Wrath of Lions (65 page)

She slowly shook her head.

“Because you
need
me, Matthew, so you don’t make another blunder like you made with Moira…like you are about to make in two days when the delegation from the capital arrives.”

“So you know about that too,” he said. Considering all else she had said, he wasn’t surprised.

“Of course I do. As I said, I know
everything
you do. I know of the pact with the Conningtons, I know of the weapons you sent west. Did you think twenty tons of grain feeding our women would go unnoticed?”

He frowned. “No,” he made himself say.

Catherine stretched out beside him and took his hand. “I thought not.”

They remained that way for a short time, the room silent but for the crackle of the fire and their breathing. Matthew felt the full range of human emotions in those moments, not the least of which was awe. The docile Catherine he had known his whole life was a mirage. He didn’t really know her at all. That fact alone filled him with unease.

“Where do we go from here?” he whispered.

She turned to him, tracing her fingers along the small cut on his neck.

“We do as we have always done, with one small change,” she said. “You will continue to run your affairs while I care for our wonderful children. However, you will hide nothing from me, not even your whores. If there is a difficult decision you must make—such as executing two innocents—you will discuss it with me first. Perhaps if we make these decisions together, they will not weigh so heavily on your soul. I can share the burden. As for Moira, let me deal with her from now on.”

“And what of two days from now? What of the delegation?”

“You will have me at your side,” she said, a wry smile appearing on her face. “And you will promise to hand over everything they request in time. Karak is a thousand miles away. Who is to say he has not already received whatever the priests come begging for?”

His gaped at her, startled. “Who knew you could be so devious?”

Her eyelids fluttered demurely. “Why, my lord of freight, whatever do you mean? I am but your humble servant, your wife and the mother of your children, nothing more.”

Matthew laughed at that, genuine, hearty laughter. “If only that were true.”

“As far as anyone else knows, it is. Now come here, Matthew Brennan, and pleasure me. I think I deserve at least that much.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He rolled atop her and worked his way down her womanly body, placing tiny kisses all over, even as he stripped off his own clothing. When he entered her, she howled and bucked, and Matthew understood just how lucky he truly was.

C
HAPTER

34

T
he body was laid out on a slab, dressed in an elegant gown of the deepest blue, its eyes and mouth stitched closed. The wavy chestnut hair was draped over the pillow in a way that made it look like the corpse’s head rested on a bed of curls. The flesh was pallid, the woman’s normally rosy cheeks off-white like dirty snow.

Lanike Crestwell was no more.

Avila brushed her fingers against her mother’s skin, which was cold and rubbery to the touch. Despair welled in her heart as she bit back any tears that might come. Her mother, like her father, was supposed to be perpetually young. They were supposed to have lived forever, guiding Karak’s children through the wilderness of life, helping them to reach the heights her god had promised them. Avila suffered from the realization that her family was no more. Lanike, Joseph, and Crian were dead; Thessaly was missing; and her father might as well be dead or missing, given that an ancient demon now resided in his skin. Moira, the sister who had shamed her family, was far away, perhaps dead herself. She touched the mess of scars that marred the left side of her face,
the wound Crian had given her, and felt a pang of regret. She was alone in the world.

“When did it happen?” she asked, lifting her eyes.

She was in Karak’s pavilion, the god towering over her on the other side of the slab. The First Man, he who now called himself Velixar, stood beside the deity. They were the only three in the tent. Velixar’s gaze was fixed on her mother’s corpse. He seemed almost as despondent as she was.

“Three days ago,” Karak said, his voice low and soothing, like a gentle breeze on a summer day. “Her handlers discovered her dead in her carriage. I have kept her body here since then. As her only surviving child, you deserved to see her before I disposed of her shell.”

“I see.”

Avila leaned over the body. Lanike’s arms had been crossed respectfully over her chest. Avila grabbed the one on top, lifted it, and examined the underside. On the wrist was a deep gash that ran almost the length of the forearm. The wound yawned wide as she attempted to swivel her mother’s stiff, lifeless arm, the cut deep enough to expose bone.

