Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 21

Boris Marchant entered Velixar’s pavilion, dragging behind him a man older than sin. The man’s hair was long and white, brittle as straw in the middle of a drought. His face was creased and wrinkled, his gait stooped and painful to watch. Velixar looked up from what he was doing and gestured for the soldier to deposit the man in the chair opposite his writing desk.

“What are your plans for him?” Boris asked, a queer sort of curiosity shining behind his deep brown eyes as they flicked toward the journal that lay open on the table. He rubbed at the teardrop scar on his cheek, as if impatient. Velixar took that to mean the young soldier was eager to learn. In fact, with his curly hair, thick build, and flawless skin, Boris reminded him of Roland. A wave of both revulsion and longing washed over him. He forced himself to veer toward the latter. Roland had been a good apprentice. Perhaps Boris could take his place.

“Do you have duties to tend to?” he asked the soldier.

Boris shook his head. “Too many men fell ill, so camp has been set for the afternoon. The practitioner thinks it may be heatstroke and scurvy. Captain said we are only a hundred miles from the Wooden Bridge, and since the rejoining is not for another week or two, we’ll remain here to tend to our sick. ‘Let no one be left behind needlessly,’ he said.”

“Smart man,” replied Velixar with a smile, though inside he was seething. He knew Captain Wellington’s decision was logical, but Mordeina was close, so close. “Since you are free, I would like for you to stay with me. There is much for you to learn.”

“Yes, High Prophet,” said Boris. The soldier then snapped his heels together, moved to the pavilion’s canvas wall, and stood there, still as a statue.

Velixar turned his attention to the old man seated before him.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Cotter Mildwood,” the old man answered in a strained voice. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting his faded brown eyes to see more clearly. “I know you,” he said. “I know that voice.”

“I assure you, you do not,” said Velixar. He grabbed a blank sheet of parchment, lifted his quill, and wrote down the man’s name and description. “Now tell me, Cotter, why did you bow to Karak when we arrived in your village? Why not leave with Ashhur when he passed through?”

“I have no stomach for strife,” old Cotter replied. “And a hurried march would end me. My body is breaking, and I near the end of my days. My hope was that Karak would forgive an old man and allow him to end his life in peace.”

It made sense, of course, though Velixar’s chest tightened at the thought of the man abandoning his allegiance to his deity so easily, so callously.

“Tell me, Cotter, how old are you?”

The old man smiled, revealing a mouth half-filled with pearly white teeth.

“Ninety-four,” he said with pride.

Velixar hesitated. “Ninety-four, you say?”

“Yes. I’ve been alive for ninety-four years.”

“That cannot be so.”

“It is.”

Cotter clumsily lifted the bottom of his ratty tunic, exposing his wrinkled midsection-a midsection that lacked a bellybutton. Then he dropped his shirt and leaned so far forward his elbow struck the desk. He winced a bit, but it did not break his concentration as his squinting eyes stared at Velixar’s face.

“I knew it,” he said, clapping his misshapen hands together. “I do know you. The First Man. Jacob Eveningstar. Still so handsome. You look not a day older than the last time I saw you…had to be at least fifty years ago…though your eyes seem strange.” His expression dropped as a spark of memory flashed in his eyes. “I heard of your exploits in the delta. Ashhur spoke of it when he gathered up the willing and took them from my village.”

Velixar remained silent. He glanced at Boris, but the soldier simply watched, stoic.

“So it’s true,” Cotter said. “But of course it is. Ashhur tells no lies.”

“He does not,” said Velixar.

Cotter nodded. “You were always such a nice man to us. My son was born in my second year, and you brought a bale of hay and twigs to help build his cradle. I don’t remember what you told me that day, but I remember your voice plain as if it were my own.”

“A shame I do not remember you,” said Velixar. “I have met so many over the years. And age has not been kind to you.”

“It is true, it is true.” Cotter’s frown grew deeper. “I have a question for you, Jacob. Why? Why have you turned your back on your god?”

“I am Jacob no longer,” he said, keeping his voice level and his pulse steady. “I am Velixar now, High Prophet of Karak, and I would appreciate it if you would offer me the respect of addressing me as such.” He sighed. “As for my actions, I never turned my back on my god, old man. I am a child of two gods, not one, and I chose Karak. Choosing one god does not mean I turned my back on the other.”

