Wrath of Lions Read online

  “Take a break, my friend,” his fellow Warden shouted to him. “I will oversee things for now. Get cleaned up and eat. You look pale as a ghost.”

  Ahaesarus hung his head and walked away from the work site, feeling annoyed and embarrassed. He and Judarius had long held a competitive relationship. They had been together ever since Ashhur and Celestia spirited them from their dying world. Their competence was the reason Ashhur had listened when they’d suggested forming the Lordship. Yet whereas Ahaesarus had come to be known for his terseness, loyalty, and attention to detail, Judarius had gained notoriety for being a great leader and educator. His friend was just as concise and no-nonsense in matters of faith and dignity as he was, but he showed a greater capacity for clemency and understanding. Judarius never raised his voice, and yet he seemed to get his point across with a look and a few pointed words.

  Ahaesarus felt himself growing envious of his friend. Judarius had spent humanity’s first fifty years in Mordeina, so he already had the confidence of the populace. Ahaesarus remained somewhat of an outsider. It didn’t help matters that Ben Maryll, Judarius’s adopted student after the death of kingling Martin Harrow, had been named king, while Ahaesarus’s student, Geris, was an attempted murderer and raving lunatic who now spent his days bound in darkness.

  Thoughts of Geris caused him to touch his scarred ear once more and steer himself toward the road. He was thankful once his feet hit the packed dirt, no longer sinking into the muck with every other step. It was approaching noon, and there were people everywhere. Men and women dressed for warmth strolled blithely along the road, laughing as they watched their children play. Others gathered in large groups, hands clasped, praying to Ashhur to continue their good fortune. To each side of him was a landscape of sprawling, hilly terrain covered with the tents and huts that had been erected by the citizens. The smell of meat and vegetables roasting over cookfires filled the air. It was just another day in Paradise. No one seemed concerned that an enemy force was on its way to reduce all they knew and loved to rubble and ash.

  He moved toward the looming Manse DuTaureau, a rambling one-story construction of stone, brick, and elm, elegantly painted with gold, greens, and oranges. The vast courtyard atop the hill on which it sat was teeming with as many people as were gathered below. A cart path split from the main throughway, and he pivoted onto it. The mansion disappeared from view

  On either side of the cart path were tall, shoddily constructed storehouses. They had been hastily slapped together with the trunks of fallen trees and hemp rope. The people who’d built them hadn’t even bothered to strip the trunks of bark, so a thick layer of moss climbed up the sides of each edifice. It was in these structures that the fruits of summer labor were stored in anticipation of the rough northern winters. At this time of year, they were all virtually empty, ready to be filled again once harvest season was upon them.

  Ahaesarus cared nothing for the barns or what was inside them. His goal was the covered stone hollow at the far end of the cart path. The hollow had been the access point of the settlement’s original well, but the spring that once fed it had gone dry several years before. Over the past six months it had been modified to serve a different purpose, one that filled Ahaesarus with shame.

  He grabbed the edge of the tied-together logs that served to shield the hollow’s entrance and lifted it from the hole. He descended a set of rickety stairs between walls made of stacked stone—gray, black, red, and brown. The chamber the staircase ended in was rather large, twenty feet across and just as wide, though the ceiling was short enough that Ahaesarus needed to stoop so he wouldn’t strike his head on the dirt-hewn ceiling.

  Seven dying torches filled the chamber with faint light. Ahaesarus heard soft breathing and gazed toward the far corner, where the light didn’t reach. He saw a pair of slender feet sprawled out on the dirt floor, the rest of the boy’s body hidden in darkness. The room stank, as the wooden pisspot had been knocked over, its rancid contents leaking all over the ground. A bowl of half-eaten soup had been tipped over as well.

  Grabbing one of the torches off the wall, Ahaesarus slowly approached the chamber’s lone, unmoving occupant. The light spread across the floor, revealing the face of Geris Felhorn.

