Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  Down below, the last of the men screamed.

  “Girl,” said a kind voice from above. “Girl, would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

  “What?” she asked, not truly understanding the question in her daze. She began to shake.

  “Come now,” said the voice. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Hands pressed at her back, helping her sit. The nozzle of a wineskin was pressed to her lips, and she drank greedily from the sweetness within as it dribbled into her mouth.

  “There, that’s better,” the kind voice said. “Drink deep.”

  The skin pulled away, and Laurel shook her head, trying to regain her senses. She glanced around and saw that she was on a rooftop. Three figures stood over her, mere shadows in the sparse light. The screaming down below had ended, now replaced with a revolting crunching sound. In the darkness she saw little Mo lying at her feet, and she was thankful that he appeared unharmed.

  “Who are you?” she asked them. Despite her efforts, she could not keep the tremble from her voice.

  The middle shadow snapped its fingers, and to either side of her, clay buckets of pitch burst into flame, filling the rooftop with light. Two of the figures were Sisters of the Cloth, one quite short and the other tall, both wrapped from head to toe in the bindings of the order. Only their eyes were visible. Two bundles of rope were coiled on the ground at their feet. A man stood between them—a youngish sort, handsome with a head of slicked-back blond hair with dyed red streaks; piercing blue eyes; a clean-shaven upper lip; and a yellow beard tapered into a pair of horns that fell down to the base of his neck. He wore a red doublet studded with ivory buttons and rimmed with gold trim. The hilt of the shortsword hanging from his hip was adorned with rubies.

  The oddly beautiful man crossed his legs and bowed to her. When he did, the bells dangling from the cuffs of his doublet chimed.

  “I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, at your service. Though you never did answer my question: Would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

  This Quester had a smile that was just as strangely beautiful as the rest of him.

  Laurel nodded. “I am.” She took a moment to adjust her bodice and tie it, then stood. Her piss-soaked dress reminded her of her shame, and she felt her neck grow hot as she blushed. So far none of them seemed to have noticed, and if they had, they’d kept their mouths shut. Offering the man a quick bow, she said, “I wish to thank you for helping me, though I must ask: How did you know who I am?”

  The Sisters said nothing, as the members of their order were required to keep silent for all their lives, but Quester seemed chatty enough for the all of them.

  “Oh, you know how it is,” he said as he strutted across the rooftop. “Just a lad with his nursemaids, wandering around in the darkness, looking for the famous Laurel Lawrence while trying to avoid the Judges’ claws.”

  “The judges?” Laurel shook her head. “What judges? What are you speaking of?”

  “The Final Judges, who sniff out sinners like yesterday’s spoiled meat.”

  “Wait…you mean the Moris’ lions? They’re out of the castle?”

  Quester jutted his chin toward the edge of the roof.

  “I take it you weren’t in a proper state to watch while you were up close?” he said. “Here. Come look and see for yourself, milady.”

  She knew she shouldn’t trust this strange man, yet she did just as he’d asked, stepping around an unconscious Little Mo to lean over the short wall. Quester was by her side a moment later, holding one of the flaming clay buckets. Before she could protest, he tossed it over the side. The bucket shattered when it struck the ground, spraying burning pitch in every direction.

  Laurel gasped. By the light of the pitch, she could see a pair of lions down below. They were the largest beasts she had ever encountered, easily the size of two men, perhaps three. They sat devouring the remains of the six brigands. If startled or annoyed by the shattering clay and sudden light, they did not show it. No, they were too intent on their meal, ripping out intestines, cracking bones between their enormous teeth, and lapping blood off the gravel-strewn ground.

  “You’ve been gone for a while,” Quester said quietly beside her, “so you weren’t here when the priest Joben decided the Watch wasn’t doing its job well enough. Can’t blame them, really, given how few they number. So Joben let the beasts out of their cages and loosed them on the city.” He nodded down at them. “They do their jobs well…too well. If not for the ruffians, Kayne and Lilah might have attacked you instead, and they’d be sucking the marrow out of your bones. The Judges don’t discriminate intention, only sin. I know of thirty they’ve killed before tonight, and now you can add six more.”

  “They’re so…big,” Laurel whispered.

  “They are,” said Quester.

  She shook her head. “I must have been dreaming. I thought I heard them talk.”

  “What did they say?”

  “ ‘Sinners,’ I think.”

  The man laughed, his bells jingling, his horned beard flapping.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Even those of us in Riverrun have long known they hold a piece of Karak in them. Our beloved Divinity gave them a portion of the gift he gave us humans. That’s why they’re so big and smart. And now, apparently, they also talk.”

  He turned away, as if the two giant lions were of no more interest to him. He pointed to the shorter of the two Sisters, who stooped down and lifted Little Mo from where he lay on the roof. A second later she disappeared over the side of the building. The rope nearest her rapidly unfurled until it was pulled taut.

  “Wait!” Laurel shouted. She went to rush toward the rope, but the taller Sister stepped in her way, staring her down with those cold, expressionless eyes. Laurel turned toward the Crimson Sword. “Where did she go? Where is she taking him?”