The old man looked confused. “But…that makes no sense. You were Ashhur’s most trusted. Now you seek to destroy him. Though I am not one to talk given that I bended my sore knee to Karak, but it seems like a betrayal to me.”

“My aim is not to destroy,” Velixar said, “but to liberate. Ashhur’s notions are grand, but he is wrong, Cotter, wrong about what is best for humanity. I would show Ashhur the error of his ways, but he is not prone to change. If that means killing him, if a god can even be killed, then so be it. What I’m doing, what we’re all doing in this army, is fighting for humanity’s future. It is mankind I serve, and what is best for mankind. Karak is the truer deity. He is the god of freedom and prosperity, not chains and sacraments.”

“But Jacob-”

Velixar slammed his fist on the desk, silencing him. “Enough, old man,” he said. “I am the one who asks questions here, not you. And do not call me Jacob again.”

“I apologize…Velixar,” the old man said, bowing his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

Breathing deep, Velixar gathered his patience once more. He glanced at Boris and nodded to the soldier, who returned the gesture.

“Let us speak on other matters,” he told Cotter. “You have sworn yourself to Karak, which means you are now a part in our god’s ever growing congregation. And an important one at that.”

“Important? How?”

“You will assist me in the quest for knowledge.”

Cotter’s thin lips twisted in confusion.

“Can you read, old man?” asked Velixar.

“I can.”

Velixar turned to his journal, opened to a page he had inscribed just the night before, when another surge of the demon’s ancient knowledge dripped into his brain like sweet nectar. He turned the journal to face Cotter and slid it across the desk to him.

“The way the human mind works is a mystery to me, to all of us,” he told him. “There are certain words and images that mean something to one person and something completely different to another.”

“I don’t understand.”

Velixar gestured at the journal. “Please, all I ask is that you read the words written on that page and then study the diagram drawn beneath. After you do so, tell me what it is you see.”

Cotter leaned over the pages, cloudy eyes squinting even more as they traced letters and illustrations drawn in black ink.

“The words make no sense,” he muttered.

“Sound them out best you can,” Velixar said. “They’ll feel natural in time.”

Cotter’s thin lips mouthed unintelligible words, his brow furrowing. Velixar leaned forward, watching with interest as the old man’s mouth slowly sagged, his neck growing taut and his hands clenching and unclenching on the desk. It looked like the beginning of a seizure. Faster and faster he spoke the words, now an audible whisper. Then a moan escaped Cotter’s lips, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The old man threw himself back in his chair. He forced out laughter between violent coughing fits, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

Velixar stood, and though Boris looked frightened, the Highest only smiled.

“Fascinating,” he whispered.

Cotter began to shout animalistic bellows and nonsensical phrases. His body rocked in his chair, and then he lurched to a standing position, arms held out to his sides. His ragged tunic was soaked with the blood that seeped from his mouth, nose, and ears. The old man’s eyes bulged, his pupils the size of the tiniest pinprick. He gaped at everything and nothing, his stare as empty as the dead. His lips continued to move, spewing yet more blood. He stuck out his tongue and in a swift motion his mouth snapped shut, his remaining teeth gnashing the appendage in two. The severed portion flopped to the ground while the mouth in which it once resided continued to speak in soundless chants.

“So fascinating.”

Cotter began slamming his blood-soaked face into one of the pavilion’s heavy support struts. Velixar heard a crunch as the man’s nose shattered, and he glanced at Boris. The young soldier was watching the scene with abject horror, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, tiny rivulets of sweat beading on his neck.

Boris stepped forward wordlessly, drawing his sword. He grabbed Cotter by the shoulder and whirled him around. The old man’s hand lashed out, striking the soldier across the cheek. Boris released him, stumbling backward in surprise, and Cotter lunged forward, mouth opened wide, baring his remaining teeth, his gnarled hands bent into claws.

The soldier thrust upward with his sword, the tip piercing the underside of the old man’s chin, then exiting the back of his head with a pop. Cotter’s arms went limp, and his body collapsed against Boris, who stepped back, letting him fall. The young soldier looked like he wanted to turn on Velixar, to scream and rant and perhaps drive a blade into him, but he shook it off as if physically shedding his anger. He then calmly reached down, wrenched his sword from Cotter’s head, and wiped it clean before returning it to its sheath.

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” Boris said when he was done. Despite the delay, his voice still quivered a bit.

“And I did not. He hurt himself, and then you ran him through.”

The soldier gaped at him.

