Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  Without another word, Clovis led his children around the raised throne and through the door behind it. When the door slammed shut, the ruckus in the throne room dulled to a muted hum.

  The vestibule was mostly empty, and it felt like a gray, stony cave. The table where the Council debated sat squatly on the far side of the room, thirteen chairs surrounding it. Behind that was a large briarwood cabinet stocked with an assortment of liquors. Avila approached the cabinet and poured herself a mug of wormwood extract. Crian leaned against the wall, as far from his sister as he could get, his armor creaking and badly in need of oil. Clovis stood in the center of the room, his normally ashen complexion red as a beet. The man ran both hands through his long white hair, and in an instant his normal coloring returned. Not that Crian was surprised. Clovis Crestwell was an expert at controlling his emotions.

  The air in the vestibule was tense, but Crian refused to speak first. Thoughts of Nessa danced in his head, and he feared he would betray those feelings should he open his mouth. His father spared him the indignity of silence by strolling up to him as if nothing were wrong and asking after his brother, Joseph.

  “He’s fine. Wonderful, as a matter of fact. He sent a bird four days ago; he says the Dezren elves are treating him nicely and feeding him wine by the bucket load while they await the tournament. I think his exact words were, “I never thought being a diplomat would be so damn enjoyable.”

  The Highest cocked his head. “You do not sound pleased for Joseph.”

  “No, I’m very pleased for him. He’ll represent us well.”

  “But you wish you had been the one to go.”

  “Hardly. He’s attending a betrothal. Not my idea of fun.”

  Avila wandered closer.

  “But the tournament is,” she said, her breath reeking of stale liquor.

  Crian didn’t answer because he knew his expression gave him away. He did not possess the Crestwell impassivity.

  “Son,” his father said, “there will be other tournaments.”

  Crian slapped his gloved hand against his thigh plate. “You’re right, there will. But how many of them will both the Dezren and Quellan attend? I’m the best swordsman in all of Neldar—you know that, Father. Fencing is as natural to me as swimming is to a fish. It’s not the same for Joseph. What chance does he have against those elves? Their best warriors have been wielding weapons for hundreds of years. He’ll present himself well, but he won’t win.” He shook his head. “Not like I would have.”

  His father’s expression didn’t change. “Your brother is there to strengthen Karak’s relationship with the elves. Winning is not the purpose. You are the son of the Highest. These things should be evident to you.”

  “I know, Father. And they are. I’m sorry.”

  “Jealousy is a shifty demon, Crian, and given your place as a son of a First Family, you must be increasingly wary against it. What are you, thirty-eight? And yet you think you can teach centuries-old elves how to wield a blade? You don’t know how far from true beauty your skills really are. I do. I have witnessed Karak, our true Father, wield a blade. Now that…that was a sight to remember, a dance like none I have ever seen. His greatsword sheared trees and cattle with ease, and it seemed as though the very earth trembled beneath his feet. You are so much like him, yet so far from him at the same time. If only you had been born prior to his departure. You are a great warrior, Crian, but he could have made you legendary.”

  Crian felt his neck flush at the dressing down, but something tickled at the back of his mind through it all. With a sudden jolt, he realized it, and he stared at his father in surprise.

  “You…you don’t know?”

  His father frowned.

  “Know what?”

  “Karak. He returned nine days ago.”

  Clovis crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. He visited Minister Mori and held audience in the streets for a time before retiring to his temple. He hasn’t been seen since, but the Minister assures us he is still in Veldaren.”

  He watched as his father’s expression subtly changed. He didn’t look surprised, but his normally detached gaze shifted for a moment. What was that expression? It looked almost like concern. This baffled Crian, for why would Karak’s Highest not rejoice upon his return? He didn’t dare ask. Such a question was far beyond his standing, even as Clovis’s own son.

  Finally, his father said, “Praise be to Karak.”

  “Praise be to Karak,” answered Avila.

  Crian just nodded his head.