  Quester dismissed her with a wave. “Don’t worry about the boy. Mite is bringing him to his mother, since she’s obviously all he has now.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “We wait here until Mite returns. You’re in no shape to travel, so we’ll wait until morning, when the Judges go back to the castle to sleep.”

  Laurel spun, looked below, where the lions were finishing their meal, and then at the strange man with the bells and horned beard.

  “Who are you?” she asked, totally bewildered. “What do you want with me? And how could you possibly know who that boy is?”

  Quester pulled a coin from his pocket and began flipping it between his fingers.

  “As I said, I’m the Crimson Sword, sworn protector of House Connington.” He bowed low to her. “My employers require your audience, and I was instructed to bring you to Riverrun to meet them. It took a bit of bribery and alcohol to find out where you’d gone and when you’d be returning, but we’ve found you at last.” He smirked, and even that sidelong look was stunning. “Milady, when it’s safe to travel, I’d like you to accompany me and my pets to Riverrun, where Romeo and Cleo are waiting. It seems the three of you have oh so very much to talk about.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Patrick’s legs ached, but still he put one foot in front of the other. He followed at his god’s heels as Ashhur marched north, leading their wandering nation into an unnamed settlement, the last before they rounded back south. Their destination was a hamlet that resided just outside the border of the Forest of Dezerea, nestled in the surrounding hills. There were grazing deer everywhere, and the trees were the tallest Patrick had ever seen. The place was idyllic, especially given that spring now had a firm grip on the land. The air had warmed and the flowers awakened, as had the leaves of the coniferous trees. Summer was still a few weeks away, but its scents filled the air.

  They set up camp in a vast gulley, countless people pounding stakes into the ground and erecting their temporary shelters. They had been traveling for weeks since leaving Grassmere, moving away from the Gods’ Road, and Patrick was nearing the end of h
is rope. The going was rough and painfully slow, and the procession of lost souls that followed him and Ashhur had started swelling immensely now that the deity had stopped leaving anyone behind. The entirety of the many villages and settlements they came across were added to the growing mass of human flesh. Patrick had to guess there were at least a thousand score traversing the land, maybe twice that, flattening the grasses of eastern Paradise and devouring all the sustenance they could find as they went. The mere sound of all these people performing the duties to keep themselves alive and comfortable was deafening. Patrick’s head was throbbing. All he wanted was to lie down and rest his weary bones, but a giant hand grabbed his shoulder as he drove a tent stake into the ground, and he knew his desire would go unmet.

  He turned around and saw Ashhur standing there, towering over him. There was a strange look on the god’s face.

  “Come, Patrick,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “To the settlement.”

  “Now? How far is it?”

  Ashhur pointed toward a steep, moss-covered hill. “Over that rise.”

  “Great,” he said with a sigh.

  Ashhur and Patrick left the rest of the flock, climbing the nearby hill atop which the deity assured him more of his children lived. When they arrived, they found a land that had come under recent strife. The trees were scorched, and the tents and crude huts that had served as shelters were trampled and torn. The commune was small, less than a mile wide, but there were no living souls to be seen. The only sign of human presence was a plume of smoke rising from behind a copse of giant evergreens.

  They pushed into the forest and discovered a clearing. Patrick’s heart beat more quickly in anticipation. The brightness seemed to fade as they moved forward, partly due to the vast amount of lingering smoke. In the center of the clearing was a huge, smoldering structure. The walls and roof were still standing, though blackened and flaking, and the iron nails that held the building together were hot to the touch. Something inside still burned, sizzling and popping.

  Against his better judgment, Patrick kicked the barn’s barred door while Ashhur lingered behind him. The boards were so thoroughly burned that the door seemed to disintegrate, filling the air with dust and ash. He covered his mouth and stepped through the portal, the hiss and sputter much louder now that the barrier had been broken.

  What he saw inside made him fall to his knees.

  There were at least two hundred corpses in there, most charred, some still cooking. Flesh was melted, bodies fused together, tangles of blackened arms and legs that looked like some hideous demon from the underworld desperately clawing for freedom. Some were piled over each other by the door, others in a scorched mass toward the center. There were floating embers all around, a few glowing, most gray, everything devoid of life. Brittle clumps of blackened debris crunched underfoot with each uneven step he took. His nostrils itched with the scent of burnt flesh.

  He fell to his knees, billowing ash all around him. His hand slipped down and his fingertips found a charred rope, and when he glanced around him, trying to keep his eyes from absorbing the countless twisted and screaming faces, he found many more bits of burnt rope. The picture grew clearer.

  The people had been herded into this barn against their will. Then the barn had been barred and set aflame from the outside. The inside had been stocked with bales of hay, which had caught fire easily once the flames climbed over and under the barn walls. The barn had been constructed solely for this purpose. They were burned alive, he thought. Some rushed the door, trying to get out, while others huddled in the center, probably praying for their god to save them. They were men, women, and children, and they died screaming, they died screaming, they died…

  Patrick heard a screech and turned around to see Barclay, the youth who had taken to spending long, annoying moments with him on the road, squatting in the doorway. Patrick rushed out, gathered the boy in his arms, and gently held him. Ashhur, who had kept a slight distance, considered him with a tilt of his head. Patrick opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. His god’s glowing golden eyes brightened, and the deity lumbered forward, ducking down to peer into the smoking barn.

