Wrath of Lions (60 page)

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.”