Wrath of Lions Read online

  He’d sheltered them for as long as he could, until the tides of war began to flow too close to his doorstep. Then it was time to send the survivors west to the Isles of Gold aboard his clippers Twilight and Karak’s Wind, while Peytr and Rachida had taken their closest confidants aboard the Free Catherine. The Isles was an uninhabited archipelago off the coast of Ashhur’s Paradise that he’d discovered during his teen years. Ashhur’s children had not claimed the various islands, which hopefully meant that Karak would not think to search there when he stormed through the west.

  They approached his estate, a four-story mansion that was the tallest building in Port Lancaster, with a turret that climbed high enough to overlook the wall surrounding the city. His six escorts ushered him up the front walk and into the foyer, where his maids, Ursula, Penetta, and Lori, awaited. The young women gestured for Moira to join them. One held a bottle of saffron and a wineskin; another, a small crate filled with squid dyes.

  “Your transformation begins now,” Matthew told Moira. She nodded her head to him and accompanied his maids down the corridor, heading for the opposite end of the estate.

  “What’re they doing, boss?” asked Bren, the head of his household guard. Bren was a rough and fiercely loyal man, his huge biceps and skill with a sword more than making up for what he lacked upstairs. He leaned against the foyer’s bookcase, tapping his fingers on the wood.

  “Making her look like anything but a Crestwell,” he said.

  “Why go through the trouble? Why not send her off with the queer and his wife?”

  Matthew grinned. “Collateral.”

  Bren tilted his head, confused.

  “Peytr’s well has run dry,” Matthew continued. “He could not offer me payment, so he gave me her instead. When all of this is over, and Peytr makes good on the land he promised, she’ll be sent back to them.”

  “You took her as collateral? You got a wife; you got whores. Why’s that tiny tart worth risking so much? Karak finds out you harbored them, and he’ll rub you out. He might rub the whole city out.”

  “You worry too much,” said Matthew, shaking his head and slapping Bren’s shoulder. “Karak won’t know. We transport our Divinity’s goods up and down the Rigon at the expense of our other trade. He has no reason to doubt us.” He displayed his most confident grin. “And trust me, sooner or later you will find out just how much Moira is worth.”

  “Like at the meeting tonight?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “If you say so, boss.”

  “I do.”

  Bren accepted his words, just as he always did. It was a good thing the man had no talent for reading body language, because Matthew was unable to stop the nervous clenching and unclenching of his fists. It wasn’t that he was being untruthful. He truly believed that Karak would never discover his role in helping the Haven survivors flee to safety. His heart was hammering in his chest for a different reason. What worried him was the meeting Bren had referenced, which was to take place later that evening, after the taverns had emptied and the city slept.

  He bade his men goodnight and slipped up the stairwell, stopping to peer into his bedchambers on the third story. His wife, Catherine, was fast asleep in their giant bed, a single torch filling the room with faint light. His five children slept with her, sprawled out on the feather mattress, pictures of innocence in their slumber. His eyes lingered for a long moment on Ryan, his youngest and only male child. The two-year-old was tucked into his mother’s arms, lips puckered just below Catherine’s exposed nipple. The boy was his crowning achievement, the eventual heir to his fortune. Satisfied, Matthew shut the door and proceeded to his solarium on the top floor.

  A fire was already burning when he stepped inside. Though Port Lancaster was far south and the true cold of winter never reached them, the night air held a distinct chill nonetheless. He poured himself two fingers of strong brandy and took a seat in his cushioned straight-backed chair, resting his legs on a footstool. The heat from the fire before him illuminated the giant sword that hung above the hearth. He sat quietly, sipping the bitter brew and soaking in the warmth of the fire. Matthew had been born of summer. Sun and warmth made him feel alive the same way the cold made him lethargic and uninspired. It was one reason he loathed his frequent visits to Veldaren, with its gray skies and cool clime.