Velixar leaned forward, gazing with disappointment at the stilled body on the ground, before sitting down and grabbing the sheet of parchment on which he’d written Cotter’s name and age, and then he started scribbling with his quill. “A shame,” he said. “There is much I could have learned from this one.”

“Learned?” asked Boris. The tiniest quaver in his voice betrayed the calm he was trying to portray. “What could you possibly learn from that? That was…that was…unnatural.”

“No,” Velixar said, lifting his head from his writings. “It might not have appeared so, but it was actually quite natural. It is fascinating the effects certain stimuli have on the human mind. Everything has a cause and consequence. The only failure was on my part, for I did not know what outcome this passage would bring. It could have made the man calmer, or more intelligent, or reduced his mind to that of a child.” He shrugged. “Instead it drove him mad.”

Boris strode up to the desk, grabbed the corner of the journal, and turned it toward himself.

“What kind of witchcraft is this?” he asked, his eyes dipping to the opened page.

Velixar’s arm quickly shot out, slamming the massive tome closed.

“Do not read that!” he shouted at the soldier. “Do you wish to die? There are some things the human mind was not meant to comprehend. That passage is obviously one of them.”

Boris slowly backed away.

“I was…I just wanted to see what it said, what it looked like,” he said.

“Then you would have ended up like the man you just ran through,” Velixar said, jutting his chin at Cotter’s corpse.

“Oh. But did you not write it? Why can you look on it when others can’t?”

Velixar withdrew his hand, sighing.

“Because I am beyond humanity now. I am the High Prophet of Karak, privy to knowledge that transcends mortality-that transcends the fabric of the universe itself. Do not insult me by insinuating that the sniveling old man’s mind was of equal strength to mine.”

Boris considered the now closed journal. “Is that book full of similar…things?”

Velixar smiled, amused by the soldier’s almost reverence toward his personal writings.

“There are more than a few spells in here that might render a man mad, Boris. It is a chronicle of my life and all I have learned, from ten years before the gods created you until this very day. The history of the elves, the first baby steps of man, Karak helping to erect the city of Veldaren and the commune of Erznia, Ashhur forging the Sanctuary and adopting the cast-out Wardens, countless remedies and spells-all are within these pages.” He patted the tome’s leather cover. “I once wrote this as my gift to the race of man, a legacy of wisdom and knowledge in case of my death.”

The soldier gave him a wry smile.

“Once?” he asked.

“Now I do not know who I write it for,” Velixar said, surprised by how he was revealing himself to the soldier. “Not even the brother gods have seen what is written here. The spells are archaic, many of them dangerous.…Still, I find myself driven to record them, to test the limits of my newfound wisdom. I should destroy the book; part of me knows that, yet I cannot bear the thought. It will no longer be a gift for mankind, though, I do know that. There is danger in too much knowledge. After all, one might accidentally loose a demon on the world.”

Boris frowned, looked at Cotter’s body, and shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“I suppose I should clean up the mess,” he said, bending over and hefting a stiff arm over his shoulder. “I will send a squire to wipe up what is left.”

He began dragging the corpse along the ground, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

“Young man,” Velixar said, halting the soldier in his tracks. Boris turned to him, expectant. Once more Velixar was reminded of Roland. So much potential. So much desire to learn, consequences be damned.

“There is no need to send a squire,” he told him. “I will handle this mess. And though you may never look within the journal, I would not deny you some of the wisdom inside. Prove yourself, Boris. Dedicate your service to Karak, and show our god the true cleverness of your mind. I have been without a capable steward for some time now. When our Divinity claims Paradise as his own, I may require another one.”

“Yes, High Prophet,” he said, grinning. And then he ducked beneath the flap.

When he was gone, Velixar snatched up an empty inkwell, stood, and circled his desk. He hovered over the trail of blood and raised his free hand. With a few chanted words of magic, the blood began to shimmer and rise up off the ground, the droplets shimmying and swaying like hovering puffs of cotton. The liquid rippled, drawing together the higher it floated, until it became a single massive bubble. Velixar held out the inkwell, and the blood formed into a narrow tube, gliding through the air and entering the open top of the bottle. When the tail of the crimson serpent disappeared inside, he placed a cap on it and set it down.

