Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 31

Laurel made her way back to Veldaren in the daylight, just in case the mumbling priest Joben Tustlewhite hadn’t come to his senses and reigned in the frightening Judges. The last thing she wanted was another run-in with the two huge lions, never mind one of the roving bands of low men who had murder on their minds.

She had been gone from Veldaren for eight days, and the Conningtons had given her a carriage for her journey, a mode of transportation that was finer than any she’d experienced in her short life of luxury, for while her father’s wealth was indeed vast, Cornwall Lawrence was a modest, simple man. The same could not be said of the Conningtons. The sides of the coach were so expertly crafted that no seams could be felt on the glossy wood, and inside were twelve massive pillows stuffed with downy feathers. The fabric was silk, the handholds grayhorn ivory. Lady Connington had even provided her with new attire, a finely spun, ankle-length, turquoise dress bedecked with rubies. She was amazed by how comfortable it was, like wearing her nightclothes-so different from the restrictive and revealing ensembles she’d forced herself to wear over the course of her long and frustrating mission.

She had even been given servants, of all things. The Crimson Sword had given her possession of Mite and Giant, the two Sisters of the Cloth who had been his “pets.” Though Laurel hated the very notion of the Sisters and refused to consider them her possessions, she couldn’t deny how much safer the two wrapped ladies made her feel. Just looking at them as they hung close to the carriage’s windows, their gazes intent on their surroundings, calmed her nerves. She had come to think of them as her girls. Though their long journey back from Riverrun had been uneventful, it was something she did not take for granted. Now all she had to worry about was how King Eldrich would receive the Conningtons’ counteroffer. Although they had agreed to assist the realm with coin, commodities, and manpower, she was certain the king would not be very happy with what they’d demanded in return.

The carriage turned onto the eastern Road of Worship. Smooth cobbles replaced the bumpy packed earth of the Gods’ Road. Laurel peeked out of the porthole. A hot breeze and Veldaren’s unique stink struck her head-on. The driver steered the two horses onward, past the empty fields where one day even more abodes and places of commerce would be built, past the stacks of felled lumber, mossy from sitting unused in the elements for so long, past the Temple of Karak. The sight of the temple, a looming black obelisk that seemed to swell and retract in the day’s heat, as if breathing, caused her to cringe. She cast down her eyes.

“I love you, my Lord,” she whispered. She may have lost faith in her god’s teachings, just as the Conningtons claimed they had, but unlike them she refused to relinquish her love, whether she was about to betray Karak or not.

Buildings began to appear by the side of the road, a sparse few at first, then more and more, until they were packed together like fish in a barrel. Laurel breathed out a wistful sigh. The drab gray stone and weepy brown wood of the city was actually a comfort. Veldaren had become more than her home over the last four years. It was where she had bloomed into womanhood, where she had earned her independence. Protecting it from the coming strife was the main reason she had agreed to the king’s proposal in the first place.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched the city roll by her window, a stone of unease burying itself in her gut. It was closing in on noontime, yet there seemed to be fewer women on the road than usual. Those she saw had a faraway look about them; eyes glazed over, gaits hunched, as if each carried a heavy weight. There were virtually no unwatched children running through the streets, a sight that had grown common over the past months.

The cart neared the great fountain at the center of the city, where the daily market was held. The square was completely empty. There were no vendors hawking their fruits, vegetables, meats both salted and freshly butchered, textiles, trinkets, or shoes. The only soul within eyesight was a single woman sitting on the side of the road, holding her stomach. Her clothes were filthy, her body so thin she resembled a skeleton. Her head was down, her dirty hair concealing her face. Laurel sucked in a breath. She couldn’t tell if the woman was alive, and when two other women hustled past without a glance at the slouched one, she realized that no one cared.

“What’s going on here?” she asked aloud. Mite’s blue eyes and Giant’s brown ones turned toward her, but neither said a word. Not that they would. She had tried to engage them in conversation numerous times since they’d left Riverrun, but true to their order, they had remained silent. Attempting to make them speak was a fruitless task.

She returned her gaze to the road, searching for a member of the City Watch in the hopes of asking him to check on the poor, thin woman, but none were within eyesight. It was then, as they circled the roundabout and joined the South Road, that she realized she hadn’t seen a single man in a Watch uniform since they’d entered the city limits. This struck her as odd. Odder yet, she hadn’t noticed any men at all. Her stomach began to rumble with unease.

