Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “We mustn’t stop fighting!” screamed Ahaesarus. He jerked his arm free of Mennon’s grasp and then tried to shove Grendel away as well. “It is our duty to protect our wards!”

  “We cannot do that if we are dead,” Grendel snapped back at him. “We must reach higher ground and make our stand there. There is no other—”

  His words were cut short by a burst of bright flashes that soared overhead. Fireballs and the crackle of lightning connected with the oncoming horde, charring a few soldiers, felling others, forcing them back. He glanced behind him and saw Turock’s apprentices, both those who had helped build the wall and those who had returned with him from Drake, approaching in a line. They continued to hurl magic at the enemy, looks of determination on their faces.

  The pounding of hooves came next, and Ahaesarus spun around. At the base of the hill leading to Manse DuTaureau, the mindlessly fleeing citizens of Mordeina suddenly parted, creating a wide path. Down that path galloped a great many men on horses, led by a snarling demon with red hair. It took him a moment to recognize him as Patrick DuTaureau, decked out in ill-fitting armor and wielding a gigantic sword. One of those who followed him was Judarius’s brother, Azariah. A small group of others bore blackened armor similar to the soldiers who were invading their sanctuary.

  “Who are they?” he heard Grendel ask.

  “The survivors from Lerder, and some of those who traveled with Ashhur,” Mennon answered. “The ones who made camp on the other side of the hill. It appears to be…all of them. And the newcomers. The Karak deserters.”

  “What do you say we rejoin the fight, my brother?” Ahaesarus asked. The fireballs and lightning from the spellcasters continued to flash overhead as he put his body in motion, charging back toward the conflict without waiting for an answer.

  There were so many of them, flooding through the wall like some acidic liquid.

  Patrick rode at the head of his own personal phalanx—two hundred and seventy-three brave men and women who had made the journey down the Gods’ Road and through the forests of Paradise, losing all they ever had to reach the safety of Mordeina. Only now that safety was badly threatened. The Wardens were outnumbered, and Patrick’s friends and neighbors were ill prepared to fight for their lives. And now there was a breach in the wall, and the soldiers were coming.

  It was Haven all over again, and Patrick knew deep down that this was the end for him. He had seen the staggering numbers Karak had brought with him from Neldar. Fifteen thousand trained soldiers against barely four hundred courageous yet unskilled defenders. Not the best odds, he thought with a scowl.

  “Come, with me!” he shouted, Winterbone held high above his head as his mare hurtled toward the gap in the wall. The thousands who were fleeing barely gave him a second look, focusing instead on finding whatever shelter they could in a land of elongated flatlands and sparse forests. “Do not be cowards! Fight for your lives!”

  It seemed none were listening, but then he saw flashes of light to his left. Swiveling around, he caught sight of a gaggle of bearded men he had never seen before, who were marching down the hill toward the conflict, their hands raised as if performing some strange dance. Fire and lightning leapt from their fingers, bombarding the attacking soldiers. Magic. Spellcasters. Turock.

  At least someone else was willing to listen.

  His excitement growing, Patrick leaned forward in his saddle and drove his mare at a faster clip. He held Winterbone out to the side now, facing forward like a lance. The three captains on horseback were charging toward him, detonations sounding behind them.

  “Azariah!” he shouted.

  The Warden’s white steed galloped alongside him, and Azariah’s green eyes met his. Patrick could tell that the shortest Warden was terrified.

  “Lead the others onto the hill with the magic users!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “Their soldiers are on foot, which gives you the advantage.”

  “And what of you?” asked the Warden, though it was hard to hear him over the pounding of hooves and the roar of fire.

  He jutted his chin ahead. “I’ll take out their leaders.”

  Azariah nodded and then veered off to the left, climbing the hill that bordered the manse. Patrick heard the Warden shout, and then watched as his poorly trained crew followed him. The last one to look his way was young Tristan, once again dressed in the armor he had worn for most of their acquaintance. The youngster blew him a kiss before riding off, following closely behind Preston and his six brothers-in-arms. Good-bye, brave warrior. Let us die well.

