Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 30

“This isn’t good, is it?”

Patrick glanced beside him. The dim moonlight revealed that Preston was mimicking his posture: flat on his belly, his eye pressed to a looking glass as he cautiously peered over the lip of a rocky knoll. The old man shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said.

“But is it really so bad? It’s night. Most of them are probably sleeping. We could circle around, sticking close to the river, then slip onto the bridge when no one’s paying attention.”

“A fool’s hope,” Preston said. “There are forty men guarding the bridge.” He gestured again to the expanse beyond. “And we would not make it very far in any case. There are eyes watching, and not all of them are human.”

“What’s that mean?”

“See for yourself. Over there, by the trees, to the right of the massive stable of horses.”

He handed Patrick the looking glass, and the crooked man squinted through it. The encampment spread out before him, larger than life. Thousands upon thousands of individual tents of various sizes were perched on either side of the Gods’ Road, interspersed with wagons and the occasional pavilion. Starting a few hundred feet in front of the Wooden Bridge and stretching all along the road’s eastern path, the camp seemed almost as big as Mordeina itself. There appeared to be no end to it. He suppressed a shudder. So many…

Following Preston’s instructions, he found the horses. There looked to be over two hundred of them, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, feed bags fastened around their snouts. He inched the looking glass slightly to the right and spotted six tents that stood out from the rest. These were tall and triangular, with thick poles supporting the leather sides and smoke trailing from the holes in the roofs. There were men pacing around the odd tents, patrolling with their heads held high. Patrick quickly realized what it meant.

He had met few elves in his life. The relationship between the two species was shaky at best, which he understood completely. His mother had told him how Celestia had destroyed their homeland to make way for the dawn of humanity. Yet this, combined with the torching of the innocents in the barn, signified something much stronger than mutual dislike. To have elves marching alongside their army…

“Shit,” he muttered.

One of the pacing elves stopped abruptly, raising his eyes toward Patrick. There’s no way, he thought. At least two miles separated them. There was no way the elf could have heard, could have seen…

Not wanting to take a chance, he slid down the rise a few feet, pulling Preston with him as he dropped out of view.

“What was that for?” the old man asked.

“Just a precaution,” Patrick answered with a wink.

“One looked your way, didn’t he?”

Patrick nodded. Preston patted him on the shoulder.

“Smart choice, then.”

“Thanks.”

They slid down the remainder of the hill, rejoining the young men who waited below. The only cover to be found in the red cliffs was in the hills themselves, which seemed to make them nervous. Tristan flicked small stones against the ground. Joffrey, Brick, and Ryann obsessively brushed their horses, and Preston’s sons Edward and Ragnar worked on sharpening their swords. Only the Flicks seemed at ease; the massive twins were lying down with cloths over their eyes.

Tristan glanced up at their approach. He brushed aside his stringy brown hair and asked, “What’s it look like out there?”

“Crowded,” replied Preston.

“Ashhur or Karak?” Edward asked.

“What do you think, idiot?” snapped Ragnar. “You really think Father would be acting so cautious if it was Ashhur?”

“You have the right of it, son,” Preston said. “Though you’d do well to keep your voices down. The elves have joined Karak’s cause.”

Joffrey moaned. “Elves?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

The two Flicks took that moment to tear the cloths from their faces and sit up. Big looked at Little, then Little asked, “What’s your plan?”

“Not a clue,” Patrick said.

Ryann cleared his throat.

“Um, maybe we could swim?” he said. “Hike back a few miles so we’re out of sight, and then just jump in the river?”

“Not unless we absolutely must,” Preston said, and his tone brooked no argument. “The Corinth is at its highest point because of the rains. The current’s too strong, the span too wide. One of us might get swept away, and I don’t fancy losing any of you.”

“And besides that,” said Patrick, “I can’t swim.” He stepped back and held his arms out as if presenting himself to them. “This handsome body sinks like a rock in the water. Not built for floating, it seems…or much else, really.”

“I could carry you,” Big Flick said.

Patrick laughed.

“I’d like to see you try, but let’s experiment in shallow water first, eh? Besides, we would have to discard our armor, our weapons, and our horses. That hardly sounds like a good idea.”