The streets remained sparsely populated as they drew closer and closer to the castle, where crowds were usually abundant. Laurel looked down at the letter she held in her hand, which had been delivered two days ago by a female courier with skittish eyes, a reply to a correspondence she had sent via bird just before leaving Riverrun. In it Guster, her kindly and elderly fellow Councilman with the neck wattle, gushed about how splendid it was that her task was nearing its close, saying that King Eldrich eagerly awaited to hear what the merchants had to say about his proposal. It also reported that a special Council session had been planned to begin on her return to Veldaren. She had scribbled her reply and handed it to the courier, who’d wheeled her horse around and rode off without another word.

The sight of the three castle towers made her breathe a little easier. Soon she would tell the king of the Conningtons’ demands, and she would get answers about what had happened to her home. She closed her eyes, telling herself that she was acting like a frightened little girl. There must be a logical explanation, she thought. Once you hear it, you’ll realize how silly you’re being. We’re fighting a war now. Things are bound to change. Yet, given how strange everything was in the city, it was difficult to keep her fear from ruling all other thoughts.

The carriage rocked to a stop in front of the portcullis of the Castle of the Lion a few minutes later. Mite opened the door closest to the street, and out stepped Giant, who then turned to assist her new mistress. Laurel’s feet fell to the cobbled walk and she flexed her toes inside her thin, feminine shoes, appreciating the hardness after trudging on packed dirt for so long. The driver-a young woman whose family trained all the horses in the Conningtons’ stables-nodded to her before cracking the horses’ leads. The two steeds trotted off, pulling the empty carriage behind them. Unlike her new dress and Quester’s two pets, apparently the carriage was not hers to keep.

The reek of decay reached her nose, causing her sneeze, and Laurel turned toward the castle. She cringed, gazing up at the twenty-one corpses dangling there. It felt strange to see them there, as she could have sworn Guster had told her that the Council had decided to take them down. Yet they hung there still. The heat of early summer had quickened the moldering that had been stymied by the cold of winter. Her eyes skimmed past the fifteen dead soldiers before landing on Minister Mori’s sunken face. The flesh was gradually peeling off her cheeks, and Laurel felt her eyes water. She half expected Captain Jenatt to appear and join her in mourning as he always had in the past, but he was nowhere to be found. In fact, strangely enough, there was no one guarding the portcullis at all save the two onyx lions. But she was not alone in paying her respects to Soleh’s memory. Mite stood beside her, and the Sister’s formerly expressionless blue eyes brimmed with tears. Her tiny body seemed to tremble, and Laurel reached out a hand to comfort her. Giant swooped in before Laurel could make contact with Mite’s bandage-swathed arm and, giving the smaller sister a stern look, she shoved her toward the gate. Laurel grimaced and followed them, not sure what to make of the display she’d just witnessed. This day could not get any stranger, she thought.

Much to Laurel’s surprise, it did. When she passed through the unguarded portcullis and into the castle courtyard, her jaw dropped open. Among a scant few plainly dressed women were at least fifty Sisters of the Cloth, some pulling carts filled with fruit, others walking horses, and still others busily tearing down Minister Mori’s dilapidated old podium. Laurel’s head was on a swivel as she looked all about her. There weren’t quite as many Sisters here as had been present in Riverrun, but it was shocking to see this many in the city. Still, it was entirely possible the other merchants had returned to Veldaren and brought their stables of Sisters with them.

Even more shocking was the lack of purple sashes. Nowhere in the courtyard could she spot a single member of the Palace Guard. Suddenly two men appeared from the massive doorway of Tower Honor, the first males she had seen all day. They waved to her urgently as they took step after hasty step. Laurel recognized them as Walter Olleray and Zebediah Zane, two of her fellow Council members.

“Laurel…Laurel Lawrence,” Walter said as he approached. He was a balding fat man who carried his girth much less gracefully than the Conningtons. His cheeks were ruddy by the time he reached her. He panted as well, and his breath reeked of eggs, which made Laurel swallow a grimace.

“Walter,” she said. “Zebediah.”

“Laurel, you must come quickly,” Zebediah said. He beckoned her with both hands, stepping backward. He walked with a pronounced limp, the result of having a wooden left leg.

“What’s going on here?” asked Laurel. “Where are the guards? Where is the Watch? Why are there so many Sisters here?”

“Guster will explain everything,” rasped Walter.

“Yes, the Speaker will tell you all you need to know.”

