Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 23

The first sounds of combat pulled Ahaesarus’s mind back to Algrahar. He remembered his bright world growing dark, saw the sky tear open as if it were a thin sheet of black cloth ripped through by an invisible knife. He watched fire rain down from the sky, looked up in terror as great winged demons swooped down on his people. He heard thousands of innocents wail as they were put to blade and spear, heard the sickening thud as the demons dropped them from great heights, their bodies breaking when they struck the unforgiving ground. He felt the last breaths of his wife, Malodia, released in ragged gasps. He gaped at the wrecked bodies of his children as he was forcefully ushered away by the demons and rounded into a pen with his fellow survivors, where a vicious death surely awaited them.

He experienced the memories all at once, and tears welled in his eyes.

Fighting the dirge of sadness and terror, he squeezed the reins tighter and slapped them against his charger. The steed picked up speed, careening forward at a reckless pace. A litany of pounding hooves sounded from beside and behind as his brother Wardens, fifty of them, did the same, all in a desperate rush to arrive before it was too late.

The burning heat of early summer did not seem to reach the far north of Paradise. With the sun now set, a distinct chill hung in the air, and a breeze came from the east, gusting over the raging Gihon from the destitute Tinderlands beyond as if carrying the dead land’s message of hopelessness. Hopelessness. Even the hope he had felt as he watched Geris and Penelope disappear into the forest fled him. With the memory of his own dead world fresh in his mind, Ahaesarus struggled to not let himself fall into that miserable pit.

The land around Drake was rocky and harsh. If not for the abundance of great pines that grew on the ever-rising mountains, it might have looked just as lifeless as the elves’ old homeland. As it were, with the half-moon partially concealed by wayward clouds and the mountainside forests shrouded in darkness, it looked to be a land of ghosts. The fact that the town of Drake itself had been abandoned, as Isabel had warned them, only served to heighten that impression.

A pack of grayhorns grazed in a wide field of sparse grass as he and his brothers raced by. A bright flash of white lit the horizon, like lightning without thunder, and soon a faint red glow began to rise. The Wardens pushed their mounts all the harder, stampeding onto a path that led around a looming cliff face. The waters of the Gihon were close now, only twenty feet away, forcing the Wardens to form a line as they circled the cliff. Ahaesarus could feel the cold sting of mist from the rapids against his cheeks.

Once they rounded the bend, heading away from the river, the land opened up before them once more, revealing a sprawling camp of hundreds of white tents erected in a gravel-strewn meadow. There were many people visible by the light of the cookfires. They were nearly all women and children, and they glanced up as Ahaesarus and his fellow Wardens passed them, their expressions containing only the faintest touch of hope. They seemed resigned to their likely fate. Again the sky brightened, momentarily blinding him and forcing him to slow to a stop. When his vision returned, he was surprised to see that the people were still going about their business, pausing only for the occasional wary glance at the ridge.

Ahaesarus glanced to his side, where Olympus sat high in his saddle, his black eyes intense, his smooth raven hair falling to his waist. The Warden held a stone ax in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other. He jutted his chin at the hill and the ever-growing red glow radiating from behind it. Ahaesarus wheeled around to gaze on their forty-eight brothers.

“We ride into battle!” he shouted, though the strange behavior of the women in the camp robbed his statement of a bit of its potency.

Toward the hill they rode, and as they went, Ahaesarus noticed something strange. A huge black lump blotted out the rising glow, a portentous obelisk that reminded him of the portal the demons had descended from in Algrahar. They are not here, he told himself. These are only men. It is a trick of your eyes in the darkness-that is all.

Only it wasn’t. What he saw was a round tower, built close to the riverbank, rising seventy feet into the air. Ahaesarus and his brethren gaped up at the building, bringing their horses to a sudden halt. Isabel had informed him that her daughter’s husband had overseen the construction of four towers, but he’d had trouble believing it, even though Judarius had seen one of them with his own eyes and described it in detail. Even if he had believed it, he never would have pictured this. Given that he had watched the spellcasters Potrel, Limmen, Martin, and Marsh for much of the last two months, he should have had more faith in the casters’ abilities.

