Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  When they reached the courtroom’s antechamber on the second story of the tower, the Sisters walked straight through it, not stopping to wash their hands or to genuflect before the placard professing Karak’s commandments. Neither did Clovis. Soleh would not allow herself such insolence, though she seemed to be the only one who felt that way, as Captain Gregorian mimicked the Highest and Thessaly; normally just as much a stickler for court tradition as she was, he passed her by. Shivering, Soleh hastily wetted her hands with lukewarm water from the carafe, whispered a few quick words of praise to her god, and followed the rest into the main courtroom, where she promptly began to feel weak in the knees.

  The scent hit her first, nearly knocking her off her feet. It was a pungent, coppery scent, smelling strongly of ammonia and human waste. The sight hit her second, and that finished the job the smell had started. She collapsed to one knee, holding a hand over her mouth, gagging.

  Laid out in the middle of the courtroom, on a pair of wooden slabs, were two bloodied bodies that were so debased she couldn’t tell whether they were male or female. There was blood everywhere; it covered the corpses, the slabs. Drips even speckled the courtroom floor. Soleh noted, though not consciously, that one of the cadavers was unnaturally bloated, whereas the other was not. That accounted for the horrible smell.

  “What…is this?” she gasped.

  “Get off the dais,” said the Captain. “See who they are for yourself.”

  She didn’t want to. In the name of all that was holy, she truly didn’t. Yet she saw in the faces all around her, save for those of the Sisters, which were expressionless as always, that this emergency call of justice would not commence until she had. She covered her nose with her hands, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for what lay ahead. She took each step deliberately, just as she had done every day for many, many years. The appalling odors became all the more dreadful the closer she came, but she dared not stop. She realized that the bodies belonged to a man and a woman. The woman was in a horrific state, completely disemboweled, while the man’s throat had been slit and his member mutilated. She grew pale.

  Soleh looked at their faces closely, the only parts of either body that had been scrubbed clean of blood. Both were badly bruised and distended from the gases of death, but she almost immediately found something familiar about them. Then she noticed their hair—the woman’s was red and curly, the man’s brown with a few streaks of gray. Their identity hit her all at once, and she backpedaled, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

  It was Crian Crestwell and the western deserter, Nessa DuTaureau.

  Her eyes shot up, seeking out Clovis.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice echoing throughout the chamber.

  The Highest scowled at her. “Save your apologies for when your duties are complete,” he said harshly.

  Soleh wanted to retort but held her tongue. His outrage is understood, she thought. I cannot imagine how I would feel if I lost a child in this way. She thought of the time that had almost happened, when Oris had been badly burned, trapped in a raging fire while stupidly trying to rescue the three whores trapped inside. He had been unconscious for nearly a month, and during that time Soleh had been nearly inconsolable. There were moments when she’d wished she could take her son’s place. It was only when Oris finally opened his eyes—scarred for life, but alive—that she allowed herself to live once more. She then thought of Vulfram, residing in the same tower as the two of them, and immediately feared for his safety. He wasn’t there, not standing with the others, not dead on a slab. That could mean.…

  She shook with fright even as she nodded to those who formed a bracketed line around the two corpses. She then made her way uneasily across the remainder of the courtroom floor, climbed the stairs on the other side, and took her place in the Seat of the Minister. Thessaly did not join her, instead remaining by her father’s side. The woman who had sat at Soleh’s right hand while she interpreted Karak’s justice for the guilty still refused to look at her. Soleh drummed her fingers on the armrest of the throne, a lump in her throat, and waited.

  Captain Gregorian took two steps forward. He swallowed hard and snapped his feet together. Unlike the way he had been down in the antechamber, he was now completely composed and businesslike. It was a transformation that gave an illusion of normalcy to this strange and disturbing call to duty.

  “Court is in session,” stated the Captain. He genuflected on one knee before the Seat of the Minister, then stood to his full height once more, following protocol.

  “Bring out the accused,” Soleh said, fearful anticipation causing the knot in her stomach to tighten. Please let it not be him.

