Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “They have proved…resourceful,” countered Iolas.

  “Then perhaps you should be even more so,” snapped Clovis.

  Neyvar Ruven lifted his hand. “It is not only that,” he said, sounding weary. “We have a precarious hold on this city. The Dezren outnumber us greatly. Should they decide to join their rebel brethren, we would be overwhelmed. If that were to happen, there would be no safe haven for your soldiers to return to, no fields of turnips and grain for you to refill your supplies once they are exhausted. Given how your own armies are razing Ashhur’s lands, our aid will be paramount to your success.”

  Clovis held up his hand. For a moment, Ceredon swore he could see a worm wriggling beneath the flesh of his palm.

  “We understand this,” the man said gravely. “The razing is occurring strictly south of the Gods’ Road, to seal in those who might wish to aid their countrymen. Yet we will still help you. I can spare five hundred men, but not a soul more.”

  Neyvar Ruven nodded. “Yes, that would work.”

  “However, we must also balance the scales. If we are to keep these men behind, a show of good faith is required.”

  “We have shown good faith,” insisted Aeson. “We let you march unimpeded through our lands and into our city. We attacked a pair of human settlements to the south to clear your way, and their loss of life was total. No man or elf should have reason to question our loyalty to the pact.”

  The man laughed. “That is appreciated, yes, much appreciated. Yet I must ask, how many of your best fighters are in this city?”

  “About as many as you are giving us,” said Iolas, looking despondent.

  Clovis grinned. “We require a hundred of them.”

  “What?” Iolas gasped. “Why?”

  “Our reasons are our own.”

  “We could ne—”

  “Consider it done,” said the Neyvar, cutting his old cousin off. “Are there any other claims you wish to stake?”

  “As a matter of fact, there are.” Clovis brought up his hand, rubbing it over his bald pate. Then he frowned, as if he’d expected to find hair. “For every show of good faith, there must be another in return. We shall place your best warrior in control of Karak’s forces, and we will remain here to assist you in regaining control of the city.”

  Ceredon looked on as every elven face scrunched up in confusion at the human’s odd wording.

  “Excuse us,” asked the Neyvar, “but who would ‘we’ be?”

  The human cleared his throat. “Many apologies. Me. I. Clovis Crestwell, the captain of this quarter of our god’s army. I will remain behind.”

  The table broke out in bickering between the two remaining members of the Triad, the Neyvar, and the four other advisors who had joined them. Ceredon remained silent, keeping an eye on his father the entire time. He noticed that Clovis was doing the same. When the argument eventually ended, it was the Neyvar who won.

  “That is acceptable as well,” he said. “You shall have Aerland Shen, the greatest of our Ekreissar, to lead your god’s forces.”

  Crestwell smiled wickedly. The others who were present grumbled.

  “You choose wisely, Neyvar.”

  “Just promise us one thing,” Ruven said.

  “What is that?”

  “This bargain comes with another price. Upon Karak’s victory, our lands must be increased tenfold, not fivefold as was discussed. Our sacrifices deserve that much.”

  The frightening human’s grin became all the wider and more off-putting.

  “You will have all that and more.”

  The summit ended, and the Quellan consulate retreated deeper into the palace, with the exception of Aeson, who huddled close to the human, talking with him in a lowered voice. Eventually, they too broke company, and Clovis left for another meeting, this one with Chief Shen. Ceredon didn’t like the odd man’s expression. Clovis had sneered at the departing elves, and Ceredon was sure he’d seen hatred in his red-tinged eyes. Upon his exit, Ceredon was at last alone in the Chamber of Assembly with his father’s cousin.

  “Why are you still here?” asked Aeson.

  “I wish to uncover our goddess and pray for a while. I do not like this,” he whispered to Aeson in the elven tongue.

  The elder elf grinned.

