Wrath of Lions (57 page)

She sat down in her chair and moaned at the sudden onset of a backache. This was new as well; her bones constantly throbbed, her hands and feet felt hot all the time, and she was having trouble sleeping. She had often heard of the healing magic possessed by those most devout to Ashhur, and right about now she wished for a touch of it. Her hand came up to trace the scars Crian had given her.

Yes, I could use some healing magic indeed.

Something soft scraped past the entrance flap of the pavilion, making her jump. She instinctively reached for Integrity (
Crian’s old sword
), but it was far away, hanging from a hook beside her bedroll. Tensing, she glanced behind her, listened for Willa’s tiny breaths, and then turned toward the entrance once more. A hand snuck through the fold, pulled the flap aside. For a fleeting moment she thought it was a demon of living shadow, coiling and writhing and
ready to suck the life from her little girl. But then Malcolm stepped into the pavilion, and that image faded.

“What are you doing here?” she asked harshly. Realizing she wore nothing but her smallclothes, she hastily grabbed the blanket from the back of her chair, draping it over her body. The impulse surprised her. She had never been one for modesty.

“I wish to talk,” Malcolm said, respectfully bowing his head.

“It is late, Captain, and I require sleep. Return in the morning.”

“This is important, Lord Commander.”

“Important enough to deny my orders?”

Malcolm raised the eyebrow over his good eye. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

She shook her head in resignation and kicked at the chair opposite her, knocking it back a foot. Malcolm took the hint and approached, sitting down beside her. His posture was rigid, professional, but then again, that was Malcolm. She had only seen him drop his soldier’s discipline once, and that had been the night she’d kicked him out of her bed.

“So speak, Captain. I do not wish to be up all hours.”

Malcolm leaned forward, his elbows jabbing into his knees. His fingers traced the knobby scars that crossed over his milky left eye.

“Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?”

“Everyone knows, Captain. They were given to you by the Final Judges, when you proved your loyalty to Karak and earned your life.”

“Yes, but do you know why I was placed before the Judges in the first place?”

Avila drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting.

“I was a wild youth,” he said with a grimace. “I loved my liquor, I loved to fight, and I loved the ladies. I entered the academy, expecting a high position in the City Watch. It was the same position my father had, so I was owed it, right? That’s how I felt anyway. I was lazy, too self-confident for my own good, and I thought my future would be handed to me.

“I lagged in my training, and Vulfram Mori, who was Watch Captain at the time, sent me away. My father tossed me from the house, saying I had brought disrespect to the family, and my mother did nothing to stop him.” He smiled then, though his expression brimmed with disappointment. “That evening I went to the tavern, spent countless hours drowning in my cups. A certain girl struck my fancy, and though I cannot remember her name, I remember her face clearly. Eyes like sapphires, hair like soft wheat, skin pale and supple. I advanced on her, but she wanted none of it. Just like my father, she turned me away. For the rest of the night I watched her laugh and dance with the other maidens, even steal a kiss or two from dullards who could not hold a candle to my strength or station.”

His voice changed, growing cold, distant. Avila shivered, guessing at what came next.

“When the girl left, I followed her. I dragged her into an alley beside the tavern, and then I raped her, stabbed her, and left her to die. Afterward, I made my way to my parents’ house and killed them both as they slept.”

Avila swallowed hard, unsure of how to react. The deed was horrific, far worse than she’d anticipated, yet he spoke of it as though someone else had performed the vile crimes. She felt scared to speak, lest she break the spell and release the drunken, murderous beast from his tale.

“A member of the Watch caught me later,” Malcolm continued. “I was drunk off my heels and covered in blood. Someone had found the girl’s body by then, and it didn’t take them long to put it all together. They found my parents soon after, and by then my fate was sealed. I was arrested and brought before the court, where the Minister sentenced me to death. I called on the Judges, as was my right.”

Rocking forward in his chair, Malcolm met Avila’s gaze.

