Wrath of Lions (45 page)

“All for the sake of each other,” the god had once said. “With your creator residing in your hearts.”

Patrick suddenly felt very, very small. And stupid.

The next morning came much too quickly, the rising sun baking away the night’s chill and causing waves of heat to rise from the sand. Exhausted, Patrick continued on his western trek, crossing from the desert and into the plains by midday. A horde of antelope bounded in the distance, along with wild horses and a few grazing buffalo. At one point he caught sight of a group of tall, dark-skinned men and women working their way through the grassland, spears and bows in hand. He raised his hand to them, a gesture they returned in kind. The city of Ang was two days south, and he was tempted to go there. Instead he ground his heels into his horse’s flank and kept riding.

He passed a bubbling stream beneath a rocky outcropping and stopped to fill his waterskin and allow his horse a drink. Then it was back in the saddle again, heading toward the red and brown hills in the distance.

At the crest of a weathered hill, he stopped and gazed southwest at a line of great trees in the distance, the edge of the Stonewood Forest. He also saw the jagged gash of the Corinth stretching out in both directions, the flowing waters sparkling beneath the light of day. A smile came on his face, the first in some time. By this hour tomorrow, he would be at the bridge, hopefully following in the footsteps of his god’s massive entourage.

Suddenly, Patrick’s attention was drawn to the sound of gruff murmuring and the scrape of something heavy on stone. His head shot to the side, and he saw a thin stream of smoke rising from behind one of the hills to his right. There were people there, and they were not more than a quarter mile away. He almost let out a shout, calling to those hidden behind the rocky hill, but then stayed his voice. Bardiya had told him his people were forbidden from venturing this close to the river after what had happened to his parents. It might be a group of Stonewood Dezren sitting there, sharpening their khandars and stringing their bows.

Of course, if they
were
elves, he was close enough that their heightened senses would have picked up the sound of his horse’s hooves clomping over the rocks as it crested the hill. So they were either friendly or they were humans…but on which side? Had Karak’s Army moved so far west already? Having avoided the scorched lands closer to the Gods’ Road, Patrick had no way of knowing.

He steered his horse toward the voices, edging it down the hill at a gentle trot. Hearing the sound of laughter, he stopped, cocking his head to listen. The path he was traveling was bordered by a pair of rocky ledges, apparently leading to the speakers. The laughter came again, this time from multiple sources. It sounded strained, almost
nervous, but his ears could just be telling him something he wanted to hear.
Best to avoid them,
he thought. He could circle around one of the hills, get closer to the river, and be out of sight before any were the wiser.

“Fuck Karak.”

The statement echoed through the vale, followed by desperate, hushed petitions for silence. Patrick chuckled, then looked back in the direction of the smoke.

“To the abyss with it,” he muttered. He would likely get along well with anyone willing to shout such a statement. He placed his half helm atop his head and unsheathed Winterbone, propping the heavy blade against his armored shoulder. He then trotted toward the voices.

The group must have detected his approach, for all speaking ceased, and he heard feet shuffling over rocky soil. Patrick swallowed his doubt and pressed onward. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle, mimicking a lighthearted tune the Warden Lavictus used to sing to him when he was young and still wet the bed. He continued to whistle even as he rounded the corner. Strangely, his fear left him, and he became almost giddy with expectation.

What he found was a generous culvert that split the knoll in two. On either side of him were earthen walls, worn smooth by the passage of time. The alcove would be virtually invisible to any wayward eye. The ground was disturbed by tracks, and there were nine horses hovering on the other side of the culvert, but no people. The mounts were adorned with black draping that hung beneath the saddles on their backs, the roaring lion of Karak stitched on them in red. They snorted and kicked up dirt on his arrival, but made no move to flee. The remains of a fire smoldered in the center of the alcove, the source of the smoke.

He pulled on the reins, halting his mare, and continued to whistle while he glanced about him. The stitching on the horses suddenly made him wonder how badly he’d erred. There were a
great many large stones dotting the culvert, most likely the remnants of the earthen walls collapsing, and he spotted something gray behind one of them. His lips squeezed together, cutting off his whistling, and the gray object dipped out of sight.

