Wrath of Lions (26 page)

“Oh,” she said, letting the curtain drop back into place. It was petty for her to blame Moren for their situation. The old farmer had been kind enough to offer his services when she needed them. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that she’d given him two gold pieces from the stash King Vaelor had provided for her mission.

With each day, the task placed on her by Guster Halfhorn, Dirk Coldmine, and the king seemed to grow more daunting. She had spent weeks charting which high merchants to visit and when, going so far as to pick the brains of the other members of the Council of Twelve about the personalities of the merchants and choosing her wardrobe accordingly. After the assembly at the Great Fountain, where Velixar was named High Prophet of Karak and the army left the city in its quest to conquer Paradise, she put all that planning in motion. At the time she’d been confident it would be quick work. She was a young, pretty, and very persuasive woman.

Yet now, three long weeks after her assignment had begun, she was no closer to reaching her goal. She had walked the length of the Merchants’ Road, visiting each of the manses that rested atop Estate Hill and the representatives of the great families of commerce who lived in Veldaren. Their representatives greeted her respectfully, dining her on succulently sweetened meats and aged cheeses, sharing with her cups of the finest vintage wines that were available nowhere else in the city. With each meal, she carefully passed along the king’s requests, and each time she was rejected, sometimes politely, sometimes not.

What Laurel quickly realized was that most of the high merchants weren’t in Veldaren anymore. They’d fled to other cities, leaving sycophants and distant relatives to watch over their belongings and attend pretty little dinners with pretty little women like her. It was enough to drive Laurel mad, and at last she gathered her things, found a wagon to carry her—not an easy task, given that most who remained in the city were women who were saddled with money-making responsibilities as well as child care—and headed out into greater Neldar. If the merchants had fled the city, she would seek them out in the townships where they now hid.

She was now heading back to Veldaren from Brent, her third stop after visits to Thettletown and Gronswik. She had chosen each sojourn based on both the location and the openness of the merchant, starting with the most amiable, Judd Garland, and working her way south for miles along the Gods’ Road. Again her efforts had been fruitless. Judd had merely smiled, and with a hundred polite phrases told her to go fuck herself if she thought he would willingly give up food and coin to support the realm.

Three down, three to go.

Laurel’s frustration grew. If she couldn’t convince someone like Garland to help, how would she recruit swindlers such as the Connington brothers? The king’s demands for fealty, provisions, and manpower were simply too steep, given that all he was offering in return was the promise of further lands, influence, and lesser taxes at the end of the war.
Perhaps I should always wear what I am wearing now,
she thought. Laurel glanced down at her leather bodice, polished to a shine and laced low to allow her breasts to swell over the top. She groaned in disgust. By Karak, she looked a common whore, like the ones who used to hang from the balconies of the many brothels lining Veldaren’s roads.
You’re no different,
she thought.
You’re selling yourself just as they do.
Gripping the shawl draped over her shoulders with both hands, she pulled it over her chest and looked at young Mo. The boy was still studying his filthy fingers, for which she was grateful.

She recalled the gleam in Trenton Blackbard’s eyes as he’d stared at her during their meeting three days prior. Skin was the man’s trade; Blackbard owned practically every brothel in Neldar, near a hundred of them, and his lust for whores was legendary. Hoping to appeal to the merchant’s baser instincts, Laurel had acted flirtatious throughout the encounter, making sure to squeeze her upper arms together as much as possible to draw his eye.
Capture a man’s eye, and you’ve captured his thoughts,
Dirk Coldmine had said. Only the thoughts she’d captured had no connection to her offer. The pox-covered, greasy-haired merchant had offered her his bed for the night, and his company beneath the sheets. After her refusal, he’d casually asked her to leave his manse and return only when she felt in a more “accommodating” mood.

Laurel didn’t expect to see him and his town again, and in truth, it was no severe loss. Sections of the Brent were beautiful, with its rolling landscape and elegant gardens, but just like Veldaren—and Thettletown, and Gronswik—there was an air of desolation about it. The lavishness of the manse and gardens were in stark contrast to the run-down collection of hovels and cottages along the mud-splattered throughways. The majority of the smallfolk, those not under Blackbard’s thumb, were mostly women, and they appeared thin and sickly, their hair filthy and matted, their clothes threadbare, their expressions empty of hope. It was a contradiction she could not stomach, all that beauty interspersed with such bleakness, a thin camouflage that failed to disguise the hardships that the war on Paradise had wrought.
How quickly it all falls apart.…Or was it already falling, and I never noticed?

