Wrath of Lions (59 page)

“A lesson of what?” he asked. “That I am worth more than a few pathetic soldiers whose bones will be dust before a single gray hair sprouts from my head?”

Karak’s face seemed to darken.

“The lesson is that you fear death as much as any human. The lesson is that whenever you betray me or ignore my wisdom, people will die. With me you are powerful, Velixar. Without me, you are nothing.”

“
I
am nothing?” he exclaimed. His anger grew, and with it his audacity, however misplaced. He began to shout without thinking. “I know things,
my Lord
. I have knowledge you wish to keep hidden, about you and Ashhur and your long, sordid history. You speak of failure? What of
your
failure, the one that led to the creation of humanity on this world? Yes, I know how you came to be, who you and Ashhur were before. I know of Kaurthulos’s destruction of countless worlds—and he attempted to do the same here in Dezrel. Darakken, Velixar, Sluggoth, they were
your
creations, weren’t they?”

“That was before we became who we are now,” Karak said softly.

“Before you split into pieces,” Velixar said. “Before you became Karak and Ashhur and countless others. I’ve seen your failures in the demon’s memory; I’ve seen how your brother, Thulos, another aspect of your fragmented former self, slew the other gods and began his conquest. Celestia saved you from ruin and brought you and Ashhur here to redeem yourselves from your misdeeds. You two
fled
here from your own mirrored reflection, and yet you would call
me
nothing? I have seen it all, Karak.”

Karak said not a word. Feeling emboldened, Velixar continued.

“Without you, I am nothing? Where would you be without my aid? You were hiding in the mountains when I set into motion the events that would lead to your reign. I poisoned Vulfram Mori into renouncing you. I manipulated Clovis into building the temple in the delta to incur your wrath. I served Ashhur for seventeen years—
seventeen years!
—biding my time, working my fingers into his subconscious, earning his trust and ultimately leading him to Haven. Your fight with that discarded piece of yourself you call a brother was
my
doing.
I
was the one who thought humanity could reach greatness,
I
paved the way for this war, and
I
am the one who first believed it was you who should rule all of Dezrel! And all I receive in retu—”

“YOU…KNOW…NOTHING.”

The god’s words hit Velixar like a fist to the face, knocking him to his knees. He stared up at Karak, unable to breathe, as the deity rose to his full height above him.

“You think yourself greater than you are, Prophet,” Karak said. His tone was chilling, and the invisible fist around Velixar’s throat squeezed tighter. “Do you really think I am blind to what happens in my own kingdom, blind to the actions of my own creations? I knew your plans the moment you hatched them, and I allowed you the freedom to carry them out. I even allowed the death of Soleh Mori, the child who had proved her love and loyalty to me beyond all others.”

The grip around his throat loosened.

“Why?” Velixar was able to gasp.

“Because I was disappointed with the immaturity of my children. Because I tired of watching Ashhur’s degeneration into a weak, cowardly being. Because I knew in my heart that order would only thrive if all of Dezrel were mine to lord over as I chose. But mostly, I was curious to see if you, the First Man, could accomplish the grand schemes you had set in motion.”

“You knew…and you said nothing.…You let me believe…”

Karak nodded, his eyes burning into Velixar’s soul.

“All you have done, all you think you are—it is because I have
given
you the power you required. Power that I can take away, power that I
have
taken away, the moment you disobeyed me, the moment you let your pride and arrogance place you above me in your heart and mind.”

Velixar’s eyes widened as he stared at his god in disbelief.

“Yes, Prophet, you understand
nothing
. You have spent more than a century chronicling the history of magic on this world,
yet you never once knew that so long as my brother and I walk among you, the only
true
power you will ever possess must be channeled through us.” The deity sighed. “I stripped you of your power last night so you would learn. So you would know, once and for all, that everything you have accomplished has been through my hand. Your power, your station, even your wisdom, has come through me or my creations. And that which I have given…I can take away.”

