David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

He was now hardened, an ageless, oddly shaped warrior, both a taker and a protector of life. When Karak’s forces had fallen on Haven, he’d been on the front lines of the battle, hacking and slashing with his massive sword Winterbone, putting his life on the line to defend a society of outcasts. Fueling him onward had been his feelings for Rachida Gemcroft, the most gorgeous woman he had ever met, who had accepted him without judgment and was now carrying his child within her…a child he would never know. He had recognized the cynical blasphemers of the delta as his true brothers and sisters, closer to his heart than his true family ever had been.

Except for Nessa.

Upon thinking of his youngest sister, his shoulders slumped. Nessa had joined him on his journey to Haven when Jacob Eveningstar-the eventual betrayer of Ashhur-first sent him to the delta. It seemed like so long ago. He hadn’t seen her in the months since she’d disappeared with her lover, Crian. Rumors claimed that the impulsive nymph had fled west into Paradise, but there had been no confirmation of the reports. In each village they entered, he described Nessa in painstaking detail, but his search had borne no fruit. When they visited villages that had trained birds-which were few and far between-he penned letters to his mother, asking after Nessa. So far he had yet to receive a response, but then again, the rapidly growing procession of humanity was never in the same place for long. How would the message even reach him?

As they continued their trek west, the Gods’ Road curved around a massive hunk of red rock and then opened up, becoming wide enough for five horses to march abreast. Patrick remained at the head of the procession, guiding the countless masses onward. The wavering grassland to his left grew less pronounced, and the hills to his right flattened out. They were now on the border of Ker, a sprawling area of Paradise consisting of wide prairies and long stretches of brutal desert. Perhaps two hours farther west, they would come upon what his childhood friend Bardiya had dubbed the soul tree , an expansive cypress that had somehow taken root in the middle of harsh, arid terrain. Patrick felt another of those heart-wrenching pangs. He wished he could see his friend again, could give Bardiya his condolences after the deaths of the giant’s parents, Bessus and Damaspia of the First Family Gorgoros. A part of him also wished he could run headlong into the Stonewood Forest and lay waste to the bastard elves who had murdered them. Yet he would not. Bardiya knew of the coming hostilities, yet he stood steadfast against any show of violence.

“Let him be,” Ashhur had told Patrick. “I will no longer coerce my children into acquiescence. The choice is theirs whether to fight or surrender.”

Patrick thought that was silly, but he stayed his tongue. Ashhur knows what’s best, he’d told himself. But I still wish you would reconsider, old friend.

The road veered in the opposite direction, and the silhouette of the God of Justice, who had moved ahead of the convoy, appeared on the horizon. Ashhur was a magnificent sight to behold, twelve feet tall and wide as a grayhorn, his white robe fluttering in the breeze. The god gazed toward the south, his giant hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Patrick kicked his horse, galloping away from the thousands who followed him.

“Your Grace,” he said as he approached the deity.

“Patrick,” Ashhur replied, his lips spreading into a grin.

“Something interesting out there?”

The god nodded. “Another settlement.”

“Another?” Patrick said with a sigh. He followed his deity’s stare, cupping his palm against his distended brow. A hundred feet or so from the road was a ridge of red clay, and below it he could see a thin plume of smoke. There looked to be a single wooden construction surrounded by a great many tents arranged in a circle. “What’s this one called?”

“Grassmere.”

“Funny name for a hamlet, considering there’s nothing but dirt and twine down there.”

“Places are often named for that which the residents desire to have, but do not.”

Patrick looked to the side of his saddle, where Winterbone was fastened.

“If you say so,” he said.

Ashhur looked down on him and smirked. “Must you always debase my wisdom?”

Patrick slapped his knee. “Only when I realize we actually have to talk to these people, and I’m going to be forced to use these pathetic legs to climb down a slope covered in rocks.”

Ashhur laughed, which warmed Patrick’s insides. The deity had a laugh that could make flowers bloom in wintertime, coupled with a smile that could light up the darkest night. It was disheartening that both were in such short supply of late.

A family of antelope passed through the grasslands to the east as they traversed the rough terrain leading to the earthy settlement of Grassmere. As had become their custom, Patrick and Ashhur were the first to make the trek. The remaining thousands lingered on the road, using the reprieve to rest their legs, drink from their waterskins, or tend to the tired horses and other assorted livestock that accompanied them on their journey. It was only when Patrick had some distance from the procession that he realized just how loud they were. Myriad voices murmuring at once, hundreds of babes wailing, the constant clamor of shuffling feet. In that moment, he realized the hugeness of what they were doing. Ashhur had gathered a traveling city with a population as big as-if not bigger-than that of Mordeina. He was glad he’d never stayed behind to see what the land looked like after they vacated an area. With so many people and animals eating, pissing, and defecating, it could not be a very pretty sight. Or smell.

A massive throng of people greeted them once they reached the base of the plateau. Patrick looked all around him and realized there were no Wardens among the populace. He also noticed that as simple as Grassmere had appeared from far above, it was rather complex up close. There were more animal-hide tents than he’d first assumed, a hundred of them evenly spaced in an ever-widening spiral, all tilted to face the central fire pit. After the last tent in the spiral-the largest, as tall as two men; its canvas still covered with the speckled brown and white fur of the creature whose flesh had created it-there was that single wooden building. The granary, he assumed. Arranged in front of it were abundant gardens shaped in interlocking Ts, forming a geometric pattern that stretched out into the horizon. The gardens took nourishment from a series of narrow ditches that zigzagged between them, which were fed from a fresh spring that formed a shallow pool beside the granary.

Ashhur approached the throng, and they dropped to their knees, bending so low their lips touched the dusty ground. He lifted a small child, the six-month-old infant no larger than an apple in his godly hand, and kissed the babe on the forehead. Ashhur appeared solemn as he watched his creations.

“Rise, my children,” the god said. “Stand, and greet me well.”

The people did as their god told them, their expressions awash with wonder and bewilderment. Just as in every other settlement, the people of this town possessed distinct characteristics-in this instance, deeply tanned flesh, lean builds, and curly, brown- and black-tinged hair. If not for their eyes, which were different shades of deep blue and emerald green, they could have been mistaken for Kerrians, Bardiya’s people and Ashhur’s darker-skinned children.

Then again, almost every person who lived east of the Corinth was of mixed heritage. Gazing upon the beauty of nearly every face he set eyes on, Patrick had to admit that the results were spectacular.