Afterward, she’d drawn her legs to her breast and cried. It was the first time Avila could remember breaking down, and it frightened her more than anything she had ever experienced. I am an immortal Crestwell, Lord Commander of Karak’s Army, she chided herself. Not some weak peasant girl. But still the sorrow had come, and she’d longed for not only Joseph and her father, but for her mother and Thessaly, who had disappeared the night the Moris were executed for treason. She even missed Crian and Moira. In that moment of weakness she had become a weak peasant girl, one who wanted nothing but her family.
She clenched her fists, squeezing the reins as tightly as she could. Stop this. Stop being a weakling. She grabbed hold of her sword’s hilt and drew it. The sword was Integrity, which had been Crian’s before he’d turned his back on their family, and Avila had taken it as her own when she’d been named Lord Commander by the newly dubbed Velixar. She had allowed Malcolm to keep Darkfall, as the heft of the weapon proved far too great for her narrow frame.
She held the slender sword before her face, looking at her reflection in its smooth polished steel. She flipped her hair, exposing the ruined left side of her face. She looked hard, determined, her jaw rigid and her eyes intense. Immediately she began to feel better about herself. Her womanly weakness fluttered away like bubbles from a drowning man’s nose. I am Lord Commander, she thought. Karak’s emissary, the bearer of Karak’s law, the wielder of Karak’s sword.
She had barely slid Integrity back into the scabbard when she spotted shadowy figures by the side of the road, in the fields of swaying wheat. The figures halted in a small clearing between the rows of wheat, staring at the massive army with their hands cupped over their eyes to block out the sun. Avila squinted, trying to see them more clearly. It was hard to know for sure, but they appeared to be holding staffs. Or perhaps spears.
Malcolm appeared beside her once more. He was businesslike this time, which pleased her.
“The first of the flock,” he said flatly. “Do you wish for me to take care of them?”
She tied her hair back in a knot, exposing her entire face, scars and all. “I think not,” she said. “If any are to draw first blood, it will be your Commander. Captain, prepare the torches. This field will burn once we pass it.”
“Yes, Lord Commander,” Malcolm replied.
Avila kicked her mare and the horse turned off the road, bounding across the field. The heavy heads of wheat slapped at her knees, but she paid no mind. She relished the wind beating her face, even the insects that caused welts to rise on her arms when they slammed into her as she rode. The ache in her abdomen became but an echo of what she had felt before, and by the time she redrew Integrity, the sensation had all but disappeared.
The figures didn’t move as she approached, as if they were scarecrows instead of people, and when she drew closer she saw that they were but children; one boy and one girl dressed in roughspun, both holding irrigation rods meant to poke holes in the hard soil. Their faces were dirty, but their teeth shone white when they smiled and began to wave. It took Avila a moment to register the sight in her mind. They were smiling. A rapid wave of confusion made her slow the gallop of her mare and drop Integrity to her side.
She sidled up to them, staring down, allowing the tip of the blade to hover and bounce a foot from their faces. The children, their locks golden and curled and their eyes a deep shade of blue, didn’t pay the sword any mind. They did not even seem to see it. Their smiling gazes were locked on her.
“Hello,” said the boy cheerily.
Avila felt at a loss for words. She swiped the sword back and forth before them, trying to elicit a fearful response, but the children simply bobbed their heads away as if avoiding a pesky fly. It made no sense that they would show no fear.
“Who are you?” she asked finally, lifting Integrity and resting the blade against her shoulder.
“Will,” said the boy. He puffed out his chest and held his staff out to the side. “I’m eight.”
“Well, Will,” she said, “where are you from? Are your parents close?”
“We’re from Nor,” Will replied. He then snickered, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Back thataway, past the tall grass. That’s where Mother and Father are.” His face grew suddenly serious. “You won’t tell them you saw us, will you? Mother told us to stay put, but we ran off.”
“Why did they say that?”
The little boy shrugged. “Everyone’s acting strange.”
“How so?”
“They built a wall, and now everyone’s playing hide-and-find-me.”
“That so?”
Will nodded.
Avila took a deep breath. She’d never related well to children, but if there were one thing she did know about young ones, it was that they were honest.
“So tell me Will,” she said, “whom do you worship?”
He gave her a queer look.
“Whom do you worship?” she repeated. “Who created you?”
“Ashhur,” the boy said, matter-of-factly.
“And would you die for your god?”
He looked like he didn’t understand the question. “Um…yes?” he replied.
“And what of Karak?” she said. “What do you feel for the God of Order?” At the mention of that name, the little girl backed up a step, but Will remained right where he was.
“Karak’s stupid,” the boy said.
“He is?”
“Yeah. He’s stupid and Ashhur’s gonna send him back to the heavens.”
“Fateful words, boy.”
That was when Will squinted, gazing up at her as if truly seeing her for the first time. Avila held her arms back, revealing the painted symbol of the roaring lion that adorned her black breastplate. His smile slowly faded, his eyes widened, and his opposite hand began to move toward his staff.
Avila slashed Integrity in a tight circle. The sword passed through the staff, severing it in half, then crossed Will’s neck effortlessly. A contrail of red followed the tip as it looped back up. The boy tottered where he stood, blood oozing down the front of his roughspun, and then fell over, landing flat on his face. The crunch of his nose breaking echoed in Avila’s ears. She looked on solemnly as the boy’s blood mixed with the red clay of the earth, deepening its color. Her heart grew heavy, a weakness she knew she had to quash if she were to fulfill her duty. They are not children, she told herself. If they do not bend knee to Karak, they are merely wild dogs.
The little girl stared down at the unmoving boy, then up at Avila. Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not openly cry. She appeared more confused than anything, nudging Will with her foot, watching as his body rocked and then fell still once more. She gaped up at Avila.
“Why won’t he move?” she said. “What did you do to my brother?”