Windows lined the whole length of the tower, most of them facing northeast, and men hung from each of them, some firing arrows, some throwing spears, and others hurling small fireballs or bolts of lightning from the palms of their hands. Still others stood on the rocky riverbank, making the same assaults. The opposite side of the Gihon was too awash in flames for him to see the opponents. They were surely there, however, as he watched a volley of arrows rise high into the sky. The men on the banks hunkered down, some lifting their hands and chanting, while others held wooden shields above their heads. The arrows bounced off invisible walls and plunked into the heavy wood. Twelve men were struck, three multiple times, and the injured were dragged by their mates to be tended by men in white cloaks, who had gathered a hundred or so feet away. The white cloaks bent over the wounded, whispering familiar prayers to Ashhur. Their hands glowed blue, but the illumination was faint.

“I don’t believe it,” said Judah, trotting up beside him. “This is…unreal.”

“Dismount,” Ahaesarus said, raising his voice so the rest could hear. “Mennon, Florio, Grendel, Ludwig-assist their healers in tending to the injured. The rest of you-with me to the tower!”

They ran toward the lofty structure as another torrent of arrows fell from the sky. The shafts landed mere feet in front of them, forcing them to shift directions. They sprinted, their long legs allowing them a preternatural speed, until they reached the broad base of the tower. Once they reached the cover of the mountain of stone, they changed course again, heading straight for the huge western-facing doorway cut into the tower. They could clearly hear the voices of the men standing on the banks now, shouting insults and provocations at the unseen enemy. A few swiveled to watch the Wardens, and they raised their weapons in surprise. Ahaesarus lifted his palms to show he meant them no harm, and a few moments later the humans returned their attention to the other side of the river. Ahaesarus looked on in wonder as the line of them, at least a hundred in total, nocked their arrows like experts, launching them at their enemies. He spotted swords hanging from the belts of more than a few of the men. He blinked twice, thinking that it was an illusion, but it was not.

Before he could process everything, the tower door swung open. A heavily bearded man came stumbling out, with long red-brown hair and a tattered leather jerkin worn over beige cotton breeches. His expression was frantic as he met Ahaesarus’s gaze.

“You came,” he said, and from the skittish sound of his voice, Ahaesarus could tell the man was very young. “Turock wasn’t sure if Abigail’s letter had reached Mordeina. Getting her lady mother to respond has been…unreliable.” The young man offered him a tired yet optimistic smile. “But she did, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Ahaesarus said. Another hail of arrows thumped the ground all around the tower, followed by more shrieks of men in pain. “What is going on here?”

An arrow clanked off a granite wall, showering bits of stone that made the young man duck. When he rose back up, he brushed the dust from his curly hair and gestured to the doorway, his eyes darting this way and that. “Come inside,” he said. “It’s not safe out here to talk.”

“Wait, we came to help. What can we do?”

The man eyed the hill. “We left the rear of the camp undefended. Can the Wardens guard it for now?”

“You do not need us at the river?”

“Not at the moment, no. But if soldiers chose to cross farther down…”

Ahaesarus got the message. He instructed most of his fellow Wardens to head back up the hill and form a perimeter around the women and children. Olympus and Judah stayed behind and entered the tower with him. What they found inside was a huge round room, packed with crates and bulging burlap sacks. A wide spiral staircase wound up the full height of the structure. The men who were firing arrows or strange balls of magic flame from the windows lined the staircase.

