Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 1

The bodies hung from the top of the castle walls, their eyeless faces staring accusingly at any who passed below. There were six in all, swaying side by side in the frigid early spring breeze. Four had been gutted, and what remained of their innards was blackened with rot, a putrid substance that streamed down their bare legs and dripped from their toes. The area of the walk under them had long since been stained with the sap of their deaths.

The day’s light was fading fast, and Laurel Lawrence stood at the edge of the cobbled road in front of the Castle of the Lion, staring up at the corpses as she had been wont to do since the day they were hung. Though she had experienced much loss over her twenty-two years, she felt most hopeless when lingering in this spot. The bodies had lost their bloat long ago, and their most tender areas had become food for crows and parasites, but the long and bitterly cold winter had somewhat preserved them. Their flesh was gray and taut, stretched thinly over the bones beneath. Laurel could recognize the ghosts of the men and women they had once been: Ulric Mori, Veldaren’s Master-at-Arms; Vulfram, Ulric’s brother and former Lord Commander of the Army of Karak, found unworthy by the Final Judges; Ibis Mori, father of Ulric and Vulfram, the sculptor whose hands had crafted the statues of Karak that decorated the city; and finally, Ibis’s creator and wife, Soleh Mori, former Minister of Justice in Veldaren and matriarch of House Mori, the second family of Karak. At the end of the macabre line, someone had hung two additional bodies: Nessa DuTaureau, a child of the bastard western god, Ashhur, who had switched her loyalty to Karak, and her lover Crian, the son of Highest Crestwell. Their bodies had appeared a month previously, and Laurel was flabbergasted by their addition, for the doomed lovers had been publicly forgiven and accepted by Karak himself the night before their murder.

Despite their odd continued presence, it was the cracked and peeling face of Minister Mori, eerily lit by the torches below, that drew Laurel’s gaze. She had known the Minister in life, Soleh often taking the time to stop her in the great hall and share a few kind words. As one of three women of power within the castle, they’d shared a unique bond. “Men hold tight to the power they think they wield, but it is those who linger behind the curtain who hold the true power,” Soleh had told her once, a roguish gleam in her eye. “It is our duty to silently nurture that power, especially when men try to strip it from us or force us to play their game.”

It was a relationship Laurel had cherished.

Laurel shook her head. It had all gone wrong so quickly. She’d been there at Nessa DuTaureau’s baptism; she’d watched as the red-haired sprite kneeled before Karak in the great fountain, accepting his blessing. And the next evening she had witnessed Soleh’s horrified response when Highest Crestwell presented the butchered bodies of Nessa and Crian, accusing Vulfram of killing them. It was the last time she’d seen any of the Moris alive.

“Councilwoman,” a voice spoke from beside her.

She turned to see a guard standing there, his coiled black mop falling below his half helm, his hazel eyes shining through the gap in the visor, brimmed with moisture. Despite the horror of the wall and the strangeness of her visit to the castle, a rush of warmth filled Laurel’s belly.

“Captain Jenatt,” she whispered. Pulo Jenatt had been a member of Soleh Mori’s personal entourage before being named captain of the Palace Guard after the former captain, Malcolm Gregorian, was given his own vanguard in Karak’s new army. Each time Laurel visited the castle, Pulo joined her in offering his respects to the dead minister. They never spoke of their reverence publicly-it would be considered sacrilege to do so-but their silent bond brought them both a macabre sort of comfort.

“Your audience awaits,” Pulo said, stepping back. “Please follow me.”

They crossed beneath the portcullis, past a row of guards who stood sentry in the shadows of the twin onyx statues of leaping lions, and entered the courtyard. The three castle towers loomed above the grass, rising into the twilight gloom. The platform on which Minister Mori used to hold her daily sermons stood empty at a bend in the walkway, the boards soft and rotting.