“Saw you,” he said, clinging to his jovial attitude despite his rising fear. “Come out, come out, little rabbits.”

He heard shuffling, but no one emerged.

Sighing, he said, “By all that is holy, I know you’re there. Just show yourselves already.”

“We want no trouble!” shouted a man’s voice. “Leave us be!”

“Well,” Patrick shouted back, “I want no trouble either. But unfortunately you’re in Ashhur’s land, with Karak’s horses. So you’re either from Neldar, or you stole those horses.”

“How did you find us?” asked the voice.

“Smoke,” he said. “From your fire.”

“I
told
you lighting a fire was stupid!” someone said in an urgent whisper on the other side of him. Patrick turned in that direction.

“Shut up!” said another voice.

Patrick waited a few more seconds, and when no one emerged, he sighed and shook his head.

“I’m waiting,” he said. “Get out here.
Now
.”

Again that metal-sheathed head popped up, only to swiftly disappear.

“We want no trouble,” whoever it was repeated. “We have Karak’s horses, but we hold no loyalty to him. And we’re not thieves, honest. Please, sir, just let us be. We don’t wish to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either.” Patrick grunted as he sheathed Winterbone. He was taking a chance, but it didn’t seem like a very large one. “I simply want to see your faces. Come now, I know I’m ugly, but it’s been a long journey and I’d love some company. Can you not give a wayward traveler that much?”

“You promise not to hurt us?”

“On Ashhur’s immortal soul, I promise.”

Grumbling followed, and soon men appeared from behind their rough stone barriers. There were nine of them, each dressed in silver mail over black boiled leather. The sigils on their chests had been scored over with scratches and crude white paint. Eight of the men were very young and strapping, with the look of the east about them, their locks varying from brilliant silver to russet. One was much older, with a head of full gray hair, though his body looked just as strong and durable as the rest. The elder was strangely familiar, his full beard framing a bent nose that must have been broken many times and a pair of steely gray eyes. The man stood strong and tall, while the others wilted behind him despite their greater numbers. The scene made Patrick laugh.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Patrick said, grinning.

“Who are you?” asked the older man.

“
What
are you?” asked one of the younger ones, obviously louder than he’d expected to since he blushed and moved behind one of his mates. The older man scowled at him.

Patrick squinted, appreciative of the elder’s reaction but not showing it.

“My good man,” he said, “I am from this land. Ashhur made me and my family. You are the trespassers here. If any has a right to demand a name and a story, it is me.”

The older man removed his helm and inclined his head. Drawing his sword from the scabbard on his hip, he drove the tip into the dirt and dropped to one knee. The eight others scrambled to follow his lead. Chainmail jingled as they each tried to find enough space to mimic him. It was truly a comical scene, and in any other circumstance Patrick would have broken down laughing.

“My name is Preston Ender,” the older man said with a tone of great respect. “I come from Felwood, a village in the northern part of Neldar. Until two weeks ago, I served as a soldier in Karak’s Army under the leadership of Lord Commander Avila Crestwell.”

“Ender?” asked Patrick. He snapped his meaty fingers. “I thought you looked familiar. Any relation to Corton?”

Preston smiled softly when he nodded, and the similarity was locked in stone.

“Corton was my older brother. I have not heard that name since he fled to the delta twelve years ago after being accused of bedding Tomas Mudraker’s wife. How could you know his name?”

“I spent some time in the delta,” Patrick replied, feeling dangerously at ease given the man’s similarity to Corton. “Months, in fact. I helped defend Haven and that damn temple when Karak’s forces made their attack.” He patted the dragonglass crystal on Winterbone’s handle. “Your brother taught me everything I know about swordplay. He was a great man. I called him friend.”

“You speak of him in the past.”

Patrick nodded, his smile faltering. “I’m sorry, Preston; he died in the battle at Haven.”

“Did he die a good death?”

“Is there ever such a thing as a good death?”

Preston shrugged.

