David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

He shook his head, trying to force the lingering image of all those burned and screaming corpses from his mind, but it was no use.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered. A chill overtook him as a light breeze caught him unawares. The fire had died down to embers, casting an eerie red pallor over the stones that formed the pit. He picked up Winterbone and used its tip to turn a log, one side of which remained untouched by the greedy flames. As soon as the bark touched the glowing cinders, it began to catch, fingers of red and yellow flame licking along the underbelly until the log was fully aflame, exuding warmth once more.

Fire giveth; fire taketh away.

He cocked his head, listening for the despairing resonance of Ashhur’s weeping. It was still there, though less intense now, a moaning from the far-off clearing at the top of the rise. Maybe he’ll be done soon. Maybe he’ll wash all his sorrow away. A wave of hopelessness passed through him. The people of Paradise meant nothing to those who wanted it destroyed. Be it Karak or the elves, it was only a matter of time before bloodshed found this massive traveling enclave and reduced it to stinking piles of rotting meat just like those inside the barn. He grunted, knowing he should find peace in the fact that when the end came, his god would be by his side, but he couldn’t. No amount of preaching about love and forgiveness would spare him the pain of what was to come, and he could in no way bring himself to accept his fate without a fight. Poor lost Nessa had instilled this combative spirit in him. Unyielding faith in an ideal was Bardiya’s realm, not his.

Thoughts of his old giant friend made him curse and jab Winterbone’s tip into the coals with more vigor. It was folly for the great Bardiya Gorgoros to deny his own god, to ignore his brothers and sisters in creation and isolate the wards of House Gorgoros from the approaching hostilities. The Kerrians were able hunters and gatherers, strong and athletic and independent . They were proficient with bows and spears, and regularly held competitions of physical strength-competitions Patrick had joyfully participated in when he was younger. Like Nelder, they had ousted the Wardens from Ker, opting instead to make their own way, using Ashhur’s teachings as their guide. It was a sovereignty their god had only accepted after a lengthy summit with Bessus and Damaspia. If only the people of Ker would join our fight, thought Patrick. Their numbers, their skills, might swing the odds back to their favor.

Then again, perhaps they would simply roll over and die at Bardiya’s orders. Scoffing, Patrick tipped back his skin, drinking down a massive gulp of potent corn whisky. The liquid burned going down, and he immediately felt dizzy. His anger at his friend only grew.

“Bite me, Bardiya,” he whispered, emptying the skin. He wished he were with his friends from Haven, who had taught him to think and fight on his own. His stomach turned in knots, and as the world began to spin around him, he collapsed onto his side, holding his gut to keep from retching. He felt sick and dizzy, but he finally faded into a dreamless sleep, his heart beating in tune with his god’s sobs.

When he awoke, his neck was sore from lying in an awkward position. The hump in his back throbbed, a headache pounded behind his eyes, and his mouth was dry. He spotted the skin lying to his right and knocked it away, cursing himself for taking to liquor to quell his depression. I should have found a nubile young thing instead, he thought groggily. The aftereffects, come morning, are far less painful.

Patrick lifted his head, experiencing more than a tiny bit of pain. The firepit was dusty and dry, and Barclay was nowhere to be seen. The sun was high in the sky, shining down on him from a hole in the canopy above. Trees rustled in a warm breeze that wafted the smell of roasting bacon.

He sat up and forced himself to his feet. Winterbone lay in the grass, its tip black with soot, and it took all his effort to lift the damn thing up, slide it into its scabbard, and sling it over his shoulder. The leather bit into his flesh, and the added weight seemed to multiply the ache in his head. Grunting, he stumbled forward, using the closest tree for support, and began descending the hill.

More than once he slipped, nearly tumbling down the tree-dotted rise. By the grace of Ashhur, he kept his balance, and eventually he caught sight of cookfires interspersed between the trees on either side of a babbling brook, where the rest of Ashhur’s many, many children had set up camp.

He made his way through the maze of tents and people. Most paid him no mind, but others gave him curious glances as he wove his way through them, moaning. He was searching for Denton Noonan: Barclay’s father, a healer and master of herbal remedies. If anyone could fix his aching head, it was him.

“Where are the Noonans?” he asked a pretty, black-haired youth. The girl reminded him of Bethany-or was it Brittany? — the young woman who’d used him for his useless sperm in what felt like a different life. Patrick felt his cheeks flush as the girl’s wide, olive-shaped eyes widened as if he’d spoken elfish. He felt embarrassed, but at least his headache seemed to have lost some potency.

“Barclay Noonan,” he said, speaking more slowly this time. “Where’s the boy’s father?”

The girl pointed behind him but remained silent. Patrick followed her finger. She was gesturing toward Ashhur’s pavilion, which had been raised in the center of six widely spaced birch trees. He grumbled his thanks and lurched toward it.

The pavilion stood fifteen feet high and was so large that Barnabus, the Warden in charge of its care, usually did not bother to erect it. Looks like Barney thought we might be staying awhile. He thought of Ashhur’s ceaseless sobbing, and he spun around, listening for it. He was shocked to realize it had stopped.

He came to the pavilion’s entrance, where a pair of felled tree limbs held up the flap like a canopy. When he entered, he stopped short, nearly toppling over in the process.

Ashhur was sitting on a great oaken chair, one giant leg thrown over the other. The god’s golden eyes were intent on a small piece of parchment that stretched between his pinched thumb and forefinger. A great hawk perched on his shoulder.

“My Grace,” Patrick said, almost tripping over his words.

Ashhur glanced up, his eyes focused and intense. There were no tears, there was no flush in his cheeks; there was nothing to indicate that the deity had spent the better part of two days sobbing over the brutal murder of his children.

“Patrick, why are you staring at me so? What is the matter?”

Patrick shrugged. “Nothing’s the matter. Got good and drunk last night is all. My head’s pounding.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“Well…actually, I was looking for Denton to cure my aches, but you always heal much better than he does.”

Ashhur squinted, shook his head, and returned his attention to the parchment in his lap.

Patrick let out a moan. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shuffling from foot to foot, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m glad you are feeling better, my Grace.”

To that the deity nodded slightly. “I am.”

“And who is your friend?”

Ashhur’s posture seemed to grow more relaxed now that Patrick had assumed a more practiced tone. “A messenger bird. It arrived early this morning while I was still weeping in front of the scorched barn.”

“What does the message say?” Patrick asked, though deep down he already knew.

“It has begun,” the deity replied. “Karak is here.”

“How far along is he?”

“I have no way of knowing, but it is as I feared. Warden Ezekai sent the hawk from Lerder, saying that Karak created a bridge and crossed into Paradise. No doubt another force of his crossed the bridges erected by us, which means we have at least two separate factions of to deal with. And others may have crossed still elsewhere.”