Wrath of Lions (10 page)

She pulled her hand away as if he were diseased and frowned at him.

“I am sure it is. However, my purpose for stepping out of my home at this ungodly hour was not to exchange pleasantries. Judarius has returned from the north with guests. They arrived before dawn, and are now bathing. They will join you shortly.”

A sigh of relief pierced his lips. “Thank Ashhur. Why did you feel the need to inform me yourself, Isabel? You could have sent another.”

The woman dismissed his question with a wave. “I required air. The homestead grows more crowded by the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a young king to instruct.”

With that, she turned from him and walked across the muddy ground, heading toward the road that led through the center of the commune, accompanied by five of her personal escorts. Ahaesarus brought his attention back to the men working on the wall, who were now fully entrenched in their labor. Though Isabel had reprimanded him, he was sorry to see her go. She hadn’t said so much as a word to them, but her mere presence had inspired the workers to new productivity.

He joined the men, helping brace loads and hoist stones. The workers were diligent at first, putting their every strength into the project and singing songs to keep their spirits high, but their exuberance faded as time passed. The complaints soon began, and Ahaesarus was once again reduced to shouting as he tried to keep his distracted subordinates on course.

Judarius arrived during a particularly venomous tirade. Ahaesarus was laying into a man for positioning one of the squared stones so that it jutted a good three feet from the wall instead of falling flush. It was yet another setback. They would have to remove the stone, reapply the mortar, and set it again—an onerous task.

He descended the ladder when he saw his fellow Warden approach. There were four men with him, rough-and-tumble sorts wearing animal hides and heavy leather boots. Each had a beard so thick it looked as though his eyes were peering out from a mountain of fur.

“My friend,” Judarius called out. “Look what I brought with me.”

Ahaesarus nodded, considering the newcomers standing before him. They didn’t look like anything special, simply mountain men with broad shoulders. He had sent Judarius north, to the village of Drake, at Isabel’s behest. She had told him of the troubles experienced in the secluded community on the banks of the Gihon River, and of the brilliance of the people who lived there, led by her son-in-law, Turock Escheton. Supposedly they had built four lofty towers to defend themselves against a renegade faction of Karak’s Army that had gathered in the Tinderlands. Ahaesarus was skeptical—it seemed dubious at best that anyone could erect so many towering edifices in a scant twelve weeks—but he had sent Judarius to seek them out regardless. If even a portion of what Isabel had crowed about these people were true, they would certainly be a help to the cause, though by the look of them, he had his doubts.

“And your names are?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment.

Judarius answered for them. “I give you Potrel and Limmen Longshanks, Martin Cleppett, and Marsh Gingo. They’re part of the newly formed Colony of Casters from Drake.”

“Well met,” Ahaesarus said, bowing ever so slightly.

The one named Potrel smiled—he could tell because the man’s massive mustache and beard arched upward—and moved past him without a word. The rest of his troupe followed. “Alright fellows,
let’s show these lugs how to build a wall!” the front man exclaimed, his voice rough and throaty.

Ahaesarus stood back, bemused, and watched as the four men ordered the other workers away from the construction site. Once the others had cleared away, they clasped hands and, staring at the giant stone that had been wrongly set, began murmuring as one in a language he couldn’t understand. He looked on in amazement as the offset stone lifted slightly from its place, freeing sticky threads of mortar in the process, and then angled backward and nestled softly in the proper position. The workers who stood off to the side, two hundred strong, broke out into a round of hoots and applause. The four casters turned as one, faced their audience, and bowed.

“Oh…” said Ahaesarus.

Judarius squeezed his shoulder. “I experienced the same reaction when they demonstrated their skills on the Gihon’s banks. I wish you could see the towers they’ve built. They are truly majestic and strong.”

The four casters began organizing the other workers, positioning them at intervals along the wall. A few climbed to the top and applied mortar to the next section while the newcomers prepared to lift another giant stone from the mountain…this time without the assistance of the ropes and pulleys.

“How did they learn this?” Ahaesarus asked, astonished.

