Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  He heard the muffled grunts of someone struggling and glanced behind him. It was Rachida, her black leather shimmering with sweat. She was hoisting up Moira, who had somehow managed to survive her sister’s attack, although her white hair was so saturated with blood from the wound on the back of her head that it had turned as red as his own. He looked around but did not see the body of the sister.

  “Did you kill the other one?” he called out to her.

  Rachida’s attention never left her lover when she answered.

  “No. She rejoined her bastard father.”

  “Oh.”

  Those were the only words she offered him.

  Alone in the midst of a thousand corpses, Patrick turned his attention to Ashhur, who slumped on the ground a few hundred feet away from him. He had watched with a lump in his throat as his god stormed the battlefield, slaughtering dozens with his ethereal sword. All of it, including the mighty clash between the brother gods, he had witnessed from where he knelt, feeling as if he were trapped in a dream. Now that it was over, he managed to spur his body into some semblance of motion. He stood on his uneven legs, his extremities tingling from the lack of movement. After snagging Winterbone by the handle, he took a few lurching steps forward, dragging the blade behind him.

  There were a great many people surrounding the god now, both survivors of the battle and a group of new arrivals he had never seen before. In fact, the only one he recognized was one of the three Wardens present—Azariah, if he remembered the name correctly. As he drew closer, he saw that everyone except for Azariah and a youth whom Patrick had never seen before seemed to be giving the kneeling god a wide berth. The stranger was a stout, strapping man with long and wavy brown hair, who looked like he had only recently passed his teens. The pair hovered in front of Ashhur, their expressions heavy with concern, yet still no one dared speak a word.

  Patrick would change that.

  Lumbering up to them, he released his sword and let it fall, then proceeded to fall on his knees before the god to whom he owed his existence. His mismatched armor jangled and clanked, drawing Ashhur’s attention. The deity glanced over at him, still sitting on his giant legs. His eyes were dim, his lips sunken. In the background, the only sounds were the crackle of flames and Deacon Coldmine’s grief-stricken wails.

  “Not a very good night, was it, my Grace?” Patrick asked, feeling the impulsive need to lighten the mood.

  Ashhur frowned at what might have been the greatest understatement in the history of Dezrel.

  “No,” said Ashhur, “it is not.”

  The young man with brown hair stepped forward. “I think it would be best for him to be left alone,” he said.

  “That is for Ashhur to decide,” Patrick snapped. He turned back to the deity, shuffled forward on his knees, and then removed his glove and placed his bare hand on his god’s. “My Grace, you saved many lives coming here this night. The people of Haven will thank you.” He pointed to the south, to the thin line of trees that separated the vast temple grounds from the township that lay beyond. “Many more live past those trees, deeper in the swampland. Without your intervention, the entire delta would have been crushed by morning. You heard his words. Karak would have spared no one.”

  Ashhur’s faded eyes stayed fixed on the simmering remains of the temple.

  “It is not enough. The delta will fall, as will Paradise. Karak will return. His people hold every advantage. I have been a fool, too blind to see the betrayal of my brother and my most trusted servant. Because of that blindness, thousands upon thousands will suffer.”

  “Oh, come on now,” said Patrick, shaking his head. “I know you’ve preached pacifism, but I didn’t think you were a coward.”

  “I am no coward,” replied the god, his nostrils flaring, his brow furrowing.

  “Then don’t act like one,” Patrick said, slamming his fist into his own dented breastplate. “Look at me, my Grace. Not three months ago I was but an ugly, deformed, craven being, with no skill save using my station as a child of Isabel DuTaureau to bed the occasional maiden. But these pathetic legs carried me into battle; these arms hefted a sword against this delta’s enemies; and this back, warped and aching as it is, carried these people’s burden. I am proof of what even the lowliest and ugliest of men can do when given something to fight for. You, my Grace, the deity who created us, who led us through ninety-plus years of peace and harmony, can light the way. Please. You have given this world too much beauty to allow it to be destroyed without a fight.”

