Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 38

Moira Elren was in a boiling rage as she raced toward Veldaren. The horrific images she’d seen the day before refused to leave her, a nightmare that haunted even her waking hours. She leaned forward in the saddle, gritted her teeth, and dug her heels into her horse’s flank, urging the animal to gallop faster. The pounding of hooves filled her ears as the Movers struggled to keep up with her frantic pace.

They exited the forest and entered the city from the south, passing by the Watchtower, the setting sun reflecting off its spire. Moira could see none of the City Watch roaming around the entrance to the tower, but that wasn’t surprising. In every village and shantytown they’d delivered food to during the long journey north, men of fighting age were a scarcity at best. She and her Movers had only seen a handful of roving bandits, and those disheveled men kept their distance when they caught sight of her four large companions and their steel. It seemed that in all of Neldar, only Catherine Brennan had rebelled against Karak’s demands and kept afloat what her husband’s family had built. The farther Moira traveled, the more her once seething hatred of the woman transformed into genuine respect.

Perhaps if Erznia had someone like Catherine leading them, I would not have found what I did.

She bore down, the drab gray buildings lining the South Road flashing by on either side. Tears of fury formed in her eyes as the memory crowded in.

The decision to visit Erznia had been an impulsive one. She hadn’t stepped foot in the settlement since she and Rachida had fled to Haven more than fifteen years ago, and the closer she drew to the hidden community within the trees, the more her excitement built. Even though the Moris had been subjected to great losses over the last couple years, those who remained had been like a surrogate family to her. To see Yenge, Alexander, Caleigh, Ebbe, Dimona, and Julian again would fill her heart with joy. To sit and share a drink with Oris, the scarred beast of a man with a heart of gold, would bring a smile to her face. She wanted nothing more than to relax, to recharge. Laurel Lawrence could wait a few days while she filled her belly with Yenge’s signature spiced lamb kabobs served over a bed of leeks and turnips. . so long as the fall harvest had been plentiful.

Yet what awaited her there was not relief, but horror. The gate was smashed, and half the elegant cottages inside Erznia’s fifteen-foot-tall wall of pine and steel had been put to the torch. The causeway through the center of the hidden township was torn up, marred with the impressions of boot heels. The lavish gardens that had been a staple of each family’s land were wilted and dead, crushed by the now melted winter snows.

But worst of all were the bodies. They were everywhere, some lining the side of the road, most strung up upside down from trees and the roof overhangs of the homes that weren’t reduced to ashes. The corpses were stiff, their flesh parchment thin. Many of their stomachs had been opened, and the animals of the wild, let in through the smashed front gate, had picked through the remains. The upper torsos of those dangling were reduced to bone and sinew; many of their heads and arms had been chewed off altogether. It was a dreadful sight, and for a long moment Moira just sat there atop her horse while her Movers set out to investigate the scene, staring in disbelief at the carnage.

It wasn’t until Rodin persuaded her to ride toward the northwest corner of the settlement, where the estate of House Mori resided, that she broke from her stupor. Whereas other parts of the village featured a sort of macabre order, here was disarray. It looked like the cadavers remained as they were when they died, numerous arrow shafts jutting from their long-dead hides. Moira dismounted and examined the one closest to the estate’s entrance. It was female, with a faded yellow dress and a head of dark, curly hair gone pale from exposure to the elements. Her flesh was ravaged, half her face gnawed away by both time and beast, but it was clear who the woman had been. It was Yenge, Vulfram Mori’s widow, now joined with her husband in Afram, if such a place existed at all. Moira leaned closer, examining the arrows protruding from the dead woman’s hide: one in the neck, two in the flank, three jutting from the lower abdomen, one in the eye. The rest of the deceased had been pelted in much the same way, with just as great an abundance of arrows. Karak’s Army had come here, and for whatever reason had killed everyone.

