Wrath of Lions (5 page)

Laurel thought of the battalions of armored soldiers she’d watched march down the streets of the city one month before. There had been hundreds of them, all Veldaren natives, their armor, swords, axes, and maces clattering as they worked their way through the crowds of women who cheered and shouted prayers for their safe return.
They
had appeared well fed, and the combined skills of Neldar had been showcased in every finely made piece of armor and sharpened blade.

“This war strains us greatly, but it will not last long,” she said. “My mother told me of the people of Paradise. They are lazy and ignorant, and they expect their god Ashhur to grant them their desires so they may live in childish servitude. Weak and defenseless, what will they do when our soldiers march against them? When Karak leads our brothers into Paradise, the people there will have no choice but to bow before him.”

Or else their bodies will be hung from a wall like Minister Mori’s,
she thought.

“I dream of such an easy war,” said King Vaelor. “Ashhur has had six months to prepare. Do you think he has spent that time idly? Do you think he will allow his creations to be slaughtered without a fight? Yes, I have heard stories about Haven and the great fire from the sky that destroyed the blasphemers.…But I have also heard of how the very ground shook when the brother gods battled, of how in his rage Ashhur cut down our soldiers with his sword as if they were stalks of wheat. No, I fear Karak will cross the river to find that a once frightened sheep has become a braying wolf. Six months is not time enough to train an entire populace in the art of war—an art that
we
have not yet mastered, mind you—but they will fight for the lives they’ve been given. And none of this takes into account the crisis of numbers we’re facing.”

“What do you mean?”

The king motioned toward Guster. The old man straightened in his chair and looked Laurel’s way.

“Our society is strong, Laurel, and hearty, but compared to Paradise we are woefully outnumbered. Our years of incessant breeding have granted us a population of more than eighty thousand. However, of that eighty thousand, the force our god has gathered amounts to barely a quarter of that number. The rest of our society is comprised of women, children, and the elderly. Here in the east at least one in three children do not reach adulthood, but in Paradise there is no sickness; no mothers die on the birthing bed and no children perish. Health is in such abundance that we hear tales that a hundred from the
first generation
still endure, albeit old as sin. And believe me when I say that those in Paradise have bred just as feverishly as we have. Their people outnumber ours three to one, and that is a conservative estimate.”

Laurel leaned back in her chair, stunned. She had never thought of that; the sheer numbers were staggering. It made her head spin.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, head bowed. She felt lost and afraid, her entire reality crashing down before her. It only made matters worse that she did not know what was expected of her.

“Do you understand now why we must prepare for the worst?” asked the king.

“I do,” she said, her voice weak. “But why me? Why am I trustworthy when others are not? What do I have to offer?”

At those words, Dirk sat back in his seat and cupped his hands just below his chest. A charge of anger rushed through Laurel, making her dig her fingernails into her palms below the table, but she held her tongue.

“As crass as Councilman Coldmine might be, he has the truth of it,” said Guster. His tone warbled, his wattle flopped. “But that is only part of it. The whole truth is that besides being a young and attractive woman, you are also highborn and quite clever. You are relatively new to the Council, whereas the rest of us have been advising King Eldrich since the crown was passed to him.”

“Which means,” said the king, “that you are relatively unknown outside these walls.”

Laurel glanced at each of her companions in turn, taking in Vaelor’s creased brow, Dirk’s knowing smirk, and the concerned droop of Guster’s jowls. Karl Dogon appeared disgusted by the proceedings, though it was hard to tell—that look of contempt never seemed to leave his face.

“I don’t understand,” she finally said.

The king began to tap restlessly on the tabletop. “In order to ensure our survival should the worst occur,” he said, his tone that of a teacher berating an inattentive student, “we need the high merchants on our side. The Garlands, the Mudrakers, the Conningtons, the Blackbards, the Brennans—even the Gemcrofts, if Peytr still lives. Before the gods’ clash in Haven, all but Peytr were dutiful citizens, paying far beyond their levies and supplying whatever goods we requested. Since the rumblings of war, however, they’ve become
invisible. The house leaders have retreated to their estates and are either too fearful—or too smart—to emerge. We need their coin and resources if we are to protect ourselves from the possibility of an extended conflict.”

“Why don’t you make them give it to you?” Laurel asked, cringing as the question left her mouth.

The king frowned, his arms extending outward. “We have a powerful enemy west of the rivers. We do not need to make more here in our own land. No, what I need is a messenger, an individual who will not attract the wrong type of attention, someone these men will listen to and trust. And who is a powerful man more likely to trust than a beautiful young woman?”

“I can think of many examples, actually,” said Dirk with a laugh.

Vaelor silenced him with a look, then turned his gaze back to Laurel.

“Do you accept my offer, girl? Will you be my messenger?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

Dogon tapped the hilt of his sword, answering her question without words. Again she heard Soleh Mori’s voice in her head.
“It is our duty to silently nurture that power, especially when the men try to strip it from us, or force us to play their game.”

“Very well then,” she said with a sigh, tightening the threads on the front of her bodice. The room seemed to grow even colder, making her shiver. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

C
HAPTER

2

V
elixar bent over his desk in the forgotten throne room inside the Tower Keep, still dressed in his nightclothes despite the fact that it was past noon. He scribbled feverishly in his journal, a feeling of elation pulsing in his veins. It had been many months since he’d swallowed the essence of the demon whose name he had adopted, since he’d destroyed the last vestiges of his previous life. Jacob Eveningstar, the immortal First Man of Dezrel, now existed solely in the memories of his former friends, and when their bodies were rotting in the dirt, the only ones who would know of his prior existence would be his god and himself.

