David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Please, Lord Clovis, have mercy,” Aeson stammered, falling to his knees on the dais. Ceredon flinched at his use of that title.

“I should kill you right now, but I will not. However, your life does come at a price.”

“Name it, Lord Clovis. Anything you wish.”

Clovis dipped his head low, staring from beneath his wide brow. “Tonight, you will lead the rangers yourself, heading due northeast, toward the rocky hills by the edge of the river. It is where the rebels are hiding, and you will wipe them out.”

“You know this?” asked Ceredon, unable to stop himself from speaking.

“Yes.”

“Then why the spectacle? Why not tell us sooner?”

“A show of strength, a test of knowledge, a test of obedience . A test you all failed.”

Aeson stepped forward. “You should have told us your information, Lord Clovis. The deaths of your men could have been avoided.…”

“Enough!” the human shouted as he lifted the bloody khandar. Spittle flew from his lips. “You will do as I say, and do it now. None of your people will try to stop me if I choose to end you. Considering the way you betrayed our trust before, you are lucky I don’t devour each and every one of you where you stand.”

Ceredon glanced at the faces of all who still lingered on the dais. He was confused by the latter part of the man’s statement, but he completely understood the desire to rip Aeson’s and Iolas’s heads from their shoulders.

“I…but I…Lord-” said Aeson.

“Do not call me ‘lord’ again. Karak is the only lord of this land. I am but a servant.”

“I apologize. But please, I tell you, I am three hundred years old, and my best days are behind me. The Ekreissar are more than capable of defeating the rebels without my involvement. It would be a death sentence for me to be at the front of the vanguard.”

“Fight with your men and die by the sword, or refuse me and die by the sword,” said Clovis, taking a menacing step forward. “Those are your only choices.”

“I…”

Ceredon stepped forward. “I will join Aeson in the field,” he said before Aeson could dig himself a deeper hole. His father reached for his sleeve in protest, but Ceredon gracefully moved beyond his grasp. “I am young and capable, and I will keep him safe, if that is what he fears. I am confident that with my assistance, the rebellion will be snuffed out before this night is over, and our casualties will be few.”

Clovis gazed at him with mild curiosity. “The son of the Neyvar, offering his services to the realm? Who is it you do this for? Whose name will you shout when every last one of the insurgents is dead?”

“Karak’s,” Ceredon answered. The name felt dirty on his tongue, and he almost gagged on it.

The human laughed.

“Is that so? You turn your prayers to my god now?”

“Karak has proven mighty, while Celestia has abandoned us. Tell me, Clovis, what reason would I have not to fall before him beyond tradition and stubborn pride?”

Clovis seemed to mull this over for a moment.

“Very well,” he said finally. “At dusk you will depart. I want none to return until the deed is done.”

With that, Clovis pivoted on his heels and stormed away, following the trail of blood that led toward the rear of the palace, where the dungeon entrance was located. He seemed to be limping, and his shoulders appeared narrower. It almost looked like he was deflating before their eyes, as if whatever magics had healed the wound in his chest were now sapping the rest of his body. Ceredon had to fight the urge to follow him, for he desperately wished to know what went on in that dungeon, but a regiment of humans guarded it day and night, and he knew he would never get close. Unfortunately-or fortunately , depending on what he might find-the dungeons were the one part of the palace that could not be reached through Lord Orden’s tunnels.

When he turned around, his father was shaking his head at him. The Neyvar pursed his lips and stormed back into the palace, followed closely by Iolas. To the undiscerning eye, Neyvar Ruven might appear disappointed, but Ceredon had seen enough of his father over the past few months to know better. It was thinly veiled fear that the man was feeling.

Aeson grabbed his elbow, squeezing tightly. Ceredon slowly craned his neck to look at his father’s cousin, member of the Triad, the mastermind of the torture of the Stonewood Dezren, and violently jerked his arm away.

“You insult me with your actions,” Aeson said, brimming with false confidence now that Clovis was out of earshot. “Clovis is only human, and I do not require protection, especially not yours.”

“You were the one who bowed before him,” he said.

Aeson sneered. “It is part of the game. You are but a child. Your father should have paid more attention to you when you were younger. Perhaps then you would not be so useless.”

Ceredon breathed deeply, shook his head, and marched away from the belligerent elf. His anger boiled over. If only Aeson knew how Ceredon had manipulated him, using whispers and carefully placed evidence to point the way toward the previous night’s trap, he would not think him useless any longer. But he let the elf enjoy his false sense of superiority, for it was Aeson who would surely prove himself useful in the coming hours. Just like the Dezren who had been executed, he would prove how well he could bleed.

The moon was full, but a thick layer of clouds had rolled in, making the darkness nearly complete as a hundred Ekreissar rangers crept through the forest. The skilled rangers made nary a sound as they glided over the leaf-covered ground. The same could not be said for Aeson, who lacked the proper training. He had donned a green and brown outfit in place of his usual imperial robes and was forging a path at the head of the group, hacking away at the vines and branches that blocked his way instead of ducking beneath them or moving aside. Every so often he would grunt and swear, which Ceredon could tell drew the ire of the other rangers. Backward glances revealed a few rangers rolling their eyes, and some made gestures implying that they’d murder Aeson if he made another sound. It was a pleasing sight. The Quellan had long regarded the Triad as Celestia’s voice, the few beyond reproach who held the Neyvar’s ear. It was good to see that trend reverse itself.

“Ceredon, halt,” Aeson said, and Ceredon felt the whole group wince at the noise. Ceredon did as he’d been asked. The other Ekreissar halted too, but Aeson motioned them onward. “Continue on to the rendezvous point. We will be there shortly.”

“Why do we stay?” Ceredon asked after the last of the rangers disappeared farther into the forest. “Clovis insisted that we lead…”

“I don’t care what that idiot insisted,” Aeson said. “I told him I had information about Tantric’s whereabouts, and he ignored me. Let the rest of the Ekreissar waste their time pursuing the rebel hideout. Tantric is close, and I will defeat him, taking the glory for my own and then shoving it right in Clovis’s face. You are confident in your ability with a khandar, are you not?”

“I am. Why?”

“There are two of us and only one of him, and we are catching him unaware. He will be easy prey. Follow me.”

Perfect, thought Ceredon.

They maneuvered through the brush, Aeson taking greater care this time to remain silent as they slid down the rocky descent on the other side. The roar of a waterfall soon reached their ears, and the air grew thick with moisture as they continued their downward trek. Finally, they stepped through the threshold of trees, and a lagoon of shimmering black water greeted them on the other side. The gulley was deep, far below sea level, and a nearly solid sheet of water thirty feet wide dumped runoff from the river into it. It was an entirely isolated refuge, invisible from the rest of the forest.