“Turock’s up top,” said their young guide. “Oh, and my name is Bartholomew. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Ahaesarus said as the young man started up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the Wardens’ names. The three of them followed him up. Given their larger size, it was a much greater effort for them to squeeze past the archers manning the windows. At one point, Olympus collided with a man holding a crossbow. The man would have tumbled from the window if Ahaesarus had not grabbed the back of his breeches. The crossbowman turned abruptly, looking ready to attack whoever had almost killed him, but after taking one look at Ahaesarus’s intimidating form, he spun around and continued to fire on the enemy. Ahaesarus stared at the shortsword hanging from the man’s hip, then at the other men who lined the stairwell. It was uncommon to see weapons in Paradise, yet every defender had steel at his disposal, presumably pilfered from those of Karak’s soldiers who had been killed after crossing the river. The sheer abundance told him just how many had tried, just how dire the situation must be.

They were led to the very top of the tower, which ended at a hatch leading into another round room. The young man climbed up first, and the Wardens followed closely behind. Ahaesarus heard multiple people shouting and cursing, but one of the voices stood out from the rest. It sounded upbeat, almost playful. He hoisted himself through the hatchway, squeezing his shoulders together make it through, and looked around. Three men were present besides their young guide, and all were looking out of the three east-facing windows. The two on the outside wore long brown robes, while the robe of the one in the middle was a strange shade of violet. A thick mane of reddish-blond hair flowed from beneath the strange tilted cap on his head. His back heaved as he leaned out the window, and the air crackled with energy, raising the tiny hairs on Ahaesarus’s arms.

The bearded youngster in the tattered doublet cleared his throat.

“Master Turock?”

The garishly dressed spellcaster bent backward, glancing over his shoulder. He was an odd-looking man, with a carefully maintained mustache and pointed beard. His face was intense, his smile not humorous in the least, and his blue eyes did not seem to register the three Wardens.

“What is it?” he asked in that same playful tone. “Can’t you see we’re toasting Karak’s hairy cocks out there at the moment?”

He turned around again and started uttering more words of magic.

“Um,” Bartholomew said, “help arrived from Mordeina. I thought you might like to know.”

The red-haired man whirled back around, and this time he did see Ahaesarus, Olympus, and Judah. His eyes widened, his smile grew broader, and he made a sweeping bow.

“Oh my, Wardens of Ashhur, come to assist us in our troubles.” He stood up and slapped Bartholomew on the shoulder. “Can you believe it, lad? My wife’s mother actually proved her worth for once.” He turned to the Wardens. “So Olympus and Judah I know, but who are you, with those golden locks and that severe-oh yes, severe-stare?”

The man laughed, even as the continuing sounds of death came pouring in through the window. Ahaesarus felt completely at a loss.

“Ahaesarus, Master Warden of Paradise,” he replied.

“Oh, I have met you! You visited when Martin was named kingling, yes?”

Ahaesarus nodded. “I did, though I do not remember you, and I feel that I would if I had been given the privilege of meeting you.”

“I do tend to be memorable. It’s a trait I like to encourage.”

An arrow flew through the window just then, so close that it lifted Turock’s hat from his head. Arrow and cap struck the stone wall, the arrow snapping in two. The redhead stared in horror at his now ruined hat, and for the first time since Ahaesarus’s arrival, he actually seemed angry.

“Fuckers!” he screamed, heading back to the window. As he began barking his magical phrases, lightning leapt from his fingertips. “Bartholomew, bring them back downstairs,” he snapped over his shoulder. “We’ll be done here soon. Now go!”

“We have some questions-” began Judah.

“Can’t you see we’re busy? Get out!”

Ahaesarus glanced at his fellow Wardens, who shrugged. He returned the gesture.

“We will aid your fight as best we can,” he told Bartholomew on their way back down the stairwell. “Tell us where the need is greatest, and we will defend you with our lives.”

The young man exhaled deeply. “I thank you for that.” An explosion sounded, and Bartholomew flinched. There was sweat running down his brow despite the night’s chill. “And I must apologize for Turock’s…er, pointedness. He’s under a bit of stress at the moment.”