Everywhere she looked there were women. Women selling other women fruit from a ramshackle stand, women juggling for coin, women shuffling snot-laden children out of Tower Servitude, women guiding horses to the stables, women begging for an audience with the king. It was an echo of what she saw each day as she made her way through the cold gray streets of the city. The only men to be seen were members of the City Watch or Palace Guard, the lowborn criminals whose torment of the city heightened with each passing day, those too old to be conscripted into Karak’s Army or rich enough to buy themselves out of service.

The great door to Tower Honor was held open, and Pulo led her down the long corridor. The air was warm, and Laurel’s boots sunk into the plush carpet as she walked. She wished she could strip off her hardened leather waders and curl her toes in the carpet’s fibers. Comfort and warmth had become fleeting concepts over the last six months. They’d been replaced by the monotony of her daily treks to the castle to fulfill her duties as a member of the Council of Twelve, a collection of individuals from the various districts and townships within Neldar whose purpose was to advise King Eldrich. Laurel was the only female member of the Council, and by far the youngest. Her mother had given birth to fourteen children, seven of whom-all boys-had died before reaching the end of their first year. The only male child who grew to adulthood had perished two years earlier, when starving peasants fell on her family’s granaries with torches and pitchforks, demanding to be fed during an extended drought. Because she was the oldest surviving child and her father, Cornwall Lawrence, was suffering from the final stages of the Wasting, Laurel had been chosen to act as the court representative for her father’s sprawling settlement of Omnmount.

It wasn’t an easy task, truth be told. Even when she had the confidence to speak, her voice was rarely heard. Most of the men of the Council, when they weren’t ignoring her, levied her with disapproving glances. She tried to tell herself it was because she was young, but she knew better. Soleh Mori’s words often seeped into her thoughts: “Men hold tight to the power they think they wield, but it is those who linger behind the curtain who hold the true power.” The strongest reaction she had ever received was when she’d attended court in a firming corset and low-slung satin chemise. How their eyes had bulged then, and when she offered advice to the Council that day, saying that an extra tax should be levied against the farms in the southern agricultural belt, those owned by her own family, in light of the grain shortages caused by the brutal winter in the north, the motion had actually been put to a vote. It hadn’t passed, losing seven to five, but at least she’d been heard.

Since then, she had taken to flaunting seductive outfits whenever she entered court. It shamed her more than a little, but Laurel was nothing if not practical. Should she need to use her youthful beauty to accomplish her duties, so be it.

The doors to the throne room were opened by the guards, and Pulo led her inside. The walls of the cavernous chamber were polished stone the color of rust. Enormous tapestries and banners hung from them, with the sigil of the royal Vaelor house-two swords crossed over a shield adorned with the image of Karak’s roaring lion-dominating all others.

Two men she knew well stood before the dais supporting the ivory throne rimmed with curved grayhorn tusks. One was the man who had sent for her, Guster Halfhorn. The senior member of the Council of Twelve, Guster was a withered old man approaching eighty, with a wattled neck and brown eyes whitened by cataracts. The other man was Dirk Coldmine, representative of the lower Neldar townships. He was burly, with a thick black beard, and he wore his natty woolen doublet as if it were a suit rimmed with gold. Both raised a hand in greeting, and Guster’s pale lips lifted into a smile. Uncertainty and nerves sent dark thoughts spiking through Laurel’s mind. She didn’t know why court had been canceled earlier that day, nor did she understand why Guster had been so adamant that she arrive just as the rest of the castle was emptying out. They know of my sympathy for the minister’s plight.…Perhaps they think me a harlot and betrayer? She wrapped her arms over her breasts self-consciously and cast a fleeting glance behind her, fearing she would see a representative of the Sisters of the Cloth.

Captain Jenatt presented her to the two Council members, knelt to kiss her hand, and then left the throne room. The clank of his armor sounded impossibly loud to Laurel as she stood before Guster and Dirk, her arms still wrapped around herself protectively. She tried to say something, but worry formed a lump in the back of her throat that made it impossible to form words.

