Wrath of Lions Page 18

  “We are here to be a barrier,” he said.

  Roland brought up his hands. “What kind of a barrier can we be?”

  “A weak one, true enough,” Azariah admitted. “But one that is necessary. Ashhur knows he cannot allow Karak to march into this land unimpeded. There must be obstacles in his way. There must be people left behind to fight the initial fight, to slow down his forces and allow the rest to reach safety.”

  “That’s the reason?” Roland asked, not wishing to believe it. “But…he never told anyone that! All he said was that those who wished to stay could, and the rest could join him. Why didn’t he tell everyone the risks? Why didn’t he tell them their purpose?”

  “But he did, Roland. Did he not warn them of what was to come? However, the people of Paradise are too inexperienced to truly understand. After Karak’s Army starts to attack townships, word will spread. Perhaps it will finally awake our people to the danger that comes like a lion in the night. Ashhur would have taken everyone if he could, but forcing them would have slowed him down, making Karak’s mission all the easier. Those who choose to stay might die, but they could be saving thousands of others’ lives. Ashhur let them make that decision, but trust me, he did so with a heavy heart.”

  Roland shook his head.

  “So the purpose…our purpose, is to die here?”

  Azariah solemnly nodded. “In a way, yes. Unfortunately.”

  Roland collapsed against the slipshod wall. Pointed branches dug into his back as he slid down until his rump hit the wet ground, but he cared not. He felt lost and betrayed. Perhaps the First Man had had it right. Perhaps Karak was the more righteous deity.…

  “I want to live,” he whispered. “I want to live.”

  “Roland,” the Warden said, taking a seat beside him, “you can live. It is not the death warrant you think it. We here in Lerder must fight as hard as we can, but do not think we are fools. When the walls are breached, the Wardens will spirit away as many as we can. Horses are tethered in the forest not far from here. Only we will remain to occupy the troops. Only we shall stay until the bitter end.” He sighed and glanced skyward again. “In many ways, it is a desire. I have lived a long time, my friend, much longer than I should have. My family died long ago, and on another world no less. It might be time for me to join them; it might be time for all of us to join them.”

  Roland stared at the faraway look in Azariah’s green-gold eyes.

  “You’re giving up,” he said.

  “No,” said the Warden, a smile spreading on his face. “I am simply accepting my fate.”

  They sat for a time in silence, and then Azariah asked Roland to help him chop a few trees. Roland did just that, although his friend’s revelation had torn him up inside. A part of him wanted nothing more than to grab Kaya, take a couple of those hidden steeds, and run far, far away. I still have time, he tried to convince himself.

  They worked straight through midday, pausing only to eat a lunch of salted trout and almond-encrusted oatcakes, until at last dusk began to cast an ominous pallor over the land. They had felled nine more trees, leaving only five standing. It was after the ninth tree fell, when the Wardens were about to section it, that a scream arose from behind them.

  “What was that?” shouted one of the Wardens.

  Roland spun around to see that the Wardens were racing down the hill, heading for the side of the wall that faced west. Azariah grabbed his arm, urging him along. Roland saw a flurry of movement in front of the shortest section of wall, where people had been loading grains and meats into Lerder’s giant stone granary. It looked as if a fight had broken out, and shouting filled the air.

  The closer Roland got, the clearer his view. There were eight—no, nine—men wearing all black, brandishing blades similar to the ones Karak’s soldiers had used in Haven. They had hopped the short wall and were attacking a pack of Lerder natives, hacking and slashing with their swords. A man fell, his chest split open. A woman was speared through the eye with a sword. A young boy stared up at the attackers, not moving, and was cut down where he stood. A roar filled Roland’s throat as he pushed his feet faster.

  The Wardens, much more fleet of foot with their long legs, arrived at the scene first. Most still held the stone axes they’d used to chop down the pines, and they swung them in looping arcs. A few of the ax heads found purchase in flesh, mashing bone and splitting flesh, while others clanked off the heavily oiled chain armor worn by the attackers. It was chaos, all blood-curdling screams and blood-leaking wounds, a flurry of bodies and movement that sickened Roland.