“The other is the same,” said Karak.

“And the weapon?” Avila asked. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice as level and free of emotion as her position demanded.

Velixar extended his hand, and Avila took the proffered knife. It was slender, a simple serrated blade meant for slicing meat at dinner. She looked again at her mother’s corpse and handed it back.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Commander,” her god said.

“And yours as well,” she said, glancing up at him.

“Yes. And mine as well.”

Avila shook her head. “I do not understand, my Lord. Why would she take her own life? What tormented her so?”

“Only Lanike knew for certain, my child,” said her god. “And that knowledge died with her.”

She looked up at them, the two who had greeted her that morning when she guided her faction of the god’s army into the camp. They had insisted she come with them immediately, ordering Captain Gregorian to get the soldiers situated. Avila had followed without question, thinking she was about to be briefed on any updates to the plan now that the three major regiments had been combined. She was excited by the opportunity to finally command the full force, as was her destiny. She’d never expected
this
.

“Why was she even here?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?” asked Velixar.

“Why was my mother here? Why was she not at home in Veldaren, tending to the king? She had no purpose on a battlefield.”

“She was with us so we could protect her,” Velixar said, and there was something off-putting about the way he spoke his answer.

Avila’s voice cracked when she spoke. “You seem to have done a piss-poor job of
that
.”

“An oversight, Lord Commander,” Karak said in a scolding tone. “There was a skirmish at the bridge. Something important was stolen from us.”

“And your mother was forgotten in the confusion,” added Velixar.

“When my father finds out about this, he will be furious,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the First Man. “We will see then what your—”

“Silence!” Karak boomed, and Avila recoiled. The god’s eyes glowed brighter than before as he leaned forward, massive hands propped on her mother’s slab.

“You have been granted information others have not,” the god said harshly. “You know what Clovis is now, what he means to our cause. He will remain in the dark for so long as I see fit. The results could be disastrous otherwise. Darakken is not an entity to be taken lightly.”

“But—”

“But
nothing
. Remember your place, child. I named you Lord Commander because you have proven time and again to be my most loyal and capable servant. Should that change, should your emotions override your common sense, I will strip you of that title.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Avila said, dropping to a knee before him. “I understand.”

Velixar stepped around the deity and approached her. He held out his hand, which she accepted, and helped her stand. When she brushed the hair from her face, she noticed he was staring at her, head cocked to one side.

“You look…different,” the First Man said.

She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound. Velixar’s hand rose up, and he lightly touched the corner of her eye, where new crow’s-feet were beginning to appear. The First Man shrugged, brushed back his long, dark hair, and returned to his god’s side.

Avila breathed a sigh of relief, and when her heart slowed its pace, she approached her mother’s body once more, placing a final kiss on her cold forehead. She then bowed to her Divinity.

“I am at your command, my Lord,” she said. “I apologize for my weakness.”

Karak nodded. “I will forget this oversight in light of your grief,” he said. “You have served me well, Lord Commander. Your fires have sealed in the south, causing my brother’s more capable children to retreat toward the sea. They will not be a part of this war until we bring it to them, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Now rejoin your men. My Prophet and I need to speak. I will call on you, and perhaps Captain Gregorian, this evening. Until then, find peace with your loss. We must be strong when we face whatever Ashhur has planned for us.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, and bowed one last time before leaving the pavilion.

It was a mile walk back to where her regiment had set up camp, and the entire distance was packed with tents, carriages, and makeshift stables. She was glad for the respite, even though the hearty laughter of the fighting men as they gathered around their late morning cookfires felt at odds with her deep misery. She did her best to fight off the feeling, to force the tears from her eyes, before any saw the weakness that was growing within her.