  “There is much not to like, but we must take what benefits present themselves. Clovis wishes the dungeons below the palace to be filled to their limits with Dezren prisoners. Once they’re rounded up, we may begin exterminations as we see fit. Why rely on the cooperation of the Dezren when we can thin their numbers until they are no longer a threat? With more men at our disposal, even if they are humans, we may be able to accomplish that goal. Once Karak’s Army marches, I’ll discuss it with your father.”

  Aeson winked at him and took his leave of the chamber. Ceredon watched him go, anger boiling in his veins. His job might have just gotten harder, but at least he knew whom to target next.

  “Sweet dreams,” Ceredon whispered in the empty chamber.

  CHAPTER

  18

  The horse faltered, almost pitching Roland and Kaya to the ground.

  “Whoa, girl,” Roland said, trying his best to keep them both firmly in the saddle. The poor horse straightened out, took a few firm steps, and then its leg crumpled once more. Roland cursed and pulled back on the reins, halting the animal. If it had pitched any lower, they would have been thrown to the rocky, root-infested ground. He and Kaya dismounted, Kaya caressing the horse’s side, while he circled around to face her head on, watching her shake her head and blow her nose as if in frustration. Roland tugged on his belt, trying to swing the uncomfortable sword that hung there into a less dangerous position.

  Azariah trotted up beside him, his gold-green eyes focused on the horse. Tall trees rose up behind him like swaying sentries.

  “Check the hoof,” the Warden said.

  His friend sounded sullen, depressed, and fully unlike himself, a change that had come upon him since their last day in Lerder. Roland grimaced up at the Warden, then bent down and coaxed the horse into lifting her leg. The poor creature whinnied, blood dripping from her hoof. Roland immediately spotted a jagged piece of stone wedged into the soft tissue on the inside of the hoof.

  “What is it?” asked Kaya from over his shoulder.

  “Rock got stuck,” he said. “Comfort her as you can. I’m going to pull it out.”

  He glanced at Azariah, who nodded.

  Kaya did as he’d asked, her tone soothing as she spoke to the horse in words he was sure the animal couldn’t understand. Yet the horse seemed to relax nonetheless, her leg muscles going slightly limp, allowing Roland to cram his fingers beneath the stone and give it a solid tug. It came free with a thwop, the blood from the sensitive tissue running a deeper red. Azariah handed him a swath of yellow fabric, and Roland stuffed the cloth into the horse’s hoof to soak up the blood.

  “It’s best we find a place to rest for a time,” the Warden said. “I will need to heal her.”

  Roland shook his head. He looked behind them, at the procession of panting horses in the forest, each holding two or more frightened individuals. A hundred more walked behind them.

  “You don’t mean here, do you?” Roland asked, looking around at the tall trees that circled all around them. “Shouldn’t we find someplace more suitable, where the horses can graze on something that isn’t poison berries?”

  Azariah peered at the canopy above their heads. “It is almost dusk, Roland. Travel will only grow more dangerous.”

  “I still think we should find a different resting place,” Roland said. “We shouldn’t be too far from some settlement or another, right?”

  “And what will we find when we get there?” the Warden asked with a frown.

  Roland hung his head, dejected. Even Kaya rubbing his back wasn’t doing much to soothe him.

  They had kept off the Gods’ Road in their travels, steering through the northern hill country in hopes of throwing off any potenti
al pursuers. At first every village or hamlet they passed was deserted, but for a handful of humans and Wardens, but soon they discovered that the war had, in fact, crossed in front of them. Two settlements they’d encountered on their quest for the Wooden Bridge had been reduced to rubble and ash, the bodies of human and Warden alike strung up in trees. The areas surrounding each settlement had been trampled under countless feet and burned, leaving Azariah’s group with little opportunity to restock their dwindling supply of food. In other places even the fruit trees had been decimated, each apple or pear snatched from the branches, nothing but rotting remains around the trunks. Fields had been stripped clear of all vegetation. And that didn’t even take into account the problems they’d encountered with the horses. The poor beasts were constantly getting rocks or splinters lodged into their hooves, and at least three had broken limbs during the journey, costing them precious time while the Wardens healed their wounds.