The two continued to lead her forward. Laurel opened her mouth to ask another question, but then shut it and shook her head. Walter and Zebediah were the lowest members of the Council of Twelve other than herself. They had no opinions of their own; whatever Marius Trufont said, they reaffirmed like obedient puppies. Marius was the Council’s second senior member, from a rich family descended from the Mudrakers. If these two were present, Marius would not be far behind.

She nodded to Mite and Giant, and then fell in step behind the two men. Her Sisters stayed to each side of her, not seeming to register anything but her and the path ahead. They seemed blind even to the others of their order. Laurel wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Tower Honor’s tall doors were opened by another pair of Sisters. Laurel entered to find the foyer and the grand hall in complete disarray. There were scattered bits of parchment everywhere, tables which used to hold finely crafted pots and vases filled with flower arrangements had been knocked over, and the carpet underfoot, which used to be thick and soft, was matted and sodden with a pinkish liquid, squishing with each step she took. Even here, the Palace Guard was absent. Fear began to clench in Laurel’s belly as she watched Walter and Zebediah proceed through the mess. She had the sudden desire to turn around, walk out of the tower, the courtyard, and then the city, never to return. Taking a deep breath, she balled her hands into fists, dug her fingernails into her palms, and forced herself to move onward.

Sure enough, Marius was waiting for them at the top of the steps leading to the double doors of the throne room. Marius was fifty and average in every way, from attractiveness to height, to style of dress. It was only his wealth and aggressive cockiness that made other members of the Council fear or respect him.

Those traits were not currently on display, for Marius was fidgety. He was chomping on his lip and whispering to Lenroy Mott, the councilman from Gronswik, who stood beside him. Neither man looked up until Zebediah cleared his throat. Laurel cocked her head; she heard a faint buzzing, as though water were trapped in her ears. She yawned, trying to release the pressure in her head, but the buzzing persisted.

“Ah, Laurel,” Marius said. Normally, he was the first one to make a lewd comment about her appearance, but not today. His eyes didn’t rake her figure, nor did he utter a word about her dress. His voice sounded as if he had recently been crying, though his cheeks were dry. “They are waiting,” he said, grabbing the handle of one of the doors.

“Wait,” Laurel said. Mite and Giant squirmed uneasily beside her, as if their wrappings had suddenly tightened uncomfortably. Perhaps they’d heard the noise as well. “Where is Guster?” she asked. “Guster is supposed to be here.”

“He’s inside, with the rest,” said Lenroy as he fiddled with his long white hair. “Waiting for us.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, yes,” insisted Marius.

“Please, Laurel, don’t be difficult,” pleaded Walter. His jowls waggled when he spoke.

“Yes,” added Zebediah. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“Wait…what’s going on here?” she asked. This time she did back away, only to be stopped by a monster of a Sister who made Giant look small by comparison. The enormous woman grabbed Laurel’s arms so tightly she thought her bones might snap. Walter pulled a dagger from beneath his shawl, handling it nervously. Laurel’s head spun as she frantically sought out her two protectors, but her girls had disappeared. Her heart thumped out of control.

The Sister began to shove her toward the steps leading to the throne room. Fat Walter paced alongside, the dagger still in hand, though she could tell by the anxious look in his eye that he did not want to use it. Marius turned and faced the doors again, his palms pressed flat against the solid wood.

“I have done nothing wrong!” Laurel screamed as she was forced up the steps. Her foot caught on the hem of her dress, tearing it down the side with an audible rip.

“Unfortunately, that is not for us to judge, Laurel,” said Lenroy.

“But I am the king’s trusted servant!”

Marius shook his head.

“The king is no more,” he said gravely. “This city serves new masters now.”

With those words, Marius pulled hard on the doors. They swung outward, creaking, and the buzz Laurel had believed to exist only in her head exploded into a din so loud the air itself vibrated. She was pushed up the last two steps, then flung headlong into the throne room. She hit the ground hard, and the buzzing grew even louder in her ears. The doors slammed shut behind her.

Laurel raised her head and almost instantly vomited. The buzzing came from the millions of flies that filled the chamber, forming living black clouds around the corpses that covered the floor. The bodies were naked yet sexless, ripped apart, parts of them black with rot, their spilled insides writhing with maggots. The stench was horrendous, all encompassing. Her head warbled, her vision wavered, and she vomited again. Suddenly, hands were lifting her up, smacking her awake. She stared into Marius’s eyes, which were filled with a haunting emptiness.

“Keep yourself together,” he whispered. “Face the end with pride.”

