Wrath of Lions (53 page)

Clovis approached the first in the line.

“What is your name?” he asked.

The elf remained silent.

“How old are you?”

Nothing.

“Have you ever consorted with the insurgent Tantric Thane?”

No response.

“Do you know where the rebels hide?”

The elf licked his lips but said nary a word.

“Your silence screams of guilt,” Clovis said. He signaled to one of the Ekreissar, who rushed forward and kneed the Dezren in the groin, doubling him over. He fell to the grass on all fours. A soldier pinned the elf’s knees down while two more held his shoulders. The ranger who had kneed him took a wooden block and shoved it beneath his head, then ground his foot into the elf’s cheek, pinning him to the block. None of the Dezren made a move to save their doomed comrade.

Clovis stood to the side of the restrained elf and raised his sword up high.

“You are hereby sentenced to death for the crime of treason,” he said.

“Celestia, open your arms for me!” the Dezren shouted in the elven tongue, though he did not struggle against his captors.

The sword came down, slicing easily through flesh and bone. The body fell, the stump of neck gushing blood, and the ranger picked up the head by its long, golden-brown hair, holding it up for the rest to see. When he garnered no reaction, he tossed the head aside.

Clovis moved on to the second in line, asking, “What is your name?”

When silence was his only answer, the questions stopped, and the ranger drove the man down to receive Clovis’s sword.

Ceredon forced himself to watch as one by one the defiant elves were cut down. He was glad Lord and Lady Thyne were not present for the display, having been locked in their room in the palace. The couple had experienced far too many beatings as of late.

Soon, only one Dezren was left. The lone survivor’s eyes twitched, and his jaw and neck were tense. As with the others, he remained silent as the questions were asked. The ranger stepped toward him holding the blood-soaked block, then bent to place it on the ground. Before he could knee the elf, the Dezren dropped to the ground, placing his head on the block. The other elf paused, seemingly confused.

Clovis chuckled. “Before you die, can we have the honor of your name?” he asked.

“Pomerri,” was the answer.

“How old are you?”

Pomerri opened his mouth to reply, but then lunged to his feet, ramming his forehead into the crotch of the ranger in front of him. Reaching up, he grabbed the elf around the back of the neck, then slammed his nose against the block with all his might, shattering it, the Ekreissar’s blood mixing with that of the seven slain elves before he rolled to the side, howling and clutching his face.

“No!” shouted Clovis. He hoisted the executioner’s sword and stepped over a headless corpse, his powerful arms rippling as he swung the blade down with all his might.

Ceredon held his breath, thinking this to be the end of the brave elf, but Pomerri danced to the side, narrowly avoiding the violent chop. He ducked into a roll, and his feet collided with the head of the still bleeding ranger. The ranger’s head snapped to the side, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. That was all the opening the renegade needed. Pomerri snatched the handle of the khandar fastened to the ranger’s belt and yanked it free with one mighty tug. Then, whirling around on one knee, he led with the sword’s curved point.

All of the witnesses froze in shock, even the other Ekreissar who should have been trying to subdue the prisoner. Clovis howled at the top of his lungs, his massive executioner’s sword lifted high above his head for another chop. His entire body lunged forward to give the hit power, but Pomerri’s strike came faster than he’d anticipated. Clovis’s eyes widened, his entire body freezing in place as all those gathered, from the soldiers to the Ekreissar to the Quellan royal family to the distant mob of terrified Dezren, gasped as one. The giant sword fell from his limp fingers, burying into the soft soil.

Pomerri released his khandar, buried to the hilt in Clovis’s chest, and then lifted his hands, his fingers hooked in a symbol of peace and perseverance. A smile was on his face. Still none moved to subdue him.

Clovis fell to his knees, blood dribbling from his lips as he coughed.

“I do not fear you,
any
of you,” Pomerri cried, turning to face his Quellan conquerors. “Kill me where I stand, but know that you will soon join me in the afterlife. And when Celestia judges you, may her judgment be harsh and brutal!”

In that silence came wet, vile laughter.

“No judgment is as harsh and brutal as that of Karak.”

Spoken in elvish from the grinning mouth of Clovis Crestwell, the voice was deep and layered. Pomerri spun around, a look of disbelief washing over his face as he watched the kneeling Clovis grasp the khandar with both hands and slowly pull it from his midsection. With one final tug it came free, torrents of red flowing from it. He tossed the blade aside. Ceredon looked on in horror as the gash gradually knotted itself back together, blood slowing to a trickle, then stopping completely, flesh weaving over flesh until no damage was left. Clovis’s eyes glowed an unnatural red as he grabbed the bottom of his leather tunic and lifted it, staring with grim satisfaction at the bare yet knobby flesh of his stomach. Not even a scar remained.

What sort of dark magic is this?
Ceredon’s mind screamed as the crowd gasped all around him.

The human stood up, appearing somehow thinner now than he had before. The sick sound of his laughter reached Ceredon’s ears, making his stomach queasy. Pomerri stood frozen, and when he glanced at the khandar, Clovis lunged like an animal descending on its prey. His meaty hands wrapped around the elf’s throat, lifting him off the ground. The renegade’s face turned purple, then a ghostly shade of white as Clovis’s hands squeezed all the tighter. Ceredon heard a wet
pop
as the elf’s neck snapped. Bile leaked from the corners of his mouth, and his head lolled to the side. Clovis unclenched his hands and dropped the broken body to the ground. The gathered women and children, who were prevented from leaving by the human soldiers, wailed and protested. The humans looked just as horrified as everyone else.

“All of you,
on your feet
!” Clovis shouted to the remaining Dezren males, who were still on their knees. They did as they were told without help from the Ekreissar, gazing on Karak’s representative with terror in their eyes. “My life for order, my life for Karak!” Clovis shouted as he stalked before their ranks. “Behold the power of Karak! My faith has made me pure,
strong
! Even death holds no sway over me!”

“Karak is mighty! Praise his name!” shouted Aeson from the dais, his hands clasped before him, as he looked on the human with reverence. Ceredon scowled but held his tongue. Thankfully, so did his father.

At Clovis’s signal, one of his young soldiers approached.

“Bring them to the dungeons with the others,” he told the soldier, pointing at the dead elves. “And get the onlookers out of my sight.”

The soldier nodded and hurried away, and both the Quellan and the humans went about ushering the Dezren back to their forest dwellings, while a few soldiers dragged away the bodies. Ceredon wondered why Clovis wanted the bodies in the dungeon, but feared it related to whatever dark magic had kept the strange man alive.

Clovis turned his attention to the dais, looking to each of those standing there in turn.

“As for you,” he said, pointing at Aeson, “your idiocy brought about the deaths of my men. You gleefully took the reins of your precious Ekreissar, yet you command them from afar, not wanting to dirty your own hands. You sent a patrol straight into an ambush, costing us valuable lives.” The man shook his head, the glow in his eyes receding to a barely perceivable pinkish hue, before bending over and lifting the khandar that had impaled him off the ground. “I should offer you the same fate as the others. Or perhaps I should give you over to the Dezren to do with as they wish? I’m sure they would find ways to entertain themselves.…”

“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.