David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

It was Haven all over again, and Patrick knew deep down that this was the end for him. He had seen the staggering numbers Karak had brought with him from Neldar. Fifteen thousand trained soldiers against barely four hundred courageous yet unskilled defenders. Not the best odds, he thought with a scowl.

“Come, with me!” he shouted, Winterbone held high above his head as his mare hurtled toward the gap in the wall. The thousands who were fleeing barely gave him a second look, focusing instead on finding whatever shelter they could in a land of elongated flatlands and sparse forests. “Do not be cowards! Fight for your lives!”

It seemed none were listening, but then he saw flashes of light to his left. Swiveling around, he caught sight of a gaggle of bearded men he had never seen before, who were marching down the hill toward the conflict, their hands raised as if performing some strange dance. Fire and lightning leapt from their fingers, bombarding the attacking soldiers. Magic. Spellcasters. Turock .

At least someone else was willing to listen.

His excitement growing, Patrick leaned forward in his saddle and drove his mare at a faster clip. He held Winterbone out to the side now, facing forward like a lance. The three captains on horseback were charging toward him, detonations sounding behind them.

“Azariah!” he shouted.

The Warden’s white steed galloped alongside him, and Azariah’s green eyes met his. Patrick could tell that the shortest Warden was terrified.

“Lead the others onto the hill with the magic users!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “Their soldiers are on foot, which gives you the advantage.”

“And what of you?” asked the Warden, though it was hard to hear him over the pounding of hooves and the roar of fire.

He jutted his chin ahead. “I’ll take out their leaders.”

Azariah nodded and then veered off to the left, climbing the hill that bordered the manse. Patrick heard the Warden shout, and then watched as his poorly trained crew followed him. The last one to look his way was young Tristan, once again dressed in the armor he had worn for most of their acquaintance. The youngster blew him a kiss before riding off, following closely behind Preston and his six brothers-in-arms. Good-bye, brave warrior. Let us die well.

Patrick took a deep breath, leaned forward once again, and focused on the three captains. They were so close now that he could see the whites of their eyes through the great helms they wore.

When the three captains were mere feet away, the closest two widened the gap between them, raising their swords to chop at him from either side. Instead of trying to engage them, Patrick took a chance; he grabbed Winterbone with both hands, uttered a profanity-laced prayer to Ashhur, and rolled out of the saddle to the right, toward two of the captains. He held his sword’s hilt tight to his midsection, the blade extending from him like it grew from his belly, and maneuvered his body in midair. A pair of blades passed over his head, and then his sword found purchase in the abdomen of the closest captain’s horse. Flesh tore open, and blood and a mound of intestines fell on Patrick’s face. Momentarily blinded, he struck the ground on his left side, losing the air in his lungs, but he rotated swiftly, trying to avoid the dying horse’s hooves while blindly slashing Winterbone at the second beast. He felt another strong jarring pull, and then the sword ripped free of its quarry. He whipped off his gore-splattered half helm to see that he’d clipped the back of the second horse’s leg. The animal careened to the ground and rolled, crushing its rider beneath it.

Patrick got to his feet as quick as he could and thrust the tip of his sword through the eye slit of the first rider, whose leg was wedged beneath his now dead horse. He then wheeled around at the sound of charging hooves, ducking as another sword sailed over his head. The blade glanced off his hump, which was thankfully layered with chainmail, though the impact struck fresh agony down his spine.

Once more he swiveled, watching as the last remaining captain circled him. He stood his ground, elbow cocked by his ear, holding Winterbone at a slight downward angle as Corton had taught him. He did not move until the captain swung his blade. Then he dipped and drove upward, allowing his enemy’s sword to skim past his ear while the tip of his own blade found a gap in the soldier’s platemail. Once the man was impaled on his sword, he shifted his weight and flung the captain from his saddle. Winterbone’s bloody tip slid out of the man’s armor, sending him hurtling through the air. He landed on his face with a sickening crunch as his body flopped in the other direction. The body offered a couple of final shudders, and then fell still.

Patrick looked around for his mare, but could not see it. There were horses everywhere now, running around him on all sides. Riding them were extremely frightened looking men and women wearing roughspun and holding sticks and gardening tools as bludgeons. They finally understand. Patrick grinned ear to ear, admiring the courage these people were showing, and then spun around and began running toward the raging battle.

The Wardens, many of the survivors of the journey to Mordeina from the other side of the Corinth, and Preston’s crew had all descended the hill and were locked in a losing struggle. Karak’s soldiers still poured through the walls, shoving back the defenders. With everyone fighting in such close proximity, the spellcasters were forced to aim their magic deeper into Karak’s ranks, slowing their forward flow.

Blood and bodies were strewn everywhere, the victims from Paradise and Neldar alike. The conflict was chaotic, an undulating mass of struggling bodies that surged forward and back, forward and back. Patrick remained on the outskirts, hacking down those he could, trying to order his fellow defenders into forming a wall, but none could hear him. So he kept on attacking, shouting obscenities with each thrust, each parry, each arcing blow, even as his body began to tire and pain shot up his uneven legs. Despite all the blood he was spilling, it seemed hopeless, especially when a sword pieced his lower back, where his chainmail was thinnest, running him through. He shrieked and spun around, burying Winterbone in the shoulder of the young soldier who had injured him. He almost halved the man with the blow, and his sword became lodged in the soldier’s chest. Patrick collapsed to his knees, clutching the spot where the enemy’s blade had exited his stomach, trying to stop the blood flow. He remembered the moment he had gutted Joseph Crestwell on the battlefield in Haven. He did not feel like he was dying, but perhaps he was being paid back in kind.

“In any case, this is a good death,” he whispered with a laugh.

The soldiers rushed around him, pressing ever inward. This was it. He tore Winterbone from the soldier’s cadaver and lifted it, his body leaking from its many wounds, and battled them back. He fought with such intensity that the ground seemed to shake beneath his feet, rumbling and creaking, affecting all around him. The ground then shook so hard that he was knocked to his knees, and he remained there, panting, trying to regain his equilibrium.

What the fuck? Patrick wondered.

The roar of thunder came next, followed by what sounded like a mountain crumbling to the ground. Then came the screams, and Patrick rose once more, looking on in awe as the earth beneath the hole in the wall split open. Pointed spires emerged from within the chasm, impaling soldiers who had yet to cross through the breach as they rose upward. It was an immense tree, and it grew up and up, higher and taller, its base widening, stretching across the length of the hole. The soldiers skewered on its many branches struggled and thrashed, until the limbs grew in width and their bodies were torn asunder, raining gore onto the ground below. Leaves sprouted, a fiery burst of yellow and red bathing the city in its shaded aura.