The cart struck another rut in the road, and the light coming through the canopy seemed to darken by half. She poked her head out through the curtain once more.

“How much longer?” she asked Moren, her tone more respectful this time.

The old man chewed on his wooden teeth and replied, “An hour, p’haps a bit more.”

Laurel dipped back inside the carriage. “Not good,” she whispered. Those softly spoken words finally broke young Mo from his inspection of his fingertips. The youth grimaced and began nervously tapping his foot against the wagon’s wooden slats.

Being out after dark had grown increasingly dangerous. Most of the fighting men the realm had to offer were traveling with the army, and bandits and cutthroats ruled the roost. Laurel had known that going into this journey, and she’d taken precautions to ensure that come nightfall, she, Moren, and Mo would always have a safe place to rest their heads. Yet this time she seemed to have underestimated the shoddiness of the road and the strength of the weary horses that pulled their wagon.

Laurel swore under her breath. They should have arrived at least an hour ago, when the sun still cast its protective light over the streets, but the wagon had gotten stuck in a sinkhole not three miles outside the village of Crastin, and with no one traveling the Gods’ Road, it was up to the three of them to wedge the wheel free. They’d lost a good portion of light, and they should have headed back to the village and stayed another night. But so desirous was Laurel of returning to her own bed that she’d asked Moren to press on regardless.

She prayed to Karak to keep them safe; yet as she did so, niggling doubt reared its head as it always did lately.

How could you leave us so?
she silently asked her deity.
How could you abandon the children you’ve created to the violence of man?

Man.
The word stuck in her head, defiant in the face of blasphemy.
Karak has given us life and freedom, and allowed us to choose our own path. It is not the Divinity’s fault that man has turned his back on his teachings.

Yet Karak had taken away the realm’s protectors, all to conquer a land few cared about. She began to wonder if perhaps Ashhur were the nobler of the two brothers, even given his sheltering ways.
He may simply love his children too much,
she thought, and a frightening question came next.
What does Karak love? Us or his ideals?

She tossed the blasphemous thought aside as soon as she thought it. Trying to focus on anything else, she glanced at the darkening canvas around her, searching for the lightning bolt that would surely kill her where she sat.

When none came, she took a deep breath and offered a silent prayer of thanks to her deity, whom she refused to doubt. She crawled over her bench and beneath the curtain behind her, taking a seat beside Moren. As she flattened out her dress, the old man acknowledged her presence with a nod. She looked straight ahead at the rutted Gods’ Road, which was filled with stagnant puddles bordered by forests grown treacherously muddy with the harsh spring rains. The sky was like a bruise, deep black above her head and pink and vulnerable on the horizon.

“It’ll be completely dark soon,” the old man finally said. For the first time in their trip, he seemed nervous.

Laurel placed her hand on his back. It was the only comfort she could offer.

They exited the Gods’ Road a few minutes later, as the sky began its rapid descent into blackness. The southern path into the Veldaren was risky, as it was a narrow trail through a thick forest that closed in on either side, but it was the quicker way. Moren steered the horses expertly through the murk; nary a limb so much as scratched the side of the wagon as it rolled along. The carriage emerged from the line of trees a few minutes later, the wheels thudding as they passed from dirt path to cobbled road. The Watchtower, the headquarters of the City Watch, appeared to the right, looming over the road. For the first time she could remember, no bonfire burned in its spire.

It was a moonless night, which cast a sinister gloom over every building, stone and wood alike. A strange feeling came over Laurel, like she was missing something, and she stood on the carriage, cocking her head and listening for signs of life. She heard none. Not even the rats seemed to be squeaking. Only the clopping of the horse’s hooves reached her ears. The smell, as usual,
was horrendous—a combination of festering fecal matter, decomposing flesh, and raw fish—but she felt somewhat comforted by it. The stench would only grow stronger as they made their way north, toward the cluster of homes on the offshoot path leading to Brennan Gardens.
Brennan.
He was to be her next stop, way down in Port Lancaster. She would have gone there directly after leaving Brent if Blackbard had not confiscated the last of the gold King Vaelor had given her and refused to return it, forcing her to ride back north.

