David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

The man closest to her finished loosening his pants, and they fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them clumsily, now wearing only his smallclothes. A grin spread across his lips as he lifted the torch. His smile grew wider the closer he drew. “Nice,” he said.

Laurel glanced down and saw that her bodice had come undone in the turmoil of the bucking cart. Her arms wrapped around her torso, hiding her breasts, while she brought her knees to her chest. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even move. As her attacker began to yank down his smallclothes, Laurel prayed to Karak for strength.

And strength she found, though not from her deity. She thought of Minister Mori, her lack of fear, her stubborn resilience.

I am a Lawrence, Laurel thought. I am my father’s daughter, and I am no victim.

When the man reached her, manhood dangling, he squatted down before her and fumbled for her breasts. Laurel remained still, waiting for him to get close, and then grabbed the bottom of the torch he held with his opposite hand and shoved it upward. The flaming top buried itself flush in his face, catching his greasy beard afire. Her attacker screamed and dropped the torch as he tumbled to his knees, batting at his flaming beard, embers swirling all around him. Laurel hesitated for the briefest moment, and then she was off, stumbling through the darkness.

Her dress was cumbersome, and despite vain attempts to rip it as she ran, she could not move fast enough. The angry shouts closed in on her, her chasers more like a pack of rabid dogs than actual men. Fists slammed into her shoulders, her spine, and the back of her head, knocking her to the ground and blasting the wind out of her. Multiple forms closed in from above, hands slapping and groping, tugging at her bodice and dress, trying to force her knees apart. Laurel shrieked, refusing to give in. She lashed out at them, thrashing with her arms and legs. Her knee found purchase, then her fingernails. One man grunted, another yelped, and then a hand lifted her by the hair, slamming her head down. Fog enveloped her world, and for a moment she thought she might black out. In that daze, she heard the roar of a lion.

The men ceased their attack and slowly turned. A low, rumbling sound, like a distant herd of cattle racing across the grazing fields in Omnmount, flowed over them all, accompanied by the gentle crunch of loose stones being crushed underfoot. Then came a deep voice, snarling and full of fury.

“Sinners.”

“What the flying fuck?” one of the men asked.

Laurel felt their fear, could smell it in the air like a fragrant spice. She kicked her feet backward until she sat upright. When her dizziness faded, the stars leaving her vision, she saw that the six men were standing in a half circle, their torches thrust out before them as they waved their swords, searching for the speaker.

“Sinners,” came that growl again, only this one was different, higher in pitch. The men turned again, and Laurel saw panic and doubt in their eyes that matched her own.

Spying Little Mo on the ground a few feet away, seemingly unconscious, Laurel risked moving. She crept along, keeping a constant eye on her attackers. Gathering Mo into her lap, she stroked his head. The boy’s eyes were closed and blood dripped down his forehead, but he was still breathing.

The low rumble returned, and now Laurel recognized it for what it was-the throaty purr of a large feline. When she’d helped her father tend the farmland around Beaver Lake, the mountain cats had crept down occasionally to steal away with livestock-pigs, goats, even a few of the weaker cattle-and it had been up to Laurel to chase them off with her bow. Although this sound was instantly identifiable, something was very much different about it. In order for one of the mountain cats to make a noise that loud, it would have to be huge .

Massive shadows leaped from out of the darkness, yellow fur flashing, and Laurel’s eyes went wide as blood began to explode around her. Torches flailed about as her attackers screamed, and she heard steel hit the ground, rattling against the stone. Within the chaos of torn flesh and claws, she saw yellow gleams, like fireflies. And then the smell of blood and rotting meat breathed over her, hot and sticky. She realized that at some point she’d closed her eyes, unable to watch.

Then came the roar.

It washed over her, so close, so powerful. She felt her bladder let go, and she clutched little Mo tightly against her breast as she let out a cry. All around her she felt the presence of death and fury, and whatever fate she would have suffered at the hands of those men seemed so meager, so worldly, compared to what she was witnessing. More than anything, she wanted to get away. She tried to stand, to lift Little Mo to his feet, but one second her hands were wedged in his armpits, and the next he was gone. Before she could open her eyes, something grabbed hold of her, lifting her off her feet. She struggled against whatever it was, but it was too agile, too strong. Laurel found herself flying up, up, up, while she floundered, and then there were no hands on her at all. She flew through the air for what seemed like forever, until she crashed down on a hard surface. Her shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and the pain was so intense, she feared it might be broken.

Down below, the last of the men screamed.

“Girl,” said a kind voice from above. “Girl, would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

“What?” she asked, not truly understanding the question in her daze. She began to shake.

“Come now,” said the voice. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Hands pressed at her back, helping her sit. The nozzle of a wineskin was pressed to her lips, and she drank greedily from the sweetness within as it dribbled into her mouth.

“There, that’s better,” the kind voice said. “Drink deep.”

The skin pulled away, and Laurel shook her head, trying to regain her senses. She glanced around and saw that she was on a rooftop. Three figures stood over her, mere shadows in the sparse light. The screaming down below had ended, now replaced with a revolting crunching sound. In the darkness she saw little Mo lying at her feet, and she was thankful that he appeared unharmed.

“Who are you?” she asked them. Despite her efforts, she could not keep the tremble from her voice.

The middle shadow snapped its fingers, and to either side of her, clay buckets of pitch burst into flame, filling the rooftop with light. Two of the figures were Sisters of the Cloth, one quite short and the other tall, both wrapped from head to toe in the bindings of the order. Only their eyes were visible. Two bundles of rope were coiled on the ground at their feet. A man stood between them-a youngish sort, handsome with a head of slicked-back blond hair with dyed red streaks; piercing blue eyes; a clean-shaven upper lip; and a yellow beard tapered into a pair of horns that fell down to the base of his neck. He wore a red doublet studded with ivory buttons and rimmed with gold trim. The hilt of the shortsword hanging from his hip was adorned with rubies.

The oddly beautiful man crossed his legs and bowed to her. When he did, the bells dangling from the cuffs of his doublet chimed.

“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, at your service. Though you never did answer my question: Would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

This Quester had a smile that was just as strangely beautiful as the rest of him.

Laurel nodded. “I am.” She took a moment to adjust her bodice and tie it, then stood. Her piss-soaked dress reminded her of her shame, and she felt her neck grow hot as she blushed. So far none of them seemed to have noticed, and if they had, they’d kept their mouths shut. Offering the man a quick bow, she said, “I wish to thank you for helping me, though I must ask: How did you know who I am?”