Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 15

Matthew stood at the base of a jetty, feet balanced on the slippery rocks, while he watched waves ripple across the bay. The night was overcast, the air muggy and filled with the scents of salt and decay. In the darkness, the gently undulating water became a shimmering black cloak, the surface hinting at peace and harmony while concealing a torrent of activity that raged beneath. Right now there were small fish being fed on by larger fish, which were then being devoured by larger fish still, a sharply climbing scale of predator and prey, all of which were eventually rendered helpless by the nets and harpoons of men.

Just as the might of the gods renders man helpless, he thought with a shiver.

He wrapped his cloak tight around himself and fidgeted. The sight before him was depressing. The docks of Port Lancaster had teemed with activity for all of Matthew’s thirty-six years, yet now they were virtually empty. A scant nine boats bobbed in the harbor, and only one was of the Brennan fleet, a mid-sized clipper named Harmony Rose. The rest of his ships were away-some with the survivors from Haven in the Isles of Gold to the west, some ferrying goods up and down the northeast coast-and his free river barges had been conscripted by Karak for purposes left unsaid. A small envoy from Veldaren, led by a few red-cloaked acolytes, had arrived in the city to demand use of them, and Matthew, needing to preserve his perceived loyalty to his deity, had no choice but to give them over. At least the visitors and their battalion of armed soldiers didn’t seem to have noticed the dearth of vessels in the bay.

“Any sign yet?” asked a familiar female voice.

Matthew pivoted on his heels to see Moira approaching, lantern in hand. Her attire, a pair of velour slacks, a shawl, and strappy sandals, was suitable for negotiating the tricky footing of the coast, yet still regal. He appreciated that she was maintaining her disguise as a noblewoman. Knowing how much she despised what she referred to as “monkey garments,” it was a great sacrifice-though it was a worthwhile one, for the acolytes had not recognized her. And though her hair had grown out some, now falling just above her shoulders, she had kept on dyeing it dark, even though the dyes had the unfortunate side effect of making each strand brittle.

“Not yet,” Matthew told her.

“Are you sure tonight is the night?”

“Yes. The last evening of spring, just as Romeo said.”

“Perhaps they were held up.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they won’t come at all.”

He returned his eyes to the sea as Moira fell in beside him. Her lantern added a needed touch of brightness to the black, making him feel less alone. He could hear her breathing: short, pointed bursts of air that left her lips as if she were preparing to give birth. Having been around Moira for some time now, he knew it meant she was preparing for the worst, readying herself to snatch the two swords hidden beneath her overcoat and leap into action.

“Are you not frightened to be out here alone?” she asked.

“Not alone,” he said, jabbing his thumb behind him at the great wooden structure that loomed over the rocky shore a few hundred yards back. “Twenty crossbowmen are on top of the warehouse, and Bren has another twenty swordsmen with the merchandise.” His hand swooped from beneath his cloak, clutching a glossy black tube of sulfur and a metal striker. “Should something go wrong, all I need do is light the warning flare. We’ll be fine.”

“What if they arrive with a hundred men bent on doing you harm?”

He shrugged. “Then we run and pray we’re faster. No use dwelling on it, though. I put my trust in the Connington brothers. I must believe they will not betray me.”

“Faith ill placed, I think,” she said with a chuckle.

“Shush, you. I’m trying to ignore that detail.”

Moira laughed. It felt good to hear it.

“Poke fun all you want,” he said with a smirk. “Truth is, if anything should go wrong, who do you think will face death sooner, you or I?”

She laughed again. “You, of course. I’m not in one of those horrid dresses this night. Any hope you have of outrunning me is long gone.”

Matthew chuckled, but the sound was hollow. He stared off into the ocean, letting his mind wander.

“Why so quiet?” asked Moira. Her velvety fingers brushed his cheek.

