Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  “I…have…been…JUDGED!” Vulfram shouted at them. This was it, he knew—the moment Karak had been waiting for, the reason the deity had lingered in the darkness instead of exposing himself to the rest. Because what Vulfram did now, he had to do on his own.

  “You have, Lord Commander,” said his mother, her smile all teeth. “Under law, this court grants you a full pardon. Your station shall be restored, and you will be released immediately.”

  Clovis mumbled something under his breath, and the Captain shot him a quick look.

  “That is right,” Vulfram said, making sure to pronounce every word clearly. “I have been found faithful, and I will be released with a full pardon.” He gestured behind him. “The Final Judges have decreed my faith to be true, and in so doing, they have validated every thought that led me to standing right here, right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Thessaly.

  “My daughter!” he screamed. “My daughter was manipulated by devious forces that wished to wrong my family through her innocence. My entire purpose for returning to Veldaren was to clear her name, to free her from a fate worse than death, and now that I have been found worthy of life, I decree that she has been, as well!”

  “Well, I.…” Soleh began.

  She was cut off when Clovis began to laugh, a deeply resounding, almost maniacal cackle that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber.

  “Her innocence is not yours to decree,” he said, venom seeping out with every word he spoke. “Karak’s law is true, his law is final, and you yourself carried out the verdict against her. Your god is infallible, Lord Commander. Are you claiming otherwise?”

  “No!” shouted Vulfram defiantly. “I am saying that men interpret the laws of our divine deity, and men are fallible! My daughter is but a child.” The words were like knives as they left his mouth. He wished he could scale the smooth stone and strangle Clovis where he stood.

  Clovis shook his head. “So foolish, Vulfram. So vain and foolish.” He then stepped around Thessaly and approached the two Sisters. The one closest bowed and backed away, and he placed his hands on the second one, moving her to an open area of the platform not blocked by the sandstone balustrade. His fingers laced around a piece of wrapping that dangled from the side of the Sister’s face, and slowly Clovis began to unwind it. The wrappings peeled off like petals from a rose, gradually revealing the face hidden beneath.

  Vulfram gasped. His heart leapt into his throat.

  It was Lyana up there, her eyes wide and glassy, the hair shaved from her head. Her face was expressionless, her jaw rigid, even as Clovis removed the cloak from her shoulders, even as he unwound the coverings from her chest, her midsection, her hips. It all fell to the ground like the molting skin of a snake, until his daughter stood naked before him, her youthful body firm but scarred at the sides—the marks of the whipping Vulfram had given her on that fateful day. She did not move. She did not speak. For all he could tell, she did not breathe. She simply stood there as if in a trance, staring out into space, gazing over and beyond him.

  “No,” Vulfram moaned. “Oh, Lyana, no.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother shriek.

  “This is the child you so seek to reclaim,” Clovis said, taunting him by peeking over her shoulder and leering downward at her supple breasts. “This child who sinned knowingly against her god, who broke the most sacred of laws, all to keep her name from being sullied.”

  Vulfram shook his head in defiance.

  “Oh, but it is true,” said Clovis. “The girl admits it herself.”

  “She does not!”

  Clovis waved a hand in front of Lyana’s face. Her eyes did not even blink.

  “Go ahead, Sister,” he said to her, his voice just loud enough for Vulfram to hear. “Tell us why you have entered the order.”

  “I have sinned against my god,” she said, and Vulfram’s whole body quaked. Her voice didn’t sound like her own any longer, as if some strange, emotionless being had crawled into her skin and taken over. “It is my life’s regret, one that I will spend the remainder of my days attempting to absolve. The child that was inside me deserved life, and I denied it that life. This is a fate I accept willingly, and as such I have given up my name forever. I am only Sister now, and Sister is all I will ever be.”

  “NO!” wailed Vulfram, falling to his knees in the dirt.

