David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

His father’s expression didn’t change. “Your brother is there to strengthen Karak’s relationship with the elves. Winning is not the purpose. You are the son of the Highest. These things should be evident to you.”

“I know, Father. And they are. I’m sorry.”

“Jealousy is a shifty demon, Crian, and given your place as a son of a First Family, you must be increasingly wary against it. What are you, thirty-eight? And yet you think you can teach centuries-old elves how to wield a blade? You don’t know how far from true beauty your skills really are. I do. I have witnessed Karak, our true Father, wield a blade. Now that…that was a sight to remember, a dance like none I have ever seen. His greatsword sheared trees and cattle with ease, and it seemed as though the very earth trembled beneath his feet. You are so much like him, yet so far from him at the same time. If only you had been born prior to his departure. You are a great warrior, Crian, but he could have made you legendary .”

Crian felt his neck flush at the dressing down, but something tickled at the back of his mind through it all. With a sudden jolt, he realized it, and he stared at his father in surprise.

“You…you don’t know?”

His father frowned.

“Know what?”

“Karak. He returned nine days ago.”

Clovis crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes.

“Is that so?”

“It is. He visited Minister Mori and held audience in the streets for a time before retiring to his temple. He hasn’t been seen since, but the Minister assures us he is still in Veldaren.”

He watched as his father’s expression subtly changed. He didn’t look surprised, but his normally detached gaze shifted for a moment. What was that expression? It looked almost like concern. This baffled Crian, for why would Karak’s Highest not rejoice upon his return? He didn’t dare ask. Such a question was far beyond his standing, even as Clovis’s own son.

Finally, his father said, “Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise be to Karak,” answered Avila.

Crian just nodded his head.

The door to the vestibule crashed open, interrupting their talk. All three turned to see King Vaelor step into the room. The leader of his personal guard followed, a brutish thug dressed in thick leather armor. The king was all smiles now, though his cheerfulness seemed forced, and he struggled to hold aside his heavy wool cape to allow his legs freedom of movement. He had the look of a child who’d done wrong and hoped his parents wouldn’t notice.

“Ah, Clovis,” he said with false cheer. “Good to see you. I apologize for my words earlier-busy day and all. How were the travels? How was Haven? Did you shed plenty of blasphemers’ blood-”

Without so much as a warning, Crian’s father lunged forward with the grace of a stalking cat. His fist struck the side of King Vaelor’s face, followed by a heavy crack . Vaelor’s neck snapped back, and his flesh rippled as he teetered on his feet. A glob of blood shot from his lips, smattering the wall behind him. The king fell over, landing hard on his elbow. His guard, Karl Dogon, took a step forward, reaching for the pommel of his sword, but one look from Clovis froze him in his tracks.

“Go outside,” said Crian’s father. “Do not come back in until I call for you.”

“Yes, Highest,” replied the large man, and he backed his way out the door.

The king stared up at Karak’s Highest with fear in his eyes. Clovis kicked the prone man, eliciting a womanly scream. Crian winced, knowing this would only goad his father into delivering a worse beating.

And beat the king his father did, mercilessly pummeling him with an endless barrage of kicks and punches. By the time he was finished, King Vaelor looked like a stuck pig ready for the spit. Blood ran down his frilly white shirt, dripped from his necklace of thick gold links, and stained the corners of his royal cape an even deeper black. The man whimpered and cried, tears falling from the creases in his now swollen eyes.

And never once, Crian realized, had his father uttered a word. When he was finished, Clovis removed his blood-soaked gloves and handed them to Avila.

“You will never disrespect me again, your highness ,” he said, venom leaking out of every syllable. “You are but a man, destined to live out your days and die, whereas I am forever. Your rule is a sham. Everything you have is because of me. It was I who poisoned your father’s rival so that your father might win the Tourney of Rule. I -not Karak-named him king, just as I named you king after he died. And how do you repay me? By giving another the mantle of Lord Commander and treating me as a common beggar in front of the court. With but a word, I can take back all I have given you. Do you understand?”

The whimpering king nodded.

Clovis gave him one last kick in the ribs and called for his guard to reenter. “Get him cleaned up,” he demanded. “And have the court whores apply powder to hide the bruises. We don’t want anyone to know our king is a craven who cannot defend himself, now do we?”

“Of course not, Highest,” Dogon replied.

The bodyguard helped the dazed king to his feet and led him out the side door of the vestibule. Beyond was a staircase leading to the royal bedroom and the stable of whores that Clovis had allowed the man to keep. The Highest straightened his shirt, cracked his neck, and turned to his children. If not for the faint stains of blood on his clothes, there was nary a sign of the beating that had just taken place.

“Crian, you are to leave with your sister. I want you both in Omnmount with a faction of the new army.”

Thoughts of Nessa leapt to the forefront of Crian’s mind. He couldn’t believe his sudden good fortune. Omnmount was barely a few days ride from the delta. The timeliness of it, however, gave him pause.

“I will, Father, but may I ask why? And what of the City Watch?”

“There are dark days coming, son. Dark days for which we must prepare. You will command five hundred green soldiers and continue their training. Enlist the help of the township if you wish. You say you are the best at swordplay? Very well. Then let the best teach our men. Humanity is weak, from the east to the west. It is up to the children of gods, up to us , to guide them. We have seventy-eight days before Haven will get their reckoning, and I want our men to be prepared. As for the City Watch, I will have the king hand those duties over to Captain Gregorian. He is capable enough for a regular human.”

“What of Vulfram? Will he not come with us?”

“Perhaps. For now, I have granted him leave, for being Soleh’s child, he is weak and requires time with his loved ones. We are a blessed few, we Crestwells. The world is young, and only the strong, the dedicated, will inherent the fruit when the vine ripens. We must endure the weaknesses of those who are useful to us, but we must never envy and never indulge. We are the snakes that dine with the lion. Karak is always with us, no matter how far away he might be.”

With that, Highest Crestwell pivoted on his heel and headed for the vestibule door. Crian watched him go, guilt stirring in his stomach. It was Avila who called out to their father before he exited the chamber.

“Highest, what will you do in our absence?” she asked.

He turned to his children, caught in the half-darkness between the covered doorway and the torchlight. The shadows slid over his face, concealing his upper half, making him look like a partially formed apparition.

“I will hold court with my god,” he said, and walked out the door.

The banner flapped on its pole, puffed out for all to see by a strong late summer breeze. Vulfram knelt before it, gazing up at the leaping doe that served as the sigil of House Mori. It was a welcome reminder of the warmth of home in an otherwise cold city of stone. When he was young he’d watched whole herds wander through the plains outside the Erzn forest. Those days he had hunted with a bow and gutted with a knife, killing for the evening meal and always showing respect to the beasts he slew.