Women and children, young and old-none were spared, not even the village’s Magister. It was a thousand times worse than the scene she had run across in Omnmount. Moira had thrown her head back to the heavens and screamed.

Suddenly, the need to find the last surviving Lawrence became all the more vital.

And now here she was, back in Veldaren, the city where she had spent much of her youth, looking for a single woman in a city of presumably thousands of females. She rode and rode, hoping to run across one of Karak’s representatives, no matter who he or she might be, she wanted to watch blood cascade from the wounds of one of the god’s faithful.

“Whoa, Moira, slow down!” shouted Danco from behind her. “We must gather ourselves!”

Reluctantly she pulled back on the reins and swiveled her steed around. The Movers had stopped riding and were now sitting atop their horses and gazing with apparent wonder at their surroundings. Although Port Lancaster was a sprawling city in and of itself, most of the buildings erected were humble wooden constructions that had ample space between them. Not so in Veldaren, a city designed by a god. It was the most densely populated location in all of Neldar, housing twice the residents Port Lancaster did, necessitating tightly packed buildings of gray stone that loomed over the road like ancient guardians in formation. And more had been added since Moira had last seen the place, which made simply riding down the road a study in claustrophobia.

Moira trotted up to her men, examining their expressions. Rodin was awestruck, looking around as if he felt small and didn’t like that feeling one bit. Tabar scowled, fingers restlessly tapping the hilt of his sword, and Danco laughed nervously. Gull, as usual, was expressionless. Even the fading sunlight reflecting in his gray-brown eyes did nothing to enliven him.

Rodin shook his head as Moira approached. “This is strange.”

“What is?” asked Moira.

“This city. So large and intimidating. . so empty.”

“Empty, indeed,” said Tabar. “Where are the people?”

Moira turned about and glanced down the length of the South Road. There wasn’t even a hint of movement. She looked to the buildings abutting her-a mason’s shop on one side, a silversmith on the other-and saw that their shutters were open, the windows dark. It was only in the apartments above the shops that she caught sight of what might have been a pair of eyes, staring out from the blackness within. But those eyes quickly disappeared. Then she noticed that no smoke came from the many chimneys, even though it was cold. Again she thought of Omnmount, of the people hiding within the cabins in the border settlements.

“It’s the same as before,” she said. “They’re locked away. Afraid.”

“Of what?” asked Danco, his voice rising slightly.

Moira thought of the scene in Erznia.

“Of Karak’s faithful, I’d wager.” She cocked her head and grinned. “Have any of you seen the castle before?”

“No,” said Gull flatly.

Of course not. Stupid question. She pointed up the road, where the major artery split, one continuing farther north, the other veering to the right. “Well, the Castle of the Lion is right down there. You can see the towers over the buildings. What do you say we pay the honorable King Eldrich a visit? Perhaps he can tell us what we don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” Rodin said. “However, I hope this goes better than the last time we went to meet with a man of great importance.”

Moira sighed. “Me too.”

“I also think proceeding with caution instead of riding flat out would be best,” added Tabar.

They all agreed, clomping down the road in formation, with Moira and Rodin in front, Tabar and Danco in the rear, and Gull between them. Tabar expressed regret that Willer had died, but only because the energetic young Mover had always acted as their forward scout. Moira couldn’t help but shiver at how detached they were when it came to the loss of their friend.

The curve in the road neared, and Moira’s heart began to race. She didn’t know what to expect once they reached the castle, and that lack of knowing played evil games with her mind. She tensed, feeling the weight of her twin swords as they bounced against her hips. Her hands flexed inadvertently around her horse’s reins. She could barely feel the cold wind that blew against her face. A bird cawed overhead.

“Halt,” said Gull. They were mere feet from the bend in the road.

“What is it?” asked Rodin.

“We’re close,” Moira said. “Let’s just get to the castle and out of the open. It’s making me nervous.”

Gull put up a finger, his head cocked to the side. “Do you hear that?”

