Wrath of Lions (29 page)

Then again, perhaps they would simply roll over and die at Bardiya’s orders. Scoffing, Patrick tipped back his skin, drinking down a massive gulp of potent corn whisky. The liquid burned going down, and he immediately felt dizzy. His anger at his friend only grew.

“Bite me, Bardiya,” he whispered, emptying the skin. He wished he were with his friends from Haven, who had taught him to think and fight on his own. His stomach turned in knots, and as the world began to spin around him, he collapsed onto his side, holding his gut to keep from retching. He felt sick and dizzy, but he finally faded into a dreamless sleep, his heart beating in tune with his god’s sobs.

When he awoke, his neck was sore from lying in an awkward position. The hump in his back throbbed, a headache pounded behind his eyes, and his mouth was dry. He spotted the skin lying to his right and knocked it away, cursing himself for taking to liquor to quell his depression.
I should have found a nubile young thing instead,
he thought groggily.
The aftereffects, come morning, are far less painful.

Patrick lifted his head, experiencing more than a tiny bit of pain. The firepit was dusty and dry, and Barclay was nowhere to be seen. The sun was high in the sky, shining down on him from a hole in the canopy above. Trees rustled in a warm breeze that wafted the smell of roasting bacon.

He sat up and forced himself to his feet. Winterbone lay in the grass, its tip black with soot, and it took all his effort to lift the damn thing up, slide it into its scabbard, and sling it over his shoulder. The leather bit into his flesh, and the added weight seemed to multiply the ache in his head. Grunting, he stumbled forward, using the closest tree for support, and began descending the hill.

More than once he slipped, nearly tumbling down the tree-dotted rise. By the grace of Ashhur, he kept his balance, and eventually he caught sight of cookfires interspersed between the trees on either side of a babbling brook, where the rest of Ashhur’s many, many children had set up camp.

He made his way through the maze of tents and people. Most paid him no mind, but others gave him curious glances as he wove his way through them, moaning. He was searching for Denton Noonan: Barclay’s father, a healer and master of herbal remedies. If anyone could fix his aching head, it was him.

“Where are the Noonans?” he asked a pretty, black-haired youth. The girl reminded him of Bethany—or was it Brittany?—the young woman who’d used him for his useless sperm in what felt like a different life. Patrick felt his cheeks flush as the girl’s wide, olive-shaped eyes widened as if he’d spoken elfish. He felt embarrassed, but at least his headache seemed to have lost some potency.

“Barclay Noonan,” he said, speaking more slowly this time. “Where’s the boy’s father?”

The girl pointed behind him but remained silent. Patrick followed her finger. She was gesturing toward Ashhur’s pavilion, which had been raised in the center of six widely spaced birch trees. He grumbled his thanks and lurched toward it.

The pavilion stood fifteen feet high and was so large that Barnabus, the Warden in charge of its care, usually did not bother to erect it.
Looks like Barney thought we might be staying awhile.
He thought of Ashhur’s ceaseless sobbing, and he spun around, listening for it. He was shocked to realize it had stopped.

He came to the pavilion’s entrance, where a pair of felled tree limbs held up the flap like a canopy. When he entered, he stopped short, nearly toppling over in the process.

Ashhur was sitting on a great oaken chair, one giant leg thrown over the other. The god’s golden eyes were intent on a small piece of parchment that stretched between his pinched thumb and forefinger. A great hawk perched on his shoulder.

“My Grace,” Patrick said, almost tripping over his words.

Ashhur glanced up, his eyes focused and intense. There were no tears, there was no flush in his cheeks; there was nothing to indicate that the deity had spent the better part of two days sobbing over the brutal murder of his children.

“Patrick, why are you staring at me so? What is the matter?”

Patrick shrugged. “Nothing’s the matter. Got good and drunk last night is all. My head’s pounding.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“Well…actually, I was looking for Denton to cure my aches, but you always heal much better than he does.”

Ashhur squinted, shook his head, and returned his attention to the parchment in his lap.

Patrick let out a moan.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Shuffling from foot to foot, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m glad you are feeling better, my Grace.”

To that the deity nodded slightly. “I am.”