  Patrick took a deep breath, leaned forward once again, and focused on the three captains. They were so close now that he could see the whites of their eyes through the great helms they wore.

  When the three captains were mere feet away, the closest two widened the gap between them, raising their swords to chop at him from either side. Instead of trying to engage them, Patrick took a chance; he grabbed Winterbone with both hands, uttered a profanity-laced prayer to Ashhur, and rolled out of the saddle to the right, toward two of the captains. He held his sword’s hilt tight to his midsection, the blade extending from him like it grew from his belly, and maneuvered his body in midair. A pair of blades passed over his head, and then his sword found purchase in the abdomen of the closest captain’s horse. Flesh tore open, and blood and a mound of intestines fell on Patrick’s face. Momentarily blinded, he struck the ground on his left side, losing the air in his lungs, but he rotated swiftly, trying to avoid the dying horse’s hooves while blindly slashing Winterbone at the second beast. He felt another strong jarring pull, and then the sword ripped free of its quarry. He whipped off his gore-splattered half helm to see that he’d clipped the back of the second horse’s leg. The animal careened to the ground and rolled, crushing its rider beneath it.

  Patrick got to his feet as quick as he could and thrust the tip of his sword through the eye slit of the first rider, whose leg was wedged beneath his now dead horse. He then wheeled around at the sound of charging hooves, ducking as another sword sailed over his head. The blade glanced off his hump, which was thankfully layered with chainmail, though the impact struck fresh agony down his spine.

  Once more he swiveled, watching as the last remaining captain circled him. He stood his ground, elbow cocked by his ear, holding Winterbone at a slight downward angle as Corton had taught him. He did not move until the captain swung his blade. Then he dipped and drove upward, allowing his enemy’s sword to skim past his ear while the tip of his own blade found a gap in the soldier’s platemail. Once the man was impaled on his sword, he shifted his weight and flung the captain from his saddle. Winterbone’s bloody tip slid out of the man’s armor, sending him hurtling through the air. He landed on his face with a sickening crunch as his body flopped in the other direction. The body offered a couple of final shudders, and then fell still.

  Patrick looked around for his mare, but could not see it. There were horses everywhere now, running around him on all sides. Riding them were extremely frightened looking men and women wearing roughspun and holding sticks and gardening tools as bludgeons. They finally understand. Patrick grinned ear to ear, admiring the courage these people were showing, and then spun around and began running toward the raging battle.

  The Wardens, many of the survivors of the journey to Mordeina from the other side of the Corinth, and Preston’s crew had all descended the hill and were locked in a losing struggle. Karak’s soldiers still poured through the walls, shoving back the defenders. With everyone fighting in such close proximity, the spellcasters were forced to aim their magic deeper into Karak’s ranks, slowing their forward flow.

  Blood and bodies were strewn everywhere, the victims from Paradise and Neldar alike. The conflict was chaotic, an undulating mass of struggling bodies that surged forward and back, forward and back. Patrick remained on the outskirts, hacking down those he could, trying to order his fellow defenders into forming a wall, but none could hear him. So he kept on attacking, shoutin
g obscenities with each thrust, each parry, each arcing blow, even as his body began to tire and pain shot up his uneven legs. Despite all the blood he was spilling, it seemed hopeless, especially when a sword pieced his lower back, where his chainmail was thinnest, running him through. He shrieked and spun around, burying Winterbone in the shoulder of the young soldier who had injured him. He almost halved the man with the blow, and his sword became lodged in the soldier’s chest. Patrick collapsed to his knees, clutching the spot where the enemy’s blade had exited his stomach, trying to stop the blood flow. He remembered the moment he had gutted Joseph Crestwell on the battlefield in Haven. He did not feel like he was dying, but perhaps he was being paid back in kind.

  “In any case, this is a good death,” he whispered with a laugh.

  The soldiers rushed around him, pressing ever inward. This was it. He tore Winterbone from the soldier’s cadaver and lifted it, his body leaking from its many wounds, and battled them back. He fought with such intensity that the ground seemed to shake beneath his feet, rumbling and creaking, affecting all around him. The ground then shook so hard that he was knocked to his knees, and he remained there, panting, trying to regain his equilibrium.

