Wrath of Lions (70 page)

“Friends of mine.”

“They bear the mark of the lion.”

“That they do,” Patrick said with a nod. “Deserters.”

“Deserters?”

Preston stepped up to the bars. “We come here seeking Ashhur’s forgiveness. We wish to offer our services in defense of his people to repay our debt to him.”

“And what kind of debt do you owe?”

Patrick stopped the old soldier before he could answer.

“That doesn’t matter, Judarius. All that
does
matter is that I can vouch for them. These are good men. They will help us.”

“I am not sure if your word is good enough.”

“Is Ashhur here?”

“Yes. In fact, he was worried you would not make it.”

“Well, I did. Ask
him
to let us in if you won’t.”

Judarius scrunched up his mouth.

“There is no need for that,” he said, disappearing to the side of the gate. There was a loud grinding sound as the bars slowly lifted off the ground. Once it was all the way up, Patrick led his new friends into his old home.

Looking to the side, he saw Judarius emerge from a nook between the wall and the stone barrier, where a wooden wheel resided, a heavy hemp rope wound around it and attached to the top of the gate. The Warden walked past him and leaned over the stone barricade.

“Mordecai, find Sheldon Miner and Mattrice DuReiner,” he said to someone on the other side. “They left the outer gate unbarred. Teach them that they cannot do that again.”

“Yes, Judarius,” the unseen Mordecai replied.

Judarius turned to look at them again, running a slender hand through his silky black hair. “I apologize for being less than cordial,” he said. “I have to be careful.”

“Seems you’re the only one who feels that way,” Patrick said. To prove his point, he jabbed his thumb toward the opposite barricade, where the sounds of raucous laughter could be heard.

“Yes,” said Judarius. “The people have much to learn.”

“A little late for that.”

“It is never too late to learn,” Judarius replied.

“It is if you’re dead,” Patrick muttered under his breath as he followed the Warden into the city.

The barricade was taller than Patrick, almost six feet high, and it stretched farther than he’d initially assumed. The man-made tunnel was at least two hundred feet long, and then the whole of Mordeina opened up before him. He gasped as he spun in a circle, his eight travel companions doing the same. The two walls did indeed circle the entire city, rising above the trees in either direction like a pale horizon line. Even more shocking to him was the sheer number of people he saw. The throng of humanity before him made those who had traveled with him and Ashhur look insignificant by comparison. They were everywhere, forming tightly packed groups whose crude shelters and piles of belongings took up nearly every inch of grass on every hill and valley he could see. He did not know how many souls had resided in Mordeina when he left, but there had to be at least four times that many now. Many sets of eyes turned in their direction, and whispers were passed back and forth. Patrick was momentarily confused before he remembered what his cohorts were wearing…and the fact that each of them carried swords, which was not exactly a common sight in Mordeina.

“They are from all over Paradise,” said Judarius, as if reading his thoughts. “Every village, alcove, and settlement from here to Ashhur’s Bridge, and some from as far north as Durham.”

“So many,” said Patrick.

“There are. Warden Leviticus estimates that there are more than two hundred thousand humans in Mordeina. And Leviticus is rarely wrong about these things. He has a nose for mathematics.”

Patrick whistled. “Is the whole enclosure as packed as this?”

“No,” replied Judarius, shaking his head. “Most have chosen to make their homes in the eastern quarter, close to the granaries. The forested areas are still vacant, and only a few thousand chose to settle on the other side of the hill.” He looked down at Patrick. “In fact, that is where some of those who arrived with Ashhur now reside.”

“Huh. Why there and not close to the others?”

“You will have to ask them, I think,” the Warden said.

Preston shoved his way forward, still dragging his steed along behind him. “Tell me, Warden, how were these walls built? Patrick told us they didn’t exist a year ago, but now there is not one wall but two, encircling miles of land. How did you accomplish this?”

Judarius chuckled, though there was very little humor in the sound.

“Teams of men and women, sweating from sunup to sundown, along with four spellcasters from the north.”

“Ah, my brother-in-law’s students. They have talent, I take it?” asked Patrick.