  Ashhur looked him over, his head tilting to the side, his eyes regaining some of their luster. Suddenly, he rose from the blood-drenched grass, ascending to his full height. Patrick remained on his knees, feeling insignificant beneath the god’s stare, and then he leaned over, bowing with his arms outstretched.

  “My life for you, Ashhur. Always, my life for you.”

  A giant finger touched the nape of his neck, and a wonderful, all-encompassing warmth washed over him. It infused his muscles with life, sealed the gashes that sliced his flesh, even snatched away the pounding headache that burned behind his eyes. It was like when Antar had healed him after he and Nessa had been attacked, only a thousand times more intense. He tingled all over, and when the god withdrew his hand, he felt alive.

  “Patrick DuTaureau, rise.”

  He did as he was told, standing before his god with pride, straightening his back as much as he could while people looked on all around him.

  “You are a good man, Patrick,” he said. “But I must ask you a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you still believe in me?”

  Patrick chuckled. “It is difficult to question belief in a deity when that deity stands before you.”

  “That is not the question. Do you believe in my wisdom? How can a human hold faith in love and forgiveness, and still kill?”

  “We fight to survive,” Patrick said. “We fight to protect those we love.”

  “He’s right,” said a voice from behind him. Patrick peered over his lumpy shoulder to see that the brown-haired young man had stepped forward. Azariah had as well.

  “Indeed he is,” said the Warden.

  “All of you,” Ashhur said, addressing the entire crowd now, sixty men deep. “Do you wish to fight should it come to that? All of your lives may be lost, but if I surrender, you will be spared.”

  “You mean if he kills you,” Patrick said. He met Ashhur’s eyes and saw the truth in them. The god nodded. It was answer enough for them all. They had seen the mercy of Karak. They had seen the torment of Ashhur when the temple came crashing down.

  Armor clanked, weapons rose into the air, and the surviving warriors of Haven chanted. It was a communal cry, as if they possessed a single, commanding voice. It took no time at all for the newcomers to join in the chant, and soon the entire pasture was awash with the fury and certainty of their cries.

  “Ashhur!” they cried. “For Ashhur!”

  When it ended, Ashhur turned away from his congregation, tears in his eyes.

  “We have a long road ahead,” he said, his voice once more resounding across the countryside. The god glanced momentarily at the sky, toward Celestia’s burning star, and said, “We will face many trials ahead, and we are already at a disadvantage. There is not a moment to waste. Come now, my children. All of Paradise must be warned of what will come, and I fear we will face this test alone.”

  Patrick didn’t need it spelled out for him. He knew exactly what Ashhur meant.

  “She won’t help you, will she?” he asked, sidling up to the god.

  “No,” Ashhur replied. “For as long as Karak and I are at odds, she will remain far away from here.”

  “But you were lovers, were you not?”

  The deity smiled sadly. “Above all things, Celestia is devoted to Balance. To choose sides.…”

  He shook his head.

  When the sun finally began to rise, those from Haven who had lived through the night moved
back through the trees, intent on spreading word of the tragedy that took place here, warning the survivors in the delta of what was to come. Meanwhile, the party that had accompanied Ashhur on his journey headed back the way they had come. Patrick joined them, taking Jacob’s place at Ashhur’s side. He mouthed a silent prayer for those who were not with him. He wished to see Rachida one more time, if only to glimpse the gentle slope of her belly as the child within her—his child—grew. He also prayed for those whose lives had been lost, trying to remember as many faces as he could, hoping beyond hope that they had reached the golden Paradise safely. Deep in his heart, he needed to believe they would be waiting for him when his life ended…if it ever did.

  Leaving Haven behind, Patrick glanced back only once, to see Deacon Coldmine impaled on his own sword before the ruin of the temple.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Veldaren was sleeping when Jacob returned to it. He had not seen the city in seventeen years and was amazed to see how much it had grown in his absence. Though the outskirts were still underdeveloped, the central area, miles wide and crisscrossed with cobbled streets, was a veritable jungle of gray stone and stained wood. Merchant buildings rose up all around him, and candles burned in the windows of the various homes, their dancing flames doing their best to chase away the nightmares of those who slept inside.

