“Your back foot is in the wrong position,” Patrick said, “and your back is too hunched. Otherwise, nice form.”
Barclay corrected what was wrong, standing even taller now. “See? I was listening,” he said.
“You were,” Patrick said with a nod. “Though I must ask where you came by that sword.”
The boy lowered the blade, staring at it as he did so. Though the metal was old and faded and not entirely sharp, it was solidly made. Patrick could tell as much from the grip, which did not wobble when the boy tilted it from one side to the other.
“A Warden gave it to me.”
“A Warden? Which one?”
“Don’t know his name. Short black hair, bright green eyes, short for a Warden. He and a bunch of other folks came upon us while we were still on the Gods’ Road. He was really hurt, and Father helped heal him.”
“Where did they come from?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Barclay’s face twisted up in concentration; then he nodded and said, “Lerder. They said they came from Lerder.”
“Azariah.”
“Uh-huh. That’s his name. How did you know?”
“Long story.” Patrick looked about him, rising up on his toes to try to see over the crowd. There were few Wardens present, and none of them matched the description of Judarius’s brother. “And where is he now, Barclay?”
“Where is who?”
“The Warden. Azariah.”
“Oh. He’s in the woods with a girl. Saying good-bye to a friend. They’ve been there for a couple days now.”
Patrick turned toward the birch forest. “In there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He reached out and ruffled Barclay’s hair. “Thank you, boy. We’ll chat soon.”
“You’re leaving? But I wanted you to show me some new stances!”
“When I come back,” said Patrick, and turned away from him.
The birch forest felt smaller and more cramped to him than it once had, and the trees were packed so tightly together he had to turn his armored body sideways to slip between them. The sound of light sobbing guided his steps.
Soon he reached the clearing where he had spent many afternoons alone as a child. His feet got tangled up in a thick nest of vines, and he literally fell out of the woods, landing on his knees. Someone gasped. Glancing up, he saw a very pretty young woman with hair just as black as that of the Warden who stood beside her, only hers was curly. She stared in his direction, a look of surprise on her face, signaling Azariah to do the same.
“Who are you?” asked the young woman.
“That would be Patrick DuTaureau,” said Azariah.
“DuTaureau…of the First Family DuTaureau?”
“That’s the one,” Patrick said, picking himself up off the ground and brushing dirt off his clothes.
“I heard you were dead,” Azariah said.
“No such luck, old friend. Still very much alive.”
“I see. Well, that is good.”
Patrick cocked his head, staring at the Warden in confusion. Azariah and Judarius had been two of his mother’s favorite Wardens, the personal teachers to him and his sisters. He had always felt a strong connection with Azariah, in particular, and an appreciation for the Warden’s offbeat humor and sense of adventure. However, neither trait was in evidence at the moment.
“Az, what is wrong with you…?”
He required no answer, for when he shifted his eyes to the right he spotted a stack of stripped kindling. Atop the pile of wood was a strange lump surrounded by flowers. Patrick shuffled forward, peered down at the wood pile, and saw the lump for what it was.
A body.
“Oh shit.”
He turned to the young woman, whose eyes had exploded with fresh tears. She leaned into Azariah, sobbing against his chest, while the Warden stroked her coiled black hair.
“That’s Roland,” Patrick said softly.
Azariah nodded.
He had known Roland Norsman for only a short time, having met the strapping young man in the aftermath of Ashhur and Karak’s confrontation in Haven. Though their time together had been brief-barely two months had passed on the road before Roland had chosen to stay in Lerder with Azariah-he had made quite an impression on Patrick as a strong-willed, intelligent lad who was completely dedicated to their god. He had been Jacob Eveningstar’s steward before the First Man’s betrayal of Ashhur, and Patrick had sensed that he’d held onto the pain of that betrayal, growing from it.
And now, just like so many others in the delta and Paradise, he was gone.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
The girl sobbed harder.
“We were about to cross the Wooden Bridge,” said Azariah, his eyes locked on the body, “when Jacob descended on us with twenty men.”
“So the First Man is taking an active role in Karak’s war.”
The Warden nodded. “And he would have killed us all had I not sensed a strange presence in the forest. These creatures bore Ashhur’s touch, and when I prayed for assistance, they barreled out from the trees-wolves turned men. They attacked the soldiers, allowing those who fled Lerder to escape across the bridge. Roland and I were the last to cross, and we were halfway to freedom, riding fast atop my horse, when an arrow pierced his back.”
Patrick shook his head.
“Even with the pain,” continued Azariah, “even with Roland screaming, I kept on riding. He fell silent after only a few short minutes, and I felt him slump against me. Finally I came upon the rest of our party and collapsed. It was too late to save Roland. The arrow had punctured his heart, and he was already dead.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Seven days.”
Patrick started, then leaned over the woodpile. Seven days…in this heat? On closer inspection, he saw that Roland’s body was in a late stage of putrefaction. His skin had gone black in spots, as had his fingernails. And his gums were retreating, exposing the crowns of his yellowish teeth. Had it not been for the flowers stacked around the corpse, the scent would probably have been dreadful.
“And you haven’t burned the body yet? Why in the name of Ashhur not?”
The young woman gaped at him, eyes blank.
Patrick pointed to the girl, raising his eyebrows at Azariah.
“Her name is Kaya,” the Warden said, embracing her once more. “She and Roland were…close.”
She gazed at Patrick, her eyes red, her lips quivering, her knees trembling. Despite the horrific circumstances, he almost envied her. He stepped up to her, twining one of her black curls around his finger. She recoiled slightly, but judging from the way she was looking at him, it had nothing to do with his appearance.
“You were lucky, Kaya,” he said, not unkindly. “You knew true love, and though he is gone, no one can take that away from you.”
“I don’t c-c-care,” she sobbed. “He is n-n-never coming back.”
“No, he’s not. And no amount of wailing is going to make a difference.”
“Patrick, silence,” Azariah growled. “Do not be cruel.”
“No, Az. I’m not being cruel. I am simply telling her the truth.”
Kaya buried her face in the Warden’s chest once more. Patrick groaned, then turned his gaze back to the corpse. He noticed the flies this time, just a few, buzzing over the flowers. There will be more soon, he thought. After whatever treatment Azariah placed on the body wears off, they will come in droves.
Sighing, he reached beneath his breastplate and removed the satchel that held his flint. He knelt before the woodpile as if he were about to offer his respects, and then, his wide back concealing his actions, he struck the flint together. It only took two strikes for a small flame to flicker to life, catching at the edge of the pile, gradually working its way over the dry timber. The clearing began to glow an eerie shade of red.
“No!” he heard Kaya shout.
Patrick turned, still on his knees. His hump made it hurt to lift his head to see Azariah’s face, but he withstood the pain so he could stare coldly at the Warden who had taught him to read as a child.