David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Why would I do that?”

“Well,” said Deacon, his cheeks growing redder by the second, his fingers nervously playing with the hem of his doublet. “I figured you might want to be…certain?”

At that, Patrick laughed. Hearty, true laughter that rattled his crooked spine.

“Are you trying to be rid of me?” he asked. “To be honest with you, Deacon, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if it were true. To be even more honest, I couldn’t give two shits and a piss. None of that matters. What was done was done a long, long time ago, in a place where I never felt true belonging. Nessa has gone to live her fabulous life with her little renegade. She was my last remaining tie to Paradise other than my god. I belong here now, among these people, and I feel that truly. Besides, I’ve never liked my father much.” He winked. “I guess now I know why. Perhaps I still carry a few old, old memories from floating around in the womb, eh?”

He slapped Deacon on the back hard enough that the man began coughing, which brought on another fit of laughter.

“Come on, man, it was only a tap!” he exclaimed, and away he ambled across the wide, soggy field, heading for Corton and the soldiers who were waiting by the forest’s edge.

He had been honest in his reaction to the story and honest in the words he’d spoken to Deacon afterward. Strange as it seemed to his waking mind, he really didn’t care, no matter how disturbing the tale was or how true it rang. Richard DuTaureau could shove a goose egg up his own ass, and Isabel too. Patrick had come on people who viewed him as more than his deformities or his lineage. Here he had friends, even if his relationships with a few of them might be awkward, to say the least. What mattered was that his last name had no bearing on the impressions he made here. Something just seemed right in Haven, even with that atrocious temple rearing over everything. As far as Patrick could tell, living a life free of sickness, fear, and disagreement was not the best way to go. He offered a silent apology to Ashhur for thinking thus, but he’d never been happier than he was here. Perhaps humanity had been meant to battle through , to learn to live in harmony through strife, through hardship. It was the people of Haven who had taught him this, people he would die for if need be-which he had to admit wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, how many times had he moaned and groaned like a spoiled little child about his desire for a mortal life?

He joined Corton’s side and spent the next several hours laughing and drinking with the many men and few women who were around. Later, when the liquor was all but gone, Moira joined them, and she and two other men-Opal and Mertz, if he remembered their names correctly-assisted him in donning the mishmash of armor Corton had set aside for him. It was an arduous task given his strangely shaped body, but eventually the plates were fastened, the chainmail draped over his chest, the vambraces clasped to his forearms. He stood there, holding a half helm in his arm (his misshapen head made it impossible to wear a great helm; the bottom was loose because his cheeks and jaw were so thin compared to his bulbous cranium), and addressed the crowd that had gathered.

“How do I look?”

They cheered and whooped in response.

Sunset came before he knew it, and a man named Varimor arrived from the deserted township, lugging a cart full of cider for everyone to drink. The conversation went on and on, peppered with irreverent and nasty jokes, until finally a rider came galloping across the distant field, coming from the direction of Karak’s Bridge.

“They’re here!” he shouted. “The soldiers-they’re actually here!”

“They damn well better be,” Patrick shouted before nervousness grabbed hold of those around him. “I didn’t spend half an hour getting dressed for nothing!”

The men smiled through clenched teeth, laughed amid grunts and frightened looks. Cups were carelessly tossed aside, replaced by the swords, daggers, axes, mauls, and shields Peytr Gemcroft had supplied them with as his parting gift. The moon rose full in the night sky, and the air was filled with the sounds of clanking metal and animalistic grunts as the ragtag defenders of Haven formed their first line of defense under Corton’s instruction.

Patrick hefted Winterbone, the massive sword feeling natural in his grip, and took his place at the front of the vanguard. Adrenaline rushed through him, making his heart race and his toes twitch, but he did not feel scared. If anything, he felt expectant, as if this were the natural next step in his life’s path. The thud of marching footsteps hit his ears, followed by the repetitious shouts of what sounded like thousands of voices, and on the horizon, coming across Karak’s Bridge, there was a flurry of movement. Row after row of men stormed over the bridge, marching in rhythm, twelve bannermen leading the way. In their hands waved the sigil of the Lion, the flags held high enough for all to see. A single voice called out above the rest, ordering the approaching army to stop. Patrick looked at them, then at his comrades, and for a moment he felt paralyzing fear. They were horribly outnumbered. Whereas the approaching army had what looked to be two thousand men, if not more, they were but three hundred. They would be overrun in seconds. Deacon must have realized this as well, for Patrick caught sight of the man slowly inching away from the line of defense, heading for the trees. “Figures,” Patrick whispered, and returned his attention to his impending doom.

The next call came, and he watched as a row of archers stepped away from the rest. They raised their bows to the sky, waiting, and Patrick realized that there would be no discussion; there would be no demands to drop their weapons and surrender to the eastern god. The temple still stood, and that meant annihilation. Still, he wondered, given the vigor with which the army marched into the delta, if there would have been mercy even if they had torn it down. He squinted and stared, past the army, past the bridge, and into the lands beyond.

Barely visible in the intense moonlight, surrounded by three other riders, was a being larger than life, standing with its hands on its hips. Even though his companions were mounted on horses, this great man towered over them. And Patrick caught sight of the man’s eyes, which looked like swirling stars of fire and brimstone.

Karak was here. There would be no mercy.

Another shout from the opposing force, and the archers drew back their strings. Patrick braced himself, holding Winterbone out to the side with both hands as Corton had taught him, his fear dwindling down to nothing.

“Steady!” he heard Corton scream. “Don’t do a fucking thing before my orders!”

Two more riders came galloping over the bridge.

“Release! Release!” the riders shouted back to the gathered force, and all at once, a hundred arrows climbed high into the blackened sky.

The assault on Haven had begun.

Clovis sat atop his horse beside his god, on the eastern side of the bridge, watching his army spread out beneath the solemn near-daylight of the full moon. The pain in his side from the wound Soleh had given him lingered like an impure thought. Far off to his right loomed the Temple of the Flesh, the monstrosity that had been necessary to set these events in motion.

Deacon was a good choice , he thought. His pride wavered, however, when he saw how well the people of Haven had armed themselves. Bringing his looking glass to his eye, he gazed across the expanse and saw two hundred, perhaps three hundred men, clad in polished armor and brandishing weapons. They presented no flags, bowed before no monuments, and showed no loyalty to any but one another. A short but hulking figure stood at their center, holding aloft a giant sword Clovis recognized. The man looked like a demon, with his hunched gait and warped body. It was Patrick DuTaureau, Clovis was sure of it. He knew Deacon had done what he’d asked, for the man was nothing if not reliable, but Isabel’s boy was still there, ready to fight, which could be a problem. DuTaureau was an unknown, and Deacon had told him that the man inspired confidence in the forces of Haven. He’d thought to murder the man in his bed, yet the Whisperer had advised against it. His unknown accomplice had never steered him wrong yet, so he’d let the matter drop. Lowering the looking glass, Clovis reached inside his shirt, wincing as his rough stitches pulled taut, and lifted out his pendant. It shone purple under the light of the moon, but there were no swirls of deep shadow to be seen within the crystal, no sign whatsoever that his Whisperer was ready to give him more guidance.