Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 37

The weary travelers circled a bend in the road, and suddenly Mordeina loomed before them. Patrick’s jaw dropped the moment he saw the wall surrounding his place of birth. It was at least sixty feet high and stretched out in either direction for what looked like miles.

“By gods!” he said.

“Impressive,” said Preston.

“Never seen a wall like that,” added Tristan.

“Eh? The one around Port Lancaster’s just as high,” Ryann said.

Big Flick punched the smaller man in the arm. “You never even been to Port Lancaster.”

“I have so,” whined Ryann.

“Have not.”

“Enough!” shouted Preston, and all went silent. “I swear, if you didn’t look like men, I’d mistake you for babes who still suckled at your mother’s tit.”

“I’d suckle on your mother’s tit,” Patrick heard someone say. When he glanced behind him, he noticed that Preston’s two sons were smirking. A chuckle escaped his throat. That was humor he could appreciate.

Preston, apparently deaf to the jibe, rode up beside him.

“You grew up here,” he said, “yet you seem shocked. Why?”

“Because that wall wasn’t here when I left,” Patrick said. “There were fields and forests and rolling hills for as far as the eye could see.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been home, eh?”

“It has. At least a year, give or take a month.”

Preston grabbed his arm.

“You’ve only been gone a year?”

Patrick nodded.

“And now there’s a huge wall around the city?”

“That’s no city. It’s not even as advanced as Haven was. I would say it’s more like a…huge collection of well-built tents.”

“Not really the point I was making,” said Preston. “It would not be humanly possible to raise a wall that large that quickly. By Karak’s stinking nutsack, when my sons and I built the wall around our field in Felwood, it took three months to finish…and was only three feet high, circling a single field!”

Patrick shrugged. “That was you and your sons. Trust me when I say that Mordeina is home to more than three people.”

“I don’t care. Even ten thousand people slaving away day and night could not have raised this structure in such a short time.” He shook his head adamantly. “It’s not possible.”

“Argue all you want, but it wasn’t there before, and it is now, plain as day. Let’s just thank the stars it’s there instead of bickering about how it was built, eh?”

“I’ll give you that one,” Preston said with a nod.

“Good. Now can I please have my arm back? Hard to ride with one hand, especially for one as top-heavy as me.”

“Sorry.”

The closer they drew to the wall, the more impressive it became. Patrick realized that it was not a single wall, but two, the one in front shorter and gray, with a slightly taller one behind it that was reddish-tan in color. This realization brought on yet another series of admonishments from Preston, which made him shake his head and sigh.

A branch of road from the east led toward the walled settlement, and all eight horses turned onto it. A massive gate loomed before them, its bars made of ominous black iron. Patrick’s face scrunched in confusion, as there was, of course, no mining for steel in Paradise, so far as he knew.

When they reached the gate, Patrick dismounted and walked up to it. He peered through the bars, only to see the secondary wall staring back at him. He had to crane his neck to see the porthole cut into that second wall, itself barred, off to the left.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Anybody there?”

No one replied, but he could clearly hear the clamor of voices and other noises that indicated there were plenty of people inside. He took a step back and looked up. There was nothing to see but the ridged top of the outer wall.

“What’s wrong?” asked Edward.

“No one’s answering,” he said.

Ragnar cleared his throat. “Can we open the gate ourselves?”

“What do you think?” Patrick shot back. “We’re in front of a wall that was obviously built to keep out an army. Do you really think it would be so simple to storm our way in?”

“You never know until you try,” said Joffrey with a shrug.

“The boy has a point,” added Preston.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “But you really think one man could lift this on his own?”

The Flicks, Ragnar, and Edward joined him at the gate, and the youths wrapped their hands around two of the bars. “How’s that?” Big said with a grin.

“Whatever,” Patrick mumbled.

The five of them stooped and shoved upward, and surely enough, the twenty-foot-high gate lifted off the ground, and the sound of pulleys spinning echoed from inside.

“Looks like they were right,” he heard Preston say.

Patrick felt his ears grow hot. He grunted, dug in, and helped the rest shove the gate up as high as they could. He then snatched his mare’s reins in frustration and led the beast through. The horse had to duck in order to avoid impaling its head on the spiked ends of the bars, and the rest followed suit.