The thought drew her attention from the road ahead, but when she heard Moren utter a quiet curse, she dropped back down into her seat.

“What is it?” she asked.

The old man’s eyes, barely visible, flicked back and forth.

“Shadows,” he whispered. “Never a good thing when traveling.”

She glanced about once more, and understood right then why she’d felt so strange earlier. All it took were a few short glances at the various street corners as they passed. There were no Watchmen to be seen…none at all. And all she felt was eyes watching her from the darkened windows of the shops and depots and the black alleys between them.

“Shadows,” she muttered in reply to her driver. She did not trust them either.

Little Mo emerged from the back of the wagon, as if he’d sensed the adults’ apprehension, and wedged himself between Laurel and Moren. The old man’s left hand released the reins, and he draped an arm over his son. His wrinkled fingers brushed against Laurel’s cheek on their way past, making her shiver. It was like being touched by a ghost. A cackle sounded from somewhere deep in one of the alleys, turning that shiver into a quake.

“Don’t panic,” Moren said. “Don’t look around. And Miss Lawrence, don’t go standin’ on the carriage again, neither. Perhaps if we keep ours to ours, we won’t be bothered none.”

Laurel didn’t think that was likely, but she did as the old man asked. The horses were moving at a decent clip—steady, not hurried—and they would reach the portcullis to the Castle of the Lion in minutes. Once that happened, she would bang on the gate and demand entry.

The outlines of the three great towers appeared in the star-spackled sky. The castle was only a few hundred yards away. Laurel took a deep breath and held it.
Almost there, almost there.
Again that strange cackling sounded, this time on the other side of the road. She flinched but kept her lips sealed.

That was when a dancing pinprick of flame appeared before them, bouncing along the side of a building ahead of them. It danced out into the center of the South Road, and was soon joined by another, and then another, until there were six flickering torches standing abreast in the street.

Moren pulled back on the reins, halting his exhausted horses. Little Mo whimpered, sliding his slender frame behind the bench and ducking beneath it. Laurel sat frozen, staring as the flames illuminated the six men before her. They were hardened types, all dressed in frayed burlap rags with thick beards, broad shoulders, and powerful arms. A shortsword dangled from each man’s belt, the steel glinting in the firelight.

“Would appreciate yer steppin’ aside so we may pass,” said Moren after clearing his throat. Amazingly, the old man’s voice didn’t quaver.

“What, no help for hungry brothers?” one of the men said. His tone was gruff and tinged with the sort of sick humor Laurel had often heard in back rooms at court. “All we ask for is something to quench our thirst.”

“No drinks on me but water,” Moren said. “Best run along and see if a tavern somewhere’s still open.”

“Who says we’re lookin’ for ale, old man?” said another of the men. He stepped forward and drew his sword from his belt,
pointing it at them. The whisper of the drawn steel cut into Laurel. “We could be convinced to let you go,” the man continued, “if you let us look at what you got in back…or maybe what you got up front.” The ruffian winked, his eyes twinkling.

Laurel’s bladder felt ready to release.

“Got nothin’ out back,” said Moren, remaining calm. “Nor anythin’ up front here but my daughter and son.”

“Those’ll do,” another replied.

“You’ll get none,” Moren said. “In the name of Karak, I say you clear the road and let us pass.”

“Karak’s isn’t here no more, old man. Looks like he left you to us.”

Moren grunted and spoke sharply. “If I was you, I’d step aside lest I run you all down.”

The men began laughing, nudging each other with their elbows. Without another word Moren threw one arm over Laurel’s shoulder and cracked the reins hard with his opposite hand. Startled, the horses reared up and charged. Laurel was jerked back in her seat and would have fallen into the rear of the wagon without the safety of Moren’s arm. The wind buffeted her face as the cart wrenched onward, slowly picking up speed. The men blocking the road shouted and scattered.