“Have you ever been in the same room as those lions?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Malcolm chuckled.

“Then you know the Judges are truly frightening creatures. I’m not one to scare easily, but the first time I saw them in that arena I knew true fear. I looked deep into their eyes as they stalked me, and I saw a world charred and broken, a world of death and desolation in which there was no law, no order. It was the underworld, of that I am certain—the embodiment of chaos. Then I saw my own reflection in their eyes. The chaos I saw in their eyes was the same chaos they saw in me. I’m not sure how I knew, but I did. I had become an agent of everything our god strives against. My life was one of slothfulness, pride, anger, drunkenness, and hate. Worthless. I felt more insignificant than the scum at the bottom of a festering wheat barrel. I fell to my knees, but I did not pray for forgiveness, for there is no such thing. Sin can only be absolved through sacrifice, as Karak has long taught. So I lifted my chin to the ceiling of that damned cold arena and offered my neck to the Judges so they could rip it out, releasing me from my sin.”

He rocked again, and he swallowed as if he’d just chewed something.

“Yet they did not kill me. Instead the male, Kayne, held me down while Lilah raked my face, taking my left eye and scarring me for life, ensuring that all who look on me know of my past sins. They then ambled back to their cages, leaving me alive and breathing. After that, Highest Crestwell took me into employ in the Palace Guard. Not once, not in all my days and nights of servitude, have I ever forgotten my sins, nor that the servants of our Lord allowed me to live.”

He stopped then, staring at her with his one good eye without moving.

“An interesting story,” Avila said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “Though I fail to see why the telling of it was worth disobeying my orders and interrupting my rest in the middle of the night.”

“I tell it so you may understand me when I say that though we bear similar scars, we are very different.” He reached out to touch the side of her face. Avila batted his hand away, and he frowned at her. “You have lost your way, Lord Commander. You have forgotten that forgiveness is foreign to us. You have turned your back on our god.”

Avila’s mouth dropped open. “How
dare
you enter my chambers and speak so to me? Have you forgotten your place,
Captain
?”

“I have not,” Malcolm said. “I am here to be your council, your advisor. And I advise you that the path you are taking is wrong.”

“I am a free women, a child of the First Family of Neldar. I will take whatever path I choose.”

“Even if that path leads away from Karak? You are being influenced by a demon in an angel’s guise.” He pointed toward the curtain hiding Willa. “You have fallen from Karak’s grace. Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. Those whose lives you spared today were unworthy of such a gift. They should have been cut down where they stood.”

“They are to be converted,” Avila answered. Inside she was shaking. “Our purpose is to bring order to the people of the west, not death. Which would Karak rather have, an army of corpses, or an army of believers?”

Malcolm shrugged. “It matters not what I think, only what I know you must do. If you do not sacrifice them, then another is required. I know you love the girl…and now you must cut her down to prove to Karak you still love him most of all.”

Avila stared him down, her two eyes to his one.

“Get…out,” she seethed, then shot up from her chair to retrieve Integrity.

“You wake up each morning sore,” Malcolm said. “You suffer from headaches, your muscles spasm, and your legs grow weaker each day. Where once your hands were smooth, now they are rough to the touch.”

On hearing his words, she stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Malcolm approached her slowly, measuring each step, until he
was close enough to touch her. He lifted his hand and traced the outline of her eye with his finger.

“There are grooves here now, the creases of age. They are small at the moment, but they will grow larger, more prevalent, as time goes on. You are no longer ageless, Avila. Karak is no longer first in your heart.”

She closed her eyes as he sketched out the new lines in her flesh. He didn’t lie. She had noticed the signs herself. His hand withdrew, and he held her close, palm resting on the small of her back.

