David Dalglish: Wrath of Lions

“Not explicitly,” said Laurel.

“Exactly. Yet I fear that, should I march to his temple and pose these questions to him, you would wake up tomorrow with your old king hanging from a chain alongside the bodies of the First Families while a new king sat on the throne. Would you like that, girl?”

Laurel averted her eyes from the king’s angry gaze. She felt like a minnow circled by sharks.

It was Dirk’s turn to comfort her.

“Don’t feel ashamed, Laurel,” he said. “I love Karak as much as anyone. You know this. And I understand how shocking it can be to realize that life is not as simple as it once seemed. Even I can see the flaw in what is happening to our realm. The purpose of this meeting is not to decry our creator, but to come up with a plan.”

“A plan for what?” she muttered.

Karl Dogon spoke for the first time that evening.

“For what will happen if Karak loses this war.”

Everyone seemed shocked to hear his voice-all but the king, who looked relaxed as he reclined in his chair.

“Exactly,” said King Eldrich. “The men who have trained all their lives to become blacksmiths, farmers, apothecaries, healers, horsemen, potters, craftsmen, stonemasons, shoemakers, and bakers have been taken from us. The women of the realm have been forced to take their place, and though you and I might argue about the merits of the fairer sex, you cannot argue with the fact that they have spent their lives as mothers, knitters, and nursemaids. Most have not been trained in the art of firing a kiln or fashioning iron, yet these skills are necessary for the success of our society. Our city is overrun by thieves and vagrants that our meager Watch is helpless to stop. Production of goods has come to a standstill, and those who are not in the military are slowly starving. After such a brutal winter, food is in short supply, and it would take all of Neldar working together to replenish our dwindling resources. But the men who march in our fields now wield swords instead of plowshares. Pleas for food come from every corner of our land…pleas I have no choice but to ignore since we have none to give.”

Laurel thought of the battalions of armored soldiers she’d watched march down the streets of the city one month before. There had been hundreds of them, all Veldaren natives, their armor, swords, axes, and maces clattering as they worked their way through the crowds of women who cheered and shouted prayers for their safe return. They had appeared well fed, and the combined skills of Neldar had been showcased in every finely made piece of armor and sharpened blade.

“This war strains us greatly, but it will not last long,” she said. “My mother told me of the people of Paradise. They are lazy and ignorant, and they expect their god Ashhur to grant them their desires so they may live in childish servitude. Weak and defenseless, what will they do when our soldiers march against them? When Karak leads our brothers into Paradise, the people there will have no choice but to bow before him.”

Or else their bodies will be hung from a wall like Minister Mori’s, she thought.

“I dream of such an easy war,” said King Vaelor. “Ashhur has had six months to prepare. Do you think he has spent that time idly? Do you think he will allow his creations to be slaughtered without a fight? Yes, I have heard stories about Haven and the great fire from the sky that destroyed the blasphemers.…But I have also heard of how the very ground shook when the brother gods battled, of how in his rage Ashhur cut down our soldiers with his sword as if they were stalks of wheat. No, I fear Karak will cross the river to find that a once frightened sheep has become a braying wolf. Six months is not time enough to train an entire populace in the art of war-an art that we have not yet mastered, mind you-but they will fight for the lives they’ve been given. And none of this takes into account the crisis of numbers we’re facing.”

“What do you mean?”

The king motioned toward Guster. The old man straightened in his chair and looked Laurel’s way.

“Our society is strong, Laurel, and hearty, but compared to Paradise we are woefully outnumbered. Our years of incessant breeding have granted us a population of more than eighty thousand. However, of that eighty thousand, the force our god has gathered amounts to barely a quarter of that number. The rest of our society is comprised of women, children, and the elderly. Here in the east at least one in three children do not reach adulthood, but in Paradise there is no sickness; no mothers die on the birthing bed and no children perish. Health is in such abundance that we hear tales that a hundred from the first generation still endure, albeit old as sin. And believe me when I say that those in Paradise have bred just as feverishly as we have. Their people outnumber ours three to one, and that is a conservative estimate.”

Laurel leaned back in her chair, stunned. She had never thought of that; the sheer numbers were staggering. It made her head spin.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, head bowed. She felt lost and afraid, her entire reality crashing down before her. It only made matters worse that she did not know what was expected of her.

“Do you understand now why we must prepare for the worst?” asked the king.

“I do,” she said, her voice weak. “But why me? Why am I trustworthy when others are not? What do I have to offer?”

At those words, Dirk sat back in his seat and cupped his hands just below his chest. A charge of anger rushed through Laurel, making her dig her fingernails into her palms below the table, but she held her tongue.

“As crass as Councilman Coldmine might be, he has the truth of it,” said Guster. His tone warbled, his wattle flopped. “But that is only part of it. The whole truth is that besides being a young and attractive woman, you are also highborn and quite clever. You are relatively new to the Council, whereas the rest of us have been advising King Eldrich since the crown was passed to him.”

“Which means,” said the king, “that you are relatively unknown outside these walls.”

Laurel glanced at each of her companions in turn, taking in Vaelor’s creased brow, Dirk’s knowing smirk, and the concerned droop of Guster’s jowls. Karl Dogon appeared disgusted by the proceedings, though it was hard to tell-that look of contempt never seemed to leave his face.

“I don’t understand,” she finally said.

The king began to tap restlessly on the tabletop. “In order to ensure our survival should the worst occur,” he said, his tone that of a teacher berating an inattentive student, “we need the high merchants on our side. The Garlands, the Mudrakers, the Conningtons, the Blackbards, the Brennans-even the Gemcrofts, if Peytr still lives. Before the gods’ clash in Haven, all but Peytr were dutiful citizens, paying far beyond their levies and supplying whatever goods we requested. Since the rumblings of war, however, they’ve become invisible. The house leaders have retreated to their estates and are either too fearful-or too smart-to emerge. We need their coin and resources if we are to protect ourselves from the possibility of an extended conflict.”

“Why don’t you make them give it to you?” Laurel asked, cringing as the question left her mouth.

The king frowned, his arms extending outward. “We have a powerful enemy west of the rivers. We do not need to make more here in our own land. No, what I need is a messenger, an individual who will not attract the wrong type of attention, someone these men will listen to and trust. And who is a powerful man more likely to trust than a beautiful young woman?”

“I can think of many examples, actually,” said Dirk with a laugh.