Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  “Stay back!” Moira shouted at him. Her voice was shaky, and as she pointed her sword at him, her arm began to tremble. She was terrified of him. Patrick struggled to his feet, saw Winterbone lying in the grass a few feet away, and made a dive for it. Joseph simultaneously leapt into action, and before Patrick could lay a hand on the hilt, a fist connected with the top of his head. The blow brought stars to his vision, but Patrick’s head was harder than most. He heard bones snap, and he watched as Joseph pulled back his hand and stared at his mangled fingers, a look of shock and agony painted across his elegant features.

  Patrick swung a backhand, catching Joseph flat in the mouth. The chainmail glove he wore shattered the man’s front teeth, sending him flying backward at an awkward angle. Then Patrick reached down, grabbed Winterbone—the sword was so heavy that he could barely lift it in his exhaustion—and swung wildly. The tip caught Joseph in the midsection as it flashed by, in the gap just below his breastplate. His stomach opened like the maw of some hideous ocean fish, spilling forth his innards. Joseph’s eyes bulged from their sockets. He reached down, grabbing at his intestines as if he could stuff them back into his belly. Consciousness fleeing him, he fell with a thud, his broken face landing hard against the ground.

  Patrick dropped Winterbone to his side and panted, the strength sapped out of him.

  “NO!”

  Patrick turned at the sound of the shrieking voice and saw a woman galloping toward him. Moira still stood there, sword outstretched, eyes locked on her dead brother. She never saw the approaching rider, and the mace connected with the back of her helm with a thunk. Moira collapsed as if she’d been hit by a charging boar, smashing down face first. The horse ran on by, missing him by mere feet. From Patrick’s fleeting glance, the woman could have been Moira’s twin if not for the right half of her face, which was a twisted mess. It looked as if she had been tenderized by a meat hammer, an image that would have made him chuckle if he had been any less terrified.

  The woman steered her horse around, her silver hair flying out behind her like the hem of the goddess’s dress. Her face was twisted in rage, her mouth opened in a constant, primal cry. She kicked the horse and it charged, heading right for him. Patrick tried to stand one last time but couldn’t. He couldn’t even get Winterbone off the ground. He fell back on his ass, and then closed his eyes. He’d accept his fate with dignity and begged Ashhur that it wouldn’t be painful or long.

  It never happened.

  He heard a clunk, and opened his eyes. The woman’s mace was no longer in her hand, and she sat atop her horse, spinning in all directions, searching for something. A dark object flashed seemingly out of nowhere, colliding with her and knocking her from her steed. The woman hit the ground and rolled to avoid further injury. The shadow, meanwhile, landed a few feet away. Patrick looked upon his savior—a slender female figure dressed in tight black leather, her body bent in such a way that the twin blades held in her hands were pointed directly at her opponent. Patrick gulped down a breath, looking on in shock as Rachida flashed her eyes in his direction.

  “Are you hurt?” she shouted, keeping most of her focus on the white-haired woman with the mangled face, who had risen to her feet and drawn her sword.

  “More than I’d prefer,” Patrick said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Get up. Sound the retreat. I’ll handle this one.”

  Without waiting for his response or explaining her sudden presence, Rachida charged. Her twin shortswords crashed with the woman’s saber, and the two women began a dance that would have been quite beautiful if life hadn’t been on the line. Parry and thrust, hop and dodge, swing and retreat. Patrick was mesmerized.

  “Go!” Rachida shouted, sensing his delay.

  Patrick followed her command, pushing his feet beneath him and rising shakily from the ground. He looked out at the battle that raged around him and was amazed to see just how far it had spread in all directions. He began to run at a limping trot, dragging Winterbone behind him because he didn’t even have the energy to sheathe it on his back.

  “Retreat!” he yelled, his voice hoarse and weak. “Come on now, re—”

  He stopped short, standing alone in the middle of the grass. There…in the sky…

  Patrick fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror while his mouth shrieked, “No, no, no, no, NO!”

