The woman did not seem to understand. She tilted her head as she continued her approach.
“Hold him,” she said. “Go ahead. Ashhur’s teachings say you can feel the innocence in children, and it fills the soul. Here, take him.”
She extended her arms outward, the squirming child in her hands. For a moment Avila almost accepted. She found herself drawn to them, her heart rate quickening in a way it never did in times of conflict, whether on the battlefield or between the sheets. The sensation frightened her, and she skittered away from the woman. Integrity fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.
“Get away from me!” she screamed.
A shadow passed through the open doorway, and in rushed Malcolm. His lone good eye glanced first at Avila, then the woman. Hearing the clunk of his boots, the young mother turned in time to see Malcolm heft Darkfall from the sheath on his back. The smile left her face.
Malcolm hauled his massive sword back and swung it with all his might, his neck taut, his teeth grinding together in anger. The blade cut through the woman where neck met shoulder, snapping easily through bone and tendon. Before Avila could react, both mother and child had been sliced through. Blood spurted everywhere as Darkfall’s tip smacked against the wood floor. The woman dropped both halves of her now silent child, her eyes wide and glossy as her upper torso and right arm slid away from the rest of her body and landed with a thud. The remainder of her collapsed shortly thereafter.
Malcolm looked up at Avila, his hoary left eye opened wider than the good right one.
“Karak hears no pleas for mercy,” he said, panting. “There is order, or there is death.”
Avila stood frozen, staring from her lieutenant to the butchered mother and child and the ever-widening lake of blood. Malcolm rose and wiped the gore from his sword with a rag from his belt. The sun from above lit him strangely, and for a moment it appeared to Avila as if his blade were glowing a deep purple.
He stuffed Darkfall back into its scabbard and the glow vanished. He approached her.
“Lord Commander, you do not seem well,” he said, reaching for her. “Take my hand.”
She batted his offer away, scooping Integrity up off the floor. She ran past him with clenched teeth, ran until she reached the wall, ignoring the queer looks she received from her men, who were lining up the village’s dead for burning. All she could think about was getting out of this place, away from the prying eyes of those who would judge her, away from thoughts of how disappointed her deity would be in her. But she did not desire to be alone; more than anything, she longed to put a knife through the throat of the one who had made her this way, the one who had weakened her and turned her into a shell of the great warrior of Karak she had once been.
The Gods’ Road was packed with the remainder of her division; nearly five thousand made camp in dirt that looked like it had already been packed down by a previous, even larger congregation. A few stood on the edge of the cliff watching the action down below. This was the fourteenth settlement they had liberated over the last few weeks, and their duties had become gradually more uninteresting with each stop. The men gained more enjoyment in their cups or sitting around cookfires telling lewd jokes than in combat. Many soldiers stood as she approached. Avila slowed to a brisk walk, but when the men caught sight of her face, their expressions grew quizzical, even perplexed. Avila did her best to scowl, hoping a derisive look might make them turn away. Of course she looked out of breath and odd. She’d just been in battle!
She passed a grouping of twenty crude, slanting tents. This was where the converts stayed, those from Paradise who had accepted Karak into their hearts instead of facing the executioner’s sword. They were positioned at the center of the encampment to ensure they were surrounded by soldiers at all times. Standing up as she approached, each haggard soul looked on her with a mixture of hope and fear. They are not converts, she told herself. They had no love of Karak. They had simply pledged their loyalty to save their own skins.
The mere concept made her want to cry, which in turn made her angrier.
Two guards stood outside the pavilion of the Lord Commander. She stopped short of them, giving herself a moment to wipe her damp cheeks and take a deep breath. Marching forward, she demanded that none bother her until morning, when they were to continue their western trek. These were two of her best soldiers, and they simply nodded when she gave the command, neither looking directly at her, for which she was thankful. One held open the pavilion’s entrance flap, and she ducked beneath it.