  The greater reason, though, was the Conningtons, the brothers with whom he was set to meet in two hours.

  Two hours. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening to the beat of his heart in his ears. His fingers crept into his pocket, touching the note hidden within. They asked for this, he told himself. And you need it. Your people are starving, and they’ve promised you food. If the brothers meant you harm, they would have just sent someone to assassinate you.

  True, his inner contrarian stated. Yet they have tried before and failed. What if this is a new plan for them to be rid of you?

  Matthew chuckled. Well, Moira can help with that, can’t she?

  The brandy did its work, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, only to be awakened from an ill-omened dream by the creak of the solarium door. He jerked with a start and instinctually grabbed the dagger off the table beside him. The fire in the hearth had barely died down, which meant he couldn’t have been out for more than an hour. He peered across the room, past the shelves of historical tomes given to his father by the best minds in Neldar and the Quellan elves, past his display cases of stuffed oddities found at sea, until his eyes came to rest on the noblewoman standing in the light of the doorway. Her purple gown was long-sleeved and high-necked, and her bodice had been pulled tight, making her small breasts swell, bringing attention to the moonstone pendant between them. Her hair was deep brown and had been cut short, exposing the scar on the back of her neck, and her face had been painted rosy at the cheeks and light blue above her sea-glass eyes. Her thin lips were twisted into a despairing frown.

  “It’s time,” Moira said.

  “Is it? I should’ve known, considering how pretty my girls have made you.”

  “Don’t mock me. This is horrendous.”

  Matthew laughed. “You look wonderful, my dear. Much more a lady now than before.”

  She glanced down at herself in contempt. “It is not me.”

  “Get used to it, because if you are to hide in plain sight, this is who you’ll have to be.” He rose from his chair, tucked the dagger in his belt, and approached. “Is everything ready?”

  “I saw the dimwit downstairs. He was pacing and muttering.”

  “Good.”

  He took hold of her hand. She flinched at first, averting her eyes from his as she brought her free arm up to cover her cleavage.

  “Don’t worry, Moira,” he whispered. “You’re here to protect me, not be my concubine.”

  “I know, it is just…” she began.

  “You are uncomfortable. I know. Trust me, so am I.”

  They exited the solarium and descended the stairs, where they found Bren pacing in front of the estate’s front entrance. The bodyguard glanced up at them and frowned.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” Bren said. “Not like this, anyway. It’s not smart. We need more people.”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, it has to be like this. ‘Three and no more, lest our agreement be broken.’ Those were the terms. I signed off on them.”

  “Your funeral.”

  “Don’t look so distraught, Bren. If they kill me, you can sell yourself to the highest bidder. Just think, this might be your chance to see just how much you’re worth on the open market.”

  Bren muttered a reply under his breath that Matthew couldn’t hear. Moira sighed and rolled her eyes.

  As they traversed through the darkened city with but a single lantern to light their way, Matthew couldn’t help but wish that he actually felt as flippant about this meeting as he was acting. Beneath his self-assured exterior lingered the feelings of doubt he couldn’t quite extinguish. He wrapped his fingers around his dagger’s grip and hel
d it tight, wishing the curved and wickedly sharp steel would infuse him with its cold assurance. With each twist and turn they made, his fear grew. By the time they entered a pitch-black alley cutting between two warehouses in Port Lancaster’s fish-packing district, it was near suffocating.

  And then a voice called out from above.

  “Hey, Brennan, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  Before they could react, dark shapes fell from the rooftops on all sides.

  “Those bastards,” Matthew muttered. “They can’t play fair, can they?”

  Moira’s slender fingers wrapped around his, pulling him out of the alley. Five men stepped into the moonlight, clothed in tattered deerhide, each holding a dirk. They smiled as they approached, and Matthew could see mostly toothless grins emerge from beneath unkempt beards. Bren drew his longsword and waved it before him, shouting for the men to desist.

