David Dalglish: Wrath of Lions

Still, Oris did not advance. Releasing Caleigh, he whirled around and grabbed Alexander by the shoulders. The young man’s eyes were rimmed with tears, and his body was quaking uncontrollably.

“Listen to me!” Oris shouted at him. “Leave now! Take your sister and go. Climb the wall and head east, across the river. Few live there, and there is a chance you might make it to the coast unharmed. Ask for favors-beg if you must-but stay alive. Do you understand?”

Alexander stared dumbly ahead.

“Do you understand?” he screamed, shaking the young man by the shoulders.

Slowly Alexander’s eyes came to focus on his, and he nodded his understanding. Oris pulled his nephew into a tight embrace, then removed the shortsword from Alexander’s belt.

“You won’t be needing this,” he said, handing over his own dagger in its stead. “It will only slow you down. The smaller the blade, the better. Now go.”

Alexander took the dagger in one hand, snatched Caleigh’s wrist with the other, and sprinted away. Oris watched them go, ignoring the clang of steel from the area beyond the wood as he waited until the two youngsters had distanced themselves before revealing himself.

He counted to twenty, grief and wrath causing him to bounce on his heels as he gripped the shortsword with both scarred hands. Then he turned sharply and barreled through the overgrowth. Twigs snapped and brittle branches slapped his disfigured face as he leapt out of cover and into the open.

It was a massacre. The soldiers had turned on the populace, murdering everyone in sight. Swords and pikes thrust again and again, the blood they spilled creating a pinkish fog. Oris saw Bracken Renson, a man he had known since childhood, have his head split down the middle by an ax. Carlotta Littleton, the woman who had been nursemaid to his children, was gutted by a spear, her body viciously kicked off the shaft once she ceased moving. A sparse few fought back, only to be overwhelmed by the soldiers who had superior training and weapons.

Bellowing like a wild beast, Oris forced his sore legs to carry him forward. Something sharp pierced his side, but he ignored the pain and kept running, his sword held high, his sights fixed on one man and one man only: Clovis Crestwell. The man’s gaze shifted to him, and those blazing red eyes widened with what looked to be excitement.

Clovis leapt off his horse, his naked body bulging with muscle, his evil grin growing larger and larger. His mouth seemed to open wider than was humanly possible. It looked hungry enough to swallow the whole world. But Oris didn’t care. A wider opening to plunge my sword through was all he thought as he lunged forward, the tip of his blade aiming for Clovis’s gaping maw. It was then that he saw the man’s teeth extending, growing outward, becoming sharp daggers.

He thrust with all his might, the shortsword plunging into the gaping maw with both hands. Clovis’s inhuman red eyes widened as the blade exited the back of his skull. His expression shifted, and his dagger-filled mouth snapped shut on Oris’s arms, tearing through flesh, tendon, and bone. Oris teetered backward, his arms severed just below the elbow, the stumps spurting blood. Clovis ripped the sword from his mouth as if it were naught but a splinter, then rushed forward, ramming its cutting edge into Oris’s gut and twisting until his insides spilled all over the ground. Oris lost feeling in his lower half and collapsed, the rest of him awash with white-hot pain. He knew the end was near, but he forced himself to roll over nonetheless, staring back toward the forest, hoping beyond hope that Alexander and Caleigh had escaped. These thoughts persisted even as claws ripped into his back, even as teeth tore into his neck, even as his own blood washed over his eyes, even as the screams of those dying all around him faded away, leaving him with nothing but the agony he felt in his every nerve as he was slowly devoured.

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.