Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  At least she was making progress, however slight it might be.

  “Let us pray to Karak, our Lord Almighty, the Divinity of the East who granted to us the lives with which we’ve been blessed! Bow down before his faithful servant, and prove your dedication. Karak has promised you liberty, the freedom to pursue your life’s goals in any way you wish so long as you adhere to his teachings. All he asks for in return is your devotion! Recognize him…kneel in this very grass and sing his name!”

  Soleh dropped to her knees. Those who had heeded her call approached the pulpit and lowered themselves down, eyes upturned and hands clasped. Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin paced back and forth, full of nervous energy, searching among the faithful for any who might have approached the platform with less than honorable intentions. They found none, as Soleh knew they wouldn’t. It wasn’t the faithful she had to fear, but those who stayed back—watching, doubting, mocking.

  “Let your god hear your voice,” she told the worshippers. “Let him know just how much love is in your hearts. Sing to him, for the god of order is benign and good, and he requires the adoration of his children.”

  The people opened their mouths then, rejoicing in different ways. Some chanted their god’s name, others hummed a tune from childhood, and still others sang Karak’s decrees. Eventually, with Soleh’s lead, their voices melded into one, a blend of tones crooning a six-note tune melodically. The voices shifted up and down, rising in volume, and the wordless song uttered by a mere fifteen individuals filled the entire courtyard with its joyful servitude. Pride burned in Soleh’s heart, and a smile stretched across her face. She could feel the presence of Karak within her, fueled by the worship of his children, and it brought a certain lightness to her being.

  Then something struck the side of her face. She fell over, clutching her cheek, which was covered in crushed tomato pulp. Flicking her fingers, she cast the juicy seeds aside, then faced the crowd. That she’d been heckled did not surprise her; despite her station, the cowardly always found courage when hidden, faceless, in a crowd. But this—this was new. No one had ever before been insane enough to throw something at her.

  She spotted the objector in the crowd, a spindly older man wearing a filthy brown robe over his torn clothes. He held a bucket of spoiled fruit in his left hand, and when he opened his mouth to shout a jeer at her, she saw that he was missing half his teeth. The man’s skin was dark and rutted, as if he’d spent his whole life tied to a rock in the desert.

  “What does Karak care for me?” he shouted. “I have lost everything—my honor, my land, even my children, to the Conningtons! And the courts do nothing. Karak does nothing! If he cares so much, let him do something about it! Or does his ‘caring’ only get me an arrow in the throat?”

  Soleh cringed but tried to hide her frustration. This was the type of man who needed to learn to kneel, just as Karak had told her. She had to wake him up to that fact. Her Palace Guard lingered along the interior of the castle wall, watching, honoring her demand that she be allowed to handle whatever happened in the courtyard herself, in whatever way she decided best.

  “Karak did not take your lands or your family away,” she shouted. “That you even had those lands was because of the freedom he granted you. But if you have lost them, if you have nothing, then that is on you. Pick yourself back up and start over. That is the right your god has given you!”

  The man spit a wad of reddish-yellow phlegm. “Start over? Start over?! I’m almost seventy years old, woman! Unlike you, my bones actually turn brittle as the years wear on. I didn’t get to create my own mate, and I wasn’t granted a life in splendor. How can I possibly pick myself up when I can barely lift this bucket of fruit?”

  With that he dipped his hand into the bucket and withdrew another tomato.

  “One of these, though,” he said, “I can lift just fine. You lying, eternal whore!”

  The man reared back and hurled the tomato at her. Soleh easily stepped out of the way, but that didn’t stop Pulo and Roddalin from rushing forward and grabbing the old man by the arms. He struggled, his teeth clenched, and called out for help from those around him. No one dared come to his aid—not when Jonn walked among them with his sword drawn. Pulo and Roddalin lugged the man before the pulpit. The kneelers, who were watching the proceedings in horror, quickly made room as the guards threw the man face down in the grass.

