Wrath of Lions (22 page)

There was no surrender. From inside the wall people shouted, and the archers of Nor loosed their own arrows from their crude
bows. Most fluttered harmlessly to the ground, and only one flew true over the heads of Avila and her men. It clanked off Malcolm’s pauldron, barely missing his ear.

“They wish to fight!” Avila shouted, scooting her mare backward and summoning the horsemen from the flank. “Batter the walls, flood the gate, and kill them all!”

The horsemen sped past her, all galloping hooves and frenzied shrieks. Malcolm summoned the vanguard, which ran screaming toward the walls, those in front lugging a heavy oaken log with a curved tip. The villagers desperately tried to close the swinging gate, but it had been hung at an angle and the corner was wedged in the clay soil.

The men of Nor retreated inside, followed by those at the front of the vanguard, who’d tossed aside their ram once they realized the gate needed no cracking. Avila leapt from her mare when she reached the gate, arcing and slashing with Integrity as she ducked inside, finding purchase with each swing. Through her veins pulsed a sudden terror and excitement—with her words, her soldiers, the war against Paradise had begun. As her armored force streamed through the narrow gap in the wall surrounding the puny village, swords were drawn and pikes were thrust, her soldiers killing all they came across. The blood of Ashhur’s children leaked in streams from the wedged-open gate, ash sprinkling atop it from the burning fields.

It was a glorious moment, but through the deafening clamor of it all, Avila could swear she heard young Willa’s screams.

C
HAPTER

10

H
er name was Kaya Highrose, and she was the most splendid being Roland Norsman had met in all his life.

The girl nuzzled into him underneath a pile of fur blankets, the stars twinkling in the sky overhead. They were reclining against the hard and unforgiving roof of the inn, but he felt no discomfort. All he
did
feel was the smooth contour of Kaya’s bare flesh, and all he could smell was her curly black hair, teased with lemon. The only other sensation he was aware of was the stickiness that covered his rapidly retreating manhood.

He had a hard time catching his breath, and when Kaya flipped toward him, her breasts pressing into his chest while her lips lightly brushed his neck, he felt his insides begin to stir once more. It was the most wondrous sensation in the world, even if the rapid
thump-thump-thump
of his heart frightened him. He hadn’t experienced such a feeling for months, and the last time his heart had beat this way it had not been pleasurable.…It had happened as he’d watched Jacob Eveningstar, the man he’d admired his entire life, turn traitor on the battlefield of Haven.

Those memories caused his excitement to wane, only to be stoked once more when Kaya’s lips met his, her breath sweet with nectarines and cherry wine, her tongue gently caressing the inside of his mouth.

She pulled back from him then, smiling as she grasped for his manhood. Her fingers found it, danced across it, and played it back into stiffness.

Roland moaned. Feeling suddenly sore, he gently moved her hand away.

“I don’t think I can again,” he said, hissing between his teeth at the rawness he felt down there. “I’m sorry.”

“You sure?” she asked playfully. “Why not?”

“It’s just…it hurts a bit,” he replied.

“It does?” She sucked on her lip. “Well, Mantrel Burgess once said I have a gift for healing. Let me see if I can heal
you
.”

“What are you—”

Kaya disappeared beneath the blankets before he could finish his question. Her healing kisses began and chased away all other thoughts.

They made love again after that. Roland lasted more than a few short thrusts this time, immersing himself in the feel of their lower halves colliding while he squeezed the girl’s ample breasts. And when he finished, it was so intense that he bit down on her shoulder a little too fiercely, hard enough to make her yelp.

When the act was done, Roland collapsed on his back, the soreness returning. The rest of him felt numb, euphoric, as if he weighed less than nothing and could soar into the sky, floating all the way up until he reached Celestia’s star. Kaya rolled over, resting her head on his chest while she caressed the fine hairs below his bellybutton.

“Happy birthday,” she said, smirking.

He gazed at her, dumbstruck.