  The door to the vestibule crashed open, interrupting their talk. All three turned to see King Vaelor step into the room. The leader of his personal guard followed, a brutish thug dressed in thick leather armor. The king was all smiles now, though his cheerfulness seemed forced, and he struggled to hold aside his heavy wool cape to allow his legs freedom of movement. He had the look of a child who’d done wrong and hoped his parents wouldn’t notice.

  “Ah, Clovis,” he said with false cheer. “Good to see you. I apologize for my words earlier—busy day and all. How were the travels? How was Haven? Did you shed plenty of blasphemers’ blood—”

  Without so much as a warning, Crian’s father lunged forward with the grace of a stalking cat. His fist struck the side of King Vaelor’s face, followed by a heavy crack. Vaelor’s neck snapped back, and his flesh rippled as he teetered on his feet. A glob of blood shot from his lips, smattering the wall behind him. The king fell over, landing hard on his elbow. His guard, Karl Dogon, took a step forward, reaching for the pommel of his sword, but one look from Clovis froze him in his tracks.

  “Go outside,” said Crian’s father. “Do not come back in until I call for you.”

  “Yes, Highest,” replied the large man, and he backed his way out the door.

  The king stared up at Karak’s Highest with fear in his eyes. Clovis kicked the prone man, eliciting a womanly scream. Crian winced, knowing this would only goad his father into delivering a worse beating.

  And beat the king his father did, mercilessly pummeling him with an endless barrage of kicks and punches. By the time he was finished, King Vaelor looked like a stuck pig ready for the spit. Blood ran down his frilly white shirt, dripped from his necklace of thick gold links, and stained the corners of his royal cape an even deeper black. The man whimpered and cried, tears falling from the creases in his now swollen eyes.

  And never once, Crian realized, had his father uttered a word. When he was finished, Clovis removed his blood-soaked gloves and handed them to Avila.

  “You will never disrespect me again, your highness,” he said, venom leaking out of every syllable. “You are but a man, destined to live out your days and die, whereas I am forever. Your rule is a sham. Everything you have is because of me. It was I who poisoned your father’s rival so that your father might win the Tourney of Rule. I—not Karak—named him king, just as I named you king after he died. And how do you repay me? By giving another the mantle of Lord Commander and treating me as a common beggar in front of the court. With but a word, I can take back all I have given you. Do you understand?”

  The whimpering king nodded.

  Clovis gave him one last kick in the ribs and called for his guard to reenter. “Get him cleaned up,” he demanded. “And have the court whores apply powder to hide the bruises. We don’t want anyone to know our king is a craven who cannot defend himself, now do we?”

  “Of course not, Highest,” Dogon replied.

  The bodyguard helped the dazed king to his feet and led him out the side door of the vestibule. Beyond was a staircase leading to the royal bedroom and the stable of whores that Clovis had allowed the man to keep. The Highest straightened his shirt, cracked his neck, and turned to his children. If not for the faint stains of blood on his clothes, there was nary a sign of the beating that had just taken place.

  “Crian, you are to leave with your sister. I want you both in Omnmount with a faction of t
he new army.”

  Thoughts of Nessa leapt to the forefront of Crian’s mind. He couldn’t believe his sudden good fortune. Omnmount was barely a few days ride from the delta. The timeliness of it, however, gave him pause.

  “I will, Father, but may I ask why? And what of the City Watch?”

  “There are dark days coming, son. Dark days for which we must prepare. You will command five hundred green soldiers and continue their training. Enlist the help of the township if you wish. You say you are the best at swordplay? Very well. Then let the best teach our men. Humanity is weak, from the east to the west. It is up to the children of gods, up to us, to guide them. We have seventy-eight days before Haven will get their reckoning, and I want our men to be prepared. As for the City Watch, I will have the king hand those duties over to Captain Gregorian. He is capable enough for a regular human.”

  “What of Vulfram? Will he not come with us?”

