David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“My Grace,” Patrick began, but he could not finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

“We needed soldiers,” said his god.

“But how?”

“The knowledge of form and function resides right in here,” Ashhur said, tapping his temple. He was winded, but his voice hadn’t lost any of its potency. “You can alter any form if you know the proper ways.”

“Yes, but you made them grow as well.”

“The universe is all about balance; other than the gods, nothing can be created from nothing. I gathered nutrients from the plants around us and minerals from the ground beneath us, and added them to their bodies, allowing them to grow. Everything in this world, from the stones beneath your feet to the whales living in the deepest reaches of the ocean, contains similarities I fear you would not understand. Just know that, for me, what I did was akin to piling sand upon sand to build a larger mound.”

Patrick squinted. Ashhur looked a hundred times more exhausted than he ever had after bringing up the walls around the settlements. “But you’re panting, my Grace,” he said.

“Did I ever say it was simple?” asked Ashhur. “The power required was tremendous, and I fear I have overtaxed myself.”

“Will they fight for us?” He looked around at the creatures. They seemed hungry, wanton. “They might stand upright, but they still seem like…well, wolves.”

“As they are. They still have the minds they’ve always had and are driven by the same instincts. But they know my desires, and they will fulfill them as best they can. It will take them a few hours to adjust to their new forms, but nature is adaptable.” Ashhur gave a sad smile. “Our armies may not have swords or armor, but these wolves will require neither. They hold their weapons in their mouths and at the tips of their new fingers.”

Patrick looked at the curled, sharp claws protruding from each of their digits, both on their arms and legs. He shook his head.

“Why didn’t you make them smarter?” he asked. “That might have been helpful.”

“I cannot,” the god said. “Not without great cost. This is not the same as when my brother and I brought man from the ether. We infused our power into the ewers, giving a small piece of ourselves that now resides in each man, woman, and child in Dezrel. We were weakened to mere shells of the beings we once were. Should I give these creatures a bit of my essence, my intelligence…Karak marches against us, Patrick, and I will surely face him again. When I do, it cannot be as his inferior.”

“Oh.”

Ashhur gestured toward his monstrous creations.

“They will fight for us, Patrick, for even as wolves they can understand my desire, for it is one they are very good at fulfilling. I want them to hunt…to kill.”

The wolf-men howled as one, and a moment later they were rumbling into the forest on all fours, hand over foot, heading south. The god had it right; they seemed ungainly with their new, larger forms, but the speed at which they moved was uncanny. Patrick could see their muscular shoulders working as they galloped through the trees. In a matter of minutes, he and his deity were alone in the clearing once more.

“How much time do you think they’ll give us?” he asked.

“Two days, perhaps three,” Ashhur replied. “They are few compared to what approaches, but we have surprise on our side. If there is one thing I am certain of, it is that Karak will not expect this.”

Frowning, Patrick said, “Karak is akin to you in many ways. Are you certain?”

Ashhur grinned. “Yes. No matter what occurred in Haven, my brother will still assume I’m playing by the rules.”

It was an ominous statement, and one Patrick didn’t press any further. Without consciously thinking about it, his mind drifted to Bardiya. His friend would hate the idea of Ashhur creating wolf-men to fight his battles for him. Bardiya believed in the sanctity of all life, not just humanity’s. He would find it unsavory that the wolves of the forest were being sacrificed in such a way.

A memory of the barn and the destroyed bodies again entered his mind. He turned to Ashhur, threw back his oversized shoulders, and stared up into the deity’s eyes.

“My Grace,” he said. “I apologize, but I must ride south. I’ll catch up with you at the Wooden Bridge, and if not there, in Mordeina.”

Ashhur stared at him, and Patrick knew the god already understood his intentions.

“It will do no good,” he told him.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, my Grace. If you don’t have to play by the rules any longer, why should Bardiya?” Patrick grinned. “And besides, if anyone can convince someone to break a few silly rules, it’s me. I am his oldest friend, after all.”

Manse DuTaureau was an expansive structure. Its main hall stretched for nearly a quarter mile, and at its center, crossroads split off into four separate wings. There were fifty rooms-bedrooms, common rooms, dining halls, meeting rooms, vast closets, and two libraries-all built by Ashhur himself at the request of his second child, Isabel. The east and west wings were where the family DuTaureau kept their residence, their chambers small yet stylishly furnished. The main entrance and the atrium, where the family had once spent quiet evenings, were on the southern end. That space was now used to greet the many citizens who came to pay their respects to King Benjamin, the first ruler of Paradise. The northern wing ended in what had once been a dining hall and had now been transformed into the throne room-Paradise’s seat of human power.

Ahaesarus marched through the atrium, following fast on the heels of Erstwell Karn, the man Isabel had placed in charge of repairing the hangars lining the township’s eastern road in preparation for what was to come. Crops were being pushed hard, the people using the magics Ashhur had taught them to bring corn, grain, carrots, turnips, and other assorted vegetables to seed early and often. After only a few weeks, the barns were already a third full, and the last thing anyone needed was for the structures to topple, destroying food that would be necessary for survival once Karak fell upon the area.

Erstwell had caught up with Ahaesarus outside the manse while the Warden was heading inside for a conference with King Benjamin. The man had pled with Ahaesarus to see to a rule-breaker who was stowed away inside, accused of sneaking in to visit the still-imprisoned Geris Felhorn.

“She’s down here,” Erstwell said.

They progressed down the main hall, passing two privies and the southern kitchen. Daylight filtered in through the narrow gaps between rooms, making the brilliant reds stitched into the carpets pop. The man finally stopped when they reached the central junction. He pushed open a door to his left, the wooden hinges creaking as they swiveled inward.

The room had been used for meetings; he could tell as much by the large table of polished mahogany in the center surrounded by eight chairs, and the stand showcasing a loosely rendered map of Paradise. The walls were stone, sanded down and lacquered with a yellowish gloss. It was an ugly color, one that made Ahaesarus’s legs twitch. He noticed he was not alone in that sentiment, as the girl who sat at the table seemed to be vibrating her own legs fast enough to take flight. She stared up at him with frightened blue eyes. Her hair, a satiny shade of strawberry blonde, flowed over the roughspun, brown smock she wore. She was young and quite beautiful, even with her simple attire.

Erstwell spat on the floor. “There she is,” he said. “Penelope Travers. Little harlot has a lot of nerve.”

The girl, Penelope, cast her eyes downward, ogling her own hands as they fiddled on the table.