Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  Vulfram’s heart broke once more.

  “I stopped bleeding,” she whispered in a timid voice only he could hear. “I was scared. Mother said I was to marry Boris Corineau, and Kris said his father would kill him if he found out. I’m so sorry, father. No one was to find out. The oil wasn’t to leave a trace—that’s what he said! Please.…”

  Vulfram peered to the side, to where Kristof stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

  “And where did you get the crim oil?” Vulfram asked. The boy simply continued staring, his body shaking so hard Vulfram feared his heart would stop. “Speak, son. Where did you get the oil?”

  “He got it from me.”

  Vulfram stood up and faced the voice. It was Broward, his childhood friend, who had spoken. He stood in front of his still fuming son. Broward took a single step, his hands held out in supplication.

  “You?” asked Vulfram, wondering if the day could get any worse. “Why?”

  “The boy came to me, knowing I had plenty because of my cattle. So I gave him a few vials and told him the decision was his.”

  “You left poison…and a decision with such dire consequences…to a child?”

  Broward bobbed his head at Magister Wentner. “As the magister said, they ceased being children the moment his cock entered her.”

  Vulfram couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was his old friend. They’d played siege the castle together among the tall elm and maple trees of the surrounding forest, shared stories of first kisses. And now, to hear him speak in such a way to him…even worse, he seemed to not care that he’d given Vulfram’s daughter—and Broward’s own grandson—a potent remedy he knew damn well to be unlawful.

  Vulfram didn’t know what to do. Wavering in place, he cast his gaze on them all, begging for a sign from his god. Please, Karak, give me guidance, he silently pleaded. He looked to his daughter once more, saw her bawling in her whore’s garb. Deep inside him, something snapped.

  “Get out!” he roared. “All of you, out!”

  “But Lord Commander, there must be a verdict,” said Magister Wentner. “I must witness Karak’s justice as it is passed down.”

  Vulfram leveled a lethal gaze at the old man and pointed a thick, shaking finger at him. “I couldn’t give a shit about what you must do, old man. Karak’s justice can wait for tomorrow, after I’ve had time to think. Now everyone. Fuck off!”

  The people departed, filing out of the interior courtyard with quickened paces. Vulfram breathed heavily, watching them leave with disdain in his eyes. When Magister Wentner started to grab the chains binding the two children, Vulfram stopped him.

  “My son will watch over them tonight,” he said.

  The magister didn’t dare argue.

  Alexander came over, helping Kristof to his feet, then Lyana. The two were quiet but for their sniffling. Vulfram wanted to embrace them, to tell them everything would be well, but he couldn’t. Not now. What he wanted was answers, and not from them. From his son, who looked at his sister as if she were less than human.

  “Alexander,” he said.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Why did you turn your sister in instead of notifying me? Do you want her enslaved or dead?”

  “No, Father,” he said, coldly. “I wish her truthful and pure, not deceitful. But I suppose I have higher expectations of our blood than you do.”

  “She is my daughter.”

  “And she is my sister, and I love her no less. Yet she sinned and shamed the family. Not even the offspring of the great Lord Commander are unbound from Karak’s law. Or have you forgotten that?”

  Without thinking, Vulfram backhanded his son across the face. The boy stumbled back a step, the side of his lip cut, his motions dragging Kristof and Lyana along with him. His hand reached up to touch his cheek, already swelling. When he looked at his father, he appeared genuinely hurt.

  “Don’t speak to me that way,” Vulfram said, his voice ice. “Like you know better. Like you could stand for a moment in these shoes.”

  Alexander’s tone shifted, becoming more contrite. “Forgive me,” he said, his head bowed. “I never meant to disrespect you. You always taught me that Karak’s will and judgment ruled over all else. That his laws must be obeyed and enforced, no matter what. So I did as you have always taught me. I thought you would be proud.”

  It was Vulfram’s turn to feel ashamed. He gazed at his son, all grown up and taking responsibility just as he had done at that age. Tears formed in the corners of Vulfram’s eyes, tears it cost him to hold at bay.