  What the fuck? Patrick wondered.

  The roar of thunder came next, followed by what sounded like a mountain crumbling to the ground. Then came the screams, and Patrick rose once more, looking on in awe as the earth beneath the hole in the wall split open. Pointed spires emerged from within the chasm, impaling soldiers who had yet to cross through the breach as they rose upward. It was an immense tree, and it grew up and up, higher and taller, its base widening, stretching across the length of the hole. The soldiers skewered on its many branches struggled and thrashed, until the limbs grew in width and their bodies were torn asunder, raining gore onto the ground below. Leaves sprouted, a fiery burst of yellow and red bathing the city in its shaded aura.

  The rumbling stopped, and so did the battle. All eyes turned to the newly formed tree, whose surface was a spiraling pattern of thick veins and tough bark. It looked to be the hugest and strongest tree in the world, and it plugged the hole that had been blown into the walls without a gap.

  Patrick began to chuckle, which evolved into light laughter and finally an all-out guffaw.

  “She did it, my Grace,” he managed to choke out. “Celestia…loves…you!” He could feel eyes upon him as he laughed, but didn’t care.

  The only thing that stopped his bout of madness was the sound of Preston’s voice, loud and authoritative, rising above the din of whispers and the shrieks of the dying.

  “It is not over!” the man said. “The enemy is within your gates! The children of Karak who have killed your brothers, your sisters, your Wardens! They are trapped here! Take them down!”

  The bestial cry of a thousand voices rose up, and Patrick lent his voice to the fray. He felt lightheaded and weak, but he moved to charge anyway, hefting Winterbone in the air. Powerful hands grabbed him, halting his progress and dropping him flat on his back.

  “Let me go, you son of a whore!” he screamed.

  The bloodied face of Master Warden Ahaesarus loomed above him.

  “Quiet,” the Warden told him. “You are badly injured.”

  “But I need to help them!” he protested, thrashing wildly. “Let me help them!”

  “There is no need,” said another voice, and then Azariah’s face appeared as well. “The children of Ashhur can care for themselves.”

  The dark-haired Warden shifted to the side to grant him a view of the proceedings, and Patrick rose up on his elbows. He looked on as Preston and Judarius led their charges, a blend of men and women trained by Patrick, Wardens, spellcasters, and countless everyday citizens of Paradise rushing against Karak’s now fleeing soldiers. The enemy’s men ran headlong into the tree blocking their exit, trying to scale it, but their fingers could find no purchase in its bark. All of the soldiers, both those attempting to flee and those attempting to fight, were overrun by the massive swarm of angry people defending their home. Screams filled the air anew, and though it was a horrid sound, Patrick thought there was a sweet ring to it.

  “We did it,” he said softly. “We lived.”

  “For now,” replied Ahaesarus. “And only with the goddess’s help.”

  “Thank the stars for her,” muttered Azariah.

  “Does Ashhur know what happened?” asked Patrick. “Where is he?”

  The two Wardens shared a look but said nothing.

  “You know what? I don’t care,” said Patrick. “Just heal me already.”

  He reclined on his back and felt the warmth of the Wardens’ hands as they chanted above him. He allowed that feeling, and the screams of the dying, to wash over him as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Velixar looked on, stupefied, as a giant tree sprouted from the ground, filling the gap in the wall created by Karak’s firestorm. Those who had been standing nearby when it emerged from the earth had been knocked backward by its rapid ascension, while still others were impaled on its branches. The two stone walls groaned, rivulets of cracks spreading as the tree pushed its boundaries against their limits, sealing out even the slightest gaps. The soldiers of the third and fourth vanguards backed away from the tree, appearing uncertain. Lord Commander Gregorian rode his horse along the wall, inspecting the new obstacle, craning his neck to see the top, before turning his horse around and trotting back to join his charges.

  Karak watched in silence, the glow of his eyes intensified a hundredfold.