  “Perhaps. For now, I have granted him leave, for being Soleh’s child, he is weak and requires time with his loved ones. We are a blessed few, we Crestwells. The world is young, and only the strong, the dedicated, will inherent the fruit when the vine ripens. We must endure the weaknesses of those who are useful to us, but we must never envy and never indulge. We are the snakes that dine with the lion. Karak is always with us, no matter how far away he might be.”

  With that, Highest Crestwell pivoted on his heel and headed for the vestibule door. Crian watched him go, guilt stirring in his stomach. It was Avila who called out to their father before he exited the chamber.

  “Highest, what will you do in our absence?” she asked.

  He turned to his children, caught in the half-darkness between the covered doorway and the torchlight. The shadows slid over his face, concealing his upper half, making him look like a partially formed apparition.

  “I will hold court with my god,” he said, and walked out the door.

  The banner flapped on its pole, puffed out for all to see by a strong late summer breeze. Vulfram knelt before it, gazing up at the leaping doe that served as the sigil of House Mori. It was a welcome reminder of the warmth of home in an otherwise cold city of stone. When he was young he’d watched whole herds wander through the plains outside the Erzn forest. Those days he had hunted with a bow and gutted with a knife, killing for the evening meal and always showing respect to the beasts he slew.

  Those days were long gone indeed.

  He rose to his feet and entered the Tower Keep, the tall, ugly building that served as his family’s home away from home. There were only three of them living in the large structure: his mother, his father, and his sister, Adeline.

  Entering the front gate, he trudged through the entrance hall, making sure to cut a wide swath between himself and the ingress to his father’s studio. He could never explain why, but he always experienced a sort of vertigo that made him feel ill beyond belief whenever he so much as approached his father’s workplace, the room originally meant to hold a throne, now adorned with the mystic painting of Karak, Ashhur, and Celestia.

  His knees ached as he climbed the stairs. The walls were thick and rough, hewn from granite from the north, and he pressed his hand against them for support. Unlike the Castle of the Lion, which always felt cold, the Tower Keep seemed not only to retain heat, but also to magnify it. The huge sword on his back weighed him down, and the effort of his climb caused sweat to bead on his shaved head and gather in his thick eyebrows. His swaying beard left a crescent of moisture on his bare chest, and his horsehide breeches clung to his buttocks, chafing him between the legs. It was just past noon, but as far as he was concerned, the sun couldn’t set soon enough.

  On the third level, the muted sound of two women speaking reached his ears. This was odd, as it was midweek, which meant his mother should be in the Tower Justice courtroom, doling out punishments and keeping an eye on his crazy sister. Something catastrophic must have happened for her to be here now. He cautiously approached the closed door to her chambers and rapped it lightly with his knuckles.

  “Mother?” he asked.

  “Come in,” replied his mother’s voice, sounding strange and conflicted.

  Pushing open the door to her large room, he saw the eminent Soleh Mori sitting on the bed, her dark, wavy hair hanging to the middle of her waist, her soulful brown eyes wide and attentive. Her hand drew to her mouth at the sight of him and she gasped. Beside her was Lanike Crestwell, wife of the Highest, a small, mousy woman whose petite features spoke more of cutesiness than outright beauty. They both looked like schoolgirls, what with their perfect complexions and youthful veneers.

  It took him a moment to realize that the lady of House Crestwell was in his mother’s room, and once that understanding hit him, he went to the corner of the bed, fell to one knee, and kissed each woman’s hand in turn.

  “Stand up, son,” his mother said, sounding edgy even though she was obviously overjoyed to see him.

  “Yes, Vulfram, stand,” said Lanike kindly.

  “I would prefer to sit, if you don’t mind,” he replied, looping Darkfall’s scabbard over his head and setting it down before sitting cross-legged on a stone floor that seemed to pulse with warmth. His mother began to cry, happy tears now, and she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

  “My son, my wonderful Vulfram, is home. Karak is good.”

  “That he is, Mother. But why are you not at the castle?”

  His mother grinned and cast a cautious glance at Lanike.