At first Moira heard nothing, but then she noticed a faint undercurrent beneath the wind and creaking stone-a barely noticeable tink, tink, tink, followed by another bird’s caw.

“Conflict,” Danco said. He didn’t seem so uneasy any longer, and he actually smiled.

“But where?” asked Rodin, looking about.

Gull stretched out his arm in an exaggerated manner and pointed. “To the north. Come, we must ride.”

“We should go to the castle,” said Moira firmly.

“We will,” Gull replied. “However, if you are correct and the people are hiding within their homes, it means oppression is occurring here just as it did in Omnmount. If that’s the case, it’s possible the skirmish we hear is an act of rebellion. Would you, Moira, the woman who gave heaps of Karak’s liberated food to the starving, turn away from those in need?”

Moira nodded sharply. “Of course not. You’re right.”

“Then we must move, albeit cautiously.”

Again Moira nodded, and she took the lead as she guided her Movers along the South Road.

The road to the castle passed by to the right, dark and ominous in the twilight. The structures around her became taller, more densely situated as she approached the center of the city. Now she could see actual people watching her from above, mostly women, peering out their windows. Moira didn’t focus on them, didn’t acknowledge their presence. She simply urged her mount to pick up speed.

They veered around Veldaren’s massive central fountain and continued onto the North Road. There the sounds of conflict heightened, and Moira could plainly hear actual human voices screaming. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and this time she allowed one hand to slip from the reins and grab hold of a sword.

She would clearly need it soon.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and veered sharply to the right, bolting down an alley between a pair of boxy stone buildings. Moira didn’t think; she simply kept her eyes straight ahead until she exited the alley. Then she pulled up, forcing the Movers to do the same, their horses skidding to a halt on the slate walk. Danco nearly fell from his saddle. The screams surrounding them were all encompassing.

Moira’s eyes bulged in her head as she gaped at what lay before her. The alley emptied out into a wide square lined with smaller, more humble domiciles. She knew this place. The locals called it Haremdale, which many of those who had come from northern Neldar called home; it was a sort of city within the city, where those of like occupation and heritage could gather together and speak of how much more difficult it was living here than it had been in Felwood, Hailen, Winterhall, Stonybrook, and the like. It was where nearly every resident had hair the same color silver as Moira’s, with eyes just as pale blue. They would toil on the streets, sell furs and junk from the north, and laugh and drink their odd green wormwood concoctions in six small taverns. In truth, being here had always made her uncomfortable, for given the populace’s similar appearance to Moira’s own family, it was like being surrounded by an endless sea of Crestwells.

Now, instead of drunken songs, she heard shrieks and the clang of steel, and all that she saw was pandemonium. Also, there were men. Lots and lots of men. At least a hundred flooded the square, some exiting the buildings, dragging helpless women behind them, some clashing with other women. There were women fighting women as well. It was a flurry of swords and daggers that was dizzying to watch.

Gull urged his horse a few steps forward, gazing at the bedlam with cold, calculating eyes. They were off to the side of the conflict and had yet to be noticed. Moira followed the stoic man’s line of sight, and looked on as a grimy man ran a sword through a woman with short blond hair. She fell to the cobbles, clutching the gaping wound that opened her from neck to belly and crying out. The grimy man quickly jammed the tip of his sword through her ear, silencing her.

Rage built up in Moira, and it only doubled when she saw that Gull made no move to protect these poor women. The other three sellswords were just as passive, remaining behind their leader, awaiting orders. They were obviously itching for action, with their legs shaking and fingers clenching and unclenching, but they did nothing.

“What are you waiting for?” yelled Moira.

Gull shook his head and held up a single finger, his gaze returning to the battle in the square. Rodin shrugged in her direction, but he didn’t move otherwise. Another woman fell, and then another and another. Blood coated the cobbles.

“Caution is best,” said Gull.