“I’m sure you are wondering why I called you here at this hour,” Guster said, his tone deep, throaty, and heavy with knowledge, befitting one who had lived so long.

Laurel cleared her throat, found her voice. “I am quite curious,” she replied.

The old man patted her on the shoulder, his gaze never leaving hers, even as her arms dropped to her sides. The same could not be said for Dirk Coldmine, whose eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts over her emerald-green bodice.

“There will be answers soon, my dear,” Guster said. “But first, I wish to set your mind at ease. You are safe here and always will be. Please, let us go to the Council chamber.”

With those words, Dirk offered Guster his shoulder and helped the older man scale the four broad steps onto the dais. Laurel trailed them, taking the familiar path around the massive throne, toward the door leading to the Council chamber. The vestibule was cold as ever, a stark contrast to the warmth of the rest of the tower.

They entered a room of rough gray stone to find Karl Dogon, the king’s bodyguard, awaiting them. He lingered off to the side of the large table at which the council held their debates, the twelve wooden chairs-now empty-dwarfed by the king’s tall mahogany one. Dogon’s deep-set eyes stared blankly from his rectangular head at the visitors. He nodded to them, inviting them to sit, which they did, taking the chairs closest to the king’s. Dogon then disappeared through the side entrance.

The three sat in uncomfortable silence for what felt like an hour, before footfalls pounded down the stairs on the other side of the door. Dogon re-entered, and then King Eldrich Vaelor appeared behind him. Laurel hastily rose from her seat in respect, as did Guster and Dirk. She held her breath as she took in the fact that the king was dressed in a modest, white, cotton tunic and breeches, not his usual lavish royal garb. She had always known him to be a gaunt man, but without the added layers of clothing, he seemed almost sickly. He wore his thirty-eight years as if they had been a burden, his eyes rimmed with black circles above sallow cheeks. He had never been an attractive man, yet there had been something about his offbeat demeanor that Laurel had found appealing. That seemed to have disappeared, leaving a wan, despondent creature in its wake.

The king motioned for his guests to sit. Laurel’s heart beat so fast and loud, she feared the others would hear it in the insufferable silence.

King Eldrich sighed, and then leaned back in his chair, propping his elbow on the armrest so he could cup his bony chin in his palm. “First, the lesser business,” he said. The thin man’s eyes darted to his bodyguard, who stood sentry at the side of the table, and Dogon produced a folded piece of parchment from the sack hanging on his hip.

“What is this about, your Grace?” Guster asked when Dogon handed him the paper.

“Just read the letter,” replied King Eldrich. “Out loud, if you’d please.”

Laurel sank back into herself, feeling just as lost as ever. Here she was, privy to some sort of strange, private meeting, and she had yet to be acknowledged by the king. And it was so damn cold. She wished she were home in bed, her blankets piled high atop her.

Guster’s eyes scanned the words on the page, and once he reached the bottom, he glanced across the table at Dirk.

“I’m sorry,” the old man said. “Dirk, your brother, Deacon, has passed away.”

Dirk grunted, his expression unchanging. “Figured as much, though it took them long enough to tell me. How did he die?”

The old man scanned the letter again, then shrugged. “It doesn’t say.”

“No matter,” replied Dirk.

“Do you wish to retrieve the body?” asked the king wearily.

Dirk shook his head.

“Deacon made his own bed when he took a secret family. I’ve made sure his true wife and children are cared for. Honestly, Deacon’s been dead to me for some time.”

“You shouldn’t be so harsh,” said Guster. “Your brother paid his penance to Karak with his life.”

“He did? And how did he do that?”

Guster shrugged. “The letter doesn’t say, but we have both heard Clovis Crestwell say those words.”

“Nevertheless, his actions allowed countless innocents to die,” Dirk muttered under his breath. He glanced up at King Eldrich and asked, “Any word on his whore and bastards?”

