David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Avila spent the rest of the day within the confines of the Lord Commander’s pavilion, drawing alongside her tiny companion. She told the child stories, played games with her, and instructed her as best she could on the proper way to live in an ordered society. The latter concepts were obviously beyond a seven-year-old’s comprehension, but she admired how intently Willa listened, how her face scrunched up in the most adorable of ways when she was concentrating. For the first time, Avila answered the girl without hesitation when asked for the hundredth time what had caused her facial scars.

She felt happy, truly happy, and the memory of the slain mother and child started to lose its grip on her.

That night they took their dinner inside, and when Avila blew out the candles, Willa asked her to lie down beside her. Avila allowed the child to curl up in her arms, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath her cotton nightclothes. Soon the girl was snoring, and Avila uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Karak before nodding off herself. Her sleep was black and dreamless.

Come morning, when the horns blew and the sounds of her division dismantling the camp invaded the thin canvas walls of her pavilion, Avila stretched her arms high above her head. Her back cracked and she felt a twinge of pain in her side. She was sore, unusual given the pure blood of the First Family that flowed in her veins. She glanced at the still sleeping Willa, rosebud lips puckered, tiny chest rising and falling with each breath she took. I slept in an uncomfortable position is all, she thought, and went about packing up her things as well, allowing the child to doze until she awoke on her own.

“As you can see, milady,” said Quester the Crimson Sword, “every amenity you could desire is right here. Bath houses, eateries, delicatessens, theaters, two wonderful brothels, a vineyard, a huge commons, arenas, and taverns. Here in Riverrun, we spare no expense. The founders have seen to that.”

Laurel rode on her horse beside him, with the two Sisters of the Cloth-Mite and Giant were Quester’s pet names for them-riding behind. She looked wherever the stunning young man pointed, hanging on his every word. He was right. Riverrun was indeed the most picturesque town she had ever visited. Veldaren was a cold, gray tomb by comparison.

All along the main thoroughfare leading away from the Gods’ Road, there were cottages and chalets, finely crafted homes of interlocking logs atop sturdy stone foundations. In many ways it resembled the other merchant towns she had visited-Drake, Gronswik, and Thettletown, the latter of which they had passed through on their way here-but the feel was much different. The road was well maintained, the many gardens popped with color. Merry people streamed in and out of the seamstress shop, the apothecary, the taverns. The outdoor market they rode past teemed with women both young and old, and they did not seem battered down or sullied. Their men wore boiled leather and ringed armor, and each had his weapon of choice hanging from his belt. At first Laurel had feared they were bandits-the vast majority of the men she’d seen of late were just that-but they were clean and seemed to be in good spirits.

“The men,” she asked, after passing a group of four chatting together before the entrance of a tavern. “Why are they so many? Have Karak’s soldiers not come here to conscript like they have elsewhere?”

“They have, but merchants hold a particular…sway within the kingdom.” Quester grinned while playfully flicking his forked beard. “My masters in particular have good standing with both god and king. Most of our common men were sent away with our deity’s army. Yet Riverrun has kept the fires stoked at Mount Hailen and in Felwood, supplying Karak with all the steel he could desire. For that, we were allowed to keep our hired hands.” His grin grew wider. “It just so happens that most of our hired hands also hold swords.”

“Is that not…well, unfair?” asked Laurel.

The Crimson Sword shrugged.

“Fairness is a matter of perspective, milady. Is it fair to my masters that gold, silver, and bronze have lost much of their value because there are few left to earn it, never mind spend it? Is it fair that the trade they built their livelihoods on now teeters on collapse? It is not, but they know this war will not last forever, and when it does end, when trade returns to its full strength and gold retains its meaning, those who hold the reins will once more be the most powerful men in the land. If we were denied our protection, roving bands of brigands could easily conquer our town. No one, not the temple, not the king, not even Karak himself, wants to see that happen. Once the engine of commerce resumes, the transition back to normalcy needs to be as painless as possible.” He swung his hand out wide. “And besides, that means my home gets to keep its inherent loveliness, which is never such a bad thing.”

Laurel had no choice but to agree with him. There was something rather comforting about offering a nod of greeting to a passerby and receiving one in kind. In many ways, it seemed as though Riverrun existed in a bubble all its own, untouched by the strife and lawlessness brought about by Karak’s war.

The throughway passed by a great stone amphitheater, a tall structure whose walls were made from a strange, smooth substance, and then a massive commons. There, several boys and girls were at play, tossing small rounded sacks and chasing each other with sticks. Mothers sat on blankets on the edge of the field, eating apples, pears, grapes, and other assorted fruits plucked from wicker baskets, while they watched their children play. More sellswords stood behind them, grinning while they watched the fun, but Laurel could tell their attention was elsewhere. Their eyes skittered nervously at the sound of the horses’ hooves when Quester and Laurel approached with the Sisters of the Cloth in tow, their fingers dancing lightly on the hilts of their swords. It was a reminder, however subtle, of the dangers that lurked all around them.

Before long they reached the Queln River. The road veered sharply, following along the swiftly flowing waters. There were even more children playing in a sandy fjord, splashing and kicking and screeching in joy. Farther along, when the river widened, Laurel saw a fleet of rafts and barges tethered to a great dockhouse that jutted out over the water. There were men working the docked crafts, unloading baskets of fish onto the plank for others to dump into a giant crate and sort through. There were a great many Sisters of the Cloth present, a sight that made Laurel cringe. The wrapped women were like phantoms, lurking around, acknowledged by none. She glanced over her shoulder at Mite and Giant, and suppressed a shudder when she took in the blank look in their eyes.

The farther south they rode along the river, the more prevalent the Sisters became. Soon, they were all she could see, standing in front of gatehouses, guarding the entrance to a steaming smithy on the river’s edge, escorting horses pulling wagons filled with hay, fish, meat, or billowing cotton. Quester noticed her guarded stares, steered his horse over, and took her hand. His grip was firm, his skin soft as silk, yet hardened by calluses at the fingertips. Combined with the man’s inherent beauty, his touch lit something inside her that it was difficult to quell.

“Some of my masters’ most inspired purchases,” he said. “They’ve bought three hundred Sisters over the years. Quiet, hardworking, completely loyal, and many are quite capable in the art of defense, like my pets.” He gestured at Mite and Giant.

“Three hundred?” said Laurel, aghast. “How can there be so many?”

“Oh, three hundred is a low number, milady. There are more than two thousand sisters spread throughout Neldar. When courts are controlled by theological law, these things tend to happen.”