David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Consider your demand met,” Matthew said with a disgusted wave. “If you want women, you can have them.”

Shocked cries rang out from the crowd.

“Good. And since laying your hands on a representative of Karak cannot go without punishment, we will require a hundred more, your house servants among them.”

Matthew winced and peered over his shoulder, where Catherine was nodding. “Very well. You want them, you have them.”

The clamor of the immense gathering of women ratcheted up. Now there were shouts and weeping from the throng. Noyle turned around in a circle, addressing them.

“You heard the words of Master Brennan!” he shouted. “If any wish to volunteer their services, step forward now. Should our required count not be met, we will begin choosing those of our liking from among the rest.”

The volume of the protest climbed, but none stepped forward. Matthew crept back to Catherine’s side and clutched her hand once more. She was smiling. On the other side of him, Bren began breathing quickly, almost expectantly.

“Why are you smiling?” Matthew asked his wife.

Catherine jutted her chin out, urging Matthew to look. When he did, he saw the crowd part and a lithe, dark-haired woman wearing a simple smock emerged. His jaw dropped open.

“We have our first volunteer!” announced Noyle. He left the protection of the two soldiers as Moira Elren kneeled before him, hands on her knees. “Do you welcome this chance to serve our beloved god as we defeat the enemies of our lord?”

“I am but a servant,” she said, smiling up at him. The man paused, his expression confused.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “Your face-it is familiar.”

“It should be,” she said. “I’m the woman who killed you.”

In a single, swooping motion, Moira reached beneath her smock, pulled out a curved dagger, and jammed the blade beneath Noyle’s ribcage. The young acolyte’s face grew white with shock and pain, his eyes bulging from their sockets as she gave the weapon a vicious twist. The other two acolytes stared, mouths agape, as she lowered their leader to the ground.

“I am no one’s whore!” she screamed at the throng of women. “And neither are any of you!”

The two soldiers who had been standing with Noyle leapt forward, swords leading. Matthew cried out a warning, but it was unnecessary. Moira yanked her dagger from Noyle’s chest and cartwheeled to the side, dodging their attack. When she landed back on her feet, she hurled the dagger. It flew through the air, flinging Noyle’s blood as it spun, until it plunged into the neck of the first soldier. The man fell to his knees, clutching at the hilt as blood poured from between his fingers.

“Now!” Moira shouted as she leaped back into the crowd.

The two hundred soldiers who had arrived with the acolytes were just beginning to draw their weapons as a volley of arrows rained down on them. Matthew glanced up, saw women with bows standing on the rooftops of the shanty buildings lining Rat Harbor’s main street. The soldiers, caught unaware, were pelted with the bolts of sharp steel. A few fell to arrows in the neck or face; still others doubled over as arrows found purchase in the gaps in their mail and plate.

Matthew’s sellswords were on the startled soldiers a moment later, swords drawn. Then the crowd of women surged forward, armed with kitchen utensils-knives, iron pots, wooden spoons sharpened to shanks. Their sheer numbers swallowed the soldiers, who disappeared beneath a sea of long hair and ratty clothing. Matthew couldn’t believe his eyes.

A strong hand gripped his arm, yanking him backward. He looked Bren in the eye, and there was a strange aura of melancholy about him.

“Alright, boss, show’s over,” he said, shoving Matthew into the open door of the theater. “You too, Miss Brennan. It ain’t safe out here for you.”

The chaos and raucous noise of the conflict died away somewhat after Bren slammed the theater door shut behind them. Matthew, his wife, and her two maids stood in the middle of the open space, looking at the tables where Connington’s men had once sat, staring at the now empty shelf of liquor. The clang of steel and the shrieks of dying men and women pierced the building’s walls.

“I could use a drink,” he heard Catherine say. “Lori, Penetta, please go to the cellar and find some wine. I’m sure there’s a reserve here somewhere.”

Two pairs of feet shuffled away, and Matthew slowly brought his eyes to his wife. Catherine seemed to be relishing the moment. Her dress, a stately violet number edged with yellow gems, wasn’t rumpled in the slightest.

“This…this was your doing,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.”

“You knew what would happen.”

She nodded. “A message came from Riverrun two weeks ago. The Conningtons were given similar demands, and they handed over half their guard and a large number of their Sisters, just as the Garlands and Mudrakers had already done.” She shrugged. “I had Moira prepare as many women as she could. Had you not been busy murdering those poor people who delivered the Gemcroft woman’s child, you would have known.”

“But you…you hid the message from me !” he exclaimed. “You should have told me, Catherine. This is my business! Do you know what you just did? We will be considered blasphemers, enemies of the kingdom! When Karak returns, he will have all our heads! And should any more soldiers arrive at our gates…”

“Matthew, my dear, I thought you took measures so that Karak would not return. And besides, there are no more soldiers in Neldar. These were the last. The rest are all…occupied elsewhere.” Her grin turned into a sly smile.

“How can you be so smug? How can you be so sure ?”

“I’ve learned from the best,” she answered.

The door swung open then, admitting the deafening clamor of the battle. Bren entered, lugging a groaning soldier behind him. The man’s arm had been severed just below the elbow, the jagged stump spurting blood.

“What are you doing ?” Matthew shouted. “Get that man out of here, or at least put him out of his misery.”

“Can’t,” said Bren.

“Why in the name of the gods not?”

“Because this is the murderer,” said Catherine.

“Murderer of who?”

Bren answered without words, driving the soldier’s sword into Matthew’s gut. Pain exploded throughout his body, followed by a strange weakening sensation as blood began to flow out of the mortal wound. Bren released the sword’s handle and Matthew fell backward, landing on his rump. The tip of the sword, which had exited his lower back, clanked on the slatted wooden floor.

He gawked at the handle, at all the blood, and then back up at Bren.

“Why?” he was able to croak out. His throat felt as if something were lodged into it.

Bren cast his eyes aside and turned away from him. By the rise and fall of his shoulders, it looked like he was crying. That was when Catherine approached, kneeling down before him and placing a velvety hand on his cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch, almost burning. The expression on her face was an odd mixture of resolve and sorrow.

“My poor Matthew,” Catherine whispered. “Does it hurt?”

He groaned.

“The pain will end soon, darling. Worry not.”

His head grew faint, and he felt his body begin to tip over. Catherine guided him to the floor, resting his head atop the hard wood. He coughed, and a spray of red left his mouth, forming tiny dots on Catherine’s elegant dress. His chest hitched, and he began to sob despite the pain.

His voice was nothing more than a sigh when he asked, “Why?” once more.

Catherine shook her head. “I do love you, you know. I always have, ever since I was a girl. But love fades, love changes , and when that happens, the only thing you can do is change along with it.”