  Azariah entered the fray, swinging his ax with reckless abandon, and Roland followed suit. He had no weapon—he had dropped his ax when he first heard the screams—and it struck him too late that he had nothing with which to defend himself. An armored man came at him, blood running from beneath his half helm, his eyes wild with murderous rage. His blood-coated sword lifted above his head, and when he swung it, Roland dropped to the ground and rolled. Mud splattered his face, momentarily blinding him, and the tip of the blade struck inches from his ear. In a blind panic he scooted to his feet, driving his shoulder into the first dark shape that appeared before him. He pumped his powerful legs, forcing his opponent to the ground. A gust of breath caught him square in the face, scented with mint and brandy.

  “Get off me, you fool!” came a shout from beneath him.

  Roland wiped the muck from his brow and looked down into the furious face of the Warden Wendel, one of those who had been chopping trees on the hill. Roland’s heart pounded in his ears, blotting out the sound of his apology as he slid off the Warden. Wendel glared at him before lifting himself up and rejoining the battle.

  Soon all was silent but for a chorus of sobs and whimpers. Roland took to his feet, glancing this way and that. There were eighteen bodies bleeding out on the already drenched grass, nine invaders and nine commoners. All twelve Wardens who had rushed down the hill had survived, and he stumbled over to where Azariah stood panting, a wicked-looking gash running down his right side. His friend held his ax up high, his body shaking as he peered at the wall.

  It was then that a horn sounded, shaking the very air. Even the ever-present raindrops seemed to quake as they fell. Roland looked at Azariah, then at Wendel and Mularch and the others, not understanding the significance. Then the horn sounded again, holding its ominous note for longer this time.

  “Oh, no,” said Wendel, and then he and the Wardens were off again, leaving the distraught and horrified citizens of Lerder to deal with the corpses.

  Once more Roland followed them, trying to stay fast on Azariah’s heels. As they rushed by the huts and cabins bordering the road, the citizens who’d remained in the city gradually began to emerge, their faces masks of confusion. Roland scanned them as he ran, eventually finding Kaya, who was standing beside her parents. She looked just as bewildered as everyone else. Roland dashed up to her and took her hand.

  “Come with me,” he said, and took off running before she could answer. He could hear her parents shouting after them, but he was too far away to make out what they were saying.

  They ran through the center of the town, past the Second Breath Inn, where old Morgan stood on the front stoop, her hands on her hips, gazing east. Next they rushed by the Tower of the Arts, the tallest structure in the town, where Roland had watched a few elderly ladies stage an impromptu play.

  Finally they reached the wall. A thick mass of bodies stood before it, Wardens and humans alike. Some had scaled the supporting logs and were staring over the edge, their bodies frozen. Roland skittered this way and that, searching for Azariah, still holding Kaya’s hand.

  “Roland…Roland what’s happening?” the girl shouted.

  He swiveled to look at her, the blood rushing to his face. She was crying, which angered him all the more because he was too. He almost shoved her away, but Azariah appeared a split second before he could do anything rash, grabbing him by the soaked front of his shirt and spinning him
around.

  “Roland…” he said, his voice trailing out.

  “What is it, Az? What’s going on?”

  Azariah turned to Kaya, giving her a sympathetic nod.

  “My dear, you should stand aside for a moment. There is something I must show Roland.”

  She nodded and backed away without protest.

  Azariah led him through the mob, to a pair of supporting logs. The Warden whistled, and the Wardens who were balanced atop the logs—Ezekai and Loen—glanced down before dropping from their position. Azariah shoved Roland from behind.

  “Climb!” he shouted.

  Roland did as he was told, gripping the wet, slippery sides of the log as he scooted his way up. Once he reached the apex, he wedged his feet beneath it and braced his arms on the sandbags on top. He peered across the expanse of running water that was the Rigon River, and his heart froze in his chest.

  Ashhur save us all.

