David Dalglish: Dawn of Swords

That’s when the screams began.

The first came from Ben Maryll, Geris and Martin’s friend. Ben hovered over Martin’s body, his blue eyes wide and filled with tears. He tugged on the fallen boy’s auburn hair, looking like he would rip it out of his head. Geris wanted to cry out to him, to ask his friend what was happening, but his voice stuck in his throat. The screams grew louder, and something whistled past his ear, followed by a soft thud . People rushed by, shouting in panicked, shrill voices. Geris sat motionless, watching as the Guardmaster of the Haven township-a tall, stout man named Torgen-was impaled in the throat by an arrow. Blood spurted as he gasped and fell just inches from Geris’s feet.

Still the pointed shafts rained from the sky.

A group of five huntsmen, clad in leather skirts and sashes, ran past him, hunting bows on their backs. They climbed the ladders propped against the high wall of the newly completed Temple of the Flesh. When they reached the top, looking at what lay outside the wall, they nocked their own arrows and began firing blindly.

Geris watched it all with disbelieving eyes. He wanted to move- tried to move-but his body betrayed him. His heart raced and his throat tightened. Glancing back at the wagon, he spotted Ben staring at him from beneath it, his expression the same as when he awoke from a nightmare. He must have managed to drag himself under it without Geris noticing. Geris felt his bladder threaten to release. He could not name the emotions he was experiencing-only knew he had never felt them before. It was all so unreal. He shouldn’t even be here.

He, Ben, and Martin were kinglings from the west, brought here from the Sanctuary to learn. He wished Ahaesarus, his mentor from home, were with him now, wished that he had the man’s wise council. Perhaps the Warden would know what to say to make his legs work, to banish the terrible shaking of his hands and the tears streaming down his face.

“Ben! Geris!”

At the sound of his name, Geris swiveled his head. It was Jacob Eveningstar, the kinglings’ chaperone and mentor for this journey. Jacob sprinted down the hay-strewn corridor between the temple’s central hub and its outer wall. His long, dark hair streamed out behind him as he ran like a man possessed. Geris raised his hand in greeting, as if this were a normal day and he were eating a lunch of apples and salted beef in the golden fields surrounding the Sanctuary. Taking note of Jacob’s clenched jaw, squinting eyes, and the reams of sweat soaking the front of his shirt banished Geris’s momentary relief, instead magnifying his already overwhelming fear.

Jacob swept him up in his strong arms as another arrow sailed overhead, and then swung him around and threw him across the alleyway, where the arrows couldn’t reach. Geris struck the wall and slid down, letting out a cry of pain. Meanwhile Jacob pulled Ben from beneath the carriage and dragged him across the slender pathway too. Ben collapsed beside Geris, who sought out his friend’s hand. Their fingers intertwined, and they stared at each other, matching tears dribbling down their cheeks. Jacob hovered over them, shielding the two potential kings from the death that came from the sky.

Balanced on the ladders that lined the wall, the huntsmen were but shadows beneath the blazing sun. At regular intervals they poked their heads over, and whenever the pace of the attack slowed, they slipped arrows from their quivers and launched them into the air. Bringing his gaze down to the streets, Geris realized that they were covered with blood. He watched as a woman was skewered through her stomach. Her bare breasts flopped as she doubled over, the bells adorning her silver girdle tinkling as she fell. She struggled forward, clawing at the dirt, until another arrow pierced the back of her skull. Geris squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, desperate not to see any more. Ben trembled beside him. Jacob was standing over the two of them, his sturdy hand clutching Geris’s shoulder. He could feel the man’s hair brush against his cheek as he scanned one side of the path and then the other.

Before long, all the people who were still alive had their backs pressed against the wall. Jacob ceased his protective hovering and sat down beside his two remaining charges. The arrows still came, but they were slower now, harmlessly pelting the ground and piercing already deceased bodies. Geris shivered, watching as the spilled blood formed tributaries in the open space. He spotted Martin beside the carriage, six shafts sticking out of his body. His eyes were open and unblinking, his face pale and bloodless. An irrational desire filled Geris, a yearning to see his friend shake off the arrows as if they were props from a game. Martin, so long the favorite for the kingship, would laugh and roll his eyes as if it were nothing. But Martin didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Geris’s eyes filled with tears. Jacob grasped Geris’s chin and turned his gaze away from the scene.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the barrage of arrows ceased. All was silent but for the cawing of the birds and the moans of the dying. It stretched on for a long moment before it was broken by an unnaturally loud voice from the other side of the wall.

“Citizens of Haven!” it shouted. “There is no need to hide any longer. Show yourselves, or risk our renewed wrath!”

The huntsmen on the ladders glanced at those gathered below them. The people who were huddled at the base of the wall stepped back into the alleyway, weaving through the arrows and corpses, their faces masks of shock and incomprehension. One among them, a brawny man wearing a long, silken robe, stepped forward. His broad chest heaved as he ran his fingers through his beard. His name was Deacon Coldmine, and he was the appointed lord and leader of the fledgling city. Deacon gestured to the man beside him, who darted down the alley and disappeared through a doorway cut into the side of the rounded temple. A few minutes later a woman emerged. Geris’s gaze lingered on her. Her name was Aprodia. She was the temple’s priestess and was beautiful beyond words. Her hair was long and black, and her flesh was a tantalizing bronze. A tattoo of an eagle with spread wings adorned the space between her ample breasts. Only yesterday, the three boys had snuck a look through a peephole in the temple wall, watching in wonder as the woman danced like a dervish among the gathered worshippers. Feeling sad and strangely shamed, Geris turned his eyes away from her bare body.

Together, Deacon, Aprodia, and a large gathering of other citizens exited through the gates in the wall, vanishing from sight.

Jacob snapped his fingers before Geris’s face, commanding his attention. Geris looked up at him, surprised to see a hard gleam in the man’s eye.

“We are here to learn,” Jacob said. “And even in moments of death and horror we may still find wisdom.”

He slid three ladders together along the wall.

“Come see what is happening,” he said. “I trust you are wise enough to understand and endure.”

Now that the arrows had ceased their flow, Geris felt his paralyzing fear slowly start to ebb. With his back to the dead, he put a hand on the rung. Jacob’s trust in him sparked a bit of pride, giving him the will to climb the ladder. Geris was only thirteen, and although Jacob looked no more than a decade his senior, the man was older than time itself. Still, Jacob treated Geris more like a younger brother than a kingling who needed to be shielded from the world. He didn’t fawn over him like his mother did, or act stern and distant like his father. Jacob even treated him better than Ahaesarus did, as the Warden was often annoyed by Geris’s flights of fancy. Granted, perhaps this was because it was Ahaesarus’s responsibility to teach him, whereas Jacob was only in charge of Ben’s training.