  “You see, it is done,” Clovis said as he removed his cloak and covered Lyana—or the impassive being Lyana had become. “There is no innocence for you to prove, for the Sister has freely admitted to her wrongdoing. Her life is what it is now, one that belongs to her god and whoever wishes to purchase her services.” Before he wrapped the cloak around her entirely, he reached over and pinched one of Lyana’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Lyana winced slightly, but remained otherwise motionless. “And to be honest, after seeing what she has to offer, I might be the first to do just that. Gold may not be able to buy happiness, but it can buy a few hours of contentment.”

  “You bastard!” Vulfram heard his mother proclaim, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the show that was playing out for him, to taunt him, to toy with him.

  And in that moment, he knew it had been Clovis all along.

  “Fuck you!” Vulfram screamed. His trance broke and he charged the wall of stone, beat his fists into it. He broke a bone in his right wrist as it slammed against the rock-hard surface, one to match the broken bone in his left hand, but his rage was so complete, pumping through his veins so strongly, that he hardly noticed.

  Glancing up, his eyes met Captain Gregorian’s. The man’s expression was queerly conflicted but hard, which made Vulfram all the angrier. None of them would listen to him. Not that bastard Clovis, not Gregorian, not his mother, who was leaning against the balustrade weeping, while his supposed murder weapon dangled from her fingers, and certainly not his brainwashed daughter and her handler. Not even his god would hear him out, it seemed. His god. His god.…

  He backed away from the wall, kicking it for good measure, and ran toward the gate.

  “Karak!” he bellowed, desperately seeking out those glowing eyes in the darkness. “Karak, why have you done this?” He slammed into the bars. When he saw the figure of the deity lurking in the back, he reached his ruined hands through the gap. His fury turned to sorrow, and he began weeping. “Why have you forsaken me, my Lord?” he cried. “Why…have you…FORSAKEN ME?”

  He spit through the bars, and those glowing eyes flickered. From behind him came the roar of a lion, followed by another, then the sound of thudding paws. That was when the cacophony of pain began. Teeth bore into Vulfram’s sides, his neck, his thighs. He was ripped backward, his elbow catching on the bars on its way through, shattering his forearm. Lilah threw him to the ground with a thud, her jaws clenched tightly around his midsection. One of her massive paws raked down his shoulder, the claws shredding his flesh, and try as he might to beat her off with his flopping, useless arm, it was no use. Kayne leapt in front of him, swiping at him so powerfully that he severed the broken arm that Vulfram held up to defend himself. Blood erupted in a geyser from the stump, splashing the ground, the lions, his face, everything. In the distance, his mother’s screams were unending.

  Vulfram felt a moment of agony, then nothing, as he watched himself being devoured by two beasts that he had called brother and sister. It was as if the part of his mind that allowed him to feel pain had been shut off, replaced with a hollow sensation that was almost blissful in its emptiness. When Lilah lifted her head, a tangle of his dripping intestines dangling from her maw, he felt not fear or loathing, but an all-encompassing love. He tried to tell her that, to whisper how much he adored everyone in that room, even Clovis and Gregorian. But Kayne’s jaws clamped down around his neck, tearing out his throat, ending his words a second before they came out, and his life a moment later.

  Soleh watched in horror as her son was devoured by the Final Judges. Her g
ullet was in agony from shrieking, and her pulse throbbed in her temples. She felt like she might die herself at any moment. She didn’t want to keep watching as Kayne and Lilah tore into Vulfram’s midsection, lapping up his blood as if he were just some common blasphemer and not a man who had been raised alongside them, but she could not tear her gaze away. Her shock locked her in place, and she watched helplessly as Karak appeared, stepping through the Arena’s gate, shooing the lions away. The Judges skulked off, licking blood from their chops, while Karak knelt over her son’s unmoving body. For a moment she thought she was imagining his presence, for he looked distraught, disbelieving, and she had never seen him this way before.