  Soleh stepped off the platform and approached him. Inwardly she shivered, while outwardly she was a wall of iron. This was a test of her wisdom and her ability to convey the hard truths she knew. Eyes were upon her, and whatever they witnessed would spread throughout the city like wildfire. Soleh stood before the elderly man as he raised his head. His jaw swished from side to side, gathering spittle. Pulo stopped him before he could act on his disgrace, planting a booted foot on the man’s back.

  “You may insult me all you wish,” Soleh said, “for I am not perfect. But Karak is divine. Karak is the reason, the Order in a universe of chaos. He is to be praised, not torn down. Will you praise him?”

  “Fuck you,” the man muttered. “And fuck Karak.”

  “Very well,” said Soleh. She faced the crowd again. Beyond the kneelers she saw that a crowd of nearly a hundred had gathered, watching. Soleh addressed her words to the faithful, but they weren’t the ones she was truly addressing. They weren’t the ones who needed her message most.

  “Karak is mighty, but he is also forgiving. If you have turned your back to him in pride, then kneel. Show your appreciation to your creator.”

  The distant men and women were watching, and only a small handful stepped forward to join the others in prayer. Soleh sighed, wanting to give up but knowing Karak wouldn’t have given her such a task if he had not thought her equal to it. Hard truths, she told herself. They must all learn the hard truths. She turned back to the man her guards held bound.

  “You must know that despite Karak’s forgiveness, he is merciless before disrespect. If no forgiveness is requested, none shall be received. Turning your back on your creator forever will result in the damnation of your eternal soul. You will be punished for an eternity in the fires in the Abyss below Afram.”

  The crowd began to murmur, and Soleh knew she had their attention at last.

  “However,” she cried, “this kind of damnation is a last resort. It is a sad fate that I would not wish on anyone, even this sad, disrespectful mongrel before me. No, it is up to us, the faithful, to spare the weak from the punishing fire. If you do not sacrifice your pride willingly, you will have another sacrifice taken from you by force!”

  She nodded to Jonn, who sheathed his sword and withdrew a wicked-looking dagger. Pulo and Roddalin knelt on the dissenter’s back, staying him, while Jonn circled around and caught his flailing hand in a firm grip. The old man shrieked as he struggled beneath the guard’s weight. Jonn held the dagger’s cutting edge over the man’s wrist and glanced up at Soleh.

  “A hand for your soul,” she said, her voice knifing through the stunned crowd. “That is not a lot to ask.”

  Jonn gritted his teeth and hacked down with the dagger. As the blade pierced flesh, the guard’s breastplate was spattered with blood. The old man shrieked even louder as Jonn brought the dagger down again, this time splitting through a few bones—still, the hand remained attached. It took a third swing to finally sever the appendage. Blood poured from the stump, the frayed skin glistening, the jagged bone looking sharp and dangerous. Still the man screamed, now crying out in supplication.

  “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I repent! Give my soul to Karak! He can have it, it’s his!”

  Soleh gestured for Jonn to switch sides, which he did, grabbing the man’s other hand and holding the dagger to his flesh.

  Hard truths, she told herself.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her expression hard as granite. “Or do we need to take another sacrifice?”

  “No, dammit!” the man squealed. He was sobbing fully now, shock robbing him of his will to do anythi
ng but raise his voice. “Praise be to the Divinity! He who created me deserves my love and respect!”

  Soleh let the moment linger, let her silence stretch over the crowd. She passed her eyes over them, let them imagine themselves standing before judgment, a knife raised over their own sinful lives.

  “I believe you,” she said.

  She beckoned to the palace servants who had been observing the event and told them to help mend the man’s wounds. Then, loudly enough for everyone watching to hear, she spoke: “This man is truly repentant and now stands in Karak’s favor. Make sure he is given the best healers at our disposal, and instruct the minister of agriculture to find him a position. Make certain he has a place to rest his head at night and money to keep him fed. That is all.”

