Clovis struggled to rise, weakened by blood loss. The bitch had cut him. Cut him. He stumbled across the platform and collapsed against the balustrade, rage burning inside him. Leaning against the rail, he peered into the Arena below. He saw the two lions sitting before their cages, heads bowed in respect. Captain Gregorian was there as well, his hands gripping the iron gate. His back was turned to the body of Soleh, which had been positioned respectfully on the blood-and-dust-covered ground. Karak knelt at the dead woman’s side, her tiny hand held in his massive one. The god’s great body shuddered as he caressed her arm, her neck, brushed wisps of hair from her pasty white brow.
“Sweet Soleh,” Karak whispered. “Oh, sweet Soleh, what have you done?”
Despite the torment of his still-leaking wound, despite the agony of his god, Clovis smiled, shielding the expression with one hand. His every desire had come to fruition. Vulfram’s blasphemy had sealed the Lord Commander’s fate, removing a rather potent obstacle from Clovis’s path. The soldier’s conscience and his doubts about Clovis could have proved disastrous. Clovis had played him brilliantly, and the man had reacted just as Clovis’s Whisperer had said he would. And now, with Soleh’s unexpected demise, the Mori line was truncated, leaving himself as Karak’s only true child.
It was all coming together, just as the Whisperer had promised. Clovis pressed against his wound, gritted his teeth, and offered a silent thank you to his unseen guide, the voice in the dark that was helping to bring about Clovis’s vision-a united people worshipping one single god. The attack on Haven, the rise of a weakling king in Ashhur’s lordship, the elves’ standoff with the Gorgoros clan, and now the fall of the Mori family, had all been a part of his unknown accomplice’s design. The end game was in sight, apparent even in the events the Whisperer had not brought about.
The lone fly in the ointment was Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was knowledgeable and an immortal, like himself, and his understanding of magic and the inner workings of their world was unmatched by any but the gods themselves. Jacob could have muddied the waters of the coming conflict, he mused.
Clovis thought of the message he had received that morning and shuddered with anticipation. Unbeknownst to anyone, including his Whisperer and Karak, he had sent his mad son Uther into the Tinderlands, giving him the task of releasing the legendary demon kings from their prison to assist in their decimation of the west. Clovis knew that Ashhur had Celestia on his side, which left Karak at a distinct disadvantage should the final solution he envisioned play itself out. The demon kings would even those scales. Although his son’s efforts had been unsuccessful thus far, his trials had recently brought about an unanticipated advantage: Eveningstar was now trapped in the northern lands, hunted by Uther’s dedicated soldiers. He would be dead soon, Clovis just knew it, clearing the path for the toppling of Ashhur’s Paradise, paving the way for Crestwell to prove to his god, once and for all, that he and his family were the only ones truly fit to rule. And if that were the case, perhaps he could at last convince the deity not to stop there.…
Karak’s sobbing abruptly stopped, and the god lifted his shimmering golden eyes to the platform above. Clovis forced the smile from his face and lowered his head, attempting to appear somber.
“This day has been most distressing indeed,” he said.
The god glowered at him. He looked as though he were ready to climb the platform and throw Clovis to his death, but he did no such thing. Instead, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and asked, “Are the armaments in place?” His tone was flat, detached.
Clovis nodded. “Avila has been sent back to Omnmount. Joseph is already there, readying the troops to march.”
Captain Gregorian turned from the gate, stepped forward, and knelt before the deity.
“If you are intent on moving toward Haven, my Lord, would you like me to fetch King Vaelor? With all due respect, a new Lord Commander is needed, for your army requires leadership.…”
Karak waved him away.
“I have no need of advice from that man, nor any man at all,” the god said. “I am through with this sport of kings and subjects. I am the god of the land, the creator of you all. I will pass the mantle on to whomever I see fit.” His eyes once more lifted to Clovis. “I am dismayed, my child. Two of my greatest creations are gone. You are the last, my final hope for order. You are Lord Commander now. See to your wound, then ready my troops. We march on Haven come dawn.”
A well of gratification built up in Clovis’s heart upon hearing those words, even though they were spoken so dully. The only title that would have made him happier was King of Dezrel. He could not wait to see the expression on Vaelor’s face when he shoved a blade into the puppet ruler’s belly. That would be a memory he would cherish forever, possibly even more than the sight of Soleh’s head lolling off her neck.
Karak lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if he were looking through the layers of stone and earth and into the sky above.
“Come,” he said. “The third full moon is nearly upon us. I wish to teach my children a lesson.”
The god left the arena, standing tall at the base of the staircase. Clovis limped to the side of the platform, which the Captain had scaled. He draped his arm over Malcolm’s shoulder and allowed the man to help him up the stairs. His blood left a trail of tiny droplets behind him.
Omnmount awaited on the other side, as did his destiny. It could not come soon enough.
CHAPTER 34
Roland emerged from the portal at full gallop, his body still intact, stomach churning, head spinning. One moment he was on the outskirts of Drake, the next he was barreling over the grassy hills on the other side of the Corinth River. The sensation was indescribable, as though his mind had been pulled from the rest of his body and was rushing after it to catch up. He felt sick, and he collapsed into his horse’s neck, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to lose consciousness.
The feeling eventually passed, and he repositioned himself in his saddle. His mouth was dry, and he realized he had no water with him. He looked ahead and saw his companions’ horses in the distance, growing farther away by the second. The pace Jacob kept was breathtaking, and given Azariah’s immense size, he feared the Warden’s stallion might collapse from exhaustion and perish right then and there. Roland ground his heels into his own horse’s side, urging it to go faster. They rode on through the night and into the morning, retaining their breakneck pace. The sun slowly moved higher in the sky as they hurtled across the land, the welcome heat and constant breeze gradually drying the clothes on Roland’s back. He was thankful to be free of the cold, but the steady warmth held none of the relief he had hoped it would.
“Our horses cannot withstand much more,” Azariah said as they paused for a brief break at a stream so their mounts might drink. “What is it we race against, Jacob?”
“No more questions,” Jacob said, drinking a bit of the water himself. “I’m tired of them. It is Ashhur’s turn to answer.”
They prodded him, but he said nothing else. After a break that was not nearly long enough, they resumed riding. The pain in Roland’s back made him want to cry, and the dead look in Jacob’s eyes somehow made everything worse.
It was just past midday when they crossed the dusty Gods’ Road. They saw few people as they rode-only some Kerrian farmers in the distance and one hunting party, lying in wait in the tall flatland grasses. Even the wildlife seemed to stay away, with nary a deer, antelope, or wolf crossing their path. When they passed through the sliver of desert sand that marked the border of Safeway, the sun had already begun its descent. More and more people came into sight, tending the fields or milling about aimlessly. Roland couldn’t tell if they were surprised by the sudden appearance of four wildly galloping horses, for they were nothing but blurs as he rushed past them.