The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1)

Acknowledgments

Prologue:
One Millennium Past

Chapter
1: Princes and Prophesy

Chapter
2: The Sorcerer's Sons

Chapter
3: Ilaweh's Chosen

Chapter
4: Clash of Cultures

Chapter
5: Machination

Chapter
6: Conflagration

Chapter
7: Treason

Chapter
8: Judgment

Chapter
9: Fallout

Epilogue:
Not Fire

A
Word From the Author

Preview:
Commandos

Imperator Publius Xanthius
Bellicus looked up in awe and dismay at the great wall of Laurea.
Three years past, when he had marched from this city, the foundation
of the wall had barely been in the planning stages, and the dense
forest of ancient oaks and pines had run right up to the edges of
the settlement. Now the wall encircled the city at a height of fifty
feet, and ran miles about the city’s periphery. For another
mile beyond the wall, the land had been cleared, extending both
farmable acreage and, more importantly, the city’s view of
approaching enemies. It was a remarkable thing, to have been
completed in so little time, but then it was a time of miracles both
benign and malignant these last few years. The new wall was strong,
thick, and well planned. Merlons sprang like jagged teeth from the
battlements, and cast long shadows from the signal fires that burned
along the top. But it was all a futile gesture. Who was there to see
them? Who would come to help Laurea should she need aid?

Along the wall, the defenders
moved back and forth occasionally, full of nervous energy that had
to be walked off. The fools exposed themselves to arrow fire, but
they knew no better. They were not trained to resist a siege. They
were firefighters, policemen, bureaucrats, even a few criminals,
most likely, but not a soldier amongst them. The soldiers stood
outside the wall, looking inward, with their Imperator.

Xanthius had neither the heart
nor the need to take advantage of the defenders’ clumsy
foundering. There were far too few of them to man the parapets at
any rate, three thousand at the most. Ten times that number huddled
inside the wall, terrified, praying for salvation, as if there were
anyone who could accomplish such a thing. The wall was strong, true,
but it would not be enough to stop him if he chose to enter.

Xanthius shook his head in
misery and despair, and turned away from the great wall to look out
upon his hosts. A sea of steel and flame spread before him,
campfires lining the ground to the limits of his vision, light
glinting orange and deadly from sword, shield, and breastplate. They
had been two hundred legions when Alexander had fallen, but
extricating themselves from Prima had been months of butchery. Nine
in ten had died, and there was no telling how many they had killed,
how many would go unburied, food for the crows in a blasted land
once known as the cradle of civilization.

They were less than twenty
legions now. Xanthius shook his head in amazement that he had lived
to see the day that he had lost ninety percent of his forces and
still commanded a hundred thousand soldiers. It would not hold,
though.
It
was simply too large a force. Supplies were low, and without
Alexander and the Eye, there was no hope to coordinate the men, much
less the logistics. Starvation and disease would come soon, and then
the infighting.

He
had considered simply releasing them all from service, but that was
no solution. Where would they go? And once they got there, then
what? There was no time to plant, and not enough game to feed so
many. Without the supplies in the city, another nine in ten of his
men would be dead within the month, and the rest reduced to
cannibalism. Xanthius cursed under his breath. There was more than
enough to see them through winter within the city, but the fools
there would see no reason.
They
leave me no choice.

And then there was the Monster,
hanging from a rope in the praetorium, still kicking after an hour.
He would not die. It was almost too much for a warrior to bear.

Ah,
Prima!
How much blood was there in the world? How much
could be spilled at his command, before the gods themselves
intervened in horror? Xanthius retreated into his tent, unable to
look upon it any longer. He could not have his men see him weep.

In addition to a cot and table,
there was a water basin in his tent, and a mirror, privileges of
rank. Generally, he ignored them, but now, they were needed. He
dipped a cloth into the tepid water and wiped sweat and soot from
his cheeks, the inevitable accumulations of war: smoke, dust, sweat,
blood, tears. He would have no telltale tracks on his face rob his
men of confidence in their leader.

The eyes gazing back from the
mirror beneath a gray brow were red, tired, but smoke reddens eyes.
It was acceptable. The pale, square-jawed face, its features creased
from years of bearing the weight of his tasks, was deeply troubled.
He pushed his fears and self doubt aside, remembering his duty, and
the face became stoic, resolute, fatherly. Satisfactory. The hair,
gray and short, might have been shorter still, but it was within
acceptable limits. There was a war going on. Sometimes, military
bearing had to fall to the wayside. It would do.

