Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  Once the two underlings returned with the rest, the ten men marched away from them, heading toward Karak’s pavilion, which was thankfully a good distance away. Six other soldiers stepped forward to take their place, standing shoulder to shoulder across the Gods’ Road. Preston sighed and leaned over.

  “Did you have to insult him like that?” he whispered.

  Patrick shrugged. “Best to have him angry. An angry man is a careless man. Your brother taught me that. But why did you not tell him who I truly am? Would that not have been more…appealing?”

  “Perhaps, but that might have revealed…” The older man averted his eyes, then peered over his shoulder at the six who guarded the road and the thirty who stood watch at the bridge. Just when it seemed Preston was about to answer his question, he said, “Are you ready for this?” instead.

  Patrick sighed and slipped one hand from his binds as the rest of the youths gathered in around them. The horses whinnied.

  “What are you doing?” asked a strange, accented voice, right when they were preparing to charge.

  Patrick leaned back, trying to see beyond Big Flick’s massive body. An elf stood there, his bronze skin turned an odd shade of gray by the moonlight. The elf’s eyes were narrowed, intense, and he held his strange curved sword by his side.

  “What business is it of yours, elf?” asked Preston.

  “I saw that one gazing over the hillock,” the elf said, pointing at Patrick. “Do prisoners often serve as lookouts in Karak’s Army?”

  “Well, no,” Preston said. Patrick could tell his confidence was shaken. He was accustomed to handling men of Karak, but the determined stare of the elf was another matter entirely. “Surely you are mistaken.”

  “I know what I saw.” He took a menacing step forward, raising his sword. “That one there can be mistaken for no one else. Dismount, now. Whatever you have planned…”

  “Oh, fuck this.”

  Patrick ground his knees into his mare, spinning her. In one swift motion he snatched Winterbone’s handle, yanked the sword from the scabbard, and then urged the horse to turn in the opposite direction. The elf reacted quickly, hopping backward and raising his thin blade in defense, but he was not prepared for Patrick’s immense strength. The elf’s sword shattered against Winterbone’s power, and the massive blade carried on, slicing through the elf’s face like it was a block of soft cheese. The top half of his head slid off from the jaw on up, and his body teetered and dropped, blood pouring onto the Gods’ Road.

  The soldiers who had been standing before them panicked. They turned tail and ran toward the bridge, screaming for the rest of the men to stand up and fight. Patrick laughed as they ran, the fire of conflict overcoming him. He hadn’t been in battle since Haven. It surprised him to find that he’d missed it.

  “You’re enjoying this?” Preston exclaimed when he heard Patrick’s laugh.

  “Of course! Aren’t we soldiers? Now ride—ride, and run over any who bar your path!”

  With that, Preston drew his sword, shouted “Heeya!” and drove his knees into his stallion. The beast took off at a gallop, Patrick at his heels. He heard a litany of hooves pounding behind him, and despite his exhilaration, he hoped it was the rest of their party and not a group of Karak’s men running them down from the rear.

  Preston felled the first of defender of the bridge with a single downward chop. The other soldiers closed in, screaming bloody murder as they flailed at them with swords, axes and mauls. Patrick feared for the rest of his party, but he knew he could not spare them attention. He looped Winterbone with a single arm, hacking through armor and flesh alike as his horse crashed into the soldiers’ line. Blood splattered him each time he connected, coating his armor, soaking his smallclothes, staining his flesh. He didn’t care. A primal roar vibrated up his throat and he simply kept on hewing, even as his horse slowed to maneuver around the living obstacles standing in its way.

  He was hit hard from behind, but did not fall, and when he thrust back his elbow, it crunched against the face of a man holding a dagger. The man’s jaw imploded, the severed tip of his tongue falling on Patrick’s thigh. The attacker fell away, holding his face and screaming, and Patrick turned his attention forward once more. He was mere feet from the Wooden Bridge now, with only three soldiers blocking his way. Preston’s stallion was already almost halfway across.

  “With me!” Patrick shouted, baring his teeth and charging the three soldiers. He watched their eyes grow as large as saucers the closer he got, and they leaped out of the way before he reached them, allowing his mare to stampede onto the wooden slats unhindered.

