Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  Crian let out a cry of animal passion that he hoped would never end. Despite everything that had happened, he’d never been happier in all his life.

  Vulfram heard the cries of ardor as they echoed through the halls of the Tower Keep. He was in father’s studio again, drink in hand, propped up against one of the countless statues of Karak. Since Crian had arrived with the DuTaureau girl, this had been the only place he could find solace, despite its odd effect on his faculties. He slept in here, took his meals in here; in fact, the only time he left was when his father wished to work, which, given his son’s sour mood and brooding attitude, didn’t seem to happen very much at all.

  His deceitful mother had, of course, begun acting strange around him. Whenever she came home and tiptoed into the studio to see him, she acted hesitant, as if he were a wild animal that could strike out at any moment. This from the woman who had raised Kayne and Lilah. And her attempts at communication were laughably inconsistent. At times she would coddle him, ushering in freshly baked goods and urging him to eat. Other times she would chastise him for his behavior, for his lack of resiliency, telling him how his position as Lord Commander was hanging by a delicate thread. Although that was typical behavior for her—Vulfram had experienced it since he was a child, the private vulnerability turning into hardheadedness in the public eye—there was a sort of desperation behind it now that was unbecoming. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His little girl was gone, his mother was secretly plotting against him, and he was a broken man.

  Tonight his god would visit him, and when Karak saw what a miserable wretch he was, he would be demoted, just like Crian had been.

  The thing was, Vulfram just…didn’t…care. About any of it, not even Yenge, Alexander, and Caleigh, sitting back in the safety of Erznia, unaware of the hardships he was enduring.

  But he did care about Lyana still, and now he had to be tortured by listening to the Crestwell whelp and his turncoat whore fucking upstairs. The sounds of their passion brought forth images of his daughter’s future, of her trapped with some sadistic bastard like Romeo Connington, forced to obey his every command. Whenever a man purchased her services, would she be forced to scream out the way that DuTaureau girl was screaming?

  He covered his ears with his hands and screamed himself, trying to drown them out. When his heart raced out of control and his throat went dry, he stopped. Other than his own voice echoing in his ears and the faint sizzle of the candles that burned all around him, everything was silent. He offered a quiet thank you to the unseen heavens, lifted his jug of home-brewed rum, and swallowed a large gulp. Then he stood and stumbled across his father’s workshop, his vision swimming.

  He walked past statue after statue, not wanting to raise his eyes to meet the accusing glares they leveled at him. He lazily held Darkfall’s handle with the hand that was not clutching his jug, dragging the unsheathed sword behind him, its tip scraping against stone with a metallic hiss. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care. He brought the jug up to his lips once more, the liquor sloshing inside its ceramic bubble, and downed yet another gulp. Then he heard more noises from the floor above, more moans coupled with the grating of wooden bedposts sliding along the stone floor. Forward, back, forward, back, forward, back. Vulfram began to get dizzy from the repetitiveness of it.

  “Just finish already,” he groaned.

  At last he could take no more. He cocked back his arm and hurled the jug across the studio, where it smashed against the chest of one of his father’s statues. Rum splashed everywhere. Normally Vulfram would have chastised himself for wasting good liquor, but he was too consumed with rage to care.

  He hated them all. He hated his mother for her betrayal and false sense of concern, hated Karak for taking his daughter away. He hated Broward for his role in the whole mess and Clovis for being such an insufferable prick. But most of all he hated those two bastards upstairs, who taunted him with their zeal, their love, their youth—none of which Lyana would ever get to experience. Not anymore.

  In a fit of rage, he rushed the statue against which his jug had shattered. Time and again he pummeled it with his fists. He heard bones break, but his entire body stayed numb. Blood streaked the chest of the statue where his fists met it, forming interlocking lines. And still the face of Karak mocked him.

  “Not good enough?” he shouted at it. “Still want to judge me, do you?”

  He rammed his forehead into his god’s visage, hoping to strike it hard enough to knock the head from the body. But the statue was solid stone, and a hollow clang rang inside his own head in the aftermath. He stumbled backward, his vision spinning, his knees feeling suddenly weak. He collapsed, falling on his side, jarring his elbow. He blamed even the pain that shot through him on the couple upstairs.

  The world slowly faded to blackness. Swirling in the shadows was the image of the bodies of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, mutilated beyond all recognition. It taunted him with its simplicity, its blessed relief.

  “I could only wish,” Vulfram muttered as he felt his consciousness slip away.

  Crian rolled off his love, gasping for breath. Slowly his mind returned from the isolation of his passion, and he took in the world around him once more. He heard the creaking in the walls, felt the subtle bite of cool air inside the room. Nessa lounged on the bed, her naked body covered with sweat and sparkling in the candlelight. He touched her belly, which elicited a moan from her puffy lips.

  “Really?” he said, exhausted. “You’re not satisfied yet?”

  Nessa gazed at him, her blue eyes twinkling, and shook her head.

  “What? Isn’t that what you want?” she asked, grinning.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. But it’s been twice already. I’m sore.”

