David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Uther shamed his family. He left Neldar on his own. Whatever force he commanded up north, he did so independent of my brother’s knowledge.”

“Do you really believe that?” Jacob asked, aghast.

“I do.”

“Why? How? Look above you, my Lord. The moon will be full in two days. When your brother marches into the delta, do you think he is going to do so innocently? Do you think the people there will grovel at his feet and beg for mercy? His army already killed more than forty of them three months ago. Are you willing to let even more perish?”

“Such is the way my brother has chosen to discipline his children,” Ashhur said softly. “It is not my responsibility to stop him, as I have told you.”

Pulling at his hair, Jacob kicked Uther’s corpse and began to pace. Roland felt ill at ease. His master seemed unstable, ready to snap-sorrowful one moment, raging the next. He had never seen Jacob act in such a way. It scared him almost more than the ritual performed by Uther.

Finally, it seemed Jacob could stay silent no longer.

“They are people ,” he said. “They aren’t toys! They aren’t playthings for you and Karak to divvy up like children. You act as if you care for my sorrow. You tell me to love the one lost. What of the delta? What of those people? Their families will wail. Their children will scream. You will sit idly by and watch death befall hundreds, if not thousands, and for what? In order to not interfere? To prove that your way is better in this sick little game you two brothers play? What will it take, Ashhur? What will it take to convince you that Karak will not stop until your people are crushed, and the nation of Neldar spans all the way from the east to the west?”

Coming to the end of his rant, Jacob stood there, arms shaking, body trembling, as his god stared into his eyes in silence. If Jacob was afraid, he did not show it. At last, Ashhur looked away, his gaze turning skyward. Jacob noticed the gesture, and his face reddened.

“Do not look to her for answers, my Lord.”

“I must,” the deity whispered. His head lowered, and he looked so uncertain that Roland thought the world itself might begin to crumble. “I bid you good evening, Jacob Eveningstar. You have given me much to think over. I will tell you of my decision come morning.”

Without another word, Ashhur strode up to Jacob, held him at arm’s length for a moment, and then bent down and touched Uther Crestwell’s corpse. It caught flame just as Brienna’s had, burning away into the night, leaving behind little sign that the man ever existed. After that was finished, he turned and silently loped back to the Sanctuary, stepping over the wall in the process. When he disappeared through the great door, it closed behind him. An unnatural silence fell over the land. It was so complete that even the insects seemed to have ceased their nightly song.

“Master,” Roland said, his voice shaking, “what’s going to happen?”

“He’ll come around,” Jacob replied, not turning to look at him. “No matter what he says, he will not stand idly by watching the slaughter of innocents.”

“And…and if he doesn’t?” asked Roland.

Jacob glared at him.

“He will,” said the First Man. “The future of this land depends on it.”

Jacob offered one last glance to the spot where Brienna’s body had been, and he began to walk away. Roland called after him, but Jacob did not respond.

When he was gone, Roland stood alone, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. His mind was a jumble of contradictions, as everything he had witnessed over the last few months came to a head in his thoughts. When the torches began to burn out, one by one, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, expecting to see Jacob but finding Azariah instead. The Warden seemed exhausted, and his eyes were deep wells of concern. He handed forth a jug, which Roland took and sipped from. His stomach began to cramp as the wine reached his belly, but he ignored it. When he finished, he handed the jug back, feeling very, very tired.

“What happened, Roland?” Azariah asked. “Where is Jacob? Is he well?”

Roland opened his mouth, closed it. He thought of the look on Jacob’s face as he stared down Ashhur, unafraid, unrelenting. He shook his head, looked to Celestia’s star, which seemed to have dimmed in the nighttime sky.

“I don’t know.”

There were people everywhere, a bustle of activity that rivaled the chaos Patrick had witnessed the one and only time he’d visited the Temple of the Flesh with Rachida. Ah, Rachida. He hadn’t seen her since she’d departed with her husband for the southern islands. He would do anything to spend just one more moment with her, alone, naked, ravenous.…

“Patrick!” Deacon shouted. “Patrick, stop daydreaming! We need to get these people to safety.”

He sighed and tried to straighten his deformed spine so he could see over the gaggle of people-the very old, the women, and the children-standing in front of him. He caught a fleeting glance of Deacon, who was manning the other side of the temple threshold beneath the sweltering late afternoon sun, his cheeks flushed as he handed out pillows, blankets, and sacks of food to those who were heading inside.

“I’m not daydreaming,” he shouted back.

“Well, your line is growing. I don’t want people to skip your line for mine. Our supplies are divided equally. So hurry up!”

Patrick grunted, forced himself to look presentable, and handed a bundle of goods to a young woman wearing a drab gray dress. She looked haggard, with two small children clinging to her sides, and when Patrick smiled his hideous, uneven smile, he could tell she was trying her best not to appear revolted.

“Name?” he asked.

“Matilda Brownstone,” she replied.

He jotted her name on the massive roll of parchment that sat on the desk beside him and ushered her along.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, and then curtseyed and walked through the temple gates. Another woman with another group of children stepped up in line, and Patrick repeated the process again.

It was going to be a long day, made all the longer because the plan he was helping facilitate was so shockingly stupid.

When Deacon had suggested stowing those who could not defend themselves in the temple and reinforcing the gates to keep them safe, Patrick had freely expressed his opinion that it was a stupid strategy. Send them all farther south, he’d said, where there were several other small settlements. Or better yet, have them wait out whatever was to happen at the Gemcroft’s island estate-a scheme that Peytr himself had proposed. But Deacon would have none of it. He promised them all that the temple was the most secure structure for the women, children, and indigent, and that they would be hunted down and executed if they hid anywhere else. At least in there, he reasoned, the thick walls would give them a chance at escape through the sally port and into the Clubfoot Mountains should their defenders fall.

I refuse to be intimidated , Coldmine had said. If we send our loved ones away, we are admitting our fear that we might lose.

All of which completely ignored the fact that defeat was a probability, not a possibility. Every single man, woman, and child in the delta knew they clung to only the tiniest sliver of hope. Given how Deacon’s own wife had taken their children and fled to the shores of Pebble Island with Peytr and Rachida, Coldmine’s statement seemed rather hypocritical.

Patrick sighed. The longer he stayed in Haven, the more he realized how stubborn and pig-headed Deacon could be; he was a man who always thought he was right and wouldn’t listen to reason. Unfortunately, he was considered a hero in Haven, and his words were taken as gold. Even Moira, as strong and independent-minded a woman as he’d ever met, bent to Coldmine’s whims. Only Rachida and Corton Ender seemed to be able to think for themselves, but Rachida was gone and the old man had been raised a warrior. To him, talk was cheap. He did his talking with the pointy end of his sword, as he was fond of saying, and it was not his place to question those whose station in life was higher than his own.