He glanced her way and blushed, his insides rumbling. Spending so much time with Moira had caused his feelings toward her to shift. She was no longer simply collateral; she was a beautiful woman who proved her loyalty and aptitude each day she spent at his side. If he thought, for even a moment, that she felt the same way…

“Just thinking,” he said. “It’s been months, and we still have no further information on who made that attack against us. There’s no record of those men entering the city, and no one was willing to admit to knowing them. It’s as if they were ghosts paid by shadows, neither one leaving a damn clue.”

Moira took a step back and joined him in staring out across the water.

“Is there someone who wishes you ill?”

He laughed.

“Many someones: Tod Garland, the Mudrakers, the Blackbards, the Conningtons even. They all hate me equally, though I’d cross Romeo and Cleo from the list because of our deal. Still, those sneaky bastards are far too loathsome and clever for me to make even that assumption.”

Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets and once more watched the undulating waves as they lapped the rocks.

“Tell me,” Moira said, breaking the silence. “Why the distrust between you and the Conningtons? I would think that the services you both render would make you…allies. Working together would make more sense than squabbling. It would be more profitable.”

“There is no profit to be made now,” he said. “There is no trade, no industry to speak of. Not until the war ends.” He thought of two gods locked in combat, two equal halves that might never gain an advantage over each other. “If it ever does.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m speaking of before. This discord isn’t new. You told me so yourself.”

“True,” he said with a sigh. “I guess we’re all ambitious men, and ambitious men don’t tend to be willing to share. It doesn’t help that I believe them responsible for the rumors claiming I was using Karak’s long absence to usurp power from the king.”

“Were you?” Moira asked.

“Ambition is not treachery,” Matthew said. “I do still love my god in my own way-don’t give me that look, Moira, I know how you feel-and the throne has been nothing but good to my family since the crowning of the Vaelor line. These rumors were spread to discredit me and lessen my family’s hold on the realm’s markets. The Conningtons were supposedly grooming a man to take over Port Lancaster in the event of my death, and building boats in an attempt to wrest away my loyal customers. They might have succeeded, had I not a supporter in Veldaren to put these rumors to rest three years ago.”

“Minister Mori?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling a pang of sadness. “Gods rest her soul. Soleh did not deserve the fate she received. The minister loved her god more than any other. I will never believe her a blasphemer.”

“There are many of Karak’s judgments that aren’t to be believed,” Moira said. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. “He is more wed to his need for order than his love for his own.”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I can see that. But do you understand my dilemma? This is the god that created us. Coming to the conclusion that he does not hold our best interests in mind has been…difficult.”

She grunted, shaking her head. “Be that as it may, the minister is gone now. And you have made a new pact with the Conningtons, one that directly opposes the Divinity. Do you not see the contradiction?”

“Oh, I do,” said Matthew. “But these sorts of things are complicated. You heard what the brothers said in the theater. This very well may be a long war, longer than the entire world could realistically handle. We must look out for ourselves.”

“By giving weapons to Ashhur’s children?” asked Moira, gazing toward the storehouse on the pier off to her left. She grinned. “I applaud the sentiment, obviously, given my dislike for Karak. But still…inner conflict is never good for the soul. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“I need to believe I am,” Matthew whispered.

“Even if the loss of those weapons leaves you open for the Conningtons to attack you?”

“Even so. This is not a decision I came to lightly. We are human, after all, and as I said, the only ones we can rely on…are ourselves. I needed to feed my people. I have not put my trust in the brothers lightly.”

Silence fell between them after that. Matthew paced across the slippery rocks. It was all he could do to keep from tearing out his hair. He knew Moira was right, knew that all of this-his pact with the Conningtons and the aid he’d given the survivors from Haven-was threatening to undo everything his family had worked so hard to build. I have no choice, he told himself. Neldar was on the verge of starvation and violence. If the gifts he had to offer could help protect the future of his family, he had to at least try.

Moira pointed into the distance, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“It’s here,” she said.

A ship appeared in the bay, blacker than black atop the waves as it passed between the walls and cliffs of Port Lancaster. It came forward slowly, sails unfurled, quiet as the grave. Matthew shuddered, thinking of the ghost ships from his father’s stories, shadow vessels that never reached shore, their decomposing crews hanging from the decks, the bones of their fingers clanking against ethereal hulls. Deep down he knew they existed only in stories, but it was impossible for his waking mind to dismiss the image.