“Do not worry yourself over it,” said Ahaesarus. “We will work this all out after the battle is over.”

They reemerged into a night filled with fire, arrows, and pained cries. Bartholomew pointed the way, and the three Wardens spent the next two hours hefting sacks of freshly fletched arrows from inside the tower, bringing waterskins to the fighting men, and tending to wounded soldiers. Whenever he looked to the river, Ahaesarus could make out little beyond fire, billowing black smoke, and piles of corpses at the edge of the river, some dragged into the water by its harsh current. Ahaesarus could only hazard a guess as to their enemy’s numbers. Whenever a soldier bearing the sigil of Karak on his armor rushed through the fire, he was either struck down or carried away by the river.

Ahaesarus felt utterly useless as he ran from menial task to menial task, constantly dodging incoming projectiles, no easy task given his large size. A part of him realized he was putting his life in danger for absolutely nothing. The citizens of Drake, led by Turock’s spellcasters, had the situation fully under control.

Do not fall into that trap, he told himself as he handed a fresh waterskin to a short, blond, robed man. You told Isabel you would do whatever it took. At the moment, this is what it takes.

The cross-river skirmish lasted only another hour or so. Come sunrise, the barrage of arrows from the other side slowed to a trickle. When it finally stopped, Turock left the tower and joined his men on the shore. The flames were petering out, and the smoke on the Tinderlands side of the Gihon had cleared as well, revealing a mess of bodies splayed out on the rocky, uneven ground, some still bleeding out, others burnt beyond recognition. Ahaesarus guessed the enemy had lost at least fifty men, though it was difficult to tell given how many had been carried away by the current. Only three of Drake’s defenders had perished. An eerie quiet came over the defenders, whose fatigue showed in the huge black circles that had formed under their eyes. Soon the men were wading in the shallow edges of the river, extracting snagged corpses and carting them north along the bank, dumping them in a massive, stone-rimmed firepit. As Ahaesarus helped remove the bodies, he noticed they were small, even for humans, as if they were underdeveloped. The fires were lit, the bodies burned, and the near constant chill that had pervaded the evening gave way to oppressive heat.

When they arrived back at the tower, Ahaesarus left Olympus and Judah and approached the Turock, whose jibes and carefree attitude seemed to have vanished. His entire demeanor had changed from when he was in the thick of battle. Turock squinted against the glare of the steadily rising sun and winced. More than anything, he looked exhausted, both mentally and physically. It was as if leaving his nest in the sky had caused the world to fall directly on his shoulders.

“You won the battle,” Ahaesarus said, hefting his huge stone ax onto his shoulder, the weapon having gone unused the entire night. “Why such sullenness?”

Turock craned his neck to look up at him, his eyes glossy, but a rustling from behind drew his attention before he could answer Ahaesarus’s question. The other Wardens were loping over the concealing hill, a group of thirty or so young men and women trailing behind.

Turock rose up on his toes and patted Ahaesarus on the shoulder. “I know you have questions, Master Warden, but right now I’m rather useless. I need sleep.” He lazily rolled his head in the direction of the camp. “You could no doubt use some as well. Have Bartholomew show you where. Come back to the tower at noon, and I will answer any questions you have.”

Bartholomew directed the Wardens to an ample thatch of empty land on the northwestern edge of the camp. Sleep did not come easily for Ahaesarus, even though the crude tent where he rested blocked out much of the daylight. His mind was awash with images of a burning night sky, the whistle of arrows soaring through the air, and the screams of the dead and dying, both seen and unseen. He felt shame burn in his chest when he realized just how frightened he’d been. For months he had been nothing but a glorified carpenter, organizing the people of Mordeina in the construction of the wall. Before that, he’d been a tutor to a princeling. Up until a few hours ago, the coming war had been just as much a fiction to him as it had been to the humans of Paradise. Once within the chaos of a battle, he’d almost reacted exactly as he had back on Algrahar: freezing up in terror and allowing the oncoming hordes to do their worst.