“You have lived your whole life in servitude, Avila,” he said softly. “I understand this. You have removed yourself from people, from the human pleasures all of Karak’s children seek out every day. You want to feel like a woman. Let it be me who makes you feel that way. Use my body, decimate it if you wish, wring my throat if you must. That is my sacrifice to you, so that you may find your way back to our god. But you must turn away from this lie that has enraptured you. There can be no more forgiving those that do not deserve forgiveness. This child is slowly warping you, turning you into a creature I do not know. I want the old Avila back, the woman who was the most trusted child of the Highest himself, who judged the guilty with swiftness and brutality, who would never once think of turning her back on her god. That woman, the true Lord Commander, needs to return. Do you not want the same?”

Avila let out a short gasp of air, confused by his words, his touch.

“I do,” she whispered, though there was no thought behind the words. All she felt was horror at the idea that Karak might be displeased with her.

“Then do what must be done,” Malcolm whispered. “Lay her on the altar of order and become the lioness once more.”

Her eyes snapped open. She saw Malcolm’s face before her, the candlelight washing out his features into sickly yellows and reds. She glanced at the curtain, then back at his nodding head. In her mind’s eye she saw Willa, broken and bloodied, laid out on the
ground just like the girl Malcolm had raped and murdered in his life before.
Karak would never demand such atrocities!
she silently screamed. Rage filled her, and she shoved him away. Dashing to her bedroll, she yanked Integrity from its scabbard and pointed it at him. Despite her anger, the tip did not waver.

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and seething. “Get out and do not return to my quarters.”

Malcolm straightened himself, his soldier’s resolve restored, and bowed.

“As you wish, Lord Commander. I only desired to help.”

“To help? To
help
? Instructing me to slaughter an innocent child is not helping, you bastard.”

He shook his head.

“Innocence is a false principle,” he said quietly. “It saddens me you that have become so lost.”

“Leave.
Now
.”

The captain turned and headed for the entrance, pausing once he shoved the flap aside. He turned to her one final time.

“We will reach the Wooden Bridge in two days’ time,” he said. “The other divisions will be there, Karak with them. Do not think that the changes in you will go unnoticed by the Divinity. I will tell him myself if I must. My loyalty is to him, Avila, not you. Best you remember that.”

Malcolm slipped out the entrance, and the flap fell down behind him, fluttering like ocean waves. Panic hitting her full in the chest, Avila dashed across the pavilion, tore aside Willa’s curtain, and dropped down beside the girl, gathering her in an embrace. The child’s eyes flickered opened, and she offered a sleepy yawn.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing, little one. Close your eyes. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear.”

For the rest of that night Avila didn’t sleep, proving how little she believed her own words.

C
HAPTER

29

T
he back of his head throbbed, and when he touched the sore spot, he felt a massive knot beneath his sodden hair. It was a burning pain, very much unlike the gash on the side of his face, which stung like a hundred needles poking him at once. Velixar grunted and spit onto the wet ground. He peered over his shoulder, spied the Wooden Bridge sitting there vacant, surrounded by the corpses of Wardens, wolf-men, and humans, both his soldiers and those who had tried to defend the bridge. He would have cursed aloud at the sight of them, but a hacking fit overtook him and he doubled over.

“Here, take it.”

Velixar saw a man holding a cloth down to him, and he took it, using it to wipe the phlegm from his lips, the blood from his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said, offering the cloth back. Captain Wellington stuffed it into a side pocket. The captain appeared nervous as he paced between Velixar and his remaining troops, the healthy tending to the injured. Velixar sighed and touched the knot on the back of his head once more. He fully understood the captain’s edginess, for in the distance was the sound of thousands of marching feet.

This time he did curse, though it didn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

They had been right there. Roland and Azariah, the closest remnants of his past had been standing right before him, ripe for the slaughter. They should have been defenseless against his might, yet the power he was so proud of had fled from him at the moment of his conquest. One moment he had been Velixar, master of demons; the next, he had been Jacob Eveningstar again—learned, ageless, superior in his own way, yet still merely a man. His insides ran hot with rage. He promised himself that the next time their paths crossed, the two would suffer long, torturous deaths.

The muted thump of marching feet grew ever louder.

If Karak doesn’t end me
first,
he thought.