It was the first time her sellswords hadn’t jumped at one of her commands, and her blood began to race. “Fuck off then!” Moira shouted. She kicked her horse’s flank, startling the beast and dashing forward, drawing both her swords as she did so. Gull shouted for her to stop, but she ignored him. Her screaming had caught the attention of the combatants. A group of nine men turned toward her, appearing confused. They were distracted enough by her rapid approach that two of them had their throats slit from behind by dagger-wielding women. The other seven were then jumped by women with fists flying, teeth biting, weapons slashing. Moira grinned and leapt from her horse, landing on an open patch of road, with both swords held out wide.

Hysterical sobbing reached her ears, and she turned quickly toward the sound. A gruff older man with a shaved pate was dragging a young girl by her hair out of one of the boxy brick homes. Tears streamed down the girl’s face as she kicked her feet and clawed at the strong hands that held her. The man pulled her up by the throat, growling something into her ear. The girl’s eyes bulged, and she started shrieking all the louder as the man continued to tow her along, heading for another of the side alleys.

Moira burst into action, ducking around individual skirmishes until she had a clear line on the man and his helpless quarry. The man never looked up at her, so intent was he on his destination. Moira kicked herself into a leap, spinning the swords in her grip so they pointed downward, and stabbed as she descended, hoping to skewer the man just below the base of the neck, as she’d done during the fight in Cornwall Lawrence’s estate. This time, however, she missed her mark. The girl stopped her screaming when she saw Moira, which in turn captured the man’s attention. He swiveled at the last moment, a shocked expression on his face, and then released the girl’s hair and fell backward. Instead of piercing the back of his neck, Moira only succeeded in slicing through the front of his filthy tunic.

She landed straddling the girl, who was now inching away from her would-be captor. The man reacted almost the same as she did, pushing himself backward on his rump while staring wide-eyed at the wound on his chest. Moira took a menacing step forward, preparing to lunge again as the man fumbled with the sword on his hip.

“Who are you?” he shouted, glancing all around him, as if hoping help would come. “Don’t you underst-”

Moira crossed her swords in front of her and then flung her arms outward, cleaving through the man’s throat. He clutched at the gushing wound and fell backward, blood spurting between his fingers. If any of the other combatants noticed, none came to avenge him. Moira pirouetted and rushed toward the girl, who was now on her hands and knees, hurrying away.

She grabbed the girl by the back of her thin shift and lifted her. The girl struggled against her just as she had with the man. A fingernail dug into Moira’s cheek, and she yelped and released the girl, who backed herself against the stone wall of the dwelling she’d been ripped from, panting.

“Hey!” shouted Moira, touching her cheek and coming away with blood. “I was trying to help you!”

The girl said nothing. Her eyes flitted from side to side, as if taking in the action going on around her, before she rushed back into the home. Moira sheathed one of her swords and gave chase.

“Come back here!” she yelled.

The door to the dwelling slammed in her face.

Something hard collided with her, knocking her to the side. Moira stumbled but kept on her feet, spinning and holding up her blade defensively. Her confusion was overwhelming. It was a woman standing there, one with a rigid jaw, short black hair, a scar on her forehead, and holding a curved dagger. The woman looked down at Moira and scowled, then rapped the dagger against the door that had just closed. She wore a bloodstained cloak, and when the door opened and she stepped inside, that cloak flapped, revealing legs wrapped in off-white cloth. Moira stared after her as she disappeared, remembering the letter the Conningtons had sent to Port Lancaster, in which they’d revealed that their many Sisters of the Cloth had been taken from them by Karak’s acolytes. Moira turned back around, gazing over the turmoil of battle toward the alley where she and her compatriots had emerged.

