David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“I’ll talk to them, Miss Avila,” Willa said. “Can I? Please?”

She stared at the girl, uncertainty washing over her. She knew hundreds of eyes watched her this very moment, knew that her men were judging her. But in that moment, she realized she didn’t care. Sheathing Integrity, she threw her leg over the saddle and dismounted, then helped Willa down as well.

“I’ll do good,” the girl said. “I promise.”

With that, Willa toddled toward the sixteen. Almost as soon as she reached the old woman in front, the one who had sung the first note, the song faltered. The woman gawked down at the young girl, who was insistently yanking on the front of her smock.

“What is it, child?”

Willa beckoned her forward with her finger, and the old woman bent her arthritic back so the girl could whisper in her ear. The old woman nodded once, twice, and then gave Willa a soft smile. By that time the others had stopped singing as well, staring at Willa and the old woman. They gathered around the two of them, and Avila could hear soft murmurs from the knot of wrinkled flesh.

When finally they ceased their talk, the elders nodded at the young girl with the bouncing golden curls as she skipped away from them. A few even had the audacity to smile. The old woman who had first spoken with Willa stepped forward. She bowed her head in Avila’s direction while those behind her milled about.

Willa took her place at Avila’s side, and Avila felt a tiny hand slip into hers. The little girl was beaming, all dimples and tiny teeth as she stared up at her. Avila’s heart fluttered as she brought her attention to her captives.

“Do you renounce Ashhur?” she asked once more. “Do you reject chaos and allow Karak into your hearts?”

“No,” they all replied, one after the other. Their voices sounded weary yet strong. Beside Avila, Willa let loose a high-pitched whimper filled with anguished surprise.

Avila frowned at the young girl. “You wish to seal your fate in the eyes of Karak?” she said to the sixteen.

The old woman who had begun the song lifted her eyes.

“Our god is our god,” she said. “Ashhur is love and forgiveness, and we will not forget that, even though the sprite has begged us otherwise.”

Avila turned toward her charges, summoning Malcolm and four underlings to come forward. She then addressed the sixteen once more.

“You have been found guilty of blasphemy,” she proclaimed. “The penalty is death.” She looked to Malcolm. “Be brutal in the face of our god, captain.”

“As always, Lord Commander,” said Malcolm, smiling.

The captain nodded to his underlings and began to slide Darkfall from its sheath on his back. Willa broke down in tears, causing the sixteen to frown and shake their heads. The old woman even mouthed I’m sorry to her. The girl started to tug violently on Avila’s armor. She glanced down, saw those tiny, perfectly smooth cheeks stained with tears.

“Please no, Miss Avila,” Willa said, her lower lip quivering. The girl’s eyes kept darting toward Malcolm, who drew ever closer to the blasphemers.

“You know what must happen, Willa,” Avila reminded her. “They have decided their fates.”

“But they sang .”

“Yes…the songs of Ashhur. They turned their backs on Karak.”

Willa tugged harder on her armor. “But maybe they just don’t know better, Miss Avila!” she cried. “Couldn’t we just…capture them? You could teach them like you’ve taught me. Wouldn’t Karak like that better than killing them?”

Avila stared down at her, uncertainty washing over her. When she tore her eyes away from the girl, she saw Malcolm grab the old woman at the front of the sixteen and toss her to the ground while the four underlings prepared a large stone to place beneath her head. She looked at Willa once more, saw the tears that were now flowing in torrents.

What would Karak want? Converts or destruction?

“Captain, stop !” she called out.

Malcolm slowly turned toward her, Darkfall held out by his side. His good eye narrowed. Willa squeezed her hand, the warmth of her flesh giving Avila strength.

“These sixteen are not to be harmed,” she declared. “Bring them to the other converts. They will be shown the glory of the Divinity, whether or not they wish it.”

The captain cocked his head, a look of disappointment on his scarred face, but he did not move.

“ Now , Captain Gregorian,” she said. “Get them out of my sight.”

Malcolm stepped back and sheathed Darkfall while the underlings helped the old woman back to her feet, leading the sixteen to the massive tent where the converts of Paradise were kept. The soldiers gathered around, many of them shaking their heads in apparent disgust. But they did not concern Avila. Her focus was on the sixteen; she watched the expressions on their faces, the tiny waves the women gave Willa as they passed her. Avila then looked down at the girl, whose smile stretched wide across her rosebud lips as she returned their waves. She heard Malcolm shouting for the men to return to the camp on the other side of the Gods’ Road. The repetitive clomping of their boots kicked up a massive cloud of dust, echoing the smoke that rose into the air from the smoldering village.

Only after her soldiers had disappeared over the ridge did she lift Willa into the saddle. The girl was still smiling, and she seemed reluctant to release Avila’s hand. When she finally did, Avila removed her glove and petted the child’s satiny golden locks.

“I’m sorry they didn’t say yes to Karak,” Willa said.

“I know, and so am I. But worry not, young one, they will. We will make sure of that.”

The girl kicked her legs happily. “Good.”

“I am curious, though. What did you tell them?”

Willa’s head bounced from side to side.

“I told them they could learn to love Karak just like I had. That I really, really wished they would, because I didn’t want to see them get cut.”

Avila chuckled. “Very smart of you, Willa. Very smart indeed. I am proud of you.”

“Thanks, Miss Avila.”

She patted the girl’s back. “I give praise where praise is due, little one. Now slide back onto the saddle and hold on tight. We are heading back to camp. I think Varshrom the cook is making mushroom stew this evening, and I, for one, am famished.”

Willa’s cherubic face scrunched up in a grimace. “I don’t like mushrooms.”

Avila leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I don’t either, little one. But I hear they will have lemon cakes too.”

The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement. “Yes!” she said in an urgent whisper. “I love lemon cakes!”

Avila thought her heart could melt.

She watched the girl sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her rosebud lips parting every so often to mutter dream-speak. Avila stroked her hair the whole time, unable to stop herself, even when Willa whimpered and rolled onto her side. There was no mistaking it; for as much as she might have once wished it weren’t the case, Avila was smitten.

Not that it was such a bad thing. Having spent countless days with the little girl, Avila had begun to give her the same sort of doting attention she’d received from her own mother at that age. It felt as if she had discovered something missing from her life. She had always felt a sort of emptiness, a hole that she’d once thought could only be filled by Karak. Now that hole was slowly disappearing. She lifted Willa’s limp hand and kissed her chubby little fingers one after another. With each kiss she promised the child that she would never leave her, that once Karak won the war she would build a homestead at the base of the mountain range that bore her family’s name, and they would settle there. She would become a mother instead of a soldier. Perhaps she would even find a mate to fill her with seed, giving Willa a sister or brother, perhaps several, a whole lot of brats who would bicker and cry and fight and call her Mother . She would get old and die, and she would be happy for it.