Free Wrath of Lions by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre Page A

specifics without first preparing them for the telling.
    “I fear I don’t understand, My Grace,” said the elder.
    Ashhur spoke once more, his voice rising, booming across the countryside. “My brother has declared war on Paradise. The pact between us has been broken. Whereas once Paradise and Neldar existed peacefully, that peace is no more. He has formed a great army in the east, and he has pledged to cross our borders and bring pain and suffering to all who do not submit. I do not know when he plans to march, nor do I know the size of the force he has built, but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that he
will come
. My brother is not one to make idle threats, and I have already witnessed the devastation he is capable of wreaking when he fell upon the delta.”
    More confused murmurs from the crowd, only this time a few voices were raised in panic. Felton frowned, looking small as a mouse before his towering god.
    “I still don’t understand, My Grace,” he said.
    Ashhur sighed, running a godly hand through his golden hair. “We must prepare for the coming war. The village must be fortified, and you must ready yourselves for horrors you have never before experienced. I am here to assist you in this endeavor. I will teach you all you need to know, though our time here will be short.” The god pointed back toward the ridge of the plateau. “Those who doubt their strength are free to accompany me on my journey west to Mordeina.”
    A young woman dressed in a sarong of antelope hide stepped away from the mob. She had a suckling babe at her breast, the same child Ashhur had kissed when he first entered the settlement. Her azure eyes flicked to Patrick, and he saw her shudder for a moment before her gaze returned to her deity.
    “My Grace,” she said, her voice innocent and pure. “Why would Karak wish us harm? What have we done wrong? Is my little Quentin not innocent?”
    “He is, and you have done nothing wrong,” replied Ashhur. “My brother’s motivations are beyond understanding, and I have no control or influence over him. All I can hope to do is protect you as best I can, my wonderful creations whom I love more than my own being.”
    “Is this a parable?” shouted someone from within the throng.
    “A test?” shouted another.
    “No,” replied Ashhur.
    The girl’s lips twisted into a half frown and she rejoined the gathering of her villagers. Felton did the same, looking as lost and confused as a wayward pup. They stood as a writhing mass of humanity, talking among themselves, words drowning out words drowning out the occasional laugh or tentative plea. Patrick looked up at Ashhur, and the god leaned over.
    “That went well,” Patrick said sarcastically.
    “As well as it could,” said Ashhur, sounding dejected. “They do not understand. Not a one of them. I created them. Their naïveté is my doing.”
    Patrick shrugged. “No harm in that, My Grace. You wanted to create paradise, and you did. It was wonderful while it lasted. How could you know Karak would turn out to be such a bastard?”
    Ashhur turned away without answering, his glowing golden stare settling on the eastern expanse. His expression was blank. Patrick didn’t like that look. Not one bit.
    The residents of Grassmere split into two groups—those who wished to stay behind and those who would accompany the god on the journey to Mordeina. Two thirds of the populace chose the latter, and they wandered up the slope of the plateau, carrying their meager possessions. Patrick spent the rest of the day lecturing those who remained, mostly young families, on how to protect themselves. They disassembled some of the tents of those who had departed, using flat-edged stones to whittle the tips of the poles to points for spears. As with most every settlement outside of Lerder, there was little to no iron available—even the large granary had been built with interlocking logs tied off with twine—so they would have to defend