David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Recognizing face after face, he called out to those whose names he remembered and offered warm hugs to those he didn’t. An endless stream of gratitude was offered to him, spoken in hushed and weary tones.

“We never thought you would return.”

“We thought you had died.…Thank Ashhur, you haven’t.”

“You were missed, my friend.”

“Good to have you back.”

“Thank the gods you were returned to us safely.”

On and on it went, the greetings stretching on for nearly an hour, until finally Patrick was approached by a teen boy with a somber face. The boy said nothing, simply wrapped his arms around Patrick’s thick shoulders and held him tightly.

“Missed you too, Barclay,” he said.

The boy squeezed him tighter, so tight that the ridge of his breastplate began to dig into his side.

“Whoa there, boy. That actually hurts.”

“Sorry.”

When Barclay pulled back, tears were dribbling down his dirty cheeks.

“It was not the same when you left,” the boy said, wiping snot from his nose with the back of his hand.

“I apologize for that, but there was something that needed doing.”

“Will you leave again?”

“Not until it’s all over.”

The boy smiled a little at that. “After we kick Karak in the nuts, right?”

“Right,” Patrick replied with a chuckle. “A swipe here, a lunge there, and we’ll have him.”

Barclay’s face lit up suddenly. “Oh, I need to show you something,” he said with excitement. He grabbed Patrick’s hand and yanked him through the crowd. Patrick was amazed at how strong the boy’s grip was.

Moments later, they emerged in front of a hastily constructed shanty made from a few felled tree limbs and topped with a bed of leaves. Barclay’s father, Noonan, sat in front of a clay pot filled with boiling liquid atop a fire, surrounded by his wife and many children. The man offered Patrick an appreciative nod but did not stand to greet him. It was understandable, given that his children kept pestering him about how much their tummies hurt.

Barclay stopped on the other side of the firepit, where a dull gray sword rested against the rocks. The boy grabbed the handle and lifted it. The blade was a decent size, two and a half feet long, and Barclay needed both hands to keep it steady. He turned to Patrick, doing his best to mimic the stance his hero had demonstrated to the many visitors who had decided to remain in their homes even after Ashhur warned them of what was coming.

“Your back foot is in the wrong position,” Patrick said, “and your back is too hunched. Otherwise, nice form.”

Barclay corrected what was wrong, standing even taller now. “See? I was listening,” he said.

“You were,” Patrick said with a nod. “Though I must ask where you came by that sword.”

The boy lowered the blade, staring at it as he did so. Though the metal was old and faded and not entirely sharp, it was solidly made. Patrick could tell as much from the grip, which did not wobble when the boy tilted it from one side to the other.

“A Warden gave it to me.”

“A Warden? Which one?”

“Don’t know his name. Short black hair, bright green eyes, short for a Warden. He and a bunch of other folks came upon us while we were still on the Gods’ Road. He was really hurt, and Father helped heal him.”

“Where did they come from?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Barclay’s face twisted up in concentration; then he nodded and said, “Lerder. They said they came from Lerder.”

“Azariah.”

“Uh-huh. That’s his name. How did you know?”

“Long story.” Patrick looked about him, rising up on his toes to try to see over the crowd. There were few Wardens present, and none of them matched the description of Judarius’s brother. “And where is he now, Barclay?”

“Where is who?”

“The Warden. Azariah.”

“Oh. He’s in the woods with a girl. Saying good-bye to a friend. They’ve been there for a couple days now.”

Patrick turned toward the birch forest. “In there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He reached out and ruffled Barclay’s hair. “Thank you, boy. We’ll chat soon.”

“You’re leaving? But I wanted you to show me some new stances!”

“When I come back,” said Patrick, and turned away from him.

The birch forest felt smaller and more cramped to him than it once had, and the trees were packed so tightly together he had to turn his armored body sideways to slip between them. The sound of light sobbing guided his steps.

Soon he reached the clearing where he had spent many afternoons alone as a child. His feet got tangled up in a thick nest of vines, and he literally fell out of the woods, landing on his knees. Someone gasped. Glancing up, he saw a very pretty young woman with hair just as black as that of the Warden who stood beside her, only hers was curly. She stared in his direction, a look of surprise on her face, signaling Azariah to do the same.

“Who are you?” asked the young woman.

“That would be Patrick DuTaureau,” said Azariah.

“DuTaureau…of the First Family DuTaureau?”

“That’s the one,” Patrick said, picking himself up off the ground and brushing dirt off his clothes.

“I heard you were dead,” Azariah said.

“No such luck, old friend. Still very much alive.”

“I see. Well, that is good.”

Patrick cocked his head, staring at the Warden in confusion. Azariah and Judarius had been two of his mother’s favorite Wardens, the personal teachers to him and his sisters. He had always felt a strong connection with Azariah, in particular, and an appreciation for the Warden’s offbeat humor and sense of adventure. However, neither trait was in evidence at the moment.

“Az, what is wrong with you…?”

He required no answer, for when he shifted his eyes to the right he spotted a stack of stripped kindling. Atop the pile of wood was a strange lump surrounded by flowers. Patrick shuffled forward, peered down at the wood pile, and saw the lump for what it was.

A body.

“Oh shit.”

He turned to the young woman, whose eyes had exploded with fresh tears. She leaned into Azariah, sobbing against his chest, while the Warden stroked her coiled black hair.

“That’s Roland,” Patrick said softly.

Azariah nodded.

He had known Roland Norsman for only a short time, having met the strapping young man in the aftermath of Ashhur and Karak’s confrontation in Haven. Though their time together had been brief-barely two months had passed on the road before Roland had chosen to stay in Lerder with Azariah-he had made quite an impression on Patrick as a strong-willed, intelligent lad who was completely dedicated to their god. He had been Jacob Eveningstar’s steward before the First Man’s betrayal of Ashhur, and Patrick had sensed that he’d held onto the pain of that betrayal, growing from it.

And now, just like so many others in the delta and Paradise, he was gone.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

The girl sobbed harder.

“We were about to cross the Wooden Bridge,” said Azariah, his eyes locked on the body, “when Jacob descended on us with twenty men.”

“So the First Man is taking an active role in Karak’s war.”

The Warden nodded. “And he would have killed us all had I not sensed a strange presence in the forest. These creatures bore Ashhur’s touch, and when I prayed for assistance, they barreled out from the trees-wolves turned men. They attacked the soldiers, allowing those who fled Lerder to escape across the bridge. Roland and I were the last to cross, and we were halfway to freedom, riding fast atop my horse, when an arrow pierced his back.”

Patrick shook his head.