David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

A pack of grayhorns grazed in a wide field of sparse grass as he and his brothers raced by. A bright flash of white lit the horizon, like lightning without thunder, and soon a faint red glow began to rise. The Wardens pushed their mounts all the harder, stampeding onto a path that led around a looming cliff face. The waters of the Gihon were close now, only twenty feet away, forcing the Wardens to form a line as they circled the cliff. Ahaesarus could feel the cold sting of mist from the rapids against his cheeks.

Once they rounded the bend, heading away from the river, the land opened up before them once more, revealing a sprawling camp of hundreds of white tents erected in a gravel-strewn meadow. There were many people visible by the light of the cookfires. They were nearly all women and children, and they glanced up as Ahaesarus and his fellow Wardens passed them, their expressions containing only the faintest touch of hope. They seemed resigned to their likely fate. Again the sky brightened, momentarily blinding him and forcing him to slow to a stop. When his vision returned, he was surprised to see that the people were still going about their business, pausing only for the occasional wary glance at the ridge.

Ahaesarus glanced to his side, where Olympus sat high in his saddle, his black eyes intense, his smooth raven hair falling to his waist. The Warden held a stone ax in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other. He jutted his chin at the hill and the ever-growing red glow radiating from behind it. Ahaesarus wheeled around to gaze on their forty-eight brothers.

“We ride into battle!” he shouted, though the strange behavior of the women in the camp robbed his statement of a bit of its potency.

Toward the hill they rode, and as they went, Ahaesarus noticed something strange. A huge black lump blotted out the rising glow, a portentous obelisk that reminded him of the portal the demons had descended from in Algrahar. They are not here, he told himself. These are only men. It is a trick of your eyes in the darkness-that is all.

Only it wasn’t. What he saw was a round tower, built close to the riverbank, rising seventy feet into the air. Ahaesarus and his brethren gaped up at the building, bringing their horses to a sudden halt. Isabel had informed him that her daughter’s husband had overseen the construction of four towers, but he’d had trouble believing it, even though Judarius had seen one of them with his own eyes and described it in detail. Even if he had believed it, he never would have pictured this . Given that he had watched the spellcasters Potrel, Limmen, Martin, and Marsh for much of the last two months, he should have had more faith in the casters’ abilities.

Windows lined the whole length of the tower, most of them facing northeast, and men hung from each of them, some firing arrows, some throwing spears, and others hurling small fireballs or bolts of lightning from the palms of their hands. Still others stood on the rocky riverbank, making the same assaults. The opposite side of the Gihon was too awash in flames for him to see the opponents. They were surely there, however, as he watched a volley of arrows rise high into the sky. The men on the banks hunkered down, some lifting their hands and chanting, while others held wooden shields above their heads. The arrows bounced off invisible walls and plunked into the heavy wood. Twelve men were struck, three multiple times, and the injured were dragged by their mates to be tended by men in white cloaks, who had gathered a hundred or so feet away. The white cloaks bent over the wounded, whispering familiar prayers to Ashhur. Their hands glowed blue, but the illumination was faint.

“I don’t believe it,” said Judah, trotting up beside him. “This is…unreal.”

“Dismount,” Ahaesarus said, raising his voice so the rest could hear. “Mennon, Florio, Grendel, Ludwig-assist their healers in tending to the injured. The rest of you-with me to the tower!”

They ran toward the lofty structure as another torrent of arrows fell from the sky. The shafts landed mere feet in front of them, forcing them to shift directions. They sprinted, their long legs allowing them a preternatural speed, until they reached the broad base of the tower. Once they reached the cover of the mountain of stone, they changed course again, heading straight for the huge western-facing doorway cut into the tower. They could clearly hear the voices of the men standing on the banks now, shouting insults and provocations at the unseen enemy. A few swiveled to watch the Wardens, and they raised their weapons in surprise. Ahaesarus lifted his palms to show he meant them no harm, and a few moments later the humans returned their attention to the other side of the river. Ahaesarus looked on in wonder as the line of them, at least a hundred in total, nocked their arrows like experts, launching them at their enemies. He spotted swords hanging from the belts of more than a few of the men. He blinked twice, thinking that it was an illusion, but it was not.

Before he could process everything, the tower door swung open. A heavily bearded man came stumbling out, with long red-brown hair and a tattered leather jerkin worn over beige cotton breeches. His expression was frantic as he met Ahaesarus’s gaze.

“You came,” he said, and from the skittish sound of his voice, Ahaesarus could tell the man was very young. “Turock wasn’t sure if Abigail’s letter had reached Mordeina. Getting her lady mother to respond has been…unreliable.” The young man offered him a tired yet optimistic smile. “But she did, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Ahaesarus said. Another hail of arrows thumped the ground all around the tower, followed by more shrieks of men in pain. “What is going on here?”

An arrow clanked off a granite wall, showering bits of stone that made the young man duck. When he rose back up, he brushed the dust from his curly hair and gestured to the doorway, his eyes darting this way and that. “Come inside,” he said. “It’s not safe out here to talk.”

“Wait, we came to help. What can we do?”

The man eyed the hill. “We left the rear of the camp undefended. Can the Wardens guard it for now?”

“You do not need us at the river?”

“Not at the moment, no. But if soldiers chose to cross farther down…”

Ahaesarus got the message. He instructed most of his fellow Wardens to head back up the hill and form a perimeter around the women and children. Olympus and Judah stayed behind and entered the tower with him. What they found inside was a huge round room, packed with crates and bulging burlap sacks. A wide spiral staircase wound up the full height of the structure. The men who were firing arrows or strange balls of magic flame from the windows lined the staircase.

“Turock’s up top,” said their young guide. “Oh, and my name is Bartholomew. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Ahaesarus said as the young man started up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the Wardens’ names. The three of them followed him up. Given their larger size, it was a much greater effort for them to squeeze past the archers manning the windows. At one point, Olympus collided with a man holding a crossbow. The man would have tumbled from the window if Ahaesarus had not grabbed the back of his breeches. The crossbowman turned abruptly, looking ready to attack whoever had almost killed him, but after taking one look at Ahaesarus’s intimidating form, he spun around and continued to fire on the enemy. Ahaesarus stared at the shortsword hanging from the man’s hip, then at the other men who lined the stairwell. It was uncommon to see weapons in Paradise, yet every defender had steel at his disposal, presumably pilfered from those of Karak’s soldiers who had been killed after crossing the river. The sheer abundance told him just how many had tried, just how dire the situation must be.