Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 20

“As you can see, milady,” said Quester the Crimson Sword, “every amenity you could desire is right here. Bath houses, eateries, delicatessens, theaters, two wonderful brothels, a vineyard, a huge commons, arenas, and taverns. Here in Riverrun, we spare no expense. The founders have seen to that.”

Laurel rode on her horse beside him, with the two Sisters of the Cloth-Mite and Giant were Quester’s pet names for them-riding behind. She looked wherever the stunning young man pointed, hanging on his every word. He was right. Riverrun was indeed the most picturesque town she had ever visited. Veldaren was a cold, gray tomb by comparison.

All along the main thoroughfare leading away from the Gods’ Road, there were cottages and chalets, finely crafted homes of interlocking logs atop sturdy stone foundations. In many ways it resembled the other merchant towns she had visited-Drake, Gronswik, and Thettletown, the latter of which they had passed through on their way here-but the feel was much different. The road was well maintained, the many gardens popped with color. Merry people streamed in and out of the seamstress shop, the apothecary, the taverns. The outdoor market they rode past teemed with women both young and old, and they did not seem battered down or sullied. Their men wore boiled leather and ringed armor, and each had his weapon of choice hanging from his belt. At first Laurel had feared they were bandits-the vast majority of the men she’d seen of late were just that-but they were clean and seemed to be in good spirits.

“The men,” she asked, after passing a group of four chatting together before the entrance of a tavern. “Why are they so many? Have Karak’s soldiers not come here to conscript like they have elsewhere?”

“They have, but merchants hold a particular…sway within the kingdom.” Quester grinned while playfully flicking his forked beard. “My masters in particular have good standing with both god and king. Most of our common men were sent away with our deity’s army. Yet Riverrun has kept the fires stoked at Mount Hailen and in Felwood, supplying Karak with all the steel he could desire. For that, we were allowed to keep our hired hands.” His grin grew wider. “It just so happens that most of our hired hands also hold swords.”

“Is that not…well, unfair?” asked Laurel.

The Crimson Sword shrugged.

“Fairness is a matter of perspective, milady. Is it fair to my masters that gold, silver, and bronze have lost much of their value because there are few left to earn it, never mind spend it? Is it fair that the trade they built their livelihoods on now teeters on collapse? It is not, but they know this war will not last forever, and when it does end, when trade returns to its full strength and gold retains its meaning, those who hold the reins will once more be the most powerful men in the land. If we were denied our protection, roving bands of brigands could easily conquer our town. No one, not the temple, not the king, not even Karak himself, wants to see that happen. Once the engine of commerce resumes, the transition back to normalcy needs to be as painless as possible.” He swung his hand out wide. “And besides, that means my home gets to keep its inherent loveliness, which is never such a bad thing.”

Laurel had no choice but to agree with him. There was something rather comforting about offering a nod of greeting to a passerby and receiving one in kind. In many ways, it seemed as though Riverrun existed in a bubble all its own, untouched by the strife and lawlessness brought about by Karak’s war.

The throughway passed by a great stone amphitheater, a tall structure whose walls were made from a strange, smooth substance, and then a massive commons. There, several boys and girls were at play, tossing small rounded sacks and chasing each other with sticks. Mothers sat on blankets on the edge of the field, eating apples, pears, grapes, and other assorted fruits plucked from wicker baskets, while they watched their children play. More sellswords stood behind them, grinning while they watched the fun, but Laurel could tell their attention was elsewhere. Their eyes skittered nervously at the sound of the horses’ hooves when Quester and Laurel approached with the Sisters of the Cloth in tow, their fingers dancing lightly on the hilts of their swords. It was a reminder, however subtle, of the dangers that lurked all around them.

