Wrath of Lions (36 page)

The occupied forest city of Dezerea was thrown into chaos in the aftermath of Conall’s death. Countless Dezren men were taken from their treetop homes and brought to the palace courtyard. They were forced to bow, near two thousands of them crowding the grass, while the Ekreissar stalked up and down the lines, prodding them, taunting them, trying to force a confession. Aerland Shen paraded Lord Orden and Lady Phyrra before the stooped masses. The former rulers of the city had been beaten so badly, they were barely recognizable, and the plain white robes hanging off their backs were torn and speckled with dried blood.

“One of our own has been murdered!” screamed Neyvar Ruven, standing on the dais in front of the emerald palace’s gate. “Who was it? Who leads the rebellion? Come forward, speak, and spare yourselves pain and suffering.”

None did, though a murmur began to rise from the sea of bowed heads.

Ceredon felt his stomach clench as he watched the spectacle from his position at his father’s side. A part of him did not understand the Dezren’s lack of action. They numbered greater than eight thousand, their ranks more than adequate to overwhelm the scant forces the Neyvar had brought with him. It seemed absurd that the only ones standing against them were Tantric’s rough and battered group of brave souls. Yet then he remembered his conversation with his father. Many of the Dezren were farmers, teachers, philosophers, musicians, and spellcasters. They were not warriors. The Quellan Ekreissar, on the other hand, were trained in the art of battle and had been since the Demon War a thousand years before.

“If the brother gods were not draining the power of the weave, the Dezren would have crushed us,” his father had said. Now their spells were but a sad echo of the deadly force they had once wielded. The Dezren had been lessened by measures not of their own choosing, and Ceredon promised himself not to forget that.

His father, the Neyvar, continued to pace back and forth on the dais, shouting at the cowering male populace. Ceredon could see through his façade now. The anger in his voice was too righteous, his gestures overly exaggerated. Ruven was acting a part, and it seemed as though others were beginning to notice as well, for Aerland Shen scowled when he looked at the Neyvar, his hideous, wide-set face crumpling into an animal expression. Neyvar Ruven scowled in return and then turned in a huff and left the dais.

Aeson took the Neyvar’s place, continuing the verbal assault on the kneelers. It was
he
who ordered Shen to lash Lord and Lady Thyne’s backs with five-pronged whips while they were strapped to the feet of Celestia’s grand monument. The lord and lady wailed, their eyes locked onto the goddess’s likeness as their clothes and skin were flayed from their backs. Ceredon had to fight his urge to end their torment. Killing Conall would help them in time, he knew, but it was a shallow comfort. Ceredon’s deed had brought them suffering. He had to remind himself that this was only further proof of the necessity of his nighttime assassinations.

They won’t be killed,
he thought as Lord and Lady Thyne slumped before the statue, the beating finally over.
They’re being used to keep the people in line.
Once the last two members of the Triad were dead, once his father had regained full influence over the Ekreissar, the Thynes’ suffering would end.

Aeson ushered the anguished and limping royal family away, then ordered the masses to rise. They did, hesitantly, and Ceredon could see the hatred painting each and every face. His father’s cousin offered closing remarks to the Dezren men, and his words worried Ceredon.

“You are free to go,” Aeson said, his lips twisted downward with anger. “But think twice if you consider turning against us. Come the morrow, you will know the full scope of the power we have at our disposal.”

The next morning, Ceredon discovered the elf’s meaning.

Warhorns blared as the swarm descended over the hills bordering the Gihon River, using the same route Shen and the Ekreissar had traveled a lifetime ago, then poured into the heart of Dezerea. The humans were wearing black and silver armor, and the banners of the eastern god, Karak, flew high above them, the wrathful lion roaring down on all who witnessed its fluttering countenance. Ceredon watched the endless procession from the dais, where he stood beside his father. He tried to count the troops as they formed into brigades before the palace steps, but he could come to no solid number. There had to be near a thousand men on horseback, bearing long spears, heavy axes, and sharp swords. There were at least four times that number on foot, with a hundred horse-drawn wagons trailing behind. The entirety of the human force overwhelmed the forest city like an invading colony of deadly ants. The Ekreissar, who lingered around the humans, seemed nervous and resentful in the same instant. Of those on the dais, including the entire consulate that had originally traveled to Dezerea for the betrothal, only Aeson and Iolas appeared content.