  The battle was going quite well. Better than Clovis had expected as a matter of fact. He chuckled at his own foolishness for thinking that the DuTaureau boy might spur the enemy on to greatness. No matter how charismatic a leader might be, numbers always mattered more, and Karak’s two thousand trained soldiers would crush three hundred ruffians every time.

  Peering through his looking glass, he could see that perhaps fifty or sixty of the Haven traitors were left, and though they battled diligently, killing hundreds, they would soon be finished. He leaned back in his saddle, another wave of pain knifing his side. Then he glanced at Karak, who seemed disinterested in the events down below, and smiled. Perhaps he didn’t need the help of his Whisperer after all.

  As if in answer to that thought, he felt a gentle vibration against his chest. He leaned forward with a start, grimacing with pain, and stared at the pendant. There it was, swirling with mist blacker than night. He clutched it tight in his palm, closed his eyes, and listened.

  And the Whisperer spoke.

  Clovis’s eyes snapped open. He felt a moment of intense guilt, thinking of the instructions he’d given Deacon, but he stubbornly shoved his weakness aside.

  “My Divinity,” he said, “it is time to end this.”

  Karak stirred like a statue coming to life.

  “It is,” his god said. “They will soon be crushed. When they are, we will move inland and set the town ablaze. No one who resides in the crook of the rivers shall live.”

  “Yes, we will crush their bodies, but do you not think it best to crush their spirits as well?”

  Karak’s glowing eyes turned to him.

  Clovis pointed to his right. “The temple. It is the source of their mutiny, the insult they spit in your face. Let us send a message to any who might survive or flee to Ashhur’s Paradise. This blasphemy will never be allowed ever again.”

  Karak inhaled deeply, then let the breath out.

  “You are right,” he said. “A message must be given.”

  “However, you must know—”

  “Do not think me a fool, Lord Commander. I see more than you do.”

  The deity raised a single hand, pointing two fingers at the heavens. His mouth began to utter words of magic, strange and powerful phrases Clovis had never heard before. Karak’s voice grew louder, more insistent, and then, with a final, demanding bellow, he clenched his giant fist and sent it crashing down onto his opposite palm.

  Clovis’s eyes lifted, and he stared up in disbelief as a giant ball of flaming rock lit up the night sky, screaming in toward the township of Haven as if from the very heavens.

  CHAPTER

  36

  The sounds of battle could be heard from a mile away. The clanking steel, the bloodcurdling screams, the thudding of horse’s hooves—all of it. It was the first time Roland had ever heard such a thing, and it chilled him to the bone. He wanted to turn around, to flee in the direction he’d come from. And when he reached Paradise, he’d snatch Mary Ulmer from her tent and tell her how much he thought of her, how beautiful she was to him—everything he feared he would never have the chance to say again, for no matter how strong the impulse, he would not turn around. He would not abandon Jacob.

  They had crossed Ashhur’s Bridge not two hours before and had been following the edge of the Clubfoot Mountains ever since. The moon shone brightly overhead, casting a ghostly pallor on everything around him. The path ahead was like a milky river they might sink into, the forest to their right a dead place filled with monsters. Roland shivered and closed his eyes, squeezing his legs tight around his horse’s body, trying to force away the images that haunted him. It did no g
ood, for he kept seeing Brienna’s reanimated face, staring blankly ahead and dripping blackened rot from her lips.

  He wished Ashhur had not agreed to come. He wished Ashhur had not listened to Jacob. He wished that after thinking it over, the god had simply declined to abide by the First Man’s dire words. But mostly, he wished he could be anywhere but here.

  There were twenty in their party—himself; Jacob; Azariah; Master Steward Clegman along with two more Wardens, Loen and Shonorah; and sixteen other capable men and women, including Stoke and Tori Harrow, who wished to finally set sight upon the structure for which their son had needlessly perished. When Roland had asked why they wanted to do such a thing, Ashhur had told him they required closure. Roland did not know what closure meant, but he thought the idea itself sounded stupid.