  The boy who had tried to murder Ben Maryll scooted backward like a cornered beast, soft-slippered feet kicking until he was pressed tight against the uneven stone wall. The boy yanked on his restraints, which were made of the same tightly woven ropes that were being used to hoist the stones for the great wall. Geris was fourteen now, his birthday come and gone without celebration while he remained locked away in this chamber that never saw the sun. Ahaesarus knelt down before him, frowning as tiny whimpering sounds left the boy’s throat.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Geris had been a strong and capable boy, and Ahaesarus had been certain he would be the first king of Paradise. Yet sanity had fled him when the Wasting struck him; the tumor that had grown in the boy’s spine had poisoned his mind to such an extent that he’d become a danger to all around him, even after the removal of the tumor itself. Geris had nearly killed young Ben, ranting and raving nonsense about demons, witches, and imposters. That single act had sealed both of their fates: Ben became king; Geris, a prisoner.

  Not that the boy’s imprisonment was supposed to have lasted this long. He should have been freed after a few short days, once Ben had been crowned. The greatest healers in all the north arrived at Ahaesarus’s behest, laying hands on the ranting child, trying to cleanse him of whatever monster lurked within the dark recesses of his poisoned mind, but he had continued to rage day and night, shouting his delusions for all to hear. Once he had even attempted to bite off Ahaesarus’s ear, resulting in the scar the Warden habitually touched. All who examined Geris were convinced that only Ashhur could cure him of his madness, and it was decided by Isabel that he would remain locked in the chamber above the old well until the god arrived.

  Though he hadn’t told anyone, Ahaesarus was doubtful that even Ashhur could save the boy. Geris’s delusions were fierce, his belief in them absolute. Whenever he launched into one of his rants, Ahaesarus would stay until it passed, listening to every word that spat from his lips. The boy did not lie; in fact, Ahaesarus, blessed with Ashhur’s talent for detecting truth from falsehood, had never sensed more truthful proclamations in all his life than those that issued from Geris’s mouth. He could only conclude that the boy’s mind was broken, so broken that not even a god could fix him.

  His eyes welled up with tears as he reached forward, running one of his long fingers down Geris’s cheek. The boy turned away from him, filthy blond locks slapping against his wrist, leaving a layer of grime on his white flesh. Ahaesarus retracted his arm and wiped the soot on his breeches, his eyes never leaving the boy. Geris’s disdain was the final proof he required. Ahaesarus was unworthy of his title, his responsibilities, and of the second chance he’d been given at life. Finally the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I am so sorry,” he said while Geris continued to push himself against the stone wall as if he were trying to force his way through it. “Please, Geris,” he whispered, placing a hand on his leg. “Please, I just wish to be forgiven.”

  The moment his fingers touched the grimy material, Geris ceased his thrashing. The boy drew his knees to his chest, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed clear for the first time since they’d left Safeway.

  “It’s not your fault,” Geris said.

  Ahaesarus drew back, astonished, and lost his balance. He collapsed on his side, striking his elbow hard on the packed dirt. He hardly felt the pain.

  “What did you say?” he whispered.

  “I said it’s not your fault.”

  “You’re speaking without screaming. Geris, how do you feel? Do you see the creatures that haunt you?”

  “What creatures?”

  “The shadow lion, the demon, the witch, the imposter—you have ranted about all of these. Are you saying you no longer see them?”
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  “No…I don’t think so.” He looked sane but confused, the yellowish tint of the torchlight attesting to his innocence.

  “Please, tell me, boy, what do you remember?”

  “I remember everything,” he said, his eyes wide as a doe’s. “I remember slicing Ben’s throat.…I remember screaming and being placed in this well, then a pain in my head, and after that…It was horrible, sir.…I saw…”

  He said something Ahaesarus couldn’t hear.

  “What was that? What did you say?”

  “I saw myself, screaming, falling down a dark hole.”

  “What hole? What were you screaming at?”

  Tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, almost pleading. “Dreams are portentious.”

  Ahaesarus took a chance and inched forward until he was close enough for Geris to lean into him, sobbing against his chest. He held the boy’s head, his greasy hair slipping between his fingers. This was the most cogent he had ever seen Geris, and it gave him hope. Perhaps the boy could be saved after all.