  There were hundreds of soldiers, thousands even, gathering on the opposite bank of the river. As he watched, even more appeared over the gentle rise that led into Neldar. The rocky, jutting inlet, where the river was narrowest, was a few short yards from where they stood. There were men with pikes, swords, battleaxes, maces, and bows. Most carried shields. There were just so many of them, like a legion of raging black ants. Behind them appeared a caravan of wagons, thirty at least, sidling up to the edge of the river. As Roland watched, ten men who had braved the strong current of the river emerged on the Paradise side. On exiting the water, they dashed along the high bank, disappearing into the reeds.

  There was little movement by those on the other side, however. Only the banners of the roaring lion seemed to be in motion, fluttering and snapping in the wet wind. A bead of water dripped into Roland’s eye and he wiped it away, blinking rapidly.

  “Look,” he heard Azariah’s voice say.

  When he turned he saw that his friend was balancing on the log beside him. From below someone handed Azariah a long tube of wrapped leather with two small pieces of sea glass, one on each end. He peered through the looking glass, and then offered it to Roland. “Take this and look,” the Warden said. “Please tell me my eyes are lying.”

  Roland did as he was asked, and when he pressed the looking glass to his eye, the army standing on the opposite bank came into sharp focus. He traced from one side to the other, gazing on every hateful face and scowling mouth, every mail-covered cowl and solid steel helm, until at last he saw him. His chest of platemail was massive, stark black but for the red lion at its center. Roland felt a lump form in his throat, and his knees begin to shake. The being who wore the platemail had a perfect face, his eyes a shining yellow, his hair dark, short, and wavy. That face was so similar to Ashhur’s, yet at the same time there was a world of difference.

  Roland lost his grip on the looking glass, and he almost tumbled from the log to catch it. But Ezekai, who was below him now, helped keep him steady.

  “You saw him,” said Azariah. “Didn’t you?”

  “Karak,” Roland said. “The God of Order is here.”

  Azariah shook his head. “No, Roland, no. To the deity’s right. Look again.”

  Confused, Roland peered through the looking glass once more, and into his vision came another man, much shorter than the towering god. This one wore a billowing black robe and his eyes burned red, as if the fires of the underworld raged within him. Roland gasped as he took in Jacob’s all too familiar visage. The First Man seemed to be looking right at him, those burning eyes boring into his soul. There was such anger there, such hatred. Roland handed the looking glass back to Azariah. He could see no more.

  “He has returned,” Roland whispered.

  Someone shouted something along the wall of sodden burlap sandbags, and Roland peered across the river again. He didn’t need the looking glass to see what was happening. He watched as Karak and Jacob walked to the edge of the rushing water and lifted their arms. A great rumbling followed, and the massive boulders that formed Paradise’s high bank began to shift. First one fell into the current, then another, creating a single column that rose out of the water. More rocks fell, rumbling and cracking and splashing as column after column rose into the air.

  “They’re building a bridge!” Azariah shouted, his cry echoed by all who stared over the wall.

  Roland dropped his head into his arms as the commotion around him grew into an uproar. Jacob, why? his mind pleaded. You were my hero, my master! Why?

  There was no answer but the sound of the grinding boulders.

  Azariah grabbed him by the shoulder, giving him a shake. Tears rolling down his cheeks, Roland glanced at Azariah’s face. The Warden tried to give him one of those reassuring smiles of his, but this time it rang false.

  “The town is lost,” Azariah told him. “Go down there and gather Kaya, her family, and as many others as you can. It will be some time before they are able to finish the bridge, but others will be crossing before they are through. Stay at the inn. Don’t move until I come for you.”

  “Why, Az?” Roland gasped. “What are we going to do?”

  The Warden glanced down at Ezekai, who nodded in reply, as if a silent message had passed between them.

  “The time is now,” his friend said. “I am getting you out of here before Karak rains death on us all.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  He had seen them. He had seen them. And he could not wait to get across.

  The sun had fallen behind the western rise while men laid down long planks atop the newly formed scaffolding that crossed the Rigon River. It was tedious work for those building the bridge, but none fell into the water. The whole time Karak and Velixar continued their chanting, keeping the men balanced, raising stones and sludge from the riverbed to reinforce the structure. The river below rushed on unimpeded, the current oblivious to at all that was happening above it, while from the other side came the nearly inaudible sound of flapping wings.

