David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Can’t change what’s been done,” Bren said. “But I’ll do what I can to make sure no loose lips are in this house. So what happens now, boss?”

Matthew sighed. “In two days, Rachida and her child will get on a ship and head to the islands.”

Bren pointed his chin at Gertrude and her helpers. “What about them?”

“Oh, them,” Matthew said, shaking his head. He leaned in and whispered into Bren’s ear. “Should word get back to Veldaren that we were harboring fugitives from Haven, particularly with that emissary on her way…”

Bren leaned back and looked him in the eyes. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

He nodded. “Gertrude will accompany Rachida to the isles. As for the other two…well, Peytr was adamant that only one of them could join his wife. Something about having enough mouths to feed. And we can’t afford to have potential loose lips with secrets to tell. Just make it quick, would you? Painless.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Matthew looked over at Gertrude, who was dictating to Shimmea on the other side of the room. The young girl jotted the words down on a piece of parchment, a smile on her face.

“And make sure no one finds the bodies,” he said.

“I’m not an idiot, boss.” Bren looked at the two supine women, who were doting on the now sleeping child. “I hope this is all worth it.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair. Peytr Gemcroft had offered him half the gold on the isles to ensure his heir was born, quietly, safely, and without anyone knowing. His desire to keep Moira in the dark had stemmed from a fear that the lovers would flee after the baby’s birth. Now that Moira knew, Matthew hoped they would not decide on such a foolish course of action. Because if Moira did decide she and Rachida were leaving the mansion, Matthew doubted all his house guards combined could prevent it from happening.

“Who knows if it will be in the end?” Matthew said, feeling far too tired to worry about it. “And don’t you have work to do?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Matthew stood up, bowed to all present, and left the room, with Bren right behind him. His heart hung heavy in his chest. The last words he heard before the door closed behind him were Rachida’s, answering a question posed by Raxler.

“His name is Patrick,” the gorgeous woman said, “after his father. His true father.”

Ceredon watched at his father’s side as Clovis Crestwell paced the courtyard of Palace Thyne. The odd human’s hands were clenched behind his back, and his red-tinged eyes tightened as he stared at each corpse he passed. He ran a hand over his smooth, bald head, fingers undulating as they passed over the lumps on his cranium. The man looked angry beyond words, and with good reason.

Six of the corpses were his soldiers, and the other two were members of the Ekreissar. Each victim’s throat had been slit, a parting gift from the rebels who were making life difficult for the seizing force. Crestwell turned his attention to the gathered Dezren. There were fifty of them, the strongest males the elven city had to offer. Members of the human army and the Ekreissar had forced them to their knees, and there they remained, their noses inches from the ground. A throng of women and children looked on, kept in place by the remainder of Clovis’s soldiers.

Ceredon suppressed a shudder. The city had been rife with conflict since the humans’ arrival, the Dezren rebels intensifying their efforts, striking from the shadows seemingly every night. Though they were rarely more than an annoyance to Clovis and Aeson, the latter of whom had taken the reins of the Ekreissar in Aerland Shen’s absence, the previous evening they had landed a crucial blow by killing the eight who were now on display in the grass. One of the humans had been Clovis’s second in command, and the two Ekreissar were among the oldest and most talented archers in the order. Argo Stillen, the captain of the Archer’s Guild, was one of them. Ceredon knew such actions could not go unpunished, and he wished he had been more adamant in his attempts to convince Tantric, the rebel leader, to forego the ambush.

“I once thought all elves were the same, and that our arrival would signal a time of peace between our people,” Clovis told those who were crouched on their knees. His voice had become loud and strong- united -much different from when he’d first arrived in Dezerea. The man continued: “However, I seem to have been mistaken. All elves are not the same. While the Quellan have accepted us with open arms, as brothers, you have done…this.” He gestured to the corpses. “Six of my men and two of the Neyvar’s. This is to say nothing of the other deaths, including the murder of one of the Quellan Triad. Why has it come to this? Because we’ve dared to ask for your hospitality in a time of strife?” The human turned and continued to pace. “This rebellion can go on no longer. This secrecy, these craven assassinations under the cover of night…are these the acts of a proud and dignified race? I think not. I understand that you have all been questioned about the location of the insurgents and that you have all pled ignorance.” His mouth twisted in a sadistic smile. “I do not believe you. Some among you do know where these rebels are hiding, and I will reap that information from you even if I have to flay the very flesh from your bones.”

Neyvar Ruven gasped and stepped forward.

“The rebels act of their own accord,” the Neyvar insisted. “We have imprisoned those who would speak out or act against you. You’ve seen our crowded dungeons, Clovis. The rest that remain are simple folk, not warriors. They know nothing.”

“That is quite ignorant of you,” said Clovis, scowling. “But you’re an elf, and such delusions are only natural. Your kind has an overly idealistic view of your own race. We humans hold no such illusions. We are barely beyond animals, and we know it. We understand that we will lie, cheat, and steal, if not out of desperation, then out of joy. We know we are rats, and we cling to our god because of it. Your race might live longer, but a five-hundred-year-old rat is still just a rat.”

The Neyvar went to protest again, but Iolas grabbed his elbow and pulled him back in line. Ruven shrugged off his cousin’s grip, a look of disdain on his face.

Ceredon hated it, but he knew his father had no choice but to endure. Karak’s Army was rumored to be but a few short miles from Dezerea’s borders. Although the humans in the elven city could easily be dispatched, an entire legion of them was marching with their god-nearly twenty thousand, if the rumors were correct. Should they betray the God of Order before Ceredon eliminated them, bringing the Neyvar back into a position of power, the Quellan could very well become footnotes in the history of Dezrel.

Clovis turned to the kneelers. “Eight have died, so eight will be questioned,” he said. “These men were our strongest, so we will take the strongest of you as well.” His soldiers stalked behind the kneeling Dezren and jerked the eight most strapping to their feet, leading them to the center of the assembly, twenty feet in front of the dais on which Ceredon stood with the Quellan ruling class.

The eight Dezren puffed out their chests, held their arms straight by their sides, and jutted their chins to the sky. They were images of pure defiance, even as the soldiers stripped them of their shirts with knives, spitting on them and hurling insults as they did so. When all were naked from the waist up, Clovis held out his hand, and his squire handed him his sword. The human drew the thick blade from its scabbard and held it above his head. His muscles bulged and rippled beneath his black leather tunic, and Ceredon couldn’t help but wonder how the man had become so hefty and muscular so quickly. He’d appeared slender just two days ago, scrawny about the neck and waist. Now his flesh seemed to have taken on a different sheen-instead of being waxen and translucent, it looked pink and healthy, and the odd bulging spots that had covered him had all but disappeared beneath his heft. It was a shocking change, and Ceredon wondered how it could have come about given that the man had spent the majority of his time in Dezrea in the now restricted dungeons below Palace Thyne. Clovis seemed to gain and lose weight by the hour. Something was certainly amiss.…