David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

He found Captain Handrick standing in the foyer, looking dignified in his mailed suit over boiled leather. Almost immediately Velixar knew something was wrong. The captain’s greaves were coated with deep burgundy stains, as was his longsword’s scabbard. The gruff, older man eyed him with distaste as he approached, but Velixar saw something hidden beneath the veneer of loathing.

Fear. Guilt. Failure.

“Captain,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of the man.

Handrick’s heels snapped together. He offered a slight bow but neither spoke nor offered any show of reverence.

Velixar frowned and said, “How went the journey? I assume the men I asked you to retrieve are in the garrison readying to greet me?”

The captain’s nose twitched.

“As a matter of fact, they are not,” he replied.

Velixar’s blood began to rush faster through his veins.

“And why not?”

“They are dead.”

“Who are? Oris and Alexander?”

“All of them. The entirety of Erznia.”

Velixar’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. All of Erznia…dead? But why? His anger began to churn once more, but he held it in check. He thought he knew who was responsible, but he had to go through the charade, had to find out for sure.

“They fought back?” he asked, knowing that not to be the case.

The captain shook his head. “They didn’t. We fell on them before they had the chance.”

“Before who had a chance to react?”

“Every man, woman, and child.”

His fury boiled over, but he refused to release it. Yet. This captain who was so brazen in his defiance would be made to understand who had the power. Velixar stepped forward and grabbed Handrick by the front of his mail, pulling him close. The armor’s rings cut into his fingers the tighter he gripped, but he felt no pain.

“ Why did you kill them?” he asked. “I gave orders that none were to be hurt, and yet your men slaughtered the entire settlement? Does that sound acceptable to you?”

“The orders were changed,” replied the captain.

Velixar laughed, though the sound was without a hint of humor.

“Changed by who?”

“Highest Crestwell,” said the man proudly. “Or whatever our Highest has become. He joined us on the road and took command over our unit.”

Velixar’s eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what Clovis has become, Captain. I told you explicitly that the beast is neither to be trusted nor heeded. You follow my commands, not the demon’s.”

“I guide my men the way I see fit,” replied Handrick “The demon may have altered our Highest’s form, but Clovis still lives.…”

“He is not the Highest- I am!” Velixar roared. Admirably, Handrick managed not to tremble before such an outburst, though it seemed to take him a moment to gather himself.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But Clovis declared the citizens of Erznia blasphemers, and I agreed. They were to be punished, no different from how we punished those in Haven.”

Amazingly, the captain’s fear seemed to be diminishing, replaced by stubbornness and pride. Velixar could never let such defiance go unanswered.

“You did this even though your god ordered you otherwise,” he said.

“Karak gave me no orders.”

“ I gave you the orders. I speak for Karak in our Divinity’s absence.”

“Like you spoke for Ashhur? Will you betray Karak as well?”

A deep throaty noise rose in Velixar’s throat.

“Watch your words, mortal,” he said.

Captain Handrick shoved him backward with one mailed fist, moving his other hand to the hilt of his sword. “You are no god, Jacob . And you could never take the place of the Highest. You are a delusional turncoat, and you can perish just as easily I can.”

The man went to pull out his weapon, but Velixar was quicker. One violent swing batted Handrick’s sword arm aside, shattering bone. A shriek left the captain’s throat as he stared at his flopping appendage. Velixar grabbed him around the back of the neck with his left hand, then latched onto his lower jaw with his right, his fingers beneath the captain’s chin, his thumb pressed against the inset of his lower teeth. Handrick struggled, but his strength was no match for his opponent’s.

“You sealed your fate,” Velixar whispered in his ear. “You shall never utter that accursed name again.”

With one mighty tug, he tore Captain Handrick’s lower jaw free from his face, ripping tendons and crushing bone and cartilage. The tongue severed from the lower palette and flopped against the captain’s chest in a great spray of blood. Handrick tottered backward, eyes bulging as he desperately swiped at the empty space where his jaw had been, gripping his flopping tongue like it was a slithering worm. He collapsed onto the floor, his whole body quaking, a red stain spreading from his chest all the way down to his belt. A wheezing gurgle was the only form of protest he could offer.

Velixar tossed the mess that had been the man’s lower jaw aside, closed his eyes, and spoke a few words of magic. The spurting blood vessels sealed themselves as the gaping wounds were gradually covered by a layer of new flesh, creating a wrinkled divot in the middle of which was the black cave of his throat. The teeth of his upper jaw hung over the cave like yellowed stalactites. In a matter of moments the captain stilled, his breath coming in short rasps as his dangling tongue still waggled in his hand. Velixar knelt before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Handrick’s eyes lifted to him, overflowing with soundless terror.

“As I said, you will never speak that name again,” Velixar said. “Nor any other for that matter. You have disgraced your god, your kingdom, and your title, and so I leave you as the helpless, ugly bastard you have proved yourself to be. You have two choices, Captain: you can either learn to live like this or you can take your own life. It is your decision. If I were you, I’d choose the latter.”

He stood up and turned away as Handrick began to sob. Lanike appeared on the stairwell, drawn out of her quarters by the sounds of conflict. Her hand rose to her mouth when she saw the horror below her. Velixar looked up at her and smiled.

“Lanike, my dear, please assist the good captain with anything he might need. And as you can see, there is some blood on the floor. Please clean it before I return. I feel it is time to pay our god a visit.”

Traversing the miles to Karak’s private temple took the rest of the afternoon. Velixar walked the entire way, his heavy black cloak draped over his head, his face hidden by the darkness inside his cowl. No one accosted him on his journey; those he saw in the streets gave him a wide berth, often crossing to the other side of the road when he came within sight. Even the thieves and other unsavory individuals let him be. His legend had grown since he’d return as the dark-cloaked confidant of Karak. He was the undying punisher of the blasphemous, the tamer of demons.

He spent his walk in a sour mood, reflecting on the beast sharing Clovis Crestwell’s body and its apparent disregard for Velixar’s plans. Darakken had been more burden than help in the months since its awakening. It was a base creature, bred for violence, and its colossal appetite required constant nourishment. Ironically, this was perhaps its most useful aspect, as its voracious appetite had helped clear out the dungeons. Several times the demon had dropped to its knees before him, begging to be released of the chains of a shared body, pleading to be made whole once more so its true form could roam free. Velixar always denied it that wish. “When the war begins,” he would tell the beast, “when Celestia descends from the heavens to assist her lover, Ashhur, in battle, only then will I free you. Only then will your true purpose be needed.”