David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

With this in mind he walked across the room and reached for the sword leaning against his bedpost-a long, gleaming, silver mammoth of a blade that had been given to him twelve years before, when he had escorted his sister Nessa through the southern marshlands on the other side of Ashhur’s Bridge. She’d been nineteen at the time, the youngest DuTaureau by nearly three decades. Obsessed with wildlife, Nessa had wanted to look at the giant water lizards that congregated on the banks of the tributaries, warming their bellies beneath the intense southern sun.

It was during their journey home with a disappointed Nessa-the water lizards had been chased out of the area by the burgeoning township of Haven-that they stumbled upon a pack of bandits attacking a horse and carriage bearing the banners of Karak. The bandits were chopping at the wooden cart with their swords and daggers as someone shouted desperately from inside. Patrick left Nessa sitting astride her horse and rushed to the aid of the helpless occupant of the carriage, moving much more quickly than anyone would have believed him capable. Though he had no fighting experience other than wrestling Bardiya Gorgoros-the other freak of Ashhur’s First Families-he’d been able to hold off the bandits until a beautiful and strong young man leapt from within the wagon, a huge sword in his hands. Together they fended off the thieves, leaving them to flee, bloodied and beaten, into the swamp. The tip of the young man’s sword still dripped blood when Patrick approached him. The stranger introduced himself as Crian Crestwell, son of Clovis and Lanike of House Crestwell, one of Karak’s First Families. Crian had dropped to his knees, thanked Patrick for his help, and handed him his sword as a token of appreciation. “The smith calls it Winterbone, as it was forged in the snows of the northern mountains that bear the name of my family,” the young man had said. “It is a good blade. It will never dull.” And with that young Crian Crestwell departed, leaving a kiss on the back of Nessa’s hand as his final parting gift. The girl had blushed for weeks afterward.

Patrick cocked his head and stared at the weapon. From what he could tell, Winterbone was the only sword that existed in all of Ashhur’s Paradise. There was simply no practical need for swords. But Patrick needed Winterbone. His possession of the massive blade impressed many of the ladies who would have normally offered him looks of disgust. They were drawn in by the long and slender cutting edge, the golden pommel cast to look like a femur, and the strange, reflective crystal that jutted from the base of the handle. Possession of the blade made him attractive when he was by all rights ugly, made him interesting when he was anything but.

He drew the sword from its scabbard and lifted it. Crian had been correct; the blade never dulled. It whistled through the air with even the gentlest of movements. At over four feet long, it was a heavy sword. Even with his oversized shoulders, Patrick had a difficult time keeping it steady. He braced his feet apart, unbalanced given the unevenness of his legs, and a familiar shooting pain charged up his mangled spine. He pushed himself through it, flinging his free arm out wide and gradually bringing his sword arm up, flexing his muscles to steady them both. He held Winterbone parallel to the ground, its tip aimed at the mirror that mocked him from across the room.

There was a knock at his bedroom door, and Patrick’s first thought was that Brittany had forgotten something and returned.

“Come in,” he shouted, keeping his pose even though his right arm began to tremble. Perhaps this show of strength, holding a two-handed broadsword out straight with one hand, might impress her.

“Patrick, put your clothes on.”

His concentration broken, his sword arm faltered, sending agony into his forearm, and the blade came crashing down. He leapt out of the way on his too small feet just as the cutting edge swung close to his toes. Winterbone rattled against the stone floor. Shaking his hand, he turned toward the door. His sister Cara stood there, hands on her hips. A single streak of gray weaved its way through her strawberry-colored hair, taunting him.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“You almost cut off your toe.”

Patrick grabbed a pair of pants from atop his bureau and sat down on the bed to pull them on. “I was fine ,” he mumbled.

Cara gestured to his bed and the mussed sheets atop it. “Your guest seemed nice,” she said.

“She was.”

“She left in a hurry.”

“They always do.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

Patrick slapped his knees and glared at his sister. “Do you have a reason for being here, Cara?”

His sister frowned. “Mother wants to see you in the atrium.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

“Fantastic.”

Cara slipped out the doorway without another word, leaving Patrick alone with his guilt. He knew his sister cared for him-all of his sisters did. But Patrick had long tired of their constant attention. They treated him like he was a child, despite the fact that he was the second oldest of their parents’ children and a ripe old sixty-five. Despite their love, he knew only Nessa saw him as an equal. And if he was being honest with himself, he often believed himself inferior to the others as well.

He picked up Winterbone with care and slid the sword back into its scabbard, then stepped out into the candlelit hallway. The corridor of Manse DuTaureau, the bastion of House DuTaureau, was so long that when he was younger, he used to pretend it could stretch across the Rigon and into the land of Karak. Soft rugs sewn by the elder women from the first generation decorated the hall. They tickled the bottoms of his bare feet with their swooping lines and giant ovals colored red, green, and gold. He passed bedroom after empty bedroom before seeing soft flickering light from Nessa’s billet. He stopped at her doorway, looking in on her. The youngest DuTaureau was huddled in the corner at her desk, her back to him, scribbling away on a piece of parchment. He thought about asking her to join him, but decided against it.

He threw open the double doors to the atrium and limped inside. His eyes widened when he took in the fact that the rest of his family was gathered inside. His mother sat in her large chair by the window, her eyes fixed on the scroll in her lap, as his father crouched on the floor in front of her, rubbing her feet. Cara stood behind her mother, directing an unsure glance in Patrick’s direction, and Brigid and Keela, two of his younger sisters, played blocks with Patrick’s nephews. Besides Nessa, the only sibling missing was Abigail, who lived with her husband, Turock Escheton, in a northern village where the western half of the Gods’ Road reached its end.

The window behind his mother was open, and a hawk was perched before it. The bird’s crest had been plucked of feathers and a red stripe had been painted on its pale flesh, identifying the creature as a herald from Safeway.

“Someone sent a bird,” Patrick said, uncomfortable with the hushed gathering.

“Someone did,” replied his mother.

Isabel and Richard DuTaureau turned their attention to him. His parents were shockingly similar in appearance, both of them possessing the same fiery red hair and willowy frame. They also shared high cheekbones, slender jaw lines, slightly upturned noses, and a spattering of starburst-like speckles on their faces. The braver commoners whispered that Isabel had fallen in love with her own image so that when Ashhur granted her the power to create her lifetime companion, she had made him look just like herself. There were even those in Mordeina who whispered that Isabel’s act of vanity had been the cause of Patrick’s deformity. Patrick wasn’t sure if the story had any truth to it, but it seemed odd that he would be the one singled out and not his sisters, who were all near perfect replicas of their mother and father. Still, he had never explored the matter or asked Ashhur about it. Honestly, he didn’t want to experience the pain that would come with knowing the truth, whatever that truth might be.