  Ashhur walked alongside the group, his long, tireless strides easily keeping pace with the horses. His white robe billowed whenever a cool breeze gusted, revealing the powerful form of the god-made-flesh beneath. He had stayed silent for the entirety of their two-day journey, and everyone in their group seemed to know instinctively that silence was what the god wanted. None asked him questions, none asked for blessings. Roland wasn’t sure if they knew what they were in for when they reached Haven. He knew he surely didn’t, and that, after all the unexpected horrors that had befallen him over the last couple months, was what frightened him the most.

  They rounded a bend in the path, the rocky base of the mountain jutting out, forcing them closer to the forest. A sudden, intense cavalcade of sound emerged from the trees, a chorus of mad tweeting and chirping that put his hair on end.

  Azariah guided his horse—the largest steed Safeway had at its disposal—over to him.

  “That is the song of the whippoorwills,” he said. “They are but birds, despite how sinister they sound.”

  “They sound sad,” Roland said, his body wracked with shivers.

  “They often do,” Azariah replied.

  Roland looked past the Warden to his master. Just like Ashhur, Jacob had kept silent for most of their journey. At times he seemed outwardly angry, and at times contemplative and sad. But mostly he looked detached, his gaze empty, as if there weren’t a thought in his head that wasn’t well guarded. The few times Roland tried to speak with him, the First Man shooed him away. That might have been the most difficult part of all of this. During a time of inner turmoil, when the horrors he’d witnessed haunted him and his innocent view of the world had been shattered, the man he respected more than his own father wasn’t there to pull him back to safety.

  Now, as they drew ever closer to the battle at Haven, Jacob looked like a man simmering in conflict. His lips were puckered, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased. Roland glanced back at Azariah, and the Warden placed a large, comforting hand on his knee.

  “He will come around,” Azariah said, sensing his concern.

  The words didn’t help.

  Their path narrowed, steering them up a slight incline, and the convoy soldiered on. The horrific sounds of combat grew ever louder, drowning out the somber cries of the whippoorwills. When they crested the hill, the land flattened out and the path ended. A dense thatch of trees stood before them. They spread out in a line and wandered in. The forest was thin, only a hundred feet deep at most, and soon they reached its end. One by one they dismounted their horses and peered through the foliage at the vast clearing on the other side, each gasping when their eyes alighted on the horrible scene that awaited them. When it was Roland’s turn, his jaw fell open.

  There were bodies everywhere, far more than had been stacked beside the fire in the camp outside Drake. They littered the ground like nettles, dark shapes bulging from the grass, unmoving. In the near distance there was a large mass of people locked in battle. It all took place in the shadow of a monstrous construction of stone that hovered over everything less than a mile away. The combatants looked like a pulsating group of flesh and steel, the particulars of the fight indiscernible to him. Even so, he could see a steady mist hovering above the mass, a pinkish fog that grew sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, but never completely dissipated. He thought of the way the blood had spurted when the mad priest slit the throats of those poor innocent souls in the ravine and was overcome by the urge to flee.

  Something brushed past him, and Roland shifted to see that Jacob was close by, his eyes suddenly more alert as he took in the awful scene. His lips moved as if on their own accord, forming words Roland couldn’t hear, and his hands were shoved into the front pouch of his dirty tunic. Roland felt for him. His master looked completely horrified.

  Ashhur stepped forward as well, standing alongside Roland. His face a mask of disbelief and resignation, the god shook his head.

  “Such madness,” he said. “Such unnecessary bloodshed.”

  “We are too far away,” Jacob said. “Do you see Karak?”

  Roland was shocked by his master’s voice, which didn’t match his expression; it sounded more curious than sad.

  “I do,” the deity replied. “I sense that he is here, but hidden.”

  “How about Patrick?”

  “I see him on the battlefield. He is injured, but still alive.”

  “Do we go retrieve him?” asked Loen the Warden.

  “No,” said Ashhur. “It was his choice to join this conflict.”

  “What of the people?” asked Jacob. “The children, the elderly? Did they flee?”

  Ashhur closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He rocked back and forth as if listening to a song only he could hear. When he opened them again, his lips stretched into a smile that looked heavy with relief.