“How about farther south?” It was Tristan again. “The river seemed to thin out by the tall trees.”

“The river does grow thinner when it passes through Stonewood,” Patrick said. “However, it is a place we’d do best to steer clear of.”

“Why?”

“The elves, remember?” said Preston. “The bridge is guarded, and the countryside is swarming with soldiers. There’s no sneaking across, no disguising ourselves. We might just have to lay low until they leave.”

“That can’t happen,” Patrick said. “Beyond the bridge, the road is pressed by Stonewood on one side and Lake Cor on the other. Given the size of his army, if Karak were to pass before us, there would be no way to get around them until we were within sight of Mordeina. Tens of thousands of men would stand between us and our destination. No, if we do this, we must figure out a way to do it now.”

Everyone groaned except the Flicks, who exchanged a glance and then stood up. Big stepped forward.

“Has the Lord Commander arrived yet?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Preston said. “There were still fresh fires in the distance today, so they’re probably a good couple mile or two away. Why?”

“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t be sneaking at all,” Big said, tilting his head toward Patrick. “Perhaps we can just walk right through the camp?”

Patrick frowned. “Come again?”

Big bent over, picked up a rock, and began scraping it against his breastplate. The crude white paint gradually chipped away, revealing the roaring lion beneath. The image was scratched a bit, but it was difficult to tell in the moonlight.

“We’re soldiers of Karak,” Little said, joining his brother’s side. “What better way to set the others at ease than if we come bearing a prisoner?”

Preston snapped his fingers. “Yes,” he said, excitedly. “We have a DuTaureau here, after all. What a wondrous gift that would be. We march down, say we were separated from our regiment, and found this one wandering through the desert. And then, when they drop their guard…”

“Um, excuse me, I’m right here,” Patrick said, his heartbeat quickening. “I don’t think I like this plan very much. The part where I’m dragged into the middle of Karak’s entire army as a prisoner is rubbing me the wrong way.”

Preston turned to him, half grinning. “What, has our brave Patrick suddenly gone soft? You were the one who said we needed to cross now. Besides, sooner or later, the regiment we abandoned will arrive, which would make this even more dangerous. If you don’t like our plan, you’d better think up an alternative fast. I don’t think this collection of dolts is likely to come up with a better one.”

“Fabulous.”

“Oh, and one more thing. We must be quick. Patrick, do you remember the huge pavilion that sat toward the front of the camp?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s probably Karak’s pavilion, which means we must hurry past it at all costs. So we had best present ourselves and then make a run for it before the god himself gets involved.”

“What if someone decides to escort me away?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Er, mostly. So long as we’re quick about it.”

Patrick moaned, dropping his head. “This keeps getting better and better.”

Half an hour later, after the others had scraped the paint from their breastplates as well, the entire party marched over the hill. Dawn was fast approaching, the black of the night sky deepening in readiness for it. All were atop their horses, and Patrick rode between Preston and Edward, a rope binding his mare to theirs. Patrick’s wrists were bound too, though the knot was loose enough for him to wiggle his hands free if need be. He still wore his half helm, pulled low to mostly cover his twisted nose. Winterbone bounced on Preston’s lap, and Patrick gazed at the sword longingly. It was the first time it had been out of his reach in over a year, and it felt as if a part of him were missing.

The camp stirred as they made their approach, and seeing it up close, Patrick was more awed and terrified than ever. Preston had guessed that ten thousand soldiers were gathered here, and while the multitudes traveling with Ashhur was perhaps three times that many, the numbers Karak had amassed were imminently more dangerous. And they were so organized; the tents had been erected in even rows, a cookfire between every two of them, entirely different from the slapdash and jumbled camps set up by Ashhur’s people. Weary soldiers marched outside the rows, guarding those inside from whatever dangers the night offered.

They passed a few sentries when they crossed the high grasses at the base of the hill and reached the edge of the camp. The guards allowed them passage without question-with Patrick hidden in the middle of the group, their torches only revealed breastplates that bore the roaring lion.