Before long they reached the Queln River. The road veered sharply, following along the swiftly flowing waters. There were even more children playing in a sandy fjord, splashing and kicking and screeching in joy. Farther along, when the river widened, Laurel saw a fleet of rafts and barges tethered to a great dockhouse that jutted out over the water. There were men working the docked crafts, unloading baskets of fish onto the plank for others to dump into a giant crate and sort through. There were a great many Sisters of the Cloth present, a sight that made Laurel cringe. The wrapped women were like phantoms, lurking around, acknowledged by none. She glanced over her shoulder at Mite and Giant, and suppressed a shudder when she took in the blank look in their eyes.

The farther south they rode along the river, the more prevalent the Sisters became. Soon, they were all she could see, standing in front of gatehouses, guarding the entrance to a steaming smithy on the river’s edge, escorting horses pulling wagons filled with hay, fish, meat, or billowing cotton. Quester noticed her guarded stares, steered his horse over, and took her hand. His grip was firm, his skin soft as silk, yet hardened by calluses at the fingertips. Combined with the man’s inherent beauty, his touch lit something inside her that it was difficult to quell.

“Some of my masters’ most inspired purchases,” he said. “They’ve bought three hundred Sisters over the years. Quiet, hardworking, completely loyal, and many are quite capable in the art of defense, like my pets.” He gestured at Mite and Giant.

“Three hundred?” said Laurel, aghast. “How can there be so many?”

“Oh, three hundred is a low number, milady. There are more than two thousand sisters spread throughout Neldar. When courts are controlled by theological law, these things tend to happen.”

Laurel grunted in disgust. She had been told stories of the Sisters of the Cloth since she was a little girl. It was a warning to all of the fairer sex that a horrible life awaited them should they break Karak’s laws. For men, it was either imprisonment or death. Laurel thought it unfair, though, of course, many men sentenced to death would probably argue otherwise.

The landscape began to change, growing rocky and unsuitable for growth. There were cliffs ahead, craggy outcroppings that fronted the lesser mountains bordering the western bank of the Queln. The road they traveled veered inland, following the base of a foothill. There were more Sisters here than anywhere-dozens of them sparred in the open area to Laurel’s right, steel clanging as their daggers met again and again. A massive ring of stacked stone, taller than her horse, emerged ahead, built into the base of the foothills. Its thick door was guarded by a pair of Sisters.

“Welcome to the Connington Holdfast,” the Crimson Sword declared.

He motioned for her to stop and dismount, which she did. The ground felt hard and unforgiving beneath her feet, very different from the yielding, almost spongy earth they’d camped on the evening before, outside of Thettletown. She stretched her legs for a moment, then approached the door. The two Sisters guarding it barred the path, crossing their daggers. She stepped back, staring into their dead eyes.

Quester walked past her, undoing the tie in his red-streaked golden hair and letting it fall to his shoulders. He leaned over and whispered into the two Sisters’ covered ears, and they fell back to their original positions on either side of the door. He turned to Laurel and smiled.

“One cannot be too careful,” he said with a chuckle. “There are enemies everywhere, perhaps even ones as lovely as you. Precautions must be made.”

The handsome young sellsword knocked three times on the giant oak door, then backed away, tapping his foot on the packed ground. More than five minutes passed before the door finally swung outward, revealing a set of stairs that led down into a torch-lit stone hallway. A woman stepped out, her silvery gray hair falling past her waist. That hair, combined with the folds in her neck and her crooked fingers, suggested she was quite old, yet her face was strangely bereft of wrinkles. She wore a flowing gown of crimson and turquoise, studded with onyx beading. Her eyes were icy blue, as was common in those from the north.

“Councilwoman Laurel Lawrence,” the woman said with a slight bow. “Please, follow me.”

She glanced up at Quester, who nodded and then threw an arm each around Mite and Giant, who had positioned themselves at his sides.

“Are you coming?” she asked him.

“No,” he said. “This meeting is for you and my masters alone. I am useless in these matters.” He tapped the hilt of his shortsword. “Besides, I have other duties to attend. Don’t worry, my masters mean you no harm. They simply wish to talk. I will be here when you are finished to escort you back home.”