The space between the first wall and second was slim, barely ten feet. Simply being in the gap made Patrick feel claustrophobic, with two unscalable walls on either side of him and no way out but through one of those two gates. The effectiveness of such a constricted killing field left him more than a little impressed.

He turned to the left and walked the fifty or so paces leading to the second gate. When he looked through the bars-iron as well, he noticed-he was shocked to discover he could not see the expanse of Mordeina stretching out before him. There were strange rock formations lining the other side of the entrance, blocking his peripheral view, and a mass of people was gathered in between them. The only thing he could see was Manse DuTaureau, looming over everything from its spot on the distant hill.

He tried to lift the second gate, but it didn’t budge. At least this one is locked. “Hey!” he shouted through the bars. “Anyone feel like letting in a tired group of travelers?”

One from the throng between the stone barriers turned his way. It was an older man, someone he recognized but couldn’t place. The dumb smile on the man’s face faltered as he neared the bars, his head cocked to one side.

“Patrick?” he asked finally. “Patrick DuTaureau?”

Patrick stepped away from the gate and gestured to his body. “Anyone else look like this?” he asked.

The man spun around and jogged past the gathering of clueless chatterers, disappearing into the crowd beyond. Patrick could hear his voice shouting out to someone, but there was too much clamor on the other side for him to distinguish his words clearly. The itch of panic made him shuffle his feet. He hadn’t known what to expect in Mordeina, and he wasn’t sure what to make of these new developments.

“What’s going on?” asked Tristan.

“Shush,” Patrick said. “Be patient.”

“Fine,” the youth grumbled.

Patrick rolled his eyes and clenched his fists. Someone had better arrive to let them in soon. Otherwise, he just might smash someone’s head in.

A few minutes later, an imposingly tall figure emerged. He leaned over the group on the other side, saying something inaudible, and the gathering dispersed quickly, as if there were lions on their heels. Patrick grinned as the Warden turned their way and approached the gate. Patrick knew him quite well, and he actually remembered his name.

“Judarius,” he said, nodding to him, “I heard you were here. Pampering a king, as it’s said.”

Judarius’s expression was stony. “How did you get through the gate?” he asked.

“Someone forgot to lock it,” he replied, flexing his fingers. “Pretty easy to open an unlocked gate.”

“Damn,” Judarius grumbled to himself, then turned around and glanced over the stone barriers as if searching for someone. A moment passed before he returned his attention to Patrick. “You are late,” he said, and then he leaned forward, staring at Patrick’s companions. His round eyes widened. “And who are they?”

“Friends of mine.”

“They bear the mark of the lion.”

“That they do,” Patrick said with a nod. “Deserters.”

“Deserters?”

Preston stepped up to the bars. “We come here seeking Ashhur’s forgiveness. We wish to offer our services in defense of his people to repay our debt to him.”

“And what kind of debt do you owe?”

Patrick stopped the old soldier before he could answer.

“That doesn’t matter, Judarius. All that does matter is that I can vouch for them. These are good men. They will help us.”

“I am not sure if your word is good enough.”

“Is Ashhur here?”

“Yes. In fact, he was worried you would not make it.”

“Well, I did. Ask him to let us in if you won’t.”

Judarius scrunched up his mouth.

“There is no need for that,” he said, disappearing to the side of the gate. There was a loud grinding sound as the bars slowly lifted off the ground. Once it was all the way up, Patrick led his new friends into his old home.

Looking to the side, he saw Judarius emerge from a nook between the wall and the stone barrier, where a wooden wheel resided, a heavy hemp rope wound around it and attached to the top of the gate. The Warden walked past him and leaned over the stone barricade.

“Mordecai, find Sheldon Miner and Mattrice DuReiner,” he said to someone on the other side. “They left the outer gate unbarred. Teach them that they cannot do that again.”

“Yes, Judarius,” the unseen Mordecai replied.

Judarius turned to look at them again, running a slender hand through his silky black hair. “I apologize for being less than cordial,” he said. “I have to be careful.”

“Seems you’re the only one who feels that way,” Patrick said. To prove his point, he jabbed his thumb toward the opposite barricade, where the sounds of raucous laughter could be heard.

“Yes,” said Judarius. “The people have much to learn.”

“A little late for that.”

“It is never too late to learn,” Judarius replied.

“It is if you’re dead,” Patrick muttered under his breath as he followed the Warden into the city.