Her Movers were gone.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a cluster of movement. In a flash she had her second sword drawn and twirled around, raising both swords just in time to parry two blows from onrushing attackers. Steel clanged off steel, numbing her arms, and she tucked her head between her knees, rolling between two more pairs of cloth-wrapped legs. She quickly shot to her feet, hunched over, and watched as her two assailants whirled to face her. She could only see the Sisters’ eyes; the rest of their faces were hidden beneath their wrappings. One held a curved saber and the other, a dirk.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. You knew the priests had demanded the Sisters be confiscated from the merchants. What else would they be used for? She also realized that although there were many men engaged in the fight, a good number of them were women dressed as men, wearing heavy leather armor and chipped and rusted helms. Her confusion rose so greatly that she almost didn’t react in time when the two Sisters charged her, graceful and deadly at the same time. Moira lashed out, batting away their blows as she backed up. She was more adept with her right hand than her left, which meant the Sister attacking on her left side was able to press much too close. The Sister slashed upward with her saber, aiming for Moira’s midsection. Moira couldn’t drop her left sword quickly enough; the only thing that saved her was another pair of combatants, who tumbled in front of her just as the blade was about to pierce her side. A man howled in pain. Given a momentary reprieve, Moira hacked mercilessly at the lone Sister now before her, beating her back. The wrapped woman’s eyes widened with each violent hew, and Moira finally landed a solid blow to the Sister’s wrist. The sword dropped to the cobbles, knocked aside by blindly shuffling feet, and the Sister grasped her leaking wrist. Moira thrust with both blades, but the woman spun away as quickly as Moira had before, disappearing into the throng. Moira’s sword cut through the empty air.

She heard hooves, but was not quick enough to react. Hands were on her then, snatching her from behind and yanking her from her feet. She was thrown aside, just as a press of at least a dozen Sisters-some fully wrapped, some not-charged. She landed on her hip, startled, and lost grip on one of her swords. She looked up to see her four Movers, still on horseback, battle the Sisters back. Gull led the way, brutal and efficient with each looping arc of his longsword. In a matter of moments, the twelve Sisters were either dead or had fled, but more moved in to take their place. Moira scrambled to her feet, snatched up her second sword, and charged into the fray.

Suddenly, a roar split the night, and though a few individual scuffles continued, most of the discord ceased. A second roar thundered through the square, from the opposite direction as the first, gravelly and high pitched at the same time. Moira glanced up at her sellswords, then at the mob. Everyone appeared nervous, even the Sisters. A few of the wrapped women disappeared inside one of the many buildings.

“We will not back down!” shouted a feminine voice. “You Sisters still enslaved to the priest and his Judges. . there is still time for you to see the light. We are the people of the city, and we will not back down! Karak has abandoned us, and he has abandoned you. Join us! Throw aside your wrappings and be free!”

Heads turned, gazing up at a point above Moira’s head. As if in a trance, Moira backed up toward the center of the square, following their gazes. There was a young woman standing on the rooftop of the two-story building behind her, her form silhouetted by the sliver of sun that now poked over the horizon. She was striking, this woman, with a head of flowing auburn hair and stately features. She wore a masculine getup, with slacks and a heavy jerkin, but the power of her youth and confidence made it seem as if such clothes were the most natural things for a woman to wear. Her shoulders were thrown back, and the group of men standing around her, purple sashes fluttering in the breeze, seemed to regard her with reverence.

“Now go!” the woman proclaimed to the formerly embattled crowd. “Seek shelter before they arrive! We must live to fight another day!”

With that, she offered a knowing smirk and disappeared over the other side of the building. Once more the square descended into madness. The Sisters, both clothed in wrappings and not, tore through the throng, heading for the squat brick homes lining the square. The men and disguised women scurried left and right, darting down the various alleys. It was then that Moira noticed a handful of men sporting the same purple sashes as those on the roof, and others who wore helms painted with gold stripes-symbols of the Palace Guard and City Watch, respectively.

Another roar resounded off the stone buildings.

