David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“We must meet them head-on!” yelled Jaquiel.

The Warden ran forward, his long legs churning as he wielded a two-headed ax above his head. The Wardens followed his lead, and after a moment of hesitation, so did the men. Roland opened his mouth and bellowed, mimicking Jaquiel’s posture with his sword. It felt so heavy, crushing down on his shoulders. Shit, he didn’t even know how to use the thing-not really-but his heart was beating too rapidly, his lungs burning too painfully for him to worry about it much.

He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the line of soldiers and focusing instead on Jacob. His former master must have seen him as well, for he pushed his steed even faster. Karak’s soldiers were close now, so close that the sound of hammering hooves was deafening, so close that Roland could almost smell the acrid breath of the horses as they panted. Jacob’s image blocked out all else, and Roland watched as he swung his arm back, lifting a sword twice as long as Roland’s and twice as shiny as well. The blade began to surge forward and Roland’s heart nearly stopped. He’s going to kill me-he really is! A part of him had not thought it possible; he’d only disobeyed Jacob once, in the aftermath of the First Man’s betrayal of Ashhur. Could he really be blamed for that?

Roland dropped to his knees, holding his pitiable sword out defensively. Steel met steel with a raucous clank, the vibration jarring his molars and bringing roaring pain to his fingers. He fell to the side, clutching his hands and hollering, as the soldiers’ horses galloped past him.

Screams and more clashing of steel rang out all around him. Roland lifted his head, watched as the brave Wardens who had stepped to the forefront were cut down. Ribbons of blood filled the air, accompanied by agonizing moans and whimpers. Jaquiel collapsed, bleeding, clutching at the stump of his left arm. The surviving Wardens and men turned to flee, but they too were struck down, blades tearing into their backs, hacking off limbs, severing heads. Still on his stomach, the world a dizzying array of death and horses, Roland bellowed Azariah’s name.

But his friend had not been harmed. When Jacob’s horse turned, facing him once more, Roland caught sight of Azariah, who had retreated to the bridge. The Warden knelt, hands clasped before him, head thrown back as he shouted words to the heavens. The soldiers on horseback bore down on him, but Roland could not watch, for Jacob’s black steed came charging again. He rolled out of the way just as the blade swiped over where he’d been, swinging so low that it sliced through the muddy earth, flinging clumps of it on the upswing.

Roland scampered to his feet and tried to run toward the tall grass covering the southern barrier of the Gods’ Road, but his clothes were so soaked with sweat and muck that they clung to his body, making his strides awkward. He stumbled, hearing the ca-clomp of Jacob’s horse wheeling about once more. He was sure Jacob would kill him this time. In his mind it became a foregone conclusion. I will never see Azariah again, never lie with Kaya, never have a family. Resignation made his feet slow. It will not be so bad…only a moment, and then it will be over.…Perhaps Celestia will be kind, and I will get to see Brienna again on the other side.…

Roland fell to his knees, unable to run anymore. Head bowed, he clasped his hands, begging Ashhur for the end to be swift. But instead of experiencing pain and the flash of death, he heard the howling of wolves. Panicked shouts quickly followed. His curiosity overcoming his fear, he tilted his head back and peered over his shoulder. Terror gripped him as he laid eyes on the largest wolves he’d ever seen. They came leaping from the trees, only instead of running on all fours, they loped like the monkeys that he had seen when Jacob brought him to one of the many of the small islands that peppered the southern coast of Paradise. There were six of them, with massive, muscle-bound arms in the place of front legs. As Roland watched, one of the beasts used those powerful arms to knock a soldier from his horse as if the man weighed as little as a paper doll. He fell to the ground, his armor clinking, and the wolf-man tore into him without delay.

Roland’s bewildered mind could hardly interpret what his eyes were seeing. Daring to feel hope, he looked over at Azariah, and his confusion only grew. Where once there had been plain earth, now a great wall of rock jutted out from the ground, at least six feet tall and fifteen feet across. The leading soldier’s horse crashed into it as Roland watched, pitching its rider into the stone. As he lay there, another wolf-man leapt atop his body, teeth tearing into flesh, until another soldier rode past, skewering the creature with a sword through its chest.

The First Man sat high atop his horse, a furious expression on his face as he watched the battle between beast and man rage before him; Roland had become an afterthought. Seizing the opportunity to act on the fiery rage that flooded him, Roland turned. The First Man, Jacob Eveningstar, his longtime friend and master, was now willing to murder him without a word spoken first? He raced toward the man.

Roland didn’t slow until he collided with the side of the black horse, shoving Jacob’s dangling foot upward as hard as his strong arms would allow. The impact knocked Roland’s breath out of him. He fell to his rump while the First Man careened sideways from his saddle, hitting the ground with a wet thump and a surprised shout. The steed, frightened, took off.

Quick as a cat, Jacob’s head swung around to face him. His eyes still glowed, but they were dimmer now, more of a light pink than a burning red. He scurried to his feet and picked up his sword, which was skewered in the ground beside him. Having developed no real plan, Roland searched frantically for his own blade. Not remembering where he had dropped it, he scooted backward on his rump, feet kicking up mud as he slid.

“You!” Jacob roared, stalking toward him.

“Stop!” shouted Roland. He felt so foolish now, so stupid and reckless. “Please, Jacob, no!”

Jacob stopped mere feet in front of him. He dropped the sword and brought up his opposite hand, fingers bent into claws.

“Hemorrhage,” he said, his voice sounding like a snake’s hiss. Roland kept scooting backward, feeling a sudden, intense tightening in his gut. Quick as it came, the sensation passed. Jacob stared at him, one eyebrow raised higher than the other, lips twisted into a tiny line in the center of his face. His hair, once dark and wavy, was slicked down with muck. He thrust his hand forward.

“Crumple,” he said, and this time Roland felt his head go dizzy, his arms and legs tingling as if they had fallen asleep and were now awakening. Again it passed in mere moments. Jacob drew back his hand, staring at his fingers as if they were broken. The confusion passed, and a disgusted look passed over his face as he lifted his sword above his head.

“You betrayed me,” he said. He offered no other words before taking a step forward, preparing to strike.

Roland squeezed his eyes shut and screamed, finding it hard to channel his earlier acceptance of death. It was so much harder now that it was here before him, in the angry grip of a man he had once called friend. Yet the fatal blow did not come. Instead, over the din of the battle between soldier and beast, he heard the sound of thumping hooves and a startled cry of pain. He opened his eyes to see Jacob sprawled out on the ground, clutching at the side of his now bleeding head. His sword lay far away, almost sunken into the muddy earth.

A horse rode into view, and down jumped Azariah, a maul held tight in his grasp.