David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

For the first time, Roland Norsman understood what death truly meant.

Jacob’s head shot up then, his manic, bloodshot eyes staring first at Roland, then at the crowd beyond. Abigail went over to him, trying to offer him comfort, but he shrugged her aside. He leapt to his feet, letting Brienna’s body fall to the earth, and violently hauled Roland up by the collar as he passed him. Roland struggled to stand as he was towed along. The crowd parted before them, and Turock was there to greet them once they reached the other side.

“Where is he?” Jacob shouted into Turock’s face.

Turock simply pointed to the west in reply.

Jacob released Roland’s collar and stormed off, heading for points unknown. Roland thought to follow him but decided otherwise when he saw that Azariah was approaching him. His clothes were torn and bloodied and his pristine skin covered with wicked-looking gashes, including one that ran from the tip of his scalp to just below his ear. The Warden stopped in front of him, looking down at him with sorrowful eyes.

Despite the numbness that pervaded his every fiber, Roland finally managed to ask what had happened.

“They followed us,” Azariah said, shaking his head. “The bastards followed us. The moment our feet reached solid ground they were on us, hurling spears, firing arrows. They hovered their way across the river and came at us with swords. They hovered . The mad priest even threw fire with his hands. We didn’t have time to warn Turock or Abigail or Ephraim or Bartholomew. They were here so quickly.…”

Roland swallowed, trying to keep his composure.

“Ephraim and Bartholomew, where are they now? Did they live?”

“They did,” whispered Turock. “They were positioned at the far end of the camp. The butchers never reached them.”

“So violent,” Azariah said, as if he hadn’t heard Turock speak. “We tried to fight them, but it was no use.” He stared at his hands. “These are so useless. We had no weapons, nothing but the sticks and stones that were strewn along the ground. I couldn’t…couldn’t…and Brienna, she…by the time I reached her, it was too late to heal her…she was already gone.…”

Azariah lost his composure then, standing in place and sobbing. Roland pulled the Warden close and did his best, even in his deadened state, to comfort him. His face only came up to Azariah’s chest, and he felt heavy tears fall atop his head.

“It was my fault,” said Turock, who appeared to have regained some of his equanimity. He still spoke as if in a dream, but at least he was looking at Roland now, however mournfully. “One of my men complained of sickness, and instead of replacing him, I let one less man watch the river. If only I had been there.…”

“What could you have done?” asked Roland. He was completely besieged now, playing a role he didn’t know how to play.

“I could have stopped them! ” Turock screamed suddenly. He swept his arm out wide, gesturing to the pile of bodies. “There were only thirty of them, and they ended the lives of sixty of my people.” His expression kept shifting, first a terrible grin, then a scrunched-up look of anguish. “When I arrived with my spellcasters, we crushed them, all but one. Our magic was greater. If I had just assigned another watcher, if I had taken up the duty myself , then-”

Roland grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Despite all the horror, sorrow, and pain he had just experienced, frustration was the emotion he felt most keenly.

“Who lived?” he asked, staring into Turock’s wide, shocked eyes. “You said you ended all but one. Who was it?”

Turock tilted his head as if Roland shaking him had broken him out of his stupor, and pointed in the direction where Jacob had run off. Roland whirled around and put one foot in front of the other, hit by a sudden surge of panic that momentarily cured his tired and worn-out body. He sprinted around the crowd, around the tent and into the open space behind it, chasing after his master. Two pairs of heavy feet followed hard behind him.

He spotted the First Man the minute he rounded the collapsed end of the tent. Jacob stood over a man who had been strapped to a pole in front of a small fire. Roland skidded to a stop a few feet away, recognizing the man’s shaved head, black robe, and piercing, ocean-blue eyes.

It was the one Jacob had called Uther Crestwell, the mad priest.

Azariah and Turock almost collided with him from behind, and they all stood and watched as Jacob leaned forward and whispered something into the mad priest’s ear. Uther’s eyes widened, and he began screaming, struggling against his restraints, trying desperately to free himself. Jacob reached for his belt, the spot where he normally kept his skinning knife, but he ended up patting his side, looking confused. The knife wasn’t there. Roland’s breath caught in his throat, and he began moving slowly forward, as if caught in a dream. Helpless, he looked on as his master bent down and lifted a burning log from the fire. Uther’s cries cut through the night as the First Man brought the log down on his head, the sound of snapping bone echoing between them with a resounding crack .

“No! Stop!” Turock yelled.

Roland forced his feet to move, but it was too late. Jacob brought the log down again and again, blackening Uther’s face, sending streamers of blood flying. Even when the monster had fallen still, Jacob continued to beat his motionless body, caving in his face, snapping his neck so that his head hung at an unnatural angle. By the time Roland reached him, and Azariah grabbed Jacob’s arm, halting him mid-swing, all life had left Uther Crestwell’s body.

Jacob whirled around, yanking his arm free of Azariah’s grasp, swinging the log as if he were ready to attack. Both Azariah and Roland backtracked and stumbled, but Turock stepped forward, holding his hands out wide.

“It’s all right, Jacob, we’re not going to hurt you.”

Jacob stared at them each in turn, his eyes looking crazed as his wild gaze passed over their faces. Then he threw down the log and ran past them.

Roland turned, watching helplessly as Jacob bellowed at the small crowd that had gathered to watch what was happening. Then he disappeared into the Eschetons’ tent and, after a few moments of cursing and loud rustling, he emerged with Brienna’s lifeless body slung over his shoulder. The First Man made a beeline for the edge of the camp, where their horses were tethered.

“Azariah! Roland!” he shouted. “Come now or stay-I do not care!”

Roland glanced up at the Warden, and then they both followed. They reached the horses just as the sky turned completely dark and the nearly full moon began its ascent. Jacob tied Brienna’s corpse to his horse and then hurried back to the unmoving body of the mad priest. After lugging it behind him like a sack of flour, he flung it over the steed Brienna had ridden north, unceremoniously binding the corpse’s hands around the beast’s neck. The horse bucked and snorted, as if uncomfortable with its forced proximity to a vile predator. Jacob untied both horses from the posts. His gait was one of a man on the verge of insanity.

The First Man then glared at Turock, who had followed them and was watching Jacob’s preparations in silent confusion.

“Escheton!” Jacob shouted. “You call yourself a caster, so make me a portal!”

Turock stepped closer to him, his lips askew. “A what?” the spellcaster asked.

“A gate! A portal! A dimensional passage to elsewhere-do these words mean anything to you?”

“Um…to where?” Turock replied, sounding completely bewildered.

Jacob took a few menacing steps forward, looking as if he was ready to strike his friend, but his head swiveled and his gaze settled on Brienna’s body. Roland watched his master’s demeanor shift once more. When he turned back around, his jaw was slack, defeated, and when he spoke his words were deliberate but tinged with melancholy.