He slowly shook his head as he stared at the capped container. A shame Cotter had died. To have custody of one of the first humans crafted by Ashhur, his blood pure and unmixed with others, could have been useful. Still, he couldn’t blame Boris for killing him. The boy was only human, prone to fear and doubt. Still, it bothered him, for there were many more pages of mystical transcriptions he longed to experiment with, all written within his journal over the last five days. He shrugged. No matter. They had collected a great many refugees from the towns they’d sacked, all of whom had bent their knee to Karak. There were plenty of other subjects for his experiments. Perhaps even Lanike Crestwell would do. The wife of Clovis was locked in her private wagon on the other end of camp, likely chomping on her fingernails and crying herself to sleep. All it would take was a word and she would be brought before him, eyes wide and pleading. It was tempting, if not for his need to keep Darakken in line.…

A shrill scream rose in the distance, stealing away his daydream. He paused, thinking it might have been in his head. But then another scream sounded, followed by panicked shouts. Velixar snatched Lionsbane from the back of the chair on which it hung and swiftly ducked beneath the pavilion’s entrance flap.

It was dusk, a gloomy mishmash of crimson and purple that hovered over the miles of flattened grassland where the army camped. Velixar’s pavilion was positioned on a slight hill, close to a thick expanse of forest in the shadow of Karak’s own dwelling. The soldiers’ tents stretched out below him like folded bits of paper, from one distant line of trees to another, the entire area ridging the Gods’ Road. A great many people gathered at the northern edge of the camp, those who’d decided not to join their mates around the bonfires for food and drink. There were a hundred of them dashing this way and that, many fumbling for their weapons, their faces masks of confusion and fright. Smelling something odd, Velixar cast a quick glance toward the southeast, and despite the darkening of the day, he could easily spot the billowing black clouds of smoke that filled the sky, evidence of Lord Commander Avila’s continued onward march as she circled the province of Ker, sealing Ashhur’s tall, dark children in behind a wall of scorched earth.

Yet what he smelled wasn’t fire. It was meatier than that, more visceral. He took a step forward, fastening Lionsbane’s scabbard to his belt, while he peered in the opposite direction. Karak stepped out of his pavilion, which was three times the size of Velixar’s, and stood eerily still, his arms crossed, his glowing eyes glaring at the chaos around him.

He looked disappointed.

Someone collided with Velixar from behind; uttered a hasty, halfhearted apology; and then ran off toward a cluster of soldiers gathering at the northwestern ring of forest. Velixar studied the man’s face, committing it to memory. The High Prophet of Karak was to be respected, and this soldier would receive a scolding once all was settled.

Velixar hurried across the empty space separating his dwelling from his god’s. Karak’s head slowly turned, those soul-crushing eyes making him feel small as he approached. The god’s face was still as stone in that moment-forever unmoving, forever unmoved.

“I sense power here,” Karak said. His booming voice made the din of bedlam seem tranquil by comparison.

“Power?” he asked. “What kind of power?”

“A god’s power,” Karak answered, remaining stoic. “My brother has brought the fight to us.”

Velixar felt his heart leap.

“Ashhur is here?”

“No, Prophet. He sent pets to do his business for him.”

Wheeling around, Velixar looked on as three soldiers came tramping out of the forest, dragging a screaming man behind them. The man’s armor had been frayed, his legs a ghastly mess of shredded flesh and exposed bone, his teeth gnashed together, his face scrunched up in pain. His fellow soldiers thrust swords and spears into the thick copse of elms and evergreens, fighting unseen attackers.

What looked to be a huge black shadow darted across the murky forest, appearing and disappearing as it crossed behind the trees. Then he saw another and another and another. Soon the forest was filled with dark outlines, black on black, growing ever closer to the clearing. The soldiers retreated, stumbling over the first line of tents, collapsing several of them.

Eyes appeared next. One pair, two, twenty, fifty-slanted and bloodthirsty, reflecting the day’s dying light. Velixar took a step forward, unsnapping the leather strap across Lionsbane’s hilt. He drew the sword slightly, exposing steel, but remained on the hill with his god just behind him.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Monsters,” Karak replied.

“Ashhur made them?”

“Yes. I feel his essence dripping from them even now.”

One of the beasts lunged from the trees, crushing a fleeing soldier beneath its bulk. It was tall as a man, but it hunched as it ambled. Suddenly, Velixar knew what it was-a wolf that walked on two legs. The creature was covered in gray fur streaked with black, each hair rippling as its powerful muscles flexed and relaxed. Its jaws were open, saliva dripping from wicked incisors. The fur below its jaws glistened with red all the way down to its breast. Its stare was haunting and primitive, projecting hunger, wrath, and the most frighteningly basic form of intelligence. The soldiers froze before the thing, weapons extended in shaking hands. It seemed everyone had stopped breathing. The wolf-man paced back and forth before them, dropping down on all fours occasionally, as if to show off the powerful build of its long arms. When it raised its eyes, they seemed to stare right through Velixar, shining invisible beams of hatred at the god behind him.