  “What happened, my Lord?” Velixar asked. The deity glanced over at him and then approached the massive new growth, veering around the liquefied bodies of the grayhorns. Karak stopped before the tree and rammed a fist into it. It was solid as stone. Not even a piece of bark crumbled beneath his blow.

  Screams erupted from the other side of the wall, and Velixar knew what that meant. The soldiers who had been abandoned were being slaughtered.

  “Was it Ashhur?” asked Velixar once his god returned to him.

  Karak shook his head.

  “That tree is thicker than steel. My brother doesn’t have enough power to create that. It seems as though Celestia has showed her hand.”

  A lump formed in Velixar’s throat, but he did not say a word.

  Karak’s glowing eyes lifted skyward. “You have shown your true colors,” he shouted to the heavens. “Let us see how far you wish to go.” He stepped back and lifted his hand as he had before, uttering words of magic.

  “No, my Lord!” he yelled. “Not with so many so close!”

  The deity continued with his spell. Velixar quickly spun his horse away from the wall, hurrying in the opposite direction. “Run, all of you!” he shouted at the other soldiers who still stood in formation, a few hundred feet away.

  A second fireball formed, illuminating the dead earth in glowing reds and yellows. The air hissed around it as it soared through the sky. Velixar allowed himself a single upward glance as his horse raced away from the walls, and he noticed that this fireball was smaller than the first. He ducked his head and drove his horse to a faster pace.

  His flight proved unnecessary, for a sound like someone striking an enormous drum came next, deafening him for a moment until all sound disappeared. After a brief flash of brightness, the ground beneath him went dark once more.

  Velixar pulled back on his horse’s reins and turned in his saddle, looked on as Karak stared at the sky. He was about to say something, but thought better of it. The god’s shoulders slumped, and he appeared exhausted.

  He swiveled his horse around and cantered back to his deity. Karak glanced over at him, a tired smile on his face. “Celestia is protecting him,” he said. “She swatted aside my magic.”

  “Do you wish to try again?” asked Velixar.

  Karak shook his head as he stared at his hands. “It would do no good. I am weakened, and the goddess’s magic is stronger than my own. We will have to do this another way.”

  With that
, Karak pivoted on his heels and began to march back toward the bulk of his force, which remained a half mile away.

  “Lord Commander!” he shouted.

  Velixar kept pace with Karak, while Malcolm, who had been organizing the troops who were closest to the wall when the second fireball came, rode out to greet them. Finally he reached the god’s side, and Karak addressed them both.

  “Velixar, find a courier to send to Dezerea. I want Darakken here as quickly as possible. As for you, Malcolm, fit the men with axes. Fell as many trees as you can, as quickly as you can. And have those who are not swinging axes begin to build the camp.”

  “What is the plan now, my Divinity?” asked Malcolm, bowing respectfully before his god.

  “We build armaments. And ladders. And catapults. I will show you how.”

  “Why, my Lord?” Velixar asked.

  Karak grinned. There was anger in the expression, yes, but he swore he saw excitement as well.

  “We begin the siege. We show no mercy. We will kill every last one of them, my brother and his harlot included.”

  EPILOGUE

  The courtyard of Palace Thyne was filled to near capacity. The Quellan Ekreissar were situated to the right, heads held high and fists pressed firmly over their hearts. The elves glared across the courtyard at the human soldiers, who stood tall and proud as well, their polished armor gleaming under the late afternoon sun.

  There was obvious dislike between the two groups, and Ceredon couldn’t help but think that was foolish, seeing as they were the same beings wearing different skins. Both sides followed the orders of their superiors, seemingly without question; both sides would take an innocent life if it were demanded of them. All of which made the disdain they showed one another laughable.

  “A soldier is noble,” he whispered through his gag. “A soldier protects those who cannot protect themselves.”

  Those had been the words of Cleotis Meln, the dearly departed Lord of Stonewood. Ceredon had heard him say that to his father, the Neyvar, during the Tournament of Betrothal so many months ago. He knew not the topic of their discussion or why such a subject would even be broached. All he knew was that there was noble wisdom in the simple statement, the type that seemed to have been banished from Dezrel.