  “Cowards!” he shouted over his shoulder. The wind buffeted his face as he thundered across the bridge, and as the rush of battle began to wane, he glanced behind to see if the others had made it. He couldn’t tell. The horses coming up on his rear all looked the same, as did their blood-smeared riders.

  Once he reached the other side, riding into the northwestern half of Paradise, Patrick kept right on racing, keeping up with Preston’s frantic pace. It wasn’t until they were a good two miles away, when the Wooden Bridge was no longer in sight, and the sky had become like a wound leaking deep crimson, that they finally stopped.

  They all sat there atop panting horses, they themselves equally exhausted. There were nine of them now, each with blood staining his armor. Preston had a wicked gash in his side, the top of Little Flick’s head was a gaping maw, Edward’s left arm hung limp by his side, and Ryann’s ear had been hacked clean off. The rest had smaller wounds, and many were still bleeding. All but Brick Mullin, who was nowhere to be found.

  “We lost one,” Preston said, dejected.

  “We did,” answered Patrick. “But only one. And he died a good death. We’ll mourn him later. For now, we must move. We just made a mockery of Karak’s entire army, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy about it.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Laurel made her way back to Veldaren in the daylight, just in case the mumbling priest Joben Tustlewhite hadn’t come to his senses and reigned in the frightening Judges. The last thing she wanted was another run-in with the two huge lions, never mind one of the roving bands of low men who had murder on their minds.

  She had been gone from Veldaren for eight days, and the Conningtons had given her a carriage for her journey, a mode of transportation that was finer than any she’d experienced in her short life of luxury, for while her father’s wealth was indeed vast, Cornwall Lawrence was a modest, simple man. The same could not be said of the Conningtons. The sides of the coach were so expertly crafted that no seams could be felt on the glossy wood, and inside were twelve massive pillows stuffed with downy feathers. The fabric was silk, the handholds grayhorn ivory. Lady Connington had even provided her with new attire, a finely spun, ankle-length, turquoise dress bedecked with rubies. She was amazed by how comfortable it was, like wearing her nightclothes—so different from the restrictive and revealing ensembles she’d forced herself to wear over the course of her long and frustrating mission.

  She had even been given servants, of all things. The Crimson Sword had given her possession of Mite and Giant, the two Sisters of the Cloth who had been his “pets.” Though Laurel hated the very notion of the Sisters and refused to consider them her possessions, she couldn’t deny how much safer the two wrapped ladies made her feel. Just looking at them as they hung close to the carriage’s windows, their gazes intent on their surroundings, calmed her nerves. She had come to think of them as her girls. Though their long journey back from Riverrun had been uneventful, it was something she did not take for granted. Now all she had to worry about was how King Eldrich would receive the Conningtons’ counteroffer. Although they had agreed to assist the realm with coin, commodities, and manpower, she was certain the king would not be very happy with what they’d demanded in return.

  The carriage turned onto the eastern Road of Worship. Smooth cobbles replaced the bumpy packed earth of the Gods’ Road. Laurel pee
ked out of the porthole. A hot breeze and Veldaren’s unique stink struck her head-on. The driver steered the two horses onward, past the empty fields where one day even more abodes and places of commerce would be built, past the stacks of felled lumber, mossy from sitting unused in the elements for so long, past the Temple of Karak. The sight of the temple, a looming black obelisk that seemed to swell and retract in the day’s heat, as if breathing, caused her to cringe. She cast down her eyes.

  “I love you, my Lord,” she whispered. She may have lost faith in her god’s teachings, just as the Conningtons claimed they had, but unlike them she refused to relinquish her love, whether she was about to betray Karak or not.

  Buildings began to appear by the side of the road, a sparse few at first, then more and more, until they were packed together like fish in a barrel. Laurel breathed out a wistful sigh. The drab gray stone and weepy brown wood of the city was actually a comfort. Veldaren had become more than her home over the last four years. It was where she had bloomed into womanhood, where she had earned her independence. Protecting it from the coming strife was the main reason she had agreed to the king’s proposal in the first place.

