Spying Little Mo on the ground a few feet away, seemingly unconscious, Laurel risked moving. She crept along, keeping a constant eye on her attackers. Gathering Mo into her lap, she stroked his head. The boy’s eyes were closed and blood dripped down his forehead, but he was still breathing.
The low rumble returned, and now Laurel recognized it for what it was-the throaty purr of a large feline. When she’d helped her father tend the farmland around Beaver Lake, the mountain cats had crept down occasionally to steal away with livestock-pigs, goats, even a few of the weaker cattle-and it had been up to Laurel to chase them off with her bow. Although this sound was instantly identifiable, something was very much different about it. In order for one of the mountain cats to make a noise that loud, it would have to be huge.
Massive shadows leaped from out of the darkness, yellow fur flashing, and Laurel’s eyes went wide as blood began to explode around her. Torches flailed about as her attackers screamed, and she heard steel hit the ground, rattling against the stone. Within the chaos of torn flesh and claws, she saw yellow gleams, like fireflies. And then the smell of blood and rotting meat breathed over her, hot and sticky. She realized that at some point she’d closed her eyes, unable to watch.
Then came the roar.
It washed over her, so close, so powerful. She felt her bladder let go, and she clutched little Mo tightly against her breast as she let out a cry. All around her she felt the presence of death and fury, and whatever fate she would have suffered at the hands of those men seemed so meager, so worldly, compared to what she was witnessing. More than anything, she wanted to get away. She tried to stand, to lift Little Mo to his feet, but one second her hands were wedged in his armpits, and the next he was gone. Before she could open her eyes, something grabbed hold of her, lifting her off her feet. She struggled against whatever it was, but it was too agile, too strong. Laurel found herself flying up, up, up, while she floundered, and then there were no hands on her at all. She flew through the air for what seemed like forever, until she crashed down on a hard surface. Her shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and the pain was so intense, she feared it might be broken.
Down below, the last of the men screamed.
“Girl,” said a kind voice from above. “Girl, would you be Laurel Lawrence?”
“What?” she asked, not truly understanding the question in her daze. She began to shake.
“Come now,” said the voice. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
Hands pressed at her back, helping her sit. The nozzle of a wineskin was pressed to her lips, and she drank greedily from the sweetness within as it dribbled into her mouth.
“There, that’s better,” the kind voice said. “Drink deep.”
The skin pulled away, and Laurel shook her head, trying to regain her senses. She glanced around and saw that she was on a rooftop. Three figures stood over her, mere shadows in the sparse light. The screaming down below had ended, now replaced with a revolting crunching sound. In the darkness she saw little Mo lying at her feet, and she was thankful that he appeared unharmed.
“Who are you?” she asked them. Despite her efforts, she could not keep the tremble from her voice.
The middle shadow snapped its fingers, and to either side of her, clay buckets of pitch burst into flame, filling the rooftop with light. Two of the figures were Sisters of the Cloth, one quite short and the other tall, both wrapped from head to toe in the bindings of the order. Only their eyes were visible. Two bundles of rope were coiled on the ground at their feet. A man stood between them-a youngish sort, handsome with a head of slicked-back blond hair with dyed red streaks; piercing blue eyes; a clean-shaven upper lip; and a yellow beard tapered into a pair of horns that fell down to the base of his neck. He wore a red doublet studded with ivory buttons and rimmed with gold trim. The hilt of the shortsword hanging from his hip was adorned with rubies.
The oddly beautiful man crossed his legs and bowed to her. When he did, the bells dangling from the cuffs of his doublet chimed.
“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, at your service. Though you never did answer my question: Would you be Laurel Lawrence?”
This Quester had a smile that was just as strangely beautiful as the rest of him.
Laurel nodded. “I am.” She took a moment to adjust her bodice and tie it, then stood. Her piss-soaked dress reminded her of her shame, and she felt her neck grow hot as she blushed. So far none of them seemed to have noticed, and if they had, they’d kept their mouths shut. Offering the man a quick bow, she said, “I wish to thank you for helping me, though I must ask: How did you know who I am?”
The Sisters said nothing, as the members of their order were required to keep silent for all their lives, but Quester seemed chatty enough for the all of them.
“Oh, you know how it is,” he said as he strutted across the rooftop. “Just a lad with his nursemaids, wandering around in the darkness, looking for the famous Laurel Lawrence while trying to avoid the Judges’ claws.”
“The judges?” Laurel shook her head. “What judges? What are you speaking of?”
“The Final Judges, who sniff out sinners like yesterday’s spoiled meat.”
“Wait…you mean the Moris’ lions? They’re out of the castle?”
Quester jutted his chin toward the edge of the roof.
“I take it you weren’t in a proper state to watch while you were up close?” he said. “Here. Come look and see for yourself, milady.”
She knew she shouldn’t trust this strange man, yet she did just as he’d asked, stepping around an unconscious Little Mo to lean over the short wall. Quester was by her side a moment later, holding one of the flaming clay buckets. Before she could protest, he tossed it over the side. The bucket shattered when it struck the ground, spraying burning pitch in every direction.
Laurel gasped. By the light of the pitch, she could see a pair of lions down below. They were the largest beasts she had ever encountered, easily the size of two men, perhaps three. They sat devouring the remains of the six brigands. If startled or annoyed by the shattering clay and sudden light, they did not show it. No, they were too intent on their meal, ripping out intestines, cracking bones between their enormous teeth, and lapping blood off the gravel-strewn ground.
“You’ve been gone for a while,” Quester said quietly beside her, “so you weren’t here when the priest Joben decided the Watch wasn’t doing its job well enough. Can’t blame them, really, given how few they number. So Joben let the beasts out of their cages and loosed them on the city.” He nodded down at them. “They do their jobs well…too well. If not for the ruffians, Kayne and Lilah might have attacked you instead, and they’d be sucking the marrow out of your bones. The Judges don’t discriminate intention, only sin. I know of thirty they’ve killed before tonight, and now you can add six more.”
“They’re so…big,” Laurel whispered.
“They are,” said Quester.
She shook her head. “I must have been dreaming. I thought I heard them talk.”
“What did they say?”
“ ‘Sinners,’ I think.”
The man laughed, his bells jingling, his horned beard flapping.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Even those of us in Riverrun have long known they hold a piece of Karak in them. Our beloved Divinity gave them a portion of the gift he gave us humans. That’s why they’re so big and smart. And now, apparently, they also talk.”
He turned away, as if the two giant lions were of no more interest to him. He pointed to the shorter of the two Sisters, who stooped down and lifted Little Mo from where he lay on the roof. A second later she disappeared over the side of the building. The rope nearest her rapidly unfurled until it was pulled taut.
“Wait!” Laurel shouted. She went to rush toward the rope, but the taller Sister stepped in her way, staring her down with those cold, expressionless eyes. Laurel turned toward the Crimson Sword. “Where did she go? Where is she taking him?”