Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  When he rapped on the door, a young servant girl named Una, whom he had met many times, answered it almost immediately. He asked to see the lady of the house, smiling as Una cast a disapproving glance at his muddy, unkempt appearance. She escorted him inside, passing through the vestibule that overlooked the pathway and down a long hall that opened up into the solarium.

  There were several people in the room, but Crian saw only one—his beloved Nessa. She lit up with joy the moment he stepped inside, casting aside her knitting so that she could lunge at him. Crian dropped Integrity on the table beside him and wrapped his arms around her, accepting her kisses across his dirty face, letting the tiny pecks wash away all the lingering horror of the Ghostwood.

  “You came!” she cried out between kisses. “Atria just arrived two days ago. I wasn’t expecting you for another week!”

  “I’m early,” replied Crian, easily supporting her tiny frame.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, pulling away. “You’re all a mess.”

  “I had to…let me just say I walked here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, not wanting to answer her fully, for he was all right now.

  It was Moira’s turn to embrace him. Her blue eyes watered at the edges as she took in the sight of him, and she played nervously with her silver-white hair. Crian was able to pry Nessa off for a warm embrace, although his love still managed to attach herself to his side like a human barnacle.

  “It’s good you came,” Moira said. Despite how similar she appeared to Avila, she had none of their sister’s mannerisms. Moira exuded kindness, simplicity, and passion, while Avila had done anything but. When Crian looked into those blue eyes, he saw a woman at peace, a woman who had everything she needed and was more than willing to give it all away for those she loved. It hurt him terribly, knowing the reason he had come, the ill tidings he brought with him.

  “Not as good as I would like,” he said, lowering his gaze to the floor.

  Nessa circled around in front of him, her curly red hair frizzing up about her head like a crimson halo, hands clasped, eyes wide with sudden concern.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked.

  Crian cast his gaze aside. “I was discovered, Ness. We were discovered.”

  “So?” uttered Nessa, incredulous.

  “It’s about time,” Moira interrupted. “If Father has thrown you out, you can come down here and live with me. I have been trying for years to convince you to do so, anyway.”

  “It’s not just that,” he said, glancing between them. “Haven is no longer safe.”

  Moira took a step back as Nessa began to chew on her knuckles, a nervous habit that he had always found adorable until now.

  “Why?” Moira asked.

  “It’s Father. In a month he is coming here, with an army at his back.”

  “Which only makes him a man of his word,” said a gruff male voice. Crian glanced up at the speaker, who was rising from a reclined position on the divan. He was solidly built and was wearing a thin white robe covered with a long maroon jerkin. His hair was close cropped yet shaggy, his beard thick but well maintained. Wisps of gray suggested he was an older man, but he carried himself with the strength and confidence of youth. His eyes were a deep brown, and they seemed to convey a sort of veiled intelligence that reminded Crian of his father.

  “Who are you?” Crian asked.

  The man stepped past Moira and extended his hand. “Deacon Coldmine, Lord of Haven.”

  “You’re Deacon?”

  “The last I heard.”

  “Wait, isn’t your brother—”

  “On the king’s council, yes.”

  “Funny, he never mentioned you.”

  “He had no reason to.”

  “Oh,” Crian replied, shaking the man’s hand.

  He stepped back after the greeting. “Listen, all of you,” he said, glancing in turn at each of the three people standing around him. “Yes, you know my father, the Highest—our father, Morry—is coming here. But his proclamation was dishonest. He doesn’t care whether or not you fall down before Karak and beg forgiveness. To be honest, I’m not sure Karak does, either. This city, your temple—they’re going to make an example of it for the rest of Dezrel. You’ve been pronounced enemies of Neldar, and Clovis will wipe out every man, woman, and child. There is no turning back now, no safety to be found in Haven. We must all flee, all of us.”

  The joy that had filled Nessa’s eyes only moments ago slowly faded.

  “Is this true?” she asked.

  “It is. We haven’t much time. We must go, and soon.”

  “And where will we go?” asked Deacon. His arms were crossed over his chest, and Crian could tell there was only one person he had to convince, and then the whole delta would follow.

  “To Ashhur’s lands,” Crian said, meeting the hard man’s gaze. “We’ll find shelter there.”

  Deacon frowned.

  “And what of the four thousand other good people who live deeper in the delta?”

  “They can come with us, of course. Why wouldn’t they?”

  Deacon let out a laugh so devoid of humor that it reminded Crian once more of his father. A chill ran up his back, making him shiver.

  “Is that so?” the man asked. “How easy then, how simple. You have the wisdom of a child—perhaps worse than a child’s. Do you think Ashhur would be brave enough to accept us with open arms?”

  “He would!” shouted Nessa. “Ashhur loves and respects all life!”

  “Perhaps he does,” the bearded man said, rustling Nessa’s hair. “But Ashhur also knows his place. If the God of Order wishes death upon us, do you really think Ashhur will grant us sovereignty? That would invite open conflict between the two brothers, something they’ve both taken great pains to avoid. By the Abyss, Celestia even split the land with the Rigon to help separate their creations. No, Ashhur will not protect us. He will not risk open warfare for a few of his brother’s miserable failures. He will say he’s sorry and see us back to our fates.”