And the previous night had been relatively bloodless, battling a concealed opponent with little to no chance of a close encounter. The gods only knew how he would react when he experienced true combat.

Certain that sleep would not come, he rose and paced around the camp in an attempt to tamp down his worries. He stopped to visit some of the women who were roasting salted grayhorn meat and cabbage stew over their cookfires as their children milled about. The camp was indeed large; there were at least two thousand people residing here, and the conditions were crowded.

Come noon, Ahaesarus returned to the tower. His body ached and his mind swam from lack of sleep, and when he climbed the rounded staircase, it felt as though he were moving through water. He was winded by the time he reached the roost. Pushing the hatch open, he saw that two people awaited him-Turock and a familiar-looking petite woman with fiery red hair and fine freckled skin. She wore a modest cotton blouse and had flowers in her hair. For his part, Turock wore the same violet robes he’d had on previously, wrinkled as though he’d slept in them. Without his hat, his hair was a wild mess of reddish-blond curls. Even his beard seemed unruly. The pair was a study of mirror opposites. They sat on a bench in front of a rounded table that had not been there the previous night.

“Abigail DuTaureau, I presume,” Ahaesarus said, bowing to the woman before taking the only other seat at the table.

“It’s Escheton now. I haven’t been a DuTaureau for twenty-three years.”

“Twenty-three long years,” said Turock, a bit of color in his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes.

“Many apologies, my lady, I meant no disrespect,” said Ahaesarus. “I have seen your mother day in and day out for nearly a year, so the name and face are etched in my mind.”

“No disrespect taken.”

Turock scoffed. “By you, maybe.”

“Shush, dear.”

“Hush yourself.”

Turock leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Abigail’s dainty, upturned nose. Ahaesarus was baffled by them both, Turock in particular. This was a man who had been fighting a battle against forces that hoped to obliterate him and everyone else in Drake mere hours ago.

Turock noticed him staring and raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Ahaesarus allowed himself to smile. “Simply marveling at your fortitude, my friend. You look like you slept quite well, while I found I could not sleep at all.”

With a wink, Turock pulled a small vial from one of his robe’s many pockets.

“Tricks of the trade,” he said. “A drop of this, and three hours of sleep feels like twelve.” He handed the vial to Ahaesarus. “Go ahead, Master Warden. Smell it. I’m sure you’ll recognize it.”

He uncorked the top and sniffed the liquid inside, then gave the spellcaster a confused glance.

“Nightwing root?” he asked. His left hand fingered the pouch that hung from a slender rope around his neck, containing the last of the root he had brought from Algrahar, a portion of which he had administered to Geris Felhorn in the hours after the healers had removed the wasting tumor from his neck. “How in Ashhur’s name did you come across this?”

Turock took the vial back from him.

“Easy answer: I didn’t. What you smell is similar, but not genuine. The Warden Assissi introduced the wonder of the root to me when I was quite young, before I headed out to find Errdroth Plentos, the elf who trained me. Worked great as a sleep aid, but he had very little. He only gave me a pinch, and I saved that pinch for years. One of the first things I did after Plentos died was attempt to uncover its secret properties. I discovered that ginger root is very similar, and by combining it with an extract of crim oil, I was able to approximate the formula. It’s not an exact copy, and gods forbid you take it if you feel any real pain, but the sleeping properties still work. Though you shouldn’t get too reliant on it, because eventually you’ll collapse and sleep for a good eighteen hours or so. Not that I, uh, know from experience.”

“Amazing,” said Ahaesarus.

“Not really,” the spellcaster replied with a shrug. “Simple trial and error.” He winked. “And a lot of luck. Some say I’m the luckiest man in all of Paradise, which is saying something.”

“Is that how you have been fighting off those attempting to cross the river?” asked Ahaesarus. “With luck?”