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched the city roll by her window, a stone of unease burying itself in her gut. It was closing in on noontime, yet there seemed to be fewer women on the road than usual. Those she saw had a faraway look about them; eyes glazed over, gaits hunched, as if each carried a heavy weight. There were virtually no unwatched children running through the streets, a sight that had grown common over the past months.

  The cart neared the great fountain at the center of the city, where the daily market was held. The square was completely empty. There were no vendors hawking their fruits, vegetables, meats both salted and freshly butchered, textiles, trinkets, or shoes. The only soul within eyesight was a single woman sitting on the side of the road, holding her stomach. Her clothes were filthy, her body so thin she resembled a skeleton. Her head was down, her dirty hair concealing her face. Laurel sucked in a breath. She couldn’t tell if the woman was alive, and when two other women hustled past without a glance at the slouched one, she realized that no one cared.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked aloud. Mite’s blue eyes and Giant’s brown ones turned toward her, but neither said a word. Not that they would. She had tried to engage them in conversation numerous times since they’d left Riverrun, but true to their order, they had remained silent. Attempting to make them speak was a fruitless task.

  She returned her gaze to the road, searching for a member of the City Watch in the hopes of asking him to check on the poor, thin woman, but none were within eyesight. It was then, as they circled the roundabout and joined the South Road, that she realized she hadn’t seen a single man in a Watch uniform since they’d entered the city limits. This struck her as odd. Odder yet, she hadn’t noticed any men at all. Her stomach began to rumble with unease.

  The streets remained sparsely populated as they drew closer and closer to the castle, where crowds were usually abundant. Laurel looked down at the letter she held in her hand, which had been delivered two days ago by a female courier with skittish eyes, a reply to a correspondence she had sent via bird just before leaving Riverrun. In it Guster, her kindly and elderly fellow Councilman with the neck wattle, gushed about how splendid it was that her task was nearing its close, saying that King Eldrich eagerly awaited to hear what the merchants had to say about his proposal. It also reported that a special Council session had been planned to begin on her return to Veldaren. She had scribbled her reply and handed it to the courier, who’d wheeled her horse around and rode off without another word.

  The sight of the three castle towers made her breathe a little easier. Soon she would tell the king of the Conningtons’ demands, and she would get answers about what had happened to her home. She closed her eyes, telling herself that she was acting like a frightened little girl. There must be a logical explanation, she thought. Once you hear it, you’ll realize how silly you’re being. We’re fighting a war now. Things are bound to change. Yet, given how strange everything was in the city, it was difficult to keep her fear from ruling all other thoughts.

  The carriage rocked to a stop in front of the portcullis of the Castle of the Lion a few minutes later. Mite opened the door closest to the street, and out stepped Giant, who then turned to assist her new mistress. Laurel’s feet fell to the cobbled walk and she flexed her toes inside her thin, feminine shoes, appreciating the hardness after trudging on packed dirt for so long. The driver—a young woman whose family trained all the horses in the Conningtons’ stables—nodded to her before cracking the horses’ leads. The two steeds trotted off, pulling the empty carriage behind them. Unlike her new dress and Quester’s two pets, apparently the carriage was not hers to keep.

  The reek of decay reached her nose, causing her sneeze, and Laurel turned toward the castle. She cringed, gazing up at the twenty-one corpses dangling there. It felt strange to see them there, as she could have sworn Guster had told her that the Council had decided to take them down. Yet they hung there still. The heat of early summer had quickened the moldering that had been stymied by the cold of winter. Her eyes skimmed past the fifteen dead soldiers before landing on Minister Mori’s sunken face. The flesh was gradually peeling off her cheeks, and Laurel felt her eyes water. She half expected Captain Jenatt to appear and join her in mourning as he always had in the past, but he was nowhere to be found. In fact, strangely enough, there was no one guarding the portcullis at all save the two onyx lions. But she was not alone in paying her respects to Soleh’s memory. Mite stood beside her, and the Sister’s formerly expressionless blue eyes brimmed with tears. Her tiny body seemed to tremble, and Laurel reached out a hand to comfort her. Giant swooped in before Laurel could make contact with Mite’s bandage-swathed arm and, giving the smaller sister a stern look, she shoved her toward the gate. Laurel grimaced and followed them, not sure what to make of the display she’d just witnessed. This day could not get any stranger, she thought.

