Wrath of Lions (68 page)

“I am sorry to have disappointed you,” Velixar said, dropping to one knee. Again, he’d been shown that he was lesser than he thought himself to be, yet instead of letting it frustrate him, he let it remind him why he had sworn his life to Karak. Better to think on that than to relent to thoughts of Brienna.

The god dismissed his apology with a wave. “Enough. Stand up.”

With that, Karak stepped up to the two corpses and placed his hands on them. Both burst into layers of raging black flames. Their dead flesh charred and melted off their bones, and then their bones caught fire as well, succumbing to the flames’ hunger until the slabs contained nothing but two human-shaped outlines in ash. Velixar drew back from the scene, remembering a similar one that had taken place many months before, when the lifeless form of that beautiful elf had been handed the same fate by Ashhur.

Velixar cringed, his heart sinking once more.

“Do not be dismayed,” the god told him, misreading his expression. “Fret not about Darakken, Prophet. If what I plan comes to pass, we will have no more need for the creature. But I need
you
, Velixar, the swallower of demons. No matter what your failings, you are still my greatest disciple. I handed you the medallion and named you High Prophet for a reason.”

Velixar bowed, taken aback by the uncommon espousal, but the taint of his failure was still like a festering boil on his soul. No matter what his god told him, no matter how strongly the pendant pulsed on his chest, he could not let it go. He wanted to discuss these matters with someone other than his deity, wanted to talk with someone like Roland, a receptive ear with a desire to learn, only one who would not turn away from him.

That man exists,
he reminded himself.
I will seek him out tomorrow, and perhaps I will ride with him all the way to Mordeina.

“Now go get your rest, High Prophet,” Karak said. “Tomorrow we march, and victory will not be very far behind.”

Come high noon the following day, after fifteen thousand men packed up their belongings, donned their armor and weapons, and joined their formations, the new Lord Commander gave the order to advance. Line by line they marched over the bridge, armor clattering, horses plodding, banners floating limply in the stifling summer air.

Velixar remained at the side, watching man after man clomp onto the Wooden Bridge. Nearly six hours had passed by the time the wagons that took up the rear, including the one that had housed Lanike Crestwell, bounded onto the bridge’s sturdy slats. Velixar sat tall on his charger, fingers tapping Lionsbane’s hilt, his lips tightening into a thin white line of concern, before he finally shook his horse’s reins and guided the beast to follow the rest.

He had spent the morning searching for Boris Marchant, questioning the young soldier’s superiors and even those who served in his platoon. None of them knew Boris’s whereabouts, so Velixar had resigned himself to carefully examining every soldier who crossed the bridge. Still, he had never once seen Boris’s face. He concluded that the young man must have fallen prey to one of the wolf-men’s claws. He shook his head, feeling foolish for his sorrow. There were other capable students here, young men who would serve him just as well. When all was said and done, he would find another.

C
HAPTER

36

T
he dark became a living thing, pressing in on Laurel, wrapping her in its ethereal arms, suffocating her. In the blackness she had no concept of the passage of time: she might have been down in the dungeons for a day, a week, or perhaps even a lifetime.

With no outside stimulus, her mind retreated inward. Whenever she rubbed her eyes, the bright flashes that lit her vision became faceless loved ones calling out to her from a distance. She saw her mother and father, her sisters and dead brothers—even Mite and Giant, their wrappings glimmering with the phosphorescent light of inner space. The stinking corpse beside her became a dozen different monsters and hateful people, and she cowered in the corner, as far away from it as possible.

Formless voices stalked her in the darkness, growing ever closer with each passing moment.
You are as worthless as a whore.…You have turned your back on your god.…You deserve your fate.…There is no more hope.
She screamed in protest against them, but they did not stop their assault. Day and night, through the indistinguishable
margin between sleep and awareness, their accusations stabbed at her, driving her further from sanity.

She almost wished for the Final Judges, the new rulers of Veldaren, to come for her and end her suffering. Almost.