  “That’s not true!” cried Nessa.

  “Sometimes I find it hard to believe you’re thirty years old,” Deacon said with a roll of his eyes. He fixed Crian with a hard yet sympathetic stare. “I appreciate the warning, boy, but these contingencies have already been measured. And considering we never had any intention of bowing down, we have been preparing for war.”

  Crian opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “Did you think us cowards?” Deacon asked. “Haven is my creation. I brought the first settlers into this unclaimed land twenty years ago. I oversaw the taming of the ruffians who called the delta home. Most importantly, I taught the people what it meant to be free. I had the temple built so that they could exercise that freedom to its fullest potential. Never once, not even when your bastard father rained down arrows upon my people, did I consider tearing that temple down.”

  Crian threw up his hands. “This is madness!” he exclaimed. “You cannot win. The force my father commands outnumbers your citizens two to one! And you’re fighting more than just a king here; you’re fighting your own god!”

  “One man defending his home is worth ten invading soldiers, boy,” Deacon said, his face hardening even more. “Do we sign our own death warrant? Perhaps. But I would rather die a free man than live as a slave to a theocracy, beneath a puppet king who has less faith than I do. Have I made myself clear?”

  The air went out of Crian’s lungs. His shoulders sagged and he glanced at Moira, who stood beside the Lord of Haven.

  “Morry,” he said, turning to her. “Sister, please say you do not agree with him.”

  Moira tilted her head and gently parted her lips.

  “I’m sorry, but I do. Father disowned me long ago for the indignity of following my heart. The people of Haven are my people now. I cannot abandon them. I will not abandon them.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Crian. The decision is made, and it
is ironclad.”

  He felt close to tears. “If you were to perish, I couldn’t.…”

  She approached him and cupped his face in her hands.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There is more of Avila in me than you realize. I know how to defend myself. I will be fine…and even if I am not, you can go on knowing that I went out the way I chose.”

  He opened his mouth to protest but snapped it shut when he saw the determined look on his sister’s face. Her mind was made up. There was nothing he could say to make her feel otherwise.

  “I’ll go with you,” Nessa said, piercing the sudden silence. She pressed herself against him, this time far more subdued. “I’ll never leave your side. Never again.”

  “I know,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “And I won’t leave yours either.”

  Deacon slapped him on the shoulder, jarring his tired body.

  “You know,” he said, “we’re always on the lookout for another good swordsman. As it is, our one lone warrior is a bit…overmatched…given the number of citizens he is saddled with training. You were the Left Hand of the Highest, the instructor of countless troops of Karak’s Army. Your knowledge and skills could aid us in so many ways.”

  Crian clutched Nessa tighter.

  “I can’t,” he insisted. “My devotion is to Nessa, and she holds precedence over all else. I must get her out as soon as possible and enter Paradise before it’s too late. Her place is not in this battle, and I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

  “You needn’t say more,” said Deacon, nodding. “I understand your dilemma, and I’m sure Moira does as well.”

  “I do,” said Moira.

  “Thank you both for your understanding,” whispered Crian.

  He gave Nessa a last, loving embrace and then sent her off to gather her things. He lingered in the solarium with Moira and Lord Coldmine after she left, and an uncomfortable silence spread over them. The bright southern sun shone through the gaps in the solarium dome, gaps that were cutouts of human bodies standing hand in hand, with a hole in the center shaped like a shining star. Sunlight glowed off the sparkling, gem-encrusted edges of the cutouts. Crian clutched his hands behind his back and stared through each opening, admiring the blue autumn sky and wondering how the interior of the room could ever remain dry during the rainy summer months. He shivered, feeling a sudden chill wash over him.

  Deacon cleared his throat, looking to him with uncertainty.

  “I was wondering,” said Deacon, “how do you intend to reach the western bridge? Does your horse require new shoes? And are you low on food?”

  “I have no horse,” Crian replied. “I left him behind when I fled the Ghostwood. As for food…in that I am severely lacking.”

  “Do you have any coin? There are a few markets between here and there that offer reasonable options.”

  Crian shook his head, eliciting a dry laugh from Deacon.

  “No money, no horse, no nourishment—nothing at all but a sword and a will. How very rugged of you.”

  “We’ll manage,” Crian muttered.

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “Come now, boy. Your clothes are filthy and soaked; you’re shivering like a whore standing before a vanguard of angry wives; and there are bags the size of feed sacks beneath your eyes. You are exhausted.”

  Crian breathed deeply. “I am.”

  “Then stop acting like a fool, rushing into things you’re not prepared for. That’s what put you in this situation in the first place, I’d wager. I have supplies aplenty back at the homestead, including a stable filled with fine young geldings. Come with me, have dinner with my family, and rest your weary bones. I’ll give you a horse and all the provisions you require for your trek through the desert. My home may be more humble than this one, but it is a home nonetheless.”

  “Could we not just stay here?”

  Deacon shrugged. “You could, I suppose. But if you wish to flee quickly, it would be best for you to stay with me. The Gods’ Road is a few hours’ ride from here, but my home is half that distance. You could leave the stables at first light and cross the bridge before it’s time for breakfast.”