The square was still emptying out when men and women screamed from the darkness of the alleys. Moira’s heart leapt and she took a few jogging steps forward, leaving behind the safety of her sellswords. A wave of people flew back out of the alley as Moira approached, re-entering the square, their faces frozen in terror as they dashed along the wall of homes and shops, searching for another way out. Moira inched even closer, her mind awash with turmoil. She looked on in wonder as a body came soaring out of the darkness, arms and legs flailing as it spun, until it landed with a splat on the cobbles not ten feet in front of her. The corpse’s flesh was shredded, its face a mess of pulpy gore. Entrails formed a red path behind it, disappearing back into the alley. Moira thought of Erznia, of the horror that had happened there, and hunkered down, holding out her swords.

Just as the sun disappeared over the western horizon, bathing the city with a reddish hue, a lion stepped out of the darkness of the alley. It was a female, six feet tall, her eyes shining with a golden light. Moira’s arms dropped ever so slightly, the tips of her swords dipping, as she stared at the beast.

“Lilah?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder and childlike fear.

She hadn’t seen Soleh Mori’s pets in ages, and as far as she knew they had been kept locked beneath the Castle of the Lion for more than forty years. She recalled her younger days, when Vulfram would wrestle with Kayne while Oris and Ulric cheered him on, and the girls of the house would groom the lioness. The lions had been huge even then, but nothing compared to what she now saw. This was no childhood pet or even a beast of the wild.

What stood before her was the personification of Karak’s rage.

Lilah swiped at those trying to flee, scoring the back of one man and knocking a woman into the air, splitting her ill-fitting helm. A ragged collection of men and women in armor then began inching along the walls, approaching the beast. The lioness’s glowing eyes glanced toward them and then locked on Moira. The lioness froze. Lilah sniffed the air, a guttural rumble vibrating her throat. Her tongue, nearly the size of Moira’s arm, licked the blood off her maw.

“Moira,” the lioness spoke. “Blasphemer.”

Moira stood slack-jawed, knowing she should run but convinced that the moment she did, the lioness would leap.

“You know what to do,” Gull shouted from behind her.

Lilah dipped her head and charged. The sight of those gleaming claws in the burgeoning darkness broke the spell upon her. She spun to the side just as the lioness leapt. A single claw dug into her leathers, gouging her forearm as the beast sailed past. Moira ground her teeth against the pain and rolled.

Despite her massive size, Lilah touched back down with barely a sound and whipped her body around. Moira was back on her feet, frantically considering her next action. Although Corton had taught her how to fight men much larger than her, she doubted such maneuvers worked well against a thousand-pound lion. As if to mock her, she heard another roar, and more screams, erupt from behind her. She chanced a look over her shoulder, spotting Kayne, the male lion, as he bounded into the square from the opposing alley. The beast had a man dangling from his jaws, and when he jerked his massive neck, the body ripped loose from the neck. The corpse splattered against the side of one of the buildings while the lion bit down on the head in his mouth. The crunch that followed nearly turned Moira’s stomach.

“We’re dead,” she whispered.

“I would not be so sure about that.”

Moira spun her head back around and saw her four Movers standing before her, three facing the lioness while Rodin stood by her side, his eyes locked on the male. “Form together!” Gull shouted, and they all backed up until their shoulders were almost touching, forming a five-person circle in the center of the square.

The lions began to circle around them, eyes squinted and glaring as they examined their prey, angling nearer with each revolution. By that time the center of the square was empty but for the hundred or so corpses that littered the cobbles, though the armored men and women lingered in front of the alleys as if waiting for something. Kayne dipped his head into the gaping chest of one of the corpses while passing it by, slurping down a mouthful of entrails.

“They speak,” said Gull out the side of his mouth.

“Seems that way,” Moira replied.

“How intelligent are they?”

She shrugged, tracing the lions’ movements. “I don’t know.”

“Let us see then, shall we?”

Gull stepped away from their defensive circle, holding his longsword out before him. He had a self-assured manner about him as he began to mirror Kayne’s movements. He flicked the tip of his sword to the side and fully faced the beast, his legs spread out wide. His empty hand lifted, and he made a mocking, beckoning motion to the lion.

