David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“You have, my Lord, and we are trying.”

“That is all I can ask of you, sweet Soleh,” replied the god. “Now if it pleases you, I should like to visit my temple and rest. The journey home has been a long one.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Will you walk with me for a while?”

“I would never think to do otherwise.”

Soleh led Karak up the stairwell and out of Tower Justice. The god-made-flesh needed to stoop beneath the doorframe, even though it stood over ten feet tall. It was early evening, the half-moon low on the horizon, and yet the castle courtyard was teeming with people. All activity stopped when Karak emerged, and in an instant the crowd was dropping to their knees and singing his praises. Karak waved to his children, most of whom had never before seen him, a smile still painted across his large, handsome face. He bestowed his graces on them before guiding Soleh out of the main portcullis, leaving the people groveling and praying on the castle lawn.

All across Veldaren the same scene repeated itself over and over again. The evening crowd parted, and guards and commoners and thieves alike all chanted the name of their god. There was no violence to be seen, only reverence, and amidst this sudden outpouring of peace and togetherness, Soleh dared question Karak’s decision to be gone for so long.

But Karak talked to her and only her, as if the multitudes around them didn’t exist, and she forgot all of her doubts. He spoke of the sunset over Mount Hailen, of projecting his form from his body and soaring through the heavens. He told her of touching the constellations that lit up the northern sky, of the worlds that existed within each burning star, of lives beginning and lives coming to a close. All of these words he spoke in a velvety and intimate voice, luring her closer with each step, wrapping her body in the comforting embrace of his voice, until they reached the hub of the southern end of the city, where four roads met at a roundabout. At its center was a great fountain, on which stood a statue of the god that was taller than he was in real life, a regal work of art, created by Soleh’s husband, showing the divinity on one knee, handing a child a spear. Karak stopped there, staring at the effigy, and the heavy weight of his arm fell on Soleh’s shoulders. She leaned her head into his side, feeling the rumblings in her belly, the excitement that caused her legs to quiver.

It was then Karak left her, kissing her lightly on the forehead before stepping into the darkness of the northern road, no doubt riding the shadows to his temple far across the city. Soleh whirled around when he disappeared, her feet light as feathers. She danced through the worshiping populace, down the boulevard and across the cobbled walk. Her soft-soled shoes barely touched ground. She didn’t notice the people around her, exiting pubs and closing their shops for the evening. All recollection of the day’s docket left her mind, as did the memory of Gronk Hordan and his ugly demise. She didn’t care that she’d forgotten to remove her Minister’s cloak. Only one thought circled in her mind, and she whispered it again and again while she danced.

He is back! My Lord is back! Karak has returned to me.

She danced all the way to the Tower Keep in the center of the city, the place she had called home for the last forty years. It was a solemn building, designed by Jacob Eveningstar, the First Man, before he took up residence on the western side of the Rigon River. The tower had originally been intended to serve as the inner sanctum of the palace of the king, but Karak had built only half of it before deciding it was not lavish enough to inspire awe and obedience in the populace. Its cold gray walls were unwelcoming; its height and angularity, strangely dour; and the spire that rose into the night sky was like a fist constantly shaking at the city in anger. But Soleh didn’t care, for her Lord was back. Karak had returned to her.

She threw open the door to the keep and slipped inside, spinning and singing and stomping her feet. The sound of clanking reached her ears, and she knew immediately what it meant. When she stepped into her husband’s studio, the candles were lit on the walls, and the space was filled with the smell of the oils and acids used for curing stone. She tiptoed around chunks of discarded rock and sediment, and dozens of statues of her god, exacting replicas carved from mica, onyx, and marble. A few of the statues showed Karak flanked by Kayne and Lilah. On the wall beyond the main workstation, resting on a slightly raised platform, hung a huge painting crafted with unmatched skill and detail. At the center of an elaborate landscape swirled a giant portal, a great fire burning within it. Standing before the portal were the brother gods, one blond and the other brown-haired. Perched on the clouds above was a woman with hair as black as coal and eyes that were empty orbs of shadow. The painting had been created by the brother gods as a way of commemorating their arrival on Dezrel. It showed them with Celestia in front of the gateway that had brought them into this world. The painting had hung on that very wall since Karak began building the Tower Keep decades ago. It was the only work in the entire studio that had not been created by the sculptor who resided there.

At the center of it all was that sculptor, hacking away at a tall block of jet with his hammer and chisel. Soleh tiptoed up behind Ibis and slid her hands around his waist.

“Soleh, darling, you’re home,” said her husband.

She stepped back, giving him room to turn around. His eyes, jaw, hair, and physique were all perfect imitations of the statues he carved and installed throughout the city. He was Karak’s absolute likeness, albeit in a smaller body. In the days after Karak and Ashhur created humanity, they gave each of the First Four a clay ewer with which to forge their mate. It was the first and only time a human had been granted the power of a god. Soleh, who had loved her creator since the moment she opened her eyes and saw his face, chose to make Ibis in his image. In a way, she told herself, he was like Karak made flesh, made flesh yet again.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, coyly.

“What is it?” asked Ibis.

Soleh backed away, beckoning him with her finger.

“In time,” she purred. “But first, you must catch me.”

It was a game they’d played since the very beginning of their ninety-three years of marriage. She tore off her cloak, spun around, and darted up three flights of stairs, heading for their chambers. By the time she reached their bed, she was already naked and soaked with sweat. And when Ibis leapt atop her, she took him into her arms and held him close, smelling his sweat, feeling his strength, allowing herself to pretend that he was the god he’d been molded to resemble.

My Lord is back , she thought as he kissed lines across her neck. Karak has returned to me.

The girl moaned and thrashed her head while she rode him, her hair a sweat-soaked mess that whipped from side to side. Her young, slender body glistened in the candlelight, and her breasts bounded with each seductive motion. She couldn’t be more than sixteen. She kept her eyes closed the entire time, shouting his name as she traced the outline of his body with tense hands. That alone convinced Patrick DuTaureau she was faking it. He’d experienced sincere lovemaking a few times before, most recently with a blind woman during a fishing trip to the seaside town of Conch. Not that this girl’s fakery mattered much to him. The illusion did its job, and he felt his gut tighten. He shot his seed deep inside her, grinding his teeth and groaning as the girl let out a wild screech and threw back her head.