David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

They were led to the very top of the tower, which ended at a hatch leading into another round room. The young man climbed up first, and the Wardens followed closely behind. Ahaesarus heard multiple people shouting and cursing, but one of the voices stood out from the rest. It sounded upbeat, almost playful . He hoisted himself through the hatchway, squeezing his shoulders together make it through, and looked around. Three men were present besides their young guide, and all were looking out of the three east-facing windows. The two on the outside wore long brown robes, while the robe of the one in the middle was a strange shade of violet. A thick mane of reddish-blond hair flowed from beneath the strange tilted cap on his head. His back heaved as he leaned out the window, and the air crackled with energy, raising the tiny hairs on Ahaesarus’s arms.

The bearded youngster in the tattered doublet cleared his throat.

“Master Turock?”

The garishly dressed spellcaster bent backward, glancing over his shoulder. He was an odd-looking man, with a carefully maintained mustache and pointed beard. His face was intense, his smile not humorous in the least, and his blue eyes did not seem to register the three Wardens.

“What is it?” he asked in that same playful tone. “Can’t you see we’re toasting Karak’s hairy cocks out there at the moment?”

He turned around again and started uttering more words of magic.

“Um,” Bartholomew said, “help arrived from Mordeina. I thought you might like to know.”

The red-haired man whirled back around, and this time he did see Ahaesarus, Olympus, and Judah. His eyes widened, his smile grew broader, and he made a sweeping bow.

“Oh my, Wardens of Ashhur, come to assist us in our troubles.” He stood up and slapped Bartholomew on the shoulder. “Can you believe it, lad? My wife’s mother actually proved her worth for once.” He turned to the Wardens. “So Olympus and Judah I know, but who are you, with those golden locks and that severe-oh yes, severe -stare?”

The man laughed, even as the continuing sounds of death came pouring in through the window. Ahaesarus felt completely at a loss.

“Ahaesarus, Master Warden of Paradise,” he replied.

“Oh, I have met you! You visited when Martin was named kingling, yes?”

Ahaesarus nodded. “I did, though I do not remember you, and I feel that I would if I had been given the privilege of meeting you.”

“I do tend to be memorable. It’s a trait I like to encourage.”

An arrow flew through the window just then, so close that it lifted Turock’s hat from his head. Arrow and cap struck the stone wall, the arrow snapping in two. The redhead stared in horror at his now ruined hat, and for the first time since Ahaesarus’s arrival, he actually seemed angry.

“Fuckers!” he screamed, heading back to the window. As he began barking his magical phrases, lightning leapt from his fingertips. “Bartholomew, bring them back downstairs,” he snapped over his shoulder. “We’ll be done here soon. Now go!”

“We have some questions-” began Judah.

“Can’t you see we’re busy? Get out!”

Ahaesarus glanced at his fellow Wardens, who shrugged. He returned the gesture.

“We will aid your fight as best we can,” he told Bartholomew on their way back down the stairwell. “Tell us where the need is greatest, and we will defend you with our lives.”

The young man exhaled deeply. “I thank you for that.” An explosion sounded, and Bartholomew flinched. There was sweat running down his brow despite the night’s chill. “And I must apologize for Turock’s…er, pointedness. He’s under a bit of stress at the moment.”

“Do not worry yourself over it,” said Ahaesarus. “We will work this all out after the battle is over.”

They reemerged into a night filled with fire, arrows, and pained cries. Bartholomew pointed the way, and the three Wardens spent the next two hours hefting sacks of freshly fletched arrows from inside the tower, bringing waterskins to the fighting men, and tending to wounded soldiers. Whenever he looked to the river, Ahaesarus could make out little beyond fire, billowing black smoke, and piles of corpses at the edge of the river, some dragged into the water by its harsh current. Ahaesarus could only hazard a guess as to their enemy’s numbers. Whenever a soldier bearing the sigil of Karak on his armor rushed through the fire, he was either struck down or carried away by the river.

Ahaesarus felt utterly useless as he ran from menial task to menial task, constantly dodging incoming projectiles, no easy task given his large size. A part of him realized he was putting his life in danger for absolutely nothing. The citizens of Drake, led by Turock’s spellcasters, had the situation fully under control.

Do not fall into that trap, he told himself as he handed a fresh waterskin to a short, blond, robed man. You told Isabel you would do whatever it took. At the moment, this is what it takes.

The cross-river skirmish lasted only another hour or so. Come sunrise, the barrage of arrows from the other side slowed to a trickle. When it finally stopped, Turock left the tower and joined his men on the shore. The flames were petering out, and the smoke on the Tinderlands side of the Gihon had cleared as well, revealing a mess of bodies splayed out on the rocky, uneven ground, some still bleeding out, others burnt beyond recognition. Ahaesarus guessed the enemy had lost at least fifty men, though it was difficult to tell given how many had been carried away by the current. Only three of Drake’s defenders had perished. An eerie quiet came over the defenders, whose fatigue showed in the huge black circles that had formed under their eyes. Soon the men were wading in the shallow edges of the river, extracting snagged corpses and carting them north along the bank, dumping them in a massive, stone-rimmed firepit. As Ahaesarus helped remove the bodies, he noticed they were small, even for humans, as if they were underdeveloped. The fires were lit, the bodies burned, and the near constant chill that had pervaded the evening gave way to oppressive heat.

When they arrived back at the tower, Ahaesarus left Olympus and Judah and approached the Turock, whose jibes and carefree attitude seemed to have vanished. His entire demeanor had changed from when he was in the thick of battle. Turock squinted against the glare of the steadily rising sun and winced. More than anything, he looked exhausted, both mentally and physically. It was as if leaving his nest in the sky had caused the world to fall directly on his shoulders.

“You won the battle,” Ahaesarus said, hefting his huge stone ax onto his shoulder, the weapon having gone unused the entire night. “Why such sullenness?”

Turock craned his neck to look up at him, his eyes glossy, but a rustling from behind drew his attention before he could answer Ahaesarus’s question. The other Wardens were loping over the concealing hill, a group of thirty or so young men and women trailing behind.

Turock rose up on his toes and patted Ahaesarus on the shoulder. “I know you have questions, Master Warden, but right now I’m rather useless. I need sleep.” He lazily rolled his head in the direction of the camp. “You could no doubt use some as well. Have Bartholomew show you where. Come back to the tower at noon, and I will answer any questions you have.”

Bartholomew directed the Wardens to an ample thatch of empty land on the northwestern edge of the camp. Sleep did not come easily for Ahaesarus, even though the crude tent where he rested blocked out much of the daylight. His mind was awash with images of a burning night sky, the whistle of arrows soaring through the air, and the screams of the dead and dying, both seen and unseen. He felt shame burn in his chest when he realized just how frightened he’d been. For months he had been nothing but a glorified carpenter, organizing the people of Mordeina in the construction of the wall. Before that, he’d been a tutor to a princeling. Up until a few hours ago, the coming war had been just as much a fiction to him as it had been to the humans of Paradise. Once within the chaos of a battle, he’d almost reacted exactly as he had back on Algrahar: freezing up in terror and allowing the oncoming hordes to do their worst.