  The journey back from the delta had taken more than two weeks, for Jacob had convinced Karak that it would be best to accompany the remaining army instead of opening a portal and taking the easier route—though in truth he questioned whether the god was strong enough to ride the shadows even if he desired it. To keep spirits high, had been his reasoning. To show them their god is by their side through thick and thin. Jacob had walked for most of the voyage, his preferred method of travel, spending time mingling with the fighting men, both healthy and injured, listening to their stories, their fears, their sorrows over the loss of their fellow soldiers. He did his best to further the idea that the attack on the delta had been justified, promising that their selfless service to their god would be rewarded in both this world and the next. Most of the soldiers had never laid eyes on him before, but most had heard stories of the fabled First Man, the only human crafted by the hands of the two gods combined, and after witnessing the esteem with which Karak treated him, they accepted his words as if they had been uttered by the deity himself.

  For long stretches he walked alone, mulling over events now past. Twenty years of preparation had come screaming together over the past three months. The speed of it had nearly overwhelmed even him, and in spite of all his care, not everything had gone according to plan. Even with his excellent mind, he could barely remember the first time he had contacted Clovis Crestwell under the shadowy guise of the Whisperer, filling his mind with visions of a united Dezrel with Clovis its king. Jacob’s first failure had been letting Martin die in the initial attack, a simple oversight that had rattled his plans. Martin Harrow and Geris Felhorn were to have been his clandestine spies in the west after he rejoined his true Lord, strong boys malleable enough to bend to his subconscious urgings, who would eventually step down to allow the pathetic Benjamin Maryll to take the mantle of King of Paradise. But Jacob was hardly slave to a plan, and Geris’s mind had been easily broken once he’d discovered the right method of attack. Although it frustrated him to lose Geris as a spy, at least the weakest of the three kinglings had assumed the throne, for the weak were predictable and easily manipulated. Just as frustrating was his inability to dispose of Patrick DuTaureau, even though he had poisoned the freak day after day in Lerder. He had misjudged the hunchback’s strength, both then and when he’d altered his scheme once more to try to lessen the morale of those who wished to oppose the true god of the land. He would not do so again.

  Despite those catastrophes, he forced himself to smile, to take pride in all that had gone right. The downfall of the Lord Commander had been inspired, set into motion by a promise he had made to Broward Renson that the old man would earn a place of high esteem by Karak’s side if he facilitated the ruin of Vulfram’s daughter. He was also able to rid Neldar of its greatest threat: Crian Crestwell. The boy had strayed too far from his father’s ideals and might have one day overthrown all that Jacob had set into motion. His love for the DuTaureau girl was a dangerous, flawed example that the two gods could coexist peacefully. It was Jacob’s hand that had performed the murders; he had stepped through the dragonglass mirror while Roland slept outside the cave. The worst had been hauling the drunken, unconscious Vulfram up the stairs. The man weighed a ton. But at least one of the First Families had been broken. They were irrelevant now, unnecessary remnants of the early period of man, no different from the Wardens of the east, who had been cast aside long ago. Jacob had a far better plan for how to instill order in the populace.

  The First Families.…

  “Damn you, Clovis,” Jacob whispered as he walked through the streets of Veldaren. The man had acted beyond his orders, sending his mad son into the Tinderlands to stir up trouble in a doomed grab for power. Jacob never should have been there, but he’d gone anyway, needing to ensure that nothing disturbed his carefully set plans. And because of that, because of their involvement.…

  Jacob fingered the crystal in his pocket, the gift from his dead love. He’d been so close to giving it all up. Everything he’d done, every measured step to bring about the great future humankind deserved; he would have tossed it all away if it would have brought Brienna back to him. Ashhur had called him a hypocrite, and he’d been right. He had been overwhelmed by sorrow, and if the god had managed to bring life back from death, Jacob had been prepared to forsake everything he’d been working toward. But no. No life. Instead, Ashhur had caved to his demands and brought him back a corpse. And then, as if to mock him, Ashhur had scattered her body as ashes, denying him the chance to say good-bye, the chance to bury her with his own hands and place a stone above her final resting place. Her remains floated on the wind, and with them floated every last doubt Jacob had in betraying Ashhur.

