David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying the wrong thing,” the great betrayer of Ashhur had said. “There is only so much silence a man can take.”

It was time to put those words into practice.

Ahaesarus pulled up a chair and sat across from the bound man. He asked no questions and expected no answers. All he did was sit, his gaze never leaving the prisoner’s face. For a while the man was admirable in his fortitude, standing tall in his restraints, his blood-splattered chin held high. But after what felt like an eternity, when the sounds of the first stirrings in camp came seeping through the thick walls, he began to crack.

“Wallace,” he muttered, his voice raspy.

“Say again?”

“Wallace. My name is Wallace.”

“Thank you, Wallace.” He stood, retrieved a pitcher of water from the table in the corner, and poured liquid over Wallace’s parched lips.

There was silence again for a few moments, until Wallace, some of his many wounds still seeping blood, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

“Karak forgive me,” he said.

“For what?” asked Ahaesarus.

He took a deep breath.

“I will give you two questions. You are a Warden, so you will know that what I say is truthful. After that I will say nothing more, and I ask that you end my life quickly. I do not wish to endure more of the angry man in the funny cloak.”

“Very well,” Ahaesarus said, inclining his head. The aura seeping out of this Wallace told him he was a man of his word. No matter what he or Turock did to him after those two questions were asked, they would get no more answers. The amount of discipline he showed was breathtaking. If this is the type of dedication Ashhur must face…

He retook his chair and threw one leg over the other, his mind racing. Wallace leaned his head back against the post, closed his eyes, and waited.

Settling on his first question, Ahaesarus asked, “How long have you been in the northern deadlands?”

“Too long,” the prisoner replied. His eyes opened sleepily. “Though in truth, it must be eighteen months, give or take. I was the trusted council of Uther Crestwell, whose authority I supplanted after his death.”

It was the truth. Ahaesarus almost asked how many were in his force, which should have been the first question, but he snapped his mouth shut. Wallace was laying a trap for him, one he could ill afford to fall into. Two questions. He cursed his stupidity.

He nodded instead.

“Anything else?” asked Wallace again.

“One moment.”

He mulled it over, trying to craft the one question that would give him the most information. There was simply too much he needed to know. He could ask for Karak’s plan, but Wallace was an underling, a man in command of a force stationed far from those assaulting from the east. It was unlikely he would know anything but his own group’s role. Ahaesarus closed his eyes and prayed to the god who had saved him, asking for guidance. The right question came to him almost at once, and his eyes sprang open.

“How will you rejoin Karak?” he asked.

Wallace sighed, a tired smile coming across his dry lips.

“We won’t,” he said. “My duty ends here, on the banks of the Gihon.”

Again, it was the truth. Ahaesarus gaped at him. “What does that mean?”

“Two questions, no more. You have your answers. Now fulfill your promise.”

Ahaesarus stood once more, his thoughts whirling in his skull. He hovered in the empty space between the prisoner and the door, unsure of what to do. Had he doomed those he had been sent here to protect? He buried his face in his hands, praying again for guidance.

“Your promise, Warden,” said Wallace.

Ahaesarus ignored him. “Please, Ashhur, I am your humble servant. Give me your wisdom.”

He took a deep breath, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. He felt a presence then, as if another entity were looking through his eyes and weighing his options, with him. As the presence retreated, a vision entered his mind, and a hornlike bleating sounded, so deep and loud that it shook the stone walls surrounding them. He looked over at Wallace, whose eyes were wide with bewilderment.

“What was that?” the prisoner asked.

A second, then a third, then a fourth bleat joined the first, until the air was rocked by a relentless concussive assault. The barred door shook on its hinges, and voices shouted from outside, demanding entry. The Master Warden heard a voice in his ear, a command to travel south, and his body flooded with relief.

“What was that ?” repeated Wallace, sounding desperate.

Ahaesarus offered a prayer of thanks to his distant god, then turned to the prisoner.

“No questions,” he said. “Your reward is waiting.”

He placed his huge hands on either side of Wallace’s head and jerked it violently to the side. The man’s neck snapped, severing his spinal column. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his final breaths bursting forth raggedly. Ahaesarus released him, let his head dangle on his fractured neck as bloody spittle dripped from his mouth. He felt sick at the sight of the body, the very first life ended by his hands, but he did his best to shove aside his feelings of guilt. Ashhur forgive me for this horror. He rushed to the door, threw aside the bar, and opened it to find Turock, Uulon, Judah, and Grendel standing there panting. Meanwhile, the bellowing hornlike sounds continued to blare.

Turock was enraged when he spotted Wallace’s dangling corpse.

“You killed our prisoner!” he shouted.

Ahaesarus shoved him aside.

“I gave him mercy,” he answered, approaching his two fellow Wardens. “And he told us all we needed to know.”

“And the sound?” asked Judah. “What is it?”

“The battle cry of the grayhorns,” Ahaesarus said with a nod, thinking of what Ashhur had shown him in his vision. “Grendel, get the others. We are leaving this place.”

“You can’t do that!” protested Turock, following on their heels as they strode down the corridor.

“You told me you wished for me to leave.”

“I changed my mind!”

Ahaesarus didn’t answer him. They walked out of the tower and into a morning that was nearly blinding in its brightness. The people of the camp all seemed to be awake, glancing around in confusion as the grayhorns’ bleating continued to sound. Only after Grendel ran off to gather up the other Wardens did Ahaesarus turn to face the spellcaster. He continued to follow the path alongside the mountain as he looked at Turock, heading toward the rise that hid the camp from view. The greyhorns were much louder here, almost swallowing all other sounds.

“We are done here,” he said. “Our duty lies to the south, in Mordeina. That is where we are needed most, as are your spellcasters.”

Turock shook his head.

“But what of those across the river? What happens when they attack? You came here to assist us! Are you saying you wish us to abandon our homes ?”

“I came to assist Ashhur,” he shot back. “To protect Paradise from destruction.” He waved his arm back toward the river. “This is merely a diversion. The force gathered in the Tinderlands is a distraction, nothing more. Karak or Jacob or someone decided the best way to weaken Ashhur’s defenses was to thin out his resources.” He looked down at the strange man, whose bloodstained robe billowed around him as he struggled to match the Warden’s much longer strides. “They consider those you have trained to be the biggest threat to their victory, so they will continue to torment you and keep you guessing. Those across the river are willing to give their own lives to keep you out of the way. They know they cannot win against those you have trained, but they do not care.”