“I challenge you,” Gull stated, his voice still strangely flat despite the danger facing him. “Let us see if a beast can indeed be anything but a beast.”

Kayne scowled at him, his massive head dropping. The lion moved slightly to the side.

“Are you afraid, animal? Do you fear a mere human with a sword?”

“What are they waiting for?” Danco whispered in Moira’s ear. He jutted his chin at the gathered, armored people who lingered beyond the lions’ claws.

She didn’t need to answer, for a half second later the separate groups of people bellowed at the tops of their lungs and charged toward the lions. Danco and Tabar followed suit, taking off at a run in opposite directions, their swords held up high, their feet pounding the gore-soaked cobbles. The lions ceased their pacing and looked ahead and behind before rushing Moira’s sworn men. Moira kept her eyes on the male, watching in horror as the beast shook his head, his sodden mane like a ring of snakes, and then hunkered down on his haunches. Tabar flew past Gull and lashed out at the lion. A paw came up, absorbing the blow, and when Tabar streaked past, Kayne pounced. The lion’s powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s left arm, halting his momentum, snapping his head to the side. Tabar howled in pain. Kayne drove forward, forcing Tabar to his knees. There was a pop as his shoulder dislodged from its socket.

Without making a sound, Gull strode forward, moving quickly and easily across the square, and brought his longsword down on one of the lion’s legs. Kayne released Tabar’s arm, which was now dangling as it bled, and roared. When Gull’s sword looped back around, there was only a smattering of blood on the blade. The other charging men and women then reached his side, hacking and slashing in vain at the lion.

“Moira, we must go!”

A strong hand clasped around Moira’s injured forearm, and she was nearly yanked off her feet. She spun, batting the hand away, and caught a glimpse of Danco as he danced around the lioness, joined now by another thirteen combatants. It was difficult to see in the spreading darkness, but she swore Danco was limping. He had placed himself between the buildings and the open space of the center square, severely restricting his opportunities to flee. People pressed in around him. Lilah bore down, ready to strike.

Again Rodin grabbed at her. “We must leave while we have the chance! No harm can come to you!”

“No!” Moira yelled at him. Her teeth gritted and she glowered. “I am Moira Elren. I fought Karak’s Army in Haven. I do. . not. . run.”

She drove her elbow into Rodin’s chest, knocking him aside, and then charged toward the faltering Danco. Danco now favored his left side, his free arm pressed against his own waist as blood turned his breeches red. Moira leapt at Lilah, plunging both her swords into the lioness’s flank. The lioness whirled around with a quickness that should have been impossible for so large a creature. Moira landed and flattened herself on the ground, barely avoiding the giant claws that soared over her head. She then rolled beneath the lioness’s torso and jammed one of her swords into Lilah’s gut. The beast howled and rose up on her hind legs as a gush of blood left the wound. But Moira watched in horror as the cut closed, fur overlapping the gash until it disappeared.

Danco grabbed her ankle, dragging her across the ground and nudging aside the swarm of people that surrounded them, before the lioness dropped back down on all fours. She heard Tabar swear somewhere behind her. Moira kicked Danco away, scampered back to her feet, and went to charge the lioness again, knocking a man in a rusty helm in the back of his head with the butt of her sword in the process. This time Rodin snatched her around the waist, pulling her tight to his own body while Danco fought Lilah off.

“Do you want to die?” Rodin growled into her ear.

She kicked him in the shin, eliciting a yelp, and then flung her head back as hard as she could, striking him square in the nose. The hands around her released, and she charged back toward the fighting lioness, flinging herself into the air to stab down with her twin blades, soaring over six new corpses.

She never had the chance.

