David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Roland shook his head. He looked behind them, at the procession of panting horses in the forest, each holding two or more frightened individuals. A hundred more walked behind them.

“You don’t mean here, do you?” Roland asked, looking around at the tall trees that circled all around them. “Shouldn’t we find someplace more suitable, where the horses can graze on something that isn’t poison berries?”

Azariah peered at the canopy above their heads. “It is almost dusk, Roland. Travel will only grow more dangerous.”

“I still think we should find a different resting place,” Roland said. “We shouldn’t be too far from some settlement or another, right?”

“And what will we find when we get there?” the Warden asked with a frown.

Roland hung his head, dejected. Even Kaya rubbing his back wasn’t doing much to soothe him.

They had kept off the Gods’ Road in their travels, steering through the northern hill country in hopes of throwing off any potential pursuers. At first every village or hamlet they passed was deserted, but for a handful of humans and Wardens, but soon they discovered that the war had, in fact, crossed in front of them. Two settlements they’d encountered on their quest for the Wooden Bridge had been reduced to rubble and ash, the bodies of human and Warden alike strung up in trees. The areas surrounding each settlement had been trampled under countless feet and burned, leaving Azariah’s group with little opportunity to restock their dwindling supply of food. In other places even the fruit trees had been decimated, each apple or pear snatched from the branches, nothing but rotting remains around the trunks. Fields had been stripped clear of all vegetation. And that didn’t even take into account the problems they’d encountered with the horses. The poor beasts were constantly getting rocks or splinters lodged into their hooves, and at least three had broken limbs during the journey, costing them precious time while the Wardens healed their wounds.

“We’ll find what we find,” Roland replied softy. “And make do with that.”

Azariah gave him a strange look.

“I cannot decide if you are stubborn, foolhardy, or wise, though I do find it amusing that you feel you know best. So let us continue, Roland, and discover which of the three it is.”

The trek continued, the land rising and falling as they headed forever west. Just as the sun began to dip closer to the horizon, they came upon a small stream, and where they took a few moments to water the horses, who were exhausted to the point of collapsing. Roland refilled his waterskin and shared it with Kaya, who stayed latched onto his side like a growth. The water tasted off somehow, rotten and unseemly, but he drank it down just the same. He was parched beyond belief, and it hadn’t rained since the day they’d left the riverside community. It amazed him that he actually wished for the rain to return. While building the wall, he’d hated it with a passion, but now he stared at the sky with desperate hope each time he saw a cloud.

But the stream meant there was probably another settlement nearby, which buoyed Roland’s spirits slightly. When they finally began the journey once more, he had Kaya ride in the saddle with her younger sister while he walked beside the horse. The pair started singing, and he felt almost hopeful.

That hope died the moment they came upon civilization-or what was left of it. Jaquiel the Warden introduced the place as the village of Lockstead, yet no village remained. Ashhur had been here, that much Roland could tell; there were shattered chunks of stone and wood everywhere, the remnants of the wall the god had raised for the unfortunate few who’d stayed behind. Beyond the crumbled rubble were the burnt scraps of tents, a few toppled huts, their thatched roofs still smoldering, and a single demolished granary. The grass was scorched black, and when Roland squatted down to trace the outline of a large boot heel in the earth, he realized it was still warm.

“This happened recently,” he said.

“So did the others,” Azariah replied.

“But where are the bodies?”

The Warden shrugged.

Roland stood and circled, looking into the trees, but other than a few blackened lower branches, nothing had been disturbed. Strangely, the lack of bodies made him shudder. It was almost worse than seeing them all swaying in unison.

Kaya tugged on his shirt.

“Roland, I hear water,” she said excitedly.

“The brook might be wider here. Perhaps it is even a stream,” said Warden Jaquiel as he knotted his long auburn hair behind his head. “We might be able to snatch some fish.”

Kaya’s sister jumped in place.

“We could stay here for the night then?” she asked.

Roland exchanged a glance with Azariah.

“I think we should,” Roland said. “It’s dark now, and Karak’s Army has already passed. There’s no one to spot us. What do you think, Az?”

Azariah let out a sigh.

“Yes, we’ll stay. Roland, come with me. I wish to check the nearby stream. Perhaps Jaquiel has the right of it, and there are fish to be had.”

As the rest of the people flooded out of the forest, Roland and Azariah crossed the hill leading to the bubbling stream. As they neared the water, Roland felt his stomach twist into a knot. There would be no fish, not that night. The dead of Lockstead, perhaps seventy of them, bobbed there in the water. They had not drifted far, the stream too shallow and littered with twigs and felled branches to move them. The corpses had snagged and halted, colliding and piling on each other into a dam of sodden, rotting flesh. Roland dropped to his knees and vomited. The water…the peculiar taste of the water…

When finished, he popped the top of his waterskin and dumped the rest of it. Azariah watched, quiet, his face ashen.

“Not all is lost,” the Warden said, his voice hoarse. “I know a spell to purify the water.”

That night they slept in the open spaces of the desolate village. The horses hovered between nestled clumps of people, snorting and huffing. Roland lay on the bare ground beside a collapsed hut, with Kaya pressed against him, the supple feel of her body a small but necessary comfort. Her parents and siblings were beside them, most sleeping, some just pretending to. As he rested, his back sore and his hand aching from holding the reins too tightly, Roland swore he could hear a great rumble descend over the land. He chalked it up to the unified grumblings of two hundred hungry bellies.

He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the sound to get some sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the glowing red stare of Jacob Eveningstar as his former master helped Karak raise the bridge across the Rigon. Frustrated and afraid, he lifted Kaya’s arm from his chest and sat up. She stayed sleeping, tucking her hands beneath her chin. It amazed Roland how attached to her he was, how interwoven their lives had become. Yet that attachment had brought with it a deeper well of fear; now when he pictured the dead hanging from trees, they all had Kaya’s face.

“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her cheek.

He stood and left the gathering, hoping a walk would calm his nerves. After taking a few steps, he realized he’d forgotten the sword Azariah had given him. As he bent to retrieve it, he was struck by how much his life had changed. For twenty-one years he had lived without so much as seeing such a weapon; now it felt as though his life depended on having one near.

Once he was away from the town, Roland felt horribly exposed. His footsteps led him into the forest, where he might find some sort of cover. The moonlight was faint through the thick canopy of maples and elms overhead, and he stumbled through the darkness, arms held out before him, fending off branches and vines that threatened to slap his cheeks or poke out his eyes. He walked for some time, the night deepening around him, and it was not until he reached a circular clearing, littered with rocks and knee-high grasses, that he allowed himself to rest. He sat on a stump in the middle of the clearing, its bark spongy and brittle to the touch. The tip of his sword’s scabbard scraped against the rocks below.