The horseman in front approached the dais. He was a hefty, bald man, his black leather overlaid with bronze chain, and he rode a majestic white charger. Everything about him seemed wrong: his face was too broad, his posture too hunched, and his eyes emitted a reddish glow. His flesh was also abnormal, for it seemed stretched to the point of translucency. Ceredon could see a web of red and green veins running beneath it. Every so often part of the man’s body would throb, as if there were things lurking beneath his skin that might burst through the surface.

Then the man spoke, and the strangeness doubled.

“In the name of the mighty Karak,” he said, his voice quite odd, almost as if two beings were speaking as one, “we come to your fair city in the trees. We seek food and shelter, as was our agreement. This shall be our base of operations in the west: our ferries shall remain untouched in the river, and you will give us all we require.”

Ceredon opened his mouth to protest the strange bald man’s demands, but his father squeezed his arm, silencing him. The Neyvar stepped forward and offered the odd horseman a slight bow.

“It is our pleasure to assist Karak and his soldiers, Highest Crestwell,” he said in the human’s tongue. “You will have all that was promised. We Quellan do not break our vows.”

The leering, bald man offered a queer half grin, then bowed in the saddle.

“I was assured that would be the case,” he said. “But I am Highest no longer, great Neyvar. Clovis will suffice.”

“As you will,” Neyvar Ruven replied.

Iolas stepped forward. “Will you come inside the palace, so we can discuss further terms?” the ancient elf asked. “Our rangers will assist your soldiers in situating themselves while we are detained, if that is acceptable to you?”

Clovis nodded, dismounted his charger, and wobbled up the steps. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, a strange trait for one with so much authority. Ceredon lingered behind as the man passed him, and he noticed a strange odor, like sulfur. Aerland Shen began barking orders, as did a second human on horseback, and the soldiers broke rank. All was deafening chaos as Ceredon followed his father into the palace, and he could hear grumbled complaints from many of his brethren. Being forced to assist humans was anathema to them.

The group settled into the Chamber of Assembly. Aeson and Iolas covered the statue of Celestia with a large tapestry at the request of the odd-looking human, and then they all took their places at the great table, Neyvar Ruven at one end, Clovis Crestwell
at the other. Ceredon found it hard to hide the affront he felt when Celestia’s likeness was concealed. Why should they do so for this human who came into an elven city under another god’s banners? It was blasphemous.

Clovis sat board-straight, and it looked like it took his every effort to retain that posture.

“You wished to speak of terms,” he said. His voice sounded even stranger when it echoed in the cavernous chamber.

The Neyvar nodded. “We risk much by giving you access to our city. You know our goddess demands neutrality in the affairs of humanity. I understand our cooperation was already agreed on, but if we are to break that pact—at great risk, I may remind you—we require further compensation.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Neyvar Ruven gestured to Aeson, who spoke next.

“We seem to have encountered some resistance during our occupation. We would like your men to assist us in seeking out these rebels and eliminating them.”

“How great are their numbers?” asked Clovis.

“A hundred, perhaps a score more.”

The human laughed, and it sounded like the utterance of a hideous creature from the ocean depths.

“I bring with me five thousand troops,” he said when his laughter died down. “And you would require their aid to defeat a mere hundred mutineers? We had always thought the Quellan to be great warriors. Perhaps we were wrong.”

“They have proved…resourceful,” countered Iolas.

“Then perhaps you should be even more so,” snapped Clovis.

Neyvar Ruven lifted his hand. “It is not only that,” he said, sounding weary. “We have a precarious hold on this city. The Dezren outnumber us greatly. Should they decide to join their rebel brethren, we would be overwhelmed. If that were to happen, there would be no safe haven for your soldiers to return to, no fields
of turnips and grain for you to refill your supplies once they are exhausted. Given how your own armies are razing Ashhur’s lands, our aid will be paramount to your success.”

Clovis held up his hand. For a moment, Ceredon swore he could see a worm wriggling beneath the flesh of his palm.

“We understand this,” the man said gravely. “The razing is occurring strictly south of the Gods’ Road, to seal in those who might wish to aid their countrymen. Yet we will still help you. I can spare five hundred men, but not a soul more.”

