“We shall see. In three days, you will have your wish. Ben will exit the manse as you desire. He will walk among the people, and he will convince them to throw open the gates of Mordeina to Karak and his army. The Eastern Deity desires order? We will give it to him. All our people will bow before his grace.” She huffed and turned around, storming toward the double doors.
He stepped up to her as her hands fell on the handle.
“We will stop you,” he warned. “We will not let you defame Ashhur so.”
Isabel’s green eyes bore into his. “There is nothing your fellow Wardens can do about this, nor my monster of a son. You serve us, Warden, not the other way around. If my people demand this course of action, you will step aside. Humans were given free will in this land, not your kind. Now leave me and my king be.”
With that, Isabel shoved open the doors. They swung wide, slamming against the walls on either side, the echo reverberating down the long hall. When she stepped into the old dining hall, Ahaesarus still kept pace with her. She was so tiny compared to him, so frail. He could snap her in two if he so desired. A strong part of him wanted to do just that.
Then he heard the sound of soft, joyous sobbing. He looked up and what he saw stole away his breath and all his vengeful thoughts.
Ashhur sat up on his slab, luster in his pearly white cheeks, his glowing eyes filling the room with light, his hair like streams of woven gold. Ben Maryll was before him, arms wrapped around the god’s massive right calf. It was his wailing Ahaesarus heard, the boy king soaking the deity’s shin with tears as he happily proclaimed, “You haven’t abandoned us, you haven’t abandoned us!”
The god was staring at the boy as he patted Ben’s head, and very slowly his gaze lifted. Ashhur looked healthy, vibrant, and angry. Ahaesarus had never seen him that way before, and it was one of the most frightening sights he had ever gazed upon-more so than Geris slitting Ben’s throat, more so than the battle in the passage, more so than the demons slaughtering his wife and children on Algrahar.
Ahaesarus fell to his knees.
“Your Grace,” he said.
“Stand, Master Warden,” said Ashhur. He then leveled his angry gaze at Isabel, who gawked at her creator, hands shaking, eyes wide and brimming with tears. “It is not you who should kneel.”
Isabel collapsed to her knees. “Your Grace, I am sorry. . Your Grace, I thought you were gone. . you were gone. . ”
“Enough!” the deity shouted, and Lady DuTaureau clammed up. Ashhur stood, crossing the distance between them in two giant strides. Ahaesarus stepped aside, allowing the god room to squat down in front of his second creation.
“You have disappointed me greatly, Isabel,” he said. “You would willingly sacrifice your brothers and sisters when the last breath has not exited my body?”
“I. . your Grace, I didn’t know. . ”
“You are hereby relieved of your station, Isabel. Get out of my sight, and find solace in the fact that I do not tear your body asunder for the treason you proposed.”
Isabel seemed as though she would plead some more, but she thought better of it when the glow of Ashhur’s eyes intensified. The woman scampered to her feet and left the room as fast as she could. King Benjamin looked on from his place on the floor, having not moved since Ashhur stood to approach them. There was a queer mixture of relief and despair in the tears that ran down his cheeks. For not the first time, Ahaesarus felt sorry for the boy. . a thought that exited his head as soon as a giant hand wrapped around his shoulder.
“And you, Ahaesarus,” Ashhur said. “Prepare your Wardens. Prepare my children. You have done your best, but a proper defense of our home begins now.”
CHAPTER 10
While the thunder crashed from within Mordeina’s walls, and the Lord Commander shouted for the advancing soldiers to retreat, Velixar knelt motionless in the dead brown grass, surrounded by the corpses of soldiers who’d lost their lives to arrow and raging flame no more than a hundred feet from the breach in the wall. That breach was now being covered over with rough stone, sealing it. He stared in disbelief. Where he had seen imminent success had come failure. Where he had expected glory, he’d received shame.
“My magic is strong,” he’d told Malcolm. “My bond with the demon’s power grows stronger every day.” During the long weeks leading to this night he had dived deeper into the recesses of his combined soul, gaining access to new abilities, new reservoirs of magic he had not known existed. The demon that had once borne his name seemed to have been formed from the very root of magic itself; every layer he peeled back revealed greater and greater secrets.
And yet it hadn’t been enough. The wall should have crumbled under his will, but still it stood, no matter how he chanted, no matter how much strength he funneled from his god-yes, Karak’s power still burned inside him. He had succeeded in widening the gap, and then Velixar’s shadows had simply burned and retreated, a magical ward rising around the township, thwarting his every spell. He reached inside his cloak and withdrew his pendant, that of the lion standing atop a mountain. The bas-relief vibrated, glowing a deep red around the edges. Letting the pendant dangle in front of his chest, he fumed. Who had raised the barrier against him? Celestia again? Or were the novice spellcasters inside somehow growing more powerful than he?
He shook his head. It had to be Celestia. The other option wasn’t possible.
Finally, when the sun rose behind him, Velixar slapped the frail grass and stood up. He walked slowly across the valley, heading for the sprawling camp at the top of the rise. He could feel the eyes of Mordeina’s defenders on his back, watching him, mocking him. He curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to turn around and hurl a massive bolt of living shadow their way. It would do no good. The spell will fail before it ever reaches them.
Lord Commander Gregorian was awake and sitting tall atop his horse, his arm no longer in a sling. With tired eyes he watched the physicians tend to the wounded. At Velixar’s arrival, the man met his gaze and nodded. There was no accusation in his stare, and no mockery either. There best not be. It was Malcolm whom Velixar had first gone to with the plan, and the Lord Commander had eagerly approved the strategy. Malcolm had also spoken of the men’s angst and exhaustion, their hunger and doubt that they would succeed in their task. “Most of these soldiers were laborers, craftsmen, and farmers,” he’d said. “Though their faith in their Lord is strong, they themselves are fallible. Any course of action that brings an end to this conflict quickly would be best.”
So they marched, using their twelve finished catapults to barrage the outer wall while allowing Velixar’s magic to finish the job. It was a risky proposition given that none knew the proportions of the walls themselves, how large the space was between the two, how wide the ramparts, or the location of the inner gate. And none knew how many defenders the settlement truly had. Yet Velixar had laughed those questions off. Who needs information when you have my strength at your side?
How wrong he had been.
Velixar walked through the first cluster of tents without uttering a word. Those who had marched to the walls, nearly half the army, lingered outside their canvas enclosures, muttering. Those who had remained behind were lighting cookfires to warm their thinned-out wine and perhaps cook a few meager scraps of horsemeat before starting their day. There were still machines of war to build, after all, and every man who knew how to swing a hammer and work a saw was needed.
Had I succeeded, they would not have been needed.