  “We’ll find what we find,” Roland replied softy. “And make do with that.”

  Azariah gave him a strange look.

  “I cannot decide if you are stubborn, foolhardy, or wise, though I do find it amusing that you feel you know best. So let us continue, Roland, and discover which of the three it is.”

  The trek continued, the land rising and falling as they headed forever west. Just as the sun began to dip closer to the horizon, they came upon a small stream, and where they took a few moments to water the horses, who were exhausted to the point of collapsing. Roland refilled his waterskin and shared it with Kaya, who stayed latched onto his side like a growth. The water tasted off somehow, rotten and unseemly, but he drank it down just the same. He was parched beyond belief, and it hadn’t rained since the day they’d left the riverside community. It amazed him that he actually wished for the rain to return. While building the wall, he’d hated it with a passion, but now he stared at the sky with desperate hope each time he saw a cloud.

  But the stream meant there was probably another settlement nearby, which buoyed Roland’s spirits slightly. When they finally began the journey once more, he had Kaya ride in the saddle with her younger sister while he walked beside the horse. The pair started singing, and he felt almost hopeful.

  That hope died the moment they came upon civilization—or what was left of it. Jaquiel the Warden introduced the place as the village of Lockstead, yet no village remained. Ashhur had been here, that much Roland could tell; there were shattered chunks of stone and wood everywhere, the remnants of the wall the god had raised for the unfortunate few who’d stayed behind. Beyond the crumbled rubble were the burnt scraps of tents, a few toppled huts, their thatched roofs still smoldering, and a single demolished granary. The grass was scorched black, and when Roland squatted down to trace the outline of a large boot heel in the earth, he realized it was still warm.

  “This happened recently,” he said.

  “So did the others,” Azariah replied.

  “But where are the bodies?”

  The Warden shrugged.

  Roland stood and circled, looking into the trees, but other than a few blackened lower branches, nothing had been disturbed. Strangely, the lack of bodies made him shudder. It was almost worse than seeing them all swaying in unison.

  Kaya tugged on his shirt.

  “Roland, I hear water,” she said excitedly.

  “The brook might be wider here. Perhaps it is even a stream,” said Warden Jaquiel as he knotted his long auburn hair behind his head. “We might be able to snatch some fish.”

  Kaya’s sister jumped in place.

  “We could stay here for the night then?” she asked.

  Roland exchanged a glance with Azariah.

  “I think we should,” Roland said. “It’s dark now, and Karak’s Army has already passed. There’s no one to spot us. What do you think, Az?”

  Azariah let out a sigh.

  “Yes, we’ll stay. Roland, come with me. I wish to check the nearby stream. Perhaps Jaquiel has the right of it, and there are fish to be had.”

  As the rest of the people flooded out of the forest, Roland and Azariah crossed the hill leading to the bubbling stream. As they neared the water, Roland felt his stomach twist into a knot. There would be no fish, not that night. The dead of Lockstead, perhaps seventy of them, bobbed there in the water. They had not drifted far, the stream too shallow and littered with twigs and felled branches to move them. The corpses had snagged and halted, colliding and piling on each other into a dam of sodden, rotting flesh. Roland dropped to his knees and vomited. The water…the peculiar taste of the water…

  When finished, he popped the top of his waterskin and dumped the rest of it. Azariah watched, quiet, his face ashen.

  “Not all is lost,” the Warden said, his voice hoarse. “I know a spell to purify the water.”

  That night they slept in the open spaces of the desolate village. The horses hovered between nestled clumps of people, snorting and huffing. Roland lay on the bare ground beside a collapsed hut, with Kaya pressed against him, the supple feel of her body a small but necessary comfort. Her parents and siblings were beside them, most sleeping, some just pretending to. As he rested, his back sore and his hand aching from holding the reins too tightly, Roland swore he could hear a great rumble descend over the land. He chalked it up to the unified grumblings of two hundred hungry bellies.