“So, how was it?” she asked. “Second time as good as the first?”

“Um,” he replied, feeling at a loss for words.

Kaya giggled. “What, did I steal your tongue?”

“Well, no,” he said hoarsely. “It’s just…it was all…well…you know?”

“Fun?”

He chuckled. “Well…yes, I guess that’s as good a word as any.”

She slid atop him, placing a single kiss on his lips as she squeezed his sides with her thighs.

“I still find it amazing that you haven’t done this before,” she said, her hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight. “I mean, by Ashhur, I lost my flower when I was fourteen, and you’re no younger than I am.”

Roland shivered, wiggled out from beneath her.

“Wait, you’re done this before?” He’d believed he was her first, just as she was his.

“Of course,” said Kaya. She cocked her head to the side and stared at him through squinting lids.

“Where are your children?”

A solemn look overcame the pretty girl’s round features.

“I have none. Ashhur has yet to bless me with child.” She looked so sad then, defeated. “Not for lack of trying.”

She looked away, and in the moonlight he saw the shimmering start of tears. Roland’s empathy overwhelmed his disbelief, and he pulled her close, suddenly feeling guilty even though he wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong.

“Why are you sad?” he asked.

Kaya sniffled. “I am one of eleven, Roland,” she said. “All nine of my older sisters have been blessed with children. Me? I’ve been with five men since that first time, and none has been able to plant his seed. It is a mark of dishonor. Healers have touched my belly, but it hasn’t helped. My mother jests that I’m cursed. No man will take me if I cannot provide him with children.”

“You’re not cursed,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her to him. The blankets slid off them, piling up around
his waist and revealing her fully. He drew back and was once again overtaken by how beautiful she was, with her wide hips and firm breasts. He had always thought his future was with Mary Ulmer, Master Steward Clegman’s daughter. But Mary was gone now, having joined Ashhur’s march toward Mordeina. And besides, as he stared at the woman before him, he couldn’t imagine himself being with anyone else. Visions entered his mind of giving Kaya the children she so desired, of building a small hut in the hilly lands on the outskirts of Ker and living there until old age claimed them both. He had only known her for a few short months, but already that felt like forever.

“How do you know?” she asked, almost shyly.

“Because someone so wonderful could
never
be cursed.”

She smiled, soft and sweet. “That’s very nice of you to say.”

“I’m not just saying it. I
mean
it. I would live the rest of my life with you, whether you bore my children or not.”

“You would?”

“Of course.”

A shooting star flashed overhead, making the night even brighter, and for a moment Kaya put him in mind of Brienna. When the mirage faded, he tilted his head forward, memories of the beautiful, lost elf washing over him.

“Though I must say, I don’t know why you would need a child to make you feel worth. You are perfect as you are, Kaya.
That
is what should define you.”

“But women are created to make children. It is our reason for being, our grand purpose, as my mother always says.”

At one time Roland might have agreed with her. After all, until Haven, life in Paradise had always been about farming and breeding and praying. But he had seen too much,
experienced
too much, for him to feel that wonderful naïveté any longer. He was a different man, and though the world itself might not be better for it, he believed
he
was.

“That’s not true,” he told her. “Everyone has a purpose, a journey all their own. It’s up to us to decide which path to take, which adventure to embark on. The only shame in life is if you do not find happiness with being
yourself
.”

Those had been Patrick DuTaureau’s words to him in the aftermath of the battle between the brother gods—sage advice from such a twisted and ugly being, obviously springing from personal experience.

Kaya leaned into him once more, a smile on her face. “You make me feel good, Roland. You really do.” She pressed her cheek against his breast. “In more ways than one.”

They reclined on the roof and gazed up at the midnight sky, Roland pointing out the stars, naming those Azariah had told him about, and together they mused on what the other worlds out there might be like. Roland’s dark thoughts floated away as they laughed and kissed. He knew it was a feeling to cherish, even if it only lasted a night. Tomorrow they would be back at work, slaving away beside the Wardens as they prepared the town of Lerder—the only true town in all of Paradise—for the inevitable coming of Karak and his followers.