“They had a capable teacher,” said Judarius. “Turock has spent his entire life learning the ways of magic. He had an elf for a teacher, or so he says. He began instructing others a few years back, and I think you can see how effective his methods are.”

“Why have we not heard of this before?”

The green-eyed Warden shrugged. “Why would we have? Has there been a need for such talents before now? Turock’s quest for knowledge was a curiosity, nothing more. It held no practical use in a land where people possessed all they needed and desired. Until now, Ashhur’s magic has always been enough.”

“True, I suppose. But the Warden of Drake still should have told us of these happenings.”

“There is no Warden of Drake.”

Ahaesarus glanced sidelong at his friend. “Why not?”

“The village is but ten years old, created by one man. They never requested the presence of one of our kind, so none of our kind went.”

“I see.”

“And also, you must take into account that—wait, you up there! Come down here this instant!”

Judarius stormed away from him, his attention now on a laggard who was reclining atop one of the massive square stones. The young man sat up sheepishly and slid down the side of the rock. Judarius loomed over him, then leaned down, speaking words Ahaesarus couldn’t hear over the creaking of taut ropes and the grinding of stone against stone as work continued on the wall. Judarius did not look angry, and the youngster responded to his reprimand by leaping into action, grabbing a rope, and helping to drag another piece of thick stone across the muddy earth. Judarius then continued along the line of workers, murmuring words of encouragement that inspired them to dive into their duties with greater zeal.

“Take a break, my friend,” his fellow Warden shouted to him. “I will oversee things for now. Get cleaned up and eat. You look pale as a ghost.”

Ahaesarus hung his head and walked away from the work site, feeling annoyed and embarrassed. He and Judarius had long held a competitive relationship. They had been together ever since Ashhur and Celestia spirited them from their dying world. Their competence was the reason Ashhur had listened when they’d suggested forming the Lordship. Yet whereas Ahaesarus had come to be known for his terseness, loyalty, and attention to detail, Judarius had gained notoriety for being a great leader and educator. His friend was just as concise and no-nonsense in matters of faith and dignity as he was,
but he showed a greater capacity for clemency and understanding. Judarius never raised his voice, and yet he seemed to get his point across with a look and a few pointed words.

Ahaesarus felt himself growing envious of his friend. Judarius had spent humanity’s first fifty years in Mordeina, so he already had the confidence of the populace. Ahaesarus remained somewhat of an outsider. It didn’t help matters that Ben Maryll, Judarius’s adopted student after the death of kingling Martin Harrow, had been named king, while Ahaesarus’s student, Geris, was an attempted murderer and raving lunatic who now spent his days bound in darkness.

Thoughts of Geris caused him to touch his scarred ear once more and steer himself toward the road. He was thankful once his feet hit the packed dirt, no longer sinking into the muck with every other step. It was approaching noon, and there were people everywhere. Men and women dressed for warmth strolled blithely along the road, laughing as they watched their children play. Others gathered in large groups, hands clasped, praying to Ashhur to continue their good fortune. To each side of him was a landscape of sprawling, hilly terrain covered with the tents and huts that had been erected by the citizens. The smell of meat and vegetables roasting over cookfires filled the air. It was just another day in Paradise. No one seemed concerned that an enemy force was on its way to reduce all they knew and loved to rubble and ash.

He moved toward the looming Manse DuTaureau, a rambling one-story construction of stone, brick, and elm, elegantly painted with gold, greens, and oranges. The vast courtyard atop the hill on which it sat was teeming with as many people as were gathered below. A cart path split from the main throughway, and he pivoted onto it. The mansion disappeared from view

On either side of the cart path were tall, shoddily constructed storehouses. They had been hastily slapped together with the trunks of fallen trees and hemp rope. The people who’d built them hadn’t even bothered to strip the trunks of bark, so a thick layer of moss
climbed up the sides of each edifice. It was in these structures that the fruits of summer labor were stored in anticipation of the rough northern winters. At this time of year, they were all virtually empty, ready to be filled again once harvest season was upon them.

