David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“I am,” replied Preston with a nod. “We were sent ahead to scout after we toppled Nor, but we lost the path in a sudden sandstorm. Spent three days in the desert waiting for the rest of the regiment to arrive, but we’d moved too far west. When we saw fires burning to the north of us, we began to follow them, but we had to be careful. We were in Kerrian land, after all. I knew our orders were to leave the dark-skinned people alone, so we had to avoid their hunting parties whenever we came across them.” He shook his head. “And there were many of them.”

The words slipped out of Preston’s lips like practiced vows.

“Praise Karak you stayed safe,” said Nicholas. He walked up to Patrick, nudged his leg. “So what do we have here? Some sort of desert monster?”

“A prisoner,” Preston said. “Found him traveling through the desert. An odd creature, this one.”

“Odd, eh?” The soldier rose up on his toes and tilted back Patrick’s helm, revealing his face. He backed up a step, his nose scrunching up as if he’d tasted something sour. The two soldiers who had joined him burst out laughing.

“What is that?” the captain asked Preston.

“Fuck off,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” he snarled.

Preston cantered up to Nicholas, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s surly, so best be careful. This one claims to be the Ogre of Haven.”

Potter’s eyes widened. Patrick squinted at Preston, wondering why the man had altered his own plan; Patrick DuTaureau would have been a far greater prisoner than some twisted soul whose only claim was monstrosity.

“The Ogre of Haven?” Potter asked. “Are you certain?”

“Not certain, but hopeful.”

“If that is true, his reputation does his ugliness no justice. How did you capture him? I’ve heard the Ogre killed over a hundred of the Divinity’s best men.”

“Stories exaggerate, Captain.” Preston said, but he chuckled, allowing a bit of pride into his voice. “Truth be told, we ambushed him while he slept. Without that weapon of his, he’s just a man like any other.” Preston lifted Winterbone, wincing at the weight of it, and showed the sword to Nicholas.

The captain ran his fingers over the handle, closely inspected the dragonglass crystal affixed to the hilt. Preston pulled the sword slightly out of its scabbard, displaying its cutting edge.

“Handsome weapon,” Nicholas said, glancing up at Patrick. “How did a freakish sheep from the delta come to own it?”

Patrick grinned, the thrill of defiance running hot in his veins.

“I fucked your mother and felt something sharp up there. Turns out it was hidden in her cunt.”

The soldier’s face ran red. He snatched Patrick by the upper crease of his armor and yanked him low, so he could slap him across the head. Patrick’s helm dropped to the damp ground with a splat , and his ears set to ringing. The man then shoved him upright and drew his sword.

“Who are you to insult your better?” the man seethed. “I should cut off your head here and now.”

Preston reacted in a flash, reaching down and grabbing Captain Potter’s sword arm tightly.

“I would think twice about that,” he said, as if talking to one of his boys. “Karak will want to see the prisoner alive. Our god would want to punish the Ogre of Haven himself, I think.”

The captain stepped back and spat to the side in anger. With his neck flushed and his nose flaring, he didn’t look so womanly any longer.

“Very well. Yerdo, Hollen, fetch seven of your brothers, then come with me to wake our Lord.” He offered Patrick one final glare, and there was a sick sort of pride behind his eyes. “We’ll see how painful a death the Divinity offers you, after disturbing him in the middle of the night.”

Patrick didn’t reply, but he wanted to.

“We will remain here and watch over the prisoner,” Preston said.

“You do that.”

Once the two underlings returned with the rest, the ten men marched away from them, heading toward Karak’s pavilion, which was thankfully a good distance away. Six other soldiers stepped forward to take their place, standing shoulder to shoulder across the Gods’ Road. Preston sighed and leaned over.

“Did you have to insult him like that?” he whispered.

Patrick shrugged. “Best to have him angry. An angry man is a careless man. Your brother taught me that. But why did you not tell him who I truly am? Would that not have been more…appealing?”

“Perhaps, but that might have revealed…” The older man averted his eyes, then peered over his shoulder at the six who guarded the road and the thirty who stood watch at the bridge. Just when it seemed Preston was about to answer his question, he said, “Are you ready for this?” instead.

Patrick sighed and slipped one hand from his binds as the rest of the youths gathered in around them. The horses whinnied.

“What are you doing?” asked a strange, accented voice, right when they were preparing to charge.

Patrick leaned back, trying to see beyond Big Flick’s massive body. An elf stood there, his bronze skin turned an odd shade of gray by the moonlight. The elf’s eyes were narrowed, intense, and he held his strange curved sword by his side.

“What business is it of yours, elf?” asked Preston.

“I saw that one gazing over the hillock,” the elf said, pointing at Patrick. “Do prisoners often serve as lookouts in Karak’s Army?”

“Well, no,” Preston said. Patrick could tell his confidence was shaken. He was accustomed to handling men of Karak, but the determined stare of the elf was another matter entirely. “Surely you are mistaken.”

“I know what I saw.” He took a menacing step forward, raising his sword. “That one there can be mistaken for no one else. Dismount, now. Whatever you have planned…”

“Oh, fuck this.”

Patrick ground his knees into his mare, spinning her. In one swift motion he snatched Winterbone’s handle, yanked the sword from the scabbard, and then urged the horse to turn in the opposite direction. The elf reacted quickly, hopping backward and raising his thin blade in defense, but he was not prepared for Patrick’s immense strength. The elf’s sword shattered against Winterbone’s power, and the massive blade carried on, slicing through the elf’s face like it was a block of soft cheese. The top half of his head slid off from the jaw on up, and his body teetered and dropped, blood pouring onto the Gods’ Road.

The soldiers who had been standing before them panicked. They turned tail and ran toward the bridge, screaming for the rest of the men to stand up and fight. Patrick laughed as they ran, the fire of conflict overcoming him. He hadn’t been in battle since Haven. It surprised him to find that he’d missed it.

“You’re enjoying this?” Preston exclaimed when he heard Patrick’s laugh.

“Of course! Aren’t we soldiers? Now ride-ride, and run over any who bar your path!”

With that, Preston drew his sword, shouted “Heeya!” and drove his knees into his stallion. The beast took off at a gallop, Patrick at his heels. He heard a litany of hooves pounding behind him, and despite his exhilaration, he hoped it was the rest of their party and not a group of Karak’s men running them down from the rear.

Preston felled the first of defender of the bridge with a single downward chop. The other soldiers closed in, screaming bloody murder as they flailed at them with swords, axes and mauls. Patrick feared for the rest of his party, but he knew he could not spare them attention. He looped Winterbone with a single arm, hacking through armor and flesh alike as his horse crashed into the soldiers’ line. Blood splattered him each time he connected, coating his armor, soaking his smallclothes, staining his flesh. He didn’t care. A primal roar vibrated up his throat and he simply kept on hewing, even as his horse slowed to maneuver around the living obstacles standing in its way.