Neyvar Ruven nodded. “Yes, that would work.”

“However, we must also balance the scales. If we are to keep these men behind, a show of good faith is required.”

“We
have
shown good faith,” insisted Aeson. “We let you march unimpeded through our lands and into our city. We attacked a pair of human settlements to the south to clear your way, and their loss of life was total. No man or elf should have reason to question our loyalty to the pact.”

The man laughed. “That is appreciated, yes, much appreciated. Yet I must ask, how many of your best fighters are in this city?”

“About as many as you are giving us,” said Iolas, looking despondent.

Clovis grinned. “We require a hundred of them.”

“What?” Iolas gasped. “Why?”

“Our reasons are our own.”

“We could ne—”

“Consider it done,” said the Neyvar, cutting his old cousin off. “Are there any other claims you wish to stake?”

“As a matter of fact, there are.” Clovis brought up his hand, rubbing it over his bald pate. Then he frowned, as if he’d expected to find hair. “For every show of good faith, there must be another in return. We shall place your best warrior in control of Karak’s forces, and we will remain here to assist you in regaining control of the city.”

Ceredon looked on as every elven face scrunched up in confusion at the human’s odd wording.

“Excuse us,” asked the Neyvar, “but who would ‘we’ be?”

The human cleared his throat. “Many apologies. Me. I. Clovis Crestwell, the captain of this quarter of our god’s army. I will remain behind.”

The table broke out in bickering between the two remaining members of the Triad, the Neyvar, and the four other advisors who had joined them. Ceredon remained silent, keeping an eye on his father the entire time. He noticed that Clovis was doing the same. When the argument eventually ended, it was the Neyvar who won.

“That is acceptable as well,” he said. “You shall have Aerland Shen, the greatest of our Ekreissar, to lead your god’s forces.”

Crestwell smiled wickedly. The others who were present grumbled.

“You choose wisely, Neyvar.”

“Just promise us one thing,” Ruven said.

“What is that?”

“This bargain comes with another price. Upon Karak’s victory, our lands must be increased tenfold, not fivefold as was discussed. Our sacrifices deserve that much.”

The frightening human’s grin became all the wider and more off-putting.

“You will have all that and more.”

The summit ended, and the Quellan consulate retreated deeper into the palace, with the exception of Aeson, who huddled close to the human, talking with him in a lowered voice. Eventually, they too broke company, and Clovis left for another meeting, this one with Chief Shen. Ceredon didn’t like the odd man’s expression. Clovis had sneered at the departing elves, and Ceredon was sure he’d seen hatred in his red-tinged eyes. Upon his exit, Ceredon was at last alone in the Chamber of Assembly with his father’s cousin.

“Why are you still here?” asked Aeson.

“I wish to uncover our goddess and pray for a while. I do not like this,” he whispered to Aeson in the elven tongue.

The elder elf grinned.

“There is much not to like, but we must take what benefits present themselves. Clovis wishes the dungeons below the palace to be filled to their limits with Dezren prisoners. Once they’re rounded up, we may begin exterminations as we see fit. Why rely on the cooperation of the Dezren when we can thin their numbers until they are no longer a threat? With more men at our disposal, even if they are humans, we may be able to accomplish that goal. Once Karak’s Army marches, I’ll discuss it with your father.”

Aeson winked at him and took his leave of the chamber. Ceredon watched him go, anger boiling in his veins. His job might have just gotten harder, but at least he knew whom to target next.

“Sweet dreams,” Ceredon whispered in the empty chamber.

C
HAPTER

18

T
he horse faltered, almost pitching Roland and Kaya to the ground.

“Whoa, girl,” Roland said, trying his best to keep them both firmly in the saddle. The poor horse straightened out, took a few firm steps, and then its leg crumpled once more. Roland cursed and pulled back on the reins, halting the animal. If it had pitched any lower, they would have been thrown to the rocky, root-infested ground. He and Kaya dismounted, Kaya caressing the horse’s side, while he circled around to face her head on, watching her shake her head and blow her nose as if in frustration. Roland tugged on his belt, trying to swing the uncomfortable sword that hung there into a less dangerous position.