Farther on, past the guards, the space between tents was only wide enough for a single horse, so they split off into two columns as they trotted through. Preston took the lead, with Patrick directly behind him, the old man’s rope now the only one tethered to the neck of Patrick’s mare. He looked down at the cloth enclosures as he passed them, his eyes fixing on the stacks of swords, mauls, and axes that lay beside each tent, twinkling in the moonlight as if they’d been freshly sharpened and oiled. He could hear the snores and night mumblings of those who slept within the tents, and realized right then how vulnerable they were. All it would take would be one misstep, and thousands of soldiers would emerge and give chase. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image, but he saw the potential horror even more clearly in the darkness behind his eyelids.

When they finally reached the Gods’ Road, passing a mere ten feet or so in front of Karak’s massive pavilion, the two columns combined once more. Edward retied his rope to the neck of Patrick’s horse, and father and son led the approach to the bridge. A few random soldiers appeared, dressed only in filthy smallclothes and stumbling drunk. None seemed to pay them any mind. One even collided with Ragnar’s horse and then staggered in the other direction, muttering something about wolves in the night. Patrick gazed at the man with confusion, longing for a drink himself. He would do anything to get his heart to stop thumping so quickly.

His heart rate only increased when he glanced to the right. They seemed to have gained the attention of the elves pacing the tents close to the forest. Celestia’s children gathered in a line, watching the procession with interest. They were still a good distance away, but that fact gave Patrick little relief. He had heard stories of their proficiency as archers, and he watched as two of the elves picked up their bows, slinging them over their shoulders. Only when the massive stable of horses obstructed his sight of them did he allow himself to even breathe.

He wasn’t the only one. All it took was a single glance around him to see that the youngsters felt just as unsure as he did. Only Preston and the Flicks seemed to exude any confidence.

They had almost reached the Wooden Bridge when finally someone shouted for them to halt. Each horse stopped, one after the other, and the beasts sidled nervously in place, blowing air from their snouts. Patrick bowed his head and held his hands out in front of him, making sure his binds were prominently displayed.

“Remember,” Preston said from the corner of his mouth, “I do the talking. The rest of you stay quiet.”

“What?” Ryann asked from the back of the pack.

Brick jabbed him with an elbow. “Shut it!” he hissed.

“What’s going on here?”

Patrick lifted his head ever so slightly to look at the three approaching soldiers. They wore no helms and their gaits were cautious. Their hands rested lightly on the hilts of their swords, ready for confrontation if one were required.

“Who am I speaking with?” asked Preston with a commanding tone.

“Nicholas Potter,” said the one in the center. “Captain of Karak’s Third Regiment.” He stepped forward, and Patrick could see he was a handsome young man, with a slender jaw and piercing blue eyes that glowed in the moonlight. His hair was quite long, hanging to his breast, and wavy. He would make a beautiful woman, Patrick thought, and had to keep from chuckling.

Preston inclined his head. “Captain, be well met on this eve. But did you say Karak’s Third Regiment?”

“I did,” the man said. “I’m new to command because of the unfortunate loss of the late Captain Oscar Wellington.”

“Such a shame,” Preston said, talking as if in no great hurry. He dipped his head in respect. “Oscar was a good man, I have heard. Consider us well met, Captain Potter. I am Preston Ender, of Karak’s Second, in service of the Lord Commander.”

Nicholas’s head tilted to the side. He seemed to be studying Preston’s breastplate. His fingers inched down his side ever so slightly, and Patrick tensed.

“The Second, eh?” he said. “They aren’t expected to arrive until two days from now. You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be, soldier.”

“I am,” replied Preston with a nod. “We were sent ahead to scout after we toppled Nor, but we lost the path in a sudden sandstorm. Spent three days in the desert waiting for the rest of the regiment to arrive, but we’d moved too far west. When we saw fires burning to the north of us, we began to follow them, but we had to be careful. We were in Kerrian land, after all. I knew our orders were to leave the dark-skinned people alone, so we had to avoid their hunting parties whenever we came across them.” He shook his head. “And there were many of them.”

The words slipped out of Preston’s lips like practiced vows.

