David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

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.