  “You’re right, son. I’ve lost my way. I…I’m.…”

  He thought of Karak and the god’s last words to him before he went on his sojourn forty years before. “I have faith in you, Vulfram,” he had said. “You will be tested, and tested greatly, but there is no test that you cannot pass.” He wished that were true, for he felt lost. More than anything, he wished Karak were there with him now, to offer him guidance, to give him strength.

  Vulfram pulled Alexander in close, held the sides of his face as he pressed his own forehead against his son’s.

  “You were right,” he said, his voice nearly pleading. “But don’t you dare stop loving her, sin or not. That I could never forgive. Do you understand me?”

  Alexander swallowed, and he saw sudden guilt flicker in his eyes, then understanding.

  “Good,” Vulfram said. “Take the guilty to the magister’s hovel. But clean them up beforehand. And tell the magister that he is to treat them with respect, unless he wishes to have a personal meeting with Darkfall. Tomorrow we gather at the common green, in the shade of the statue of the lion, at high noon. I will carry out Karak’s justice then, whatever I determine it to be.”

  “Yes, Father,” Alexander said with a bow, and went about escorting the two youngsters out of the courtyard. Vulfram heard Lyana plead for him to stop, to let her stay the night in her own bed, but he closed his ears to the outside world.

  Caleigh tried to comfort him as he made his way back to the manor, but it did no good. Even Yenge’s words did nothing to improve his mood. He brushed his wife aside, no longer thinking of how he wanted to bed her, but instead telling her he wished to spend the night alone.

  It was only half a lie.

  He went to Mori Manor’s temple, located at the eastern end of the structure. It was a tall room, the ceiling as high as the manor’s three floors. In the center of the temple was a life-sized statue of Karak, the first ever sculpted by Vulfram’s father. The statue faced the east, twelve feet tall and imperial in stature. Vulfram knelt on the pew before the statue, staring up at the visage of his most beloved god, and prayed.

  Late afternoon gave way to twilight, which gave way to night, and still Vulfram moved nary a muscle. He stayed on his knees with his hands clasped before him, uttering words of entreaty. When his stomach rumbled, he did nothing. When darkness moved over the room like the tide over the shore, he did nothing. When the air grew cold, he shivered and did nothing else. Before long he knelt in near complete darkness, gazing up at a vague yet mighty outline of holy strength, as tormented as if he were trapped in the bottommost level of the underworld.

  His mind was beginning to falter, his body to give out, when suddenly he heard a soft scraping sound, like linens being rubbed against a grainy surface. He blinked his eyes, bleary with sleep, and watched the god’s outline shift before him. It moved as if crouching, until it lay across the expanse of the statue’s platform, no longer part of the statue, which remained exactly as it had been when Vulfram entered the temple.

  The silhouette of a massive hand reached forward and snapped its fingers. Candles flamed to life all around him, illuminating the temple with vaporous light. Vulfram could have wept with joy. There he was, live and in the flesh—Karak, reclining on the dais as if the hard marble were the most comfortable surface in both kingdoms. His huge yellow eyes gazed at Vulfram with compassion and wisdom.

  “My Lord,” Vulfram gasped.


  “My son,” said Karak, his voice loud and booming, seemingly shaking the temple. The statue above, a perfect likeness in white and black marble, trembled. “I heard your prayers. Something troubles you.”

  Vulfram lowered his head. “I have lost my faith, my Lord,” he said, before cowardice could change his mind. When the tears came, he did nothing to stop them. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.”

  Karak’s leisurely posture didn’t waver. “You have done no such thing, my son. Why would you think so?”

  “My daughter has sinned gravely, yet I do not wish to punish her. More than anything, I wish to take her into my arms and flee this place, running forever if I must. It’s a desire I don’t think I can overcome.”

  Karak stared at him with glowing eyes seeming to burn right into his soul, bringing warmth to his quivering bones. “You can overcome anything,” said the god. “I have faith in you.”

  “What if that faith is misplaced?”

  The god grabbed his shoulder, engulfing nearly a quarter of his body in his palm. “It is not. I know you will do what is right and that all who deserve judgment shall receive it.”

  Vulfram nodded. “I have no choice in the matter, do I?”

