Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 22

Patrick could not go back the way he’d come. Where only days before there had been flowing fields of wheat and dense thatches of maple and birch trees, all that remained was a smoldering wasteland. Flames still crackled in some places, trees and underbrush licking red and yellow, and the air was thick with smoke. He had to cover his nose and mouth with the smallclothes beneath his armor to keep from hacking. There were hidden shallots like Grassmere dotted throughout the lands bordering the Gods’ Road, and if what he saw now were any indication, they must have been razed along with the surrounding lands. He thought back to the burnt barn and the ghastly secret hidden inside. If he avoided the area, at least he would not have to see more corpses.

Hopefully.

He ended up backtracking, guiding his horse out of the destruction and entering the desert once more. The red clay cliffs were just ahead of him. He hoped the scorched earth didn’t reach that far, but then realized it was a silly fear. Sand did not burn like vegetation did. To set fire to a desert would require a god’s power.

He came to his own tracks, leading across the endless expanse of sand to the Black Spire. If he kept heading west instead of north, he would soon come on the prairie where antelope and hyena roamed. That path was fraught with danger, as the night’s predators would surely smell his presence and stalk him, but if he reached the Corinth River, he could follow it back north and hopefully reunite with Ashhur at the Wooden Bridge. Then again, given how much time had passed, it was likely the god had already crossed. It had been eight days since he’d left the mass of refugees to have his ill-fated and aggravating reunion with Bardiya. They might already be far into the west. He thought of the scorched earth he had just left behind and shuddered. Or they might all have been slaughtered.

That night he made camp beneath a jutting stone that offered scant protection from the assault of flying sand kicked up by the winds. The temperature dropped, and his feeble fire flickered and died. His horse whinnied as it gnawed on the bits of cactus he had chopped for its meal. He had stripped the cactus in the dark, so he hoped he’d succeeded in removing all the spines. The last thing he needed was for a barb to get lodged in the beast’s throat. Wandering across the desert with only his uneven legs to propel him would be a good way to get killed.

As he lay down in the sand, pulling his paltry lone blanket up to his chin to ward off the chill, his mind wandered to Bardiya once more. He cursed his friend’s stubbornness and devotion. Bardiya was willing to allow his people to perish, and for what? Some woebegone notion of belief? It seemed downright idiotic. Why Ashhur didn’t simply head down to Ker and force them to join was beyond his understanding.

It struck him how backward the whole scenario seemed. In Safeway and the far west of Paradise where Patrick had been raised, Ashhur had treated his children like, well, children. He’d done so ever since their creation, coddling them, giving them all they desired as he hovered like an overprotective parent. And yet ever since Bessus Gorgoros decided to give his vast corner of Paradise a name ninety years ago, Ashhur had treated the wards of House Gorgoros differently. He’d allowed them their sovereignty, letting them deal with their conflicts with the elves in their own way, without interference.

He grumbled and took a sip of cactus nectar, the question lingering in his head: Why had Ashhur treated Ker so differently?

“It’s time for your children to grow up and make their own decisions, and from what I saw in Haven, growing up is almost always painful.”

The realization struck him like a blow to the head. He had spoken those words, and to Ashhur no less. He hadn’t received an argument either. Could it be that Ashhur did wish for his children to be independent? Perhaps it was why he had allowed Ker to remain neutral, why he did not interfere in their dealings. He must desire such independence for all of Paradise. Otherwise he would not have allowed Ker to exist at all, never mind the formation of the lordship or the crowning of the King Benjamin. It was the same reason Patrick had been allowed to take his journey south despite Ashhur’s insistence that it would not succeed.

“All for the sake of each other,” the god had once said. “With your creator residing in your hearts.”

Patrick suddenly felt very, very small. And stupid.

The next morning came much too quickly, the rising sun baking away the night’s chill and causing waves of heat to rise from the sand. Exhausted, Patrick continued on his western trek, crossing from the desert and into the plains by midday. A horde of antelope bounded in the distance, along with wild horses and a few grazing buffalo. At one point he caught sight of a group of tall, dark-skinned men and women working their way through the grassland, spears and bows in hand. He raised his hand to them, a gesture they returned in kind. The city of Ang was two days south, and he was tempted to go there. Instead he ground his heels into his horse’s flank and kept riding.

He passed a bubbling stream beneath a rocky outcropping and stopped to fill his waterskin and allow his horse a drink. Then it was back in the saddle again, heading toward the red and brown hills in the distance.

At the crest of a weathered hill, he stopped and gazed southwest at a line of great trees in the distance, the edge of the Stonewood Forest. He also saw the jagged gash of the Corinth stretching out in both directions, the flowing waters sparkling beneath the light of day. A smile came on his face, the first in some time. By this hour tomorrow, he would be at the bridge, hopefully following in the footsteps of his god’s massive entourage.