He had meant the statement as a joke, but Turock’s expression darkened.

“No, not luck. Lots of skill and hard work. And patience. Loads and loads of fucking patience.”

Abigail frowned at her husband.

“I apologize,” the Warden replied, bowing his head to the man. “I do not think before I speak at times.”

Turock brushed the comment aside. “Nonsense. Pride is one of my faults, and I just fell victim to it yet again. The thing is, these past months have been hell on us. We’re all exhausted and frightened, and we’ve been working ourselves to the bone, trying to defend what is ours.”

“I am curious, how did it come about?”

“How did what come about?”

Ahaesarus lifted his hand toward the three eastern-facing windows. “The fighting, the soldiers on the other side. I will be honest.…I know little of what has transpired here.”

Turock opened his mouth, but Abigail answered for him.

“It began over a year ago, when we still resided in the town. People were being taken in the night-men, women, and children alike. More than twenty went missing over the span of three weeks. We set up patrols, but they did nothing. We had no idea who was taking our townspeople, if anyone, until one morning we found a trail of blood that ended at the narrow gap where this tower is now located.

“We set up camp on the spot and brought everyone with us, deciding that with such close and open quarters no more would be taken, or at least the culprits would not go unseen. Turock originally thought some wild beasts roaming in the Tinderlands might be at fault. But then strange things began to happen.”

Ahaesarus frowned, trying to guess what might have been taking them, but unable to think of a plausible reason.

“Strange things such as what?” asked Ahaesarus.

“No one who went riding outside our borders returned,” said Turock, his expression serious. “No birds from our rookeries every flew back. When the moon was high, we’d hear strange chanting from across the river, deep in the Tinderlands. To be honest, we felt under siege without having the slightest idea what was tormenting us. I began to build this tower so that sentries could keep watch at night, hoping it might grant us more sleep come nightfall.”

“We were lucky Turock had already been training many of our fellow citizens in the lessons Plentos had taught him,” Abigail said.

“More out of boredom than anything else,” Turock admitted.

Abigail continued: “We in the far north are an eager lot, and we make fantastic students. Having a legion of spellcasters, even amateur ones, helped us build this structure much faster than we ever could have otherwise.”

Ahaesarus could attest to that. He had seen firsthand how quickly the construction of Mordeina’s wall had progressed with the help of the four Drake spellcasters.

“But we still didn’t know what we were dealing with,” Turock said. “That is, until Jacob Eveningstar arrived with his elf lover, a Warden, and a young man…Roland, I think was his name. They promised to discover what plagued our village, then disappeared into the Tinderlands for over a week. Then the elf and Warden returned one night, chased by soldiers bearing the sigil of the lion. The elf died before we could put an end to the invaders, as did sixty of our own people. The First Man arrived the next evening with his apprentice. He killed the one hostage we had taken-Uther Crestwell, you know of him, right? — and then he had me create a portal to Safeway for him and his remaining party.” Turock chuckled. “It was the biggest portal I’ve ever made. Still don’t know how I pulled that off.”

Silence followed for a few moments, Abigail staring at her hands, Turock gazing through the western windows at the sprawling camp behind the hill.

“What then?” asked Ahaesarus.

“Then…nothing,” replied Abigail. “All we knew was that if Karak’s soldiers were willing to cross the river and attack our people, it was time to begin fortifying our homeland for the war that was sure to come. We scouted along the river, both north and south, seeking out where the crossing is narrowest, and then we built more of our towers.”

“You’ve built four from what I was told, yes?” asked Ahaesarus.

“Five now,” Turock said, and there was no hiding the pride in his voice. “Tower Green went up just last week.”

“Five towers in six months?” Ahaesarus shook his head, stunned. “Are your students that talented in the art of magic?”