With that he turned away, gently nudging Mite and Giant as he approached his horse. In a single swift movement he was back in his saddle, and before she had time to absorb what was happening, he was riding away, his pets trotting behind. Laurel loitered there for a moment, watching him grow smaller and smaller, until the old woman tapped her on the shoulder.

“Please, Laurel, your audience awaits.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against her nervousness, before following the strange old woman through the door and down the stairs. The Sisters closed the door behind her, the sound echoing throughout the hallway as loud as a thunderclap. She started, peering at the void of darkness behind her.

The old woman spun around to face her, the folds of her gown twirling.

“There is no reason to be nervous,” she said coldly, looking her up and down. A brief flash of disappointment shone in her blue eyes. “As Quester said, my sons have no desire to harm you. It is an insult to assume otherwise, especially in their place of business.”

My sons?

“I…my apologies, Lady Connington,” Laurel said. Though she spoke softly, her voice still reverberated throughout the passage, making her shudder. Stay strong, she told herself. You know what they want, what they expect. Your father is a powerful merchant, just like them. Gathering her confidence, she threw back her shoulders and said, “You must understand, I have had some rather unpleasant experiences with many high merchants over the last few weeks. It is a rare merchant who has prospered because of his honesty. To walk into this meeting blind and trusting would make me a fool, and the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence is no fool.”

Lady Connington smiled at that, her features softening noticeably. With her face more relaxed, the hints of crow’s feet were readily noticeable around her eyes, and creases of age appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Very well, Councilwoman,” she said. “But you must understand how special it is for you to be here. Other than myself, women are not allowed inside the holdfast. Even my sons’ wives are kept at the homestead in the heart of town. That you are here at all is a testament to how serious my sons are taking these unfolding events.”

“I understand. It’s an honor.”

“It is indeed. Now follow me.”

The hallway led to a central hub cut with six colored passages. Laurel was amazed by how much larger the holdfast was than it had appeared from the outside. The compound appeared to be relatively new, with smooth stucco- and plaster-lined walls. Much of the structure existed underground, and she shuddered to think of how many hours of labor-paid or forced-it had taken to construct it. The windowless walls closed in on her, seeming to constrict with each step she took.

She was led down a passage painted from floor to ceiling in crimson. The light of the torches gave it an ominous feel, as if it were some hellish compartment of the underworld. There was but a single door at the very end of the corridor, stark white and staring out like a giant eye. Lady Connington stopped before the door and turned to her.

“Act like the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence,” she said, “and all will be fine.”

She opened the door, and Laurel stepped into a massive circular room, painted red. There were no decorations save the Conningtons’ golden hawk’s head banner, which hung on the far wall, as large as life. In the center of the room sat a single table, stained a deep burgundy, on which there was a giant carafe of red wine. Three chairs circled the table, and Romeo and Cleo Connington, two plump men wearing draping frocks the same color as the room, sat in two of them. Numerous rings adorned their fingers, and their heads were shaved and powdered. Laurel smelled the distinct and bitter odors of lemon and menthol combined with rosewater. She remembered that scent from the many times they’d come to the Council begging for some favor, and it was overwhelming in such a confined space.

“Miss Lawrence,” the brothers said in turn, taking her in with icy blue eyes that were near mimics of their mother’s.

“Romeo, Cleo,” she replied. “Or should I refer to you as the Masters Connington?”

Both giggled at that, an unseemly and disturbing sound.

“Our first names are fine, Miss Lawrence,” said Cleo.

“Call me Laurel.”

“Fine,” Romeo said. “Take a seat, Laurel. Have some wine. Perhaps unlace your bodice. You appear to be…somewhat hindered.”

She frowned and glanced down at herself. She was wearing the same revealing ensemble she had worn the night she’d met Quester, the one that had been meant to seduce Trenton Blackbard into listening to the king’s pleas. She suddenly felt dirty, though she had done her best to bathe in a stream the previous day. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, covering her breasts.

“Such a shame,” said Cleo.