Stop thinking of it,
he told himself.
Go with the moment.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kaya.

“Nothing,” replied Roland. He quickly changed the subject. “So, Highrose, huh? Interesting surname. How did you come about it?”

Kaya shrugged. “The first of my family lived on the hills north of the Stonewood Forest. My grandmother said the Wardens had planted a plot of roses on the highest hill any could see, and it was the most beautiful thing for miles. So when the first couple chose a name, they picked Highrose.” She looked at him queerly. “I don’t know why you would think it interesting, though. It’s not so odd as Norsman.”

“That’s true,” Roland replied, laughing. “But my forbearers were odd, I think. They took our name from one of Warden Loen’s poems, ‘The Barbarians of the Beltway.’”

“I don’t know that one.”

“Not surprised you don’t. Your family is from the other side of the Corinth; mine’s from Safeway. Loen lives here, though. You should ask him to recite it to you when you get a chance.”

“Which one’s Loen?”

“You know: tall, gray eyes, straight golden hair?”

She scrunched up her face. “That describes half the Wardens in town. Like I said, which one is Loen?”

Roland laughed, a hearty snort that caused his whole body to quake. Kaya joined in his laughter, falling into his chest and writhing, planting tender kisses all over him. He thought he might be up for another tumble, but then came the cries of Morgan Eastwick, the proprietor of the inn atop which they lay, screaming that there best not be anyone on her roof. Laughing helplessly, they gathered up their discarded clothing and hurried to the to the slender rope ladder that had been hung at the side of the three-story building. When they climbed down and reached the ground, Kaya placed a kiss on his lips and ran off into the night, returning to the home she shared with her family, while Roland laced up his breeches and wandered toward the front of the inn, where he hoped to enter his room without waking Azariah.

For Roland, morning came much too quickly. He felt sluggish as he moved along the outer edge of Lerder with a six-foot log propped on his shoulder. There was a pounding behind his eyes, and he felt out of breath. He tried to force his way through the discomfort, keeping his thoughts on his encounter with Kaya, but if there was one thing he hated more than the cold, it was being wet. And that morning, just like most mornings lately, was depressingly soggy.

The clear skies of the night before had given way to swollen gray and black clouds as spring rain pummeled the Rigon River’s middle
banks. He cursed the weather, even though both Kaya and Morgan had assured him the rains were a blessing for the harvest to come. He couldn’t agree with them, not when his foot plunged into a cold puddle with every other step, and his clothes clung to his body.

He made his way down the causeway, his soft-soled boots sloshing on the wet slate. There were workers to his right, on the side facing the river, stacking logs and sacks of sand up as high as they could. Wardens and humans alike hefted and pulled, grunting as they labored in the early morning downpour. The Wardens took their places at the top of the makeshift wall, grabbing whatever the humans below handed up to them.

The wall stretched as far as he could see, thickest and tallest by the river, shorter and thinner where it circled around into land. Ezekai, the Warden in charge of the wall’s construction, was convinced that when Karak decided to strike, he would target this spot. “The Rigon is more than a mile wide, sometimes two,” he had said. “This town was built where it is thinnest. If Karak chooses to cross at multiple points other than Ashhur’s Bridge, this will be one of those points.”

It seemed reasonable enough, but even so, Roland questioned the logic of building the wall in the first place. He’d been there in the delta. He’d seen the might commanded by Karak. Although the eastern god’s forces had swords, axes, and shields, Lerder had little more than sharpened sticks and heavy stones. The true weapons they possessed were few, just those given as gifts in the past by visiting elves. These, combined with a twenty-foot stack of sandbags and felled trees, would do little to stop an actual army, never mind a giant fireball brought down from the sky like the one that had decimated the Temple of the Flesh.