  Gregorian bowed his head and made his way not to the main vestibule, which was where the criminals were normally ushered in from, but to the side passageway, built into the tower as an alternate route of escape in case of fire. The Captain yanked open the door and dipped inside. When he returned, he dragged behind him a stumbling man whose arms and legs were chained together. The man was bare chested, with a messy stubble of hair on the top of his head. His face was bruised and bloodied, and he walked with the lurch of one who’d either taken in far too much liquor or had been beaten senseless.

  Soleh’s heart sank despite the shock of his condition.

  She wheeled on the Highest. “Why is my son in this state? Why has he been beaten?”

  “SILENCE!” screamed Clovis, his voice echoing so loudly, she could imagine it reaching the top of the spire. “Your responsibility on that throne is to pass judgment on the accused, not question the bearers of the law.”

  She sat back down, flabbergasted and afraid.

  Gregorian hauled Vulfram through the courtroom, past the onlookers, past the two mutilated corpses, and threw him down before her. Her son’s back flexed with each breath he took. He stayed where we was, on his shackled hands and knees, head down. The Captain walked in front of him and addressed the court.

  “Before the Seat of the Minister I present Vulfram Jorah Mori, son of Ibis and Soleh, a man whose current position is that of Lord Commander of the Army of Karak. He stands accused of the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, children of Karak, the Divinity of the East.”

  Soleh swallowed hard, trying her best to keep calm. “And who witnessed these crimes?”

  “I have, Minister,” the Captain said, glaring down at Vulfram as he said it.

  At those words, Vulfram vaulted up. His irons caught, limiting his movement, but he strained his neck, looking like he was trying to force his skeleton from his body. He stared up at Soleh, eyes so wide it seemed as though they might explode out of their sockets.

  “It is not true!” he yelled. “I swear on all that is holy, it isn’t. You must believe me!”

  Gregorian planted a boot in his back, knocking him to the floor, where he bashed his chin against the bottom step of the dais.

  “He lies,” the Captain said. He reached behind him, pulled a knife from the bag that hung on the side of his belt opposite his sword. “I found him in the deceased’s room in the Tower Keep, passed out on the floor. The Lord Commander was completely unharmed, though he reeked of liquor and was covered with their blood. He held this blade in his hand—the very same blade responsible for the mutilation of the victims. I swear upon my life that this is true.”

  Soleh believed him. Malcolm Gregorian was not a man predisposed to lying. He certainly believed Vulfram was the murderer and had found her son in a very compromising position. But was he mistaken? Had Vulfram been attacked by an unseen assailant and framed for the crime?

  She shook her head and tugged at her hair, trying to ready herself for what might come next.

  “Accused,” she said, as coldly as she could, “what say you?”

  “It’s not true! I didn’t…I couldn’t.…” He sighed and dropped his head. “I have never seen that blade before in my life. Look at me, Minister. Mother! Do you think me capable of such atrocities?”


  “What I think matters not,” replied Soleh, her heart breaking even more. “Only the facts do.”

  The Captain stepped on the dais, handed Soleh the knife, and then beckoned Thessaly forward. Thessaly lifted a sack from beside the two bodies and emptied the contents. At least a dozen empty bottles and half as many wineskins fell to the floor.

  “I discovered these strewn about the keep,” Gregorian said, looking beyond disgusted now. “Many are freshly emptied. With the amount of liquor consumed, I fear the accused would not be capable of remember his name, let alone his actions.”

  “Is this true?”

  Vulfram slid up on his knees, blood dribbling from his newly split lip. His bloodshot eyes drooped downward, and he nodded shamefully.

  Soleh’s heart nearly dissolved in her chest, and she let out a long, agonized moan. The proof against her son—and his acknowledgment that he had been too intoxicated to remember anything—was staggering. He had been found in the room, covered in their blood, with the killing blade in his hand. She had sentenced men to death based on much less. A cry began to build in her throat, but she held it down. She remembered Karak’s last words to her before she entered Tower Justice: To maintain order, sacrifice is sometimes necessary.