The wolf-man turned toward the forest and let loose a mighty howl, throwing its head toward the crimson and purple sky. A second later a wall of fur, muscle, and angry eyes erupted from the shelter of the forest, driving into the frightened column of soldiers. The men did their best to hold the line, but soon the wolf-men overwhelmed them, claws slashing and jaws, filled with sharp teeth, snapping. Men screamed, armor crunched, and steel fell harmlessly to the ground.

The sound of escalating slaughter drew the sick and the early sleepers from their tents. They glanced about with surprise and apprehension, none understanding the scene of carnage before them. A few of the wolf-men spotted them, and they disengaged from their victims, claws and teeth dripping blood, and leapt over their already fallen prey to greet the newcomers. Always, it seemed, they remained aware of Karak and his larger than life presence.

And still more rushed from the forest, a seemingly endless wave. Velixar stood agape as he watched them approach. There had to be a hundred of them. Already they had butchered fifty or more soldiers and left many more on the ground, who screamed as they held stumps where their hands had been, cradling gaping wounds in their chests, long gashes on their faces.

“The ease of our path has made our men soft,” said Karak, sounding disgusted. “These beasts have size and form, but they are no wiser than when they ran on four legs and howled at the moon. Our men have armor, weaponry, tactics. My brother sends a half measure, and we are not prepared.”

The deity stepped forward then, his glowing eyes becoming twice as bright as usual. He extended his massive arms out to both sides of him, bolts of purplish electricity encircling his palms like bands.

“Wait, my Lord!” Velixar shouted.

Karak paused, glaring back at him. “Why do you stop me, Prophet? The slaughter continues.”

He rushed forward. “It does, my Lord, but let the men fight. Let me fight with them. Our army has experienced nothing but the Wardens’ token resistance. Please, Lord, let me guide them. Let me help them win.”

Karak cocked his head and frowned in thought.

“Be swift and brutal,” he said. “I do not enjoy losing more resources than necessary.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Velixar said. He drew Lionsbane and charged down the hill toward the approaching horde. Many of those who had stumbled from their tents were now being slaughtered, but as the wolf-men pushed deeper into the camp, they’d begun to encounter groups of men who’d had time to throw on their armor and ready their weapons. At least ten wolf-man carcasses lay between the trampled tents, bleeding out on the grass.

Concentrating, Velixar focused his power.

“Come to me, men!” he shouted, his voice magnified a hundred times, echoing across the grassland as if he himself were a god. “Come to your Prophet! Come fight in the name of your god! To me! Let us defend our brothers!”

Velixar leapt into the air, narrowly avoiding a wolf-man’s swiping claws. He spun once and hacked down with Lionsbane, cleaving through the beast’s snout and leaving a gaping, leaking hole. The thing shrieked from its mutilated face, the sound like a buzzing nest of wasps, only to be silenced when Velixar plunged his blade through the bloody maw. It fell to the ground and stilled.

More came at him from behind, barreling on all fours. Spinning around, he held out his hand and shouted words of magic. The power flowing through him was robust, and bolts of shadow and black lightning leapt from his fingertips, scorching one of the beasts, its fur erupting with purple flame as it fell, thrashing and writhing in pain. More flames danced onto a second, but it extinguished them with its paw. The third carried on unabated, bearing down on him, leading with outstretched claws.

Velixar dove to the side, and the closest wolf-man stumbled past him. He pointed a finger at the second, muttering, “Wither,” and the creature suddenly lost all form. The flesh beneath its fur undulated, its legs became like rubber, its body caved in on itself. The only form of protest it could offer was a pathetic whine before it fell.

Lost in the glory of his spell, Velixar almost failed to notice the third wolf-man had circled around back for him. Claws ripped through the air, shredding the back of his cloak but missing flesh. Velixar pitched himself into a forward roll, avoiding a second deadly swipe, before rising up on his knees and holding Lionsbane out before him. The wolf-man collided with the sword, the blade sinking deep into its chest. The beast’s hungry eyes bulged in surprise. Velixar ducked beneath another of its strikes, then released the weapon so he could roll out and away. When he came to his feet, he felt a strong surge of power, and he recognized the weapon as the primitive thing it really was.