The barricade was taller than Patrick, almost six feet high, and it stretched farther than he’d initially assumed. The man-made tunnel was at least two hundred feet long, and then the whole of Mordeina opened up before him. He gasped as he spun in a circle, his eight travel companions doing the same. The two walls did indeed circle the entire city, rising above the trees in either direction like a pale horizon line. Even more shocking to him was the sheer number of people he saw. The throng of humanity before him made those who had traveled with him and Ashhur look insignificant by comparison. They were everywhere, forming tightly packed groups whose crude shelters and piles of belongings took up nearly every inch of grass on every hill and valley he could see. He did not know how many souls had resided in Mordeina when he left, but there had to be at least four times that many now. Many sets of eyes turned in their direction, and whispers were passed back and forth. Patrick was momentarily confused before he remembered what his cohorts were wearing…and the fact that each of them carried swords, which was not exactly a common sight in Mordeina.

“They are from all over Paradise,” said Judarius, as if reading his thoughts. “Every village, alcove, and settlement from here to Ashhur’s Bridge, and some from as far north as Durham.”

“So many,” said Patrick.

“There are. Warden Leviticus estimates that there are more than two hundred thousand humans in Mordeina. And Leviticus is rarely wrong about these things. He has a nose for mathematics.”

Patrick whistled. “Is the whole enclosure as packed as this?”

“No,” replied Judarius, shaking his head. “Most have chosen to make their homes in the eastern quarter, close to the granaries. The forested areas are still vacant, and only a few thousand chose to settle on the other side of the hill.” He looked down at Patrick. “In fact, that is where some of those who arrived with Ashhur now reside.”

“Huh. Why there and not close to the others?”

“You will have to ask them, I think,” the Warden said.

Preston shoved his way forward, still dragging his steed along behind him. “Tell me, Warden, how were these walls built? Patrick told us they didn’t exist a year ago, but now there is not one wall but two, encircling miles of land. How did you accomplish this?”

Judarius chuckled, though there was very little humor in the sound.

“Teams of men and women, sweating from sunup to sundown, along with four spellcasters from the north.”

“Ah, my brother-in-law’s students. They have talent, I take it?” asked Patrick.

The Warden nodded. “Indeed. Escheton taught them well. With their assistance, we were able to raise three quarters of the outer wall in only eight months.”

“Three quarters? But what of the rest? And what of the inner wall?” Preston asked.

“For that, we required godly assistance,” Judarius replied. “When Ashhur arrived, he not only completed the outer wall but decided it was not enough and raised the second wall as well.” Again, the Warden chuckled. “What took us months to complete took him only three days.”

Patrick grinned. “I bet you wished you hadn’t worked so hard.”

Judarius didn’t reply to that, but he had no need. The look on his face said it all. Instead, he turned to Preston and his gang of youths and said, “Patrick has assured me that you mean to help us, and I will trust his word.” He lifted his hand and snapped, summoning five other Wardens from a nearby group of people. “However, whatever help you have to offer will need to wait. You all look exhausted, filthy, and injured. I ask you all to follow Corrineth to the bathhouse we have built in the valley where the granaries reside. Our healers will help you mend. My only regret is that with so many mouths to feed, we are a bit short on food at the moment. The most we can offer is rutabaga and beet soup and a few scraps of bacon.”

“I don’t care what we eat,” muttered Little Flick. “We’ve had nothing but roots and leaves for weeks.”

“Very well.” A human approached then, a young lad still in his teens, his hair as flaming red as Patrick’s and his face covered with freckles. A team of similar-looking youths gathered behind him. “Paddy and his brothers here will care for your horses,” Judarius said. “Please understand, however, that we will have to strip them of their decorations, as well as those adorning your armor. For obvious reasons.”

“We understand,” said Preston, with a bow, as the gang of youths began to lead their horses away.

“No need to bow.”

“My apologies.”

Patrick punched Preston in the arm, then worked his way down the line, roughhousing the rest of his new friends. “Get going,” he said. “Get tended, and get washed. You all smell like shit.”

“Well, at least we don’t look like shit,” he heard Ryann say.

Patrick gave the young man a swift boot in the rear. “Get out of here before I do worse.”

The Wardens led the eight deserters away, leaving Patrick alone with Judarius…or at least however alone anyone could be in the midst of two hundred thousand people.