  He had known. All along, Karak had known, and in his love for her, he had allowed her to face this trial on her own, giving her the chance to prove herself worthy of him. That was when she realized that Vulfram would receive that same chance.

  With renewed confidence, she looked down on her son and stated the required words.

  “By the power of this court, handed down by Karak, the Divinity of the East and father to us all, I find you guilty of all charges and hereby sentence you to death by beheading. Do you accept this judgment with an open heart, knowing that Afram awaits if you are repentant, or do you wish to prove your faithfulness before the Final Judges?”

  The Captain went to grab Vulfram, but her son shoved him away. He defiantly rose to his full height, threw his shoulders back, and said, “I will do it. I will prove my faithfulness.”

  Inwardly, Soleh smiled. Standing up, she ordered her son taken to the Arena. She then glanced down at the knife, the murder weapon, and hefted it in one hand. It looked strangely familiar, but she could not recall why. She lifted it, staring at the finger notches, and ran her finger down the blade. Her memory betrayed her. She flipped it over and carried it with her as she descended the dais, hoping that the answer would come to her if she had longer to study it.

  The truth was, she had other pressing things to worry over at the moment, for she knew in her heart that Vulfram was innocent, no matter what the evidence stated. She only hoped that Kayne and Lilah felt the same way.

  The Captain of the Palace Guard shoved Vulfram down the cold, damp stairwell leading to the Arena, jostling him from side to side. His mother followed behind with a veritable posse, which oddly consisted of two members of the Sisters of the Cloth. They had arrived at Tower Justice perhaps an hour after Gregorian threw him into the courtroom’s barred emergency cell as he kicked and screamed, proclaiming his innocence all the while. He kept giving the Sisters sidelong glances. His loathing for them grew with each passing second, these beasts who had stolen his daughter away. He wanted nothing more than to toss Gregorian aside, break his shackles, and slice their throats.

  Stop it, he admonished himself, wishing his chains allowed him enough freedom to reach up and slap his own face. They are not the enemy. Their lot has been forced on them, just as it was for Lyana.

  Suitably shamed by his own common sense, he bit his tongue and concentrated on walking. Perhaps if he kept his mind on putting one foot before the other, Gregorian wouldn’t have to shove him around so maliciously.

  Once he reached the bottom of the stairwell, the door was opened for him, and Gregorian guided him around the viewing platform to a second staircase, this one leading to the entrance to the Arena. Vulfram couldn’t help but feel a bit awed at the sight of this place. The ceiling was high, perhaps as tall as the top three floors of the Tower Keep combined. The area was lighted by what looked to be thousands of torches, lining the walls of the platform that overlooked the arena. The Arena itself was a huge circle ringed with massive boulders that seemed as smooth as marble. The entrance to the ring was an iron gate at least three times as tall as a man. There was an aura of hopelessness about the place, which, combined with the cold and damp air, made him feel almost despondent. He had never seen the place where Kayne and Lilah, his childhood companions, passed final judgment on the guilty, and he finally understood why any who had seen it called it the atrium of the abyss, the place where all hope goes to die.

  Gregorian removed his shackles, unlocked the gate, swung it wide, and tossed him inside. The gate slammed shut a moment later, a certain finality to the sound. Vulfram lay sprawled out on the dirt of the arena floor, his entire body feeling like one gigantic bruise. Over the past few hours the Captain had physically accosted him, and for the last month, perhaps two, he had been spiritually battered by his own conscience. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and in a silent proclamation told himself he was through with the pain. This would be the end of it, of that he was certain. Kayne and Lilah would prove his faithfulness, and he would demand, right then and there, that his daughter be released.

  A faint whisper met his ears. Vulfram lifted his head. It had sounded like his name. He squinted through the bars of the gate and into the blackness behind the staircase. There he saw a pair of eyes staring back at him, burning yellow like twin suns. He felt a gentle vibration in the air, the same whole-body tremor he experienced each time Karak came to visit him, and he clumsily scrambled to his feet. He was about to offer his respects to his god, but he paused. No one else on the platform above him, including his mother, seemed to have noticed that Karak was in attendance. He ran a hand over the stubble atop his head and turned away from the gate. If Karak wished to be noticed, he would have made himself visible. It was not Vulfram’s duty to honor his wishes.