Though the walls of the pavilion were only canvas, thin enough for soft light to filter through, the material still seemed to make the noises of the outside world disappear. All was silent but for a single voice, soft and gentle and innocent, nearly angelic. The voice sang a somber tune. Avila undid her belt, letting it drop to the ground. She knelt before the travel chest at the foot of her bedroll to remove a sharp knife.
“Karak’s will be done,” she whispered.
A curtain hung on the opposite end of the pavilion from her sleeping area. She could clearly see the outline of a tiny figure there, the source of the singing. Avila crept across the space, crouching, holding the knife blade down. When she reached the curtain, she ripped it aside.
Willa sat cross-legged on the floor, bent over, her lips drawn tight in concentration. She did not look up, even as the curtain fell from its hook and fluttered to the ground like drifting smoke. The little girl hunched over a sheet of parchment, one hand holding the paper flat while the other held a slender piece of charcoal. Black covered the girl’s clothes, arms, cheeks, and painted the ends of her curly golden locks. She drew feverishly, and when she was finished, she pushed the sheet aside, where it joined at least twenty others. The simple act of watching the child caused Avila’s anger to wane.
“Willa,” she asked, “what are you doing?”
“Drawing,” the little girl said. She looked up from a new blank sheet of parchment and smiled. There was a twinkle in her eye, a blithe happiness that seemed to narrow the world to the two of them. Her blue eyes shifted to the knife Avila held above her, and she flinched.
Quick as a whip, Avila slid the weapon behind her back. With its disappearance, Willa seemed to forget it had ever been there. The smile returned to her face almost immediately.
“Sit with me, Avila,” she said, virtue oozing from her mouth like poisonous sludge.
Ashhur’s teachings say you can feel the innocence in children.…
Avila joined the girl against her better judgment, folding her legs over each other as she nestled in beside her. Willa smelled sweet, like powder and strawberries, and Avila both hated that scent and longed for it to be with her always. She had hesitated in the granary. In the past she would never have hesitated, which meant she had changed. It was Willa who had changed her, who was actively changing her. She needed to end the deception this child embodied, and quickly.
Yet when she looked into blue eyes so similar to her own, she saw the mother and child who had been shorn in two by Malcolm’s sword, and the horror of it made her insides twist and coil.
“Do you want to see one?” asked Willa. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a sheet and lifted it to her. Avila squinted, staring at a black blocky image surrounded by seemingly random black slashes.
“What is it?” she asked.
“My favorite place in all the world,” Willa answered, bouncing enthusiastically on her little rump. Her finger jabbed at the picture, smearing her rough lines. “That’s where you said Ashhur lived. In the grasses.”
The Sanctuary. Safeway, Ashhur’s home, had been the third stop on their journey before heading back to the north. They’d found it completely abandoned. They had camped there for four days, giving the men time to rest by the sea before the longest and hardest part of their quest commenced. The Sanctuary, a majestic, round building of smooth stone and impeccable architecture, had become Malcolm’s obsession. Her captain had declared that he would return one day,
and that Ashhur’s Sanctuary would become Karak’s seat of power in the west, a final posthumous insult to the false deity. Avila had brought Willa there, showing her the many etchings that depicted the false stories the God of Justice had told his creations.
Avila had been surprised by the beauty of the Sanctuary, which was filled with such light and joy and serenity. There was no place like it in all of Neldar, not even in the Castle of the Lion, which she had once thought the pinnacle of splendor and achievement.
Willa touched her leg, and she realized she was drifting.
“Karak can live there too,” she said. “When he beats up Ashhur, he can go back there and live in the building. He can tell us stories and keep us safe. Is that right?”
“Yes, that is right.”
It hit her all at once. Willa had not been poisoning her mind. No, the child was starting to understand and accept Karak’s teachings. She was always excited when Avila visited her during the afternoon meal to give her lessons about the glory of the God of Order. If Avila was feeling doubt, she was the one at fault, not this innocent young thing. And was there anything wrong with doubt? Despite her misgivings, she still obeyed her god’s commands, still worked to purge this heathen land of all the devotees of the weak, pathetic deity.
