She left the privy and continued her march through camp. A few minutes later she saw that her men had been hard at work; her own pavilion stood tall on a slight hill to the right, bordering the southern grasslands that her soldiers would burn on the morrow after Karak’s Army crossed the Wooden Bridge. She turned off the road, her feet plodding across the overturned dirt as she wove in and out of the many tents. The sun bore down on her, making her bake in her armor, and she began to sweat. Her heart thumped in her chest in anticipation of seeing Willa.
As she approached her pavilion she hesitated, looking to the right, at the beige marquee housing the converts from Ashhur. Whereas the rest of the camp was a din of chattering voices and the clanging weaponry of those practicing their swordsmanship, the massive canvas structure was eerily silent. She approached it cautiously, her soles squishing on the damp earth. When she glanced down, she realized the bottom ridges of the canvas were stained a deep red. She ran toward the huge tent and stopped short once she reached the cavernous entrance.
There were bodies everywhere, more than two hundred of them. The blood of the slain flowed from beneath the canvas walls, pooling on the sodden dirt like miniature lakes. A few still moaned. She took a couple of steps into the tent, watching in horror as spurts of red issued from the neck of a man who clawed weakly at his mortal wound. She knelt, her knee sloshing into a puddle of blood when it struck the ground. The dying man’s eyes flitted toward her, his mouth making gurgling sounds as he tried to form words. An instant later, a violent spasm rocked his body, and he fell still.
Her head swiveling, she took in the grisly scene before her. All of them, every single convert they had taken from Ashhur’s villages before they’d sacked them, had been murdered. She had only been gone for two hours at most, leaving Captain Gregorian in charge of raising their camp. What could have happened between then and now to make…
Malcolm’s words to her during their encounter in her pavilion echoed in her head.
“Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. You love her…you must cut her down.”
“No!” she screamed as she stumbled to her feet and burst into the sunlight. She emerged to find a great many soldiers gathered around the tent, their hands stained with blood, scowling at her as if she were a common criminal. Irman Freemantle, the young warrior with the kind face she had placed in charge of caring for Willa while she was gone, was one of them.…
Cursing her stupidity, Avila turned on her heels, sprinting as fast as she could toward her pavilion. It was no more than two hundred feet away, yet it seemed like time slowed down, stretching the distance. Panic made it difficult to breathe. When she was close to the pavilion, she made a desperate leap, diving through the entrance flap, curling her body up in the air so that she rolled to a stop.
In a single motion, she rose up on one knee and yanked Integrity from its sheath. The curved saber rattled, pointing in the direction of two bodies locked in a struggle. Willa was on the ground, her face blue, and her tiny hands grasped at the thin bit of rope around her throat. Malcolm was behind her, mouth drawn back in a grimace as he pulled the rope taut, choking the little girl’s life away. He glanced up at Avila but didn’t stop his assault.
“I am…sorry, Lord Commander,” he said between labored breaths. He pulled tighter, forcing Willa’s head back. The little girl’s eyes bulged from their sockets; saliva poured from her mouth. “I must help you…save yourself.”
Avila didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, swiping at his neck with her sword. At the last moment Malcolm ducked out of the way, but he was a tad too slow. The very tip of the blade caught him just north of his collarbone, opening a cut. His hands lost their grip on the rope as he spun away, and Willa dropped onto her back, coughing and crying. Avila snatched the girl up, holding her tight against her breastplate, keeping Integrity pointed at Malcolm all the while.
“I’m trying to save you!” he shouted at her.
“You killed them all,” Avila said, growling. “You will not kill my daughter.”
Malcolm laughed. “Your daughter? Your daughter? This is one of Ashhur’s bitches, Lord Commander, not the fruit of your loins.”
She didn’t hear his words. “Why, Captain? Why?” she screamed.
“I told you I would demonstrate to Karak how you had failed him,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I took compassion on you. I will tell Karak nothing, Avila. I intended to give you one last chance to take control of your emotions. Yet now you are proving to me again just how lost you have become.”
“You think this is proof that my faith has wavered?” she shrieked. “You have proven nothing!”
“Why argue?” he asked, shrugging. “Let Karak be the judge.”
“Miss Avila?” croaked Willa, who drooled across Avila’s breastplate. Her eyes looked sleepy, confused.
“Hush, child,” she said, bouncing a bit to calm her. “All is well.”
“I’m scared.”
“As well she should be,” snapped Malcolm. “She is a lamb in a den of lions. She is not of our ilk, Avila. Cast her out now, restore order to your soul before it is too late.”
Avila lashed out at Malcolm, striking the side of his head with the flat of her blade.
“Outside. Now.” The captain’s eyebrows rose, and then he walked around her and out of the pavilion. Avila followed close behind, keeping Integrity trained on him, her other arm still holding Willa. The crowd that had gathered around the slaughtered converts had moved, forming a semicircle around her pavilion. It also seemed to have at least doubled in number. A murmur worked its way through the throng, and hundreds of expectant eyes turned toward her.
She placed Willa on the ground. The little girl gingerly touched her neck, which flared an angry shade of red. Avila knelt beside her and forced herself to smile as she gently brushed aside a bobbing blond curl.
“All will be fine, little one,” she said.
“What’s happening, Miss Avila?”
“We are going to fight now.”
“You and the bad man who hurt me?”
She nodded.
“Will you hurt him?”
“I will. For you, my love.”
Willa stared back at her, tears in her eyes.
“What if he hurts you?”
She leaned in close. “Then you run, little one,” she whispered. “You run as fast as your little legs will carry you and do not stop until I am nothing but a memory. Understand?”
Willa nodded yes.
Avila stood and turned away from the girl. The swarm of onlookers had created a fifty-foot circle, and Malcolm stood at the far end, his legs shoulder-width apart. One of the soldiers handed him his sword, and he snatched it firmly in both hands. He ripped off the scabbard and lifted Darkfall high into the air. “Karak!” he shouted, which drew cheers from the crowd.
So you have all turned against me.
“Mother, I love you,” Avila heard a tiny voice say. She glanced behind her and saw Willa kneeling, holding tight to the pole that supported her pavilion’s canopy. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I love you too,” Avila said. “Do not fear for me.” Then, after taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the ring. Malcolm did the same.
Malcolm had the advantage in both size and reach. Though not an overly large man, he was taller than her by half a head and outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. Also to her disadvantage was the fact that Darkfall, Vulfram Mori’s old sword, was a massive blade that dwarfed Integrity. His arms were strong-they had to be to wield such a mighty weapon-and his fighting style was technically flawless, though robotic. Although Avila relied more on grace and fluidity to best her opponents, she knew deep down that she understood more about technique than the captain. She had the advantage of having been raised under Clovis Crestwell’s wing while Gregorian had been busy indulging in drunkenness. She was also wearing her light chainmail and solid breastplate, whereas he had on only his boiled leather under armor. Another advantage.