Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  With that, he swept out of the room. Aully glanced at her unconscious uncle, then stared at the plain wood of the door, her fists clenching, her mind reeling. She wished she had the power to knock that door down with her mind, to burn her bastard brother to a crisp with flames from her fingers, but she knew she was not strong enough.

  She felt, in a word, helpless.

  CHAPTER

  44

  Having grown up in the northwest of Paradise, Patrick recognized the sonorous bleating immediately. The only place in all of Dezrel where the great grayhorns roamed was a hundred miles or so to the north, in the area between the Craghills and the Gihon. His elder sister, Abigail, had loved the North Country, and in his youth he had often been guilted into joining her on her expeditions there. During those trips he had spent many a night lying under heavy blankets, with his hands over his ears, trying to block out the colossal tusked beasts’ constant bellows. If there were one noise he hated more than a woman’s counterfeit moaning, that was it.

  Now he was hearing them during his morning walk in Mordeina for some odd reason, while he was fighting off a nasty hangover to boot. Strangely, the way the sound was muted made it even worse, like the constant hum between one’s ears after a solid thump on the head. He climbed atop a nearby rock and scanned the area. All he could see from his location, halfway up the high hill that was crowned with Manse DuTaureau, was a never ending sea of people and Ashhur, perched atop the wall, gazing east. Of course you wouldn’t see them, you dolt, he thought, shaking his head. Even if a pack of grayhorns had wandered south of their grazing area, they would never be able to make it inside the new double walls. The gate simply wasn’t big enough for them.

  He sighed and hopped off the boulder, wincing when his feet hit the ground, the headache that tormented him doubling with the impact. Rubbing the heel of his hand on his temples, he promised himself he would make sure to snatch up one of the more talented Wardens before speaking with his mother.

  Speaking with Mother. He cringed at the thought of it. He had been home for five days, and it had taken her that long to come calling. He did not cherish the thought of her disapproving looks or the inevitable roll of her eyes when he told her what he had been doing in the interim.

  That’s not why you delayed and you know it.…

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  He put his head down and continued up the hill once more. The crowds seemed larger than usual on this day, but still there was a feeling of good humor in the air that bothered him to no end. In fact, only in the somber camp on the other side of the hill, where he had spent much of his time since returning, did any of the people seem prepared for the coming attack. The corner of his lip rose slightly as he thought of the previous day, when he’d trained a group of young men and women as Corton had trained him, teaching parries, thrusts, and defensive stances. It almost felt like he was in Haven again, among friends, among people who actually cared.

  The land flattened out, and he had almost reached the congested walkway leading into the manse when someone tapped on his shoulder.

  “Patrick?” a tentative voice asked. He sighed and turned to see a skinny, sandy-haired youth standing there, nervously fidgeting with his hands. For a moment Patrick didn’t recognize the young man, for he had no dirt on his face and was wearing smallclothes in the place of armor.

  “Tristan,” he said with a nod. “You look…well.”

  “You look like shit,” the youth replied.

  “Thanks. Never heard that before.”

  “No, I mean you’re pale,” Tristan said, his voice cracking with nerves. “And you got big bags under your eyes. You sick?”

  “Yes. No. I’m just…forget it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Patrick sighed. “It’s fine.”

  Tristan stayed silent, but would not stop staring at him. Finally, Patrick couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Tristan, did you stop me to gaze lovingly into my eyes, or do you have a purpose?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You said that already.”

  The youth swallowed hard. “I know. But…listen, this is hard for me.”

  “What is?”

  “Well…you see…I have something to tell you.”

  “Very well. So tell me.”

  “I…well…um…it’s like this.…”

  Patrick jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the manse. “I have business to attend to now. How about you tell me when I get back?”

  “No, this is important.”

  “Then spit it out.”

  “All right, all right…we were given a place to pitch out tents, down by the wall, with the Wardens,” Tristan said timidly. “Preston’s been teaching them about swordplay, and a few regular folk too.”

  “Yes…”

  “Wait, I’m getting to the point. A man with black hair wearing a bed sheet came to watch us work, and he started asking us a bunch of questions. Seemed nice enough, though now that I think about it, I don’t remember him smiling.”

  “That would probably be mother’s steward, Howard Baedan,” said Patrick. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t smile.”

  “Oh. Okay. So anyhow, when Preston asked him where you were, and he said you were off looking for your sister—well, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just…I just…”

  He stopped there, his gaze dropping to his feet.

  Patrick’s heart began racing.

  “Tristan, what does this have to do with anything?”

  “I’m sorry we haven’t told you,” the youth said in a low voice.

  “Haven’t told me what, Tristan?” Patrick’s heart picked up its pace some more. “Why are you being so cryptic?”

  Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it just quickly. He wouldn’t look Patrick in the eye, which was maddening. Patrick’s edginess won out. He grabbed Tristan by his shoulders and shook him. Hard.

  “Out with it, boy!” he yelled, drawing the attention of a group chatting nearby.

  “I…I don’t know if I can,” he whined.

  Patrick shook him harder. “Just fucking tell me!”

