David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Perhaps they were held up.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they won’t come at all.”

He returned his eyes to the sea as Moira fell in beside him. Her lantern added a needed touch of brightness to the black, making him feel less alone. He could hear her breathing: short, pointed bursts of air that left her lips as if she were preparing to give birth. Having been around Moira for some time now, he knew it meant she was preparing for the worst, readying herself to snatch the two swords hidden beneath her overcoat and leap into action.

“Are you not frightened to be out here alone?” she asked.

“Not alone,” he said, jabbing his thumb behind him at the great wooden structure that loomed over the rocky shore a few hundred yards back. “Twenty crossbowmen are on top of the warehouse, and Bren has another twenty swordsmen with the merchandise.” His hand swooped from beneath his cloak, clutching a glossy black tube of sulfur and a metal striker. “Should something go wrong, all I need do is light the warning flare. We’ll be fine.”

“What if they arrive with a hundred men bent on doing you harm?”

He shrugged. “Then we run and pray we’re faster. No use dwelling on it, though. I put my trust in the Connington brothers. I must believe they will not betray me.”

“Faith ill placed, I think,” she said with a chuckle.

“Shush, you. I’m trying to ignore that detail.”

Moira laughed. It felt good to hear it.

“Poke fun all you want,” he said with a smirk. “Truth is, if anything should go wrong, who do you think will face death sooner, you or I?”

She laughed again. “You, of course. I’m not in one of those horrid dresses this night. Any hope you have of outrunning me is long gone.”

Matthew chuckled, but the sound was hollow. He stared off into the ocean, letting his mind wander.

“Why so quiet?” asked Moira. Her velvety fingers brushed his cheek.

He glanced her way and blushed, his insides rumbling. Spending so much time with Moira had caused his feelings toward her to shift. She was no longer simply collateral; she was a beautiful woman who proved her loyalty and aptitude each day she spent at his side. If he thought, for even a moment, that she felt the same way…

“Just thinking,” he said. “It’s been months, and we still have no further information on who made that attack against us. There’s no record of those men entering the city, and no one was willing to admit to knowing them. It’s as if they were ghosts paid by shadows, neither one leaving a damn clue.”

Moira took a step back and joined him in staring out across the water.

“Is there someone who wishes you ill?”

He laughed.

“Many someones: Tod Garland, the Mudrakers, the Blackbards, the Conningtons even. They all hate me equally, though I’d cross Romeo and Cleo from the list because of our deal. Still, those sneaky bastards are far too loathsome and clever for me to make even that assumption.”

Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets and once more watched the undulating waves as they lapped the rocks.

“Tell me,” Moira said, breaking the silence. “Why the distrust between you and the Conningtons? I would think that the services you both render would make you…allies. Working together would make more sense than squabbling. It would be more profitable.”

“There is no profit to be made now,” he said. “There is no trade, no industry to speak of. Not until the war ends.” He thought of two gods locked in combat, two equal halves that might never gain an advantage over each other. “If it ever does.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m speaking of before. This discord isn’t new. You told me so yourself.”

“True,” he said with a sigh. “I guess we’re all ambitious men, and ambitious men don’t tend to be willing to share. It doesn’t help that I believe them responsible for the rumors claiming I was using Karak’s long absence to usurp power from the king.”

“Were you?” Moira asked.

“Ambition is not treachery,” Matthew said. “I do still love my god in my own way-don’t give me that look, Moira, I know how you feel-and the throne has been nothing but good to my family since the crowning of the Vaelor line. These rumors were spread to discredit me and lessen my family’s hold on the realm’s markets. The Conningtons were supposedly grooming a man to take over Port Lancaster in the event of my death, and building boats in an attempt to wrest away my loyal customers. They might have succeeded, had I not a supporter in Veldaren to put these rumors to rest three years ago.”

“Minister Mori?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling a pang of sadness. “Gods rest her soul. Soleh did not deserve the fate she received. The minister loved her god more than any other. I will never believe her a blasphemer.”

“There are many of Karak’s judgments that aren’t to be believed,” Moira said. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. “He is more wed to his need for order than his love for his own.”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I can see that. But do you understand my dilemma? This is the god that created us. Coming to the conclusion that he does not hold our best interests in mind has been…difficult.”

She grunted, shaking her head. “Be that as it may, the minister is gone now. And you have made a new pact with the Conningtons, one that directly opposes the Divinity. Do you not see the contradiction?”

“Oh, I do,” said Matthew. “But these sorts of things are complicated. You heard what the brothers said in the theater. This very well may be a long war, longer than the entire world could realistically handle. We must look out for ourselves.”

“By giving weapons to Ashhur’s children?” asked Moira, gazing toward the storehouse on the pier off to her left. She grinned. “I applaud the sentiment, obviously, given my dislike for Karak. But still…inner conflict is never good for the soul. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“I need to believe I am,” Matthew whispered.

“Even if the loss of those weapons leaves you open for the Conningtons to attack you?”

“Even so. This is not a decision I came to lightly. We are human, after all, and as I said, the only ones we can rely on…are ourselves. I needed to feed my people. I have not put my trust in the brothers lightly.”

Silence fell between them after that. Matthew paced across the slippery rocks. It was all he could do to keep from tearing out his hair. He knew Moira was right, knew that all of this-his pact with the Conningtons and the aid he’d given the survivors from Haven-was threatening to undo everything his family had worked so hard to build. I have no choice, he told himself. Neldar was on the verge of starvation and violence. If the gifts he had to offer could help protect the future of his family, he had to at least try.

Moira pointed into the distance, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“It’s here,” she said.

A ship appeared in the bay, blacker than black atop the waves as it passed between the walls and cliffs of Port Lancaster. It came forward slowly, sails unfurled, quiet as the grave. Matthew shuddered, thinking of the ghost ships from his father’s stories, shadow vessels that never reached shore, their decomposing crews hanging from the decks, the bones of their fingers clanking against ethereal hulls. Deep down he knew they existed only in stories, but it was impossible for his waking mind to dismiss the image.

As the ship neared, he saw that it was only made of wood and not some unearthly protoplasm. It was a handsome longboat, narrow and low to the water, built for speed and secrecy. There were two masts and six portals for oars on either side, though no oars slapped the undulating water. He saw no crew, though a single lantern burned in the aft shanty, the shadows behind it hinting at a human silhouette. A white flag fluttered on the bow.