“I don’t need steel,” he said, walking toward the beast as it ripped the sword from its chest. “I don’t need a blade. All I need, I have.”

He lunged, grabbing the creature’s face while it still struggled to remain standing. The power channeled through him, down his arm, out his palm, and into twisted flesh. It released a shockwave and a thunderous sound. The wolf-man howled as it died, the bones in its body shattering as the spell rolled through it. When Velixar released his hand, it dropped, an unrecognizable sack of meat and fur.

Velixar had no time to bask in the glory of his success, for still more wolf-men charged. Countless dead soldiers lay before him, their wounds feeding the soil with their blood. Many of the wolf-men stopped to feed. Others still were locked in combat with those soldiers who had not yet fallen, their claws and teeth easily besting armor and steel. Velixar ripped Lionsbane from the wolf-man’s carcass and glanced behind him. More men ran up from the camp to join the fight, but their movements were slow and hesitant, their hearts not engaged. A great many glanced toward Karak’s towering figure in the distance, as if waiting for him to come to their aid. The sight filled Velixar with fury, and he addressed them again.

“For glory!” he shouted, magnifying his voice once more. “For victory! For Karak!”

A group of nine joined his side, several of them bloodied from combat-a sign that they’d killed some of the wolf-men. He cried out a charge, and the ten of them raced toward the hill and the thick of the combat.

“Form ranks!” he cried. “Form ranks, shoulder to shoulder!”

The creatures were all around them, swarming and panting and growling. Velixar saw that one was about to descend on a lone man, and he pointed his finger at it, letting his rage fuel his power. An arrow of darkness shot forth, spearing the creature in the eye, before dissolving.

“I said form ranks!” Velixar roared, and the man scrambled to join the others. Turning, Velixar opened his palms as he speared several more of the creatures with lightning, targeting the ones that appeared the largest and most threatening. Two charged him head on, and Velixar was proud when soldiers at either side of him stepped forward, their swords and shields forming a protective wall. Velixar sent out several more arrows of concentrated darkness, the projectiles shimmering red and purple as they plunged into the beasts’ thick flesh. The two wolf-men weakened and were then hacked to pieces by his guardians’ swords.

Still the wolf-men crashed into the ever-growing lines of soldiers. They were single minded and deadly, stronger than mere humans, and their weapons were always in hand. Velixar felt himself beginning to tire, his magic only wounding the beasts upon whom he unleashed it, instead of killing them outright. One of the beasts crashed through the line, tossing aside a soldier to slash Velixar’s chest. He fell back as another of the creatures ripped a gash across his right forearm. Landing in the blood-soaked earth, he lifted his arms as a hungry maw lowered for his throat.

The thought of falling before the war had even begun, and to such a creature, flooded him with terror.

“Not like this!” he screamed out in primal fury. The air around him rippled, driving the wolf-men back. The blood on the ground came to life, forming tentacles that lashed like whips, pinning several of them to the ground. Dark fire leapt from his hands, and the nearest beast crossed its arms as flames washed over it, burning away fur, then flesh, leaving only bone and ash to fall and scatter. Struggling to one knee, Velixar reached deep inside himself, tapping into a well of power that suddenly seemed endless. Light gathered in his palms, growing ever brighter.

Endless, he thought, focusing on that power, pulling to mind the words of spells that would break and destroy anything in his way. With sudden clarity, he knew he could kill every last one of the wolf-men-and not just them, but the fleeing nation of Ashhur, even the god himself. All he had to do was speak the words, use the power deep within him, and watch it all burn.

He never had that chance. The might he felt at his disposal, the seemingly endless well, disappeared as quickly as he had found it. His hands went dark, and the pendant around his neck, Ashhur’s pendant and Karak’s gift, burned into his flesh. Over his head soared a gigantic black shadow trailing purple fire, and then Karak landed in the midst of the remaining wolf-men, his ethereal sword glowing. In giant, swooping arcs, the god dismantled his foes, cleaving torsos, lopping off heads, reducing the once-powerful creatures to piles of discarded flesh and bone. Even Karak’s own soldiers were not safe-those still locked in combat and unable to retreat suffered the same fate, Karak’s mighty blade slicing through them as if their bodies were made of water.