  He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the sound to get some sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the glowing red stare of Jacob Eveningstar as his former master helped Karak raise the bridge across the Rigon. Frustrated and afraid, he lifted Kaya’s arm from his chest and sat up. She stayed sleeping, tucking her hands beneath her chin. It amazed Roland how attached to her he was, how interwoven their lives had become. Yet that attachment had brought with it a deeper well of fear; now when he pictured the dead hanging from trees, they all had Kaya’s face.

  “I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her cheek.

  He stood and left the gathering, hoping a walk would calm his nerves. After taking a few steps, he realized he’d forgotten the sword Azariah had given him. As he bent to retrieve it, he was struck by how much his life had changed. For twenty-one years he had lived without so much as seeing such a weapon; now it felt as though his life depended on having one near.

  Once he was away from the town, Roland felt horribly exposed. His footsteps led him into the forest, where he might find some sort of cover. The moonlight was faint through the thick canopy of maples and elms overhead, and he stumbled through the darkness, arms held out before him, fending off branches and vines that threatened to slap his cheeks or poke out his eyes. He walked for some time, the night deepening around him, and it was not until he reached a circular clearing, littered with rocks and knee-high grasses, that he allowed himself to rest. He sat on a stump in the middle of the clearing, its bark spongy and brittle to the touch. The tip of his sword’s scabbard scraped against the rocks below.

  “Roland?” someone asked.

  Startled, he swung around on the stump and almost fell off. Behind him was a beautiful specter in a burlap nightshirt, playing with the kinky curls of her hair. The ghost rubbed the bridge of her nose, which she always did when she was uncertain, and the mirage broke.

  “Kaya?” he asked. “What are you doing out here?”

  “You left me,” she answered. “You promised you’d never leave me.”

  He stood up and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. Though she was the same age as him, and more experienced in many ways, she seemed younger in that moment, like a frightened child wishing to be comforted after a nightmare. But that’s what we all are, he thought. Frightened children, hoping and praying for the best.

  “You were sleeping,” he said, placing a light kiss on her forehead. “I just needed to take a walk. To think.”

  “I saw you leaving,” she said softly. “I was worried.”

  “Kaya, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “
Yes there is. You don’t have to lie to me. Why else would you have brought the sword?”

  He stroked her hair, refusing to answer. He thought of when he’d first used that sword, the night of the attack on Lerder. Moments after he and Azariah had scaled the makeshift wall around Lerder, a group of twenty assailants, those he’d watched swim across the river and scale the western bank, had come screaming around the bend. Though the townspeople had been given every armament stowed beneath Ashhur’s temple, none brought their arms up in defense. Three Wardens were cut down immediately, the rest jumping to action and herding the people into a tight group at the edge of the forest. A handful of attackers had forced their way through the wall of defending Wardens, slaying four more, one of them leaping at Kaya as she sat crying atop his horse. As if on instinct, Roland had rushed forward, driving the tip of his sword through the man’s gut. Blood gushed, screams echoed across the valley, and in a matter of moments it was all over.

  “What is that?” Kaya said suddenly, jerking him from the recollection.

  “What is what?”

  “That light. That sound. Over there.”

  He turned his head, looking toward the edge of the forest. Very humanlike noises were issuing from that direction, a grunt or two, followed by a strange jangling, like a giant chime clanging in the wind. The foliage began to quake. Roland felt himself freeze in place, Kaya clutched in his arms.

  A shadowy figure stepped into the clearing, looking just as much a phantom as Kaya had. It was a large man with long, dark hair hanging in front of his face. His armor marked him as one of Karak’s soldiers. The man acted groggy, like he was recovering from a long night of wine and laughter. If he saw them, he did not react, instead turning to face a tree a few feet in front of them. There was a faint splashing as he urinated on the trunk.

  Roland felt Kaya tremble, and he covered her mouth with his hand. The man finished his business and shook himself off, then ran his hands through his nappy hair and groaned. He started back the way he’d come, but then paused. Slowly he turned, as if in a dream, and gaped at Roland and Kaya.