David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“You grew up here,” he said, “yet you seem shocked. Why?”

“Because that wall wasn’t here when I left,” Patrick said. “There were fields and forests and rolling hills for as far as the eye could see.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been home, eh?”

“It has. At least a year, give or take a month.”

Preston grabbed his arm.

“You’ve only been gone a year?”

Patrick nodded.

“And now there’s a huge wall around the city?”

“That’s no city. It’s not even as advanced as Haven was. I would say it’s more like a…huge collection of well-built tents.”

“Not really the point I was making,” said Preston. “It would not be humanly possible to raise a wall that large that quickly. By Karak’s stinking nutsack, when my sons and I built the wall around our field in Felwood, it took three months to finish…and was only three feet high, circling a single field!”

Patrick shrugged. “That was you and your sons. Trust me when I say that Mordeina is home to more than three people.”

“I don’t care. Even ten thousand people slaving away day and night could not have raised this structure in such a short time.” He shook his head adamantly. “It’s not possible.”

“Argue all you want, but it wasn’t there before, and it is now, plain as day. Let’s just thank the stars it’s there instead of bickering about how it was built, eh?”

“I’ll give you that one,” Preston said with a nod.

“Good. Now can I please have my arm back? Hard to ride with one hand, especially for one as top-heavy as me.”

“Sorry.”

The closer they drew to the wall, the more impressive it became. Patrick realized that it was not a single wall, but two, the one in front shorter and gray, with a slightly taller one behind it that was reddish-tan in color. This realization brought on yet another series of admonishments from Preston, which made him shake his head and sigh.

A branch of road from the east led toward the walled settlement, and all eight horses turned onto it. A massive gate loomed before them, its bars made of ominous black iron. Patrick’s face scrunched in confusion, as there was, of course, no mining for steel in Paradise, so far as he knew.

When they reached the gate, Patrick dismounted and walked up to it. He peered through the bars, only to see the secondary wall staring back at him. He had to crane his neck to see the porthole cut into that second wall, itself barred, off to the left.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Anybody there?”

No one replied, but he could clearly hear the clamor of voices and other noises that indicated there were plenty of people inside. He took a step back and looked up. There was nothing to see but the ridged top of the outer wall.

“What’s wrong?” asked Edward.

“No one’s answering,” he said.

Ragnar cleared his throat. “Can we open the gate ourselves?”

“What do you think?” Patrick shot back. “We’re in front of a wall that was obviously built to keep out an army. Do you really think it would be so simple to storm our way in?”

“You never know until you try,” said Joffrey with a shrug.

“The boy has a point,” added Preston.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “But you really think one man could lift this on his own?”

The Flicks, Ragnar, and Edward joined him at the gate, and the youths wrapped their hands around two of the bars. “How’s that?” Big said with a grin.

“Whatever,” Patrick mumbled.

The five of them stooped and shoved upward, and surely enough, the twenty-foot-high gate lifted off the ground, and the sound of pulleys spinning echoed from inside.

“Looks like they were right,” he heard Preston say.

Patrick felt his ears grow hot. He grunted, dug in, and helped the rest shove the gate up as high as they could. He then snatched his mare’s reins in frustration and led the beast through. The horse had to duck in order to avoid impaling its head on the spiked ends of the bars, and the rest followed suit.

The space between the first wall and second was slim, barely ten feet. Simply being in the gap made Patrick feel claustrophobic, with two unscalable walls on either side of him and no way out but through one of those two gates. The effectiveness of such a constricted killing field left him more than a little impressed.

He turned to the left and walked the fifty or so paces leading to the second gate. When he looked through the bars-iron as well, he noticed-he was shocked to discover he could not see the expanse of Mordeina stretching out before him. There were strange rock formations lining the other side of the entrance, blocking his peripheral view, and a mass of people was gathered in between them. The only thing he could see was Manse DuTaureau, looming over everything from its spot on the distant hill.

He tried to lift the second gate, but it didn’t budge. At least this one is locked. “Hey!” he shouted through the bars. “Anyone feel like letting in a tired group of travelers?”

One from the throng between the stone barriers turned his way. It was an older man, someone he recognized but couldn’t place. The dumb smile on the man’s face faltered as he neared the bars, his head cocked to one side.

“Patrick?” he asked finally. “Patrick DuTaureau?”

Patrick stepped away from the gate and gestured to his body. “Anyone else look like this?” he asked.

The man spun around and jogged past the gathering of clueless chatterers, disappearing into the crowd beyond. Patrick could hear his voice shouting out to someone, but there was too much clamor on the other side for him to distinguish his words clearly. The itch of panic made him shuffle his feet. He hadn’t known what to expect in Mordeina, and he wasn’t sure what to make of these new developments.

“What’s going on?” asked Tristan.

“Shush,” Patrick said. “Be patient.”

“Fine,” the youth grumbled.

Patrick rolled his eyes and clenched his fists. Someone had better arrive to let them in soon. Otherwise, he just might smash someone’s head in.

A few minutes later, an imposingly tall figure emerged. He leaned over the group on the other side, saying something inaudible, and the gathering dispersed quickly, as if there were lions on their heels. Patrick grinned as the Warden turned their way and approached the gate. Patrick knew him quite well, and he actually remembered his name.

“Judarius,” he said, nodding to him, “I heard you were here. Pampering a king, as it’s said.”

Judarius’s expression was stony. “How did you get through the gate?” he asked.

“Someone forgot to lock it,” he replied, flexing his fingers. “Pretty easy to open an unlocked gate.”

“Damn,” Judarius grumbled to himself, then turned around and glanced over the stone barriers as if searching for someone. A moment passed before he returned his attention to Patrick. “You are late,” he said, and then he leaned forward, staring at Patrick’s companions. His round eyes widened. “And who are they?”

“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?”