David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Then it came to him. He had been in Manse DuTaureau, arguing with Isabel about what his punishment should be for releasing Geris Felhorn from his prison, when her son Patrick barged in with his incendiary revelation. After that he had left Isabel to her tears and walked down the path to the gate to rejoin his regiment of Wardens and a few of Turock Escheton’s pupils. Almost as soon as he’d arrived, he was temporarily blinded and blown backward by a massive explosion. He remembered seeing Ashhur atop that wall moments before his world became a complete whiteout, and he flung his head from side to side, searching in a panic. It did not take him long to spot the western deity, sprawled out on the ground a few hundred feet away, surrounded by a congress of Wardens. Judarius was among them, a wound between his green and gold-flecked eyes leaking blood. His fellow Lordship mentor shouted out orders. Ashhur’s arms were grabbed, and the Wardens proceeded to lug him across the debris-littered ground.

A horn sounded, drawing Ahaesarus’s attention back to the gaping fissure in Mordeina’s wall. The gap was wide enough for twenty grayhorns to stride through abreast of one another. He peered through the smoke and flames, watching as a considerable number of black shapes moved ever closer to the enclosed settlement. He stood on shaky legs, stumbling over corpses and chunks of wall. It was hard to see clearly through the smoke, but he swore there was a strange sort of lightning striking the ground on the other side. What followed were inhuman howls, and the repetitious clomp-clomp-clomp of charging horses’ hooves.

Not a moment later, three men came charging through the smoking breach atop majestic black chargers. They wore full plate armor, painted black, and great helms covering their faces. Each helm was adorned with a pair of horns, like a bull’s, and the soldiers’ breastplates bore the roaring lion of Karak. The three stopped once they reached open ground, spinning about on their chargers. The one in the center lifted his helm, exposing the youthful face of a young man no older than twenty, and then brought a horn to his lips and blew it in the direction of the aperture. That done, he returned the horn to his saddlebag and drew his sword, waving it in circles above his head. Before his helm was pulled back over his face, Ahaesarus caught a glimpse of his eyes. His gaze was hard and intense for a youth, much like Wallace’s when faced with Turock’s interrogation.

The roar of a mob followed, riotous like a legion of drunkards after a night of inebriation, and a stream of armor-clad men came screaming through the breach. They ran with their weapons held out before them, madness in their eyes. Any stragglers were cut down instantly, their blood filling the air. The people shrieked, fleeing as fast as they could, only to be slaughtered by the three who had rode on horseback.

“We must fight!” he heard someone yell, and Ahaesarus spun around to see Judarius leading a cluster of Wardens toward the invading soldiers. Mennon was with him, as were Ludwig and Florio and Judah and thirty others. The soldiers kept coming, their numbers too great to count, their movements too frantic for Ahaesarus to follow.

Steel met steel with a violent clang .

He then remembered what he had told Isabel before Lady DuTaureau had sent him to Drake: “If any were to lash out at Ashhur’s children, I would strike them down or perish trying. And when Karak arrives on our doorstep, he will discover just how much I mean those words.”

It was time for that pronouncement to become a reality.

Ahaesarus swallowed his fear and charged into the melee with a roar. His fist flew, connected with the head of a helmless soldier. The young man’s head snapped to the side and he crumpled to the ground. Ahaesarus dodged the thrust of yet another soldier, slid to the ground, and lifted the sword of the man he had struck. He was not skilled with it, but what he lacked in skill he made up for with determination. He wielded the sword like he would wield his sickle back in Algrahar when it came time to trim his fields, swiping it wildly back and forth, keeping his motions low. He hacked off feet and clanged the weapon against thighs enclosed in chainmail. A blade pierced his side, but he barely felt it. Instead he looped around, catching the one who’d stabbed him with an elbow to the chin. The man fell to the side, howling, only to be replaced by another. Ahaesarus kept fighting, even though he was rapidly tiring as he became drenched in blood.

Something hard caught him underneath the chin. The force of the blow was enough to snap his head back and make him bite his tongue. Ahaesarus stumbled, barely keeping hold of his sword, and collapsed to his knees. Hands were on him in an instant, yanking him backward by the arms.

“No!” he shouted, struggling against his captors.

“Stop fighting!” shouted a familiar voice.

When Ahaesarus craned his neck, he saw that Mennon and Grendel were the ones lugging him away from the battle. He heard screams and looked down again. More and more soldiers poured through the hole in the wall like ants from a mound, at least three hundred of them. Any who stood in their way, Warden and human alike, were slaughtered. And in the midst of it all Judarius stood tall, swinging a massive club of stone, pummeling those unlucky enough to stand within reach.

“We mustn’t stop fighting!” screamed Ahaesarus. He jerked his arm free of Mennon’s grasp and then tried to shove Grendel away as well. “It is our duty to protect our wards!”

“We cannot do that if we are dead,” Grendel snapped back at him. “We must reach higher ground and make our stand there. There is no other-”

His words were cut short by a burst of bright flashes that soared overhead. Fireballs and the crackle of lightning connected with the oncoming horde, charring a few soldiers, felling others, forcing them back . He glanced behind him and saw Turock’s apprentices, both those who had helped build the wall and those who had returned with him from Drake, approaching in a line. They continued to hurl magic at the enemy, looks of determination on their faces.

The pounding of hooves came next, and Ahaesarus spun around. At the base of the hill leading to Manse DuTaureau, the mindlessly fleeing citizens of Mordeina suddenly parted, creating a wide path. Down that path galloped a great many men on horses, led by a snarling demon with red hair. It took him a moment to recognize him as Patrick DuTaureau, decked out in ill-fitting armor and wielding a gigantic sword. One of those who followed him was Judarius’s brother, Azariah. A small group of others bore blackened armor similar to the soldiers who were invading their sanctuary.

“Who are they ?” he heard Grendel ask.

“The survivors from Lerder, and some of those who traveled with Ashhur,” Mennon answered. “The ones who made camp on the other side of the hill. It appears to be…all of them. And the newcomers. The Karak deserters.”

“What do you say we rejoin the fight, my brother?” Ahaesarus asked. The fireballs and lightning from the spellcasters continued to flash overhead as he put his body in motion, charging back toward the conflict without waiting for an answer.

There were so many of them, flooding through the wall like some acidic liquid.

Patrick rode at the head of his own personal phalanx-two hundred and seventy-three brave men and women who had made the journey down the Gods’ Road and through the forests of Paradise, losing all they ever had to reach the safety of Mordeina. Only now that safety was badly threatened. The Wardens were outnumbered, and Patrick’s friends and neighbors were ill prepared to fight for their lives. And now there was a breach in the wall, and the soldiers were coming.