It was Guster, her father figure in Veldaren, who helped her hold onto the final threads of sanity. As she lay suffering, the old man’s calming words, imagined though they were, echoed throughout her skull, pleading with her to uphold her end of the bargain.
I put my faith in you,
his voice said.
You are the key—you who were not a slave to blind belief…you who learned the errors of your ways…you who love Karak despite the Divinity’s obvious lack of love for you…

Laurel began laughing.

“I am mighty!” she shouted, sobs wracking her every other word. “I am strong!”

The blackness closed in on her yet again, and she felt the ground shift beneath her. Creaking noises pierced her ears, as well as the scrape of stone ground against stone. It wasn’t only the darkness that was alive, but the dungeon itself. She sat up, pressed the heels of her palms against her ears, and rocked back and forth. She pictured her god in the months after the creation of man, long before her birth. In her mind’s eye, she saw him pounding the earth with his fists, digging deep into the land, and shaping the walls of this very dungeon. He lifted his glowing eyes, smiling wickedly at his children as they gathered around the rim of the crater he had created, Laurel among them.
If you turn away from me,
his voice said in her mind as his stare burned through her,
you have turned against the light of order. Let the shadows of chaos embrace you hereafter.

“I will not,” she whispered, defiant. “I am Laurel Lawrence, and I am strong.”

“Yes, you are, my lady.”

Laurel ceased her rocking and glanced up. All had gone silent; even the rats seemed to have stopped skittering. She drew a breath into her lungs and held it, in the grips of an even greater terror.
She then heard the sound of breathing—not her own, but someone else’s—and the soothing male voice spoke again.

“Laurel, I am here for you.”

“Karak?” she murmured.

A soft, kind chuckle was her answer.

“Not Karak, my lady. Not even close.”

Her world suddenly assaulted by an explosion of brightness, Laurel kicked herself backward, screaming. It was as if she had been hurled into the sun, its flames roasting her flesh and melting her eyeballs in their sockets. She flopped over and cried, arms held over her head, waiting for the rest of her to be set aflame until even her ashes were scorched to nothingness.

The gate to her cell creaked open, and a new sound hit her ears—footfalls sloshing over wet stone. Her body was not on fire. Laurel swallowed her tears and glanced up.

Two figures stood over her, a man and a woman, lit from behind by flickering torchlight. She focused on the man, a handsome, slender sort with a dark complexion, kind hazel eyes, and a head of curly black hair. Her eyes traced the strong outline of his jaw and curly locks that bounced above his shoulders. She knew him, even though he was wearing a buttoned-up cloak rather than the armor of the Palace Guard.

“Ca–Captain Jenatt?” she said.

The man squatted down, holding out his hand. “Pulo,” he told her. “There are no titles needed. None exist any longer.”

Laurel hesitantly grabbed his hand, and Pulo Jenatt, former captain of the Palace Guard, helped her to her feet. Beside him stood Mite, crouching low, her covered head swiveling. Laurel hovered unsteadily, her knees shaking, and then looked down at herself. The elegant dress that Lady Connington had given her was a torn and sloppy mess, covered in a slimy black substance so thick that none of the original turquoise could be seen. Most of the gems that had been stitched to it had broken free. Strangely, the fabric seemed to
be moving. She glanced to her left and caught sight of the rotten corpse, the trail of maggots that had wound its way into her corner.

“Get them off me!” she screamed, pushing herself away from Pulo while desperately tearing at her dress. It came off in clumps, as if its threads were as decayed as the corpse. She felt the maggots writhe against her and came close to vomiting.

“My lady, it’s all right, Let us help.”

Feminine hands were on her in an instant, shoving her against the wall. Laurel braced her hands against it, leaning forward and wheezing as her clothing was torn from her body. The drenched material slopped against the stone floor, leaving her naked as the day she was born, but she didn’t care. A damp towel was then run over her from head to toe, cleaning away the filth. She began to gag. Something was pressed into her hand. Laurel looked down and saw a small burlap sack in her palm.

“Place it over your nose and mouth,” said a youthful female voice. “To help with the smell.”

Laurel did as she was told, and the nauseating stench of decay and feces was muted by the fresh smells of hyacinth and lilac. She took a deep breath, her nerves stilling with a final shudder.

“Thank you,” she said through the sack.