“Though it does seem odd to present yourself in such a way for a matter of business,” added Romeo. “Tell us, Laurel, why did you dress like a whore? Was it for us?”

She rolled her eyes. “Certainly not. It was for Trenton Blackbard. I never had the opportunity to return to my home to change before your Crimson Sword whisked me away.”

Cleo grinned, exposing his perfect, pearly white teeth. “Ah yes, Quester is a fine one indeed. Very talented in all we ask him to do, even the…unsavory matters.”

“Especially the unsavory matters,” Romeo added. “As for your outfit, Laurel, may I ask if that scandalous outfit served its purpose?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she grumbled, wishing the conversation would move on.

Romeo nodded. “I thought not. A foolish act, dressing that way to sway a man like Blackbard. His business is flesh. Products are to be used, not bargained with. It would be the same as petitioning a farmer while dressed as a cabbage.”

“Though I would give good coin to see that,” said Cleo, leaning in toward his brother.

Laurel blushed. Keep calm, she told herself. They were just trying to unnerve her, tear down her confidence. It helped little, though, that she felt so stupid now, like nothing more than a damn foolish girl. Instead of defending herself halfheartedly, she sat down in the third chair and grabbed the carafe of wine. She poured an ample amount into the cup on the table before her, smiled sweetly at the brothers, and proceeded to swallow it down in one huge gulp. The mixed tartness and sweetness infused her throat and her sinuses, effectively diffusing the brothers’ off-putting smells.

“A girl after my own heart,” said Cleo. “A strong man accepts an insult with a swig and a smile that promises retribution later.”

“I am no man,” Laurel snapped, placing the cup back on the table.

“Obviously not,” said Romeo.

“I much prefer you to anyone else our lovely king might have sent,” added Cleo.

“I was not sent,” she said. “You retrieved me, remember?”

Cleo clapped. “Oh, Brother, she plays the game so well!”

“We’ll see about that,” said Romeo, his usually shrill tone lowering an octave. “Yes, Laurel, we sent for you, but only after discovering you were about to seek us out.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “How would you know? You haven’t been seen in Veldaren for months.”

“Ah, child, we have eyes and ears everywhere,” said Cleo, almost singing. “There is much we see and know, even in places you would least expect.”

“Such as where?”

Romeo waved his hand at her. “Forget that. The king wanted a meeting, and so he has one. Tell me Laurel, what does dear Eldrich want from us?”

She cleared her throat. This was it, the sales pitch, the same one she’d given all the others.

“The gods’ war is upon us,” she said. “Despite all promises to the contrary, our king does not think Karak will so easily defeat his brother. Should the war drag on, or in the horrible event that our Divinity loses, we must be equipped to provide for ourselves. In the event of that-”

“Stop.”

Laurel’s lips snapped shut, and she gazed from one brother to the other. Romeo was shaking his head, Cleo laughing silently to himself.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

“Do you trust Karak with all your heart?” asked Romeo.

“I believe in him completely, yes.”

To that, Romeo chortled.

“Of course you believe in him, girl. He is a god among men, just as real as my brother and myself. To not believe in him would be to deny reality.”

“Yet if we are to speak of belief,” Cleo chimed in, “tell me, do you believe in Karak’s actions, his laws, his love for you?”

“Yes,” Laurel said. “I thoroughly trust in the grace and wisdom of our beloved Karak. He is without error, without-”

Romeo slapped the table.

“I think we are done here. Cleo, fetch Mother to escort the councilwoman back to the village. Tell her to have Quester bring her back to Veldaren as soon-”

“Wait, stop,” Laurel said, accidentally knocking over her empty cup in the process. “Don’t send me away, please.”

“Then give us the truth, Laurel,” said Cleo. “Not practiced lies.”

Both brothers stared at her, seemingly without breathing. Her hands shook and her words caught in her throat.

“I doubt,” she said. “It hurts to say, but it is true. I doubt.”

“What do you doubt?”

“Everything.”

