David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“My gods, Vulfram!”

The voice came from somewhere above him, to the left, and Vulfram lifted his head toward it. His vision was blurred, and he could only make out a vague figure. The figure then lifted a torch, revealing a gruff face marred by four wicked-looking scars.

“Malcolm,” Vulfram said to Captain Gregorian, his speech slurred.

The Captain of the Palace Guard stared down at him, his features twisted with horror. To complete the bizarre image, he held a vase full of flowers in his hands.

“What did you do , you bastard!” he yelled.

Vulfram winced at the volume of Gregorian’s voice and brought his hands up to cover his ears. His left reached its destination, but he held something in his right that first bounced off his cheek and then brought a quick, needle-like pain to his temple. He opened his fingers reflexively, and something clanked on the floor beside him. When he looked at his hand, he saw that it was stained red.

“What the.…” he began, confusion overwhelming him. Glancing down at the floor, he saw an elegantly crafted knife, its blade curved and sharp, the grip rounded with finger notches. He couldn’t tell what material the handle was made of, however, for the entire weapon was soaked with blood.

The Captain took a few steps into the room from the doorway where he’d been standing. His eyes kept flicking in Vulfram’s direction, bulging in disbelief. A few moments later, the man dropped the vase. It shattered, spilling water everywhere and scattering the assorted lilies, orchids, and hyacinths that had filled it. Vulfram’s gaze followed the path of the flowing water, watching it twist around the strange red blotches that covered the smooth stone floor, until it reached the legs of a bed. He then glanced up, and from his vantage point on the floor all he could see were four feet hanging off the edge of the mattress above him, blood dripping from the toes.

“Shit!” he yelped, kicking out his legs, suddenly not feeling so groggy any longer. He tried to stand, but his feet slipped and he fell back down. It was only then that he realized there was blood everywhere -on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and even all over himself.

In a panic he looked up at Captain Gregorian, whose attention was focused on the bed. More slowly this time, Vulfram rose to his feet. His survival instinct told him to flee, to knock the Captain out and run from this room, from this tower, from this city, from this kingdom , never to return again. That instinct was cut off the moment he saw what Gregorian was staring at.

The feet belonged to Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau. Crian’s throat was slit, whereas Nessa had been sliced open from breast to belly. They lay beside one another, and to complete the macabre picture, their fingers were entwined, as if they’d held hands throughout the entire horrific ordeal.

The stench hit him suddenly, the scent of ammonia and rot. He doubled over and hacked and hacked, his insides emptying, his fluids covering the blood that was smeared over everything, making him sick anew.

Hands grabbed him from behind, yanking him out of the room and into the hallway. His world turned dizzy again, and for a split second he wondered how he’d gotten to the third floor of the tower. He cried out as he was thrown against the wall. His head struck with a loud thud , smacking off the stone, and a loud buzzing flooding his ears. He collapsed, momentarily losing control of his bodily functions and shitting himself right then and there.

He gathered enough strength to turn his head, watched as Gregorian disappeared inside the room again. When he emerged, he was carrying two weapons-the bloody knife and Darkfall, which he slid into its scabbard. The Captain whistled loudly, and Vulfram heard multiple booted footsteps echo through the foyer on the first floor far below them. That done, Gregorian knelt before him, staring at him with a mixture of disgust and anger. Blood was smeared on his forehead, and the four scars that had come from Vulfram’s childhood pets seemed to expand and contract like the gills of a fish as he breathed.

“Vulfram Mori, I hereby detain you for the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, beloved children of Karak,” the Captain growled.

Vulfram tried to deny it, but an armored fist slammed into his face, ending his protest before he could utter it.

It was dark but for a single peephole. Light shone through the narrow opening, creating a lance-like beam that pierced the darkness, illuminating a single spot on the slatted wood floor. Geris sat there, slumped on his knees, staring at the beam, watching flecks of dust dance within it. He tried to focus on them in an attempt to shut out the jovial sounds from outside, for in no way did he wish to witness the wicked ceremony that was even now taking place.

Eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He stood up, made his way to the side of his makeshift prison, and peered through the hole.

The cart he was stowed in was one they’d brought with them on the journey from Safeway. Ahaesarus and Judarius had removed the canvas and nailed excess wooden slats to the outside and above his head. He would never forget the look of revulsion and disappointment on his mentor’s face, nor the fury that had seeped from Judarius’s green-gold eyes. He tried to explain to them why he’d done what he had done, but they would hear none of it. If only they’d believe him! The strongest Wardens were blessed by Ashhur to know with absolute certainty when a factual truth was spoken, yet they still didn’t understand. They had both told him more than once that he’d lost his mind and shamed them both in the process.

“Just listen,” Geris moaned as he pressed his fingers against the wagon. “Why won’t you just listen?”

Now Geris was imprisoned in a place faraway from home, and the rest of his family had been sent away in disgrace. The wagon had been parked on the very edge of a vast courtyard, and he was left to watch helplessly through that tiny slat in his prison as the people of Mordeina gathered around Manse DuTaureau to observe the crowning of the first ever King of Paradise, the imposter Benjamin Maryll. “A punishment,” Judarius had said, and oh what a punishment it was.

It was a joyous scene, and laughter and singing filled the night. Great bonfires were lit, fires that burned so strongly that the normally chilly northern fall air was hot as summertime. Even Geris, many yards away, was sweating because of it. People danced around the bonfires, arms locked. There were children everywhere, hundreds of them under the watchful eyes of the Wardens, and the expressions on their faces spoke of blissful joy. He wished he could feel that joy, but instead his insides twisted and his cheeks flushed with anger. You’re blind! he wanted to shout. Can you not see the truth? But what good would it do? The people of Paradise were ignorant fools, as the shadow-lion had said, happy just to make babies, grow vegetables, and pray to Ashhur. A simple life was what they had, and they thought themselves lucky for it.

That simple life was going to be the end of them.

The party raged on, as if the events of the previous evening had never happened. It was yet another example of their ignorance, yet another example of why the witch would win. At that point the singing toned down a bit, and as if on cue, the witch scaled the platform that had been raised in front of the manse’s back gate in between two bonfires. The creature was elegant, that much Geris could admit, what with her silken clothing and the crystal diadem that shone atop her fiery red hair. The witch hushed the crowd with a wave of her hand, and she smiled at them-a smile that only faltered when her eyes darted toward Geris’s prison. Within moments it returned. Geris was taken aback by how she glowed, how beautiful she was-Ashhur’s mark was all over her.