  “Thank you, Minister,” the man groveled as the servants led him away, doing their best to staunch the blood still pouring from the stump of his right wrist. “You are merciful, you are great. Praise Karak, praise Karak, praise Karak.…”

  This continued until the servants brought the man through the entrance to Tower Servitude. Soleh turned around, filled with pride that she had saved the man’s soul, and that pride doubled when she saw what awaited her. The rest of those gathered in the courtyard—merchants, commoners, and vagrants alike—were all on bended knee.

  A smile, perhaps the largest ever to cross her face, appeared on her lips as she joined them.

  “Let us pray.”

  Court in Tower Justice dragged on and on that day. Thankfully, the docket was empty of the more heinous offenses, but the sheer number of minor crimes Soleh needed to preside over was mind numbing. To make matters worse, for some unknown reason King Vaelor had decided he would sit in on the day’s session. The king’s bodyguard, Karl Dogon, set up a makeshift throne on the far side of the room, where the king sat through the proceedings, looking bored. It wouldn’t have been that much of a bother if not for the way every convict brought before Soleh spent more time staring in his direction than hers. Few commoners seemed to understand that it was Soleh who ruled in the courtroom. When it came to power in Neldar, he was the face, she was the fist, and Karak was the heart.

  But finally the day was over. The king returned to his chambers in Tower Honor, and Soleh looked forward to nothing more than getting back home, eating whatever Ibis had prepared for the evening meal, and then falling into a comfortable sleep before she had to do it all over again. Pulo met her in Tower Justice’s circular anteroom, helped her remove her cloak, and then held open the door.

  “Will you be walking today, Minister?” he asked.

  “Not today,” she replied. “If you could please find me a carriage, it would be appreciated. My feet are sore.”

  “Yes, Minister,” he said and turned away with a bow.

  “Oh, and Pulo—” she called out after him.

  He turned around to face her.

  “You did well today. All three of you did. I’m proud of you all.”

  Pulo bowed again and then went along his way, leaving Soleh alone on the pathway outside the tower. She gazed up at the stars on this clear autumn night, lost in thoughts of her home and her god. She felt a stirring in her loins and decided that if she felt up to it, she would throw Ibis down later tonight and remind him why she’d created him.

  The sound of beating hooves reached her ears, and Soleh stepped out into the middle of the courtyard to greet her escort. It took her a moment to realize that the hooves were growing too close, striking the ground too quickly, to be a carriage. She took a few hurried steps back, and watched as a brown stallion galloped through the portcullis. The Palace Guard did nothing to stop the horse or its rider, stepping out of the way so as not to be crushed. The bald rider, wearing ratty clothes, yanked up on the reins, bringing the stallion to an uneasy halt. He immediately leapt from the saddle, his hands flexing as he marched toward the doorway to Tower Honor. Soleh’s eyes widened.

  It was her son.

  “Vulfram!” she shouted, just as he grabbed the handle on Tower Honor’s great door and gave it a mighty yank. The huge oaken portal flew open as if her son had been granted the strength of ten men. When he stormed inside, he looked angry enough to kill. Soleh swore she could hear him growling.

  Picking up the front of her dress, she ran across the pathway as fast as she could, slipping as she took the turn and entered the still open doorway. Thoughts of Lyana overwhelmed her mind. What fate had Vulfram declared for her? She forced her legs to move faster as she raced through the carpeted hall. Up ahead she finally caught sight of her son, who seemed oblivious to her pursuit. He was grabbing the palace’s guards, shouting up a storm as he passed, demanding answers to questions she couldn’t hear. She got closer, and amid her own panic she heard terrible words. Treason, Crestwell, and murder came from his mouth. She reached out, close enough to see the sweat soaking through his tunic.

  Vulfram wheeled around, fist cocked, ready to strike, only to have that fist snatched by the guard he had just accosted. Soleh saw the gleaming rage in her son’s eyes and shrank back. She held her hands beneath her chin, fighting the urge to chew on her knuckles, a nervous tic she’d had since the first day she’d opened her eyes to the world.

