Wrath of Lions by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre Read Free Book Online Page A

Karak’s private temple took the rest of the afternoon. Velixar walked the entire way, his heavy black cloak draped over his head, his face hidden by the darkness inside his cowl. No one accosted him on his journey; those he saw in the streets gave him a wide berth, often crossing to the other side of the road when he came within sight. Even the thieves and other unsavory individuals let him be. His legend had grown since he’d return as the dark-cloaked confidant of Karak. He was the undying punisher of the blasphemous, the tamer of demons.
    He spent his walk in a sour mood, reflecting on the beast sharing Clovis Crestwell’s body and its apparent disregard for Velixar’s plans. Darakken had been more burden than help in the months since its awakening. It was a base creature, bred for violence, and its colossal appetite required constant nourishment. Ironically, this was perhaps its most useful aspect, as its voracious appetite had helped clear out the dungeons. Several times the demon had dropped to its knees before him, begging to be released of the chains of ashared body, pleading to be made whole once more so its true form could roam free. Velixar always denied it that wish. “When the war begins,” he would tell the beast, “when Celestia descends from the heavens to assist her lover, Ashhur, in battle, only then will I free you. Only then will your true purpose be needed.”
    The city proper disappeared behind him, replaced by fields of turned and muddy soil. There were still patches of snow and ice, sparkling beneath the glare of the descending sun. Few resided here, but he could see the progress that had been made in expanding the city, before preparations for war had taken away all the craftsmen. Incomplete stone foundations dotted the road, and a few rough shanties had been erected. He saw a group of five women huddling inside an open-faced tent, warming their hands over a quaint fire while their children wailed behind them. Their faces were dirty, their teeth rotting from their jaws. These were the downtrodden, the lazy, who accepted their lives of squalor and filth without pursuing something more, something better. When the war was over and the soldiers returned to their civilian lives, construction would continue, and these creatures would be pushed out even farther, until they were forced to leave Veldaren’s boundaries altogether.
    They were agents of chaos, and Velixar felt no pity for them.
    He finally arrived at Karak’s black-bricked temple and scaled the steps, passing between the twin statues of onyx lions, mirrors of the ones guarding the gates to Veldaren’s castle. He rapped on the heavy, oaken door, noting that the three dots that had always adorned it, representing the three gods, had been sanded away. The door was now smooth and black, ominous in its emptiness. When none answered his knock, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.
    Just like the unused throne room of the Tower Keep, Karak’s monastery had been cleaned out. The plants that used to line the walls now resided in the courtyard behind the temple. The pews that had filled the center of the room had been disassembled andused as timber for ax handles, bows, wagons, and other such items the army required. In their place a giant map of Dezrel had been painted on the floor by the god himself, a painstakingly detailed atlas showing every hill, valley, township, and holdfast both east and west of the Rigon River.
    It was there he found his towering god, bent at the waist and hovering over the map, his giant feet following a path north along the great river that split the land in two, his glowing yellow eyes narrowed in concentration. Velixar said nothing as he approached. He stood in the god’s shadow while torchlight flickered all around them. Karak was twice Velixar’s height, and his hands were large and powerful enough to crush his head by simply making a fist. Most men were awed by his mere presence, forced to their knees by