  “Take him up on his offer, Crian,” said Moira, placing a warm hand on his cheek. “Do it for Nessa’s sake, if not your own. She’s a sensitive girl, strong in some ways but fragile in many others. Besides…she means a lot to Patrick, who is staying with Deacon. He should get a chance to say good-bye.”

  “Very well,” said Crian. The notion of a warm place to rest his head was indeed inviting given his makeshift accommodations the past few nights. He offered Deacon an appreciative bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Coldmine. It is very much appreciated.”

  Nessa came running into the room then, lugging a rucksack stuffed to overflowing with clothes. She dropped the bag and embraced Moira, the rose color of her flushed cheeks making her look much younger than her thirty years.

  “Thank you. I love you, Miss Moira,” she said, her voice childlike.

  Crian slung a heavy arm over Nessa’s shoulder. “Come now, my love. The kind lord here has invited us to his estate this evening for food and a warm bed.”

  “He has?” Her face lit up with a smile, and he was surprised by how relieved she seemed to be. “Good. I wanted to say good-bye to Patrick—I really did. And there’s a few more dresses I can pack in here if I fold them tightly.”

  She looked him over, poked him.

  “And I have every intention of running you ragged tonight,” she said. “So thank Ashhur you’ll get to take a bath beforehand.”

  Despite everything, Crian let out a laugh.

  “My beloved Nessa,” he said, grinning. “How will you ever survive the journey west?”

  “With you,” she said, kissing his nose.

  The road to the Coldmine homestead was an arduous one, snaking through perilous swampland, rushing waterways, and knee-deep mud. Crian and Nessa rode on Moira’s horse. Despite the size and apparent amenities of the Gemcroft estate, their stables were extremely lacking. The only saddle they had on hand was fitted to his sister’s measurements, meaning he had to go bareback on the large mare. His tailbone ached and the pressure on his back, where Nessa was resting her head, threatened to warp his spine. The terrain was so treacherous for the horse that on more than one occasion he wished they were simply hiking instead.

  Then again, even on horseback it took more than an hour to reach the Coldmine homestead, and the last thing he had wanted was to try to navigate his delicate Nessa through a potentially hazardous bog under the cover of night. They’d wasted enough time chatting with his sister, repacking Nessa’s things for the journey, and getting him cleaned up.

  By the time they arrived, the whippoorwills were frantically chanting, filling the dusk with their macabre song. The homestead was indeed more humble than the grand Gemcroft estate, but only to a degree. The home itself was a practical, square construction made of tall logs and carefully placed stone pillars, two stories high and with numerous casements dotting the walls, giving it the look of a garrison. The setting sun silhouetted the dwelling, made it appear like a menacing obelisk rising up between tall, lavish gardens of roses and yellow daylilies.

  They left their horses in Deacon’s stables, which were certainly as well stocked as the man had claimed they were, with at least twenty horses stowed away inside. Crian picked out two strong-looking steeds, one of which was very similar to his father’s favorite white mount.

  “Good choices,” Deacon said. “They’re all yours.”

  The stable boy gave his master a queer look and then quickly turned his head and went about his chores, brushing the horses down and filling their feed bags. Crian chuckled, figuring the boy was confused about why his master would bestow such a handsome gift upon a stranger. Crian figured he should get used to this sort of anonymity. Perhaps he could change his name, lie about his heritage.…

  Nessa held his hand as they paraded up the front walk and through the main entranc
e to the ample home. The inside was brightly lit, with candles placed on every available flat surface. Numerous servants bustled about, dusting the simple country furnishings and scrubbing the floors. They were a quiet lot, and they kept their eyes downcast, politely nodding if they were ever addressed. It reminded Crian of his time among the wealthy in Veldaren. So it seemed as though pieces of the two kingdoms had slowly made their way into the delta.

  The scent of food reached his nose, succulent meats and exotic spices cooked over open flames, and Crian’s mouth began to water.

  “Dinner will be ready shortly,” Deacon announced almost offhandedly, not bothering to turn around as he continued his way through his vast home. “I should have an open room upstairs where you can spend the night. It isn’t much, but it will suit you fine, I think, given the circumstances.”

  They entered a long hallway lined with expertly painted portraits of Deacon and his family. Lady Coldmine was a beauty, Crian thought, pulling his own lady love closer to him. In the paintings, all the children seemed so happy and carefree. Crian hoped he might meet a few of them before he left, perhaps at dinner.

  The hallway ended at a large set of double doors. Deacon stopped before them, placing a palm on each and bowing his head as if in prayer. Crian waited patiently behind him while Nessa fidgeted. Finally, the bearded lord of Haven turned around. The strange expression on his face, with narrowed eyes and twitching mouth, revealed a sudden conflict.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve invited company.”

  Deacon swung the doors wide.

  The dining room was modest, and because it was located in the center of the abode, it was also windowless. Candles lined the center of a long table that was surrounded by chairs. Sitting opposite each other, looking almost bored, waited Clovis and Avila Crestwell.