  “There is always a choice, my son. Most often, knowing the correct one is not the hard part. No, what takes courage, what takes strength, is making the choice we know is right despite every desire otherwise. Do you love me?”

  “Of course. More than anything.”

  “Then remember that my love supersedes all. If it is torment you fear, remember that the greatest torment would be to exist knowing I am no longer by your side. Do not run, not from me, and not from what you know is right.”

  The god touched a finger to his forehead, and white light filled his vision.…

  He awoke on the floor of the temple, his face resting in a small puddle of his own drool. The sunrise cast sparks of shimmering red on the statue above him. Vulfram lifted his head and gazed at the statue. The only sign of Karak’s visit was the aching hole in Vulfram’s heart. His back sore from sleeping on the hard floor, he limped out of the temple, shutting the door quietly behind him. He heard Ulrich and Oris’s children playing in the sitting room and smelled the sweet, narcotic scent of bacon frying over an open fire. Yenge’s voice cut through the morning air as she sang the sad song of love and loss she had sung to him on their first night together. His family, those who had not betrayed his trust, was waiting for him. It should have filled him with happiness, but it did not.

  His decision was made. He had the hole in his heart to thank for that.

  The sky was ominous, but even so, the effigy of the lion cast a long shadow over the damp grass that covered Erznia’s center square. Even more townspeople gathered than before, onlookers who congregated on the fringes of the assembly. The whole square was a giant bundle of nervous energy.

  Vulfram strode to the center, feeling like a statue carved and come to life. He gazed at Bracken Renson, who stared back at him with fearful eyes. Where was the man who had so brazenly attacked Alexander the day before? In his stead was a frightened, yet hopeful, child. Vulfram wasn’t sure what had brought about this change, nor did he care. Bracken realized his son’s fate rested in the hands of the Lord Commander. Perhaps that was it.

  He stepped up to the executioner’s stone, a thigh-high slab of granite positioned in the corner of the lion’s shadow. The only other time it had been used was fifteen years ago, when a rapist had been caught stalking the young girls of Erznia. It had been Joseph Crestwell who’d doled out Karak’s justice that day, just as it was Vulfram who would carry it out today. The stone still bore the faintest hint of the rapist’s blood.

  Taking in a deep breath, Vulfram turned to address the crowd.

  “We have gathered here today to bear witness to the punishment of Kristof Renson and Lyana Mori. They have been found guilty of infanticide, one of the worst sins against our god and creator, Karak, the Divinity of the East. Our race is in its infancy, and the lives blessed by our god are precious and rare. To end a life before it has even begun is not only a crime against Karak, but against all of us. The cost of this sin has been decreed by the Divinity himself, and that judgment is final. Bring out the guilty!”

  A rumble passed through the crowd as Magister Wentner led a hooded Kristof and Lyana through them, flanked by Alexander and Vulfram’s scarred brother, Oris. The emotions of the assembly grew tenfold with each passing moment, some sobbing, some shouting in disbelief, a select few jeering. Those jeers cut into Vulfram, but he hardened his heart against them. To think on what he had to do, to dwell on the horror…he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, so he let it pass over him like water across a stone. Someone shouted “Karak!” and threw a rotten potato that exploded against Lyana’s pale, cream-colored gown, bathing her in stinking juices. He should have been enraged, but instead it was like a stake driven into the hole in his heart. At least the whore’s outfit and makeup had been washed off her. Lyana was about to greet her fate; at least she could do so with some measure of dignity.

  The pair was brought before him and their hoods were removed. Lyana’s rosebud lips twitched and tears cascaded down her cheeks, but Kristof’s expression was wistful, almost dreamlike. His bloodshot eyes gazed up at him, and a half-smile appeared on his lips. Just looking at him, Vulfram felt a new respect for the doomed boy.

  Then Kristof stepped forward, fell to one knee, and said, “I have sinned against my god. I accept the penalty without reproach, Lord Commander.”

  Vulfram’s respect heightened even more. He nodded to the magister, who guided the boy back to his feet. Onto the executioner’s slab went his head. Oris began to walk away, to rejoin his wife and children at the forefront of the assembly, but Vulfram grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

  “Make sure they don’t turn away,” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “Neither your children nor your wife. They must learn a lesson from this. Not even the blood of the First Families supersedes our responsibility to the one who created us. Understand?”