  “Nessa’s dead!” the youth blurted out.

  Patrick froze in place, his fists still squeezing the youth’s shoulders. The entirety of his being went numb, and his powerful hands opened, slipping off the youth who stumbled backward. He stared at Tristan, entranced by the tears rolling down the young man’s cheeks.

  “I was born in Veldaren,” Tristan said softly, as if in a dream. “Father served as a squire for Joseph Crestwell when he was a boy, and I was to follow in his footsteps. My brother Leonard squired for Crian. My father’s dead now, and I…I don’t know where my brother is.…” He cleared his throat, looked at the sky, and continued. “One night, a couple months after Karak returned from his absence, Leonard called on me. ‘Something exciting going on,’ he said. ‘You must come to the fountain.’ So Father and I went with him, and we watched as this little redheaded girl was baptized by the Divinity himself. Crian was there too, and the looks they gave each other…”

  Tristan wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Go on,” said Patrick. His voice sounded alien to his ears.

  “Two days later Leonard called on me again, distraught. He said he’d heard that Crian and Nessa had been murdered, and by Lord Commander Vulfram, of all people. He said it was a lie, that the Lord Commander wouldn’t have done that. I thought he was joking, because he never mentioned it again, not even when he was sent back to Omnmount. I almost forgot about it…until Karak returned from his assault on Haven. Three days later, there were corpses hanging from the walls of the castle in Veldaren. For some reason Nessa was too. The only way I could tell was her curly red hair, because the rest of her—”

  Patrick raised his hand. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more.” He gulped down bile, feeling dizzy. “Did all of you know about this?”

  “We did,” Tristan said with a hesitant nod. “Everyone did. The stor
y became a legend throughout all of Karak’s Army. Please believe me, Patrick, we never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to tell you when I first learned your name, but Preston said no. He told us in private that if you truly loved your sister, you might lose control; you might kill us just because we’re from Neldar. Even if you didn’t, he said if we wanted to live, we needed you focused, that having you brood over your sister would make us all dead men.”

  Patrick found it difficult to form words.

  Tristan swallowed hard. “We are your friends, Patrick. We all love you. And it isn’t a lie. I wish I could take it all away, make her okay again, just so you wouldn’t hurt. Preston does too. Please don’t be mad at us.”

  “I know. I’m not,” he replied, and it was true. Though every part of him railed against the story, he felt something during the telling that confirmed its validity. In some ways, a part of him had known it all along. “Thank you for telling me, Tristan. I know that must have been hard.”

  Tristan nodded, sniveling. “I’m sorry. Is there anything…?”

  Patrick patted him on the shoulder. “There isn’t. Go join your friends. I have something to do.”

  The youth turned tail and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Patrick to stew over what he’d just learned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, but in the darkness behind his eyelids he saw Nessa’s face, blackened with rot, empty eye sockets staring blankly ahead while crows pecked at her flesh. His breath began to come in ragged bursts as a lethal combination of rage and sadness built up inside him. He squeezed his hand into a fist and clouted himself in the head once, twice, three times, bringing red flashes into his vision. Through the percussive sound of his heartbeat, he heard a few people shriek. This made him all the angrier. He threw his head back, screamed at the blue morning sky.

  In the back of his mind, the inappropriate part of him thought, At least the headache is gone.

  His oversized arms swinging wildly, he stormed the rest of the way up the walk and entered Manse DuTaureau. All who saw him gave him a wide berth, and he stared down everyone he passed. A few he even pretended to charge, just to watch them shrink in fear. He felt like the monster he had long been accused of resembling, the Ogre of Haven made flesh.

  Howard Baedan was turning the people in the hall away, telling them that King Benjamin was busy at the moment. He did not try to stop Patrick, though; in fact, he left his post when he saw him approaching. Patrick continued down the now empty hall until he reached the central junction. He then veered north, toward the old dining hall, which his mother had reportedly turned into their new king’s throne room. His mind already in a dark place, he scoffed at the notion. A king of Paradise! What a fucking laugh that was. With the way things were going, that king would soon rule a heap of bones.

  Without any focus for his rage, his anger turned to a sorrow so sweeping that it was as if the entirety of his being was sinking into a pit of oil. Feeling sick with grief, he ducked into the nearest empty room, slamming the door behind him. There he wept, his bulk quivering uncontrollably. He pictured Nessa as she had been, as she would have become; the youthful vigor in her eyes, the way her every movement seemed to be part of some secret dance, her childlike wonder, her caring and loyalty and capacity for love. It began to sink in that he would never see her again, and he spiraled even deeper.

  Pull yourself together. You must tell Mother.

  Patrick dug his uneven teeth into his lip hard enough to make it bleed, then stood up as straight as he could. He looked down at himself, at the plain breeches and drab brown tunic he was wearing, and wished he had put on his armor instead. He felt naked without it, vulnerable.

  After taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and stepped back into the hall. There was still no one about, though he could hear voices. He placed one foot in front of the other, making his way toward the dining hall, and then he appeared: the one whose presence Patrick desired even less than Karak’s.

  His father.

