David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Laurel’s heart began to race. “Are you saying you would rather Ashhur rule this land than Karak?”

“Not at all!” Cleo said with a hearty laugh. “Do you not see, Laurel? Both are entirely flawed. They are mirror images of each other, their people slaves to their different concepts of righteousness. One may treat his creations better than the other, but the final outcome of either philosophy is the enslavement of an entire race of beings.”

“But they are gods, and that is to be expected of gods,” Romeo said. “They exist forever. How could they possibly understand creatures that live a finite existence, that think and feel and desire and eventually die? Our souls might be immortal-at least, that is what they tell us-but our bodies will one day expire. What does a god know of that? We are destined to be instruments in their cosmic game and nothing more. I believe that fully.”

“But what of Celestia? She doesn’t control the lives of her elves. They are free to do as they choose.”

“So it seems,” said Romeo. “But the goddess also punished her people for not obeying her request- request , not order-by destroying their home of two thousand years, exiling them from the wasteland that became the Tinderlands. Celestia may not walk among the elves, but I assure you, they are just as much a slave to her whims as we humans are to our deities.”

Cleo took another sip of wine. “Nothing good can come from a land where gods walk the earth. I would argue that no good can come from a world where gods exist at all.”

“You can tell our lovely king that for us,” said Romeo.

Everyone grew quiet, Laurel uncertain of what to do next. Though their sermon had been difficult to hear, she could not deny there was truth in it. Ever since Soleh’s death, she’d been questioning Karak’s love for his people. The hangings, the stricter laws, not to mention the horror of the Final Judges. The cruelty and hunger of those lions, coupled with the dead eyes of the Sisters of the Cloth, bore witness to the extremes Karak was willing to go to in his quest for order. Everything within her rejected it, even though the very notion of rejecting Karak filled her with fear. What would she be left with? A belief in nothing? Or would she perforce turn to Ashhur, a god about whom she knew nothing?

The bald brothers looked down at their cups, twiddling their fingers, until Laurel finally broke the silence.

“Do you wish to hear the rest of the king’s decree?” she asked.

“No. We reject Eldrich’s request,” he said simply.

“Wait…what?” she replied. “I haven’t even spoken the terms…”

“We will not prepare for the worst to happen. The worst has already happened. What we must do now is defend ourselves. We must take the reins of this life we have been given, rather than sit and wait for this war to play itself out. No Laurel, we must make our own path.”

“How?”

“Can we trust her?” asked Cleo, turning to his brother.

“Of course we can,” Romeo answered. “She is Cornwall’s daughter, and Cornwall is the most noble and trustworthy of us all.”

“Is this true, Laurel? Are you as trustworthy as your father? Will you swear that the words we tell you will not leave this room?”

“Yes,” she said, puffing out her chest. “Now please answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“How will we make our own path?”

Cleo chuckled. “By making sure both gods lose.”

She shook her head. “You make it sound so simple. We are human, and they are gods. They each have nations sworn in allegiance. What could we possibly do to influence them when they could so easily destroy us?

“They are few, and we are many,” answered Romeo. “We are fluid, and they are stagnant. Our lives are irrelevant, while theirs have swayed nations. Think on it, Laurel. The termite works in the dark, building its nest in the wood, breeding there, expanding its family. We do not notice them in our homes because they are small and hidden. Yet those same termites can cave in a roof and tumble down walls. Just a termite, something you or I could crush underneath our heel, can wreak unimaginable destruction.”

Cleo grinned, nodding vociferously.

“You’ve already begun planning,” said Laurel, amazed. Her heart began to beat out of control.

“We have,” said Romeo, “and that plan is underway. We have made our own pacts with the other merchant lords. Even Matthew Brennan has agreed to our terms. We have formed alliances even in Paradise, and our spies have infiltrated Karak’s Army, working to weaken it from within like the lowly termites we are. The pieces are moving, the betrayals are coming, and soon important people will die…and it will all lead to our freedom from those annoying brother gods.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” asked Laurel.

“Because when the people see how little their gods care, when we show them we can control our own destiny, they will turn their backs on Karak and Ashhur. Once that happens, whichever deity survives this war will have two choices: end it all, or set us free.” He laughed heartily. “Either way, we will no longer be in chains.”

Cleo perked up. “So listen closely, Councilwoman. We have a new message for you to bring back to King Eldrich. He might not like hearing it, but he is a puppet of Karak as well, and should understand what we say more than any other man in this realm. When our plan comes to fruition, we will be the ones in power, the ones who hold the materials of life at our fingertips, the ones who can sway the people. Remind him that if men can turn their backs on something so powerful as a god, what hope is there for a king?”

Laurel leaned back in her chair. “I would say no hope at all,” she said. “Do you think this plan of yours will succeed?”

“Of course,” said Romeo with a grin.

“Why?”

“Because we have the support of the most powerful men in all of Neldar behind us, including your father.”

“ I speak for my father.”

Cleo laughed. “And you are still here, listening to our gravest secrets without running away. I would say that is a telling sign in and of itself.”

Even with uncertainty swelling inside her, Laurel nodded. “It is.”

“Are you with us?”

“I am.”

“Then this is what I would like you to tell our dear king…”

Boris Marchant entered Velixar’s pavilion, dragging behind him a man older than sin. The man’s hair was long and white, brittle as straw in the middle of a drought. His face was creased and wrinkled, his gait stooped and painful to watch. Velixar looked up from what he was doing and gestured for the soldier to deposit the man in the chair opposite his writing desk.

“What are your plans for him?” Boris asked, a queer sort of curiosity shining behind his deep brown eyes as they flicked toward the journal that lay open on the table. He rubbed at the teardrop scar on his cheek, as if impatient. Velixar took that to mean the young soldier was eager to learn. In fact, with his curly hair, thick build, and flawless skin, Boris reminded him of Roland. A wave of both revulsion and longing washed over him. He forced himself to veer toward the latter. Roland had been a good apprentice. Perhaps Boris could take his place.

“Do you have duties to tend to?” he asked the soldier.

Boris shook his head. “Too many men fell ill, so camp has been set for the afternoon. The practitioner thinks it may be heatstroke and scurvy. Captain said we are only a hundred miles from the Wooden Bridge, and since the rejoining is not for another week or two, we’ll remain here to tend to our sick. ‘Let no one be left behind needlessly,’ he said.”