Matthew pointed down the crowded street. “There are fifteen wagons waiting in front of the postern gate. They contain a third of our wheat, vegetables, and salted meats, to be used in whatever way Karak requires.”
“A third is not enough. We require half of your stores.”
Matthew’s insides twisted, the dire warning of the Conningtons manifesting itself before his eyes. The part of him that wasn’t afraid, small as it was, silently applauded his decision to help them.
Catherine nudged him, and he shook himself out of his stupor.
“If half is what you require, half is what you will get,” he said.
“And what of the weapons?” asked Noyle, one eyebrow lifting.
“Weapons?” asked Matthew, a hitch in his voice.
“Yes, the weapons I requested in the letter. It is on record in Veldaren that you purchased a large cache of steel from the Connington family two years ago. We require those weapons to fight the brother god’s scourge of Paradise. The production of the northern armories has declined precipitously since most of the workers have been called into service to our Lord. Where are they?”
“We—”
“We don’t have them any longer,” said Catherine, cutting him off.
Noyle eyed her, seeming aghast that she’d had the nerve to speak.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“They should be with our god already,” she said, sounding entirely at ease. “Just after your last visit, when you drafted our ships, my husband mulled over your dire words for a solid week. He decided to get the weapons to Karak without delay. The cache was loaded onto our last remaining galley and sent along the coast to enter the Rigon and join our barges before they traversed the shallower parts of the river.”
“Is this true?” asked Noyle, staring Matthew down. “We have received no word from our Divinity about these weapons.”
“It is possible the galley never made it to the river,” Catherine said before Matthew could reply. “The sea storms were quite harsh at the time. It is common for a ship bearing a heavy load not to survive the waves.”
“Does your wife always speak for you?” Noyle asked Matthew.
“Not always,” he mumbled in reply.
Noyle turned and walked away. The other two acolytes stepped forward to meet him, and they huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. The sellswords shuffled about uneasily, as did Bren, Penetta, and Lori. Matthew felt for them. It amazed him how unmoved Catherine appeared. She simply stared straight forward, chin lifted, eyes bright and alive.
Finally, Noyle approached him once more.
“If what you say is true, your god thanks you for your sacrifice. Rest assured, however, that this matter will be further explored.” He gestured behind him. “Kipling, my fellow acolyte, will remain behind to review your records. If there is any evidence of treachery, you will answer to our god. Is that understood, Master Brennan?”
“It is,” Matthew said, a lump in his throat.
“Unfortunately, since you do not have the weapons to give, there is something else we require in their stead. An army of fighting men has needs other than weaponry, after all.”
Matthew felt proud of how well he hid his cringe.
“What might that be?” he asked.
Noyle stepped back and gestured to the crowd of women.
“The soldiers in our Lord’s army have basic needs that have gone unmet for some time. All we ask is that you hand over three hundred of your young ladies to serve in that regard. All those who are given this honor will be greatly rewarded, both while performing their duties and when the war is finished.”
“Wait…what?” said Matthew. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Bren chuckled beside him.
“You heard me, Master Brennan,” said the acolyte.
“You…you would make prostitutes out of them?”
Noyle laughed. “I am sure many of them already were, Master Brennan. Are you that naïve to think otherwise? Now their womanly virtues will simply be serving a higher purpose.”
Matthew grabbed the young acolyte by the front of his robe, pulled him close. The soldiers in front drew their swords, looking ready to charge, but the other two acolytes held them back.
“According to Karak’s law, these women are free,” Matthew growled, spittle striking Noyle’s cheek. “What you ask is to enslave them.”
Noyle never even flinched.
“It could be worse,” he said. “We could place them on the battlefield to be slaughtered. This way, the men get to stoke their inner fire, and the women who receive their gifts might be rewarded with a child.”
“That isn’t right, you sick fuck. How can you—”
“Matthew, release him.”
He shifted his eyes to meet Catherine’s gaze as she stood there, hands on hips, glowering at him.
“Do you think it right that—”
“I said release him, Matthew.”
He opened his fists and allowed Noyle to take a step backward. Matthew stormed toward his wife. Bren took a step closer to Catherine, as if to protect her.
“You will let our people be turned into concubines?” he asked, seething.
She leaned closer to him. “Remember, Matthew. Whatever they ask for, you give them. It is the only way.”
“But—”
“But nothing, darling. Do it. Now.”
He blew out a disgusted breath and turned around. Noyle had straightened out his robe, and a pair of soldiers were at his sides, swords raised.
“Consider your demand met,” Matthew said with a disgusted wave. “If you want women, you can have them.”
Shocked cries rang out from the crowd.
“Good. And since laying your hands on a representative of Karak cannot go without punishment, we will require a hundred more, your house servants among them.”
Matthew winced and peered over his shoulder, where Catherine was nodding. “Very well. You want them, you have them.”
The clamor of the immense gathering of women ratcheted up. Now there were shouts and weeping from the throng. Noyle turned around in a circle, addressing them.
“You heard the words of Master Brennan!” he shouted. “If any wish to volunteer their services, step forward now. Should our required count not be met, we will begin choosing those of our liking from among the rest.”