Suddenly, Patrick’s attention was drawn to the sound of gruff murmuring and the scrape of something heavy on stone. His head shot to the side, and he saw a thin stream of smoke rising from behind one of the hills to his right. There were people there, and they were not more than a quarter mile away. He almost let out a shout, calling to those hidden behind the rocky hill, but then stayed his voice. Bardiya had told him his people were forbidden from venturing this close to the river after what had happened to his parents. It might be a group of Stonewood Dezren sitting there, sharpening their khandars and stringing their bows.

Of course, if they were elves, he was close enough that their heightened senses would have picked up the sound of his horse’s hooves clomping over the rocks as it crested the hill. So they were either friendly or they were humans…but on which side? Had Karak’s Army moved so far west already? Having avoided the scorched lands closer to the Gods’ Road, Patrick had no way of knowing.

He steered his horse toward the voices, edging it down the hill at a gentle trot. Hearing the sound of laughter, he stopped, cocking his head to listen. The path he was traveling was bordered by a pair of rocky ledges, apparently leading to the speakers. The laughter came again, this time from multiple sources. It sounded strained, almost nervous, but his ears could just be telling him something he wanted to hear. Best to avoid them, he thought. He could circle around one of the hills, get closer to the river, and be out of sight before any were the wiser.

“Fuck Karak.”

The statement echoed through the vale, followed by desperate, hushed petitions for silence. Patrick chuckled, then looked back in the direction of the smoke.

“To the abyss with it,” he muttered. He would likely get along well with anyone willing to shout such a statement. He placed his half helm atop his head and unsheathed Winterbone, propping the heavy blade against his armored shoulder. He then trotted toward the voices.

The group must have detected his approach, for all speaking ceased, and he heard feet shuffling over rocky soil. Patrick swallowed his doubt and pressed onward. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle, mimicking a lighthearted tune the Warden Lavictus used to sing to him when he was young and still wet the bed. He continued to whistle even as he rounded the corner. Strangely, his fear left him, and he became almost giddy with expectation.

What he found was a generous culvert that split the knoll in two. On either side of him were earthen walls, worn smooth by the passage of time. The alcove would be virtually invisible to any wayward eye. The ground was disturbed by tracks, and there were nine horses hovering on the other side of the culvert, but no people. The mounts were adorned with black draping that hung beneath the saddles on their backs, the roaring lion of Karak stitched on them in red. They snorted and kicked up dirt on his arrival, but made no move to flee. The remains of a fire smoldered in the center of the alcove, the source of the smoke.

He pulled on the reins, halting his mare, and continued to whistle while he glanced about him. The stitching on the horses suddenly made him wonder how badly he’d erred. There were a great many large stones dotting the culvert, most likely the remnants of the earthen walls collapsing, and he spotted something gray behind one of them. His lips squeezed together, cutting off his whistling, and the gray object dipped out of sight.

“Saw you,” he said, clinging to his jovial attitude despite his rising fear. “Come out, come out, little rabbits.”

He heard shuffling, but no one emerged.

Sighing, he said, “By all that is holy, I know you’re there. Just show yourselves already.”

“We want no trouble!” shouted a man’s voice. “Leave us be!”

“Well,” Patrick shouted back, “I want no trouble either. But unfortunately you’re in Ashhur’s land, with Karak’s horses. So you’re either from Neldar, or you stole those horses.”

“How did you find us?” asked the voice.

“Smoke,” he said. “From your fire.”

“I told you lighting a fire was stupid!” someone said in an urgent whisper on the other side of him. Patrick turned in that direction.

“Shut up!” said another voice.

Patrick waited a few more seconds, and when no one emerged, he sighed and shook his head.

“I’m waiting,” he said. “Get out here. Now.”

Again that metal-sheathed head popped up, only to swiftly disappear.

“We want no trouble,” whoever it was repeated. “We have Karak’s horses, but we hold no loyalty to him. And we’re not thieves, honest. Please, sir, just let us be. We don’t wish to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either.” Patrick grunted as he sheathed Winterbone. He was taking a chance, but it didn’t seem like a very large one. “I simply want to see your faces. Come now, I know I’m ugly, but it’s been a long journey and I’d love some company. Can you not give a wayward traveler that much?”

“You promise not to hurt us?”

“On Ashhur’s immortal soul, I promise.”

Grumbling followed, and soon men appeared from behind their rough stone barriers. There were nine of them, each dressed in silver mail over black boiled leather. The sigils on their chests had been scored over with scratches and crude white paint. Eight of the men were very young and strapping, with the look of the east about them, their locks varying from brilliant silver to russet. One was much older, with a head of full gray hair, though his body looked just as strong and durable as the rest. The elder was strangely familiar, his full beard framing a bent nose that must have been broken many times and a pair of steely gray eyes. The man stood strong and tall, while the others wilted behind him despite their greater numbers. The scene made Patrick laugh.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Patrick said, grinning.