“They are, relatively speaking.” The spellcaster frowned. “Magic in Dezrel is strange. Plentos told me stories of how powerful the Dezren once were, able to summon fireballs the size of houses and form bolts of lightning that could rip across an entire countryside. When drunk, he even claimed that the most powerful elven spellcasters could alter miles upon miles of land, bending the rock and stone to their whim. I’ve tried to calculate the power required to do such a thing, and it seems beyond possible.” He stood and walked over to the central western window. “Here, come look.”

The man chanted a few words, hands held out before him. A ball of fire formed from nothing, two feet wide and spinning inches from his open palms. Pushing his arms forward, the fireball whooshed across the sky, arcing down until it struck the soil on the other side of the river. A puff of smoke rose up in its wake, and the meager shrubbery began to burn. Turock’s cheeks paled.

“That is the largest I can create,” he said, sounding disappointed. “If I try to summon anything beyond that, the spell just…dissolves on me. It’s like trying to lift a weight that’s too heavy for your arms. Yet that’s not quite right, because deep down I know I’m strong enough. It’s like…lifting a small stone that’s somehow been invisibly nailed to the ground. But even with these limitations, I still have hope we can accomplish something special. I have fifty-two novice spellcasters under my tutelage, including those we sent to Mordeina to help Abby’s mother. If we can grow our power and work together, we can build enough towers to man the Gihon all the way down to the fork in no time at all!”

He sighed and shook his head.

It was almost too much for Ahaesarus to absorb. “Tell me more about the other towers,” he said.

“Well, they each have names. This one we call Blood Tower because it was built over the very spot where our people bled. The others are color-coded. Tower Gold, Tower Red, Tower Silver, and Tower Green. Green is ten miles east of Durham, which is the closest settlement.” He lifted his sleeve. “We’re actually starting to run out of colors. I suggested the idea for Tower Violet, as I’m partial to the color, but my students decided it was too feminine. So the next tower we build will be named just that. Each tower is manned by five of my best students, along with twenty men of suitable fighting age. I’m aiming to expand our operation, but our resources are running low. Our little town was home to less than two thousand, and there is only so much labor I can demand of the people. These are common folk, not warriors…though defending your life can make anyone quite adept at doing just that.”

“Very true. When did Karak’s Army begin its attack?” Ahaesarus asked.

Abigail glanced up. “Two months ago. After the long winter ended and summer returned. Arrows began flying from the dark one night, and they haven’t stopped since. Every few nights it begins again. They fire arrows; we fire back.”

“Besides that first night,” said Turock, “when eighteen of our men and women died, we have lost very few. But it’s still harrowing. The attacks seem to happen at random, though always after the sun sets. Sometimes all five towers are assaulted at once; sometimes they are individually targeted. We kill any who try to cross the river. Yet those who cross are small, stunted…runts, I guess you could say. I feel like we’re being toyed with, and I do not like being toyed with.”

“From what I’ve heard, it sounds like your wall of towers is in no danger,” said Ahaesarus, scratching at his temple and staring at Abigail. “Yet Lady DuTaureau told me you feared that the line would break and the soldiers would pour across the river. I see no evidence of this, so why request our presence if you have everything under control? How can we help defend the line if there is no real line to defend?”

Abigail looked to her husband.

“We don’t need you to defend the line, and we certainly didn’t need this many of you,” Turock said. “We wanted a few of your kind for…other reasons.”

“I spelled it out clearly in my letter,” Abigail said, looking frustrated. “Leave it to Mother to get the message wrong.”

Ahaesarus waved his hand at them. “Enough. Just tell me: What is it you wish us to do?”

“I want the Wardens to take a small group of our men into the Tinderlands,” Turock said, rubbing his fingers together. Faint sparks of electricity danced between them. “The majority of the attacks have occurred here, at Blood Tower. Which means that wherever this army has gathered, it is nearby.”

“You want us to strike at them?” asked Ahaesarus. “That is suicide!”

