David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

When the crowd quieted, the witch signaled for others to join her on the platform. First it was the witch’s male look-alike, then Ahaesarus, who never once glanced in his ward’s direction. Howard Baedan followed, the witch’s master steward. Finally, Judarius scaled the steps, his chest puffed out with pride, his dark hair neatly trimmed, the light of the twin bonfires reflecting in his intense eyes. The two Wardens flanked the witch and her steward, towering over them, looking like the otherworldly creatures they were.

“Citizens of Mordeina,” the witch said, addressing the crowd, both human and Warden, with her hands clasped together in a show of humility that was much too convincing for so vile a creature. “Citizens of the Paradise created by Ashhur, our creator most divine, this is truly a special evening. On this night we cast aside the restraints of our childhood. Our species is no longer in its infancy, and like birds, we are finally ready to step out from the nest that has sheltered us so long and spread our wings. For we children of Ashhur, self-governing is our first glorious moment of flight.”

The crowd cheered at that, but there seemed something off about their applause. Even to Geris’s young ears, it sounded like they weren’t really sure what they were cheering for .

“We gather here tonight to crown our first sovereign king. The process has been a long one, and not without error, but at last a suitable ruler has been chosen. Citizens of Mordeina, I would like to introduce you to the King of Paradise, Benjamin Kartalan Maryll!”

The crowd roared, this time much louder than before, as Ben appeared from behind the platform. He didn’t climb up, but just…rose, as if he need not obey the laws of nature. Geris stared, slack-jawed and amazed, until he saw the witch standing aside, her eyes closed and her neck tensed, her mouth uttering silent words as her fingers pointed at Ben. When he had floated up over the platform, she gently lowered him. Once he was firmly on his feet, the witch gasped, falling backward a bit, only to be caught by Judarius’s massive paws.

“Witch’s magic,” Geris muttered, disgusted. A pathetic display to enhance Ben’s image in the people’s minds.

Ben stood before the host of hundreds and bowed. He wore purple clothing that shimmered in the firelight, much like the witch, and a cloak of fur was wrapped around his shoulders. His long, dark hair was tied back, leaving only a couple of strands, one at each of his temples, that curled down like corkscrews. A black scarf was wrapped around his neck, no doubt to hide the wound Geris had given him the night before. Geris grunted in disgust. Martin would have looked better up there, with his deep ginger hair and broad shoulders.

But then again, Ben wasn’t Ben. This Ben was an imposter. He had to remember that.

Geris ducked away from his tiny portal just as Ben knelt before Ahaesarus to receive his crown. It lacked any jewels or precious metals, and was instead made of simple polished wood. “A crown fashioned by a carpenter, to instill humility in the new king,” his mentor had told him. Geris couldn’t watch any more of the sham ceremony. All he wanted to do now was sit alone in his dark prison, drink stale water from the ceramic bowl they’d given him, and think of ways to escape so he might take down the witch and her imposter.

“You’ve done well,” said a voice in the darkness.

Geris started, his head whipping back and forth, trying to find the source of the voice. There was a deeper blackness on the other side of the wagon, a dark, misty cloud that swirled around the shaft of light created by the peephole. He knew that voice. It was the one from his dreams, the voice of the shadow-lion. Have I fallen asleep? he wondered. He slapped his own cheek to make sure. The sound echoed through the interior of his prison, and the side of his jaw throbbed.

The deep shadow drew in on itself, solidifying, becoming even blacker. In the darkness Geris could make out the outline of the smoky lion. It drew nearer to him, so near that he could smell the rankness of its breath-damp soil mixed with sulfur. The thing leaned forward then, getting closer to the shaft of light, and he could see its features clearly.

The lion grinned at him, black fangs poking over an even blacker maw. By comparison, its eyes were like fire. They stared at him, pits as deep as the underworld, and despite the heat from the bonfires outside, Geris began to shiver.

“Don’t mock me,” he said, lowering his head in shame. “You know I failed.”

“You did not fail me,” the shadow-lion said. “All is how it was meant to be.”

“But the imposter still lives,” Geris sniveled. “He is king now, and the witch is by his side.”

“There is no imposter, boy,” said the shadow-lion with a laugh. “There is no witch.”

Geris’s head shot up, his eyes widened.

“What?”

“Benjamin Maryll is who he has always been-a weak child. This new strength he shows is born of cowardice and a desire to please. It will not last, no more than snow beneath a summer sun. Ashhur’s Paradise deserves such a king, a nation of rot hiding behind an image of strength and perfection.”

“But…you told me.…”

“Aye, I did. And your parents said dreams could be misleading, as did your own god.…”

“You’re not from him,” he whispered, fear forming a layer of ice around his heart. By Ashhur, what had he done?

“No. I am of something better. Something wiser. You are the puppet, and I am the one holding the strings. What a shame it is that no one will ever believe you, Geris. No one will ever listen to your mad ramblings, your screams of witches and imposters. Try if you wish, of course, but you know they won’t. Only a fool would believe such a laughable story. Only a stupid, arrogant boy grasping for a reason as to why he’s losing his only chance for glory-beyond his own slothfulness and pride.”

Geris began to sob, thick tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Do not cry,” the shadow-lion said, its voice cruelly shifting into Ahaesarus’s. “You played the only part you were ever meant to play. But if it will ease your burden, know that you would have been a fine king. A strong king. A better king than Benjamin Maryll.…”

Collapsing to the floor of his prison, Geris wailed into the night, his cries drowned out by the din of the coronation taking place only a few hundred feet away. The shadow-lion roared one last time and then disappeared, leaving him alone in the darkness. He slammed his fists into the floor of his prison again and again, bloodying his hand, breaking one of his fingers. The whole time he screamed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

He pleaded for Ashhur’s forgiveness, but it seemed as though his god weren’t listening any longer. There was no one out there to hear him. There was no one to care, no one ready to believe a scared, sick, confused young boy.

Roland’s feet were sore as he pounded them into the uneven ground, running as fast as he could. His lungs burned, and sweat poured down his face despite the coolness of the day. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

They had been on the move for hours, following the eastern bank of the Gihon, constantly keeping one eye on the smoldering tower in the distance, which didn’t seem to get any closer, no matter how long or far they ran. It was hard to keep up with Jacob; the First Man was seemingly tireless as he sprinted and leapt across the rocky banks, a frightening sort of desperation shining in his eyes. Roland had tried to stop him twice, just so he could rest for a moment, but Jacob just shot him a dirty look and kept on going.

Eventually Jacob did tire, however, lying down beside the river and scooping water into his mouth with his palms. Roland followed suit, dropping to his belly a hundred feet or so behind him, not wanting to wait until he caught up for fear that Jacob might be sprinting away again by the time he reached him. The water was icy cold, and it burned his parched throat going down. He kept on drinking anyway. Thankfully, the cramp that had started to take over his left leg began to wane. He put his head on the slick rocks of the bank and closed his eyes. Despite their need to get to the camp, despite the dread that filled him with each passing second, it was difficult to hold off the urge to lie down and sleep.