  Richard DuTaureau skulked along the wall, his face twisted into a scowl, his hands clasped before him. His shock of red hair was oiled and brushed straight, bobbing just above his shoulders. He was short and willowy, just like his wife and their daughters, though he carried himself with an air of superiority. His face, a close reflection of Isabel’s, had no lines or creases, no blemishes save the freckles sprinkling his cheeks. He did not look up as his son approached.

  In an instant Patrick was transported back to Haven, to the moments before Karak’s Army marched over the bridge and a fireball fell from the sky. He heard Deacon Coldmine’s voice in his head as the would-be Lord of Haven told him the story of Patrick’s own birth, of how his father had poisoned him while he was still in his mother’s womb, cursing him with the deformities that would shape his life. At the time he had said he didn’t care.

  Only now he did.

  Just before they passed each other, Patrick charged his father, his meaty fingers gripping Richard’s gem-encrusted surcoat as he slammed the smaller man against the wall. A surprised yelp left his father’s throat, and the man’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Patrick braced his legs and drove his shoulder into his father’s breast. Richard DuTaureau offered a pathetic whine in protest, spit flying from his lips. His cheeks reddened, his nose flared, and he stared at Patrick with surprise and disgust.

  “You made me like this,” Patrick growled. “Did you ever once feel regret for it?”

  Richard sneered and opened his mouth as if to offer a biting retort, but Patrick didn’t allow him the chance. In one swift motion he drove his fist into the side of his father’s head. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as he watched his knuckles connect with Richard’s cheek, his father’s flesh rippling outward from the impact of the blow. He heard a pop as the man’s neck shot to the side and his head collided with the stone wall. His father stood there a moment, tottering, his cold eyes vacant, until he collapsed backward, landing on the carpet with a thump.

  Patrick loomed over him, breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. He watched his father’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and then turned away, sorrow threatening to overtake him once again. He had dreamed of laying his father out like that even before Coldmine told him the sordid truth. So why did he not feel any better?

  When he reached the dining hall, he grasped both handles and threw the double doors open with such strength, they bounced against the solid walls. He expected a surprised reaction from all inside, but the only one who looked his way was a plump young boy who wore an odd looking wooden ring around his head. King Benjamin, I presume, he thought. He had known the Maryls, who were from Conch, most of his life, and seeing Benjamin with that silly wooden crown on his head made him want to laugh. The boy was all the way on the other side of the room, yet his eyes still widened at the sight of Patrick. He rose slightly from a high-backed wicker and ivory chair that was just as odd a choice as his headgear. The boy king seemed to think better of it, however, for he sat back down, staring with equal parts fear and awe at the huffing creature before him. He turned his head to the right, where a pair of individuals were locked in a heated debate.

  Patrick followed the boy’s gaze and there she was—Isabel DuTaureau, his mother and the second of Ashhur’s first children. She and Ahaesarus, the Master Warden of Paradise, were the ones talking. It had been almost a year since Patrick had seen her, yet the sight of that lithe yet powerful figure still disarmed him. His shoulders slumped, and he retreated inward as if no time had passed at all.

  As for Ahaesarus, Patrick had not laid eyes on him in nearly twenty years, not since the days when he used to visit Safeway with Bardiya. Just like Patrick, the Master Warden looked exactly the same now as he used to then. That he was in Mordeina was strange, since rumor had it he was supposed to be up in Drake assisting Turock’s sister. Then again, if the grayhorns had wandered south…

  Just get it over with.

  “Mother, a word,” he said, lo
udly but respectfully.

  Ahaesarus glanced in his direction, but Isabel didn’t even turn her head. She continued laying into the Master Warden, calling Ahaesarus a traitor for freeing some child whom she saw was “a danger to us all,” telling him he would be punished severely for his crime. Ahaesarus shot back that he did not care. Isabel never once registered Patrick’s presence.

  “MOTHER!” he screamed.

  Isabel wheeled around, rage burning in her green eyes. Patrick was glad for it. At least her anger made her human.

  “Can you not see I am speaking here?” she shrieked.

  He scowled, disobedience rising to the top of his mixed emotions.

  “It is good to see you too, Mother,” he said calmly, “and it brightens my heart to receive such a warm reception.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “You summoned me, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, still seething.

  “Did you receive my letters?”

  “I received them.”

  “That’s all? You received them? You aren’t worried about your daughter, your youngest, the jewel of the family?”

  Isabel shrugged. “No. Nessa went off with you to the delta without my permission. She is your responsibility, not mine. I do not know why you expect me to help find her.”

  His anger churned. “Oh, Mother, there is no need. I have already found her.”

  “Is that so?” Isabel shook her head. “Bring her here, then, so I might discipline her.”

  “I would if I could, Mother, but that would entail marching through the enemy’s army, crossing a few bridges, and traveling deep into Karak’s land. And even if I did all that, I don’t think there is much you could teach a corpse.” Those last words were choked with tears.

  Isabel opened her mouth, shut it again, and then backed up a step.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying your daughter’s dead, O great Lady Isabel,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “I’m saying she was murdered in Neldar and now hangs from the walls of the castle there.”