  They held that position for quite some time, until Geris’s breathing slowed down and his cries ceased. At last the Warden pulled back, gazing on the youthful face with its watery eyes and quivering lips.

  “Sir?” the boy asked.

  “Yes, Geris?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I know, son. I know.”

  “Please, sir. Please let me out. You can accompany me on the journey back, and you can keep me tied up if you wish. But I want to see my family again. I want to be home.” He looked like me might start crying again.

  Ahaesarus slid backward, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “I cannot,” he said.

  “But why?”

  He thought of Isabel’s decree, of how stern she had been. He then tilted his head, showing the boy his ear.

  “You see this wound, Geris? You nearly bit my ear clean off. And I am not the only one you have attacked in your madness. We cannot let you out until we are certain you no longer pose a threat to yourself or anyone else, and only Ashhur can decide that.”

  “But sir, no! Please! I’ll do anything! I’m better, I promise!”

  “I am truly sorry, but…but…I cannot.”

  Ahaesarus slowly grabbed the torch off the ground, stood as much as he could in the cramped space, and returned the torch back to its resting spot. Geris continued his protests in between gnawing on the heavy rope binding his wrists to the wall. Ahaesarus gazed at his student, and guilt ripped through his insides once again.

  “I am sorry, I truly am,” he told the crying boy, “but our god will be here soon.”

  “I know,” said a small voice. “Thank you sir. I…I love you.”

  Ahaesarus bit back his tears and walked up the steps and out of the chamber. Once outside, he replaced the covering over the stairwell, sealing Geris in darkness once more. Less than twenty paces down the road, he leaned against the side of one of the carelessly constructed barns to catch his breath. This time he could not stop the tears from coming. He couldn’t help doubting whether he’d made the correct choice, and when he closed his eyes, he saw Geris’s innocent stare, the loving gaze of the child who cherished and respected him. Ahaesarus swore to himself that he would be strong for the boy, for Paradise, for his god. If Geris were indeed cured, he would be released, but only after Ashhur made that determination. In the meantime, he would work better, harder, and longer. The world might have gone insane, but he hadn’t, and it was past time for him to put aside his uncertainty and help set things right.

  CHAPTER

  5

  “Good-bye, my love, you will be missed,” said Rachida Gemcroft, the most beautiful woman that Matthew Brennan, the richest man in Port Lancaster, had ever laid eyes on.

  “As will you,” Moira, the exiled daughter of House Crestwell, said softly. “I will carry you in my heart always.”

  The very pregnant Rachida eased aside a stray filament of Moira’s silver hair and then leaned forward. The women’s lips met and lingered for a long moment. Their arms were wrapped around each other’s waists, locking them in a lover’s embrace. When their lips finally did part, Moira was crying. Matthew stared at them dumbly, aroused by the display.

  The night was cool as they stood atop the bobbing pier in Port Lancaster. Beside them was the dinghy set to carry Rachida and her husband to Matthew’s galley, the Free Catherine, which waited out in the harbor, her sails withdrawn, her forty oars raised. Peytr Gemcroft stood by on the dinghy, tapping his foot impatiently while the women said their good-byes.

  “Let’s go, Rachida,” said Peytr. “It’s getting cold, and I don’t wish to linger.”

  Rachida glared at her husband, her lips drawn down in a frown, and then brought her eyes back to Moira.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  Moira touched the pregnant woman’s stomach. “I will. Don’t worry about me. Our child will not grow up without his second mother.”

  “Enough,” said Peytr. “The galley awaits.”

  Rachida placed one final kiss on Moira’s forehead, paused to give Matthew a curtsey, and then Peytr helped her climb down from the pier and into the awaiting boat. Her back was to them as the high merchant rowed out into the gradually undulating water of Port Lancaster’s inlet.

  Matthew stepped to the edge of the pier, and Moira sidled in close as the dinghy became small and then smaller in the distance.