  Much to Laurel’s surprise, it did. When she passed through the unguarded portcullis and into the castle courtyard, her jaw dropped open. Among a scant few plainly dressed women were at least fifty Sisters of the Cloth, some pulling carts filled with fruit, others walking horses, and still others busily tearing down Minister Mori’s dilapidated old podium. Laurel’s head was on a swivel as she looked all about her. There weren’t quite as many Sisters here as had been present in Riverrun, but it was shocking to see this many in the city. Still, it was entirely possible the other merchants had returned to Veldaren and brought their stables of Sisters with them.

  Even more shocking was the lack of purple sashes. Nowhere in the courtyard could she spot a single member of the Palace Guard. Suddenly two men appeared from the massive doorway of Tower Honor, the first males she had seen all day. They waved to her urgently as they took step after hasty step. Laurel recognized them as Walter Olleray and Zebediah Zane, two of her fellow Council members.

  “Laurel…Laurel Lawrence,” Walter said as he approached. He was a balding fat man who carried his girth much less gracefully than the Conningtons. His cheeks were ruddy by the time he reached her. He panted as well, and his breath reeked of eggs, which made Laurel swallow a grimace.

  “Walter,” she said. “Zebediah.”

  “Laurel, you must come quickly,” Zebediah said. He beckoned her with both hands, stepping backward. He walked with a pronounced limp, the result of having a wooden left leg.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Laurel. “Where are the guards? Where is the Watch? Why are there so many Sisters here?”

  “Guster will explain everything,” rasped Walter.

  “Yes, the Speaker will tell you all you need to know.”

  The two continued to lead her forward. Laurel opened her mouth to ask another question, but then shut it and shook her head. Walter and Zebediah were the lowest members of the Council of Twelve other than herself. They had no opinions
of their own; whatever Marius Trufont said, they reaffirmed like obedient puppies. Marius was the Council’s second senior member, from a rich family descended from the Mudrakers. If these two were present, Marius would not be far behind.

  She nodded to Mite and Giant, and then fell in step behind the two men. Her Sisters stayed to each side of her, not seeming to register anything but her and the path ahead. They seemed blind even to the others of their order. Laurel wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  Tower Honor’s tall doors were opened by another pair of Sisters. Laurel entered to find the foyer and the grand hall in complete disarray. There were scattered bits of parchment everywhere, tables which used to hold finely crafted pots and vases filled with flower arrangements had been knocked over, and the carpet underfoot, which used to be thick and soft, was matted and sodden with a pinkish liquid, squishing with each step she took. Even here, the Palace Guard was absent. Fear began to clench in Laurel’s belly as she watched Walter and Zebediah proceed through the mess. She had the sudden desire to turn around, walk out of the tower, the courtyard, and then the city, never to return. Taking a deep breath, she balled her hands into fists, dug her fingernails into her palms, and forced herself to move onward.

  Sure enough, Marius was waiting for them at the top of the steps leading to the double doors of the throne room. Marius was fifty and average in every way, from attractiveness to height, to style of dress. It was only his wealth and aggressive cockiness that made other members of the Council fear or respect him.

  Those traits were not currently on display, for Marius was fidgety. He was chomping on his lip and whispering to Lenroy Mott, the councilman from Gronswik, who stood beside him. Neither man looked up until Zebediah cleared his throat. Laurel cocked her head; she heard a faint buzzing, as though water were trapped in her ears. She yawned, trying to release the pressure in her head, but the buzzing persisted.

  “Ah, Laurel,” Marius said. Normally, he was the first one to make a lewd comment about her appearance, but not today. His eyes didn’t rake her figure, nor did he utter a word about her dress. His voice sounded as if he had recently been crying, though his cheeks were dry. “They are waiting,” he said, grabbing the handle of one of the doors.