“You are not leaving with them?” the Warden asked.

Patrick shook his head. “I can’t. I need to speak with Ashhur.”

“I apologize, but that is impossible,” Judarius said with a frown.

“Why?”

“Our Lord is resting now. Has been since he raised the wall. It weakened him far more than I might have expected. Ashhur requested that he not be disturbed while he revitalizes. He wishes to have as much strength as he can when Karak arrives at our gates.” Judarius gave Patrick a queer look. “The eastern god is coming, is he not?”

“He is. In fact, he was mighty close behind us. Had to fight a few of them to get across the bridge. Given how many soldiers there were, I imagine it will take them quite some time to get here. Five days, perhaps six.”

“So you had a confrontation with the God of Order. That explains your…condition.”

“Oh, you mean the fact that we’re all splattered with blood? Yes, we had a run-in…but not with Karak. I don’t think we’d be here otherwise.”

“Very true.”

Patrick gnawed on the inside of his lip. “Listen, Judarius,” he finally said, feeling nervous even to ask, “I need you to tell me something.”

“Of course.”

“Is Nessa here?”

“Nessa, your sister?”

“Yes.”

The Warden shook his head. “Last I knew, she was with you, and your mother has not mentioned her name once in all the time I have been here. Perhaps you might ask her?”

Patrick shook his head, his heart sinking in his chest.

“Trust me, Judarius, my mother knows nothing. If she did, everyone else would as well. She was with the son of Clovis Crestwell when she fled into Paradise. If they were here, the great Isabel DuTaureau would not keep it secret.”

The Warden’s green-gold eyes brightened.

“In that case, perhaps she did and is hidden among the crowds? There have been massive clusters arriving nearly every day. She might have slipped in with them.”

Patrick felt a glimmer of hope. That sounded exactly like something Nessa would do.

“I’ll do some searching, then. See what I can find.”

“Very well, Patrick, and I wish you luck. If there is anything I can do to help you, please feel free to ask.”

“I will. In the meantime, I think you need a bath yourself. You smell like a grayhorn shit you out.”

The Warden shook his head. “Good day, Patrick, and good luck.”

He turned, walking back toward the blockaded path that led to the gate.

“Wait, Judarius,” he said.

“What is it?” the Warden asked, turning slightly.

“My mother…my father…please don’t tell them I’ve returned. I’d rather do that myself, in my own time.”

Judarius bowed and continued on his way. Patrick hoped the Warden would remain true to his word as he always had in the past. He had absolutely no desire to speak with his parents yet.

He made his way through the throng of people. For the first time in a very long while, he actually felt the weight of his armor, of Winterbone as it bounced on his back. He realized then that he was wincing and scowling, which could have been why many of the people he saw cringed and ducked away from him. Not that he wished otherwise. He found himself feeling irritated by the carefree smiles that painted most every face he laid eyes on, the dismissiveness the people seemed to feel about the danger they would soon be facing. He felt completely alone in the throng.

You are a different animal now, he reasoned. But you are not alone. Your god will always be with you.

“Damned inner reason,” he muttered.

Swallowing his anger, he put on the best pleasant face he could muster and dove into the crowds. He searched from one family camp to the next, asking questions as he kept an eye out for Nessa’s bright red shock of hair. None he spoke to admitted to having seen her, and many gaped at him as if he were some idiot for even asking. “Why would your sister be here?” one of them asked, hands up in confusion. “She has a room in the manse. Only a simpleton would think she’d sleep anywhere else.”

It took every last ounce of his restraint to clench his fists and turn away.

Afternoon passed into early evening, and still his search was fruitless. He went from the new arrivals to the longtime residents, knocking on cabin doors and peeling aside yurt flaps. Still, there was no sign of her. He was feeling hopeless when an innocent voice called out his name, and he heard the patter of bare feet running up behind him.

“Nessa?” he said excitedly, spinning around.

A small form collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck. The head pulled back, revealing a nest of sandy blond hair and a slender, pretty face devoid of freckles. Patrick’s heart dropped. The girl kissed his cheek and released his neck, stepping back. The demure smile she wore fell away when he simply stared at her in response.

“You…don’t remember me?”

Patrick cocked his head, then closed his eyes. He saw the girl writhing atop him while her pelvis ground into his.

“Of course. Bethany. How could I have forgotten?”

