David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“We miss our home,” added Aully. Her insides clenched. “ I miss my home. We don’t belong here, Bardiya.”

The giant smiled at her, held out his hand. She went to him and accepted his embrace. His body swallowed hers like she was a mouse, but rather than being scared, she actually found it comforting. She suddenly wished Bardiya would cast aside his beliefs and join them. Should their assumptions prove wrong, it would be advantageous to have a giant on their side…even if that giant seemed to ache every time he moved.

“When will you be departing?” she heard him ask from above her.

“In two days,” her mother’s voice answered. “We will string our own bows and take what weapons we require from the cache, and then we will be gone.”

“I will miss you,” said Bardiya.

Aully leaned back. “Not too much, though,” she said, grinning. “We’ll be sure to come visit often after we retake the forest.”

“You do that,” the giant replied.

From the look on his face, she could tell he didn’t believe a word of it.

Bardiya watched as the Stonewood Dezren walked back to their camp. The sun was descending in the sky, casting a glow around the elves as they moved steadily away from him. It made them look like celestial beings descended from on high to walk among them, a thought that made him shudder.

He stole a glance at Ki-Nan, who shielded his eyes with one hand as he waved with the other. His friend was smiling, but he had known Ki-Nan for long enough to know that his expression was less than sincere. He had been much more terse than usual since his return, with occasional dark moods.

“What bothers you?” he asked finally.

Ki-Nan turned to him. “Nothing, Brother. Why?”

“You cannot lie to me. I know you too well. Tell me.”

“You already know,” Ki-Nan said with a sigh. “I won’t go over this again.”

Bardiya grunted. He and Ki-Nan had taken to debating the virtues of peace and nonviolence almost nightly since his friend had emerged grievously wounded from his skiff. Only recently had those arguments come to an end, and not because the two had reached an agreement-it was simply easier for them to ignore the issue. But there was no ignoring it now, not when his friend’s gaze constantly returned to the buried crates and the sharpened steel that resided within.

“I only ask you to trust my judgment,” Bardiya insisted. “These tools of destruction are evil. They’re not welcome in Ker, nor will they ever be.”

“We already fashion our own spears and arrows,” Ki-Nan said. “Is a sword really so different? Seems to me they serve the same basic purpose-slicing flesh, bringing blood. One is simply more efficient than the other. That does not make them evil.”

“Evil does not lie in the practicality of the tool, but in the intention . You know this as well as I. We use arrows and spears to feed our families. When we end an animal’s life, we put it to good use. Its meat fills our bellies, and its hide creates our clothing. We use it for survival. The sword, on the other hand, is used only to main and kill. There is no practicality, no pure intention.”

“Is destroying those who might destroy us not necessary for survival?”

“You know how I feel.”

“Very well, Brother. Have it your way.”

Bardiya sighed. “I wish you understood my words.”

“I do. I simply don’t agree.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then trust me on this.”

He shook his head. “I’ve tried, Brother, but I cannot.”

“You wish to hold on to these weapons, don’t you?”

He nodded.

Bardiya squeezed his eyes shut. “Please know that I will not give you the chance,” he said. “Once the Dezren have taken what they need, I will cast the crates back into the ocean. I will not stand by as you rally my people to violence.”

“ Your people?” Ki-Nan said with a laugh. “Last I knew, they were our people, Brother. People brought up to live free in a land of peace. They can make their own choices, just as we can.” He shook his head. “It is the same tired argument, over and over. Do as you must to convince our people to put out their necks. I will do what I can to convince them to fight.”

“You will lose,” Bardiya whispered.

“We will see,” his friend said. He then turned to Bardiya and offered an exaggerated bow. “Until then, I will bother you no more, your Grace ,” he said mockingly.

With those words, he walked away, following the path the Dezren forged back toward Ang. Unlike the elves, his body was not wreathed in light. Instead, darkness surrounded him, as if all the brightness had been swallowed the closer it got to his dark flesh. Bardiya leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands.

“You will see, my friend,” he told the air around him. “I will make you understand.”

Two days later, the Dezren departed for their home, taking with them twenty-five swords, twelve daggers, and three battle-axes.

Three days later, when Bardiya returned to cast the boxes of terror into the sea, he found that the crates, and Ki-Nan, had disappeared.

For days without end, Ceredon blinked in and out of consciousness, the potions the Quellan healers had given him to ease his pain leaving him in a state of delirium. At times he cursed his foolishness for demanding that Thane be so brutal.

He rolled over in bed, a spike of pain stabbing through him. His left arm had been broken, along with five ribs, his right foot, and his nose. His body was covered with lacerations and deep gouges which the healers had treated with boiling wine to ward off infection. Biden, sworn healer to the Neyvar, had told him he was lucky to have survived. Ceredon had chuckled at that, knowing as he did that luck had nothing to do with it.

Ceredon had been found on the path to the hills by the retreating Ekreissar, who were fleeing from the rebel’s supposed hideaway. Sixteen had been killed by booby traps-swinging spiked logs, deep covered holes, and bolts fired by tripwire. After stumbling on Ceredon’s unmoving body, they’d scooped him up and carried him back to Palace Thyne. Ever since, he had resided in the room down the hall from his father’s.

The human Clovis Crestwell had come to question him more than once, asking him why he and Aeson had been separated from the rangers, a question to which Ceredon always shrugged in response. He claimed he couldn’t remember, which wasn’t a complete lie. His brain had been jarred by Thane’s beating, leaving him with only spotty memories of that night.

At least he was spared questions regarding Aeson’s whereabouts, as pieces of the Neyvar’s cousin had been found scattered throughout the forest in the days following the attack. Iolas had broken the sad news to him, the old bastard nearly in tears as he sat on the edge of the younger elf’s sickbed. Ceredon found it quite humorous that Iolas trusted him enough to show weakness, considering the fact that the last living member of the Triad was the final one on his hit list.

Thoughts of Iolas brought him to wakefulness. He sat up groggily, glancing about his shimmering emerald room, then through the window at the night sky twinkling with stars. He wore no clothes, and the wounds covering his body still stung beneath their wrappings. His mouth felt parched, so he reached over and snatched a cup of water from atop the table next to his bed. After he downed the liquid in one gulp, his senses began to return to him, which was when he smelled the lingering odor of the half-full chamber pot on the floor beside him. He doubled over, gagging, then reached for the wooden jug that sat on the table for more water. It was empty.