David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Romeo and Cleo both rose from their seats as he approached. Bren just stared at him, looking pale from blood loss. Romeo stepped around the table.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked. Amazingly enough, the fat man seemed nervous.

“We have a deal,” he answered, and stuck out his hand.

Cleo began clapping in that queer fashion of his while they shook.

“My only question,” said Matthew, “is how I am supposed to get the goods to the people they’re meant for?”

“Fear not,” Romeo said. “We have that covered. On the last night of spring, we shall send a boat to retrieve them. Until then, enjoy the goods we have given you, which is another great show of trust on our part.” He jutted his chin at Bren. “But do not betray us, Matthew, for I’m certain your brute will do little to defend you should we send our master of arms, Quester the Crimson Sword, to collect on your debt.”

“You will get what we discussed,” said Matthew. “When I make a deal, it is final.”

“I know,” Romeo said with a grin. “Which is why we came to you first.”

They released each other’s hands and stepped away. Cleo came up and patted his brother on the shoulder while Bren struggled to rise from his chair. Moira appeared by his side and helped him stand. Matthew hoped his bodyguard hadn’t lost too much blood to recover. Though an oaf, Bren really was the best protection money could buy. He nodded to both of them, and they started for the curtain.

“Oh, dear Matthew, one more thing,” Cleo sang out before they left the room.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Do you still have the monstrosity your great-grandfather crafted for Karak when the Mount Hailen armory first opened?”

“The sword? Yes, I have it still. Why do you ask?”

“We wish to include that huge blade in our deal. If it would please you, of course. You can pack it in the crates with the others.”

Matthew shrugged.

“Fine. It’s an eyesore anyway. But why?”

Romeo laughed. “Let us say we intend it as a gift for a giant.”

All had been calm for hours on end. The birds in the trees tweeted; the insects chirped; the water in the stream flowed in a steady, calming rush. Bardiya’s felt connected to those birds, those insects, the fish that darted through that water. In this isolated patch of forest outside of his village of Ang, he felt completely at peace while making his morning prayers.

It was true he missed the soul tree, the oddity of nature that sprouted in the plains bordering the Gods’ Road, but the journey there and back took at least half a day. As the new spiritual leader of his people, in the wake of his parents’ death, he could not afford to be away for so long. Ang and the whole unofficial province of Ker needed him.

A tickling sensation overcame him, interrupting his prayers. He opened his eyes, his body tingling all over, and looked down at his giant hands. They were open in his lap, resting atop his bulbous knees. A brightly colored caterpillar inched across his left palm. On his right perched a butterfly, its gentle wings splayed out, displaying blocks of vibrant orange and yellow.

“Why, hello there,” he whispered. He lifted his hands to get a closer look at the two creatures. The insects were illustrations of perfection-each part of them had a design, a purpose. They were the embodiment of the life cycle, childhood on the left, adulthood on the right. All Bardiya had to do to bring the circle to a close was curl his fingers into fists.

Instead, he blew gently across his right palm, sending the butterfly’s wings flapping as it rose into the air. The caterpillar he urged to crawl onto the bark of the spruce tree behind him. He then leaned forward, dipped his fingers into the bubbling stream, and splashed cold, refreshing water on his face.

Raised voices pulled him away from his meditations. He lifted his head, water dripping from his chin, and spotted two dark figures swiftly maneuvering down the vine-covered cliff face on the other side of the stream. The interlopers’ flesh was dark like his, and one of them held a thick walking stick to offset a pronounced limp. He knew them immediately-Gordo Hempsmen and Tuan Littlefoot. He could tell by the way they carried themselves. Bardiya prided himself on his attention to detail. There was not a man or woman among his people whom he could not identify simply by gazing at his or her feet.

Gordo and Tuan reached the bottom of the cliff face, stopping on the rocks that formed the opposite bank of the stream. Gordo leaned against a tree, his mouth set in a grimace. His hip had been badly injured in the mangold grove the day Bardiya’s parents were slaughtered by the elf, Ethir Ayers, and his henchmen. Though Bardiya had mended the man’s wound as best he could, it remained painful. “You will limp the rest of your days,” he’d told him, “but at least you will not need a cane.”

Bardiya craned his neck, staring at the shoulder wound he had incurred that same day. He touched the spot, an eight-inch lump of scar tissue, and offered a silent prayer to Ashhur.

The two men stared at him from across the stream. Bardiya braced his right hand on the ground and rose to his feet. His body was wracked with another spasm of pain as he moved. It was the ache of growth, a sensation he’d come to both honor and deride over the many, many years of his life. Just like his faith, his form never ceased to expand. His height had reached eleven feet, dwarfing each and every one of his people and making him nearly as tall as Ashhur himself.

“How are Tulani and Keisha?” he asked Gordo as he cracked his sore back.

“They are fine,” the man replied. “Just as they were when you asked yesterday.”

“Each day carries its own burdens and joys,” said Bardiya.

Gordo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate the concern, my friend.”

“There is no need to apologize.”

Tuan stepped forward, kneeling before the stream.

“Bardiya, your presence is required in the village square,” he said.

“Very well. What is this about?”

“A few things, actually,” said Gordo. “A group of men returned from a hunting trip two days ago, telling wild tales. Then two girls who wandered close to the Rigon came running home with reports of soldiers marching on the other side of the river. We would have ignored both reports if Onna Lensbrough had not run up to the rocks this morning, after fishing, with a similar tale. Tuan decided we should call an assembly, if only to quell the peoples’ fears, so I did.”

“A smart decision,” Bardiya said.

“Thank you, Bardiya,” Tuan said, bowing low.

“Please, do not bow,” Bardiya said. “Save any reverence you would show me for Ashhur himself. I am only a servant among you all.”

Tuan looked embarrassed as he rose to his feet and said, “I’m sorry.”

Bardiya laughed heartily. “Think nothing of it, Tuan. Now let us go so I may speak with our people.”

He stepped across the stream in a single stride and followed Gordo and Tuan back up the steep cliff. Once they reached the top, they exited the thin line of trees. A seemingly endless sea of swaying prairie grasses opened up before them, concealing the way back home.

For a normal human, the trek from Ang to the secluded forest would take forty minutes. On his own, given the immense length of his legs, Bardiya could make it in half that. In this instance he took it slow, shortening his strides so he could stay with Gordo and Tuan. He would not show them disrespect by leaving them behind.

When they finally arrived at the village, hundreds of people awaited in the center square. Ang was a quaint village, dotted with simple yet durable wooden shelters sealed with a thick mixture of pine sap and clay. The few tents were used to shield the village’s reservoirs of food from insects and other predators. Bessus and Damaspia had quickly learned that any shelter they built would have to be constructed of solid wood to endure the unpredictable weather on Dezrel’s lower west coast, especially the massive storms of the late summer months.