  Darkness had spread across the land by the time the bridge, a two-thousand-foot long, thirty-foot wide behemoth of stone, wood, and sediment, was complete. On the other side of the river, countless points of light shone from behind the makeshift wall around Lerder. It was a flimsy thing, their wall, haphazardly built and teetering in spots. They did not have Ashhur’s assistance to make it strong, Velixar thought. Nor did they have mine.

  He took his place beside Captain Wellington at the head of the vanguard and raised his right fist to the sky. His eyes, burning brightly, illuminated the bridge before him.

  “For Karak!” he shouted. “For a free Dezrel!” The soldiers behind him—his soldiers—echoed his words before they charged, their captain in the lead. Velixar stepped onto the sturdy riverbank, allowing the vanguard to cross ahead of him. Their shouts became the bays of wolves, the sound of their booted feet clomping across the bridge an ever-present rumble of thunder. The first legion of horsemen cantered behind the vanguard, hooves clopping against the wooden planks, and Velixar followed them.

  The bridge was wide enough for all to make it across without incident. The high bank on the other side was steep and muddy from the spring rains, and soldiers scampered over one another in an attempt to scale it. Men struggled to gain their footing, and a few careened into the Rigon’s strong current, their plate and mail causing them to slip below the surface before the current could take them. The first few over the rise were battered by a rain of arrows, but few of the bolts found purchase. Their tips were either wood or stone, neither strong enough to punch through the armor and shields.

  Where is the iron, the steel? Velixar wondered. He had not dared to hope it would be this easy.

  Finally the first wave crossed the high bank. The shield bearers formed a protective barrier while behind them soldiers drove stakes into the ground, tied off ropes, and laid down planks of wood for those below. With actual solid ground beneath them, the rest climbed easily. The horsemen followed them up, their horses fanning out wide, once over the lip. The
war cry began anew as Karak’s soldiers rushed the makeshift wall.

  When Velixar stepped foot on the bank, he saw that the wall encircling the town was even shorter than he’d originally assumed. It could not be more than fifteen feet tall, and his vanguard flung their grappling ropes over the side with ease. But as they began scaling it, the stacked wood and sacks of sand proved too unstable for their weight. The wall tumbled in spots, and more soldiers rushed through the debris, tramping atop the crushed bodies of their comrades. Now there are gaps in the wall where the horsemen could ride through.

  Velixar’s grin grew wider as he glanced behind him, where a towering Karak awaited with the bulk of their regiment. The deity stood at the foot of the bridge, arms crossed over his chest, his intense golden stare like a pair of nightbugs from this distance. Velixar nodded to his master, then faced forward and muttered a few words of magic. Air gathered beneath his body, lifting him off the ground. He sailed over the high bank, his feet touching ground just a few short yards from the wall.

  A group of tall beings had emerged from the town to meet his vanguard head-on. He recognized each of them, even as they fell and died. The Wardens fought with swords and axes of stone, brave in the face of certain death, but they were not warriors and they wore no armor. Soon the humans’ swords, battleaxes, and pikes ran red with blood.

  Velixar walked past the various melees as if nothing could touch him, his sword bouncing on his hip as he fingered the pendant hanging around his neck. The night came alive with screams. One particular soldier caught his eye, a compact and powerful man with a teardrop scar beneath his left eye. The soldier fought expertly, his steel slashing into Warden after Warden while he led the vanguard.

  As Velixar walked, the pockets of violence seemed to shrink away from him. Only once did a Warden approach him. It was Warden Croatin, who’d helped raise the Mori family in Erznia. Croatin’s eyes widened when he saw him, and a mighty swing of his great stone ax dispatched the soldier with whom he’d been brawling. The Warden then charged, shoving aside other combatants, his ax held high above his head. Velixar calmly channeled the power of the demon whose essence he’d swallowed. When he brought up his hand, inky black shadows formed in his palm, solidifying into bolts. They shot out from his fingertips, striking the Warden square in the chest. Croatin fell to his knees, gasping as the shadows swirled around his body, constricting, cutting off his breath. Velixar searched his stolen knowledge.