“Imperator,” called
a voice from outside.

Xanthius turned from his mirror
and faced the entrance. “Come.”

Husam al Din, Xanthius’s
second, ducked under the flap, his six and a half feet barely
fitting beneath the low ceiling. He straightened to attention and
hammered a fist against his breastplate in salute.

Xanthius raised an eyebrow at
the sight of his friend and trusted officer. It seemed only
yesterday that Husam’s skin was a chocolate brown, but now it
was almost black, his eyes seeming to glow in his darkened face. Had
there been a day when he was between shades, Xanthius wondered? It
must have been so, and yet he had not noticed it until now. The time
had simply slipped away, unaccounted for, like so much else. “At
ease. Report.”

Husam looked at his feet and
ran a hand over his great bald head, shaking it slowly back and
forth, a gesture that Xanthius had come to recognize as indicative
of the man’s disapproval. Husam growled to himself briefly,
then spoke. “The sorcerer wishes audience.” He spat upon
the ground in disdain.

“Very well.” He
crossed to place a calming hand on Husam’s shoulder. “I
know it is difficult to see him as anything but an enemy, but these
are strange days. They make for strange bedfellows.”

“Ilaweh knows, I have
fought many men and befriended them later. But these men are
treacherous.”

“It was you who brought
him to me.”

“So it was,” Husam
agreed. “As you say, strange bedfellows. But do not forget
what he is or what he has done.”

Xanthius pulled back his hand
and glared at his friend. “That would be difficult,” he
said, his words clipped in pain.

Husam’s hard gaze
softened in shame. He raised a huge, brown hand and grasped
Xanthius’s arm. “I’m sorry, Xanthius. I know
Alexander was like a son to you.”

Xanthius pulled back and
nodded, turning his face away as he felt tears begin to well once
again. He would
not
.
“Bring him in,” Xanthius said in a hoarse, pained voice.
“Just…give me a moment.”

Husam nodded and ducked out of
the tent again.

Xanthius bit his tongue until
the pain of the flesh pushed back the agony in his soul.
Alexander
!

By the time they returned,
Xanthius had composed himself once again. The tent flap parted, and
the sorcerer entered. Husam followed him and stepped to the side,
wary, one hand on his sword. “Amrath of Laurea,” he
announced with a sneer.

Amrath was not a small man. In
fact, he was fairly muscular, and stood a good six feet tall, but
next to Husam, he seemed almost a child. He wore a simple green
tunic cinched with a rope belt, but no armor or weapons, nor even
jewelry. His blonde hair was bound tight against his head in a bun.
There was absolutely nothing about him that was extraordinary, and
yet for all that, Xanthius could feel the man's presence like one
might feel the sun on his face at high noon. Amrath’s deep
green eyes stared at Xanthius with unnerving energy, a touch too
bright to seem fully sane.
At times, it's as if they're looking
right through you.

Imperator Xanthius knew that
he, too, was imposing. And he was also the victor, pyrrhic though
his victory might be. He said nothing and waited, refusing to
concede anything to his vanquished enemy.

Amrath raised an eyebrow and
flashed a grin like the sun peeking from behind a cloud, still
probing with his eyes. Xanthius ground his teeth, refusing to smile
back. This was sorcery, some sort of charm, but it would not work.
Not here. Not now.

Amrath let the smile on his
lips twist into a wry, ironic expression, and sighed. “Amrath
of nowhere and nothing,” he said with a shrug. “You can
call this place what you will, but it will never be Laurea. We have
all robbed the world of her heritage forever.”

Xanthius could feel his jaw
clenching as he suppressed the urge to shout. “I think you
overstate things.”

Amrath waved a hand in the
direction of the wall. “You think this misbegotten backwater
can ever replace what was lost?” He spat on the ground. “A
cheap simulacrum, nothing more, and you are but a fool with a
barbarian horde.”

Husam bristled at this. “You
call us barbarians?” he asked, his voice soft and menacing as
he tightened his grip on his sword.