The volume of the protest climbed, but none stepped forward. Matthew crept back to Catherine’s side and clutched her hand once more. She was smiling. On the other side of him, Bren began breathing quickly, almost expectantly.
“Why are you smiling?” Matthew asked his wife.
Catherine jutted her chin out, urging Matthew to look. When he did, he saw the crowd part and a lithe, dark-haired woman wearing a simple smock emerged. His jaw dropped open.
“We have our first volunteer!” announced Noyle. He left the protection of the two soldiers as Moira Elren kneeled before him, hands on her knees. “Do you welcome this chance to serve our beloved god as we defeat the enemies of our lord?”
“I am but a servant,” she said, smiling up at him. The man paused, his expression confused.
“Do I know you?” he asked. “Your face—it is familiar.”
“It should be,” she said. “I’m the woman who killed you.”
In a single, swooping motion, Moira reached beneath her smock, pulled out a curved dagger, and jammed the blade beneath Noyle’s ribcage. The young acolyte’s face grew white with shock and pain, his eyes bulging from their sockets as she gave the weapon a vicious twist. The other two acolytes stared, mouths agape, as she lowered their leader to the ground.
“I am no one’s whore!” she screamed at the throng of women. “And neither are any of you!”
The two soldiers who had been standing with Noyle leapt forward, swords leading. Matthew cried out a warning, but it was unnecessary. Moira yanked her dagger from Noyle’s chest and cartwheeled to the side, dodging their attack. When she landed back on her feet, she hurl
ed the dagger. It flew through the air, flinging Noyle’s blood as it spun, until it plunged into the neck of the first soldier. The man fell to his knees, clutching at the hilt as blood poured from between his fingers.
“Now!” Moira shouted as she leaped back into the crowd.
The two hundred soldiers who had arrived with the acolytes were just beginning to draw their weapons as a volley of arrows rained down on them. Matthew glanced up, saw women with bows standing on the rooftops of the shanty buildings lining Rat Harbor’s main street. The soldiers, caught unaware, were pelted with the bolts of sharp steel. A few fell to arrows in the neck or face; still others doubled over as arrows found purchase in the gaps in their mail and plate.
Matthew’s sellswords were on the startled soldiers a moment later, swords drawn. Then the crowd of women surged forward, armed with kitchen utensils—knives, iron pots, wooden spoons sharpened to shanks. Their sheer numbers swallowed the soldiers, who disappeared beneath a sea of long hair and ratty clothing. Matthew couldn’t believe his eyes.
A strong hand gripped his arm, yanking him backward. He looked Bren in the eye, and there was a strange aura of melancholy about him.
“Alright, boss, show’s over,” he said, shoving Matthew into the open door of the theater. “You too, Miss Brennan. It ain’t safe out here for you.”
The chaos and raucous noise of the conflict died away somewhat after Bren slammed the theater door shut behind them. Matthew, his wife, and her two maids stood in the middle of the open space, looking at the tables where Connington’s men had once sat, staring at the now empty shelf of liquor. The clang of steel and the shrieks of dying men and women pierced the building’s walls.
“I could use a drink,” he heard Catherine say. “Lori, Penetta, please go to the cellar and find some wine. I’m sure there’s a reserve here somewhere.”
Two pairs of feet shuffled away, and Matthew slowly brought his eyes to his wife. Catherine seemed to be relishing the moment. Her dress, a stately violet number edged with yellow gems, wasn’t rumpled in the slightest.
“This…this was your doing,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.”
“You knew what would happen.”
She nodded. “A message came from Riverrun two weeks ago. The Conningtons were given similar demands, and they handed over half their guard and a large number of their Sisters, just as the Garlands and Mudrakers had already done.” She shrugged. “I had Moira prepare as many women as she could. Had you not been busy murdering those poor people who delivered the Gemcroft woman’s child, you would have known.”
“But you…you hid the message from me!” he exclaimed. “You should have told me, Catherine. This is my business! Do you know what you just did? We will be considered blasphemers, enemies of the kingdom! When Karak returns, he will have all our heads! And should any more soldiers arrive at our gates…”
“Matthew, my dear, I thought you took measures so that Karak would not return. And besides, there are no more soldiers in Neldar. These were the last. The rest are all…occupied elsewhere.” Her grin turned into a sly smile.
“How can you be so smug? How can you be so sure?”
“I’ve learned from the best,” she answered.
The door swung open then, admitting the deafening clamor of the battle. Bren entered, lugging a groaning soldier behind him. The man’s arm had been severed just below the elbow, the jagged stump spurting blood.
“What are you doing?” Matthew shouted. “Get that man out of here, or at least put him out of his misery.”
“Can’t,” said Bren.
“Why in the name of the gods not?”
“Because this is the murderer,” said Catherine.
“Murderer of who?”
Bren answered without words, driving the soldier’s sword into Matthew’s gut. Pain exploded throughout his body, followed by a strange weakening sensation as blood began to flow out of the mortal wound. Bren released the sword’s handle and Matthew fell backward, landing on his rump. The tip of the sword, which had exited his lower back, clanked on the slatted wooden floor.
He gawked at the handle, at all the blood, and then back up at Bren.