  “They did not,” he said. “I sense them in the temple. They are afraid, but they are safe.”

  Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. His unseen hands clutched at the fabric of his tunic.

  “Should we get closer?” he heard Azariah ask.

  “I think not,” Ashhur replied. “We will watch from here. I trust my brother. Those in the temple will be allowed another chance to kneel, to turn their hearts back to the deity who loves them with all his—”

  The sky suddenly lit up, a supernova of blinding yellows and reds that burned through the canopy, illuminating the forest like the brightest day. All but Ashhur shielded their eyes from the intensity; the god’s gaze was lifted upward, watching the white-hot column of fire blaze overhead. Roland could hear nothing but the roar of flames and an insufferably loud yawning sound, but he could see his god’s mouth open and close, screaming unheard admonitions at the heavens.

  The center of the fireball was black like obsidian, and the tail trailing behind it shimmered as if it were cooking the air itself. Then it picked up speed, fell straight downward, and struck the earth.

  Right into the center of the temple, that strange edifice that had stood so proud behind its wall.

  The explosion was so loud, it was as if no other sound had ever existed. The ground quaked with such ferocity, it knocked Roland to his knees. An extreme flash of light turned the world temporarily translucent, and then came the wind. It was a stiff, hot breeze that carried with it the scent of sulfur and scorched meat, pummeling Roland’s face with such force that he covered it in his hands lest his eyeballs roast in their sockets. He was momentarily deaf, dumb, and blind; the only thing that existed in his awareness was overwhelming, sweeping, paralyzing fear.

  When it was over, a muddy silence followed, as if the delta had been plunged into the depths of the ocean. Roland risked a glance over his elbow, and through the starbursts in his vision he saw the rubble that remained of the distant temple. Stones were pulverized, scattered across the battlefield, some large enough to crush a man—and many of them had. A thick column of smoke rose from the ruins, the moonlight making it look like a billowing manifestation of all the nightmares that had ever disturbed Roland’s sleep. An inferno blazed around that column, burning bright as the sun. It was all too horrible to be real, and in a daze Roland
stumbled from their hidden spot in the forest, emerging onto the far end of the clearing. He glanced over the sprawling meadow, where warriors from both sides of the conflict were standing around, staring at the blaze. They all seemed as horrified and dumbstruck as he was.

  That was when he learned that sound did still exist, for a thunderous crack reverberated from behind him. A tree came crashing to the ground. Ashhur was the one who had felled it, and the deity leapt over the fallen trunk, landing so hard on his feet that he formed a shallow crater in the grass. The expression on his godly face was one of pure rage.

  “KARAK!” he bellowed. His golden eyes burned just as bright as the temple inferno, his jaw stretched wider than Roland had ever seen it as he roared. The veins in his neck bulged so prominently that for a moment it seemed as though his head would extend away from the rest of him, devouring everything in his path.

  It wasn’t far from the truth.

  Ashhur began to run. As his legs and arms pumped, his body shimmered, and his fine white robe began to transform itself—hardening and melding to his body until he was wearing a full array of shining silver plate. His every footfall was like a sledge striking the soil. Roland stepped forward, still disbelieving, wondering who had taken the place of his calm, forgiving Ashhur. He felt himself close to blacking out when a pair of hands grabbed him on either side.

  “Come!” shouted Azariah in one ear.

  “Yes, move your feet, boy!” Jacob screamed into the other.

  He had no choice but to obey, as the First Man and the Warden seemed intent on dragging him with them. They were far behind the god now, but still he dominated their field of vision. Roland looked on as Ashhur approached a group of Karak’s soldiers. They cowered before him, some fleeing, others tossing aside their weapons and falling to their knees. Ashhur pulled his arm back. From his fist came a great iridescent light that grew outward and upward, forming a thick shaft that ended in a point. When he swung downward, the glowing object, now fully recognizable as a sword, hacked the soldiers to pieces. With a single blow, seven men died in an instant. Their bodies caught fire as they fell to the ground, burning bright blue, consumed by the flames of Ashhur’s wrath.