The Warden nodded. “Indeed. Escheton taught them well. With their assistance, we were able to raise three quarters of the outer wall in only eight months.”

“Three quarters? But what of the rest? And what of the inner wall?” Preston asked.

“For that, we required godly assistance,” Judarius replied. “When Ashhur arrived, he not only completed the outer wall but decided it was not enough and raised the second wall as well.” Again, the Warden chuckled. “What took us months to complete took him only three days.”

Patrick grinned. “I bet you wished you hadn’t worked so hard.”

Judarius didn’t reply to that, but he had no need. The look on his face said it all. Instead, he turned to Preston and his gang of youths and said, “Patrick has assured me that you mean to help us, and I will trust his word.” He lifted his hand and snapped, summoning five other Wardens from a nearby group of people. “However, whatever help you have to offer will need to wait. You all look exhausted, filthy, and injured. I ask you all to follow Corrineth to the bathhouse we have built in the valley where the granaries reside. Our healers will help you mend. My only regret is that with so many mouths to feed, we are a bit short on food at the moment.
The most we can offer is rutabaga and beet soup and a few scraps of bacon.”

“I don’t care
what
we eat,” muttered Little Flick. “We’ve had nothing but roots and leaves for weeks.”

“Very well.” A human approached then, a young lad still in his teens, his hair as flaming red as Patrick’s and his face covered with freckles. A team of similar-looking youths gathered behind him. “Paddy and his brothers here will care for your horses,” Judarius said. “Please understand, however, that we will have to strip them of their decorations, as well as those adorning your armor. For obvious reasons.”

“We understand,” said Preston, with a bow, as the gang of youths began to lead their horses away.

“No need to bow.”

“My apologies.”

Patrick punched Preston in the arm, then worked his way down the line, roughhousing the rest of his new friends. “Get going,” he said. “Get tended, and get washed. You all smell like shit.”

“Well, at least we don’t
look
like shit,” he heard Ryann say.

Patrick gave the young man a swift boot in the rear. “Get out of here before I do worse.”

The Wardens led the eight deserters away, leaving Patrick alone with Judarius…or at least however alone anyone could be in the midst of two hundred thousand people.

“You are not leaving with them?” the Warden asked.

Patrick shook his head. “I can’t. I need to speak with Ashhur.”

“I apologize, but that is impossible,” Judarius said with a frown.

“Why?”

“Our Lord is resting now. Has been since he raised the wall. It weakened him far more than I might have expected. Ashhur requested that he not be disturbed while he revitalizes. He wishes to have as much strength as he can when Karak arrives at our gates.”
Judarius gave Patrick a queer look. “The eastern god
is
coming, is he not?”

“He is. In fact, he was mighty close behind us. Had to fight a few of them to get across the bridge. Given how many soldiers there were, I imagine it will take them quite some time to get here. Five days, perhaps six.”

“So you had a confrontation with the God of Order. That explains your…condition.”

“Oh, you mean the fact that we’re all splattered with blood? Yes, we had a run-in…but not with Karak. I don’t think we’d be here otherwise.”

“Very true.”

Patrick gnawed on the inside of his lip. “Listen, Judarius,” he finally said, feeling nervous even to ask, “I need you to tell me something.”

“Of course.”

“Is Nessa here?”

“Nessa, your sister?”

“Yes.”

The Warden shook his head. “Last I knew, she was with you, and your mother has not mentioned her name once in all the time I have been here. Perhaps you might ask her?”

Patrick shook his head, his heart sinking in his chest.

“Trust me, Judarius, my mother knows nothing. If she did, everyone else would as well. She was with the son of Clovis Crestwell when she fled into Paradise. If they were here, the great Isabel DuTaureau would
not
keep it secret.”

The Warden’s green-gold eyes brightened.

“In that case, perhaps she did and is hidden among the crowds? There have been massive clusters arriving nearly every day. She might have slipped in with them.”

Patrick felt a glimmer of hope. That sounded
exactly
like something Nessa would do.