“Brittany.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The girl bit her lip. “You don’t seem happy to see me,” she said.

“Why should I be? The last time we were together, you said you were only with me in the hopes of having a child, and then you left.”

His words brought back memories of Rachida. He wondered where the splendid woman was now, if she were safe, and if the child he had planted in her had been born without complications…

“That was before,” Brittany said, breaking him free of his recollection. “It’s said you’re a hero now, that you battled Karak and beat him back.”

“Don’t believe every story you hear,” he said with a grumble.

She stepped forward and threw her arms around him once more. It aroused him a bit, but only a bit, to realize that she did not seem to mind the grime and dried blood that covered him. However, when he looked in her eyes and saw his reflection, he cringed and pushed her away.

“Not now,” he said. “Not ever again.”

As he walked away from her, that familiar feeling of loneliness swept over him. You should have just gone with her, his inner self chastised. She was willing and eager, and you haven’t been with a woman for months. You need it.

There were tears in his eyes when he said, to nobody in particular, “But that’s not what matters now. Karak’s Army is what matters. Helping Ashhur is what matters. Finding Nessa”-he choked up, which drew odd looks from passersby-“is what matters.”

Deciding he’d had enough of crowds, he maneuvered toward the outskirts, staying as far away from the many groups of people as he could. He made sure to keep space between himself and Manse DuTaureau, fearing that at any moment his mother might emerge from inside, spot him, and flag him down. But she didn’t. Although a great many individuals strolled in and out of the sprawling building his family called home, he saw none of his relatives.

His unrest grew the longer he walked. He saw folks laughing and chatting, tending to the meager garden plots in front of their tents, caring for children, or simply lazing about, eyes to the sky as if they had not a care in the world. The lines heading down the side street to the granaries were long, and the people who emerged from them were carrying huge baskets filled with goods. He saw no evidence of rationing, as had been done in Haven when Karak’s Army was approaching, and no one was being schooled on how to defend themselves. In short, the people acted as if nothing were wrong in the slightest, as if the gargantuan walls that surrounded them were novelties and nothing more. He made a fist, digging his fingernails into his palms. For a moment he was tempted to head for the manse so that he could chastise his mother and the new king for their ineptitude.

Alas, he did not. Instead he kept walking, circling the great hill until the crowds thinned. At the edge of the column of old birch trees where he used to play run-and-chase with his sisters as a boy, he spotted a new collection of ramshackle tents. There were perhaps a thousand, sprawling from one end of the miniature forest to the other, but those who had gathered around the cookfires here had the air of those who had experienced hardship. Chatter was sparse, and he actually spied sparks flying as a few folks ran stones over steel blades. These were his people. Most of them had journeyed through the lands east of the Wooden Bridge with Ashhur, though where they’d found actual weapons was beyond on him. He thought perhaps their god had forged them.

Eyes lifted as he approached. Expressions brightened and bodies rose from the ground, approaching slowly, moving like people who had endured a long and arduous journey-which of course they had.

Recognizing face after face, he called out to those whose names he remembered and offered warm hugs to those he didn’t. An endless stream of gratitude was offered to him, spoken in hushed and weary tones.

“We never thought you would return.”

“We thought you had died.…Thank Ashhur, you haven’t.”

“You were missed, my friend.”

“Good to have you back.”

“Thank the gods you were returned to us safely.”

On and on it went, the greetings stretching on for nearly an hour, until finally Patrick was approached by a teen boy with a somber face. The boy said nothing, simply wrapped his arms around Patrick’s thick shoulders and held him tightly.

“Missed you too, Barclay,” he said.

The boy squeezed him tighter, so tight that the ridge of his breastplate began to dig into his side.

“Whoa there, boy. That actually hurts.”

“Sorry.”

When Barclay pulled back, tears were dribbling down his dirty cheeks.

“It was not the same when you left,” the boy said, wiping snot from his nose with the back of his hand.

“I apologize for that, but there was something that needed doing.”

“Will you leave again?”

“Not until it’s all over.”

The boy smiled a little at that. “After we kick Karak in the nuts, right?”

“Right,” Patrick replied with a chuckle. “A swipe here, a lunge there, and we’ll have him.”

Barclay’s face lit up suddenly. “Oh, I need to show you something,” he said with excitement. He grabbed Patrick’s hand and yanked him through the crowd. Patrick was amazed at how strong the boy’s grip was.