The lioness turned at the last moment, lashing out with a heavy paw. Moira managed to slip one of her blades into the thick webbing between the beast’s toes, but that wasn’t enough to stop the large, sharp claws from piercing her padded leathers, shearing her armor and flesh at once. Her breasts were scored over, ripping nearly to her ribs. She lost hold of her blades and tumbled back to earth, her forehead smacking against the cobbles. For a moment she blacked out, and then the world and all its pain came rushing back at once. Moira screamed as blood flowed from her wounds.

“Everyone, back!” she heard someone order. “Now, to the alleys!”

Gull shouted to her, and then the whoosh of countless arrows sounded. The ground shook as the lioness tramped past her. Moira opened her eyes, but there was blood in them. An explosion rocked the square, much too close to her, and the sudden light drove into her brain like hurled spears. She shrieked and covered her face with her arms. Something heavy approached her, and she knew she was done for. She reached out with desperate fingers for her swords, but then she heard steel slide across stone nearby and knew someone else had picked them up. She cursed to the heavens as loudly as she could.

“Calm yourself, Lady Moira.”

Hands slid beneath her back, lifting her from the ground. Her life became a cavalcade of pain as whoever carried her ran across the square.

“Now, do it now!” she heard a man’s agony-filled voice shout.

The cascade of arrows continued, the twang of bowstrings nearly constant, as was the thud and clomp of many retreating feet. The lions began to roar and screech behind her. She could actually hear the arrowheads embedding themselves in the creatures’ thick hides. Though she was in agony, a smile stretched her lips.

More voices, hushed and urgent, directed those who carried her. Hands shifted beneath her a few moments later, and her body was lowered. Moira heard a door slam, and everything went hazy. She felt like she was close to vomiting.

Another door slammed, more hands lifted her, and this time she did heave, pitching the contents of her stomach all over herself. She heard a man and woman grunt in disapproval, but her forward progress didn’t halt.

“Put her there,” a woman said. It was the same voice as the woman from the roof.

“And you four, over there. You, over there, find someone to tend their wounds.”

“And what of her?” asked Rodin.

“She’s in good hands.”

Again, Moira felt herself being lowered. This time when her back touched the ground, a warm, wet cloth pressed against her forehead, wiping the blood from her brow. She opened her eyes. Sure enough, the young woman who’d been standing on the rooftop was above her, lips drawn downward in a frown. Gull was beside her, the side of his neck bleeding, but otherwise not the worse for wear.

“That was very foolish,” Gull said, though there was no disappointment in his tone.

The young woman nodded. “We found your men watching the battle from the mouth of an alley. They offered to help guide the lions to the center of the square so that our archers could buy our people enough time to flee.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “They seemed certain they would make it out alive, even though we lose five or six good soldiers every time we attempt the same trick. Looks like they were right.”

“The fire,” gasped Moira. “What started. . the fire?”

“A special powder King Eldrich’s advisors came up with. Fire seems to be the only thing the Judges are afraid of.”

“Did it. . kill them?” she wheezed.

The woman’s face twisted into a frown. “Unfortunately, no.”

She then put comforting hands on Moira’s shoulders, dabbing her cheeks with the cloth. The wound in Moira’s chest flared, and she gritted her teeth. The young woman grimaced, then reached behind her, producing a bowl.

“Here, drink this,” she said, lowering the bowl to Moira’s lips. The liquid was thick and bitter, and it stung going down her throat. She threw her head to the side and coughed, causing the pain to flare up once more.

“Bryan, get over here; she needs help quickly,” the woman said. She then looked back at Moira. “I know the poppy is disgusting, but in a few moments you’ll sleep. Don’t worry. You have the king’s own physician here to assist you. You’ll be fine. Scarred, but fine.”

Moira’s vision started to go hazy, her defenses dropping. The woman above her was beautiful. “Who. . are. . you?” she asked.

“Laurel,” said the woman. “Laurel Lawrence.”

Moira burst into a fit of laughter that didn’t cease until the tincture did its job and she lost consciousness.