  “Will they be all right?” she asked, her voice quiet, the question asked as if no answer were truly wanted.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Matthew. “So far as I know—and I know much—the Free Catherine is the only fighting ship in all Dezrel. The deck is equipped with nine spitfires, and I assigned twenty of my most loyal men to the crew. They’re all experts with a sword as well. Should they find trouble once they make landfall on the Isles of Gold, your friends will be in good hands.”

  “It’s not trouble on land that worries me.…”

  “Pshaw,” said Matthew, throwing out his arm as if presenting the sea to her as a gift. “I own these waters. The Free Catherine is the finest ship you’ll ever lay eyes on. My father laid waste to any brigands who looted our clippers, and I’ve carried on that legacy. If there’s a sailor on this sea who’s worth his salt, it’s because I trained him. Karak has no army on these waters. Rachida and Peytr will be safe, I promise you. Only the Quellan elves possess ships that come close to ours, and the pointy-ears have no horse in this race.”

  Moira stared after the fading ship, a frown on her face.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Matthew laughed.

  “By Karak, you are pessimistic.”

  She passed him a spiteful glance.

  “Fuck Karak,” she said.

  Mist rolled in over the water, swallowing dinghy and galley alike. Moonlight turned the mist into a solid wall of glowing white.

  “Well, show’s over,” Matthew said, ignoring Moira’s blasphemous words as he steered her away from the ocean and led her down the pier to join his entourage. Six hard men escorted them through the quayside and into the heart of Port Lancaster proper.

  Port Lancaster was the third-oldest settlement in all of Neldar, founded in the fourteenth year of man by Matthew’s great-grandfather, Lancaster Brennan. It had begun as a quaint township, a mere thirty men and women Lancaster’s age who had scoffed at the authority of the Wardens and struck out on their own. Leaving Erznia, they had settled far south along the shores of the Thulon Ocean. It was said that Lancaster had only felt comfortable when he could hear the crash of waves or feel the sting of the salty breeze on his cheeks.

  Though the settlement had humble beginnings, a short eighty years later, it had become a bustling city, the most advanced in all of Neldar. Matthew; his father, Elbert; his grandfather Ansel—and, of course, Lancaster before him—had used the great wealth and resources they’d collected over the decades to create a sh
ipping empire. The ocean and rivers of Neldar were Matthew’s domain, and no consignment could be sent across the waters without using his ships. He was the highest of merchants, and the king came to beg favors of him, not the other way around.

  He glanced sidelong at Moira as they strolled along the streets of the city, the soles of their boots clicking on the slate that lined the walk. Superb buildings crafted of stone, clay, and wood rose up around them—shops, lodges, and warehouses that reflected the light of the moon and cast a pale bluish glow over her features. Though not as exquisite as Rachida, Moira was still quite beautiful in the statuesque Crestwell way, her flowing silver-white hair complementing the soft tone of her flesh. She was more than half a century old, but she looked only slightly older than Matthew, a byproduct of the First Families blood that ran in her veins. Feminine and thin, yet exuding quiet strength, she was strangely resplendent in her mannish tight black leather blouse and leggings. Her crystalline blue gaze was intoxicating. The only blemish on her otherwise perfect skin was a thin scar that ran behind her right ear and circled around the back of her head. She told him the injury had been given to her by her sister Avila, without explaining the particulars.

  Not that Matthew required the details. He knew of her exile from her family, knew she’d taken up residence in Haven prior to its destruction at the hand of Karak. It was his business to know these things, especially as it had been Matthew’s boats that had ferried Karak’s weapons from the stoves of Felwood to the Omnmount staging grounds.

  That fact had made for an uncomfortable irony when the surviving citizens of Haven came to him for help. They’d arrived by sea, on rafts and ferries owned by Peytr Gemcroft. The quest had been Peytr’s idea, the merchant being one of the few residents of Haven who had left Neldar by his own choice, seeking to mine the valuable jewels and minerals that hid beneath the delta’s marshy soil. The two merchants had grown close over the last decade, and Matthew respected much about the other man, his eccentricities and sexual appetites notwithstanding. So when Peytr had shown up at his doorstep, pleading to use the walls surrounding Port Lancaster to hide his reviled, exhausted people, Matthew had surprised himself by agreeing.