And then it was over. One moment there was an army of mutated beasts approaching; the next, just a field strewn with blood, bones, and entrails. The remaining wolf-men, a third of the original number, darted into the forest, yelping and baying. Velixar stumbled to his feet, feeling weaker than he had in a hundred years, his body aching, his brain throbbing. Turning around, he saw that half the camp had gathered around the base of the hill to watch Karak dispatch the murderous invaders, their jaws hanging open in awe. One by one, they dropped to their knees before their deity. Karak turned to them, not even winded. The glowing sword in his hand slowly faded away until it blinked out of existence.

“Today, we failed!” the god bellowed, and his worshippers dove forward until their faces kissed the dirt. “Who are these things before me? Surely they are not my children, trained and blessed with the finest weaponry and strongest armor in all the land? What am I to do with you, you pathetic, frail lot? What have the fruits of all my labor delivered to me? One day I will lead an army against the west. One day I will drive the scourge of chaos from the land, and establish a blessed order in Dezrel. But it is not this day. It is not with this army of children and cowards and fools!”

Velixar struggled to his feet as Karak abruptly turned and stormed away. He had to run to keep pace, so great were his god’s strides.

“My Lord, we had them,” he said, winded. He clutched the pendant through his chain and smallclothes. “Please, you must give them another chance.”

Karak said not a word. He simply stormed up the hill and violently batted aside the flaps to his giant pavilion. Velixar followed him in, his strength slowly returning, and with it, his anger.

The god faced away from him. A brisk wind blew outside, rippling the pavilion’s walls and seeming to heighten the din of pain and tragedy from the outside world. The pavilion itself was virtually empty-the only adornment was a small ring of stones in its center, a waft of black smoke rising to the hole in the top of the tent from the dying embers within the ring. Velixar stopped, huffing while he stared at his god’s back.

“You have failed me,” Karak said. His voice was soft now, yet it retained its potency.

“We did not fail you, my Lord,” Velixar insisted. He could not keep the edge out of his voice.

The god turned slightly, fixing him with a dissatisfied glare.

“No? Tell me, Velixar. Tell me how this was a great victory. Tell me how losing two hundred men to a small battalion of my brother’s ill-conceived monstrosities is a triumph.”

“I-”

“You cannot say, because it would not be true.” Karak fully faced him, and never before had Velixar felt so small as he did in that moment. It was a bitter sensation, and it made his blood boil. “My creations may be inexperienced, but inexperience is no excuse for abject failure. We have been fortunate up until now. Ashhur has made us lazy by showing only token resistance as he slowly gathers strength. And when we battle against foes that are actually eager for a fight, I watch my trained men die like rats at the feet of lions.”

Velixar gritted his teeth. “It is a learning experience, my Lord. The men shall not fail so mightily again.”

“So you say. Yet how many more would have perished had I not intervened? I watched you lead the charge. You are powerful, and some of the men were willing to fight, but the beasts overran you still. I saw one of them towering above my own High Prophet, ready to feed. Yet now you glare at me as if I have done wrong. Tell me, Velixar, should I have let the monstrosities tear you apart, all so my soldiers might have experience?”

Velixar’s pride was taking more wounds than he could endure.

“It never would have happened,” he said. “I would have proven my might to you, if only you’d waited.”

The god shook his head. “Such self-assurance. It will be the end of you.”

“Perhaps. But children must always stumble before they walk. What you see as failure, I see as a presage of greater glory.”

“We have neither the time nor the numbers for such failures,” the god retorted. He gazed at the walls once more. “Until now, each victory has come with greater ease than the one before. It has made the men soft. That is unacceptable. Those beasts you faced…my brother erred by not giving them intelligence to match their might. Had he done so, those few that assailed us could have wiped out half our force without my intervention. Imagine that, Velixar. A scant hundred beasts slaughtering two thousand men. A feat such as that would have been well worth the cost.” The god frowned. “Perhaps Ashhur has stumbled upon a wiser path than my own. I may need to start over, cast aside this sorry lot and make beasts more powerful, faithful, and driven.”

Velixar reacted without thinking.

“Do it, and you have already lost,” he said. When Karak brought his eyes to bear on him, he tensed, waiting for his god to end him then and there.

“And how is that?” Karak asked, arms crossing over his chest.

“Because then you cannot claim your way is superior. You cannot show the greatness of the nation your children have sired by casting those very children aside and fashioning beasts into mindless servants and warriors.”

Karak stared him down, then let his hands fall to his sides.