“I’ll do some searching, then. See what I can find.”

“Very well, Patrick, and I wish you luck. If there is anything I can do to help you, please feel free to ask.”

“I will. In the meantime, I think you need a bath yourself. You smell like a grayhorn shit you out.”

The Warden shook his head. “Good day, Patrick, and good luck.”

He turned, walking back toward the blockaded path that led to the gate.

“Wait, Judarius,” he said.

“What is it?” the Warden asked, turning slightly.

“My mother…my father…please don’t tell them I’ve returned. I’d rather do that myself, in my own time.”

Judarius bowed and continued on his way. Patrick hoped the Warden would remain true to his word as he always had in the past. He had absolutely no desire to speak with his parents yet.

He made his way through the throng of people. For the first time in a very long while, he actually felt the weight of his armor, of Winterbone as it bounced on his back. He realized then that he was wincing and scowling, which could have been why many of the people he saw cringed and ducked away from him. Not that he wished otherwise. He found himself feeling irritated by the carefree smiles that painted most every face he laid eyes on, the dismissiveness the people seemed to feel about the danger they would soon be facing. He felt completely alone in the throng.

You are a different animal now,
he reasoned.
But you are not alone. Your god will always be with you.

“Damned inner reason,” he muttered.

Swallowing his anger, he put on the best pleasant face he could muster and dove into the crowds. He searched from one family camp to the next, asking questions as he kept an eye out for Nessa’s bright red shock of hair. None he spoke to admitted to having seen her, and many gaped at him as if he were some idiot for even asking. “Why would your sister be
here
?” one of them asked, hands up in
confusion. “She has a room in the manse. Only a simpleton would think she’d sleep anywhere else.”

It took every last ounce of his restraint to clench his fists and turn away.

Afternoon passed into early evening, and still his search was fruitless. He went from the new arrivals to the longtime residents, knocking on cabin doors and peeling aside yurt flaps. Still, there was no sign of her. He was feeling hopeless when an innocent voice called out his name, and he heard the patter of bare feet running up behind him.

“Nessa?” he said excitedly, spinning around.

A small form collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck. The head pulled back, revealing a nest of sandy blond hair and a slender, pretty face devoid of freckles. Patrick’s heart dropped. The girl kissed his cheek and released his neck, stepping back. The demure smile she wore fell away when he simply stared at her in response.

“You…don’t remember me?”

Patrick cocked his head, then closed his eyes. He saw the girl writhing atop him while her pelvis ground into his.

“Of course. Bethany. How could I have forgotten?”

“Brittany.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The girl bit her lip. “You don’t seem happy to see me,” she said.

“Why should I be? The last time we were together, you said you were only with me in the hopes of having a child, and then you left.”

His words brought back memories of Rachida. He wondered where the splendid woman was now, if she were safe, and if the child he
had
planted in her had been born without complications…

“That was before,” Brittany said, breaking him free of his recollection. “It’s said you’re a hero now, that you battled Karak and beat him back.”

“Don’t believe every story you hear,” he said with a grumble.

She stepped forward and threw her arms around him once more. It aroused him a bit, but only a bit, to realize that she did not seem to mind the grime and dried blood that covered him. However, when he looked in her eyes and saw his reflection, he cringed and pushed her away.

“Not now,” he said. “Not ever again.”

As he walked away from her, that familiar feeling of loneliness swept over him.
You should have just gone with her,
his inner self chastised.
She was willing and eager, and you haven’t been with a woman for months. You need it.

There were tears in his eyes when he said, to nobody in particular, “But that’s not what matters now. Karak’s Army is what matters. Helping Ashhur is what matters. Finding Nessa”—he choked up, which drew odd looks from passersby—“is what matters.”

Deciding he’d had enough of crowds, he maneuvered toward the outskirts, staying as far away from the many groups of people as he could. He made sure to keep space between himself and Manse DuTaureau, fearing that at any moment his mother might emerge from inside, spot him, and flag him down. But she didn’t. Although a great many individuals strolled in and out of the sprawling building his family called home, he saw none of his relatives.