  “Sore?” she said, slapping his arm. “You best make yourself not sore.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  She slapped at him again, and he laughed as he blocked her playful swipes.

  “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But let me piss first.”

  He stood up and walked to the bucket that rested in the corner of the room.

  “Please don’t do that in here,” she said. “It’s…unsavory. Isn’t there a washroom down the hall?”

  He turned toward her, still naked as the day he was born.

  “Really?” he asked.

  She sat up, hugging her knees close to her chest, looking once more like a little girl he had to protect rather than the woman he had just ravaged.

  “Please?” she said.

  “All right,” he said, strolling out of the room without bothering to put on his clothes.

  Halfway down the candlelit corridor he had second thoughts about prancing naked around the tower. Though Soleh, Ulric, and Adeline weren’t present—the three Moris had been called to the Temple of Karak for a meeting—it was possible that Lord Commander Vulfram, or the specter the once proud man had become, could be lurking about. The thought of him made Crian shake his head. Vulfram had been his hero for years. Only once had he seen him since taking up residence in the tower. The state the man was in saddened him—Vulfram’s normally shaved head was covered with thick stubble, his eyes bloodshot, and his breath reeking of liquor. He hated seeing a good man broken down like that. Hurrying toward the washroom, Crian hoped he wouldn’t have to see Vulfram like that again while also naked himself.

  He stepped into the washroom, lit a candle, and tried to put thoughts of Vulfram Mori out of his mind. He hummed while he pissed in the bucket and then turned to leave. He was cautious this time, peering both ways down the hallway to make sure no one was looking. The coast was clear, and he started back to his room. He thought of Nessa waiting for him, her exposed body bent and ready, and he surprised himself by getting excited all over again.

  “Three times,” he muttered. “Why not? Going to hurt like the abyss tomorrow, though.…”

  When he turned the corner into their shared room, that excitement was ripped away in an
instant.

  All around him, splattered on the walls and ceiling, dripping down the nightstand, even coating his precious dragonglass mirror, was a sea of red. The candlelight refracted off its watery surface, making the entire room appear to be on fire. Crian’s knees buckled and he stared at the bed he’d left just moments before. On it lay Nessa, face soaked with the same red that covered everything else, her unblinking, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. Her arms and legs were splayed out wide and her chest was split open from the center of her neck all the way to her pelvis. The skin had been peeled back like flaps, and it dangled over her sides, exposing her ribcage and the glossy, pulpy mess of her spilled innards.

  Crian gagged on his own bile.

  This is not real, this is not real, his mind repeated over and over, a mantra that failed to change the horror in front of him. Falling on his knees, he began to weep, his arms dropping limply beside him. He tried again to convince himself it was all a nightmare, but a second glance at his dead and mutilated lover was enough to destroy that idea, as well as break the last vestiges of sanity in his mind.

  “It really is a shame,” said a slurred voice behind him.

  Crian recognized that voice. He slowly climbed to his feet, trying to stay upright despite the anguish that cramped his insides and turned his knees to jelly. Vision blurry through tear-soaked eyes, he turned around to face the intruder, a huffing man bathed in shadow. Crian’s mind emptied, his body numb long before he saw the flash of silver that danced before him. The knife bit into his flesh and he felt the strange, wet sensation of liquid spilling over his chest. The room tilted on its side and began to spin. Then after a sudden flash of light, Crian saw no more.

  The headache hit him the second he tried to open his eyes. Vulfram ground his fists into them, wincing at the gritty sensation behind his eyelids. His chest felt constricted, as if there were a great weight resting atop him, and when he rubbed his fingers together, he realized they were strangely wet.

  “My gods, Vulfram!”

  The voice came from somewhere above him, to the left, and Vulfram lifted his head toward it. His vision was blurred, and he could only make out a vague figure. The figure then lifted a torch, revealing a gruff face marred by four wicked-looking scars.

  “Malcolm,” Vulfram said to Captain Gregorian, his speech slurred.

  The Captain of the Palace Guard stared down at him, his features twisted with horror. To complete the bizarre image, he held a vase full of flowers in his hands.

  “What did you do, you bastard!” he yelled.

  Vulfram winced at the volume of Gregorian’s voice and brought his hands up to cover his ears. His left reached its destination, but he held something in his right that first bounced off his cheek and then brought a quick, needle-like pain to his temple. He opened his fingers reflexively, and something clanked on the floor beside him. When he looked at his hand, he saw that it was stained red.

  “What the.…” he began, confusion overwhelming him. Glancing down at the floor, he saw an elegantly crafted knife, its blade curved and sharp, the grip rounded with finger notches. He couldn’t tell what material the handle was made of, however, for the entire weapon was soaked with blood.

  The Captain took a few steps into the room from the doorway where he’d been standing. His eyes kept flicking in Vulfram’s direction, bulging in disbelief. A few moments later, the man dropped the vase. It shattered, spilling water everywhere and scattering the assorted lilies, orchids, and hyacinths that had filled it. Vulfram’s gaze followed the path of the flowing water, watching it twist around the strange red blotches that covered the smooth stone floor, until it reached the legs of a bed. He then glanced up, and from his vantage point on the floor all he could see were four feet hanging off the edge of the mattress above him, blood dripping from the toes.