He released her, letting her fall into the puddle of her own vomit. Laurel froze in place, trying to be brave in the face of such atrocities. Marius’s heels clicked as he walked away from her. She took that opportunity to tear a strip from the top of her dress, pressing the cloth over her nose and mouth. That done, she looked around once more.

The throne room did not remotely resemble the place of dignity she remembered. The banners had been ripped from the walls, and in their place human remains clung to the stone. Everything was dark, and even the flickering torches offered only sparse light. She glanced at the throne, which had been ripped asunder. The grayhorn tusks that had once rimmed it were strewn around the shadowy dais. That was where Marius stood, just to the side of the steps, his head bowed and hands clasped before him as if in reverence.

A moan sounded to her left, and Laurel turned. A man was slouched on the ground only a few feet away from her, his back resting against the gore-splattered wall. He too was covered with blood, glistening in the torchlight, and when he coughed a red mist issued from his lips. She inched toward him, recognizing his slightly crooked nose, his wattled neck.

“Guster?” she asked softly.

The old man’s eyes cataract-filled eyes opened, seeming to brighten as they gazed on her. He reached out with his right hand. It looked as if he wanted to say something, but he coughed once more and grasped his chest.

Laurel scurried toward him on all fours. At first she meant to throw her arms around him, but she recoiled in horror when she saw his injuries. Long slashes covered his chest, yawning wide whenever he breathed. His left arm was gone, in its place a stump that was blackened on the end as if it had been seared.

“Oh…” Laurel said numbly. Her mind went blank.

Guster feebly lifted his one remaining hand, beckoning her to come closer. Laurel could hear the rattle of his lungs through his chest whenever he took a rasping breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she shuffled closer to the mutilated, dying man. She tried to swat the flies away, but they were too many and too persistent.

He grasped at the front of her dress, pulled her toward him. “They…learned,” he croaked. “They…know…”

His mouth kept moving after each word he spoke, as if there were other things he was intent on saying but could not verbalize. Laurel’s tears fell all the harder. She was about to ask him who learned, who knew, but the answer was plainly obvious from the carnage that surrounded her.

Guster’s eyes began to roll into the back of his head, and a long, phlegm-filled gargle bubbled in his throat. Laurel pulled him upright, her fingers slipping on the slick gore that coated his flesh. “Stay with me, please, stay with me,” she pleaded. “Guster, where is the king? Where is Eldrich?”

On speaking the king’s name, Laurel saw a hint of a smile appear on Guster’s blood-streaked face. “The king…is safe,” he said. “The guards…they gathered him up…brought him away…when they first rose up…when they first spoke…”

His voice trailed off, and another croaking moan left his lips. After that his hand loosened, falling limply to the floor. Laurel continued to shake him, repeating his name over and over. Guster’s head flopped forward and back.

“He is gone, dear,” a voice said.

Laurel released Guster’s body, letting him drop to the floor, and spun about on her knees. She watched as a man dressed in a flowing red robe emerged from the shadows behind the throne. His hands were held together, an entreaty to the gods, and his beady eyes peered out between wisps of his thinning gray hair. Marius bowed to him as he backed away from the throne, edging toward the doors.

“He was judged a sinner,” the cleric Joben Tustlewhite said, “and he was punished as such.”

He spoke more confidently than Laurel had ever known him to. Joben was the mumbling priest no longer, it seemed.

“He was no sinner,” she said, her voice sounding small and feeble to her own ears.

“The masters of Veldaren decided it was so,” the cleric replied. “They are the vessels of Karak’s law.”

They are here, she thought, her body going numb. I will be shredded like the rest.

The man stepped aside, and sure enough, in the darkness behind the throne two sets of sparkling yellow eyes stared out at her. The two lions emerged side by side from the shadows, skulking slowly toward her. They had appeared large from the top of the roof the night Quester, Mite, and Giant had saved her, but now she understood just how huge they really were. Even on all fours they were nearly as tall as Marius, who was slinking in the corner.

The male lion opened his maw wide, running his tongue over his incisors, while the female simply lowered her head, considering Laurel with eyes that radiated intelligence. The two swung their heads toward each other, exchanged a glance, and then turned back to her ever so slowly. A deep rumble sounded in the male’s throat, growing louder as he took another step toward her, then another. The female swiped at the buzzing flies with her tail, matching her mate’s strides. They were testing her, she knew, mocking her with the certainty of what would happen next. Laurel drew her knees to her chest, closed her eyes, and prayed.

