David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Oris Mori stood at the edge of a pond deep within the forest behind Mori Manor and watched the water ripple as he threw small stones into it.

“I miss him still,” said Alexander from beside him.

Oris turned to gaze at the boy, a near perfect mix of his parents. He had Yenge’s thin nose and kinky-curly black hair and Vulfram’s broad shoulders, rigid jaw, and soulful hazel eyes. Alexander’s hands were also like his father’s, thick fingers meant for gripping a sword’s handle. Oris stared down at his own hand as he bounced a stone in his palm. The flesh was scarred and rippled, forever misshapen by the fire that had charred his body, leaving him in constant pain. Once those hands had been perfect. Once they had been just as strong as Vulfram’s had been, which was quite strong indeed.

He let out a sigh.

“I know,” he told his nephew. “I miss him as well.”

“Will they send his body soon?” Alexander asked. “It has been six months. Mother promised they would send his body. All of their bodies.”

“In time, son. I’m sure they will send them in time.”

It was a lie, of course. Months ago he had learned of his family’s horrible fate in Veldaren, the capital city to the northwest. His brother Vulfram, accused of murder, had been killed by the Final Judges; and then his other siblings, Ulric and Adeline, and his parents, Soleh and Ibis, had been executed for treason and blasphemy. As proof, the courier had presented Oris with a swathed package along with his letter. Inside was Vulfram’s sturdy hand, severed at the wrist and blackened with rot. Still affixed to the pale index finger was a ring adorned with the image of the leaping doe, the sigil of House Mori. Oh, how Yenge had wailed. She’d held the severed hand to her chest, her tanned cheeks streaked with tears, pleading with the courier, “This isn’t true-tell me this isn’t true!”

But it was.

That had happened in autumn, before the worst winter in recent memory had flung its chill across northern Neldar. Oris should have gone to the capital then, he knew, to try and convince the king, Highest Crestwell, or even the Divinity himself to let him bring the corpses of his loved ones home for burial. Instead he had stayed in Erznia, doing his best to comfort his sister-in-law, no small feat considering she’d already lost her daughter Lyana to the Sisters of the Cloth. His lips drooped into a frown, his scarred flesh crumpling almost audibly. Winter had come and gone, and by now it was too late to hope for a burial. The sight of rot and bone would only make their losses worse.

“Why didn’t Karak come to see us?” asked Caleigh.

Oris glanced at Vulfram’s youngest child, who was squatting beside the pond. The bottom ridge of her heavy woolen smock was smeared with mud. She was only twelve, yet she’d experienced as much pain and loss as Oris had in his sixty-six years of life.

“He will come,” replied Oris.

“Does he still love us?” the child asked.

“Don’t ask that,” snapped Alexander. “You’ll end up like Lyana.”

Oris silenced his nephew with a look. “Of course he still loves us,” he told Caleigh. “We are Karak’s children. He will always love us.”

Her eyes gazed up at him, full of grief and skepticism.

“But Father was Karak’s child too. And Grandmeem and Papa and Uncle Ulric…”

“Yes, Caleigh, but what happened was…complicated.”

“How?”

“Stop asking questions!” her brother shouted, suddenly losing his temper.

Oris whirled, his misshapen hand grabbing the boy by the lapel of his surcoat. He pulled him in close, and though Alexander was nineteen and strong as an ox, he was helpless in Oris’s clutches.

“Mind your tongue,” he growled into his nephew’s ear, “or I will mind it for you.”

Alexander sniffled, then dropped his head in submission.

Releasing the boy, Oris stepped toward Caleigh and lifted her from the muddy ground, wrapping her up in his arms. She pressed her face into his shoulder but didn’t shudder, didn’t cry. She simply allowed him to hold her, like one of the dolls his wife, Ebbe, had made for his daughters when they were born. He wished he could remind the child how much wonder there was in the world, how their lives were gifts from Karak. The Moris were one of Karak’s First Families. Their god would never bring undue hurt to them, he knew that.

At least, he had once known that. So much had changed over the last few months: the treasons for which his beloveds had been executed, the ever-growing army, the destructive attack on Haven, and the bloody clash between the brother gods. All of it had powered the tongues of merchants, bandits, and smallfolk alike. Keeping his surviving family calm and united had proved a near impossible task. The events had cast a pall of sadness over what had once been a sparkling outpost of Neldar.

“I wish Julian was still here,” whispered Caleigh.

Oris nodded. Julian had been Ulric’s youngest, a merry lad with an odd preference for dolls over swords and shields. He had been close to the girls-Oris’s as well as Vulfram’s-but Ulric’s widow had taken her three boys in a fit of grief, leaving Erznia during a raging winter storm. Oris feared the worst for them. Yet another loving soul gone, yet another beloved family member taken away, making a place that had once seemed safe feel anything but.

“We will see them again,” he said, keeping his voice low. He heard Alexander grunt behind him-the youth’s failed attempt at hiding his sobs-and Caleigh leaned back in Oris’s arms.

“In Afram?” she asked, her young eyes sparkling with hope.

Oris chuckled. “Hopefully sooner than that, sweet pie,” he replied. “But yes, if we never again see them in this life, we will most certainly greet them in Afram.”

If we can find our way through, he thought, but did not say.

Seeming to accept that, she once more rested her head on his shoulder.

A thick layer of clouds passed over the sun, and Oris released his niece, stretching to his full height. A strange feeling came over him, like an invisible phantasm whispering into his ear, and he shuddered. He turned to look at Alexander, and he could tell his nephew felt it too. The young man stared around wildly, his fingers playing across the hilt of the shortsword hanging from his belt. A wolf bayed, and the sound was far nearer than should have been possible. A fifteen-foot wall of pine and steel encircled Erznia. The only way a wolf could get inside was if someone let it in.

Then the beast howled again, and Oris realized it was no wolf.

Another sound emerged beneath the howling, a muted bang and clank that reminded him of the time he’d taken a tour of the Mount Hailen Armory in the far north.

Swords.

A queer sort of panic surged through him. Grabbing Caleigh’s hand, Oris ran toward the Manor through the cover of the trees. Alexander fell in step behind him. Oris’s lungs, scarred after inhaling copious amounts of smoke while foolishly rescuing three whores from a burning brothel in Veldaren, no longer worked as well as they should. After a few paces he was breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears, his heart about ready to give up on him. The sound of clattering steel grew louder in his ears.

But his heart did not give up, and he was very much alive when they neared the end of the wood and the rear courtyard of Mori Manor. It was empty, nothing but a flattened, pale green lawn populated by a few scattered goats. At the end of the courtyard rose the manor itself, a boxy construction of elm, pine, and oak that stretched a hundred feet in either direction. Despite its size, it was a simple construction, all earthy browns and deep burgundy, its great slanted roof spackled with tar and clay, seeming to mist beneath the overcast sky. Alexander began to push toward the manor, shoving aside vegetation, but Oris stilled him, pressing his palm against the young man’s chest. Alexander’s eyes were wide with the same terror Oris felt-a terror that grew as strange voices emerged from the other side of the manor.