At one point she ducked into a temporary privy shack and bawled. She wept for her mother, for her poor trapped father, for all her lost siblings. The weight of her sorrow threatened to crush her, and though it was horrible to experience, she latched onto it, immersed herself in it, allowing her whole body to be infused with sadness.

It was an indulgent act, but at the same time it felt
right
. She had lived her whole life as a coldhearted servant to her god, denying herself the simple pleasures Karak had promised to his children.…And now that her family was gone, now that she had no one, she realized how little it all meant.

But I do have someone. I have Willa.

She straightened herself up, wiping her face clean of tears. She wanted to see the girl.
Needed
her to fill the emptiness she felt growing inside. Thinking of Willa, she understood why her mother had taken her own life. Lanike Crestwell was not a warrior. She had always been the caretaker, the doter, the silent strength that lurked in the shadows behind the husband who had created her. With her children gone, with Clovis a monster, she’d thought herself useless.

She left the privy and continued her march through camp. A few minutes later she saw that her men had been hard at work; her own pavilion stood tall on a slight hill to the right, bordering the southern grasslands that her soldiers would burn on the morrow after Karak’s Army crossed the Wooden Bridge. She turned off the road, her feet plodding across the overturned dirt as she wove in and out of the many tents. The sun bore down on her, making her
bake in her armor, and she began to sweat. Her heart thumped in her chest in anticipation of seeing Willa.

As she approached her pavilion she hesitated, looking to the right, at the beige marquee housing the converts from Ashhur. Whereas the rest of the camp was a din of chattering voices and the clanging weaponry of those practicing their swordsmanship, the massive canvas structure was eerily silent. She approached it cautiously, her soles squishing on the damp earth. When she glanced down, she realized the bottom ridges of the canvas were stained a deep red. She ran toward the huge tent and stopped short once she reached the cavernous entrance.

There were bodies everywhere, more than two hundred of them. The blood of the slain flowed from beneath the canvas walls, pooling on the sodden dirt like miniature lakes. A few still moaned. She took a couple of steps into the tent, watching in horror as spurts of red issued from the neck of a man who clawed weakly at his mortal wound. She knelt, her knee sloshing into a puddle of blood when it struck the ground. The dying man’s eyes flitted toward her, his mouth making gurgling sounds as he tried to form words. An instant later, a violent spasm rocked his body, and he fell still.

Her head swiveling, she took in the grisly scene before her. All of them, every single convert they had taken from Ashhur’s villages before they’d sacked them, had been murdered. She had only been gone for two hours at most, leaving Captain Gregorian in charge of raising their camp. What could have happened between then and now to make…

Malcolm’s words to her during their encounter in her pavilion echoed in her head.

“Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. You love her…you must cut her down.”

“No!” she screamed as she stumbled to her feet and burst into the sunlight. She emerged to find a great many soldiers gathered around the tent, their hands stained with blood, scowling at her as if
she were a common criminal. Irman Freemantle, the young warrior with the kind face she had placed in charge of caring for Willa while she was gone, was one of them.…

Cursing her stupidity, Avila turned on her heels, sprinting as fast as she could toward her pavilion. It was no more than two hundred feet away, yet it seemed like time slowed down, stretching the distance. Panic made it difficult to breathe. When she was close to the pavilion, she made a desperate leap, diving through the entrance flap, curling her body up in the air so that she rolled to a stop.

In a single motion, she rose up on one knee and yanked Integrity from its sheath. The curved saber rattled, pointing in the direction of two bodies locked in a struggle. Willa was on the ground, her face blue, and her tiny hands grasped at the thin bit of rope around her throat. Malcolm was behind her, mouth drawn back in a grimace as he pulled the rope taut, choking the little girl’s life away. He glanced up at Avila but didn’t stop his assault.

“I am…sorry, Lord Commander,” he said between labored breaths. He pulled tighter, forcing Willa’s head back. The little girl’s eyes bulged from their sockets; saliva poured from her mouth. “I must help you…save yourself.”