  His scarred brother nodded before Vulfram released him. Oris held his wife close and guided his two children in front of him, making sure they had the best view of all.

  Vulfram drew Darkfall from its sheath on his back. The steady hiss that followed crept along on the breeze, making the crowd shiver. He held the sword aloft with both hands, the blade shimmering beneath the cloudy sky. Kristof offered the tiniest of whimpers from his place on the stone.

  “Karak, have mercy on the soul of this sinner, who has so bravely accepted his fate. May he reach Afram safely and in the afterlife find the peace we all seek.”

  Hands gripped tightly, muscles tensed, Vulfram brought the sword down as hard as he could. The cutting edge sliced through the boy’s neck, easily severing the spine. Deep in the crowd, the boy’s father screamed. The head fell to the grass and rolled five times before stopping. Kristof’s visage stared blankly at the overcast sky, while a few feet away a stream of blood spurted from the stump of his neck. The body shuddered, went taut, and then slumped to the side. The blood flow trickled until it finally stopped, bathing the stone in a fresh coat of red.

  Servants came forward to take the body and head, placing both on a flat hay cart supplied by the Renson house, before toting the cart away. Magister Wentner and his young steward then yanked a shrieking Lyana to meet her fate. Vulfram halted them, gesturing instead for Alexander and Oris to approach once more. He heard Karak’s words in his head: All parties who deserve judgment shall receive it.

  “There is another who has been judged,” Vulfram shouted to the crowd. “One who betrayed Karak through his irresponsibility and lack of wisdom. It is because of this man that the children have sinned, and his own involvement cannot go without retribution. Broward Renson, it is time for you to answer for your sins.”

  Broward, who had been consoling his weeping son and daughter-in-law, looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. The crowd gasped. Broward tried to flee, but the
gathered bodies formed a barrier behind him, blocking his exit. Bracken collapsed on the ground and his weeping intensified as Oris and Alexander snatched his father by the arms and hauled him backward, kicking and screaming, toward the stone.

  “You can’t do this Vulfram!” Broward shouted, panic making his voice crack. “We grew up together! We were friends!”

  “Friendship is not enough,” Vulfram said coldly.

  Oris and Alexander forced Broward to his knees. The man struggled mightily, but his bones were too old, his muscles too tired to resist the strong hands that held him. His head was pushed against the stone, his cheek slipping against the blood that still glistened on its surface.

  “Accept your fate like your grandson did,” growled Vulfram as he raised Darkfall for a second time. “With honor.”

  “This isn’t right!” shouted Broward. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro—”

  The sword came down, cutting off the protesting man’s words. Broward’s head rolled away much like Kristof’s had, but his body stilled faster. Vulfram glared down at the corpse of the man he had called friend, the same man who had sealed his daughter’s fate. Momentarily overwhelmed by his anger, he spit on the headless body before the servants came to take it away.

  Vulfram re-sheathed his sword, its blade coated in the blood of the guilty, and turned at last to the remaining sinner. Lyana stared back at him, her eyes wide with shock, her body trembling. His face a mask, hiding his emotions, denying the pounding of his heart, he pointed at her and flicked his finger. Magister Wentner and his steward stripped Lyana of her clothing, leaving her exposed to all of Erznia.

  With a crooking of his finger, Vulfram summoned three women from the hushed crowd. The Sisters of the Cloth appeared like phantasms, beings covered from head to foot in gray wrappings and cloaks. Only their eyes peered through slits in their hoods.

  Vulfram faced his daughter. “Karak’s will is clear; those accused of the most heinous of crimes must be punished, and that punishment is binding. Lyana Mori, daughter of Vulfram and Yenge, you have murdered the child within you, and for that crime, you are henceforth sentenced to twenty-five lashings and a lifetime of servitude to the Sisters of the Cloth. Never again shall your face be seen by eyes other than your suitors’, and no longer may you have a will of your own. Any children you birth shall become wards of the kingdom, and you shall give them up willingly. Do you understand your sentence?”