Wrath of Lions (71 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER

38

T
he giant looked greatly discouraged, even angry. He sat on the rocks beneath the cliff, his fist firmly planted on his chin, his gaze locked on the hole in the earth and the dark treasure hiding within it.

Aully looked at Kindren, her nerves bubbling over. When he squeezed her hand, she gave him a small smile, then turned her gaze toward her mother. Audrianna Meln was a picture of beauty, her long golden hair blown by the intense breeze off the ocean. Her sadness over Brienna had lessened with the prospect of returning home, and no more did the name
Carskel
pass her lips. It was good to see her this way—stately, strong, dignified, as she was intended to be. Those who stood alongside her, the thirty-one other elves who had made their home in this village by the sea for many long months, bowed to her in reverence. The Lady of Stonewood’s station seemed to have returned along with her strength, which made her daughter proud.