  “Shit!” he yelped, kicking out his legs, suddenly not feeling so groggy any longer. He tried to stand, but his feet slipped and he fell back down. It was only then that he realized there was blood everywhere—on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and even all over himself.

  In a panic he looked up at Captain Gregorian, whose attention was focused on the bed. More slowly this time, Vulfram rose to his feet. His survival instinct told him to flee, to knock the Captain out and run from this room, from this tower, from this city, from this kingdom, never to return again. That instinct was cut off the moment he saw what Gregorian was staring at.

  The feet belonged to Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau. Crian’s throat was slit, whereas Nessa had been sliced open from breast to belly. They lay beside one another, and to complete the macabre picture, their fingers were entwined, as if they’d held hands throughout the entire horrific ordeal.

  The stench hit him suddenly, the scent of ammonia and rot. He doubled over and hacked and hacked, his insides emptying, his fluids covering the blood that was smeared over everything, making him sick anew.

  Hands grabbed him from behind, yanking him out of the room and into the hallway. His world turned dizzy again, and for a split second he wondered how he’d gotten to the third floor of the tower. He cried out as he was thrown against the wall. His head struck with a loud thud, smacking off the stone, and a loud buzzing flooding his ears. He collapsed, momentarily losing control of his bodily functions and shitting himself right then and there.

  He gathered enough strength to turn his head, watched as Gregorian disappeared inside the room again. When he emerged, he was carrying two weapons—the bloody knife and Darkfall, which he slid into its scabbard. The Captain whistled loudly, and Vulfram heard multiple booted footsteps echo through the foyer on the first floor far below them. That done, Gregorian knelt before him, staring at him with a mixture of disgust and anger. Blood was smeared on his forehead, and the four scars that had come from Vulfram’s childhood pets seemed to expand and contract like the gills of a fish as he breathed.

  “Vulfram Mori, I hereby detain you for the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, beloved children of Karak,” the Captain growled.

  Vulfram tried to deny it, but an armored fist slammed into his face, ending his protest before he could utter it.

  CHAPTER

  30

  It was dark but for a single peephole. Light shone through the narrow opening, creating a lance-like beam that pierced the darkness, illuminating a single spot on the slatted wood floor. Geris sat there, slumped on his knees, staring at the beam, watching flecks of dust dance within it. He tried to focus on them in an attempt to shut out the jovial sounds from outside, for in no way did he wish to witness the wicked ceremony that was even now taking place.

  Eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He stood up, made his way to the side of his makeshift prison, and peered through the hole.

  The cart he was stowed in was one they’d brought with them on the journey from Safeway. Ahaesarus and Judarius had removed the canvas and nailed excess wooden slats to the outside and above his head. He would never forget the look of revulsion and disappointment on his mentor’s face, nor the fury that had seeped from Judarius’s green-gold eyes. He tried to explain to them why he’d done what he had done, but they would hear none of it. If only they’d believe him! The strongest Wardens were blessed by Ashhur to know with absolute certainty when a factual truth was spoken, yet they still didn’t understand. They had both told him more than once that he’d lost his mind and shamed them both in the process.

  “Just listen,” Geris moaned as he pressed his fingers against the wagon. “Why won’t you just listen?”

  Now Geris was imprisoned in a place faraway from home, and the rest of his family had been sent away in disgrace. The wagon had been parked on the very edge of a vast courtyard, and he was left to watch helplessly through that tiny slat in his prison as the people of Mordeina gathered around Manse DuTaureau to observe the crowning of the first ever King of Paradise, the imposter Benjamin Maryll. “A punishment,” Judarius had said, and oh what a punishment it was.

  It was
a joyous scene, and laughter and singing filled the night. Great bonfires were lit, fires that burned so strongly that the normally chilly northern fall air was hot as summertime. Even Geris, many yards away, was sweating because of it. People danced around the bonfires, arms locked. There were children everywhere, hundreds of them under the watchful eyes of the Wardens, and the expressions on their faces spoke of blissful joy. He wished he could feel that joy, but instead his insides twisted and his cheeks flushed with anger. You’re blind! he wanted to shout. Can you not see the truth? But what good would it do? The people of Paradise were ignorant fools, as the shadow-lion had said, happy just to make babies, grow vegetables, and pray to Ashhur. A simple life was what they had, and they thought themselves lucky for it.

  That simple life was going to be the end of them.

  The party raged on, as if the events of the previous evening had never happened. It was yet another example of their ignorance, yet another example of why the witch would win. At that point the singing toned down a bit, and as if on cue, the witch scaled the platform that had been raised in front of the manse’s back gate in between two bonfires. The creature was elegant, that much Geris could admit, what with her silken clothing and the crystal diadem that shone atop her fiery red hair. The witch hushed the crowd with a wave of her hand, and she smiled at them—a smile that only faltered when her eyes darted toward Geris’s prison. Within moments it returned. Geris was taken aback by how she glowed, how beautiful she was—Ashhur’s mark was all over her.