David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

The closer Roland got, the clearer his view. There were eight-no, nine-men wearing all black, brandishing blades similar to the ones Karak’s soldiers had used in Haven. They had hopped the short wall and were attacking a pack of Lerder natives, hacking and slashing with their swords. A man fell, his chest split open. A woman was speared through the eye with a sword. A young boy stared up at the attackers, not moving, and was cut down where he stood. A roar filled Roland’s throat as he pushed his feet faster.

The Wardens, much more fleet of foot with their long legs, arrived at the scene first. Most still held the stone axes they’d used to chop down the pines, and they swung them in looping arcs. A few of the ax heads found purchase in flesh, mashing bone and splitting flesh, while others clanked off the heavily oiled chain armor worn by the attackers. It was chaos, all blood-curdling screams and blood-leaking wounds, a flurry of bodies and movement that sickened Roland.

Azariah entered the fray, swinging his ax with reckless abandon, and Roland followed suit. He had no weapon-he had dropped his ax when he first heard the screams-and it struck him too late that he had nothing with which to defend himself. An armored man came at him, blood running from beneath his half helm, his eyes wild with murderous rage. His blood-coated sword lifted above his head, and when he swung it, Roland dropped to the ground and rolled. Mud splattered his face, momentarily blinding him, and the tip of the blade struck inches from his ear. In a blind panic he scooted to his feet, driving his shoulder into the first dark shape that appeared before him. He pumped his powerful legs, forcing his opponent to the ground. A gust of breath caught him square in the face, scented with mint and brandy.

“Get off me, you fool!” came a shout from beneath him.

Roland wiped the muck from his brow and looked down into the furious face of the Warden Wendel, one of those who had been chopping trees on the hill. Roland’s heart pounded in his ears, blotting out the sound of his apology as he slid off the Warden. Wendel glared at him before lifting himself up and rejoining the battle.

Soon all was silent but for a chorus of sobs and whimpers. Roland took to his feet, glancing this way and that. There were eighteen bodies bleeding out on the already drenched grass, nine invaders and nine commoners. All twelve Wardens who had rushed down the hill had survived, and he stumbled over to where Azariah stood panting, a wicked-looking gash running down his right side. His friend held his ax up high, his body shaking as he peered at the wall.

It was then that a horn sounded, shaking the very air. Even the ever-present raindrops seemed to quake as they fell. Roland looked at Azariah, then at Wendel and Mularch and the others, not understanding the significance. Then the horn sounded again, holding its ominous note for longer this time.

“Oh, no,” said Wendel, and then he and the Wardens were off again, leaving the distraught and horrified citizens of Lerder to deal with the corpses.

Once more Roland followed them, trying to stay fast on Azariah’s heels. As they rushed by the huts and cabins bordering the road, the citizens who’d remained in the city gradually began to emerge, their faces masks of confusion. Roland scanned them as he ran, eventually finding Kaya, who was standing beside her parents. She looked just as bewildered as everyone else. Roland dashed up to her and took her hand.

“Come with me,” he said, and took off running before she could answer. He could hear her parents shouting after them, but he was too far away to make out what they were saying.

They ran through the center of the town, past the Second Breath Inn, where old Morgan stood on the front stoop, her hands on her hips, gazing east. Next they rushed by the Tower of the Arts, the tallest structure in the town, where Roland had watched a few elderly ladies stage an impromptu play.

Finally they reached the wall. A thick mass of bodies stood before it, Wardens and humans alike. Some had scaled the supporting logs and were staring over the edge, their bodies frozen. Roland skittered this way and that, searching for Azariah, still holding Kaya’s hand.

“Roland…Roland what’s happening ?” the girl shouted.

He swiveled to look at her, the blood rushing to his face. She was crying, which angered him all the more because he was too. He almost shoved her away, but Azariah appeared a split second before he could do anything rash, grabbing him by the soaked front of his shirt and spinning him around.

“Roland…” he said, his voice trailing out.

“What is it, Az? What’s going on?”

Azariah turned to Kaya, giving her a sympathetic nod.

“My dear, you should stand aside for a moment. There is something I must show Roland.”

She nodded and backed away without protest.

Azariah led him through the mob, to a pair of supporting logs. The Warden whistled, and the Wardens who were balanced atop the logs-Ezekai and Loen-glanced down before dropping from their position. Azariah shoved Roland from behind.

“Climb!” he shouted.

Roland did as he was told, gripping the wet, slippery sides of the log as he scooted his way up. Once he reached the apex, he wedged his feet beneath it and braced his arms on the sandbags on top. He peered across the expanse of running water that was the Rigon River, and his heart froze in his chest.

Ashhur save us all.

There were hundreds of soldiers, thousands even, gathering on the opposite bank of the river. As he watched, even more appeared over the gentle rise that led into Neldar. The rocky, jutting inlet, where the river was narrowest, was a few short yards from where they stood. There were men with pikes, swords, battleaxes, maces, and bows. Most carried shields. There were just so many of them, like a legion of raging black ants. Behind them appeared a caravan of wagons, thirty at least, sidling up to the edge of the river. As Roland watched, ten men who had braved the strong current of the river emerged on the Paradise side. On exiting the water, they dashed along the high bank, disappearing into the reeds.

There was little movement by those on the other side, however. Only the banners of the roaring lion seemed to be in motion, fluttering and snapping in the wet wind. A bead of water dripped into Roland’s eye and he wiped it away, blinking rapidly.

“Look,” he heard Azariah’s voice say.

When he turned he saw that his friend was balancing on the log beside him. From below someone handed Azariah a long tube of wrapped leather with two small pieces of sea glass, one on each end. He peered through the looking glass, and then offered it to Roland. “Take this and look,” the Warden said. “Please tell me my eyes are lying.”

Roland did as he was asked, and when he pressed the looking glass to his eye, the army standing on the opposite bank came into sharp focus. He traced from one side to the other, gazing on every hateful face and scowling mouth, every mail-covered cowl and solid steel helm, until at last he saw him . His chest of platemail was massive, stark black but for the red lion at its center. Roland felt a lump form in his throat, and his knees begin to shake. The being who wore the platemail had a perfect face, his eyes a shining yellow, his hair dark, short, and wavy. That face was so similar to Ashhur’s, yet at the same time there was a world of difference.

Roland lost his grip on the looking glass, and he almost tumbled from the log to catch it. But Ezekai, who was below him now, helped keep him steady.

“You saw him,” said Azariah. “Didn’t you?”

“Karak,” Roland said. “The God of Order is here.”

Azariah shook his head. “No, Roland, no. To the deity’s right. Look again.”