David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

He fell to his knees, and as he prayed, he knew his god would hear.

“My life for you,” he whispered. “Before my faith was hollow. Make it overflowing. Before my faith was weak. Make it strong. Whatever I have done, whatever I may do, it is now all for you. Let your words pass through my lips. I am your prophet, and may I forever speak your truth. Burn away my doubts with fire. The time for them has passed.”

Bleary and weak, he rose to his feet. He felt a strange lightness. Part of him wondered if anything had changed, but deep in his heart he knew. He felt a vast power growing inside him.

The moment was already fleeing, and he felt an intense desire to record it. He rushed to his desk, and then paused, his brow furrowing. He knelt down, searching the shelf beneath it. When his fingers found nothing, he raced through the rest of his pavilion, tearing through his chest of books, his sacks of clothing, his dresser, the coffer where he would store his armor once he removed it, beneath his bedroll. Panic rushed through his veins, causing his wounded temple to throb.

“No, no, no,” he repeated over and over again.

He hunted through the night, even going so far as to question his squires and the soldiers who were camped nearby, but all his searching was for naught. His precious journal was nowhere to be found.

“This isn’t good, is it?”

Patrick glanced beside him. The dim moonlight revealed that Preston was mimicking his posture: flat on his belly, his eye pressed to a looking glass as he cautiously peered over the lip of a rocky knoll. The old man shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said.

“But is it really so bad? It’s night. Most of them are probably sleeping. We could circle around, sticking close to the river, then slip onto the bridge when no one’s paying attention.”

“A fool’s hope,” Preston said. “There are forty men guarding the bridge.” He gestured again to the expanse beyond. “And we would not make it very far in any case. There are eyes watching, and not all of them are human.”

“What’s that mean?”

“See for yourself. Over there, by the trees, to the right of the massive stable of horses.”

He handed Patrick the looking glass, and the crooked man squinted through it. The encampment spread out before him, larger than life. Thousands upon thousands of individual tents of various sizes were perched on either side of the Gods’ Road, interspersed with wagons and the occasional pavilion. Starting a few hundred feet in front of the Wooden Bridge and stretching all along the road’s eastern path, the camp seemed almost as big as Mordeina itself. There appeared to be no end to it. He suppressed a shudder. So many…

Following Preston’s instructions, he found the horses. There looked to be over two hundred of them, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, feed bags fastened around their snouts. He inched the looking glass slightly to the right and spotted six tents that stood out from the rest. These were tall and triangular, with thick poles supporting the leather sides and smoke trailing from the holes in the roofs. There were men pacing around the odd tents, patrolling with their heads held high. Patrick quickly realized what it meant.

He had met few elves in his life. The relationship between the two species was shaky at best, which he understood completely. His mother had told him how Celestia had destroyed their homeland to make way for the dawn of humanity. Yet this, combined with the torching of the innocents in the barn, signified something much stronger than mutual dislike. To have elves marching alongside their army…

“Shit,” he muttered.

One of the pacing elves stopped abruptly, raising his eyes toward Patrick. There’s no way, he thought. At least two miles separated them. There was no way the elf could have heard, could have seen…

Not wanting to take a chance, he slid down the rise a few feet, pulling Preston with him as he dropped out of view.

“What was that for?” the old man asked.

“Just a precaution,” Patrick answered with a wink.

“One looked your way, didn’t he?”

Patrick nodded. Preston patted him on the shoulder.

“Smart choice, then.”

“Thanks.”

They slid down the remainder of the hill, rejoining the young men who waited below. The only cover to be found in the red cliffs was in the hills themselves, which seemed to make them nervous. Tristan flicked small stones against the ground. Joffrey, Brick, and Ryann obsessively brushed their horses, and Preston’s sons Edward and Ragnar worked on sharpening their swords. Only the Flicks seemed at ease; the massive twins were lying down with cloths over their eyes.

Tristan glanced up at their approach. He brushed aside his stringy brown hair and asked, “What’s it look like out there?”

“Crowded,” replied Preston.

“Ashhur or Karak?” Edward asked.

“What do you think, idiot?” snapped Ragnar. “You really think Father would be acting so cautious if it was Ashhur?”

“You have the right of it, son,” Preston said. “Though you’d do well to keep your voices down. The elves have joined Karak’s cause.”

Joffrey moaned. “Elves?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

The two Flicks took that moment to tear the cloths from their faces and sit up. Big looked at Little, then Little asked, “What’s your plan?”

“Not a clue,” Patrick said.

Ryann cleared his throat.

“Um, maybe we could swim?” he said. “Hike back a few miles so we’re out of sight, and then just jump in the river?”

“Not unless we absolutely must,” Preston said, and his tone brooked no argument. “The Corinth is at its highest point because of the rains. The current’s too strong, the span too wide. One of us might get swept away, and I don’t fancy losing any of you.”

“And besides that,” said Patrick, “I can’t swim.” He stepped back and held his arms out as if presenting himself to them. “This handsome body sinks like a rock in the water. Not built for floating, it seems…or much else, really.”

“I could carry you,” Big Flick said.

Patrick laughed.

“I’d like to see you try, but let’s experiment in shallow water first, eh? Besides, we would have to discard our armor, our weapons, and our horses. That hardly sounds like a good idea.”

“How about farther south?” It was Tristan again. “The river seemed to thin out by the tall trees.”

“The river does grow thinner when it passes through Stonewood,” Patrick said. “However, it is a place we’d do best to steer clear of.”

“Why?”

“The elves, remember?” said Preston. “The bridge is guarded, and the countryside is swarming with soldiers. There’s no sneaking across, no disguising ourselves. We might just have to lay low until they leave.”

“That can’t happen,” Patrick said. “Beyond the bridge, the road is pressed by Stonewood on one side and Lake Cor on the other. Given the size of his army, if Karak were to pass before us, there would be no way to get around them until we were within sight of Mordeina. Tens of thousands of men would stand between us and our destination. No, if we do this, we must figure out a way to do it now.”

Everyone groaned except the Flicks, who exchanged a glance and then stood up. Big stepped forward.

“Has the Lord Commander arrived yet?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Preston said. “There were still fresh fires in the distance today, so they’re probably a good couple mile or two away. Why?”

“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t be sneaking at all,” Big said, tilting his head toward Patrick. “Perhaps we can just walk right through the camp?”