As the ship neared, he saw that it was only made of wood and not some unearthly protoplasm. It was a handsome longboat, narrow and low to the water, built for speed and secrecy. There were two masts and six portals for oars on either side, though no oars slapped the undulating water. He saw no crew, though a single lantern burned in the aft shanty, the shadows behind it hinting at a human silhouette. A white flag fluttered on the bow.

“It’s time,” Matthew said, an uneasy feeling in his gut.

“Are you sure?” asked Moira. “There could be men with swords below deck.”

“The Conningtons gave me sixty wagons of food, Moira. Not exactly something they can take back. I trust it as a sign of honest business.”

“Yet you prepared for the worst.”

“Of course. I’m cautious like that.”

He turned toward the pier, pulled out a second sulfur stick, this one laced with copper, and struck it with flint. The green flames shot out from the end, and he held the stick up high as he marched over the slick rocks with Moira at his side.

When he reached the pier, Bren and the sellswords were already hard at work, lugging three enormous crates out of the storage shack at the base of the pier. Moira went to help them with the labor, while Matthew strolled farther down the dock, watching the mystery boat as it approached.

A rope flew from the deck of the vessel, thrown by unseen hands. Matthew caught it and tied it to the post bolted to the floor of the pier. A few of his sellswords came to his aid, catching even more ropes as they were cast from the boat. Soon it was tethered tightly to the docks, rocking and swaying, nary a sound nor a movement to be seen. Matthew felt the fear of the unknown once more, of ghosts and demons and otherworldly things bent on doing him harm.

It was then a trio of lanterns hanging from the masts of the mystery ship came to life. Three figures appeared on deck. Matthew’s heart rate quickened. They were tall beings, not quite so lofty as Wardens, but still imposing. They wore heavy cloaks, cowls sheathing their faces in darkness. They slid a gangplank over the side of the ship, fastening it to the hull with steel brackets, before descending to the pier. When they walked, they held their hands in front of them, hidden in bulky sleeves.

“Welcome,” Matthew said. His men had hauled the three crates down the dock, and he stood before his inventory like a carnival mystic preparing to reveal the secrets of the world to his audience. “I’m sure you’d like to examine the contents. If you give me a few moments, I will have one of my men open the first so you can see for yourse-”

“No,” the middle figure said. His voice was gravelly and low, more like the growl of a wild animal than the voice of a man. “We’ve been assured of your cooperation.” The one who had spoken looked to the stars. The cowl moved with him, keeping his face cloaked in shadow. “The night progresses. We must be at sea by sunrise.”

“Well, all right then,” said Matthew. He stepped aside and gestured to the crates. “They’re all yours. Will you need help loading them onto your vessel?”

“Place them in the aft,” another of them said. They were the last words any of them spoke before disappearing into the darkness-shrouded ship.

“Men with so much to hide are not to be trusted,” Moira whispered into his ear. “They hide even the skin of their hands with those robes.”

Matthew glared at her.

“We plot behind the backs of gods. Their precautions do not surprise me. Besides, the price the Conningtons paid is well worth the risk.” He turned his attention to his men. “All right, boys, you heard him. Let’s get the cargo on board, and be quick about it.”

“We’re all going to be getting a raise, right?” asked Bren with a grin.

“Shut up and move your ass.”

Grunts of exertion followed, and by the time all three crates had been loaded onto the longboat, the eastern horizon, mostly blocked by the wall and the bay’s concealing cliffs, was beginning to brighten. The ship pushed off the dock, and long pikes plunged into the water, turning the nose around. The sails lifted, and a brisk wind kicked up as if summoned from the heavens, propelling the boat across the bay toward open ocean. Matthew stood on the pier and watched it go, hoping beyond hope that the Conningtons’ plan was viable. The livelihood of all of Port Lancaster-of Neldar itself-could very well depend on it.