Wrath of Lions (66 page)

Avila didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, swiping at his neck with her sword. At the last moment Malcolm ducked out of the way, but he was a tad too slow. The very tip of the blade caught him just north of his collarbone, opening a cut. His hands lost their grip on the rope as he spun away, and Willa dropped onto her back, coughing and crying. Avila snatched the girl up, holding her tight against her breastplate, keeping Integrity pointed at Malcolm all the while.

“I’m trying to
save you
!” he shouted at her.

“You killed them all,” Avila said, growling. “You will not kill my daughter.”

Malcolm laughed. “Your daughter? Your
daughter
? This is one of Ashhur’s bitches, Lord Commander, not the fruit of your loins.”

She didn’t hear his words. “Why, Captain?
Why
?” she screamed.

“I told you I would demonstrate to Karak how you had failed him,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I took compassion on you. I will tell Karak nothing, Avila. I intended to give you one last chance to take control of your emotions. Yet now you are proving to me again just how lost you have become.”

“You think this is proof that my faith has wavered?” she shrieked. “You have proven
nothing
!”

“Why argue?” he asked, shrugging. “Let Karak be the judge.”

“Miss Avila?” croaked Willa, who drooled across Avila’s breastplate. Her eyes looked sleepy, confused.

“Hush, child,” she said, bouncing a bit to calm her. “All is well.”

“I’m scared.”

“As well she should be,” snapped Malcolm. “She is a lamb in a den of lions. She is not of our ilk, Avila. Cast her out now, restore order to your soul before it is too late.”

Avila lashed out at Malcolm, striking the side of his head with the flat of her blade.

“Outside. Now.” The captain’s eyebrows rose, and then he walked around her and out of the pavilion. Avila followed close behind, keeping Integrity trained on him, her other arm still holding Willa. The crowd that had gathered around the slaughtered converts had moved, forming a semicircle around her pavilion. It also seemed to have at least doubled in number. A murmur worked its way through the throng, and hundreds of expectant eyes turned toward her.

She placed Willa on the ground. The little girl gingerly touched her neck, which flared an angry shade of red. Avila knelt beside her and forced herself to smile as she gently brushed aside a bobbing blond curl.

“All will be fine, little one,” she said.

“What’s happening, Miss Avila?”

“We are going to fight now.”

“You and the bad man who hurt me?”

She nodded.

“Will you hurt him?”

“I will. For you, my love.”

Willa stared back at her, tears in her eyes.

“What if he hurts
you
?”

She leaned in close. “Then you run, little one,” she whispered. “You run as fast as your little legs will carry you and do not stop until I am nothing but a memory. Understand?”

Willa nodded yes.

Avila stood and turned away from the girl. The swarm of onlookers had created a fifty-foot circle, and Malcolm stood at the far end, his legs shoulder-width apart. One of the soldiers handed him his sword, and he snatched it firmly in both hands. He ripped off the scabbard and lifted Darkfall high into the air. “Karak!” he shouted, which drew cheers from the crowd.

So you have all turned against me.

“Mother, I love you,” Avila heard a tiny voice say. She glanced behind her and saw Willa kneeling, holding tight to the pole that supported her pavilion’s canopy. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I love you too,” Avila said. “Do not fear for me.” Then, after taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the ring. Malcolm did the same.

Malcolm had the advantage in both size and reach. Though not an overly large man, he was taller than her by half a head and outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. Also to her disadvantage was the fact that Darkfall, Vulfram Mori’s old sword, was a massive blade that dwarfed Integrity. His arms were strong—they had to be to wield such a mighty weapon—and his fighting style was technically flawless, though robotic. Although Avila relied more on grace and fluidity to best her opponents, she knew deep down that she understood more about technique than the captain. She had the advantage of having been raised under Clovis Crestwell’s wing while Gregorian had been busy indulging in drunkenness. She was also
wearing her light chainmail and solid breastplate, whereas he had on only his boiled leather under armor. Another advantage.