  She caught movement from the corner of her eye and looked up. It was Clovis, guiding the two Sisters—one of whom was Soleh’s granddaughter—toward the stairs leading out of the Arena. The sight of the man, and the memory of how he had taunted Vulfram into his eventual death, destroyed the last shreds of her sanity. She glanced at her hand, which still held the strangely familiar, blood-soaked blade that had been used to murder the young lovers. She gripped the handle tight, felt its killing weight. Vulfram will never hold his daughter again, she thought. He will never see his wife. He will never again stand proud by my side. These thoughts darted through her mind, swirling the cocktail of sorrow and rage that was quickly building up inside her.

  A savage roar left Soleh’s throat, and she brought up the knife and ran. The Highest turned at the last moment, his eyes bulging in surprise at the sight of her. She saw her reflection in them for the briefest of moments; she looked like a demon from the Abyss, her mouth hanging open, her hair like writhing snakes, her flesh stretched and pale. Clovis brought his hand up, trying to push her away, but she had surprise on her side. She barreled into him with her shoulder, driving him backward while the two sisters scampered out of sight.

  “You did this!” she shrieked. “You killed him!”

  Voices shouted at her, from beside her and from below, but she ignored them. She thrust the knife at Clovis, the first time she had done any such thing in all her life. The Highest was much stronger than her, and he was able to knock her strike off target. But the weapon found purchase in his flesh nevertheless, the ultra-sharp blade sliding through his black leathers and piercing his side. Clovis let out a scream of pain and thrashed, knocking her away. He pulled the knife free of his side, which spurted blood.

  The Highest collapsed, frantically kicking himself across the floor while staring at the blood that covered his hand. He tried to draw his own dagger, but its hilt caught in his belt. Soleh, her mind white-hot with fury, charged once more, knife raised above her head with both hands, ready to plunge it directly into the murdering bastard’s heart.

  Hands grabbed her from behind, spinning her around. She reacted on instinct, swiping out with the blade, bent on death. Her attacker slid to the side, the faintest glimpse of four diagonal scars flashing before her vision. That was when Soleh felt a great pressure in her midsection, a tugging sensation that gradually worked its way beneath her ribcage. A sound like tearing parchment reached her ears and she grew dizzy. She glanced down to see Captain Gregorian crouched below her, arm stretched out, his shortsword deep inside her lower torso. The man was clearly dismayed. Her dizziness grew and she stumbled forward, driving the sword even deeper beneath her ribs, ever closer to her heart.

  The last thing she heard before she collapsed, and her eyes closed forever, was the sound of her god screaming.

  The sound was loud enough to shatter the fabric of reality. Clovis held his head, trying to block it out while attempting to stem the flow of blood that leaked from his side. He watched as Soleh slid down on Captain Gregorian’s sword until its tip exited her back with a plop. The bloody knife fell from her hand, clattering to the floor. The screaming from below abruptly stopped.

  Captain Gregorian hefted to the side, removing Soleh from his blade. Her body flopped to the ground, her head teetering for a moment before falling still. The Captain stood over her, his agonized expression making Clovis quite nervous. Not wanting to think too much about what it might mean, Clovis forced himself to sit up and then stole a glance toward the balustrade, trying to catch the eye of his god. He saw nothing through the sandstone slats, only the bumpy rise of the Judges’ cages of rock and steel.

  “Captain, bring her to me,” he heard Karak say. The god’s voice hitched, suffused with sorrow.

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied Malcolm. Then the Captain closed Soleh’s sightless eyes, gently kissed her forehead, and lifted her dead weight over his shoulder. He did so with great ease, as if the Minister of Justice were but a child. He left the platform with thudding footsteps.

  Thessaly, tears streaming from her eyes, knelt before him.

  “Father,” she said, reaching for his leaking wound. “You are hurt.”

  He batted her hand away. “It is nothing,” he grumbled.

  “She could have killed you.”

  Clovis offered a contemptuous laugh. “She could have, yes,” he replied. “But alas, I live, while she does not.”

  She nodded. “It is a tragedy.”

  “A tragedy?” He reached out quickly, ignoring the pain in his side, and grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her close. “A tragedy that she perished while I did not? Do you wish that it had been otherwise, daughter of mine?” He reached with his free hand for the dagger on his hip. “Should I allow you to join your minister in death?”

