David Dalglish: Dawn of Swords

In fact, the whole damn outcome was surreal. Here he was: Patrick DuTaureau, the unwanted only son of one of Ashhur’s first creations, kneeling in a field, covered with blood, both his own and that of the countless men he’d killed, watching as Karak’s Army retreated over the eastern bridge. He had gone into this endeavor expecting death-perhaps even wishing for it-and yet he’d lived. It didn’t seem quite fair, not when countless innocents, both young and old, had perished. Why had he been spared when so many others had not? What right did he have to keep breathing when babes who should have been suckling at their mothers’ breasts were now blackened and charred, lost beneath the rubble of a toppled monument to unbridled human desire?

The clouds overhead parted, allowing the light of the full moon to once again bathe the landscape in eerie blue light. Patrick laughed. It felt as though Celestia were pulling back the curtain to inspect the damage. All around him the men who had fought picked up the pieces. There were so few left, and they moved as if their arms were too heavy for them to hold up. A few cried over the bodies that were strewn across the battlefield, but most of the wetted and sorrowful eyes were reserved for the blazing temple. He squinted across the expanse and caught sight of Deacon Coldmine, who was crouched on his knees, much too close to the crumpled walls and the flames that spewed forth from them. He seemed to be tearing at his hair and shrieking in anguish.

“They should never have been in there,” Patrick said, unable to hold back his anger. “It was a stupid plan.”

He heard the muffled grunts of someone struggling and glanced behind him. It was Rachida, her black leather shimmering with sweat. She was hoisting up Moira, who had somehow managed to survive her sister’s attack, although her white hair was so saturated with blood from the wound on the back of her head that it had turned as red as his own. He looked around but did not see the body of the sister.

“Did you kill the other one?” he called out to her.

Rachida’s attention never left her lover when she answered.

“No. She rejoined her bastard father.”

“Oh.”

Those were the only words she offered him.

Alone in the midst of a thousand corpses, Patrick turned his attention to Ashhur, who slumped on the ground a few hundred feet away from him. He had watched with a lump in his throat as his god stormed the battlefield, slaughtering dozens with his ethereal sword. All of it, including the mighty clash between the brother gods, he had witnessed from where he knelt, feeling as if he were trapped in a dream. Now that it was over, he managed to spur his body into some semblance of motion. He stood on his uneven legs, his extremities tingling from the lack of movement. After snagging Winterbone by the handle, he took a few lurching steps forward, dragging the blade behind him.

There were a great many people surrounding the god now, both survivors of the battle and a group of new arrivals he had never seen before. In fact, the only one he recognized was one of the three Wardens present-Azariah, if he remembered the name correctly. As he drew closer, he saw that everyone except for Azariah and a youth whom Patrick had never seen before seemed to be giving the kneeling god a wide berth. The stranger was a stout, strapping man with long and wavy brown hair, who looked like he had only recently passed his teens. The pair hovered in front of Ashhur, their expressions heavy with concern, yet still no one dared speak a word.

Patrick would change that.

Lumbering up to them, he released his sword and let it fall, then proceeded to fall on his knees before the god to whom he owed his existence. His mismatched armor jangled and clanked, drawing Ashhur’s attention. The deity glanced over at him, still sitting on his giant legs. His eyes were dim, his lips sunken. In the background, the only sounds were the crackle of flames and Deacon Coldmine’s grief-stricken wails.

“Not a very good night, was it, my Grace?” Patrick asked, feeling the impulsive need to lighten the mood.

Ashhur frowned at what might have been the greatest understatement in the history of Dezrel.

“No,” said Ashhur, “it is not.”

The young man with brown hair stepped forward. “I think it would be best for him to be left alone,” he said.

“That is for Ashhur to decide,” Patrick snapped. He turned back to the deity, shuffled forward on his knees, and then removed his glove and placed his bare hand on his god’s. “My Grace, you saved many lives coming here this night. The people of Haven will thank you.” He pointed to the south, to the thin line of trees that separated the vast temple grounds from the township that lay beyond. “Many more live past those trees, deeper in the swampland. Without your intervention, the entire delta would have been crushed by morning. You heard his words. Karak would have spared no one.”

Ashhur’s faded eyes stayed fixed on the simmering remains of the temple.

“It is not enough. The delta will fall, as will Paradise. Karak will return. His people hold every advantage. I have been a fool, too blind to see the betrayal of my brother and my most trusted servant. Because of that blindness, thousands upon thousands will suffer.”

“Oh, come on now,” said Patrick, shaking his head. “I know you’ve preached pacifism, but I didn’t think you were a coward.”

“I am no coward,” replied the god, his nostrils flaring, his brow furrowing.

“Then don’t act like one,” Patrick said, slamming his fist into his own dented breastplate. “Look at me, my Grace. Not three months ago I was but an ugly, deformed, craven being, with no skill save using my station as a child of Isabel DuTaureau to bed the occasional maiden. But these pathetic legs carried me into battle; these arms hefted a sword against this delta’s enemies; and this back, warped and aching as it is, carried these people’s burden. I am proof of what even the lowliest and ugliest of men can do when given something to fight for. You, my Grace, the deity who created us, who led us through ninety-plus years of peace and harmony, can light the way. Please. You have given this world too much beauty to allow it to be destroyed without a fight.”

Ashhur looked him over, his head tilting to the side, his eyes regaining some of their luster. Suddenly, he rose from the blood-drenched grass, ascending to his full height. Patrick remained on his knees, feeling insignificant beneath the god’s stare, and then he leaned over, bowing with his arms outstretched.

“My life for you, Ashhur. Always, my life for you.”

A giant finger touched the nape of his neck, and a wonderful, all-encompassing warmth washed over him. It infused his muscles with life, sealed the gashes that sliced his flesh, even snatched away the pounding headache that burned behind his eyes. It was like when Antar had healed him after he and Nessa had been attacked, only a thousand times more intense. He tingled all over, and when the god withdrew his hand, he felt alive .

“Patrick DuTaureau, rise.”

He did as he was told, standing before his god with pride, straightening his back as much as he could while people looked on all around him.

“You are a good man, Patrick,” he said. “But I must ask you a question.”

“What is it?”

“Do you still believe in me?”

Patrick chuckled. “It is difficult to question belief in a deity when that deity stands before you.”

“That is not the question. Do you believe in my wisdom? How can a human hold faith in love and forgiveness, and still kill?”

“We fight to survive,” Patrick said. “We fight to protect those we love.”