David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Azariah led them to a coppice of thick undergrowth, then halted. Leaning up and over the twisted mesh of twigs and fallen limbs, he gestured for the other two to do the same. Roland and Kaya joined him, trying to rise up just high enough for the tops of their heads to clear the barrier.

Another glen lay before them, many times larger than the one with the stump. To the left, a few men wandered amid what seemed to be hundreds of horses, giving them water and changing the feed bags over their snouts. To the right was a massive pavilion, behind which stood even more horses. Between them, numbering far too many to count, were tents, most of them bordered by crackling cookfires. There were men everywhere, dressed much the same as the one Azariah had killed, along with, amazingly enough, the occasional elf. Roland could not guess at their numbers, but he knew there must be thousands.

For a moment, Roland felt as if he were reliving the time when Jacob, Azariah, Brienna, and himself had spied Uther Crestwell’s ghastly ceremony in the Tinderlands. Even the Warden’s expression was the same-dismayed and breathless. Azariah took a steadying breath and pulled them down into the cover of the thicket.

Kaya looked to the Warden with pleading eyes. “Can we go back now?” she whispered.

Azariah seemed like he couldn’t hear her. He simply stared at the ground, shaking his head.

Roland sidled up to his friend. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Azariah, please talk to us.”

The Warden lifted his gaze.

“They burned the ruined settlements we saw,” he whispered. “Karak and Jacob did not circle around us like I first thought. This force must have come from the north, and there are thousands of them. Even worse, it looks like the elves have sided with them.” Once more he shook his head. “There is no place for Celestia’s children in this conflict. They were to remain neutral.”

“What are you saying?” asked Roland.

There was a dire look in Azariah’s eyes that scared Roland to his core. Even Kaya noticed, inching closer to him and clutching his hand so tightly, it felt as if she’d crush it.

“All of Dezrel is against us,” Azariah said. “Enemies behind, enemies in front and above, possibly even below.” He glanced at the glow above the thicket. “Let us return to camp. We must alert the others, and we must all hurry away.”

“How much of a chance do we have?” asked Kaya, her voice cracking.

“A chance of what?”

“Of crossing the bridge. Of reaching Mordeina.”

“Of not dying,” added Roland.

“Slight,” Azariah answered. He gave no other explanation. He simply took them both by the hand and led them out of the woods, away from the camping army, away from the death that awaited them all.

It was a sprawling machine of organized chaos, and Avila was the architect.

She sat astride her mount at the forefront of the vanguard, Integrity held out before her like an extension of her arm. Her charges obeyed every word that leapt from her mouth, holding back from the left, pushing in on the right, fastening ropes to the spires atop the twelve-foot wall surrounding the village-the same ineffectual barrier they’d encountered at nearly every settlement during their long campaign first to the north and then the west, circling around the lands dubbed Ker, where she had been forbidden to venture.

The arrows that fell from the sky were also familiar, crude bolts of wobbling wood with frayed bits of vulture feathers for fletching. Most dropped harmlessly to the parched earth, and those that did find purchase in flesh rarely sank deep. One thudded off Avila’s silver breastplate while she screamed commands to the right flank, reinforcing the notion that they were mere aggravations.

In this village, no one had emerged from behind the wall to drop to their knees in submission to Karak, as had happened at many of the other small villages. Another change was that there was no clumsily constructed gate for them to storm. Instead, a heavy boulder had been rolled in front of the lone gap in the barricade. Her cheeks flushing with annoyance, she directed the vanguard to part in the center, allowing a trio of sturdy chargers to come through. Her archers fired just above the wall, keeping those on the other side from cutting the thick ropes that were slung around the timber spires, while soldiers fastened the ropes to the harness binding the three horses. When it was done, she gave the order, and the horsemaster lashed at the chargers. Hooves pounded the dusty ground, and the muscular beasts grunted with exertion. The wall creaked slightly, causing the horsemaster to push his pets all the harder, until a section of the wall cracked beneath the pressure. Timber splintered and fell as the chargers began galloping away, dragging the downed section with them.

Shouts rang out from inside the village as Avila sounded the battle cry, then kicked the sides of her mount and galloped through the gap. It was a sufficient breach, the width of at least ten men, which allowed ample room for the rest of the vanguard to follow her through. On entering, she was greeted by eight Wardens. The tall and elegant creatures lined up shoulder to shoulder, holding rudimentary shields, while those behind them-humans all-brandished polearms. She tugged back on the reins, her horse rearing up on its hind legs, while her men charged past her into the wall of wood. The humans with the polearms thrust between their protectors’ shields, impaling two soldiers through the shoulders and nicking the cheek of a third. Swords, maces, and axes began chopping with abandon, sending splinters into the air. An agonized bellow sounded as one of the Wardens had his hand severed above the wrist. Blood spewed from the stump, blinding one of her soldiers, giving a skinny, olive-skinned man the chance to spear him in the face with his pike.

More of her men streamed through the opening, only to be rushed from the right by a charging mob of at least thirty humans and Wardens, each wielding basic bludgeons and stone axes as they shouted the name of their god. The two sides met in a flurry of hacks, slashes, and bashes, the anger and will of the defenders making up for the steel and skill of the attackers. Avila glanced at the red cliff behind her. The remainder of her unit waited on the Gods’ Road. She had assumed this tiny community would be as easy to defeat as the countless others they had obliterated on their journey, so she had only brought seventy men in the vanguard-ten horsemen, forty-five foot soldiers, and fifteen archers. Now it looked as if she might have to do the unthinkable: flee the village, scale the rise, and order more men to come to her aid.

She shook her head, anger boiling in her gut. That would be failure, and a Lord Commander could not fail.

Shrieking, she stormed ahead on her mount once more, entering the melee. She swung Integrity in measured arcs, bloodying her blade on the gathered mass of flesh. Something heavy thudded against her knee, drawing a sharp breath from her throat. The resulting throb rankled her all the more, and she hacked and slashed, her slender sword piercing flesh and chopping down to the bone.

The horsemen entered the village last, charging the town’s defenders with deliberate thrusts and hews. From their advantageous positions atop their steeds they avoided major injury while dishing out the maximum punishment. The tide turned, the Wardens and townspeople dying by the handful, their meager weapons of stone and wood no match for those fired in the Mount Hailen kilns. The foot soldiers formed a circle around the survivors, cutting down any who still lived.

Avila continued her breathless assault, every fiber of her being alight with energy. Someone grabbed her from behind, and instinctually she swiveled, lashing out with Integrity in a sideways cleave, thinking she was about to behead a Warden. Instead, her strike was parried with a powerful clang , the vibration traveling up her arm and stinging her shoulder. It was Malcolm, Darkfall clutched tightly in both hands, his steel kissing hers. Avila glared as she pulled her sword back and flipped its hilt to her opposite hand, clenching and unclenching the fingers of her sword hand.