The sorcerer spun and regarded
Husam with contempt. “What else could you be? Can you even
appreciate what you’ve done?”

Husam looked down at the
sorcerer, his hand loosening on his sword as his gaze grew distant.
Emotion worked at his features. His lips trembled and a muscle
beneath his left eye jerked spasmodically, pain, rage, and shame
vying for dominance of his face as he spoke. “We have killed
the world,” he choked out. “We are as damned as your
Council of Twelve. Would a barbarian appreciate that?”

Amrath stared at him in shock.
He gaped a moment, then closed his mouth with an audible click.
“No,” he said softly, shaking his head, his cheeks
bright red and burning. He cleared his throat and spoke again, more
clearly. “He would not. Forgive me. The war has been
difficult. It was easier to kill you if we thought of you as
beasts.”

Husam nodded in agreement. “At
least you don’t bear the shame of the true monster being one
of your own.”

Xanthius folded his arms and
scowled at this, shaking his head in slow denial. “Your people
recognized him for what he was. It is our shame that we did not
until it was too late.”

Amrath, looking less than
comfortable, nodded in silence. He looked back and forth at them,
and finally voiced the unspeakable. “The rope would seem to be
less effective than we had hoped.”

Husam shook his head in
frustration. “I told you before how it must be done.”

Xanthius covered his face with
a hand in horror for a moment. “It is barbaric, to burn a man
alive! Wouldn’t your Ilaweh object to such a thing?”

Husam was unmoved, his face
stoic. “Ilaweh expects good men to destroy evil. Fire is a
sure way. The other Fallen succumbed to the flame, where steel
failed. And he is not truly alive, at any rate.”

The sorcerer’s face grew
pinched, as if he had eaten a lemon.
So even the Meites have
their limits. Good to know.
“You tried everything?” he asked. “Even
beheading?”

Husam heaved a great sigh and
lifted his arms to the heavens, as if to ask for strength to repeat
a lesson he had already explained many times. “Fallen in two
pieces, or eight, or ten, they are still
Fallen
. What is
already dead, you cannot kill. You must destroy it utterly.”

Xanthius ground his teeth at
this. “
Semantics.”

Husam’s
face grew even darker, and his nostrils flared as he spoke in a low,
flat tone. “
There is no other way
.”

Xanthius
was
not the sort of leader to argue in the face of the
inevitable. Husam spoke truth, and they all knew it. “Cut him
down and bring him to me,” he ordered. “I will not do
this without looking him in the eye.”

Amrath scoffed. “That
will be difficult.”

“This is hardly a time
for cheap humor,” Xanthius said with a scowl.

“On the contrary,”
Amrath replied, somber once again. “It is a time when humor is
desperately needed.”

Xanthius nodded to Husam. “Go.”
He waited until Husam was well away, then turned an accusing eye
toward the sorcerer. “Where is the Eye?”

“Safe. That’s all
you need to know.”

“How dare you speak to me
as if I am a child! What have you done with it? If it should fall
into the wrong hands….”

Amrath picked at his sleeve,
seemingly distracted. “All men are tempted by power, Xanthius,
even you.”

“The arrogance of such a
phrase coming from the lips of a Meite is beyond words.”

“Aye, there is some irony
there, to be certain,” Amrath said with a nod, looking
Xanthius in the eye once again. “But we understand power, too,
in ways few outside our sect ever will. No one could have imagined
what it did to Alexander, not even the Monster.” He paused a
moment, studying Xanthius’s face, searching for something,
though if he found it, he gave no sign. “The Eye is safe,
Xanthius, in ways that only Meites could think of to make it.”

“And I am supposed to
simply trust you?”

“I can’t see how
you have any choice. But consider, if we intended to use it, would I
be here now?” Amrath’s eyes seemed sincere.
But they
all lie well.
“We Meites understand how to balance power,
surely you must know that. None of us would want it in anyone’s
hands, not even our own. It does not even belong in this world.”

Xanthius allowed a nod at this.
They
are
quite
jealous of one another.
“Probably true. But how could
anyone ever trust you after—“

Amrath’s face grew dark
with anger. “I am well aware of the treachery we practiced on
Alexander!” he nearly shouted. “If you think it doesn’t
haunt me
every day
,
then you know nothing of my beliefs.”