  Without so much as pausing, two of them leapt forward, swinging wildly with their dirks. Bren caught their attack head on, his steel clanking with theirs, the noise of the colliding swords deafening in the night’s dead quiet.

  The two attackers pressed onward, forcing Bren farther down the street. Beneath the frightened chatter of his own teeth, Matthew heard his bodyguard yowl in pain. The other three men continued to advance on him and Moira from the opposite side. Matthew took a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. His hand slipped out of Moira’s, and he moved to charge with his dagger.

  Moira grabbed his shirt from behind with more strength than she looked to have, yanking him back until he struck the wall, knocking the breath out of him. The dagger fell from his hand, clinking off the slate walk. Moira fell to her knees, blocking their way.

  “Please, sirs,” she said, her voice high pitched and fearful, like a child’s. “Please leave my love alone. I’ll do anything, anything, but please don’t hurt him.”

  The men halted, looking from one to the other. Finally one stepped forward, fixing Matthew with a mocking stare.

  “What, Brennan, got yerself a whore to beg for you? That what you’re into now?”

  The men fell into a fit of laughter. Matthew wanted to scream at them, but his voice was trapped in his throat.

  Moira shuffled forward on her knees while Bren continued his fight somewhere off to the side.

  “Please, sirs, I’ll do anything,” she said. She was close to the one in front, and her hands reached out, clawing for the drawstrings on his ragged breeches. The man gazed down at her, his expression uncertain. He glanced from one of his partners to the other, and an expectant look crossed his filthy mug. “Anything,” she said again, giving the string a tug.

  “Lookit this,” he said, laughing to his partners as his breeches came loose and slid down his hips. The arm holding his dirk slackened, and he lifted his gaze to Matthew. “The whore’s eager.”

  Moira yanked the man’s undershorts halfway down his thighs, then whipped aside her dress. Matthew caught a glint of steel as she shot upward, her hands moving so quick they were blurs in the moonlight. A wicked shortsword appeared from beneath the folds of fabric and lace, and she drove the blade into the man’s groin. The screech that left his mouth was so loud that it could have shattered glass. Moira bounced to her feet and kicked him, yanking the sword from his nethers with a wet plop. Blood streamed into the air as he fell.

  The remaining two gawked at their fallen companion, their jaws slack with disbelief. Moira turned on one, slicing upward with her blade. The man reacted too late, failing to parry with his dirk. The tip caught him under the chin, and he stumbled as he tried with his free hand to staunch the blood pouring from his throat. The other attacker leapt at Moira from behind as she bore down on her injured foe. Matthew tried to shout for her to look out, but his voice was faint. His heart raced out of control as he snatched the dagger from the ground and rushed forward, hoping to reach the unseen assailant before he buried his dirk in Moira’s back.

  His efforts proved needless. Moira plunged her sword in the chest of the fallen man, lifted her dress with both hands, and spun away in a blur of whirling cloth. Her would-be attacker passed through the space where she’d been standing only a moment before, tripping over his own feet and falling face first to the street, his dirk scattering across the stone cobbles. A crunch followed as his remaining teeth struck stone, and the man wailed in pain. Moira stopped twirling and looked down at the man before turning to Matthew with cold eyes.

  “Finish him,” she said, and then she was off again, pulling another sword from beneath her flowing dress and sprinting down the road, where Bren continued his clash with the two remaining attackers.

  Matthew slowly approached the prone man, who moaned and flailed as he searched for his weapon. Matthew kicked the dirk, and it clattered away. He planted a boot in the man’s side and rolled him onto his back. The face that stared up at him had been destroyed, the teeth nothing but bloody stumps beneath a nose that lay flat against the man’s left cheek. Matthew straddled him and sat down hard on his chest, pinning his arms down with his knees. He heard a cry in the distance, followed by another, and he knew neither belonged to his companions.

  He finally found his voice.

  “Who sent you?” he asked. “Was it Romeo? Cleo?”