Mite nodded and backed away from her, joining Pulo. The realization struck her that Mite had broken her vow, and Laurel’s mouth gaped beneath the sweet-smelling bag.

“Come now, Miss Lawrence,” Pulo said. “We haven’t much time.”

Her wits slowly returned to her. She lowered the sack and asked, “What is happening?”

“Not now. I’ll explain on the way.”

She looked down again, feeling suddenly modest. She crossed her arms over her bare breasts, even though Pulo seemed not the slightest bit interested in her nakedness.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lawrence,” he said, seeing her reaction. “We will find you something to cover yourself with once you are safe.”

Mite grabbed her hand and gestured to the opened gate with those soft blue eyes of hers. For the first time, Lauren noticed something oddly familiar about them, but she had no time to question it. Before she could even get her bearings, the diminutive Sister was yanking her into the corridor. Pulo had snatched the lighted torch from the wall and was holding it out in front of him as he ran forward, leading the way. Laurel’s feet ached as they slapped against the hard stone floor, and the air burned in her lungs. She pleaded with her saviors to slow down, but Mite’s grip was firm, her drive unstoppable. They passed cell after cell, the stench of decaying bodies overwhelming. Laurel brought the sack she had been given to her nose once more.

They stopped at the stairwell that led into the lower hall of Tower Justice. Pulo snuffed out the torch, and in the darkness Laurel heard him shove it into the metal ring embedded in the wall. She was yanked up another staircase in darkness, and then they passed through another doorway, turned a corner, and raced up yet another stairwell. Finally they reached the top, and when Pulo threw the door opened, she was once more bathed in light.

There was only one person in the hall, a tall Sister who lingered by the main entrance, a dagger clutched tightly in her hand. Laurel could tell right away, from the way she held her shoulders back as if in a constant state of insolence, that it was Giant. She dropped the small sack of hyacinth and lilac and smiled. Her girls hadn’t abandoned her after all.

“We should be safe for now,” said Pulo as he unbuttoned his cloak. “The lions remain in Tower Honor during the day. They only hunt at night.”

“What time of day is it?” Laurel asked.

He kept his eyes averted from her nakedness.

“Sunrise was only an hour ago. We watched from the roof of the closed brothel on South Road until the coast was clear to rescue you.”

“How did you know I was here? And how in Karak’s name did you get past the Sisters?” Mite and Giant both peered at her. “The
other
Sisters, I mean.”

“Your two protectors told us of your…situation,” said Pulo, nodding toward Mite and Giant. “I don’t know how they knew where you were, but be thankful that they did. As for getting into the castle…to be honest, it was quite easy.” He cast aside his cloak, letting it flutter to the ground. He was wrapped from head to toe in the bindings of the Sisters of the Cloth, all the way to his neck. The wrappings were skin-tight, and Laurel gasped at the effectiveness of the illusion. Pulo’s bulge was nowhere to be found, and he even had a pair of modest lumps on his chest.

“Trickery,” he said with a slight frown. “But not a costume I wish to wear for long. It is rather binding in all the wrong places, and certain…er…painful tucking is required.” He turned to Giant. “We should begin now.”

Giant kicked the sack beside her across the floor, and Mite stopped it with her foot. After gesturing to Pulo, Giant raced across the room, slipping through the dungeon door and closing it softly behind her.

“Where is she going?” asked Laurel.

“She is using the underground tunnels that connect the towers,” Pulo answered. “She will leave from Tower Honor this afternoon, when the castle is at its busiest, while we will leave from here.”

“Why?”

“Three Sisters were seen entering this structure, my lady. It would seem odd if four were to leave.”

Mite opened the sack and began to pull out yard after yard of off-white fabric. Laurel couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. The order she despised, the one that helped the men who ruled the kingdom suppress women, was to be her mode of salvation. If only she’d had a true bath beforehand to wash away the lingering scent of decay from the dungeon below.…

Pulo turned away, and Laurel held her arms out to her sides as Mite began the agonizingly slow business of swathing her every square inch with thin strips of material. She worked up one leg, then the other, and Laurel was amazed at how constricting the garb actually was. It felt like her lower half was being squeezed in one of her father’s lemon juicers.