Moments later, they emerged in front of a hastily constructed shanty made from a few felled tree limbs and topped with a bed of leaves. Barclay’s father, Noonan, sat in front of a clay pot filled with boiling liquid atop a fire, surrounded by his wife and many children. The man offered Patrick an appreciative nod but did not stand to greet him. It was understandable, given that his children kept pestering him about how much their tummies hurt.

Barclay stopped on the other side of the firepit, where a dull gray sword rested against the rocks. The boy grabbed the handle and lifted it. The blade was a decent size, two and a half feet long, and Barclay needed both hands to keep it steady. He turned to Patrick, doing his best to mimic the stance his hero had demonstrated to the many visitors who had decided to remain in their homes even after Ashhur warned them of what was coming.

“Your back foot is in the wrong position,” Patrick said, “and your back is too hunched. Otherwise, nice form.”

Barclay corrected what was wrong, standing even taller now. “See? I was listening,” he said.

“You were,” Patrick said with a nod. “Though I must ask where you came by that sword.”

The boy lowered the blade, staring at it as he did so. Though the metal was old and faded and not entirely sharp, it was solidly made. Patrick could tell as much from the grip, which did not wobble when the boy tilted it from one side to the other.

“A Warden gave it to me.”

“A Warden? Which one?”

“Don’t know his name. Short black hair, bright green eyes, short for a Warden. He and a bunch of other folks came upon us while we were still on the Gods’ Road. He was really hurt, and Father helped heal him.”

“Where did they come from?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Barclay’s face twisted up in concentration; then he nodded and said, “Lerder. They said they came from Lerder.”

“Azariah.”

“Uh-huh. That’s his name. How did you know?”

“Long story.” Patrick looked about him, rising up on his toes to try to see over the crowd. There were few Wardens present, and none of them matched the description of Judarius’s brother. “And where is he now, Barclay?”

“Where is who?”

“The Warden. Azariah.”

“Oh. He’s in the woods with a girl. Saying good-bye to a friend. They’ve been there for a couple days now.”

Patrick turned toward the birch forest. “In there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He reached out and ruffled Barclay’s hair. “Thank you, boy. We’ll chat soon.”

“You’re leaving? But I wanted you to show me some new stances!”

“When I come back,” said Patrick, and turned away from him.

The birch forest felt smaller and more cramped to him than it once had, and the trees were packed so tightly together he had to turn his armored body sideways to slip between them. The sound of light sobbing guided his steps.

Soon he reached the clearing where he had spent many afternoons alone as a child. His feet got tangled up in a thick nest of vines, and he literally fell out of the woods, landing on his knees. Someone gasped. Glancing up, he saw a very pretty young woman with hair just as black as that of the Warden who stood beside her, only hers was curly. She stared in his direction, a look of surprise on her face, signaling Azariah to do the same.

“Who are you?” asked the young woman.

“That would be Patrick DuTaureau,” said Azariah.

“DuTaureau…of the First Family DuTaureau?”

“That’s the one,” Patrick said, picking himself up off the ground and brushing dirt off his clothes.

“I heard you were dead,” Azariah said.

“No such luck, old friend. Still very much alive.”

“I see. Well, that is good.”

Patrick cocked his head, staring at the Warden in confusion. Azariah and Judarius had been two of his mother’s favorite Wardens, the personal teachers to him and his sisters. He had always felt a strong connection with Azariah, in particular, and an appreciation for the Warden’s offbeat humor and sense of adventure. However, neither trait was in evidence at the moment.

“Az, what is wrong with you…?”

He required no answer, for when he shifted his eyes to the right he spotted a stack of stripped kindling. Atop the pile of wood was a strange lump surrounded by flowers. Patrick shuffled forward, peered down at the wood pile, and saw the lump for what it was.

A body.

“Oh shit.”

He turned to the young woman, whose eyes had exploded with fresh tears. She leaned into Azariah, sobbing against his chest, while the Warden stroked her coiled black hair.

“That’s Roland,” Patrick said softly.

Azariah nodded.