The king frowned. “No. It seems they have…disappeared, along with most everyone else in the delta. According to Lord Commander Avila, his body was found in front of the destroyed temple. The citizens of Haven seemed to have left it behind when they fled their home.” He held his arms out wide, his voice dripping with derision. “But then again, I am but a puppet king. We’re lucky I received word of Deacon’s demise at all, even if it was six months late.”

Laurel scratched at her temple, utterly baffled by the conversation. She cleared her throat to gather her courage, and all eyes turned to her.

“I apologize for being rude, your Grace,” she said sheepishly, “but I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

The king smiled at her, a spark of life returning to his eyes. “Ah, Councilwoman Lawrence. You are here at my behest.”

“Why?”

King Eldrich peered at each person in the room, then back at her. “Because you are young. Because you are nice to look at. And because Halfhorn has told me you’re a bright young woman, and I often find myself surrounded by cravens and fools.” He chuckled. “By that bastard Karak, some have called me both on more than one occasion.”

“You aren’t either, your Grace,” she replied, trying to ignore his blasphemy.

He waved his hand at her. “We shall find out soon enough.”

Laurel frowned. Guster’s wrinkled hand fell atop hers, and the old man leaned forward, speaking kindly.

“These are trying times, Laurel, and there are few to be trusted. I have vouched that you are one of those few.”

“I…I’m honored.”

“And now that Crestwell has been replaced by the First Man as the Highest, the need for secrecy is paramount, which is why I cancelled court today and asked you to come here in secret,” the king said. He lowered his head and shook it. “Clovis was an uppity fuck to be sure, but I trust the one who now whispers in Karak’s ear even less.”

Laurel swallowed hard. Clovis had become a rarity around the castle over the last few months, and the last time she’d seen him, he had looked…wrong. His head of platinum hair had been shaved clean off, his body had been hunched at odd angles, and his eyes had developed an unhealthy red hue. She thought of her father, dying in his bed back in Omnmount, and wondered if perhaps the Highest were succumbing to the Wasting as well. The thought of one of Karak’s first creations, a supposed immortal developing such a sickness, gave her the shivers. The First Families were all but dying out. What would become of Neldar if none were left to guide them?

“What bothers you, girl?” asked the king.

“Nothing,” she replied. She knew she must be strong before these men. It was a great honor to have been asked to this meeting, and she would not ruin it by exposing her weakness. Lifting her shoulders back, she took a deep breath and said, “However, I do not understand the need for secrecy, even if Clovis Crestwell is no longer the Highest. This is still Karak’s kingdom, is it not? Does our Divinity not walk among us? What do we have to fear?”

All four men-Dogon included-burst into laughter. Laurel forced herself not to blush.

“There is much you do not know,” said Dirk when the laughing died down. “For example, what do you know of Haven?”

She shrugged. “The truth. The delta was filled with thieves, murderers, and godless heathens who built a blasphemous temple. Karak and the Highest ordered them to tear it down, and when they refused, they were bathed in fire.”

“True enough,” said King Vaelor. “And then Ashhur appeared, and the brother gods came to blows. A formerly peaceful union was broken, paving the path to war.”

Laurel nodded.

“And that, my dear girl, is the problem,” said Guster. “Karak neglects his city. He locks himself in the temple beyond the walls, preparing for war with his brother, when he should be here, helping keep the peace. Our children receive no blessings; our frightened populace is granted no assurances. Instead, Jacob Eveningstar has appeared and grasped Clovis’s mantle, taking a new name and foreswearing his loyalty to Ashhur.” He offered a disgusted gesture. “Our men march in armies now, leaving our streets teeming with cowards and thieves. And that doesn’t take into account those damn corpses hanging on the wall. The blasphemers I could perhaps understand, but Crian and the western deserter? It makes no sense. If Karak cared about his people in the slightest, he wouldn’t have allowed the First Man to create such a display.”

Laurel shivered. The First Man had long black hair and a haunting stare, and he carried himself with such confidence that the mere sight of him was intimidating. However, besides his command to hang the bodies of the treasonous outside the castle, the man who now called himself Highest Velixar had done nothing but linger in the background during Council meetings. Sightings of him were rare.

