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.