There is nothing wrong with allowing myself a small amount of joy, she thought, staring at Willa. Mother did the same with us when we were young, and she never lost her faith.
Avila spent the rest of the day within the confines of the Lord Commander’s pavilion, drawing alongside her tiny companion. She told the child stories, played games with her, and instructed her as best she could on the proper way to live in an ordered society. The latter concepts were obviously beyond a seven-year-old’s comprehension, but she admired how intently Willa listened, how her face scrunched up in the most adorable of ways when she was concentrating. For the first time, Avila answered the girl without hesitation when asked for the hundredth time what had caused her facial scars.
She felt happy, truly happy, and the memory of the slain mother and child started to lose its grip on her.
That night they took their dinner inside, and when Avila blew out the candles, Willa asked her to lie down beside her. Avila allowed the child to curl up in her arms, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath her cotton nightclothes. Soon the girl was snoring, and Avila uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Karak before nodding off herself. Her sleep was black and dreamless.
Come morning, when the horns blew and the sounds of her division dismantling the camp invaded the thin canvas walls of her pavilion, Avila stretched her arms high above her head. Her back cracked and she felt a twinge of pain in her side. She was sore, unusual given the pure blood of the First Family that flowed in her veins. She glanced at the still sleeping Willa, rosebud lips puckered, tiny chest rising and falling with each breath she took. I slept in an uncomfortable position is all, she thought, and went about packing up her things as well, allowing the child to doze until she awoke on her own.
CHAPTER
20
“As you can see, milady,” said Quester the Crimson Sword, “every amenity you could desire is right here. Bath houses, eateries, delicatessens, theaters, two wonderful brothels, a vineyard, a huge commons, arenas, and taverns. Here in Riverrun, we spare no expense. The founders have seen to that.”
Laurel rode on her horse beside him, with the two Sisters of the Cloth—Mite and Giant were Quester’s pet names for them—riding behind. She looked wherever the stunning young man pointed, hanging on his every word. He was right. Riverrun was indeed the most picturesque town she had ever visited. Veldaren was a cold, gray tomb by comparison.
All along the main thoroughfare leading away from the Gods’ Road, there were cottages and chalets, finely crafted homes of interlocking logs atop sturdy stone foundations. In many ways it resembled the other merchant towns she had visited—Drake, Gronswik, and Thettletown, the latter of which they had passed through on their way here—but the feel was much different. The road was well maintained, the many gardens popped with color. Merry people streamed in and out of the seamstress shop, the apothecary, the taverns. The outdoor market they rode past teemed with women both young and old, and they did not seem battered down or sullied. Their men wore boiled leather and ringed armor, and each had his weapon of choice hanging from his belt. At first Laurel had feared they were bandits—the vast majority of the men she’d seen of late were just that—but they were clean and seemed to be in good spirits.
“The men,” she asked, after passing a group of four chatting together before the entrance of a tavern. “Why are they so many? Have Karak’s soldiers not come here to conscript like they have elsewhere?”
“They have, but merchants hold a particular…sway within the kingdom.” Quester grinned while playfully flicking his forked beard. “My masters in particular have good standing with both god and king. Most of our common men were sent away with our deity’s army. Yet Riverrun has kept the fires stoked at Mount Hailen and in Felwood, supplying Karak with all the steel he could desire. For that, we were allowed to keep our hired hands.” His grin grew wider. “It just so happens that most of our hired hands also hold swords.”
“Is that not…well, unfair?” asked Laurel.
The Crimson Sword shrugged.
“Fairness is a matter of perspective, milady. Is it fair to my masters that gold, silver, and bronze have lost much of their value because there are few left to earn it, never mind spend it? Is it fair that the trade they built their livelihoods on now teeters on collapse? It is not, but they know this war will not last forever, and when it does end, when trade returns to its full strength and gold retains its meaning, those who hold the reins will once more be the most powerful men in the land. If we were denied our protection, roving bands of brigands could easily conquer our town. No one, not the temple, not the king, not even Karak himself, wants to see that happen. Once the engine of commerce resumes, the transition back to normalcy needs to be as painless as possible.” He swung his hand out wide. “And besides, that means my home gets to keep its inherent loveliness, which is never such a bad thing.”