The god reached down, tugged the pendant out from under Velixar’s tunic. His finger traced the bas-relief of the peak on which the lion stood.

“I gave you this to show you my trust, but also to demonstrate the scope of my plan. A mountain is the highest place one can stand. Those with the strength to conquer it can forever clutch what is rightfully theirs, defeating any challengers. It is a symbol of might, of conquest, of
power
. I have watched humanity in all its forms for eons. I have watched your struggles and your unpredictability; I have seen how you clutch chaos to your breast as if it offers you sustenance, when all it ever gives you is pain. I have
always
known this…yet I dared hope my brother or myself might finally find a way. We began our grand experiment, but within a single generation the old ways began anew. It was either coddle humanity forever, as my brother would do, or let you all succumb to a life spent with your backs to your gods and your hearts filled with lust and greed and fear. I will not allow it. All of Dezrel will either bend the knee or know the peace of the grave. I am tired of this world, Velixar. I am tired of the way mankind scratches at my mind, every sinful act carving into me like a grain of sand carves away at a rock wall. Your race could achieve such great heights, but too many of your kind are sick. You are like a great oak held down by rotting branches. There is only one recourse; burn the sick branches with fire; otherwise, the whole tree will die.”

Karak turned away from him, returning to a seated position in the center of the tent. He closed his eyes, an eerie calm washing over his godly form.

“You shall live, because I will it,” he said calmly. “My brother and I created Jacob Eveningstar to be a guiding light for humanity, and that purpose has not changed simply because your name has. You will remain my prophet, and you will teach the people of my glory for the rest of your days. Be my greatest disciple. Be my wisest friend. The world is changing, the new future coming, and I would have you at my side. But if you are not at my side…then your ageless body will, for the first time in its life, know pain, know fire, know death. Now leave my quarters, Velixar. We are to cross the bridge in four days’ time, and I need to gather my strength for what is to come.”

Velixar needed no other invitation. He staggered to his feet and left the pavilion, collapsing the moment he was outside. His body was sore, the wounds on his head barked, and his mind spun a mile a minute. Everything he’d thought he knew suddenly seemed so limited and pathetic.

The moon was low on the horizon, and wisps of smoke and cloud passed over it like floating snakes. Most of the soldiers had turned to the safety of their bedrolls, and those few who remained out were well into their cups. Velixar began to walk toward the Gods’ Road, avoiding the glowing rubble of snuffed out cookfires until he reached his destination. He then followed the beaten path east, passing row after row of tents. There were so many of them. As he looked toward the undulating horizon, he realized he could still see them dotting the landscape in the far distance. Now that the force from the north had arrived, Karak’s Army was near ten thousand strong. Once Lord Commander Avila’s regiment arrived, they would swell to fifteen thousand.

The numbers were staggering.

It took him nearly an hour to find his own pavilion, which had been assembled beside the cart that acted as the rookery, just as
Karak had told him it would be. He walked into the pavilion and lit a few candles. The place had been set up just the way it always was, complete with his desk, bedroll, and dresser. The three squires who tended to his belongings certainly knew how to perform their duties.

“What choice have I left?” Velixar asked as he hung Lionsbane on its hook in the center of the open space. All the confidence he had in himself, all the pride he had in his own wisdom, now seemed like a mockery. What wisdom was there in bragging to Karak about his knowledge of things Karak already knew? What wisdom in glorifying a power that came from Karak? He was a princeling bragging to his father about his great wealth. All that was his had been inherited.

So what did it mean?

“What choice,” Velixar whispered again. He could rebel, denying Karak’s power and wisdom. Or he could find a way to draw power without the need of his deity; he could seek to learn what even his god did not know.

Velixar closed his eyes, and he felt the power of the demon surge up within him. There was the other way. The more frightening way. He had always believed Karak’s path was the wiser. He had always trusted his laws and desires to be superior to Ashhur’s naïve, foolish hopes. But had he ever given himself over? Had he ever let his trust become faith? No, he’d always held back, relied on his own wisdom to confirm each decision. He followed Karak not because he believed in him, but because his mind
agreed
with him.

