David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Roland,” Jacob said, stirring him from a slumber he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. The First Man’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Roland, get up. We are not far now.”

Roland’s heart sank at the thought of more running, but he pushed to his feet anyway. The mere seconds of sleep had left him disoriented, and he kept his gaze on Jacob as they started a slow jog that gradually picked up speed as they eased back into the effort. In no time they were both at it again, running to beat the demon, arms pumping, hearts thumping, minds racing.

By the time they reached the camp, the sun was low on the horizon, casting purple and crimson rays over the sparse cloud cover. The camp lay on the other side of the river, and a spasm of fear attacked Roland when he looked across, staring at the burnt grass and mangled tents that surrounded the half-built tower. The clouds of smoke that had risen earlier were long gone, having disappeared into the atmosphere. In a moment of blind optimism, Roland took that as a good sign-at least any fires that had been lit were now extinguished. Maybe, just maybe, that meant everyone was safe.…

Jacob didn’t hesitate; he leapt into the water and started paddling with one hand while holding his rucksack high in the air with the other. Roland followed him in, after discarding the cloak, gasping as the freezing water assaulted him, tightening his muscles and making it difficult to move. The current tried to carry him along, and it took all his remaining effort to fight it and stay afloat in his waterlogged clothes. A distant part of his mind stood in awe of his master, who seemed to have no trouble traversing the flowing river with only one hand to help him along.

At last Roland emerged on the other side, shivering and numb. He panted as he climbed the rocks, their sharp edges piercing his wet clothing as he dragged himself out of the water. He stayed there on the bank, coughing out the water he’d gulped down, while Jacob ran on ahead, past the tower and smashed tents, over the hill, and into the main encampment. Roland tried to put himself in motion, tried to run after his master, but he couldn’t make his body move. His ears rang, and the rushing river behind him was all he could hear. Then a shrill scream pierced the air, infusing him with adrenaline, and he forced himself into action.

Once he crested the hill, it took him a long moment to understand what he was looking at. There were smoldering tents everywhere, some still erect, with long, sharpened wooden poles sticking out of them, and others that had been trampled flat. People milled all around, worn and bloodied folks who stared aimlessly at the ground, wearing glassy-eyed expressions. A few of them were in the middle of the encampment, tossing broken tent posts and furniture into a large, hastily assembled firepit.

It was the mound positioned in front of the pit that gave Roland pause and made the scene so surreal. It was a pile of bodies, stacked four high and stretching at least thirty feet in either direction. He started to descend the hill, staring at the ghastly sight in horror and disgust. He spotted the plain clothing of farmers in the pile, as well as black cloaks and chainmail armor. There were children in the pile as well, their bent and broken limbs intermingling with those of their attackers, their empty gazes staring out into nothingness. A massive river of blood streamed from beneath the pile, spouting tributaries that flowed in every direction, macabre crimson rivers that cut through the brittle grass.

“Jacob?” Roland murmured, wanting his master to comfort him, to reassure him about the nature of death and its part in the cycle of nature. Because what he saw felt utterly unnatural. He fell to his knees, emptying his stomach of what little wine remained. He hacked, his throat burning along with the rest of him, until that bloodcurdling scream sounded again, much closer this time. Any hope of comfort left him. That voice, that agonized voice, was Jacob’s. Lifting his head beneath the rapidly darkening sky, he caught sight of the Eschetons’ large pavilion, half standing, half flattened, surrounded by a group of townsfolk and fifteen lanterns on stakes. It was where the scream was coming from.

“I’m on my way, Jacob,” he said, struggling to his feet. He felt feverish from the water, numb from the run. He made his way forward with a lurching, uneven trot, his eyes never leaving the pavilion. Suddenly he saw Turock Escheton emerge from the throng. The crimson-haired oddity meandered away from the tent, his head shaking. His bright orange robe was soiled, whether with dirt or blood, Roland couldn’t tell. He held his pointed hat in his hands, staring at it as if tearing his eyes from it would mean the end of his life.

Roland was almost there, his legs picking up speed, when Azariah’s tall form emerged from inside the pavilion. The Warden’s eyes were watering and his shoulders were shaking. Without warning he collapsed into the grass, hiding his face with his hands as his body was thrown into a massive quake. Roland had never seen the Warden show this amount of emotion before-he had never seen any Warden show so much emotion. Roland’s heart thumped even harder. The scream came once more, softer now, more defeated, as he went dashing for the tent.

Azariah lifted his head when Roland was only a few feet away.

“Roland, wait… NO! ” he shouted, just as Roland passed him by. Roland felt fingers reach for-and miss-his drenched clothing, but he did not stop. He did not even pause. The tortured wailing of the First Man issued from within the tent. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, Roland knew what it meant. His heart steeped in terror and sorrow, he bulled his way through the crowd until he emerged on the other side.

He wished he hadn’t.

Abigail Escheton lingered at the rear of the pavilion, near where structure had collapsed, surrounded by overturned chairs, smashed crates, and torn articles of clothing. She was sobbing, silently but uncontrollably, while staring down at Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was hunched over on the ground, his head down, his dark hair hanging over Brienna’s unmoving body. It was the beautiful elf’s face Roland saw most clearly in that frozen moment, her perfect features twisted into a mask of pain, her wheat-colored hair matted with blood. Jacob shuddered, and tears dripped from his chin, soaking the front of Brienna’s blouse. There was a thick, black scorch mark at the center of her stomach. It had charred the fabric of her shirt, and on the bare flesh beneath he could see thick, blue-black veins that stretched away from the wound, disappearing beneath what was left of her garments.

Overwhelmed, Roland’s knees went out and he crumpled to the ground. He couldn’t avert his gaze from the dead elf’s face, this exquisite woman who had made his master so happy, whose joy had been infectious, her spirit one of a kind. Dark liquid began to ooze from her open mouth.

“Brienna?” he whispered, but her eyes never moved.

“She’s gone,” moaned Jacob without looking at him. “Gone.”

Roland crawled forward and grabbed her wrist, which lay limp on the grass, and lifted her hand. It dropped with a thud after he released it and fell still. Never again would those long, slender fingers play with his hair, never again would that hand gently squeeze his shoulder, never again would those arms wrap him in a welcoming hug. He broke down, crying into the sleeve of his already wet tunic. His prayers meant nothing any more, nor the words of his god. Even if he could count on Ashhur’s promise of the Golden Afterlife, Brienna was one of Celestia’s children. He would never see her again, even after he’d drawn his last breath. As Jacob said, she was just…gone.