Laurel had no choice but to agree with him. There was something rather comforting about offering a nod of greeting to a passerby and receiving one in kind. In many ways, it seemed as though Riverrun existed in a bubble all its own, untouched by the strife and lawlessness brought about by Karak’s war.
The throughway passed by a great stone amphitheater, a tall structure whose walls were made from a strange, smooth substance, and then a massive commons. There, several boys and girls were at play, tossing small rounded sacks and chasing each other with sticks. Mothers sat on blankets on the edge of the field, eating apples, pears, grapes, and other assorted fruits plucked from wicker baskets, while they watched their children play. More sellswords stood behind them, grinning while they watched the fun, but Laurel could tell their attention was elsewhere. Their eyes skittered nervously at the sound of the horses’ hooves when Quester and Laurel approached with the Sisters of the Cloth in tow, their fingers dancing lightly on the hilts of their swords. It was a reminder, however subtle, of the dangers that lurked all around them.
Before long they reached the Queln River. The road veered sharply, following along the swiftly flowing waters. There were even more children playing in a sandy fjord, splashing and kicking and screeching in joy. Farther along, when the river widened, Laurel saw a fleet of rafts and barges tethered to a great dockhouse that jutted out over the water. There were men working the docked crafts, unloading baskets of fish onto the plank for others to dump into a giant crate and sort through. There were a great many Sisters of the Cloth present, a sight that made Laurel cringe. The wrapped women were like phantoms, lurking around, acknowledged by none. She glanced over her shoulder at Mite and Giant, and suppressed a shudder when she took in the blank look in their eyes.
The farther south they rode along the river, the more prevalent the Sisters became. Soon
, they were all she could see, standing in front of gatehouses, guarding the entrance to a steaming smithy on the river’s edge, escorting horses pulling wagons filled with hay, fish, meat, or billowing cotton. Quester noticed her guarded stares, steered his horse over, and took her hand. His grip was firm, his skin soft as silk, yet hardened by calluses at the fingertips. Combined with the man’s inherent beauty, his touch lit something inside her that it was difficult to quell.
“Some of my masters’ most inspired purchases,” he said. “They’ve bought three hundred Sisters over the years. Quiet, hardworking, completely loyal, and many are quite capable in the art of defense, like my pets.” He gestured at Mite and Giant.
“Three hundred?” said Laurel, aghast. “How can there be so many?”
“Oh, three hundred is a low number, milady. There are more than two thousand sisters spread throughout Neldar. When courts are controlled by theological law, these things tend to happen.”
Laurel grunted in disgust. She had been told stories of the Sisters of the Cloth since she was a little girl. It was a warning to all of the fairer sex that a horrible life awaited them should they break Karak’s laws. For men, it was either imprisonment or death. Laurel thought it unfair, though, of course, many men sentenced to death would probably argue otherwise.
The landscape began to change, growing rocky and unsuitable for growth. There were cliffs ahead, craggy outcroppings that fronted the lesser mountains bordering the western bank of the Queln. The road they traveled veered inland, following the base of a foothill. There were more Sisters here than anywhere—dozens of them sparred in the open area to Laurel’s right, steel clanging as their daggers met again and again. A massive ring of stacked stone, taller than her horse, emerged ahead, built into the base of the foothills. Its thick door was guarded by a pair of Sisters.
“Welcome to the Connington Holdfast,” the Crimson Sword declared.
He motioned for her to stop and dismount, which she did. The ground felt hard and unforgiving beneath her feet, very different from the yielding, almost spongy earth they’d camped on the evening before, outside of Thettletown. She stretched her legs for a moment, then approached the door. The two Sisters guarding it barred the path, crossing their daggers. She stepped back, staring into their dead eyes.
Wrath of Lions Page 30