He had known Roland Norsman for only a short time, having met the strapping young man in the aftermath of Ashhur and Karak’s confrontation in Haven. Though their time together had been brief-barely two months had passed on the road before Roland had chosen to stay in Lerder with Azariah-he had made quite an impression on Patrick as a strong-willed, intelligent lad who was completely dedicated to their god. He had been Jacob Eveningstar’s steward before the First Man’s betrayal of Ashhur, and Patrick had sensed that he’d held onto the pain of that betrayal, growing from it.

And now, just like so many others in the delta and Paradise, he was gone.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

The girl sobbed harder.

“We were about to cross the Wooden Bridge,” said Azariah, his eyes locked on the body, “when Jacob descended on us with twenty men.”

“So the First Man is taking an active role in Karak’s war.”

The Warden nodded. “And he would have killed us all had I not sensed a strange presence in the forest. These creatures bore Ashhur’s touch, and when I prayed for assistance, they barreled out from the trees-wolves turned men. They attacked the soldiers, allowing those who fled Lerder to escape across the bridge. Roland and I were the last to cross, and we were halfway to freedom, riding fast atop my horse, when an arrow pierced his back.”

Patrick shook his head.

“Even with the pain,” continued Azariah, “even with Roland screaming, I kept on riding. He fell silent after only a few short minutes, and I felt him slump against me. Finally I came upon the rest of our party and collapsed. It was too late to save Roland. The arrow had punctured his heart, and he was already dead.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Seven days.”

Patrick started, then leaned over the woodpile. Seven days…in this heat? On closer inspection, he saw that Roland’s body was in a late stage of putrefaction. His skin had gone black in spots, as had his fingernails. And his gums were retreating, exposing the crowns of his yellowish teeth. Had it not been for the flowers stacked around the corpse, the scent would probably have been dreadful.

“And you haven’t burned the body yet? Why in the name of Ashhur not?”

The young woman gaped at him, eyes blank.

Patrick pointed to the girl, raising his eyebrows at Azariah.

“Her name is Kaya,” the Warden said, embracing her once more. “She and Roland were…close.”

She gazed at Patrick, her eyes red, her lips quivering, her knees trembling. Despite the horrific circumstances, he almost envied her. He stepped up to her, twining one of her black curls around his finger. She recoiled slightly, but judging from the way she was looking at him, it had nothing to do with his appearance.

“You were lucky, Kaya,” he said, not unkindly. “You knew true love, and though he is gone, no one can take that away from you.”

“I don’t c-c-care,” she sobbed. “He is n-n-never coming back.”

“No, he’s not. And no amount of wailing is going to make a difference.”

“Patrick, silence,” Azariah growled. “Do not be cruel.”

“No, Az. I’m not being cruel. I am simply telling her the truth.”

Kaya buried her face in the Warden’s chest once more. Patrick groaned, then turned his gaze back to the corpse. He noticed the flies this time, just a few, buzzing over the flowers. There will be more soon, he thought. After whatever treatment Azariah placed on the body wears off, they will come in droves.

Sighing, he reached beneath his breastplate and removed the satchel that held his flint. He knelt before the woodpile as if he were about to offer his respects, and then, his wide back concealing his actions, he struck the flint together. It only took two strikes for a small flame to flicker to life, catching at the edge of the pile, gradually working its way over the dry timber. The clearing began to glow an eerie shade of red.

“No!” he heard Kaya shout.

Patrick turned, still on his knees. His hump made it hurt to lift his head to see Azariah’s face, but he withstood the pain so he could stare coldly at the Warden who had taught him to read as a child.

“What have you done?” Azariah shouted.

“What you should have done long ago,” he answered. He grunted as he rose to his feet, the fire building strength behind him, buffeting his backside in heat. Crackles and snaps filled the air as Roland’s corpse was swallowed in flames.

“You had no right…”

“Of course I did!” snapped Patrick. He stormed toward Azariah and stopped a few feet short of the Warden, pointing an accusatory finger in his face.

“You have lost someone, but so have many,” he said, his voice a menacing growl. “I feel for you both, I do, but don’t you dare linger in sadness. There is no time for that. Not now, not when Karak is nearly at our door.”

“And what would you have us do?” Azariah asked stubbornly.

“I would have you fight!” he exclaimed. “I would have everyone in this godsforsaken place wake up and do something! And if I am the one who must force them to do so, then so be it.”

He spun around and began storming away.

“Where are you going?” Azariah called out after him.

“I am going to pay a visit to our god,” he shouted over his shoulder. “It’s about time he woke up as well.”