She refused to open her eyes, even when she felt their hot, stinking breath moisten her flesh. A wet nose, easily the size of her fist, nudged her shoulder, yet still she refused to look. She kept repeating her prayers over and over again, her voice growing louder in defiance.

“Karak has not abandoned me, Karak has not abandoned me, he is the light in the darkness, the champion of order, I love you my Lord.”

“Unsure.”

The word was spoken clearly, though in a voice that was not human. The sound of it broke her from her prayers, and her eyes finally snapped open. The Judges were standing above her, so close that their whiskers tickled her flesh. Laurel didn’t dare move. She simply looked on as the female glanced at the male and opened her mouth.

“Sinner?” Lilah asked.

Kayne didn’t reply. Instead he gazed down at Laurel, and then his mouth opened wide, and he roared. Massive incisors the size of an infant’s arm dripped with pink saliva. Wind scented with rotting meat buffeted Laurel in the face, and she finally screamed, planting her fists onto the bloody floor and scooting backward, only stopping when she collided with Guster’s slippery corpse.

“Sinner,” the male lion said. It sounded like he was laughing.

Both lions lowered onto their haunches, looking like they were preparing to leap at her, but they straightened suddenly, their giant heads turning toward the throne room doors, their ears twitching. Laurel followed their gaze, trying to listen through her fear, but she couldn’t hear anything over the sound of buzzing flies and the thrumming of her heart. Then the doors flew open and Lenroy Mott stumbled in, accompanied by three Sisters. Walter waddled in right behind them. The lions stayed frozen in place, staring at the newcomers with their mouths agape, saliva clinging to their jowls

“Masters, they are here!” Lenroy exclaimed. “The Watch have stormed the front gate!”

At once, both lions leapt into action, bolting across the gore-splattered floor and out the door. A moment later, Laurel could hear the clang of metal and men screaming. Her jaw trembled. She wanted to get up, to sneak into the chamber behind the throne and scurry up to King Eldrich’s private quarters, but she was frozen in place.

Marius, who had been cowering in the corner throughout Laurel’s ordeal, stepped out into the open. He was shaking, though he tried to hide it. When he went to exit, Joben stepped in front of him.

“You, take care of her,” the former mumbling priest said as he shoved Marius back into the room. “Bring her to the dungeons, and then take out that useless sword of yours and join the fight.”

“Do you think that wise? Should we not be hiding? I feel the Sisters-”

Joben lifted the front of his cloak, revealing flesh scarred in an interlacing pattern by the lions’ claws.

“You will not question my words, Councilman. I have been marked by the Judges. I serve them, and by serving them, I serve Karak. You…are nothing. My acolytes are mere boys, and they are better than you. Should you find fault in my commands, you can face judgment as well.”

Marius closed his mouth and vehemently shook his head.

“Good. Now go.”

Joben left the throne room, and moments later Marius marched across the floor, grabbing Laurel by the arm. Her mind was reeling. None of what was happening made any sense in the slightest.

Her fellow Council member yanked her out of the horrific throne room and into the hallway beyond. Instead of heading toward the front entrance, where a battle raged, he hauled her down a side passage. Laurel had never been in this part of the tower before, and when Marius threw a door open, she understood why. A set of stairs led into total darkness. Her captor hauled her down them, into a torch-lit burrow whose ceiling was so low they had to squat, and then up an opposite stairwell. At the top was another door, and when Marius shoved it open, a double row of iron-barred gray cells was revealed.

The gates to the cages were open, and Marius threw her into one of them. She landed hard on the hay-covered ground, cracking her chin and biting her tongue in the process. Blood pooled in her mouth. She rolled over, saw that there was a corpse in there with her, and hastily crawled away from it. She kicked over the piss pot in her desperation, which spilled its contents, making the stink of the place all the more unbearable. As the gate to her cell swung shut, she drew her knees to her chin and rocked in place, her mind a whirl of terror and disbelief.

Marius lingered at the bars for a moment, staring at her, his plain features turned malevolent in the torchlight.

“I do pray the end for you is quick, Laurel,” he said softly. “But perhaps I will ask Joben if I can spend some time with you first. You have always been nice to look at.” Yet there was no power behind his words. When he left, he snuffed out the only torch brightening that level of the dungeon, leaving Laurel in complete blackness, and when her mind broke and she began to scream, she was very much conscious of how strange it was that such a primal sound could come from her little mouth.