  The man issued a pained laugh. “Fuck…off,” he said.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Matthew said, leaning in close enough to smell the man’s rank, liquor-infused breath. “Tell me now, and your death will be quick.”

  The man leered up at him.

  “It will, huh?” he asked.

  The man’s leg shot up, catching Matthew in the ass. He pitched forward, freeing his opponent’s right hand. The man reached for his side and the knife sheathed there. Panicking, Matthew stabbed without thought or hesitation. His dagger plunged into the assassin’s throat, all the way up to the hilt. The man’s body began to shake as he stared up at Matthew with bulging eyes. Blood spurted from the gaping second mouth created by the dagger, and then he fell still.

  Moira and Bren were by his side in moments. Moira’s dress was splashed with blood, but she looked otherwise unhurt, but Bren’s left arm was bleeding. Matthew watched silently as Moira tore her other sword from the chest of the man she’d killed and searched all of the attackers’ pockets, finding nothing but a small sack filled with silver coins embossed with the fish and hook of Matthew’s own house. She handed the sack to him. Matthew sat there for a long while, surveying the five corpses spread out before him, and bounced the clinking pouch in his palm.

  The bastards had been paid with his own coin.

  “Who were they, boss?” asked Bren, panting.

  Rather than answering, Matthew hurled the pouch as hard as he could. It opened, spilling the silvers down the street.

  “Waste of good coin,” Bren muttered.

  “Shut up,” Moira whispered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Bren. “Boss, what’s the next move?”

  Lurching to his feet, Matthew flattened out his blood-streaked clothes, took a deep breath, and then began marching down the road. Bren and Moira fell in behind him. He walked with purpose now that they were so close to their destination. He kept the bloody dagger firmly in hand as he went, constantly on the lookout for more who might wish to do them harm.

  He took the path preordained by the letter in his pocket, moving through the fish-packing district, until he reached Rat Harbor, the poorest area of Port Lancaster. Whereas the streets were empty in the more civilized part of town, a few roustabouts still lingered in the streets of the Harbor. Drunk women staggered down alleys—haggard prostitutes who were useless now that nearly all the men had left the city. Matthew grinned viciously. All who saw their small, bloody crew gave them a wide berth. The only ones who didn’t were the young ladies who were already sprawled out on the ground, unconscious.

  His destination came into view, an abandoned theater at the far end of Rat Harbor. Hard men, strangers to his city, guarded the entrance. They stood and drew their
weapons when Matthew, Bren, and Moira approached, but then let them pass without a word of protest.

  Matthew didn’t knock, instead shoving the door open with all his might. The heavy oak panel swung inward, crashing against the wall. Matthew hurried through, his protectors on his heels, walking into a wide room packed with tables and chairs. A sill filled with alcohol rested against the far wall, and casks of mead and wine were everywhere. The clamor of conversation ceased, as those inside, armed men just like those who guarded the door, turned their attention to the newcomers. They rose from their seats, every hand reaching for a weapon.

  “Sit down, everyone,” a familiar singsong voice called out. “Don’t be rude. These are our guests.”

  The men grumbled to one another and then retook their seats. Matthew stepped between them, head swiveling, seeking out the ones who’d requested his presence.

  “Connington!” he shouted, fingers gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Get the fuck out here and face me.”

  “There’s no need for rudeness, Matthew,” that singsong voice said once more.

  Moira grabbed his elbow, and Matthew turned toward the sound of the voice. From behind the curtain hanging along the rear wall of the tavern emerged two plump, bald men, the powder on their skin rendering them pale beyond death. Cleo and Romeo Connington wore draping frocks of crimson and gold, and their chubby fingers were adorned with expensive rings, each set with a differently colored gem. They were outlandish and horrific at the same time, and their high-pitched and melodic voices only heightened the impression. Matthew breathed deeply through his nose, trying to keep his wits against the assault of too much lilac perfume.