“I know little of the new Highest,” she said. “But beyond a grisly reminder to the disloyal, what has he done that warrants such secrecy and blasphemous talk? And as for the coming war, it was Ashhur who broke his promise by interfering with Karak’s punishment of his own creations. What would you have our Divinity do? Paradise must be taught a lesson, just like those in Haven.”

“There is a time for war, and there is a time for diplomacy,” said Guster softly. “I fear the latter would be more appropriate now.”

“Are you doubting our god?” asked Laurel, aghast.

“We are,” replied King Vaelor. The king leaned forward, his stubble-covered cheeks flushing red. “After all, we are free men, are we not? That was supposed to be Karak’s promise-every man was to live freely so long as he pledged his loyalty to his creator. Let us ignore the paradox of that statement and deal with the facts as we know them. Karak’s law says we are to honor him, but does it say anywhere that we are never to question his decisions?”

“Not explicitly,” said Laurel.

“Exactly. Yet I fear that, should I march to his temple and pose these questions to him, you would wake up tomorrow with your old king hanging from a chain alongside the bodies of the First Families while a new king sat on the throne. Would you like that, girl?”

Laurel averted her eyes from the king’s angry gaze. She felt like a minnow circled by sharks.

It was Dirk’s turn to comfort her.

“Don’t feel ashamed, Laurel,” he said. “I love Karak as much as anyone. You know this. And I understand how shocking it can be to realize that life is not as simple as it once seemed. Even I can see the flaw in what is happening to our realm. The purpose of this meeting is not to decry our creator, but to come up with a plan.”

“A plan for what?” she muttered.

Karl Dogon spoke for the first time that evening.

“For what will happen if Karak loses this war.”

Everyone seemed shocked to hear his voice-all but the king, who looked relaxed as he reclined in his chair.

“Exactly,” said King Eldrich. “The men who have trained all their lives to become blacksmiths, farmers, apothecaries, healers, horsemen, potters, craftsmen, stonemasons, shoemakers, and bakers have been taken from us. The women of the realm have been forced to take their place, and though you and I might argue about the merits of the fairer sex, you cannot argue with the fact that they have spent their lives as mothers, knitters, and nursemaids. Most have not been trained in the art of firing a kiln or fashioning iron, yet these skills are necessary for the success of our society. Our city is overrun by thieves and vagrants that our meager Watch is helpless to stop. Production of goods has come to a standstill, and those who are not in the military are slowly starving. After such a brutal winter, food is in short supply, and it would take all of Neldar working together to replenish our dwindling resources. But the men who march in our fields now wield swords instead of plowshares. Pleas for food come from every corner of our land…pleas I have no choice but to ignore since we have none to give.”

Laurel thought of the battalions of armored soldiers she’d watched march down the streets of the city one month before. There had been hundreds of them, all Veldaren natives, their armor, swords, axes, and maces clattering as they worked their way through the crowds of women who cheered and shouted prayers for their safe return. They had appeared well fed, and the combined skills of Neldar had been showcased in every finely made piece of armor and sharpened blade.

“This war strains us greatly, but it will not last long,” she said. “My mother told me of the people of Paradise. They are lazy and ignorant, and they expect their god Ashhur to grant them their desires so they may live in childish servitude. Weak and defenseless, what will they do when our soldiers march against them? When Karak leads our brothers into Paradise, the people there will have no choice but to bow before him.”

Or else their bodies will be hung from a wall like Minister Mori’s, she thought.

“I dream of such an easy war,” said King Vaelor. “Ashhur has had six months to prepare. Do you think he has spent that time idly? Do you think he will allow his creations to be slaughtered without a fight? Yes, I have heard stories about Haven and the great fire from the sky that destroyed the blasphemers.…But I have also heard of how the very ground shook when the brother gods battled, of how in his rage Ashhur cut down our soldiers with his sword as if they were stalks of wheat. No, I fear Karak will cross the river to find that a once frightened sheep has become a braying wolf. Six months is not time enough to train an entire populace in the art of war-an art that we have not yet mastered, mind you-but they will fight for the lives they’ve been given. And none of this takes into account the crisis of numbers we’re facing.”