The largest advantage she had, however, was the rage that surged in her veins. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and pictured Willa’s face, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, as Malcolm choked the life from her. When she opened them again her entire body tingled. She raised Integrity so the hilt rested beside her ear, gripping it with both hands, wrists twisted so that the blade hovered in front of her. She hollered her mother’s name, then kicked her back heel and ran forward.

Malcolm brought Darkfall up in front of him, breathing heavily. Avila leaped into the air at the last moment, driving downward with the tip of her blade as she soared past him instead of attacking head on. Malcolm was caught off-guard by the maneuver, and he had to stumble backward to avoid the piercing tip. The crowd gasped at the near miss.

Avila landed and spun around, dropping into a low crouch while Malcolm regained his footing. His good eye stared at her, but there seemed to be no hatred there, no wrath. There was no panic either. The sight only made her angrier.

“Fuck you!” she yelled, and hawked a wad of spit onto the ground.

“So lost,” replied Malcolm sadly.

He came at her then, rushing forward with Darkfall held straight up in the air. Avila uncoiled her legs, springing herself upright and swinging Integrity in a sideways arc. Malcolm shifted his giant blade, and the two swords collided with a raucous
clang
. The impact jarred Avila’s shoulders, almost forcing her to her knees. She spun Integrity around just in time to deflect a two-handed thrust, and Darkfall’s silver blade soared past her, so close she could see her reflection in the steel.

Grabbing hold of Malcolm’s sleeve, she used it as leverage to pull herself up, spinning at the same time. She swung her elbow
mid-spin, catching him square on the side of his face. He grunted, spittle flying from his lips as he tottered to the side. Avila lashed downward once she completed her revolution, hoping to slice through his ankle, perhaps sever a tendon. Malcolm proved quicker than expected, however. He instinctively stepped to the side, and her blade found nothing but dirt.

He was on her again an instant later, charging with a vicious downward hew that Avila easily deflected. She danced away, hopping on the balls of her feet. Malcolm’s nose was bleeding, and she could see that the good side of his face was starting to swell.

“Almost,” she muttered, and then feigned a lunge. Malcolm reacted predictably, spinning Darkfall to the side to parry, and Avila took her opening. She skipped to the right, flipped her sword around so she was holding it backward, and then thrust the tip into his breast. Malcolm’s eyes widened as the tip pierced his leathers, sliding into the flesh beneath. The captain fell to one knee, dropping his sword and clutching Integrity’s blade with his bare hands, trying to keep Avila from shoving it in any deeper. His blood dripped from his clenched fists as Avila pushed harder, the cutting edge slicing his hand.

“You are
not
my better,” she said with pride.

The smile left her face when Malcolm fell backward, bringing up one leg in the process. Integrity slid out of him and the pointed toe of his boot caught Avila in the groin, sending spikes of pain through her midsection. She stumbled away, gasping. The silent crowd roared back to life, cheering and jeering with equal aplomb. She whipped her head around, sending death stares at each of them.

The sound of boots sinking into wet earth brought her back around, and she saw Malcolm running at her, Darkfall in hand once more. His left arm hung useless by his side, and he hefted the colossal sword in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Avila gaped, then rolled out of the way as the blade passed through the space where her head had been. Her legs were still numb from the blow to the
groin, but she tried to tell herself she had the advantage. Malcolm only had the use of one arm, for Karak’s sake!

She managed to get to her feet again just as Malcolm swiveled on her, chopping down with his sword. Their blades met once more, only to separate again a moment later. He drew back and swung, and their swords met yet again with a sound like the dinner bell when it rang out over the fields of Omnmount.

He was relentless and seemingly tireless, shoving her backward with every thrust and swipe. She retreated, trying to circle the larger man, but he cut her off each time. Eventually, she found herself pressed against a wall of flesh, colliding with the soldiers who surrounded them. Greedy, intruding hands grasped at her, and she flung her free elbow back to clear some room. The men were mauling her, distracting her from the duel. Someone squeezed her thigh, and in surprise she ducked down to swipe the hand away. An instant later, blood fell in sheets, drenching her neck and shoulders. She dropped to her belly and rolled, and when she looked back, she saw a soldier with half a head teeter and fall while his friends screamed and stared in horror at the convulsing body. Malcolm, his sword bloodied, ignored the carnage and continued his assault.