“And who is your friend?”

Ashhur’s posture seemed to grow more relaxed now that Patrick had assumed a more practiced tone. “A messenger bird. It arrived early this morning while I was still weeping in front of the scorched barn.”

“What does the message say?” Patrick asked, though deep down he already knew.

“It has begun,” the deity replied. “Karak is here.”

“How far along is he?”

“I have no way of knowing, but it is as I feared. Warden Ezekai sent the hawk from Lerder, saying that Karak created a bridge and crossed into Paradise. No doubt another force of his crossed the bridges erected by us, which means we have at least two separate factions of to deal with. And others may have crossed still elsewhere.”

Patrick felt a lump form in his throat. “They might not be very far behind us,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“We need to leave,” answered his god. “Now. As it is, the elves who burned this settlement are still lingering. I can feel them in the trees, though they probably hesitate to quarrel with a god.”

“So above and behind, we have enemies. The Wooden Bridge is only a two-day hike from here. If we depart now and march through the night, we can get there before sunset tomorrow—”

“No,” said Ashhur.

“What, my Grace?”

“No. That will not do. We travel with thirty thousand of my children. It would be impossible to march with such haste without leaving many behind, and that is something I will not do. I fear my sacrifices have been for naught. My children must be made safe, no matter what the risk.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“We will delay my brother. We will fight him.”

Patrick threw his hands up. “We can’t fight him, my Grace. He has trained soldiers, and we have…you, a few dozen Wardens, and me, I guess. We’d be slaughtered.”

At that Ashhur grinned, and his smile was full of cold cunning. “Who says we must do the fighting?”

Without further explanation, Ashhur rose from his oaken chair and walked to the entryway. The hawk on his shoulder took flight, darting upward through the thick canopy. The god then began to walk away, gesturing for Patrick to follow. They curled around the camp and started up the rise. Headache all but forgotten, Patrick felt ill at ease, and it had nothing to do with the odd glances they
garnered from those they passed. He did not like the look in Ashhur’s glowing yellow eyes.

They reached the top of the hill where Patrick had slept the previous night, and kept on climbing. Three hundred yards farther up was the tattered settlement, and farther still was the clearing where the horror-filled barn stood. Patrick exited the copse of trees behind his god, and Ashhur marched right up to the blackened structure.

“What are you doing, my Grace?” Patrick asked.

Ashhur sighed and bowed his head. “They are gone now,” he said. “They have found their way to the afterlife. What resides here are but their shells, pale reminders of the people they were. I have no more reason to grieve.”

With those words, the deity placed his palm against the side of the barn. The wall began to glow, black being replaced by a brilliant orange, and then the whole structure was alight with blinding white flame. The weakened boards creaked and snapped, and the roof began to crumple. With a mighty groan, the barn caved in on itself, the wood crackling and dissolving, becoming wisps of ash that spiraled up in a funnel. A dome of bluish light formed over the crumbling ruins, pulsing, spreading, and then all sound seemed to be swallowed. A single
whoosh
followed, and what remained of the barn became a pile of blackened flakes that the wind picked up and carried into the sky.

When it was over, the only sign that there had been a structure there at all was a darkened rectangular depression. Ashhur walked to the center of the depression and stopped there. Patrick stayed by his side, afraid to do anything else. Ashhur closed his godly eyes, then lifted his chin. His lips parted ever so slightly, and his throat began to vibrate. Patrick couldn’t hear a sound, but a moment later the whole of the forest erupted with a cacophony of animalistic howls. They came from every direction, from near and far, from the high ground and the low ground, and their approach was so loud that he was sure it could be heard for miles. Beneath the howling he
noticed frightened shouts from their people far below. They must have been terrified. Patrick sure as shit was.

The forest came alive around them. Undergrowth rustled, trees swayed, and small saplings were trampled as countless forms approached, emerging into the clearing. The creatures were hunched on four legs, their backs arched, their fangs bared, snarling and snapping.

Wolves. A whole pack of them, if not multiple packs combined into one. Patrick tried counting them to ease his fraying nerves, but he stopped when he reached a hundred sets of rheumy yellow eyes. Some had black fur, some gray, and others were differing shades of brown or even patchwork. They were all mangy, and the heat of their combined breath seemed to close in on him.