  Everything else had come together so perfectly: the death of Bessus Gorgoros, and the elves’ isolation of Ker; the coercing of Deacon Coldmine, through Clovis, to place the innocents in the temple, leading to the temple’s destruction and Ashhur’s fit of rage; the brother gods coming to blows, which had proven that they could not defeat each other in single combat. Despite his losses, Jacob had still won.

  And no matter what the cost, there were still secrets to learn, a hidden power over death that he was certain Ashhur had knowingly denied him. Time and space could still bend to his will, for he walked at the side of a god. Perhaps, just perhaps, Brienna might return to his arms.…

  They came on the hub at the southern end of the city, and Jacob, Karak, and Clovis separated from the rest of their convoy, curling northeast around the fountain upon which stood a giant statue of the deity. Jacob could tell by the look on Clovis’s face that the man did not understand why they were heading away from the Castle of the Lion, but he kept his protests silent. Instead he stared at Jacob as if he were a strange creature from a different dimension. The revelation that the First Man had been his secret Whisperer had changed him, and his usual arrogance was slowly ebbing away, leaving behind a desperate sycophant. The constant adoring looks and unrelenting questions were beginning to wear on Jacob, and he longed for a return to the quiet and tranquility he had been awarded during their walk. He realized right then why he had secretly given the man the dragonglass pendant in the first place, why he had spoken to him in dreams and whispers rather than approaching him outright.

  The Tower Keep came into view, its abominable, fist-like apex catching the light of the stars above in its many windows. Jacob felt a surge of pride; this edifice, despite its ugliness, had been his design. He had chosen its structure and location with exactitude. It was a shame that Karak had decided the ruling class of Neldar required a more lavish assembly, ceasing construction on the Tower Keep after only the residenti
al tower and throne room had been completed. That had been enough, however, for the throne room was the only room of importance in any building in all of Veldaren. It was also where the next step of Jacob’s plan would take place.

  Captain Malcolm Gregorian met them outside the front entrance of the Keep. Jacob had never laid eyes on the man before, though his survival of the Final Judges had made him a legendary figure. He certainly looked the part, what with the ugly scar that marred his face and his stalwart posture. He looked like a man who would do anything, could do anything, in the name of his god—the type of man who would prove quite useful in the times ahead.

  Gregorian held open the massive door and then kneeled to Karak, his head bowed low.

  “My Lord,” he said. “I humbly welcome you home.”

  Karak said not a word but ducked through the entryway and disappeared inside. The Captain looked up, nodding at Clovis as the Highest limped on by. His gaze settled on Jacob, and the man’s eyes widened as he slowly rose to his feet.

  “Jacob Eveningstar,” he said, extending his hand. “It is an honor. I have heard much of you.”

  “And I, you,” Jacob replied. “Is everything in order?”

  Gregorian nodded. “I received your letter two days past. There was much clutter, and I had to clear it away to make the room as you requested.”

  “Excellent. You’re a good man, Malcolm. I’m sure Karak will reward you greatly for the duty you provide.”

  “He has rewarded me enough already,” he replied, his eyes hard, his head dipped low. “I require nothing else but the glory of his blessing.”

  “That, you will receive, my brother in faith. That, you will receive.”

  Jacob walked through the doors and entered the wide antechamber. Gregorian moved past him, heading for the stairs that led to the tower’s upper levels. Jacob gave his arm a gentle squeeze and then strolled across the empty space, heading for the room at the far end of the structure.

  There Karak and Clovis awaited him. The space was rectangular and enormous, stretching two hundred feet in either direction beneath a ceiling that stood four stories high. Various statues of Karak had been shoved along the walls, some finished, some not. Jacob marveled at the sight of them all: life-sized, exact likenesses of the eastern deity, carved out of sandstone, onyx, topaz, ivory, and marble, pounded out of great metal sheets, pressed out of clay. The attention to detail was astounding, and if he were not so angry that this sacred room had been reduced to an artist’s studio, he would have called Ibis Mori down right then and there to congratulate him on his accomplishments.