He fell to his knees, and as he prayed, he knew his god would hear.

“My life for you,” he whispered. “Before my faith was hollow. Make it overflowing. Before my faith was weak. Make it strong. Whatever I have done, whatever I may do, it is now all for you. Let your words pass through my lips. I am your prophet, and may I forever speak your truth. Burn away my doubts with fire. The time for them has passed.”

Bleary and weak, he rose to his feet. He felt a strange lightness. Part of him wondered if anything had changed, but deep in his heart he knew. He felt a vast power growing inside him.

The moment was already fleeing, and he felt an intense desire to record it. He rushed to his desk, and then paused, his brow furrowing. He knelt down, searching the shelf beneath it. When his fingers found nothing, he raced through the rest of his pavilion, tearing through his chest of books, his sacks of clothing, his dresser, the coffer where he would store his armor once he removed it, beneath his bedroll. Panic rushed through his veins, causing his wounded temple to throb.

“No, no, no,” he repeated over and over again.

He hunted through the night, even going so far as to question his squires and the soldiers who were camped nearby, but all his searching was for naught. His precious journal was nowhere to be found.

C
HAPTER

30

“T
his isn’t good, is it?”

Patrick glanced beside him. The dim moonlight revealed that Preston was mimicking his posture: flat on his belly, his eye pressed to a looking glass as he cautiously peered over the lip of a rocky knoll. The old man shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said.

“But is it really so bad? It’s night. Most of them are probably sleeping. We could circle around, sticking close to the river, then slip onto the bridge when no one’s paying attention.”

“A fool’s hope,” Preston said. “There are forty men guarding the bridge.” He gestured again to the expanse beyond. “And we would not make it very far in any case. There are eyes watching, and not all of them are human.”

“What’s that mean?”

“See for yourself. Over there, by the trees, to the right of the massive stable of horses.”

He handed Patrick the looking glass, and the crooked man squinted through it. The encampment spread out before him, larger than life. Thousands upon thousands of individual tents of various
sizes were perched on either side of the Gods’ Road, interspersed with wagons and the occasional pavilion. Starting a few hundred feet in front of the Wooden Bridge and stretching all along the road’s eastern path, the camp seemed almost as big as Mordeina itself. There appeared to be no end to it. He suppressed a shudder.
So many…

Following Preston’s instructions, he found the horses. There looked to be over two hundred of them, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, feed bags fastened around their snouts. He inched the looking glass slightly to the right and spotted six tents that stood out from the rest. These were tall and triangular, with thick poles supporting the leather sides and smoke trailing from the holes in the roofs. There were men pacing around the odd tents, patrolling with their heads held high. Patrick quickly realized what it meant.

He had met few elves in his life. The relationship between the two species was shaky at best, which he understood completely. His mother had told him how Celestia had destroyed their homeland to make way for the dawn of humanity. Yet this, combined with the torching of the innocents in the barn, signified something much stronger than mutual dislike. To have elves marching alongside their army…

“Shit,” he muttered.

One of the pacing elves stopped abruptly, raising his eyes toward Patrick.
There’s no way,
he thought. At least two miles separated them. There was no way the elf could have heard, could have seen…

Not wanting to take a chance, he slid down the rise a few feet, pulling Preston with him as he dropped out of view.

“What was that for?” the old man asked.

“Just a precaution,” Patrick answered with a wink.

“One looked your way, didn’t he?”

Patrick nodded. Preston patted him on the shoulder.

“Smart choice, then.”

“Thanks.”

They slid down the remainder of the hill, rejoining the young men who waited below. The only cover to be found in the red cliffs was in the hills themselves, which seemed to make them nervous. Tristan flicked small stones against the ground. Joffrey, Brick, and Ryann obsessively brushed their horses, and Preston’s sons Edward and Ragnar worked on sharpening their swords. Only the Flicks seemed at ease; the massive twins were lying down with cloths over their eyes.