David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Hopefully.

He ended up backtracking, guiding his horse out of the destruction and entering the desert once more. The red clay cliffs were just ahead of him. He hoped the scorched earth didn’t reach that far, but then realized it was a silly fear. Sand did not burn like vegetation did. To set fire to a desert would require a god’s power.

He came to his own tracks, leading across the endless expanse of sand to the Black Spire. If he kept heading west instead of north, he would soon come on the prairie where antelope and hyena roamed. That path was fraught with danger, as the night’s predators would surely smell his presence and stalk him, but if he reached the Corinth River, he could follow it back north and hopefully reunite with Ashhur at the Wooden Bridge. Then again, given how much time had passed, it was likely the god had already crossed. It had been eight days since he’d left the mass of refugees to have his ill-fated and aggravating reunion with Bardiya. They might already be far into the west. He thought of the scorched earth he had just left behind and shuddered. Or they might all have been slaughtered.

That night he made camp beneath a jutting stone that offered scant protection from the assault of flying sand kicked up by the winds. The temperature dropped, and his feeble fire flickered and died. His horse whinnied as it gnawed on the bits of cactus he had chopped for its meal. He had stripped the cactus in the dark, so he hoped he’d succeeded in removing all the spines. The last thing he needed was for a barb to get lodged in the beast’s throat. Wandering across the desert with only his uneven legs to propel him would be a good way to get killed.

As he lay down in the sand, pulling his paltry lone blanket up to his chin to ward off the chill, his mind wandered to Bardiya once more. He cursed his friend’s stubbornness and devotion. Bardiya was willing to allow his people to perish, and for what? Some woebegone notion of belief? It seemed downright idiotic. Why Ashhur didn’t simply head down to Ker and force them to join was beyond his understanding.

It struck him how backward the whole scenario seemed. In Safeway and the far west of Paradise where Patrick had been raised, Ashhur had treated his children like, well, children . He’d done so ever since their creation, coddling them, giving them all they desired as he hovered like an overprotective parent. And yet ever since Bessus Gorgoros decided to give his vast corner of Paradise a name ninety years ago, Ashhur had treated the wards of House Gorgoros differently. He’d allowed them their sovereignty, letting them deal with their conflicts with the elves in their own way, without interference.

He grumbled and took a sip of cactus nectar, the question lingering in his head: Why had Ashhur treated Ker so differently?

“It’s time for your children to grow up and make their own decisions, and from what I saw in Haven, growing up is almost always painful.”

The realization struck him like a blow to the head. He had spoken those words, and to Ashhur no less. He hadn’t received an argument either. Could it be that Ashhur did wish for his children to be independent? Perhaps it was why he had allowed Ker to remain neutral, why he did not interfere in their dealings. He must desire such independence for all of Paradise. Otherwise he would not have allowed Ker to exist at all, never mind the formation of the lordship or the crowning of the King Benjamin. It was the same reason Patrick had been allowed to take his journey south despite Ashhur’s insistence that it would not succeed.

“All for the sake of each other,” the god had once said. “With your creator residing in your hearts.”

Patrick suddenly felt very, very small. And stupid.

The next morning came much too quickly, the rising sun baking away the night’s chill and causing waves of heat to rise from the sand. Exhausted, Patrick continued on his western trek, crossing from the desert and into the plains by midday. A horde of antelope bounded in the distance, along with wild horses and a few grazing buffalo. At one point he caught sight of a group of tall, dark-skinned men and women working their way through the grassland, spears and bows in hand. He raised his hand to them, a gesture they returned in kind. The city of Ang was two days south, and he was tempted to go there. Instead he ground his heels into his horse’s flank and kept riding.

He passed a bubbling stream beneath a rocky outcropping and stopped to fill his waterskin and allow his horse a drink. Then it was back in the saddle again, heading toward the red and brown hills in the distance.

At the crest of a weathered hill, he stopped and gazed southwest at a line of great trees in the distance, the edge of the Stonewood Forest. He also saw the jagged gash of the Corinth stretching out in both directions, the flowing waters sparkling beneath the light of day. A smile came on his face, the first in some time. By this hour tomorrow, he would be at the bridge, hopefully following in the footsteps of his god’s massive entourage.

Suddenly, Patrick’s attention was drawn to the sound of gruff murmuring and the scrape of something heavy on stone. His head shot to the side, and he saw a thin stream of smoke rising from behind one of the hills to his right. There were people there, and they were not more than a quarter mile away. He almost let out a shout, calling to those hidden behind the rocky hill, but then stayed his voice. Bardiya had told him his people were forbidden from venturing this close to the river after what had happened to his parents. It might be a group of Stonewood Dezren sitting there, sharpening their khandars and stringing their bows.

Of course, if they were elves, he was close enough that their heightened senses would have picked up the sound of his horse’s hooves clomping over the rocks as it crested the hill. So they were either friendly or they were humans…but on which side? Had Karak’s Army moved so far west already? Having avoided the scorched lands closer to the Gods’ Road, Patrick had no way of knowing.

He steered his horse toward the voices, edging it down the hill at a gentle trot. Hearing the sound of laughter, he stopped, cocking his head to listen. The path he was traveling was bordered by a pair of rocky ledges, apparently leading to the speakers. The laughter came again, this time from multiple sources. It sounded strained, almost nervous, but his ears could just be telling him something he wanted to hear. Best to avoid them, he thought. He could circle around one of the hills, get closer to the river, and be out of sight before any were the wiser.

“Fuck Karak.”

The statement echoed through the vale, followed by desperate, hushed petitions for silence. Patrick chuckled, then looked back in the direction of the smoke.

“To the abyss with it,” he muttered. He would likely get along well with anyone willing to shout such a statement. He placed his half helm atop his head and unsheathed Winterbone, propping the heavy blade against his armored shoulder. He then trotted toward the voices.

The group must have detected his approach, for all speaking ceased, and he heard feet shuffling over rocky soil. Patrick swallowed his doubt and pressed onward. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle, mimicking a lighthearted tune the Warden Lavictus used to sing to him when he was young and still wet the bed. He continued to whistle even as he rounded the corner. Strangely, his fear left him, and he became almost giddy with expectation.

What he found was a generous culvert that split the knoll in two. On either side of him were earthen walls, worn smooth by the passage of time. The alcove would be virtually invisible to any wayward eye. The ground was disturbed by tracks, and there were nine horses hovering on the other side of the culvert, but no people. The mounts were adorned with black draping that hung beneath the saddles on their backs, the roaring lion of Karak stitched on them in red. They snorted and kicked up dirt on his arrival, but made no move to flee. The remains of a fire smoldered in the center of the alcove, the source of the smoke.