David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“And you betrayed Ashhur,” he said, staring down at the prone First Man.

Jacob glared up at him, his eyes now back to their original soft blue tint.

“I betrayed no one,” he growled. “My actions were noble, you bastard! There is only one true god in this land, only one who will bring your wards to greatness, and it is not Ashhur. I did what I thought was best, what I know is best. Search in me, Warden. See the truth in the words I speak.”

Azariah hesitated, the maul in his hands lowering ever so slightly.

“I sense no lie in your words, Jacob, but you speak a truth shrouded in gray.” The Warden looked deeply saddened, almost beyond repair. “You speak no truth at all,” he whispered. “I wonder if you ever have.”

“You’re a fool, Azariah. Always have been. And my name is Velixar .”

With those words, Jacob lunged toward Azariah. Roland watched as Azariah sidestepped his former master’s swipe, swinging the maul around and slamming the handle into the back of Jacob’s skull. Jacob fell face-first into the muck, a muted gurgle leaking from his lips. The Warden then hefted the weapon high in the air, prepared to bring its spiked head down for the killing blow. He stood there for a long moment it seemed, frozen in time. He slowly lowered the maul, letting it dangle in his grasp as if it weighed more than the world itself.

The Warden hung his head, then looked at Roland in dismay.

“I cannot,” he said. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Roland forced himself off the ground. Beyond them, on the other side of the Gods’ Road, the soldiers and the remaining three wolf-men were still locked in combat. The soldiers were winning. Roland looked at his friend and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Gifts from our god,” Azariah whispered. “They will not last long. Come, we must hurry.”

After one final glance at Jacob’s unmoving body, Azariah mounted his patiently waiting horse and helped Roland climb onto the rear of the saddle. He then whipped the reins, and they moved away from the melee in a wide arc, circumventing the barricade of earth Azariah had magically summoned as they approached the Wooden Bridge. Roland eyed the nine dead Wardens and ten dead men from Lerder, and he offered a prayer to Ashhur that they would find their way safely through Afram to the Golden Forever. The horse’s hooves thumped onto the bridge, and he thanked the gods that none of the corpses they passed had Kaya’s curly black hair, even though the thought filled him with guilt.

They had almost reached the other side when Roland lurched forward, his chest feeling strangely tight. He tasted salty liquid in his mouth that he couldn’t keep down. It dribbled over his lips and down his chin. He glanced at his own chest, saw the red liquid there, and then the thin brown shaft jutting from the torn section of his filthy tunic. Roland felt his whole being go numb.

“Az?” he said. “I think…I think I see…”

Azariah turned, saw the arrow jutting out of him, and paled. He started shouting something, but Roland couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything as he felt the world growing dark, his body strangely foreign and no longer needing him anymore.

Avila marched her horse back and forth in front of the sixteen prisoners. They were dressed in roughspun, their faces dirty, their eyes downcast. Their unnamed village burned behind them, its protective wall shattered.

Letting out a sigh, Avila examined each and every face before her. The sixteen were all old. It had been the same in the other settlements they’d recently liberated. No young men or Wardens had stayed behind to fight. Just the old and sick. Her nerves were frayed, and her men were growing lazy and foul tempered.

Feeling a tug on her hair, Avila glanced behind her. Willa, sitting firmly on the rear of the saddle with her arms wrapped around Avila’s waist, gazed up at her with innocent blue eyes.

“Miss Avila, will they follow Karak too?” the girl asked.

“We shall see, young one.”

Her soldiers, formed into ranks behind her, shuffled on restless feet. She spied Malcolm standing at the forefront, his helm resting in the crook of his arm as his one good eye stared at her with interest. His sword hand flexed. She knew what he wished her to do: There is no mercy. There is order, or there is death. Once more Avila looked at the little girl.

I give my own mercy, she thought, her heart welling with pride. Karak has granted me that freedom.

She nudged her mare toward the awaiting prisoners. One of them, a woman with thinning white hair, fell to her knees and wept. Avila nodded, drew Integrity, and pointed it toward the ground.

“You have been liberated!” she shouted at them. “Karak has shown his compassion by allowing you to live. All who relinquish belief in the false deity of Paradise, fall to your knees like your sister has done. You will be granted a life of liberty for the rest of your days.”

The woman who had collapsed looked up at her with confusion and then raised her hands. At first Avila thought she was about to sing Karak’s praises, but the elderly men beside her took hold of her arms, lifting her up. She stood there, swaying, head down, white hair dangling in front of her face. None moved to kneel.

Another woman stepped forward, stared at Avila with sadness in her eyes, and began to sing. The rest of the sixteen joined in, one after another, until the morning air was filled with joyous song. Avila recognized the tune and the words coming from their mouths; it was one of the songs of the Wardens, taught to her when she was still a child, just a year or so removed from her mother’s breast.

The singing echoed throughout the valley. Avila gaped at the sixteen in disbelief. Not only had they turned aside the chance to live, they were actively denouncing Karak with their song. It was an audacious act, one she had not expected. Those who had been given this same offer in the previous three settlements had acquiesced immediately. Avila felt her soldiers tense behind her, felt Malcolm’s hard stare on her back. Lifting Integrity, she pointed it at the sixteen, made a quick swiping motion. It did nothing to silence them; their song only grew louder.

“Enough!” she shouted, her voice cracking so that she sounded like a pubescent girl instead of the Lord Commander of Karak’s Army. The sixteen closed their eyes, lifted their chins to the sky, and kept right on singing. Avila spotted movement behind her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“These are my prisoners, Captain,” she told Malcolm, halting his path with her sword. “Mine to do with as I choose.”

Malcolm stared up at her, head tilted to the side. Strangely enough, he did not seem angered by Avila’s show of authority; he appeared more intrigued than anything. He bowed his head and rejoined the soldiers to the rear.

Avila knew what she must do.

“You must get down now, little Willa,” she said, turning to look at Willa. “Miss Avila has duties to attend to.”

Willa glanced at her sword. Avila followed her gaze and saw the child’s reflection in the blade. “You’re going to cut them, aren’t you?” the girl asked.

“I am,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Remember your lessons? To worship Ashhur is to turn away from Karak, and to turn away from Karak is to invite chaos into your life. It is a mortal sin, and one that cannot go unpunished.”

Willa sucked in her lips, looking to be deep in concentration. “But what if they don’t know any better?” the girl finally asked. “What if they just want to sing pretty, and they need a good teacher, like you?”

“Well,” Avila began, but no reply came to her.