“Why?” he was able to croak out. His throat felt as if something were lodged into it.
Bren cast his eyes aside and turned away from him. By the rise and fall of his shoulders, it looked like he was crying. That was when Catherine approached, kneeling down before him and placing a velvety hand on his cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch, almost burning. The expression on her face was an odd mixture of resolve and sorrow.
“My poor Matthew,” Catherine whispered. “Does it hurt?”
He groaned.
“The pain will end soon, darling. Worry not.”
His head grew faint, and he felt his body begin to tip over. Catherine guided him to the floor, resting his head atop the hard wood. He coughed, and a spray of red left his mouth, forming tiny dots on Catherine’s elegant dress. His chest hitched, and he began to sob despite the pain.
His voice was nothing more than a sigh when he asked, “Why?” once more.
Catherine shook her head. “I do love you, you know. I always have, ever since I was a girl. But love fades, love changes, and when that happens, the only thing you can do is change along with it.”
Matthew’s head lolled. Catherine grabbed him by the hair, making sure their eyes met.
“I know you love me in your own way, Matthew,” she continued. “And I never lied to you. I have long since forgiven your trysts and your long absences from our home. That is not why I must do this.”
The pain became too much to bear, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, but then a heavy hand struck him across the cheek, returning him to wakefulness.
“Stay with me, Matthew. I have not made this decision out of spite, but out of survival. You are a powerful man, and yet you are weak, so weak. Your fortune, though vast, pales in comparison to what it should have been. When this war began, you freely gave of your own ships, of your own purse, of your own people, when Karak came calling. It was not until Romeo and Cleo invited you to their secret meeting that you showed any backbone. Though even that should not have happened. You should have perished on your way to that meeting.”
Matthew’s eyes widened. “You…” he moaned.
“Yes, me. One of your guards told me of your summit with the brothers, so I brought hired men into the city through your own secret whore tunnel. Unfortunately, the men I hired were simple brigands, not skilled enough to deal with Moira and the lug. I learned my lesson.”
Matthew’s eyes flicked to Bren as his vision began to waver.
Catherine glanced at the bodyguard, who still had his back to them.
“Ah, yes, your protector. A week after the failed attempt on your life, I offered him half the coin I had stowed away, along with the deed to the lands we hold north of the river. He almost leapt at the offer.” She tsk’d at him. “You have always been a silly man, Matthew. You cannot get much sillier than blindly trusting a man whose love of gold outweighs his love of you.”
“Sorry, boss,” Bren’s cracking voice said.
Catherine frowned. “Don’t you see, my love? I do this for our children. For our girls, for little Ryan. You would have ruined us by giving Karak all we had and then letting the Conningtons swoop in to take what remained. There needed to be someone smarter in charge of the family fortune, someone with the stomach to make tough decisions. That someone is me, dear husband. It always has been, though you were too proud to see it. Perhaps now you do.”
She let go of his hair, and his cheek slammed against the floor. His thoughts were awash with his wife’s betrayal, of the life that was rapidly leaving him. Images of his children flashed in front of his eyes as tears poured down his face. He would never see Mary get married, never watch Christina ride a horse for the first time, never teach Ryan how to sail along the rough ocean waters.
“I’m…sorry…,” h
e whispered to their memory.
“You are indeed,” said Catherine in reply.
Matthew closed his eyes, and his body lost all feeling. He was brought back to better times, when he and Catherine had been but two teenagers in love, happily frolicking through the reeds, drinking wine while sitting on a blanket in front of the ocean, making love beneath the full moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he was being dragged along the floor, and he heard Catherine shrieking in horror. Then the heat of the sun was on his face for the final time, and the world seemed to stop spinning as the dying sounds of battle filled the air.
The last thing he heard was Catherine’s voice, shouting above the din.
“My husband! They murdered my husband!”
They sure did, he thought, and then everything went black.
CHAPTER
41
Ahaesarus didn’t like this. Not one bit.
He and Turock Escheton stood in a secluded room in the rear of Blood Tower, staring at the man tied to the pole opposite him. The man was dressed in one of Abigail’s nightshirts, which was torn and spotted with blood. There was still more blood on his chin, coating his brow, dripping from his missing left ear.
Oddly, the prisoner was grinning.
Turock grunted, twirling a switch in his hand. “You have something to say?” he asked the bound man. He pointed to the map hanging on the wall, the same one they had taken from the man’s tent in the Tinderlands. “What do those red marks mean? Are there other factions?”
The man spit a bloody wad of phlegm onto the floor and said nothing.
“This is unnecessary,” Ahaesarus said. “This is wrong.”
“Spare me your sermons, Warden,” said Turock.
“I will not. You requested my help, and my council comes with it.”
“Bollocks. I asked for your muscle, and your ability to see truth, not your brain.”
Turock stepped up to the prisoner, reared his hand back, and lashed out with the switch. It whistled as it flew through the air, striking the bound man across the cheek. A new gash opened up, another scar to join the others that marred the left side of his face. Still he remained silent. Turock wiped the bloody switch on his robe, which had been lime green before they’d started but was now crisscrossed with red lines.
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