  Instead he faced the gathered onlookers and held his arms out wide.

  “I wish to be judged!” he decreed. He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked nonetheless. Knowing that Karak was watching made him nervous, made him doubt the certainty of his innocence.

  His mother waved her hand at Gregorian, who had reappeared on the platform and was standing next to the two Sisters. The Captain leaned over and pulled a massive lever. Pulleys spun and whined, and to his left a pair of iron gates, each larger than the one leading to the Arena, slowly grinded upward.

  He turned to face the cages, two giant black holes like the eyes of eternity cut into the wall of rock. A low growl shook the very floor of the Arena, making loose particles of dirt bounce as if locked in a macabre dance. He took a few steps toward the grottos, slowly at first, then more quickly, more confidently, until finally one of the lions emerged from the darkness. It was Lilah who showed herself first, as tall on four legs as he was on two, her fur glowing surreally in the glittering light. Then Kayne appeared, stalking out of his cage, his mane grand and stately. Both lions’ eyes glowed yellow with flecks of green and blue mixed in, looking so very much like the eyes of Karak.

  They approached him gradually, their giant heads swinging to glance at each other before turning back to him. Kayne’s mouth yawned open, his blood-red tongue licking at his massive incisors, and Lilah rose up on her haunches, her fur standing on end, as if preparing for an attack. Vulfram was speechless. It had been so long since he had seen the two lions, so long since they’d played together in his family’s inner sanctum in Erznia. They were bigger now—more frightening. Their eyes shone with an intelligence he hadn’t seen there before. They had always been smart creatures, but now their stares seemed almost human. Human or perhaps even godlike.

  But as human as their eyes were, he saw no compassion in them.

  Lilah burst into motion. She bolted around Kayne, who still skulked deliberately, and pulled up short a few
feet in front of Vulfram. A threatening rumble reverberated from her throat—a throat so large that if Vulfram were to throw both his arms around her neck, he doubted his hands would touch on the other side. The lioness leaned in close, sniffed his feet, then his hands, then his face. She let loose with a grunt, showering his face with breath that reeked of meat and putrefaction. He wondered if he smelled the same way to her, as he was covered with blood.

  Kayne slunk past Lilah, and then behind Vulfram’s back. Vulfram closed his eyes, mouthing, Please, Karak, I am sorry. Karak, I love you—Karak, while the male lion sniffed at him the same way Lilah had. Kayne let out a sharp, bark-like sound, soaking Vulfram’s shoulders with hot saliva. Vulfram tensed, clenching his fists, defiant to the last.

  Wetness suddenly assaulted his face and he was nudged heavily from behind. He fell to one knee, his back pressing against a mountain of fur while the battering continued. He opened his eyes to see Lilah’s giant tongue lash out, slapping him across the cheek, slathering his face with spittle.

  “Whoa, girl,” he said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

  He leaned to the side to avoid another attack of Lilah’s persistent tongue, which smacked against his chest instead, and he ended up face to face with Kayne. He was reclined against the male lion’s side, and Kayne gazed deep into his eyes, as if studying him. Kayne then lolled his neck, his cheek sweeping against Vulfram’s. Both lions began purring—throaty, shuddering hums that sounded almost sexual in nature.

  Vulfram placed a hand atop each creature’s head, pulling them in closer, these beasts he had known all his life, and began to laugh. That laughter soon turned to sadness and then finally evolved into a righteous conviction that flowed from his pores like steam from a hot mountain spring.

  Kayne and Lilah swiftly backed away from him, and he stood, casting a quick glance toward the gate, where Karak’s eyes still glowed, before whirling around to confront those on the platform. Each of them looked down at him with their own unique expression—his mother’s joyful, Clovis’s deeply irritated, Gregorian’s wide-eyed and disbelieving, and Thessaly’s almost sad. The Sisters, of course, showed no emotion at all, as their faces were covered.