His blows rained down with ever-increasing brutality, and Avila breathed heavily as she blocked them, the force weighing on her muscles, tiring her out. She was losing speed, and her sidesteps came a half second too late to allow her to spin around her foe. Integrity began to weigh her down, and after one particularly brutal strike, she had to grasp the sword with both hands lest she lose it.

Malcolm swung his upper body and his limp left arm flailed out, striking Avila on the shoulder and throwing her off balance. She stumbled and almost fell, shrieking as Malcolm swung Darkfall in a wide arc. The blade pierced below her breastplate, where the mail was thin. It easily sliced through the metal and dug deep into her flesh. She felt one of her ribs snap at the impact, and blood began to
pour from the gaping maw. She staggered backward, staring down in horror. Joseph had died from a similar wound, given to him by that ogre Patrick DuTaureau.

She lifted her eyes to see Malcolm take an offensive position, holding Darkfall high so it crossed in front of his face. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief. The blood on the blade,
her
blood and that of the soldier, began to glow. Purple fire erupted from the steel. It was the same phenomenon she had seen in the village of Grassmere, after Malcolm had sliced the young mother and infant in two. She had thought it a mirage then, and it seemed no more real to her now. She wondered if it were a fever dream from loss of blood, but then an energized buzz came from the crowd of soldiers, proving that yes, it was real.

“Karak blesses
me
,” Malcolm said, the purple flames dancing in his milky eye. “You were wrong, Avila.
I
was the faithful one.”

He charged her one last time, flaming sword leading like a lance. Avila tried to bat aside the attack, but when Integrity met its counterpart, the trusty curved saber broke in two. The upper half flew through the air and fell harmlessly to the ground, and then Darkfall’s fiery tip pierced Avila’s breastplate as if it were made of paper. The flames scorched her as the blade entered her chest, burning her from the inside out, yet when they licked off Malcolm’s flesh, they did not seem to make a mark. She gasped, smoke rising up her throat and billowing from her mouth as she fell to her back. The mass of onlookers, their bloodlust brought to a boil, began to hoot and holler like madmen. Beneath it all, she heard a young girl shriek in anguish.

Malcolm yanked Darkfall from her chest.

Avila’s world grew hazy, her strength fading. Before her world went dark, she gathered enough strength to look to the side. She saw, for the briefest of moments, a flash of golden hair disappear behind a tangle of grubby legs. For the first time ever, she prayed to a different god from the one who had created her.

Keep her safe, Ashhur. Let this not be for nothing. And please let me find my mother and siblings in the afterworld.

“Karak’s will be done,” proclaimed Malcolm, standing over her in victory.

“Fuck Karak,” she blurted out, blood spewing from her lips along with the words.

Avila allowed herself to smile as darkness took her.

C
HAPTER

35

W
here there had been one corpse, there were now two.

Mother and daughter were laid out beside each other, both pale in death. Velixar leaned in closer to get a better look. Avila had been stripped of her armor, and he squinted as he examined the hole in her chest. The flesh around the wound was blackened and charred as if it had been touched by a great flame, while the meaty bits inside were a mass of blackish-pink soup. Whatever had run her through seemed to have melted her breastbone, three of her ribs, her left lung, and half her heart. It was as awe inspiring a display of mutilation as any he’d seen. He raised his eyes to Karak, who lingered silent in the corner, and took a deep breath.

“And to think,” he said, “only a few hours ago she was right here in this tent, mourning the loss of her mother.” He looked at the man who kneeled opposite him. “Tell me, do you mourn as well?”

Captain Gregorian kept his head bowed in reverence when he said, “I do, High Prophet, with all of my heart. The loss of the Lord Commander weighs heavily on my soul.”

“Yet it was your blade that felled her.”

“It was.”

“And you still feel remorse?”

“Not remorse. Only sadness…Avila was a mighty soul, perhaps our Divinity’s most able warrior. I could not bear to see her fall so far from grace. I challenged her to save her from herself.”

Velixar glanced once more at the body. “You said she was Karak’s best warrior, and yet you bested her. Does that mean you are the best of us now?”