“You are right,” he said. “My brother’s creations are not what I war against, but my brother himself. And though altering life forms takes power, imbuing them with intellect requires a sacrifice of self. Even the little I gave Kayne and Lilah weakened me slightly. Ashhur and I are precariously balanced. Should either of us fall too far below the other…”

Velixar bowed low.

“Then you must trust us, trust me, to do what is right. These men are capable, my Lord. They will not fail you again.”

“Trust you,” Karak said. “Indeed, I do trust you, but I fear that trust will turn against me in time. You are flawed, as are all men, but you refuse to see it.”

Velixar felt his mouth turn dry. The pendant on his chest throbbed.

“Flawed,” he said tonelessly. “Tell me my flaws, my god, so that I may fix them.”

Karak shook his head.

“You claim to have the power of the demon, yet all you have done with it is scribble in your book and experiment on those who have bended their knee to me. You consider yourself wiser than humanity, yet your wisdom did not see Ashhur’s gambit before it arrived. You think yourself aware of the world in a way mere humans are not, yet you do not realize that those who betrayed you are within striking distance even now.”

“What are you saying?”

“As of this very moment your old apprentice Roland travels along the Gods’ Road with a great many refugees from Lerder,” said Karak. “They approach the Wooden Bridge, thinking to find safety in Mordeina. I believe the Warden Azariah is with them.”

Velixar felt his pulse quicken.

“How can you know this?” he asked. “Is it a spell? An aspect of your divine nature? Tell me, I beg of you.”

Karak smiled, but there was a hint of mockery in it, a touch of pity.

“A message came this morning by way of a raven. One of my rearguard patrols captured a deserter from the group and questioned him thoroughly.”

Velixar shook his head, feeling humiliated.

“Why did you not tell me earlier?” he asked.

Karak placed a mighty hand on his shoulder. His tone lowered, becoming more compassionate.

“You must learn humility, Velixar. You have become absorbed with your perceived betterment. Though you are privy to the demon’s ancient knowledge, and your body is a timeless perfection, you are still only a man. You will not reach the heights I know you are capable of until you understand and accept that.”

Velixar wanted to shout at his deity that the demon’s intellect had given him the knowledge that Karak too was fallible, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he quietly seethed, attempting to accept his lesson, no matter how painful, as a faithful servant should.

“Yes, my Lord,” he said.

“Good,” Karak said. “Now leave me be. Allow the men a short rest, but that is all. In two days we march-healthy, sick, and injured alike.”

“Yes, my Lord. But before I go, might I ask…what will you do about the group crossing the Wooden Bridge?”

Karak shrugged as if it were no important thing.

“A few hungry refugees are no reason to upset our camp and rush the recovery of our wounded.”

“As you say,” Velixar said, bowing low. He turned on his heels and went to leave, only stopping when Karak called out to him one final time.

“Do as I say,” the god commanded. “If you wish for these men to learn, you will learn along with them. At my side, or not at all.”

Without another word, Velixar left the deity’s pavilion.

The three-quarter moon rose when darkness descended on the land. Once the bodies of the deceased wolf-men and soldiers had been burned, Velixar reclined on his pile of blankets, staring at the heaving roof of his pavilion. More of the demon’s experience flowed into his mind, making him anxious. He glanced at his journal resting on his desk. Suddenly writing in it seemed a worthless endeavor. If Karak saw him as no better than a mere mortal, what good was the wisdom within it? Who was it even for? Velixar tired of the god’s impertinent treatment of him; he needed to prove to Karak his superiority to the rest of the men.

He sat up with a jolt, anger flowing in his veins once more. After retrieving Lionsbane, he stormed across the pavilion to the far end of the sleeping camp. There he found an exhausted Captain Wellington, his shoulders slumped as he guarded the temporary stables filled with hundreds of beasts that grazed on the sparse grasses beside the Gods’ Road.

“Captain,” Velixar said, and Wellington snapped upright.

“High Prophet,” the man replied, his face awash with apprehension.

“Find someone else to watch them,” Velixar said flatly. “And gather twenty of your best men. Bring them to me. You have fifteen minutes.”

“Um…might I ask why, High Prophet?”

Velixar grinned, and it felt untamed on his lips.

“Because tonight we ride. There are blasphemers on the road ahead of us, and they will suffer the retaliation Ashhur’s ambush deserves. Now go. There is no time to waste. And Captain, make sure the ones you gather are the most brutal you can find.”