“Who are you?” asked the older man.

“What are you?” asked one of the younger ones, obviously louder than he’d expected to since he blushed and moved behind one of his mates. The older man scowled at him.

Patrick squinted, appreciative of the elder’s reaction but not showing it.

“My good man,” he said, “I am from this land. Ashhur made me and my family. You are the trespassers here. If any has a right to demand a name and a story, it is me.”

The older man removed his helm and inclined his head. Drawing his sword from the scabbard on his hip, he drove the tip into the dirt and dropped to one knee. The eight others scrambled to follow his lead. Chainmail jingled as they each tried to find enough space to mimic him. It was truly a comical scene, and in any other circumstance Patrick would have broken down laughing.

“My name is Preston Ender,” the older man said with a tone of great respect. “I come from Felwood, a village in the northern part of Neldar. Until two weeks ago, I served as a soldier in Karak’s Army under the leadership of Lord Commander Avila Crestwell.”

“Ender?” asked Patrick. He snapped his meaty fingers. “I thought you looked familiar. Any relation to Corton?”

Preston smiled softly when he nodded, and the similarity was locked in stone.

“Corton was my older brother. I have not heard that name since he fled to the delta twelve years ago after being accused of bedding Tomas Mudraker’s wife. How could you know his name?”

“I spent some time in the delta,” Patrick replied, feeling dangerously at ease given the man’s similarity to Corton. “Months, in fact. I helped defend Haven and that damn temple when Karak’s forces made their attack.” He patted the dragonglass crystal on Winterbone’s handle. “Your brother taught me everything I know about swordplay. He was a great man. I called him friend.”

“You speak of him in the past.”

Patrick nodded, his smile faltering. “I’m sorry, Preston; he died in the battle at Haven.”

“Did he die a good death?”

“Is there ever such a thing as a good death?”

Preston shrugged.

“Fighting for a cause you believe in? That’s a good death. Protecting someone you love? That’s a good death. Running like a coward to die hungry and alone? That’s the farthest from.”

Patrick chuckled.

“Then consider me privileged to tell you your brother did indeed die a good death, a very good death.”

Preston looked pleased, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. Patrick pointed behind the older man, hoping to get things moving.

“Now enough about good deaths and old friends,” he said. “It saddens me, and I just met new friends, so I don’t wish to be sad any longer. Tell me about the rest of you. I’m guessing you all are-how should I put it…deserters?”

Preston stood and stepped to the side, allowing the younger soldiers to line up behind him. He worked his way down the line. “Deserters indeed, all of us. These two are my sons, Edward and Ragnar; this meaty lad is Brick Mullin; the skinny whelp is Tristan Valeson; the white-haired nymphs are Joffrey Goldenrod and Ryann Matheson; and the two bald behemoths over there are twins, Big Flick and Little Flick.”

“Big and Little, eh?” said Patrick. He was almost eye level with the both of them, even though he sat astride his mare. “How do you tell the difference?”

“It ain’t obvious?” Big Flick asked.

Patrick blinked.

“Uh. No?”

The two laughed as if his comment were hysterical, leaving Patrick bewildered.

“And your name is, my good man?” asked Preston. “If you are indeed our new friend, I should have something to call you.”

“Other than ‘freak,’” Ragnar whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Preston silenced his son by setting the flat edge of his sword to his chin. The youth collapsed, cursing.

“Patrick DuTaureau,” said Patrick, swinging his stunted leg over the horse and jumping from the saddle. “Only son of Isabel and Richard.”

“DuTaureau,” said Preston. The man paused, looking unsure of himself. The others seemed to feel the same way. “So that means you’re from one of Ashhur’s First Families.”

He nodded. “And you know this how?”

Preston shrugged, still seeming uncertain. “We studied all the First Families when we were younger. It’s a tradition that seems to have gone by the wayside over the last forty years or so, but I’ve tried to instill the same quest for knowledge in my own boys. It’s healthy to learn our own history, even if it’s a short one.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Short and boring,” he muttered

“Quiet.”

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s right,” Patrick chortled. “Keep that boy in line.” He wobbled across the short expanse separating him from the nine easterners. He extended his hand and Preston accepted it. Throughout their shake, the older man could not keep his eyes off Patrick’s massive forearms.

“Those are mighty impressive,” he said, a look of awe on his face.

“Your brother thought the same.”