  Suddenly a thought took root. Iron nails. There was very little production of iron in Paradise, certainly not in a crude settlement such as this, yet the doors had been secured with iron nails. Karak’s Army was still in pursuit of them, which left but one possibility. The nearby forest, and the kingdom within, was filled with elves who had so far remained out of the war. Or had they? Patrick thought of the deceased Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros, slain while they knelt for morning prayers. Perhaps Neldar wasn’t the only kingdom that wanted to see Paradise burn.

  A moment later Ashhur retracted his head from the door. His expression had gone blank, and his chiseled jaw hung low. He didn’t scream; he didn’t fly into a fit of rage as he had in Haven; he didn’t run toward the trees to punish the elves who bore responsibility. Instead, what he did was worse. He collapsed to his knees, still facing the barn.

  And the god wept.

  It was a disconcerting experience, hearing a deity cry. The sound was like the pounding of rain on stone mixed with the trumpeting of a hundred thousand grayhorns. Ashhur’s sobs were the ebb and flow of the tide, the rumble of thunder in a rainstorm, the pull and crack of a great earthquake. His body shook as tears clear as water from a mountain spring cascaded down his godly cheeks. The sound summoned others from the sprawling camp below, and soon the clearing was ringed with a multitude of confused and sickened people, all watching the god who had made their existence possible. His hopelessness was echoed in the uneasy murmurs of the crowd.

  Barclay continued to blubber, smearing snot all over the front of Patrick’s tunic, but Patrick didn’t notice. The sight and sound of his god wailing was the only thing that mattered. For the first time in a long while, Patrick felt truly afraid.

  “Fire is an inimitable beast,” the great Isabel DuTaureau had once said. “It is the essence of the heavens, personifying the giver and the taker at once. It can be tamed, but with care, for it is greedy. Just like its brother, snow, a little is wondrous—too much and life ends.”

  Patrick had received that bit of wisdom after burning his hand over a cookfire while trying to roast gooey bits of a reduced sugar concoction. The reply was typical of his mother. He had been around nine years old at the time, and he’d run to her in hopes of a soft touch and some soothing words. Instead, she’d delivered a lecture on the philosophic components of fire, before sending him to the temple for the healers to mend his blistered fingers.

  Even so, her words were all he could think of as he watched flames lick out of the small circle of stones before him two nights after the discovery of the barn. The paradox was palpable. Fire had made it possible to cook, to keep warm, to make tough wood pliant. Fire made up the sun that rose each morning, allowing plants to grow and forming the unmistakable distinction between day and night. Fire allowed them to send the souls of their deceased to the Golden Forever.

  Yet fire was also used to forge steel, which was then crafted into knives, daggers, and swords. It was used to destroy fields of grain in order to starve frightened people, and then to end the lives of those very same individuals. This was a recent usage unique to gods and men…and elves.

  Patrick grunted, shifted on his rump, and tossed another log onto the fire. Winterbone was beside him, the dragonglass crystal on its hilt reflecting the flickering flames. He shuddered, the image of the barn once again before him.

  “Patrick?” asked Barclay.

  He glanced across the flames, to where the youth was reclined on the other side of the pit. Barclay had rarely left his side since the discovery of the barn, which was still hidden in the trees atop the hill just beyond their camp. What had once been an amiable fourteen-year-old on the cusp of manhood had become a quivering child. He hadn’t asked a silly question for two days. Instead he walked with a sulking gait, his lower lip constantly quivering
. Not that Patrick minded much. At least he had silence.

  On second thought, perhaps silence wasn’t at all what he needed, for silence seemed to invite doubt.

  “What is it?” Patrick asked.

  “I can’t sleep,” said Barclay, twisting in his bedroll. “I’m scared.”

  “We’re all scared,” replied Patrick.

  “Not you. You’re not scared of anything. You weren’t even scared of…of…that.”

  Patrick shook his head. He wanted to tell the boy that of course he’d been scared, that all he could think about was running back to Mordeina and curling into a ball while his sisters comforted him.

  “Just close your eyes,” he said instead. “What’s the dumbest animal you can think of?”

  “Uh…a sheep?”

  “Well, picture a huge herd of sheep, and start counting them all. Don’t stop counting either—got it?”

  “Really?” said Barclay, his expression blank.

  “Just do it,” Patrick said. “Trust me. I’ve done this plenty.”

  “Do you use sheep too?”

  Patrick cleared his throat.

  “Sort of. I more use articles of clothing. Now go to sleep.”

  Barclay placed his head back down on his folded surcoat and closed his eyes. The boy’s lips gradually parted and closed as he counted. By the time he hit thirty-nine, he was fast asleep.