That was when a dancing pinprick of flame appeared before them, bouncing along the side of a building ahead of them. It danced out into the center of the South Road, and was soon joined by another, and then another, until there were six flickering torches standing abreast in the street.
Moren pulled back on the reins, halting his exhausted horses. Little Mo whimpered, sliding his slender frame behind the bench and ducking beneath it. Laurel sat frozen, staring as the flames illuminated the six men before her. They were hardened types, all dressed in frayed burlap rags with thick beards, broad shoulders, and powerful arms. A shortsword dangled from each man’s belt, the steel glinting in the firelight.
“Would appreciate yer steppin’ aside so we may pass,” said Moren after clearing his throat. Amazingly, the old man’s voice didn’t quaver.
“What, no help for hungry brothers?” one of the men said. His tone was gruff and tinged with the sort of sick humor Laurel had often heard in back rooms at court. “All we ask for is something to quench our thirst.”
“No drinks on me but water,” Moren said. “Best run along and see if a tavern somewhere’s still open.”
“Who says we’re lookin’ for ale, old man?” said another of the men. He stepped forward and drew his sword from his belt, pointing it at them. The whisper of the drawn steel cut into Laurel. “We could be convinced to let you go,” the man continued, “if you let us look at what you got in back…or maybe what you got up front.” The ruffian winked, his eyes twinkling.
Laurel’s bladder felt ready to release.
“Got nothin’ out back,” said Moren, remaining calm. “Nor anythin’ up front here but my daughter and son.”
“Those’ll do,” another replied.
“You’ll get none,” Moren said. “In the name of Karak, I say you clear the road and let us pass.”
“Karak’s isn’t here no more, old man. Looks like he left you to us.”
Moren grunted and spoke sharply. “If I was you, I’d step aside lest I run you all down.”
The men began laughing, nudging each other with their elbows. Without another word Moren threw one arm over Laurel’s shoulder and cracked the reins hard with his opposite hand. Startled, the horses reared up and charged. Laurel was jerked back in her seat and would have fallen into the rear of the wagon without the safety of Moren’s arm. The wind buffeted her face as the cart wrenched onward, slowly picking up speed. The men blocking the road shouted and scattered.
They did not stay gone, however. Laurel heard grunts and creaking boards beneath the louder sounds of stomping hooves and rolling wheels. The wagon seemed to buckle momentarily as extra weight was added to the back. She scooted forward on the bench, ducking away from the curtain just as a hand shot through the slit. Grimy fingers danced in the air above her, grasping and finding nothing until they fell on Moren’s ragged tunic. The fist closed, and the old man’s eyes bulged as he was violently yanked into the rear. He still held tight to the reins in his right hand, and his momentum jerked the bits in the horses’ mouths, causing them to rear up once more. The wagon kept careening forward, crashing into the horses’ hindquarters. Laurel fell toward the edge, barely holding onto the corner of the cart while a small shadow sailed over her head. Mo. The cart’s rigging snapped, the old wood unable to stand the sudden pressure. The two horses squealed and galloped off, still connected to each other, the bridle dragging on the ground behind them.
Laurel heard shouts behind her, both of sadistic glee and sudden pain. In a panic she threw her legs over the front of the carriage. Her soft shoes hit the gravelly road and she fell, scraping her elbow. She barely felt the pain. Kicking as hard as she could, she pushed her legs to carry her far, far away, yet it was still not fast enough. She felt something slip between her feet, and then a fist struck her back, and she was rolling along the ground. When she came to a stop, her body was scraped and bloodied.
“Not so fast,” a sinister voice said.
Then there were hands on her, strong hands lifting her off the ground. The flickering light of torches reemerged. She was half carried, half dragged to the side of the street and then thrown against the side of a building. Her head slammed against the stone wall, making her vision swim and a spike of pain shoot all the way down her spine. She collapsed, her arms and legs limp, and could do no more than stare up at the approaching men, wide-eyed and terrified. The one in front tucked his torch beneath his left arm while his hands untied the laces of his breeches. Behind him approached the other five, one with his sword out and dripping blood, another dragging the unconscious body of little Mo.
The man closest to her finished loosening his pants, and they fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them clumsily, now wearing only his smallclothes. A grin spread across his lips as he lifted the torch. His smile grew wider the closer he drew. “Nice,” he said.
Laurel glanced down and saw that her bodice had come undone in the turmoil of the bucking cart. Her arms wrapped around her torso, hiding her breasts, while she brought her knees to her chest. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even move. As her attacker began to yank down his smallclothes, Laurel prayed to Karak for strength.
And strength she found, though not from her deity. She thought of Minister Mori, her lack of fear, her stubborn resilience.
I am a Lawrence, Laurel thought. I am my father’s daughter, and I am no victim.
When the man reached her, manhood dangling, he squatted down before her and fumbled for her breasts. Laurel remained still, waiting for him to get close, and then grabbed the bottom of the torch he held with his opposite hand and shoved it upward. The flaming top buried itself flush in his face, catching his greasy beard afire. Her attacker screamed and dropped the torch as he tumbled to his knees, batting at his flaming beard, embers swirling all around him. Laurel hesitated for the briefest moment, and then she was off, stumbling through the darkness.
Her dress was cumbersome, and despite vain attempts to rip it as she ran, she could not move fast enough. The angry shouts closed in on her, her chasers more like a pack of rabid dogs than actual men. Fists slammed into her shoulders, her spine, and the back of her head, knocking her to the ground and blasting the wind out of her. Multiple forms closed in from above, hands slapping and groping, tugging at her bodice and dress, trying to force her knees apart. Laurel shrieked, refusing to give in. She lashed out at them, thrashing with her arms and legs. Her knee found purchase, then her fingernails. One man grunted, another yelped, and then a hand lifted her by the hair, slamming her head down. Fog enveloped her world, and for a moment she thought she might black out. In that daze, she heard the roar of a lion.
The men ceased their attack and slowly turned. A low, rumbling sound, like a distant herd of cattle racing across the grazing fields in Omnmount, flowed over them all, accompanied by the gentle crunch of loose stones being crushed underfoot. Then came a deep voice, snarling and full of fury.
“Sinners.”
“What the flying fuck?” one of the men asked.
Laurel felt their fear, could smell it in the air like a fragrant spice. She kicked her feet backward until she sat upright. When her dizziness faded, the stars leaving her vision, she saw that the six men were standing in a half circle, their torches thrust out before them as they waved their swords, searching for the speaker.
“Sinners,” came that growl again, only this one was different, higher in pitch. The men turned again, and Laurel saw panic and doubt in their eyes that matched her own.