood on the ground came to life, forming tentacles that lashed like whips, pinning several of them to the ground. Dark fire leapt from his hands, and the nearest beast crossed its arms as flames washed over it, burning away fur, then flesh, leaving only bone and ash to fall and scatter. Struggling to one knee, Velixar reached deep inside himself, tapping into a well of power that suddenly seemed endless. Light gathered in his palms, growing ever brighter.

Endless, he thought, focusing on that power, pulling to mind the words of spells that would break and destroy anything in his way. With sudden clarity, he knew he could kill every last one of the wolf-men-and not just them, but the fleeing nation of Ashhur, even the god himself. All he had to do was speak the words, use the power deep within him, and watch it all burn.

He never had that chance. The might he felt at his disposal, the seemingly endless well, disappeared as quickly as he had found it. His hands went dark, and the pendant around his neck, Ashhur’s pendant and Karak’s gift, burned into his flesh. Over his head soared a gigantic black shadow trailing purple fire, and then Karak landed in the midst of the remaining wolf-men, his ethereal sword glowing. In giant, swooping arcs, the god dismantled his foes, cleaving torsos, lopping off heads, reducing the once-powerful creatures to piles of discarded flesh and bone. Even Karak’s own soldiers were not safe-those still locked in combat and unable to retreat suffered the same fate, Karak’s mighty blade slicing through them as if their bodies were made of water.

And then it was over. One moment there was an army of mutated beasts approaching; the next, just a field strewn with blood, bones, and entrails. The remaining wolf-men, a third of the original number, darted into the forest, yelping and baying. Velixar stumbled to his feet, feeling weaker than he had in a hundred years, his body aching, his brain throbbing. Turning around, he saw that half the camp had gathered around the base of the hill to watch Karak dispatch the murderous invaders, their jaws hanging open in awe. One by one, they dropped to their knees before their deity. Karak turned to them, not even winded. The glowing sword in his hand slowly faded away until it blinked out of existence.

“Today, we failed!” the god bellowed, and his worshippers dove forward until their faces kissed the dirt. “Who are these things before me? Surely they are not my children, trained and blessed with the finest weaponry and strongest armor in all the land? What am I to do with you, you pathetic, frail lot? What have the fruits of all my labor delivered to me? One day I will lead an army against the west. One day I will drive the scourge of chaos from the land, and establish a blessed order in Dezrel. But it is not this day. It is not with this army of children and cowards and fools!”

Velixar struggled to his feet as Karak abruptly turned and stormed away. He had to run to keep pace, so great were his god’s strides.

“My Lord, we had them,” he said, winded. He clutched the pendant through his chain and smallclothes. “Please, you must give them another chance.”

Karak said not a word. He simply stormed up the hill and violently batted aside the flaps to his giant pavilion. Velixar followed him in, his strength slowly returning, and with it, his anger.

The god faced away from him. A brisk wind blew outside, rippling the pavilion’s walls and seeming to heighten the din of pain and tragedy from the outside world. The pavilion itself was virtually empty-the only adornment was a small ring of stones in its center, a waft of black smoke rising to the hole in the top of the tent from the dying embers within the ring. Velixar stopped, huffing while he stared at his god’s back.

“You have failed me,” Karak said. His voice was soft now, yet it retained its potency.

“We did not fail you, my Lord,” Velixar insisted. He could not keep the edge out of his voice.

The god turned slightly, fixing him with a dissatisfied glare.

“No? Tell me, Velixar. Tell me how this was a great victory. Tell me how losing two hundred men to a small battalion of my brother’s ill-conceived monstrosities is a triumph.”

“I-”

“You cannot say, because it would not be true.” Karak fully faced him, and never before had Velixar felt so small as he did in that moment. It was a bitter sensation, and it made his blood boil. “My creations may be inexperienced, but inexperience is no excuse for abject failure. We have been fortunate up until now. Ashhur has made us lazy by showing only token resistance as he slowly gathers strength. And when we battle against foes that are actually eager for a fight, I watch my trained men die like rats at the feet of lions.”