Patrick worked his way down the line, shaking each hand in turn. When he took the hand of the sandy-haired youth named Tristan, the youngster seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but he kept his lips sealed, his eyes averted. In fact, all but Preston and the two Flicks refused to truly look at him, which made Patrick moan inwardly. When he was finished, he stepped back, taking them all in. Part of him thought they looked like a group of guilty children lying to their parents about stealing a loaf of bread.

“You know, you said that until two weeks ago you served in Karak’s Army, but I don’t think you ever said why you stopped. The pay not very good? Perhaps the food was terrible?”

The group fell silent, and Preston cleared his throat before he continued.

“Every person standing here was conscripted into service months ago,” he said. “None of us wished it. My sons and their friends here were guards for the Garland family in Gronswik, and I was second guard master. A convoy came to Tod Garland’s estate, demanding men, and he offered them half his regiment. Not even the high merchants were exempt from paying their dues to the realm. Already having been trained as fighting men, we were shipped off to Haven to join the Lord Commander’s battalion.” The older man swallowed hard but kept his composure. “They made us help clean up the bodies. That’s a hard duty, Patrick, especially when every blackened face might be your brother’s. After that, they sent us south, into the swamps.”

“To do what?” Patrick interrupted.

The others looked away, even Preston.

“We were ordered to leave no survivors,” Big Flick offered. “And so we didn’t.”

The news sent Patrick back a step. He felt stupid for being surprised by it, for hadn’t Peytr Gemcroft sailed to the Pebble Islands to avoid such a fate? Still, part of him had hoped Karak would focus on marching west instead of seeking petty vengeance. He gestured for Preston to continue.

“When word came from Veldaren, we crossed Ashhur’s Bridge into Paradise,” the older man said. “We went from village to village, and each time it was the same. Those who bent the knee lived. Those who didn’t, plus the Wardens, well…” He shook his head, and when he looked up at Patrick, tears made his crow’s feet glisten. “It was horrible. I was trained to fight, but it was always to protect the innocent from bandits, thieves, and the like. What they made us do? We were burning homes with people still in them. No one was safe. Not the elderly. Not the women.”

“Children,” Little Flick said, and the conversation halted once more.

“Yes,” Preston said, wiping at his face. “Children. That bastard Gregorian was the worst of them. He beat Ragnar one day for not running through a child of four, then forced him to hack the young one apart with a sword at his back. I have never seen my boy so defeated.” Preston grabbed his son’s arm and yanked up his sleeve, showing Patrick a jagged slash across his wrist that was crusty with scabs and leaking pus. “He tried to kill himself that night. That’s when I decided we would leave that fucking place and disappear into Paradise. These boys are young, Patrick. Edward’s the oldest at eighteen. Even the Flicks are still teenagers, big as they are. They don’t deserve this life. They aren’t killers.”

“And yet they’ve killed,” Patrick whispered. “How many?”

“What?”

“How many? How many helpless souls have your lot put to the sword?”

Preston shook his head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t know. Too many.”

“I…this…fuck…” Patrick rubbed his hand over his nose angrily, as if he were going to rip his face off. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“Just let us go on with our lives,” Brick said. “We just want to get away from all that…butchery.”

“No one has to know we’re here,” Preston added. “You can move on, pretend you saw nothing.”

Patrick grumbled and shuffled from foot to foot, trying to channel Bardiya’s penchant for forgiveness, if nothing else.…

“You’re in Ashhur’s land, the part ruled by Bardiya Gorgoros. Clumsy and numerous as you are, you won’t stay hidden forever, which means we need to figure this out here and now. Look, I’ve killed before, but those men were armed, and if I hadn’t killed them, they would have killed me. What you’re talking about is different. You’re talking of the murder of innocents. Ashhur preaches tolerance, love, and forgiveness, but I also watched him storm onto the battlefield and tear Karak’s soldiers to shreds when he saw innocents destroyed. Why do you deserve different?”

Tristan stepped forward and dropped to one knee. Patrick could see a no forming on Preston’s lips as the youth opened his mouth to speak.

“Because we’re sorry,” he said, head bowed. “Because we want to make amends. We all do.”

In his peripheral vision, Preston visibly exhaled in relief.

“Is that true?” asked Patrick.

Mumbles of confirmation followed, accompanied by nods and sniffling. Patrick felt his heart break at the sight of them. Young men, burdened with such acts, and there was still something they weren’t telling him. What could it be? He couldn’t imagine what could be worse than cutting down children with a sword. To do such things must make a man less than human.…

“If you truly seek atonement, then I know of a far better way than hiding in the middle of nowhere,” he told them. “And if you do as I propose, I promise you we will indeed be friends. Good friends. And together we just might find a way to have ourselves a good death.”

“Ten good deaths,” Big Flick said, and he clapped Patrick on the back. “A good number.”

“Good indeed,” Patrick said, allowing himself to smile.