  Thessaly shook her head and began to tremble, which made Clovis seethe.

  “Leave me!” he shouted, shoving her away. His daughter ran past him and up the stairs. She is so weak, that one, he thought. Just like Crian was. So focused on the moment instead of the bigger picture. So much more like her mother. If she stays on that path, he continued, I do not think I could bear the consequences. Despite his show of coldness, he loved his family dearly and regretted threatening Thessaly so. It had even hurt him to banish Moira, though he would never let anyone outside of Lanike know that.

  Clovis struggled to rise, weakened by blood loss. The bitch had cut him. Cut him. He stumbled across the platform and collapsed against the balustrade, rage burning inside him. Leaning against the rail, he peered into the Arena below. He saw the two lions sitting before their cages, heads bowed in respect. Captain Gregorian was there as well, his hands gripping the iron gate. His back was turned to the body of Soleh, which had been positioned respectfully on the blood-and-dust-covered ground. Karak knelt at the dead woman’s side, her tiny hand held in his massive one. The god’s great body shuddered as he caressed her arm, her neck, brushed wisps of hair from her pasty white brow.

  “Sweet Soleh,” Karak whispered. “Oh, sweet Soleh, what have you done?”

  Despite the torment of his still-leaking wound, despite the agony of his god, Clovis smiled, shielding the expression with one hand. His every desire had come to fruition. Vulfram’s blasphemy had sealed the Lord Commander’s fate, removing a rather potent obstacle from Clovis’s path. The soldier’s conscience and his doubts about Clovis could have proved disastrous. Clovis had played him brilliantly, and the man had reacted just as Clovis’s Whisperer had said he would. And now, with Soleh’s unexpected demise, the Mori line was truncated, leaving himself as Karak’s only true child.

  It was all coming together, just as the Whisperer had promised. Clovis pressed against his wound, gritted his teeth, and offered a silent thank you to his unseen guide, the voice in the dark that was helping to bring about Clovis’s vision—a united people worshipping one single god. The attack on Haven, the rise of a weakling king in Ashhur’s lordship, the elves’ standoff with the Gorgoros clan, and now the fall of the Mori family, had all been a part of his unknown accomplice’s design. The end game was in sight, apparent even in the events the Whisperer had not brought about.

  The lone fly in the ointment was Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was knowledgeable and an immortal, like himself, and his understanding of magic and the inner workings o
f their world was unmatched by any but the gods themselves. Jacob could have muddied the waters of the coming conflict, he mused.

  Clovis thought of the message he had received that morning and shuddered with anticipation. Unbeknownst to anyone, including his Whisperer and Karak, he had sent his mad son Uther into the Tinderlands, giving him the task of releasing the legendary demon kings from their prison to assist in their decimation of the west. Clovis knew that Ashhur had Celestia on his side, which left Karak at a distinct disadvantage should the final solution he envisioned play itself out. The demon kings would even those scales. Although his son’s efforts had been unsuccessful thus far, his trials had recently brought about an unanticipated advantage: Eveningstar was now trapped in the northern lands, hunted by Uther’s dedicated soldiers. He would be dead soon, Clovis just knew it, clearing the path for the toppling of Ashhur’s Paradise, paving the way for Crestwell to prove to his god, once and for all, that he and his family were the only ones truly fit to rule. And if that were the case, perhaps he could at last convince the deity not to stop there.…

  Karak’s sobbing abruptly stopped, and the god lifted his shimmering golden eyes to the platform above. Clovis forced the smile from his face and lowered his head, attempting to appear somber.

  “This day has been most distressing indeed,” he said.

  The god glowered at him. He looked as though he were ready to climb the platform and throw Clovis to his death, but he did no such thing. Instead, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and asked, “Are the armaments in place?” His tone was flat, detached.

  Clovis nodded. “Avila has been sent back to Omnmount. Joseph is already there, readying the troops to march.”

  Captain Gregorian turned from the gate, stepped forward, and knelt before the deity.