“No, not strike,” replied the spellcaster, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “I simply wish to discover the size of the force assembled there. That information would go a long way toward planning our defense tactics, especially if the letter sent by my wonderful and perfect mother-in-law told the truth and Karak is invading from the east as well.”

“She does not lie,” Ahaesarus said. “Karak’s Army has crossed into Paradise, and even now they set the northern fields of Ker aflame. We Wardens are needed in many places, so why summon us for a simple scouting party?”

“Look at you,” said Turock, holding his palms out as if what he was about to say were plainly obvious. “You’re bigger than us, more agile, more capable in almost every way. You taught us nearly everything we know, helped grow this civilization from infancy. The entirety of what I know of the Tinderlands I could write onto the back of a dung beetle. Whatever dangers are out there, I trust you to handle them. More importantly, I trust you to safeguard the lives of my men.”

Turock reached out and squeezed Ahaesarus’s shoulder.

“I cannot afford to lose many more men,” he said. “Should even a single tower fall, the village beyond will certainly fall next. I can’t stand the thought, so I must assess the strength of my enemy. I am sending a party of four into the Tinderlands to do just that. If the same number of Wardens accompanied them, it would greatly reduce the risk. A full-out assault is building-I can feel it. I just don’t know when, and I don’t know where.”

“Only four?” asked Ahaesarus.

“More than that would be too noisy to go sneaking around in the darkness. The rest will stay with me and help form the first line of defense should another attack come.”

Ahaesarus bowed his head. The odd man made sense. Just as Isabel had implied, the Wardens were expendable. If their skills could ensure the people of Drake endured, then so be it. It was a risk he would gladly take. Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of dodging arrows from an unseen foe for even one more night. Better if he could at least be on the move.

“We are sworn to protect and guide you, and so we shall,” he said, bowing his head. He swallowed hard, thinking about the night when Ashhur and Celestia had rescued him and his many brothers from Algrahar. There would be no such rescue should events turn sour this time. Yet that is our lot, he thought. We were given a second chance at life for a reason.

Abigail rose from her seat, taking her place beside her husband. Ahaesarus knelt before them.

“It would be a great honor for me to join your expedition, my friends,” he said. “My brothers and I are at your beck and call.”

“Oh, get up,” said Turock. “We’re not your masters.” He started chuckling, then said, “How good are you with a sword? Those stone axes you brought are pretty cumbersome, and I don’t think they’ll last long against real steel should it come to that.”

“My training with any weapon is modest at best, but why a sword?”

Abigail winked at her husband.

“Because we have swords to give you, Master Warden.”

“Ah, yes. From pilfering the dead.”

Turock laughed and smacked him on the back. “Not in the slightest.”

Ahaesarus stared at him, confused.

“Not many who try to cross the river even carry weapons,” Turock said. “I told you, I’m a driven, hardworking bastard with a brain as sharp as my looks are good. We began mining iron on the other side of the cliff a few months ago, and smelting it soon after.” His smile grew wider. “Amazing what you can accomplish when an ancient elf decides you’re a worthy student.”

Ahaesarus shook his head. “I…I am speechless.”

“I’m full of surprises, so get ready to feel that way a lot more often over the next few weeks,” Turock said. “Assuming you don’t die in the Tinderlands, of course. So! Let’s get you a sword to try to keep that from happening, and maybe refresh whatever training you had. Step one: Shove the pointy end in the fleshy bits of your opponent.”

“And step two?” Ahaesarus asked as he followed Turock to the staircase.

The spellcaster shrugged.

“That’s all I got. For me, step two is to shove a fistful of lightning into their face until the smoke escapes their ears. I figured you Wardens would have a more elegant solution.”

With that, he was gone, and Ahaesarus cast a baffled look to the man’s wife.

“You do get used to him,” she said, kissing the Warden on the cheek. “I promise, he’s really not that strange.”

“Could have fooled me,” Ahaesarus said, following her down the steps to see what other surprises Turock might have in store for him.