“Fighting for a cause you believe in? That’s a good death. Protecting someone you love? That’s a good death. Running like a coward to die hungry and alone? That’s the farthest from.”

Patrick chuckled.

“Then consider me privileged to tell you your brother did indeed die a good death, a very good death.”

Preston looked pleased, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. Patrick pointed behind the older man, hoping to get things moving.

“Now enough about good deaths and old friends,” he said. “It saddens me, and I just met
new
friends, so I don’t wish to be sad any longer. Tell me about the rest of you. I’m guessing you all are—how should I put it…deserters?”

Preston stood and stepped to the side, allowing the younger soldiers to line up behind him. He worked his way down the line.
“Deserters indeed, all of us. These two are my sons, Edward and Ragnar; this meaty lad is Brick Mullin; the skinny whelp is Tristan Valeson; the white-haired nymphs are Joffrey Goldenrod and Ryann Matheson; and the two bald behemoths over there are twins, Big Flick and Little Flick.”

“Big and Little, eh?” said Patrick. He was almost eye level with the both of them, even though he sat astride his mare. “How do you tell the difference?”

“It ain’t obvious?” Big Flick asked.

Patrick blinked.

“Uh. No?”

The two laughed as if his comment were hysterical, leaving Patrick bewildered.

“And your name is, my good man?” asked Preston. “If you are indeed our new friend, I should have something to call you.”

“Other than ‘freak,’” Ragnar whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Preston silenced his son by setting the flat edge of his sword to his chin. The youth collapsed, cursing.

“Patrick DuTaureau,” said Patrick, swinging his stunted leg over the horse and jumping from the saddle. “Only son of Isabel and Richard.”

“DuTaureau,” said Preston. The man paused, looking unsure of himself. The others seemed to feel the same way. “So that means you’re from one of Ashhur’s First Families.”

He nodded. “And you know this how?”

Preston shrugged, still seeming uncertain. “We studied all the First Families when we were younger. It’s a tradition that seems to have gone by the wayside over the last forty years or so, but I’ve tried to instill the same quest for knowledge in my own boys. It’s healthy to learn our own history, even if it’s a short one.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Short and boring,” he muttered

“Quiet.”

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s right,” Patrick chortled. “Keep that boy in line.” He wobbled across the short expanse separating him from the nine easterners. He extended his hand and Preston accepted it. Throughout their shake, the older man could not keep his eyes off Patrick’s massive forearms.

“Those are mighty impressive,” he said, a look of awe on his face.

“Your brother thought the same.”

Patrick worked his way down the line, shaking each hand in turn. When he took the hand of the sandy-haired youth named Tristan, the youngster seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but he kept his lips sealed, his eyes averted. In fact, all but Preston and the two Flicks refused to truly look at him, which made Patrick moan inwardly. When he was finished, he stepped back, taking them all in. Part of him thought they looked like a group of guilty children lying to their parents about stealing a loaf of bread.

“You know, you said that until two weeks ago you served in Karak’s Army, but I don’t think you ever said why you stopped. The pay not very good? Perhaps the food was terrible?”

The group fell silent, and Preston cleared his throat before he continued.

“Every person standing here was conscripted into service months ago,” he said. “None of us wished it. My sons and their friends here were guards for the Garland family in Gronswik, and I was second guard master. A convoy came to Tod Garland’s estate, demanding men, and he offered them half his regiment. Not even the high merchants were exempt from paying their dues to the realm. Already having been trained as fighting men, we were shipped off to Haven to join the Lord Commander’s battalion.” The older man swallowed hard but kept his composure. “They made us help clean up the bodies. That’s a hard duty, Patrick, especially when every blackened face might be your brother’s. After that, they sent us south, into the swamps.”

“To do what?” Patrick interrupted.

The others looked away, even Preston.

“We were ordered to leave no survivors,” Big Flick offered. “And so we didn’t.”

The news sent Patrick back a step. He felt stupid for being surprised by it, for hadn’t Peytr Gemcroft sailed to the Pebble Islands to avoid such a fate? Still, part of him had hoped Karak would focus on marching west instead of seeking petty vengeance. He gestured for Preston to continue.