“Explain.”

She wavered for a moment, trying to think of what to say. Finally she gave in and hung her head.

“I don’t know how.”

Romeo leaned back and smiled, and Cleo clapped his hands once more.

“Excellent answer,” the older of the two said. “It is best to be honest about one’s feelings, especially in matters such as these. Otherwise you will be taken for a craven or a fool. We don’t think you’re either.”

Cleo took a sip from his cup, the wine staining his lips a sickish shade of purple.

“The truth is, Laurel, we understand how you feel. You might think otherwise, but it was difficult for us too when we discovered our god did not have our best interests in mind, as he has proven time and again.”

“How so?”

“Karak created Neldar,” said Romeo, “and all the people within its borders. He gave us all the knowledge we could ever wish to have, helped build our greatest city, spoon fed us his laws and decrees, and told us to name a king. And then he disappeared. Our young race was left alone with vast amounts of knowledge we could not truly understand or build on, expected to govern ourselves using contradictory notions and ideas we hadn’t the experience to justly value.”

“Karak either does not understand our plight,” Cleo continued, “or he does and he is simply curious as to how we will react. That means he is either unqualified to rule us, for he does not understand us…or that he is like a youngster who’s curious how an ant will walk if he tears off half its legs. Every bit of Karak’s doctrine is a negation. He says our hearts are unbound, yet if he is not first in those hearts, we are blasphemers. He demands we exercise our freedom, yet every principle he preaches leads to servitude in his name. It is ludicrous.”

“You don’t just doubt the Divinity,” Laurel whispered. “You hate him.”

Romeo shook his head. “You have it wrong. I too love the deity that allowed me to have life and bread and gold and land. More than anything. But I stopped trusting him long ago.”

“Such a sad time,” said Cleo.

“It was. It is always difficult when you realize your creator is bound more to a principle than to the people he made. All Karak cares for is order. Look at Karak’s law, Laurel. Take a look at the wording. His laws are presented without ardor, without room for interpretation. Order in all things is what Karak demands, his endgame. It is the nature of his being. And we firmly believe he will sacrifice anything to achieve it. Soleh Mori was the most cherished member of Karak’s First Families, yet he allowed her to die, and for what?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Laurel.

“No one does for sure,” Romeo said. “Though the rumors we hear claim her death paved the way for this war, a war to bring order to all of Dezrel. If Karak allowed his most beloved creation to perish, what assurance do the rest of us have?”

Cleo sighed, sounding almost wistful. “He is so unlike his brother. I have seen firsthand how much Ashhur loves his children. How he dotes on them, shields them from harm, and ensures that their lives are as perfect as can be. He created Paradise, and has done all he can to make sure it remains just that.”

Laurel’s heart began to race. “Are you saying you would rather Ashhur rule this land than Karak?”

“Not at all!” Cleo said with a hearty laugh. “Do you not see, Laurel? Both are entirely flawed. They are mirror images of each other, their people slaves to their different concepts of righteousness. One may treat his creations better than the other, but the final outcome of either philosophy is the enslavement of an entire race of beings.”

“But they are gods, and that is to be expected of gods,” Romeo said. “They exist forever. How could they possibly understand creatures that live a finite existence, that think and feel and desire and eventually die? Our souls might be immortal-at least, that is what they tell us-but our bodies will one day expire. What does a god know of that? We are destined to be instruments in their cosmic game and nothing more. I believe that fully.”

“But what of Celestia? She doesn’t control the lives of her elves. They are free to do as they choose.”

“So it seems,” said Romeo. “But the goddess also punished her people for not obeying her request-request, not order-by destroying their home of two thousand years, exiling them from the wasteland that became the Tinderlands. Celestia may not walk among the elves, but I assure you, they are just as much a slave to her whims as we humans are to our deities.”

Cleo took another sip of wine. “Nothing good can come from a land where gods walk the earth. I would argue that no good can come from a world where gods exist at all.”