Their growls became louder until Ashhur held out his hand, and then the beasts stopped their rumbling and sat on their haunches. Some offered whimpers and some lay down in submission, whereas others simply stared straight ahead with frostily primitive eyes that spoke only of hunger. Many of them had globules of red clinging to the fur around their jaws, bespeaking recent hunts. Patrick sidled up closer to Ashhur. Craning his neck as far as his hunched back would allow, he stared up at his deity’s face.

“My Grace,” he said, keeping his tone a faint whisper, “what are you doing?”

“My children are in need of protectors,” Ashhur said, “and so I will create them.”

With that he lifted his arms. Ashhur’s glowing eyes became twice as bright, as words of magic flew from his lips. The atmosphere shivered, and the gathered throng of wolves began to writhe. They thrashed and mewled, offering braying protests to the heavens. Patrick covered his ears once more, his eyes wide as he watched the beasts flay and twist. A repetitious
crack
filled the air, rhythmic like the beating of a thousand drums at once.

“From the flesh you gain sustenance!” shouted Ashhur. “And like the plants, from the soil you grow!”

The foliage that lined the clearing liquefied, becoming a multitude of thin silver streams that flowed toward the thrashing beasts. The rippling fur of each wolf seemed to drink in the liquid, and then they began to
grow
. Their limbs stretched, their chests widened, and the cracking noise became all the more pronounced. Patrick looked on as paws flattened and then extended, furry fingers sprouting from the creatures’ paws. Each of the beings wailed in pain as they thrashed, their newly formed arms and legs smacking at the silver liquid that flowed into them.

Then the moaning began. To Patrick, it sounded like a chorus of sadness, of wounded creatures lamenting the loss of their natural innocence. Ashhur ceased his chanting, and very slowly the wolves began to cease their struggles. The strange cracking sound died away, as did the bellowing. Soon all that could be heard was the combined rasps of hundreds of gasping lungs.

One by one, the wolves rose off the ground. Patrick looked on, not believing his eyes. The creatures were now twice the size they had been, and they stood upright on two legs. Patrick stopped breathing. They were a perfect combination of man and wolf, every single one of them, though they stared ahead with eyes that appeared just as icy and unfeeling as ever—the single-minded gaze of an animal.

Patrick happened to glance down, where the streams of silvery liquid had appeared, and he saw that the grass beneath the wolf-men’s clawed feet, grass that had only moments before been the bright green of spring growth, was now light brown and dead. Looking up, he saw that the first row of trees behind the beasts was just as lifeless, their leaves crinkled and sagging, the bark breaking away in chunks.

He heard a thud beside him. Ashhur had fallen to a knee, the glow in his eyes faded. He panted, the knuckles of his right hand digging into the scorched earth beneath him. Patrick held out his
hand, and the god took it. He instantly felt silly for the gesture, for Ashhur’s hand swallowed his own like an infant’s, but his act seemed to steady the god. Ashhur closed his eyes, rolled his neck, and then stood to his full height. When he did, every single wolf-man fell to his knees. They were clumsy even then, some falling over and rolling on the ground in panic.

“My Grace,” Patrick began, but he could not finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

“We needed soldiers,” said his god.

“But how?”

“The knowledge of form and function resides right in here,” Ashhur said, tapping his temple. He was winded, but his voice hadn’t lost any of its potency. “You can alter any form if you know the proper ways.”

“Yes, but you made them grow as well.”

“The universe is all about balance; other than the gods, nothing can be created from nothing. I gathered nutrients from the plants around us and minerals from the ground beneath us, and added them to their bodies, allowing them to grow. Everything in this world, from the stones beneath your feet to the whales living in the deepest reaches of the ocean, contains similarities I fear you would not understand. Just know that, for me, what I did was akin to piling sand upon sand to build a larger mound.”

Patrick squinted. Ashhur looked a hundred times more exhausted than he ever had after bringing up the walls around the settlements. “But you’re panting, my Grace,” he said.