“Praise Karak you stayed safe,” said Nicholas. He walked up to Patrick, nudged his leg. “So what do we have here? Some sort of desert monster?”

“A prisoner,” Preston said. “Found him traveling through the desert. An odd creature, this one.”

“Odd, eh?” The soldier rose up on his toes and tilted back Patrick’s helm, revealing his face. He backed up a step, his nose scrunching up as if he’d tasted something sour. The two soldiers who had joined him burst out laughing.

“What is that?” the captain asked Preston.

“Fuck off,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” he snarled.

Preston cantered up to Nicholas, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s surly, so best be careful. This one claims to be the Ogre of Haven.”

Potter’s eyes widened. Patrick squinted at Preston, wondering why the man had altered his own plan; Patrick DuTaureau would have been a far greater prisoner than some twisted soul whose only claim was monstrosity.

“The Ogre of Haven?” Potter asked. “Are you certain?”

“Not certain, but hopeful.”

“If that is true, his reputation does his ugliness no justice. How did you capture him? I’ve heard the Ogre killed over a hundred of the Divinity’s best men.”

“Stories exaggerate, Captain.” Preston said, but he chuckled, allowing a bit of pride into his voice. “Truth be told, we ambushed him while he slept. Without that weapon of his, he’s just a man like any other.” Preston lifted Winterbone, wincing at the weight of it, and showed the sword to Nicholas.

The captain ran his fingers over the handle, closely inspected the dragonglass crystal affixed to the hilt. Preston pulled the sword slightly out of its scabbard, displaying its cutting edge.

“Handsome weapon,” Nicholas said, glancing up at Patrick. “How did a freakish sheep from the delta come to own it?”

Patrick grinned, the thrill of defiance running hot in his veins.

“I fucked your mother and felt something sharp up there. Turns out it was hidden in her cunt.”

The soldier’s face ran red. He snatched Patrick by the upper crease of his armor and yanked him low, so he could slap him across the head. Patrick’s helm dropped to the damp ground with a splat, and his ears set to ringing. The man then shoved him upright and drew his sword.

“Who are you to insult your better?” the man seethed. “I should cut off your head here and now.”

Preston reacted in a flash, reaching down and grabbing Captain Potter’s sword arm tightly.

“I would think twice about that,” he said, as if talking to one of his boys. “Karak will want to see the prisoner alive. Our god would want to punish the Ogre of Haven himself, I think.”

The captain stepped back and spat to the side in anger. With his neck flushed and his nose flaring, he didn’t look so womanly any longer.

“Very well. Yerdo, Hollen, fetch seven of your brothers, then come with me to wake our Lord.” He offered Patrick one final glare, and there was a sick sort of pride behind his eyes. “We’ll see how painful a death the Divinity offers you, after disturbing him in the middle of the night.”

Patrick didn’t reply, but he wanted to.

“We will remain here and watch over the prisoner,” Preston said.

“You do that.”

Once the two underlings returned with the rest, the ten men marched away from them, heading toward Karak’s pavilion, which was thankfully a good distance away. Six other soldiers stepped forward to take their place, standing shoulder to shoulder across the Gods’ Road. Preston sighed and leaned over.

“Did you have to insult him like that?” he whispered.

Patrick shrugged. “Best to have him angry. An angry man is a careless man. Your brother taught me that. But why did you not tell him who I truly am? Would that not have been more…appealing?”

“Perhaps, but that might have revealed…” The older man averted his eyes, then peered over his shoulder at the six who guarded the road and the thirty who stood watch at the bridge. Just when it seemed Preston was about to answer his question, he said, “Are you ready for this?” instead.

Patrick sighed and slipped one hand from his binds as the rest of the youths gathered in around them. The horses whinnied.

“What are you doing?” asked a strange, accented voice, right when they were preparing to charge.

Patrick leaned back, trying to see beyond Big Flick’s massive body. An elf stood there, his bronze skin turned an odd shade of gray by the moonlight. The elf’s eyes were narrowed, intense, and he held his strange curved sword by his side.

“What business is it of yours, elf?” asked Preston.

