David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

The land flattened out, and he had almost reached the congested walkway leading into the manse when someone tapped on his shoulder.

“Patrick?” a tentative voice asked. He sighed and turned to see a skinny, sandy-haired youth standing there, nervously fidgeting with his hands. For a moment Patrick didn’t recognize the young man, for he had no dirt on his face and was wearing smallclothes in the place of armor.

“Tristan,” he said with a nod. “You look…well.”

“You look like shit,” the youth replied.

“Thanks. Never heard that before.”

“No, I mean you’re pale,” Tristan said, his voice cracking with nerves. “And you got big bags under your eyes. You sick?”

“Yes. No. I’m just…forget it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Patrick sighed. “It’s fine.”

Tristan stayed silent, but would not stop staring at him. Finally, Patrick couldn’t take it anymore.

“Tristan, did you stop me to gaze lovingly into my eyes, or do you have a purpose?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

The youth swallowed hard. “I know. But…listen, this is hard for me.”

“What is?”

“Well…you see…I have something to tell you.”

“Very well. So tell me.”

“I…well…um…it’s like this.…”

Patrick jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the manse. “I have business to attend to now. How about you tell me when I get back?”

“No, this is important.”

“Then spit it out.”

“All right, all right…we were given a place to pitch out tents, down by the wall, with the Wardens,” Tristan said timidly. “Preston’s been teaching them about swordplay, and a few regular folk too.”

“Yes…”

“Wait, I’m getting to the point. A man with black hair wearing a bed sheet came to watch us work, and he started asking us a bunch of questions. Seemed nice enough, though now that I think about it, I don’t remember him smiling.”

“That would probably be mother’s steward, Howard Baedan,” said Patrick. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t smile.”

“Oh. Okay. So anyhow, when Preston asked him where you were, and he said you were off looking for your sister-well, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just…I just…”

He stopped there, his gaze dropping to his feet.

Patrick’s heart began racing.

“Tristan, what does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m sorry we haven’t told you,” the youth said in a low voice.

“Haven’t told me what , Tristan?” Patrick’s heart picked up its pace some more. “Why are you being so cryptic?”

Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it just quickly. He wouldn’t look Patrick in the eye, which was maddening. Patrick’s edginess won out. He grabbed Tristan by his shoulders and shook him. Hard.

“Out with it, boy!” he yelled, drawing the attention of a group chatting nearby.

“I…I don’t know if I can,” he whined.

Patrick shook him harder. “Just fucking tell me!”

“Nessa’s dead!” the youth blurted out.

Patrick froze in place, his fists still squeezing the youth’s shoulders. The entirety of his being went numb, and his powerful hands opened, slipping off the youth who stumbled backward. He stared at Tristan, entranced by the tears rolling down the young man’s cheeks.

“I was born in Veldaren,” Tristan said softly, as if in a dream. “Father served as a squire for Joseph Crestwell when he was a boy, and I was to follow in his footsteps. My brother Leonard squired for Crian. My father’s dead now, and I…I don’t know where my brother is.…” He cleared his throat, looked at the sky, and continued. “One night, a couple months after Karak returned from his absence, Leonard called on me. ‘Something exciting going on,’ he said. ‘You must come to the fountain.’ So Father and I went with him, and we watched as this little redheaded girl was baptized by the Divinity himself. Crian was there too, and the looks they gave each other…”

Tristan wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Go on,” said Patrick. His voice sounded alien to his ears.

“Two days later Leonard called on me again, distraught. He said he’d heard that Crian and Nessa had been murdered, and by Lord Commander Vulfram, of all people. He said it was a lie, that the Lord Commander wouldn’t have done that. I thought he was joking, because he never mentioned it again, not even when he was sent back to Omnmount. I almost forgot about it…until Karak returned from his assault on Haven. Three days later, there were corpses hanging from the walls of the castle in Veldaren. For some reason Nessa was too. The only way I could tell was her curly red hair, because the rest of her-”

Patrick raised his hand. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more.” He gulped down bile, feeling dizzy. “Did all of you know about this?”

“We did,” Tristan said with a hesitant nod. “ Everyone did. The story became a legend throughout all of Karak’s Army. Please believe me, Patrick, we never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to tell you when I first learned your name, but Preston said no. He told us in private that if you truly loved your sister, you might lose control; you might kill us just because we’re from Neldar. Even if you didn’t, he said if we wanted to live, we needed you focused, that having you brood over your sister would make us all dead men.”

Patrick found it difficult to form words.

Tristan swallowed hard. “We are your friends, Patrick. We all love you. And it isn’t a lie. I wish I could take it all away, make her okay again, just so you wouldn’t hurt. Preston does too. Please don’t be mad at us.”

“I know. I’m not,” he replied, and it was true. Though every part of him railed against the story, he felt something during the telling that confirmed its validity. In some ways, a part of him had known it all along. “Thank you for telling me, Tristan. I know that must have been hard.”

Tristan nodded, sniveling. “I’m sorry. Is there anything…?”

Patrick patted him on the shoulder. “There isn’t. Go join your friends. I have something to do.”

The youth turned tail and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Patrick to stew over what he’d just learned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, but in the darkness behind his eyelids he saw Nessa’s face, blackened with rot, empty eye sockets staring blankly ahead while crows pecked at her flesh. His breath began to come in ragged bursts as a lethal combination of rage and sadness built up inside him. He squeezed his hand into a fist and clouted himself in the head once, twice, three times, bringing red flashes into his vision. Through the percussive sound of his heartbeat, he heard a few people shriek. This made him all the angrier. He threw his head back, screamed at the blue morning sky.

In the back of his mind, the inappropriate part of him thought, At least the headache is gone.

His oversized arms swinging wildly, he stormed the rest of the way up the walk and entered Manse DuTaureau. All who saw him gave him a wide berth, and he stared down everyone he passed. A few he even pretended to charge, just to watch them shrink in fear. He felt like the monster he had long been accused of resembling, the Ogre of Haven made flesh.

Howard Baedan was turning the people in the hall away, telling them that King Benjamin was busy at the moment. He did not try to stop Patrick, though; in fact, he left his post when he saw him approaching. Patrick continued down the now empty hall until he reached the central junction. He then veered north, toward the old dining hall, which his mother had reportedly turned into their new king’s throne room. His mind already in a dark place, he scoffed at the notion. A king of Paradise! What a fucking laugh that was. With the way things were going, that king would soon rule a heap of bones.