Each passing day was an adventure for him as he traversed the locked caverns within his mind. The knowledge of the demon Velixar, the Beast of a Thousand Faces, was immense. It seemed as though every hidden mental doorway he unlocked, however small, hid some long-lost secret. The secrets of ancient magics were spread out before him like a blanket of shimmering entrails. Biology, necromancy, otherworldly travels, the snaring of souls lost in the afterlife, the history of the universe itself—they all lay at his fingertips,
his present understanding a mere hint at the possibilities that simmered beneath the surface.

His fingers cramped and he placed down his quill, shaking the ache from his hand. With the onset of that cramp, his frustration grew. Even with the strength he’d gained during the ritual, he was still trapped by the limitations of his physical form. Glancing to the side, he saw his reflection in the dragonglass mirror that had once belonged to Crian Crestwell. Despite the cataclysmic change that had occurred within him, he looked much as he always had: the same black hair, the same strong jaw, the same perfect posture. The only true difference was that his eyes were now rimmed with pale red, a color that flashed brightly whenever he accessed the magics trapped within him. In some ways he thought Clovis Crestwell lucky. Clovis, pathetic and egocentric fool that he was, had not possessed the strength to sever the ties that bound the creature’s consciousness from its essence. Darakken had infused every fiber of Clovis’s being, shoving aside the personality that had once resided there, altering his body’s form to make room for its much larger presence. The Clovis that existed now only retained passing similarities to the man he had been. In that way, and that way only, he envied the former Highest.

He had knowledge in abundance. He understood more secrets of the universe than Karak and Ashhur combined. But
power
…power was the one thing he lacked, and it shamed him. There were constant limitations to his abilities. He’d assumed that by absorbing the demon’s core he’d be able to transcend those limitations, transcend his
humanity
, but that hadn’t happened.
There are no limits to how strong you will become in time,
he told himself. He hoped it would happen sooner rather than later, for the march into Paradise was rapidly approaching. Dropping his head, clenching and unclenching his fists, he once more begged for patience.

Soft footfalls sounded, and Velixar glanced up. The cavernous room he had taken as his own was the one he’d designed many years
before as the throne room for the castle of Veldaren. It was four stories high and a hundred feet in either direction, empty but for his desk, which stood against the eastern wall, and his featherbed and small breakfront, which were positioned beneath the painting of the gods coming forth into Dezrel that graced the raised dais on the northern wall. There were no other furnishings or decorations, Velixar having removed all remnants of the statues carved by Ibis Mori, finished or unfinished, and interspersed them throughout the city.

A lithe form appeared in the doorway, taking a few cautious steps forward. Lanike, the wife Clovis Crestwell had created for himself, entered the light of the torches burning on the drab, gray walls. She was the keep’s only other occupant, brought here as an insult to her husband, who was a prisoner in his own body. Lanike took care of the wash and cooking in Velixar’s home like a lowly household servant. Small and fragile looking, her hair was slightly disheveled and her eyes wary. She was ageless, just as her creator had been, and not horrible to look at despite her mousiness. The draping cobalt robe she wore was satin, and it caught the womanly figure beneath with every other step she took. Velixar thought of the dead elf Brienna Meln, who had loved the First Man with all her heart and whose pendant he had long ago smashed to demonstrate the cleansing of his past.
She
had owned a robe like that; she would traipse through the cabin in Safeway wearing it, before he stripped her and ravaged her perfect form. For a moment he felt arousal, thinking perhaps Lanike would be a viable replacement. She was of the First Families, ageless just as he, and if he could make her love him…

“Enough!” he commanded, and the thought disappeared.

Lanike stopped in her tracks, staring at him with fearful eyes. She took a step back, tugging nervously on the sleeves of her robe.

“I apologize,” she said, her voice soft.

“Not you,” Velixar said. He groaned and stepped toward her. “Why have you interrupted my studies, Lanike? I told you I am not to be disturbed when I am at work.”

The mousy woman refused to look him in the eye. “I understand, and I mean no disrespect, Ja—Highest Velixar. But there is a man here to see you. A man in armor. Captain Handrick, he said his name was.”

Velixar nodded. “I see. Tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”

“Very well.”

Lanike hastily curtseyed and then left the room. She nearly tripped over her robe, crashing into the archway before she exited. In sharp contrast to his earlier feelings of desire—a weakness, he thought—Velixar felt a rush of loathing. He should have ended the pathetic woman’s life long ago, and would have if he didn’t need her to keep Darakken in line.

He changed out of his nightclothes, putting on a clean tunic, black leather breeches, and a surcoat edged with expertly stitched lions. He couldn’t greet Captain Handrick looking slovenly. Harlan Handrick was a rough sort, headstrong and stubborn, in charge of the two hundred soldiers stationed just outside Karak’s private temple on the outskirts of Veldaren. Having been a member of the Palace Guard for nearly twenty years, Handrick was one of the few in the city who had known Jacob Eveningstar before the First Man had pledged himself to Ashhur. They’d often come to disagreements about the proper use of armed force, but Handrick was a capable man, and Velixar hadn’t thought twice before ordering him and his unit to march to Erznia three weeks ago, after Dimona Mori’s attempt to flee the realm. Though he’d sent them to the hidden forest stronghold in Erznia under the pretense of a demand for fealty, what he truly wanted was for Oris Mori and his nephew Alexander to be rounded up and brought to the capital. The fire-scarred Oris was a beast with a sword, and Vulfram’s son was a true child of Karak. They were respected throughout the kingdom, just as Vulfram had been. Having them pledge their fealty to him would only heighten his influence.

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.