David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Yes, my Lord,” replied Malcolm. Then the Captain closed Soleh’s sightless eyes, gently kissed her forehead, and lifted her dead weight over his shoulder. He did so with great ease, as if the Minister of Justice were but a child. He left the platform with thudding footsteps.

Thessaly, tears streaming from her eyes, knelt before him.

“Father,” she said, reaching for his leaking wound. “You are hurt.”

He batted her hand away. “It is nothing,” he grumbled.

“She could have killed you.”

Clovis offered a contemptuous laugh. “She could have, yes,” he replied. “But alas, I live, while she does not.”

She nodded. “It is a tragedy.”

“A tragedy?” He reached out quickly, ignoring the pain in his side, and grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her close. “A tragedy that she perished while I did not? Do you wish that it had been otherwise, daughter of mine?” He reached with his free hand for the dagger on his hip. “Should I allow you to join your minister in death?”

Thessaly shook her head and began to tremble, which made Clovis seethe.

“Leave me!” he shouted, shoving her away. His daughter ran past him and up the stairs. She is so weak, that one , he thought. Just like Crian was. So focused on the moment instead of the bigger picture. So much more like her mother. If she stays on that path , he continued, I do not think I could bear the consequences. Despite his show of coldness, he loved his family dearly and regretted threatening Thessaly so. It had even hurt him to banish Moira, though he would never let anyone outside of Lanike know that.

Clovis struggled to rise, weakened by blood loss. The bitch had cut him. Cut him. He stumbled across the platform and collapsed against the balustrade, rage burning inside him. Leaning against the rail, he peered into the Arena below. He saw the two lions sitting before their cages, heads bowed in respect. Captain Gregorian was there as well, his hands gripping the iron gate. His back was turned to the body of Soleh, which had been positioned respectfully on the blood-and-dust-covered ground. Karak knelt at the dead woman’s side, her tiny hand held in his massive one. The god’s great body shuddered as he caressed her arm, her neck, brushed wisps of hair from her pasty white brow.

“Sweet Soleh,” Karak whispered. “Oh, sweet Soleh, what have you done?”

Despite the torment of his still-leaking wound, despite the agony of his god, Clovis smiled, shielding the expression with one hand. His every desire had come to fruition. Vulfram’s blasphemy had sealed the Lord Commander’s fate, removing a rather potent obstacle from Clovis’s path. The soldier’s conscience and his doubts about Clovis could have proved disastrous. Clovis had played him brilliantly, and the man had reacted just as Clovis’s Whisperer had said he would. And now, with Soleh’s unexpected demise, the Mori line was truncated, leaving himself as Karak’s only true child.

It was all coming together, just as the Whisperer had promised. Clovis pressed against his wound, gritted his teeth, and offered a silent thank you to his unseen guide, the voice in the dark that was helping to bring about Clovis’s vision-a united people worshipping one single god. The attack on Haven, the rise of a weakling king in Ashhur’s lordship, the elves’ standoff with the Gorgoros clan, and now the fall of the Mori family, had all been a part of his unknown accomplice’s design. The end game was in sight, apparent even in the events the Whisperer had not brought about.

The lone fly in the ointment was Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was knowledgeable and an immortal, like himself, and his understanding of magic and the inner workings of their world was unmatched by any but the gods themselves. Jacob could have muddied the waters of the coming conflict , he mused.

Clovis thought of the message he had received that morning and shuddered with anticipation. Unbeknownst to anyone, including his Whisperer and Karak, he had sent his mad son Uther into the Tinderlands, giving him the task of releasing the legendary demon kings from their prison to assist in their decimation of the west. Clovis knew that Ashhur had Celestia on his side, which left Karak at a distinct disadvantage should the final solution he envisioned play itself out. The demon kings would even those scales. Although his son’s efforts had been unsuccessful thus far, his trials had recently brought about an unanticipated advantage: Eveningstar was now trapped in the northern lands, hunted by Uther’s dedicated soldiers. He would be dead soon, Clovis just knew it, clearing the path for the toppling of Ashhur’s Paradise, paving the way for Crestwell to prove to his god, once and for all, that he and his family were the only ones truly fit to rule. And if that were the case, perhaps he could at last convince the deity not to stop there.…

Karak’s sobbing abruptly stopped, and the god lifted his shimmering golden eyes to the platform above. Clovis forced the smile from his face and lowered his head, attempting to appear somber.

“This day has been most distressing indeed,” he said.

The god glowered at him. He looked as though he were ready to climb the platform and throw Clovis to his death, but he did no such thing. Instead, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and asked, “Are the armaments in place?” His tone was flat, detached.

Clovis nodded. “Avila has been sent back to Omnmount. Joseph is already there, readying the troops to march.”

Captain Gregorian turned from the gate, stepped forward, and knelt before the deity.

“If you are intent on moving toward Haven, my Lord, would you like me to fetch King Vaelor? With all due respect, a new Lord Commander is needed, for your army requires leadership.…”

Karak waved him away.

“I have no need of advice from that man, nor any man at all,” the god said. “I am through with this sport of kings and subjects. I am the god of the land, the creator of you all. I will pass the mantle on to whomever I see fit.” His eyes once more lifted to Clovis. “I am dismayed, my child. Two of my greatest creations are gone. You are the last, my final hope for order. You are Lord Commander now. See to your wound, then ready my troops. We march on Haven come dawn.”

A well of gratification built up in Clovis’s heart upon hearing those words, even though they were spoken so dully. The only title that would have made him happier was King of Dezrel. He could not wait to see the expression on Vaelor’s face when he shoved a blade into the puppet ruler’s belly. That would be a memory he would cherish forever, possibly even more than the sight of Soleh’s head lolling off her neck.

Karak lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if he were looking through the layers of stone and earth and into the sky above.

“Come,” he said. “The third full moon is nearly upon us. I wish to teach my children a lesson.”

The god left the arena, standing tall at the base of the staircase. Clovis limped to the side of the platform, which the Captain had scaled. He draped his arm over Malcolm’s shoulder and allowed the man to help him up the stairs. His blood left a trail of tiny droplets behind him.

Omnmount awaited on the other side, as did his destiny. It could not come soon enough.

Roland emerged from the portal at full gallop, his body still intact, stomach churning, head spinning. One moment he was on the outskirts of Drake, the next he was barreling over the grassy hills on the other side of the Corinth River. The sensation was indescribable, as though his mind had been pulled from the rest of his body and was rushing after it to catch up. He felt sick, and he collapsed into his horse’s neck, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to lose consciousness.