  “There has been…news, my son. Both for good and ill. Because of that, Lady Crestwell gave me leave today. But I do not wish to speak of such things now. Can I simply bask in the knowledge that you are home?”

  “Bask all you want, Mother, but please tell me the news.”

  “Well,” his mother said, clearing her throat, “for the good, Karak has returned to us. He visited me in the Arena nine days ago. He is as strong and wise as ever, and he insists his return is permanent. I have visited him four times over that span, but he will not take any other visitors for the time being. I believe that he is tired from his journey.”

  “I see,” said Vulfram. So that explained the differences he had noticed as he walked north from the Castle of the Lion to the Tower Keep. People were out in abundance, as was usual in the city, but their demeanor was different somehow. Lighter. He had even seen one of his old charges from the Watch, a surly sort, grinning at passersby as he manned the corner in front of Graymare’s Apothecary.

  “You’re right, Mother,” he said. “This is a good thing.”

  Soleh’s face soured, turning suddenly sad. “It is,” she agreed.

  He reached for her, but she moved before he could touch her.

  “Mother, what is it? What ills you?”

  “I…it is just…”

  “A letter came this morning from your manor in Erznia,” said Lanike Crestwell, taking Soleh’s hand. Her high-pitched voice matched her mousy features. “It seems your daughter Lyana has found herself in a rather…compromising position.”

  Vulfram’s heart skipped a beat. “Lyana? What has she done this time?”

  Lyana Mori was his second child and a bit of a wild soul. She was always getting into spats with the local farmers, one time even earning a high merchant’s ire by attempting to bed his thirteen-year-old son. She had been nine at the time. Now she was sixteen.

  “The letter did not say,” said Lanike. “It was an official epistle sent by Magister Wentner, requesting the presence of a high official to sit in judgment of your daughter. We’ve been given no word of the charges. With Joseph in Dezerea, I thought to send Crian to settle the matter.”

  “No other man will sit in judgment of my daughter,” said Vulfram. “I am Lord Commander of Karak’s Army. I will take care of this myself.”

  The idea of him leaving seemed to break his mother, and she turned her face to hide her tears. Lanike gave him a hard look and said, “You have your responsibilities to the realm and its forces to consider.”

/>   “Responsibilities from which your husband the Highest has granted me leave. I have a month to do as I please. This changes nothing, for I was already planning to return to my family. Come morning, I’ll ride. If the weather holds, I can make it there in less than two days.”

  Lanike squeezed his hand, hard. “Remember, Lord Commander, that you are bound by Karak’s laws. As much as you love your daughter, it is your creator to whom you owe loyalty.”

  He ripped his fingers away. “I realize this, Lady Crestwell. No one loves Karak more than I. And whatever Lyana has done, I will punish her as the law demands. Of that you have my word, not that you would need it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things from the castle and ready my horse.”

  His mother stopped weeping into her pillow and leapt off the bed. She barreled into him, wrapping him tightly in her arms, wetting his chest with her tears. It never ceased to amaze him how different his mother was outside of a public setting; in court she was steel, unflinching, whereas behind closed doors, among her husband and children, she was like a ball of yarn that couldn’t keep itself together. It was something he admired about her, really. He wished he could be as open with his emotions as she was, even if only on occasion.

  Soleh pulled him close, standing on her toes so that her lips might reach his ear.

  “I love you, Vulfram, and I love my granddaughter,” she whispered. “Please, no matter what she has done, be kind to her. She has not known a father’s love for many years. Show her the mercy she deserves.”

  “I will, Mother,” he whispered, and after placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he exited her chamber. First the show of violence against Haven, followed by countless insufferable nights spent listening to Highest Crestwell’s endless proselytizing, and now his Lyana in trouble. An endless stream of tension that had tightened his chest and turned the hairs in his beard even grayer than before. His heart beat out of control, stealing away his breath.

  I don’t want to be the first of my family to die, he thought, and went about preparing for the journey home. But by the gods, don’t let it be Lyana either.