“I saw that one gazing over the hillock,” the elf said, pointing at Patrick. “Do prisoners often serve as lookouts in Karak’s Army?”

“Well, no,” Preston said. Patrick could tell his confidence was shaken. He was accustomed to handling men of Karak, but the determined stare of the elf was another matter entirely. “Surely you are mistaken.”

“I know what I saw.” He took a menacing step forward, raising his sword. “That one there can be mistaken for no one else. Dismount, now. Whatever you have planned…”

“Oh, fuck this.”

Patrick ground his knees into his mare, spinning her. In one swift motion he snatched Winterbone’s handle, yanked the sword from the scabbard, and then urged the horse to turn in the opposite direction. The elf reacted quickly, hopping backward and raising his thin blade in defense, but he was not prepared for Patrick’s immense strength. The elf’s sword shattered against Winterbone’s power, and the massive blade carried on, slicing through the elf’s face like it was a block of soft cheese. The top half of his head slid off from the jaw on up, and his body teetered and dropped, blood pouring onto the Gods’ Road.

The soldiers who had been standing before them panicked. They turned tail and ran toward the bridge, screaming for the rest of the men to stand up and fight. Patrick laughed as they ran, the fire of conflict overcoming him. He hadn’t been in battle since Haven. It surprised him to find that he’d missed it.

“You’re enjoying this?” Preston exclaimed when he heard Patrick’s laugh.

“Of course! Aren’t we soldiers? Now ride-ride, and run over any who bar your path!”

With that, Preston drew his sword, shouted “Heeya!” and drove his knees into his stallion. The beast took off at a gallop, Patrick at his heels. He heard a litany of hooves pounding behind him, and despite his exhilaration, he hoped it was the rest of their party and not a group of Karak’s men running them down from the rear.

Preston felled the first of defender of the bridge with a single downward chop. The other soldiers closed in, screaming bloody murder as they flailed at them with swords, axes and mauls. Patrick feared for the rest of his party, but he knew he could not spare them attention. He looped Winterbone with a single arm, hacking through armor and flesh alike as his horse crashed into the soldiers’ line. Blood splattered him each time he connected, coating his armor, soaking his smallclothes, staining his flesh. He didn’t care. A primal roar vibrated up his throat and he simply kept on hewing, even as his horse slowed to maneuver around the living obstacles standing in its way.

He was hit hard from behind, but did not fall, and when he thrust back his elbow, it crunched against the face of a man holding a dagger. The man’s jaw imploded, the severed tip of his tongue falling on Patrick’s thigh. The attacker fell away, holding his face and screaming, and Patrick turned his attention forward once more. He was mere feet from the Wooden Bridge now, with only three soldiers blocking his way. Preston’s stallion was already almost halfway across.

“With me!” Patrick shouted, baring his teeth and charging the three soldiers. He watched their eyes grow as large as saucers the closer he got, and they leaped out of the way before he reached them, allowing his mare to stampede onto the wooden slats unhindered.

“Cowards!” he shouted over his shoulder. The wind buffeted his face as he thundered across the bridge, and as the rush of battle began to wane, he glanced behind to see if the others had made it. He couldn’t tell. The horses coming up on his rear all looked the same, as did their blood-smeared riders.

Once he reached the other side, riding into the northwestern half of Paradise, Patrick kept right on racing, keeping up with Preston’s frantic pace. It wasn’t until they were a good two miles away, when the Wooden Bridge was no longer in sight, and the sky had become like a wound leaking deep crimson, that they finally stopped.

They all sat there atop panting horses, they themselves equally exhausted. There were nine of them now, each with blood staining his armor. Preston had a wicked gash in his side, the top of Little Flick’s head was a gaping maw, Edward’s left arm hung limp by his side, and Ryann’s ear had been hacked clean off. The rest had smaller wounds, and many were still bleeding. All but Brick Mullin, who was nowhere to be found.

“We lost one,” Preston said, dejected.

“We did,” answered Patrick. “But only one. And he died a good death. We’ll mourn him later. For now, we must move. We just made a mockery of Karak’s entire army, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy about it.”