“What do you mean?”

The king motioned toward Guster. The old man straightened in his chair and looked Laurel’s way.

“Our society is strong, Laurel, and hearty, but compared to Paradise we are woefully outnumbered. Our years of incessant breeding have granted us a population of more than eighty thousand. However, of that eighty thousand, the force our god has gathered amounts to barely a quarter of that number. The rest of our society is comprised of women, children, and the elderly. Here in the east at least one in three children do not reach adulthood, but in Paradise there is no sickness; no mothers die on the birthing bed and no children perish. Health is in such abundance that we hear tales that a hundred from the first generation still endure, albeit old as sin. And believe me when I say that those in Paradise have bred just as feverishly as we have. Their people outnumber ours three to one, and that is a conservative estimate.”

Laurel leaned back in her chair, stunned. She had never thought of that; the sheer numbers were staggering. It made her head spin.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, head bowed. She felt lost and afraid, her entire reality crashing down before her. It only made matters worse that she did not know what was expected of her.

“Do you understand now why we must prepare for the worst?” asked the king.

“I do,” she said, her voice weak. “But why me? Why am I trustworthy when others are not? What do I have to offer?”

At those words, Dirk sat back in his seat and cupped his hands just below his chest. A charge of anger rushed through Laurel, making her dig her fingernails into her palms below the table, but she held her tongue.

“As crass as Councilman Coldmine might be, he has the truth of it,” said Guster. His tone warbled, his wattle flopped. “But that is only part of it. The whole truth is that besides being a young and attractive woman, you are also highborn and quite clever. You are relatively new to the Council, whereas the rest of us have been advising King Eldrich since the crown was passed to him.”

“Which means,” said the king, “that you are relatively unknown outside these walls.”

Laurel glanced at each of her companions in turn, taking in Vaelor’s creased brow, Dirk’s knowing smirk, and the concerned droop of Guster’s jowls. Karl Dogon appeared disgusted by the proceedings, though it was hard to tell-that look of contempt never seemed to leave his face.

“I don’t understand,” she finally said.

The king began to tap restlessly on the tabletop. “In order to ensure our survival should the worst occur,” he said, his tone that of a teacher berating an inattentive student, “we need the high merchants on our side. The Garlands, the Mudrakers, the Conningtons, the Blackbards, the Brennans-even the Gemcrofts, if Peytr still lives. Before the gods’ clash in Haven, all but Peytr were dutiful citizens, paying far beyond their levies and supplying whatever goods we requested. Since the rumblings of war, however, they’ve become invisible. The house leaders have retreated to their estates and are either too fearful-or too smart-to emerge. We need their coin and resources if we are to protect ourselves from the possibility of an extended conflict.”

“Why don’t you make them give it to you?” Laurel asked, cringing as the question left her mouth.

The king frowned, his arms extending outward. “We have a powerful enemy west of the rivers. We do not need to make more here in our own land. No, what I need is a messenger, an individual who will not attract the wrong type of attention, someone these men will listen to and trust. And who is a powerful man more likely to trust than a beautiful young woman?”

“I can think of many examples, actually,” said Dirk with a laugh.

Vaelor silenced him with a look, then turned his gaze back to Laurel.

“Do you accept my offer, girl? Will you be my messenger?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

Dogon tapped the hilt of his sword, answering her question without words. Again she heard Soleh Mori’s voice in her head. “It is our duty to silently nurture that power, especially when the men try to strip it from us, or force us to play their game.”

“Very well then,” she said with a sigh, tightening the threads on the front of her bodice. The room seemed to grow even colder, making her shiver. “Tell me what you want me to do.”