“You can tell our lovely king that for us,” said Romeo.

Everyone grew quiet, Laurel uncertain of what to do next. Though their sermon had been difficult to hear, she could not deny there was truth in it. Ever since Soleh’s death, she’d been questioning Karak’s love for his people. The hangings, the stricter laws, not to mention the horror of the Final Judges. The cruelty and hunger of those lions, coupled with the dead eyes of the Sisters of the Cloth, bore witness to the extremes Karak was willing to go to in his quest for order. Everything within her rejected it, even though the very notion of rejecting Karak filled her with fear. What would she be left with? A belief in nothing? Or would she perforce turn to Ashhur, a god about whom she knew nothing?

The bald brothers looked down at their cups, twiddling their fingers, until Laurel finally broke the silence.

“Do you wish to hear the rest of the king’s decree?” she asked.

“No. We reject Eldrich’s request,” he said simply.

“Wait…what?” she replied. “I haven’t even spoken the terms…”

“We will not prepare for the worst to happen. The worst has already happened. What we must do now is defend ourselves. We must take the reins of this life we have been given, rather than sit and wait for this war to play itself out. No Laurel, we must make our own path.”

“How?”

“Can we trust her?” asked Cleo, turning to his brother.

“Of course we can,” Romeo answered. “She is Cornwall’s daughter, and Cornwall is the most noble and trustworthy of us all.”

“Is this true, Laurel? Are you as trustworthy as your father? Will you swear that the words we tell you will not leave this room?”

“Yes,” she said, puffing out her chest. “Now please answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“How will we make our own path?”

Cleo chuckled. “By making sure both gods lose.”

She shook her head. “You make it sound so simple. We are human, and they are gods. They each have nations sworn in allegiance. What could we possibly do to influence them when they could so easily destroy us?

“They are few, and we are many,” answered Romeo. “We are fluid, and they are stagnant. Our lives are irrelevant, while theirs have swayed nations. Think on it, Laurel. The termite works in the dark, building its nest in the wood, breeding there, expanding its family. We do not notice them in our homes because they are small and hidden. Yet those same termites can cave in a roof and tumble down walls. Just a termite, something you or I could crush underneath our heel, can wreak unimaginable destruction.”

Cleo grinned, nodding vociferously.

“You’ve already begun planning,” said Laurel, amazed. Her heart began to beat out of control.

“We have,” said Romeo, “and that plan is underway. We have made our own pacts with the other merchant lords. Even Matthew Brennan has agreed to our terms. We have formed alliances even in Paradise, and our spies have infiltrated Karak’s Army, working to weaken it from within like the lowly termites we are. The pieces are moving, the betrayals are coming, and soon important people will die…and it will all lead to our freedom from those annoying brother gods.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” asked Laurel.

“Because when the people see how little their gods care, when we show them we can control our own destiny, they will turn their backs on Karak and Ashhur. Once that happens, whichever deity survives this war will have two choices: end it all, or set us free.” He laughed heartily. “Either way, we will no longer be in chains.”

Cleo perked up. “So listen closely, Councilwoman. We have a new message for you to bring back to King Eldrich. He might not like hearing it, but he is a puppet of Karak as well, and should understand what we say more than any other man in this realm. When our plan comes to fruition, we will be the ones in power, the ones who hold the materials of life at our fingertips, the ones who can sway the people. Remind him that if men can turn their backs on something so powerful as a god, what hope is there for a king?”

Laurel leaned back in her chair. “I would say no hope at all,” she said. “Do you think this plan of yours will succeed?”

“Of course,” said Romeo with a grin.

“Why?”

“Because we have the support of the most powerful men in all of Neldar behind us, including your father.”

“I speak for my father.”

Cleo laughed. “And you are still here, listening to our gravest secrets without running away. I would say that is a telling sign in and of itself.”

Even with uncertainty swelling inside her, Laurel nodded. “It is.”

“Are you with us?”

“I am.”

“Then this is what I would like you to tell our dear king…”