David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Laurel placed her hand on his back. It was the only comfort she could offer.

They exited the Gods’ Road a few minutes later, as the sky began its rapid descent into blackness. The southern path into the Veldaren was risky, as it was a narrow trail through a thick forest that closed in on either side, but it was the quicker way. Moren steered the horses expertly through the murk; nary a limb so much as scratched the side of the wagon as it rolled along. The carriage emerged from the line of trees a few minutes later, the wheels thudding as they passed from dirt path to cobbled road. The Watchtower, the headquarters of the City Watch, appeared to the right, looming over the road. For the first time she could remember, no bonfire burned in its spire.

It was a moonless night, which cast a sinister gloom over every building, stone and wood alike. A strange feeling came over Laurel, like she was missing something, and she stood on the carriage, cocking her head and listening for signs of life. She heard none. Not even the rats seemed to be squeaking. Only the clopping of the horse’s hooves reached her ears. The smell, as usual, was horrendous-a combination of festering fecal matter, decomposing flesh, and raw fish-but she felt somewhat comforted by it. The stench would only grow stronger as they made their way north, toward the cluster of homes on the offshoot path leading to Brennan Gardens. Brennan. He was to be her next stop, way down in Port Lancaster. She would have gone there directly after leaving Brent if Blackbard had not confiscated the last of the gold King Vaelor had given her and refused to return it, forcing her to ride back north.

The thought drew her attention from the road ahead, but when she heard Moren utter a quiet curse, she dropped back down into her seat.

“What is it?” she asked.

The old man’s eyes, barely visible, flicked back and forth.

“Shadows,” he whispered. “Never a good thing when traveling.”

She glanced about once more, and understood right then why she’d felt so strange earlier. All it took were a few short glances at the various street corners as they passed. There were no Watchmen to be seen…none at all. And all she felt was eyes watching her from the darkened windows of the shops and depots and the black alleys between them.

“Shadows,” she muttered in reply to her driver. She did not trust them either.

Little Mo emerged from the back of the wagon, as if he’d sensed the adults’ apprehension, and wedged himself between Laurel and Moren. The old man’s left hand released the reins, and he draped an arm over his son. His wrinkled fingers brushed against Laurel’s cheek on their way past, making her shiver. It was like being touched by a ghost. A cackle sounded from somewhere deep in one of the alleys, turning that shiver into a quake.

“Don’t panic,” Moren said. “Don’t look around. And Miss Lawrence, don’t go standin’ on the carriage again, neither. Perhaps if we keep ours to ours, we won’t be bothered none.”

Laurel didn’t think that was likely, but she did as the old man asked. The horses were moving at a decent clip-steady, not hurried-and they would reach the portcullis to the Castle of the Lion in minutes. Once that happened, she would bang on the gate and demand entry.

The outlines of the three great towers appeared in the star-spackled sky. The castle was only a few hundred yards away. Laurel took a deep breath and held it. Almost there, almost there. Again that strange cackling sounded, this time on the other side of the road. She flinched but kept her lips sealed.

That was when a dancing pinprick of flame appeared before them, bouncing along the side of a building ahead of them. It danced out into the center of the South Road, and was soon joined by another, and then another, until there were six flickering torches standing abreast in the street.

Moren pulled back on the reins, halting his exhausted horses. Little Mo whimpered, sliding his slender frame behind the bench and ducking beneath it. Laurel sat frozen, staring as the flames illuminated the six men before her. They were hardened types, all dressed in frayed burlap rags with thick beards, broad shoulders, and powerful arms. A shortsword dangled from each man’s belt, the steel glinting in the firelight.

“Would appreciate yer steppin’ aside so we may pass,” said Moren after clearing his throat. Amazingly, the old man’s voice didn’t quaver.

“What, no help for hungry brothers?” one of the men said. His tone was gruff and tinged with the sort of sick humor Laurel had often heard in back rooms at court. “All we ask for is something to quench our thirst.”

“No drinks on me but water,” Moren said. “Best run along and see if a tavern somewhere’s still open.”

“Who says we’re lookin’ for ale, old man?” said another of the men. He stepped forward and drew his sword from his belt, pointing it at them. The whisper of the drawn steel cut into Laurel. “We could be convinced to let you go,” the man continued, “if you let us look at what you got in back…or maybe what you got up front.” The ruffian winked, his eyes twinkling.

Laurel’s bladder felt ready to release.

“Got nothin’ out back,” said Moren, remaining calm. “Nor anythin’ up front here but my daughter and son.”

“Those’ll do,” another replied.

“You’ll get none,” Moren said. “In the name of Karak, I say you clear the road and let us pass.”

“Karak’s isn’t here no more, old man. Looks like he left you to us.”

Moren grunted and spoke sharply. “If I was you, I’d step aside lest I run you all down.”

The men began laughing, nudging each other with their elbows. Without another word Moren threw one arm over Laurel’s shoulder and cracked the reins hard with his opposite hand. Startled, the horses reared up and charged. Laurel was jerked back in her seat and would have fallen into the rear of the wagon without the safety of Moren’s arm. The wind buffeted her face as the cart wrenched onward, slowly picking up speed. The men blocking the road shouted and scattered.

They did not stay gone, however. Laurel heard grunts and creaking boards beneath the louder sounds of stomping hooves and rolling wheels. The wagon seemed to buckle momentarily as extra weight was added to the back. She scooted forward on the bench, ducking away from the curtain just as a hand shot through the slit. Grimy fingers danced in the air above her, grasping and finding nothing until they fell on Moren’s ragged tunic. The fist closed, and the old man’s eyes bulged as he was violently yanked into the rear. He still held tight to the reins in his right hand, and his momentum jerked the bits in the horses’ mouths, causing them to rear up once more. The wagon kept careening forward, crashing into the horses’ hindquarters. Laurel fell toward the edge, barely holding onto the corner of the cart while a small shadow sailed over her head. Mo. The cart’s rigging snapped, the old wood unable to stand the sudden pressure. The two horses squealed and galloped off, still connected to each other, the bridle dragging on the ground behind them.

Laurel heard shouts behind her, both of sadistic glee and sudden pain. In a panic she threw her legs over the front of the carriage. Her soft shoes hit the gravelly road and she fell, scraping her elbow. She barely felt the pain. Kicking as hard as she could, she pushed her legs to carry her far, far away, yet it was still not fast enough. She felt something slip between her feet, and then a fist struck her back, and she was rolling along the ground. When she came to a stop, her body was scraped and bloodied.

“Not so fast,” a sinister voice said.

Then there were hands on her, strong hands lifting her off the ground. The flickering light of torches reemerged. She was half carried, half dragged to the side of the street and then thrown against the side of a building. Her head slammed against the stone wall, making her vision swim and a spike of pain shoot all the way down her spine. She collapsed, her arms and legs limp, and could do no more than stare up at the approaching men, wide-eyed and terrified. The one in front tucked his torch beneath his left arm while his hands untied the laces of his breeches. Behind him approached the other five, one with his sword out and dripping blood, another dragging the unconscious body of little Mo.