David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Patrick frowned. “Come again?”

Big bent over, picked up a rock, and began scraping it against his breastplate. The crude white paint gradually chipped away, revealing the roaring lion beneath. The image was scratched a bit, but it was difficult to tell in the moonlight.

“We’re soldiers of Karak,” Little said, joining his brother’s side. “What better way to set the others at ease than if we come bearing a prisoner?”

Preston snapped his fingers. “Yes,” he said, excitedly. “We have a DuTaureau here, after all. What a wondrous gift that would be. We march down, say we were separated from our regiment, and found this one wandering through the desert. And then, when they drop their guard…”

“Um, excuse me, I’m right here,” Patrick said, his heartbeat quickening. “I don’t think I like this plan very much. The part where I’m dragged into the middle of Karak’s entire army as a prisoner is rubbing me the wrong way.”

Preston turned to him, half grinning. “What, has our brave Patrick suddenly gone soft? You were the one who said we needed to cross now. Besides, sooner or later, the regiment we abandoned will arrive, which would make this even more dangerous. If you don’t like our plan, you’d better think up an alternative fast. I don’t think this collection of dolts is likely to come up with a better one.”

“Fabulous.”

“Oh, and one more thing. We must be quick. Patrick, do you remember the huge pavilion that sat toward the front of the camp?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s probably Karak’s pavilion, which means we must hurry past it at all costs. So we had best present ourselves and then make a run for it before the god himself gets involved.”

“What if someone decides to escort me away?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Er, mostly. So long as we’re quick about it.”

Patrick moaned, dropping his head. “This keeps getting better and better.”

Half an hour later, after the others had scraped the paint from their breastplates as well, the entire party marched over the hill. Dawn was fast approaching, the black of the night sky deepening in readiness for it. All were atop their horses, and Patrick rode between Preston and Edward, a rope binding his mare to theirs. Patrick’s wrists were bound too, though the knot was loose enough for him to wiggle his hands free if need be. He still wore his half helm, pulled low to mostly cover his twisted nose. Winterbone bounced on Preston’s lap, and Patrick gazed at the sword longingly. It was the first time it had been out of his reach in over a year, and it felt as if a part of him were missing.

The camp stirred as they made their approach, and seeing it up close, Patrick was more awed and terrified than ever. Preston had guessed that ten thousand soldiers were gathered here, and while the multitudes traveling with Ashhur was perhaps three times that many, the numbers Karak had amassed were imminently more dangerous. And they were so organized ; the tents had been erected in even rows, a cookfire between every two of them, entirely different from the slapdash and jumbled camps set up by Ashhur’s people. Weary soldiers marched outside the rows, guarding those inside from whatever dangers the night offered.

They passed a few sentries when they crossed the high grasses at the base of the hill and reached the edge of the camp. The guards allowed them passage without question-with Patrick hidden in the middle of the group, their torches only revealed breastplates that bore the roaring lion.

Farther on, past the guards, the space between tents was only wide enough for a single horse, so they split off into two columns as they trotted through. Preston took the lead, with Patrick directly behind him, the old man’s rope now the only one tethered to the neck of Patrick’s mare. He looked down at the cloth enclosures as he passed them, his eyes fixing on the stacks of swords, mauls, and axes that lay beside each tent, twinkling in the moonlight as if they’d been freshly sharpened and oiled. He could hear the snores and night mumblings of those who slept within the tents, and realized right then how vulnerable they were. All it would take would be one misstep, and thousands of soldiers would emerge and give chase. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image, but he saw the potential horror even more clearly in the darkness behind his eyelids.

When they finally reached the Gods’ Road, passing a mere ten feet or so in front of Karak’s massive pavilion, the two columns combined once more. Edward retied his rope to the neck of Patrick’s horse, and father and son led the approach to the bridge. A few random soldiers appeared, dressed only in filthy smallclothes and stumbling drunk. None seemed to pay them any mind. One even collided with Ragnar’s horse and then staggered in the other direction, muttering something about wolves in the night. Patrick gazed at the man with confusion, longing for a drink himself. He would do anything to get his heart to stop thumping so quickly.

His heart rate only increased when he glanced to the right. They seemed to have gained the attention of the elves pacing the tents close to the forest. Celestia’s children gathered in a line, watching the procession with interest. They were still a good distance away, but that fact gave Patrick little relief. He had heard stories of their proficiency as archers, and he watched as two of the elves picked up their bows, slinging them over their shoulders. Only when the massive stable of horses obstructed his sight of them did he allow himself to even breathe.

He wasn’t the only one. All it took was a single glance around him to see that the youngsters felt just as unsure as he did. Only Preston and the Flicks seemed to exude any confidence.

They had almost reached the Wooden Bridge when finally someone shouted for them to halt. Each horse stopped, one after the other, and the beasts sidled nervously in place, blowing air from their snouts. Patrick bowed his head and held his hands out in front of him, making sure his binds were prominently displayed.

“Remember,” Preston said from the corner of his mouth, “I do the talking. The rest of you stay quiet.”

“What?” Ryann asked from the back of the pack.

Brick jabbed him with an elbow. “Shut it!” he hissed.

“What’s going on here?”

Patrick lifted his head ever so slightly to look at the three approaching soldiers. They wore no helms and their gaits were cautious. Their hands rested lightly on the hilts of their swords, ready for confrontation if one were required.

“Who am I speaking with?” asked Preston with a commanding tone.

“Nicholas Potter,” said the one in the center. “Captain of Karak’s Third Regiment.” He stepped forward, and Patrick could see he was a handsome young man, with a slender jaw and piercing blue eyes that glowed in the moonlight. His hair was quite long, hanging to his breast, and wavy. He would make a beautiful woman, Patrick thought, and had to keep from chuckling.

Preston inclined his head. “Captain, be well met on this eve. But did you say Karak’s Third Regiment?”

“I did,” the man said. “I’m new to command because of the unfortunate loss of the late Captain Oscar Wellington.”

“Such a shame,” Preston said, talking as if in no great hurry. He dipped his head in respect. “Oscar was a good man, I have heard. Consider us well met, Captain Potter. I am Preston Ender, of Karak’s Second, in service of the Lord Commander.”

Nicholas’s head tilted to the side. He seemed to be studying Preston’s breastplate. His fingers inched down his side ever so slightly, and Patrick tensed.

“The Second, eh?” he said. “They aren’t expected to arrive until two days from now. You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be, soldier.”