David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

He pulled on the reins, halting his mare, and continued to whistle while he glanced about him. The stitching on the horses suddenly made him wonder how badly he’d erred. There were a great many large stones dotting the culvert, most likely the remnants of the earthen walls collapsing, and he spotted something gray behind one of them. His lips squeezed together, cutting off his whistling, and the gray object dipped out of sight.

“Saw you,” he said, clinging to his jovial attitude despite his rising fear. “Come out, come out, little rabbits.”

He heard shuffling, but no one emerged.

Sighing, he said, “By all that is holy, I know you’re there. Just show yourselves already.”

“We want no trouble!” shouted a man’s voice. “Leave us be!”

“Well,” Patrick shouted back, “I want no trouble either. But unfortunately you’re in Ashhur’s land, with Karak’s horses. So you’re either from Neldar, or you stole those horses.”

“How did you find us?” asked the voice.

“Smoke,” he said. “From your fire.”

“I told you lighting a fire was stupid!” someone said in an urgent whisper on the other side of him. Patrick turned in that direction.

“Shut up!” said another voice.

Patrick waited a few more seconds, and when no one emerged, he sighed and shook his head.

“I’m waiting,” he said. “Get out here. Now .”

Again that metal-sheathed head popped up, only to swiftly disappear.

“We want no trouble,” whoever it was repeated. “We have Karak’s horses, but we hold no loyalty to him. And we’re not thieves, honest. Please, sir, just let us be. We don’t wish to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either.” Patrick grunted as he sheathed Winterbone. He was taking a chance, but it didn’t seem like a very large one. “I simply want to see your faces. Come now, I know I’m ugly, but it’s been a long journey and I’d love some company. Can you not give a wayward traveler that much?”

“You promise not to hurt us?”

“On Ashhur’s immortal soul, I promise.”

Grumbling followed, and soon men appeared from behind their rough stone barriers. There were nine of them, each dressed in silver mail over black boiled leather. The sigils on their chests had been scored over with scratches and crude white paint. Eight of the men were very young and strapping, with the look of the east about them, their locks varying from brilliant silver to russet. One was much older, with a head of full gray hair, though his body looked just as strong and durable as the rest. The elder was strangely familiar, his full beard framing a bent nose that must have been broken many times and a pair of steely gray eyes. The man stood strong and tall, while the others wilted behind him despite their greater numbers. The scene made Patrick laugh.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Patrick said, grinning.

“Who are you?” asked the older man.

“ What are you?” asked one of the younger ones, obviously louder than he’d expected to since he blushed and moved behind one of his mates. The older man scowled at him.

Patrick squinted, appreciative of the elder’s reaction but not showing it.

“My good man,” he said, “I am from this land. Ashhur made me and my family. You are the trespassers here. If any has a right to demand a name and a story, it is me.”

The older man removed his helm and inclined his head. Drawing his sword from the scabbard on his hip, he drove the tip into the dirt and dropped to one knee. The eight others scrambled to follow his lead. Chainmail jingled as they each tried to find enough space to mimic him. It was truly a comical scene, and in any other circumstance Patrick would have broken down laughing.

“My name is Preston Ender,” the older man said with a tone of great respect. “I come from Felwood, a village in the northern part of Neldar. Until two weeks ago, I served as a soldier in Karak’s Army under the leadership of Lord Commander Avila Crestwell.”

“Ender?” asked Patrick. He snapped his meaty fingers. “I thought you looked familiar. Any relation to Corton?”

Preston smiled softly when he nodded, and the similarity was locked in stone.

“Corton was my older brother. I have not heard that name since he fled to the delta twelve years ago after being accused of bedding Tomas Mudraker’s wife. How could you know his name?”

“I spent some time in the delta,” Patrick replied, feeling dangerously at ease given the man’s similarity to Corton. “Months, in fact. I helped defend Haven and that damn temple when Karak’s forces made their attack.” He patted the dragonglass crystal on Winterbone’s handle. “Your brother taught me everything I know about swordplay. He was a great man. I called him friend.”

“You speak of him in the past.”

Patrick nodded, his smile faltering. “I’m sorry, Preston; he died in the battle at Haven.”

“Did he die a good death?”

“Is there ever such a thing as a good death?”

Preston shrugged.

“Fighting for a cause you believe in? That’s a good death. Protecting someone you love? That’s a good death. Running like a coward to die hungry and alone? That’s the farthest from.”

Patrick chuckled.

“Then consider me privileged to tell you your brother did indeed die a good death, a very good death.”

Preston looked pleased, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. Patrick pointed behind the older man, hoping to get things moving.

“Now enough about good deaths and old friends,” he said. “It saddens me, and I just met new friends, so I don’t wish to be sad any longer. Tell me about the rest of you. I’m guessing you all are-how should I put it…deserters?”

Preston stood and stepped to the side, allowing the younger soldiers to line up behind him. He worked his way down the line. “Deserters indeed, all of us. These two are my sons, Edward and Ragnar; this meaty lad is Brick Mullin; the skinny whelp is Tristan Valeson; the white-haired nymphs are Joffrey Goldenrod and Ryann Matheson; and the two bald behemoths over there are twins, Big Flick and Little Flick.”

“Big and Little, eh?” said Patrick. He was almost eye level with the both of them, even though he sat astride his mare. “How do you tell the difference?”

“It ain’t obvious?” Big Flick asked.

Patrick blinked.

“Uh. No?”

The two laughed as if his comment were hysterical, leaving Patrick bewildered.

“And your name is, my good man?” asked Preston. “If you are indeed our new friend, I should have something to call you.”

“Other than ‘freak,’” Ragnar whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Preston silenced his son by setting the flat edge of his sword to his chin. The youth collapsed, cursing.

“Patrick DuTaureau,” said Patrick, swinging his stunted leg over the horse and jumping from the saddle. “Only son of Isabel and Richard.”

“DuTaureau,” said Preston. The man paused, looking unsure of himself. The others seemed to feel the same way. “So that means you’re from one of Ashhur’s First Families.”

He nodded. “And you know this how?”

Preston shrugged, still seeming uncertain. “We studied all the First Families when we were younger. It’s a tradition that seems to have gone by the wayside over the last forty years or so, but I’ve tried to instill the same quest for knowledge in my own boys. It’s healthy to learn our own history, even if it’s a short one.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Short and boring,” he muttered

“Quiet.”

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s right,” Patrick chortled. “Keep that boy in line.” He wobbled across the short expanse separating him from the nine easterners. He extended his hand and Preston accepted it. Throughout their shake, the older man could not keep his eyes off Patrick’s massive forearms.