  “Mother,” Vulfram said harshly, tearing his wrist away from the guard. His breath reeked of liquor.

  “Vulfram, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I could care less where I’m supposed to be,” he growled. “Fuck the army, fuck Omnmount, and fuck Haven. I have business to attend to.”

  Soleh was taken aback by his language and the drunken gleam in his eyes.

  “What sort of business?” she asked, trying to remain calm.

  “None of yours.”

  He turned away from her, continuing up the hall toward the double doors that led to the royal court. From around the corner appeared Malcolm Gregorian, the Captain of the Guard. He stepped in front of the doors, holding his hands before him, his scar-marked face look drawn and serious. Soleh noticed that the Captain’s fingers were twitching over the pommel of his shortsword.

  “There is no entrance at the moment, Lord Commander,” Gregorian said, calm as could be. “You will have to come back on the morrow.”

  Vulfram strode up to him, his face inches from Malcolm’s. Vulfram was shorter than the Captain, but his girth was greater. He looked like a bull standing before a gazelle.

  “You’ll get out of my way now,” Vulfram shouted. “The Highest and I have matters we need to discuss.”

  “Highest Crestwell is not here.”

  “I’ll see for myself,” Vulfram snarled.

  When Vulfram moved to pass him, Malcolm drew his sword and pushed the large man back with his other hand. Vulfram tore his own greatsword from its scabbard, holding it unsteadily before him. The tips of their blades were nearly touching, but so far neither of them had made a move. Vulfram breathed heavily, the breath of a desperate man. Malcolm was expressionless, like a living statue.

  Soleh was nearly overwhelmed with horror and fury. She stood frozen in place, her hands shaking at her sides.

  “Stop!” she screamed. “Vulfram! Captain! Put your swords away, now! Your Minister demands it!”

  Malcolm did as he was told without question, slipping his blade back into the scabbard on his belt without pause. Vulfram, however, allowed Darkfall to hover there a few moments longer. Soleh could tell he was unsure—she knew her son better than he knew himself. That he was so upset, so out of control, put a silent terror into her. What must have happened to Lyana for him to be acting this way?

  “Please, son,” she whispered. Vulfram turned to her, tears streaming down his cheeks, making his beard glisten. She touched his hand, and he released the heavy sword, which bounced twice on the carpeted floor before coming to a rest. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her, peering over Vulfram’s shoulder, and Soleh nodded in response. He nodded back, bent over, lifted Darkfall, and gently slid it into the scabbard that was slung across Vulfram’s back.
Then the Captain turned, leaving through the same side opening from which he’d appeared.

  Soleh took her son by the hand and led him down the hallway, the Palace Guard averting their eyes out of courtesy. She led him out of the tower, to where Pulo waited with the carriage. She lifted a finger to him, telling him to wait a few moments, and guided her strangely silent son back into Tower Justice, where they might find some privacy.

  Once the door closed and they were safely locked inside the tower, Vulfram began to pace. He circled the entirety of the round hall, slapping at the doors of the holding cells in turn. Every so often he would run his hand across his shaved head, whipping his fingers out afterward as if he were trying to rid himself of some taint that wouldn’t go away. Soleh stood in the middle of the anteroom and watched him in silence. He would come to her when he was ready.

  That time came after three more laps around the interior. Vulfram strode before her, his eyes still red but his expression more composed. The flush was gone from his face. He knelt before her and took her hand.

  “I apologize, Minister. I spoke out of place.”

  “Vulfram, forget the titles. We’re alone, and I’m your mother. What is wrong?”

  He nodded, still reluctant to meet her gaze. He was ashamed of his earlier outburst, she knew. An urge to gather him to her bosom washed over her, but she resisted it as best she could. Too often she had shown weakness. It was time for her to display the strength Karak had assured her she possessed.