David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“What the fuck?” his misshapen friend said.

Bardiya whirled around. The Black Spire rested in one of the more desolate areas of the Kerrian desert, the landscape a white wilderness as far as the eye could see. The only exception was the majestic rock formations along the path leading from Ang, which were the same shade as the sand and virtually invisible. That was where he looked now. He swore he saw movement there, the juxtaposition of dark beige against light, like a tiny cape flapping in the breeze. Then came another scream, and a chill flowed through his veins.

“Up there!” he shouted to Patrick as he began sprinting. His strides were longer, his progress faster. He heard Patrick’s mare huffing as its four hooves stomped along the sandy terrain. Bardiya surged ahead like a man possessed, every fiber of his being in a panic. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to whatever torment the poor creature was experiencing at the top of the rise.

Though the wind blew past his ears with the force of a hurricane, he could still make out the sounds of tormented crying as he drew nearer. Images of broken bodies painted his vision, memories of his parents in the grove, their bodies bleeding from a dozen wounds. And then he crested the rise, and all his fears proved true.

The elf girl Aullienna leaned over the body of Kindren, the young prince of Dezerea. Deep gouges crisscrossed the pale skin on her back, and the elf boy’s body was mangled, his flesh slashed in repetitious four-pronged patterns. Punctures dotted his body too, large half circles, and the flesh of his right forearm had been shorn away, leaving behind a glistening mess of muscle and sinew. The elf girl did not look up as Bardiya approached, but kept her forehead pressed against Kindren’s chest, bathing his body in her tears.

“What in the bloody underworld…?” he heard Patrick gasp from behind him. Sand kicked up as the horse he was riding skittered to a stop.

Bardiya slid to the ground, his massive knees digging into the desert floor. Only when he placed his giant hand on the unmoving chest of the elf prince did Aullienna acknowledge his presence. Her gaze lifted to him, eyes bloodshot, tears forming thick rivulets down her face. She opened her mouth to speak, a pleading look coming over her beautifully innocent features, but only a shrill moan came out.

Reaching out, Bardiya placed a finger to her lips, quieting her. He then leaned over Kindren, placed both hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.

“Please help him,” he heard the girl say, her voice a whisper.

The young elf was perilously close to the end. Bardiya prayed and prayed, knowing his lips were moving, though he could not feel them. At first there was nothing, and it took all his carefully trained willpower to tamp down his panic. His mind was full of questions and doubt, but he had to push all of it away. Taking in a deep breath, Bardiya continued to pray, forgetting his role as a leader of men, forgetting the power he wielded, the decisions that lay on his shoulders, the future shrouded in danger. He was here, now, with a life in peril…and through him, that life could be saved. That was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

Ashhur, grant me strength, his mind whispered.

The damage to the elf’s body became clear to him: the severed muscle, the torn fibers in the boy’s flesh, the gouged stomach, the snapped bones. Each wound struck him as if it were his own, and the burning sensation in his hands was as if he’d plunged them into the heart of a star. Much like when he’d healed Davishon-his would-be elven assassin-the pain lessened as Kindren’s body mended itself, fractured bones binding with their broken halves, burst blood vessels closing, skin knitting itself shut. A final burst of energy flowed from his palms into the elf’s chest, shocking his stilled heart back to beating. A gasp reached Bardiya’s ears, and his mind returned to the physical realm.

He fell back, his energy drained. It took great effort just to lift his hand and wipe sweat from his brow. He opened his tired eyes and looked on as Aullienna cradled her mate’s head in her lap, her tears of sorrow replaced by ones of relief. Kindren’s eyes were open, but he looked like he did not understand what was happening.

“You are hurt, child,” Bardiya told Aullienna wearily. “Come, let me heal you.”

“Rest a moment,” he heard Patrick say as Aullienna continued to hold Kindren. Bardiya twisted his head around. His friend was sitting atop his horse, staring at him and shaking his head.

“Her back is bleeding,” Bardiya said.

Patrick shrugged.

“Let the nymph have her moment. The boy almost died.”

“He should have,” Bardiya whispered, and he heard wonder in his own voice.

“Yet you brought him back,” said Patrick. “Good job, big guy. I just hope you learn your lesson.”

“And what might that be?”

The redhead pointed to the couple on the ground.

“What you just did there? It was all because of Ashhur. Your god gave you the power to heal. You prayed to him, and he lent you his own strength so you could bring someone back from the brink of death. Amazing, if you think about it. And you’ll never, ever be able to do that again once Karak has destroyed the god you love. The next time you try to save a life, you’ll have to watch someone die instead.”

Bardiya stood on weary legs, and as much as he wanted to deny his friend, he did not possess the strength to argue. Patrick’s face hardened.

“Your place is coming to the aid of others,” he said. “And your earlier example is shit. You may not blame the wolf for attacking a boy who wanders into the forest-I get that. But only a coward would stay outside the forest after discovering a child was missing.”

Patrick turned his horse, glaring over his shoulder as he rode away.

“And the gods help the man who would watch that child die instead of defending him from the wolf .”

The figurine was a foot tall, illuminated by ambient light reflecting off the chamber walls. Ceredon knelt to study it, his elbows pressed into the round oaken table. It was of a naked woman, wide at the hips and bosom, her hair flowing about her in unruly spirals. Though the statuette had been carved from plain sandstone, he still thought he could see the peach hue of her flesh. Her eyes were black, bottomless pits where mere mortals such as he lost themselves.

The figure’s stance was odd: arms stretched up above her head, fingers fanned out, waist slightly bent, legs bowed and crossed at the ankles, head thrown back, mouth opened wide. The placement and pose invited wildly divergent interpretations: The upheld arms could represent a gesture of freedom or the stance of a bound woman; the arrangement of the bowed legs was common in both dance and swordplay; the opened mouth could be screaming in either pleasure or pain. Her every feature seemed to be wholly human, yet the curvature of her body was unmistakably elven. Ceredon shook his head. There was no contradiction here, no duplicity. This was the goddess, and for her, there was only balance.

“Celestia,” he whispered, placing his hands on either side of the icon and closing his eyes. “Please, tell me what I do is right.”

He sat listening to the rumble and creak of the massive crystal structure above him, waiting for some sign from his creator. But none came, not even a subtle shudder that might have suggested she was listening. Perhaps Father was right; perhaps Celestia no longer cared for her people.

“So be it,” he said. His eyes snapped open, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on Celestia’s bosom. “We may not be worthy of your love, but I have never stopped loving you . If you’re watching, please know that what I do now is out of love-love for the people you created, love for the wisdom you taught us.”