Ahaesarus cared nothing for the barns or what was inside them. His goal was the covered stone hollow at the far end of the cart path. The hollow had been the access point of the settlement’s original well, but the spring that once fed it had gone dry several years before. Over the past six months it had been modified to serve a different purpose, one that filled Ahaesarus with shame.

He grabbed the edge of the tied-together logs that served to shield the hollow’s entrance and lifted it from the hole. He descended a set of rickety stairs between walls made of stacked stone—gray, black, red, and brown. The chamber the staircase ended in was rather large, twenty feet across and just as wide, though the ceiling was short enough that Ahaesarus needed to stoop so he wouldn’t strike his head on the dirt-hewn ceiling.

Seven dying torches filled the chamber with faint light. Ahaesarus heard soft breathing and gazed toward the far corner, where the light didn’t reach. He saw a pair of slender feet sprawled out on the dirt floor, the rest of the boy’s body hidden in darkness. The room stank, as the wooden pisspot had been knocked over, its rancid contents leaking all over the ground. A bowl of half-eaten soup had been tipped over as well.

Grabbing one of the torches off the wall, Ahaesarus slowly approached the chamber’s lone, unmoving occupant. The light spread across the floor, revealing the face of Geris Felhorn.

The boy who had tried to murder Ben Maryll scooted backward like a cornered beast, soft-slippered feet kicking until he was pressed tight against the uneven stone wall. The boy yanked on his restraints, which were made of the same tightly woven ropes that were being used to hoist the stones for the great wall. Geris was fourteen now, his birthday come and gone without celebration
while he remained locked away in this chamber that never saw the sun. Ahaesarus knelt down before him, frowning as tiny whimpering sounds left the boy’s throat.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Geris had been a strong and capable boy, and Ahaesarus had been certain he would be the first king of Paradise. Yet sanity had fled him when the Wasting struck him; the tumor that had grown in the boy’s spine had poisoned his mind to such an extent that he’d become a danger to all around him, even after the removal of the tumor itself. Geris had nearly killed young Ben, ranting and raving nonsense about demons, witches, and imposters. That single act had sealed both of their fates: Ben became king; Geris, a prisoner.

Not that the boy’s imprisonment was supposed to have lasted this long. He should have been freed after a few short days, once Ben had been crowned. The greatest healers in all the north arrived at Ahaesarus’s behest, laying hands on the ranting child, trying to cleanse him of whatever monster lurked within the dark recesses of his poisoned mind, but he had continued to rage day and night, shouting his delusions for all to hear. Once he had even attempted to bite off Ahaesarus’s ear, resulting in the scar the Warden habitually touched. All who examined Geris were convinced that only Ashhur could cure him of his madness, and it was decided by Isabel that he would remain locked in the chamber above the old well until the god arrived.

Though he hadn’t told anyone, Ahaesarus was doubtful that even Ashhur could save the boy. Geris’s delusions were fierce, his belief in them absolute. Whenever he launched into one of his rants, Ahaesarus would stay until it passed, listening to every word that spat from his lips. The boy did not lie; in fact, Ahaesarus, blessed with Ashhur’s talent for detecting truth from falsehood, had never sensed more truthful proclamations in all his life than those that issued from Geris’s mouth. He could only conclude that the boy’s mind was broken, so broken that not even a god could fix him.

His eyes welled up with tears as he reached forward, running one of his long fingers down Geris’s cheek. The boy turned away from him, filthy blond locks slapping against his wrist, leaving a layer of grime on his white flesh. Ahaesarus retracted his arm and wiped the soot on his breeches, his eyes never leaving the boy. Geris’s disdain was the final proof he required. Ahaesarus was unworthy of his title, his responsibilities, and of the second chance he’d been given at life. Finally the tears ran down his cheeks.

“I am so sorry,” he said while Geris continued to push himself against the stone wall as if he were trying to force his way through it. “Please, Geris,” he whispered, placing a hand on his leg. “Please, I just wish to be forgiven.”

The moment his fingers touched the grimy material, Geris ceased his thrashing. The boy drew his knees to his chest, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed clear for the first time since they’d left Safeway.

“It’s not your fault,” Geris said.