David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Magister Wentner handed Vulfram a whip whose five strands were barbed with tiny, sharp stones. Lyana wept and writhed before him as he brought his arm back.

“Karak forgive me,” he whispered and lashed out with the whip.

The strands gouged Lyana’s flesh, opening ugly gashes that trickled blood down her buttocks and thighs. “Daddy, stop!” she screamed, the cry of a wounded animal, and Vulfram swung again.

As the whip sheared his daughter’s back, flecks of bloody skin flying into the air with each crack, he saw her as a child in his lap while he read to her before the fire; saw her at the dinner table, picking through her vegetables with a sour look on her face; saw her in bed at night, listening to his stories of Karak’s glory. Tears fell from his eyes, but his arm performed his duty. The air was filled with the crack of the whip and his daughter’s wailing. The crowd remained strangely silent. He refused to look at anything but Lyana, didn’t want to see his wife’s face as he doled out their daughter’s punishment. He hoped Alexander and Caleigh were watching. He hoped they learned the bitter cost of their faith. The memories slowly faded away until nothing was left but the sinner and the lashing of the whip.

By the time he had finished and the Sisters had dressed Lyana’s battered form in the wrappings that would stay with her for the rest of her natural life, Vulfram felt nothing, nothing at all.

A wolf bayed, raggedly cutting through the midnight silence like a saw through wood. Roland shivered, his eyes flicking from side to side. Just two nights before he’d stumbled on a pack of wolves devouring the corpse of a female deer. The alpha had lifted its head from its meal, observing him with reflective eyes while blood dripped from its huge maw. Roland had stared at it, horrified, and if Azariah hadn’t grabbed the reins of his horse and led him away, the entire pack might have fallen on him.

Now, as he sat before their campfire, the flames crackling and licking the night air, surrounded by stunted trees whose branches were becoming lean with the advent of autumn, he couldn’t help but imagine that those same wolves might have followed them. Jacob had left a long time ago to find wood for the fire, and in Roland’s mind his master had become the doe, his insides spilled over the nettle-covered ground while canine mouths fought over the entrails. For all he knew, the rest of the pack circled the camp, stalking hungrily. More than anything, he wished he could be back in Safeway, with Ashhur a mere jog away. A strange feeling came over him, one he’d never felt before. Everything felt heightened-the light of the fire, the rustling of the bodies around him in their blankets, the sounds of the tethered horses whinnying in the distance, and the snapping of twigs in the surrounding forest.

A cold wind blew, making him shiver. He pulled his woolen blanket tighter around him, wishing he’d thought to bring warmer clothing. Having never ventured out of Safeway and the shadow of the Sanctuary over his twenty years of life, he’d never felt the sting of a northern night. In the south, the first week of autumn was like the last week of summer, with the heat of day persisting late into the evening. Sure, he’d been told of the northern winters, of snow and frost and how it seeped into your bones. And he had always bobbed his head, believing he understood. Now he knew how great a fool he’d been, thinking he could understand such a thing through mere words. Here, camping just off the Gods’ Road in the woodlands a few miles north of Mordeina, the moon was like an icy sun casting frigid blue light through the branches of stunted trees.

A silken hand caressed his knee, and Roland glanced to his left. There sat Brienna, her crystalline eyes staring down at him. Her hair was pulled back from her face, bunched in a glossy tress that cascaded over her shoulder, revealing the fine contours of her cheeks and dainty nose. She was quite beautiful in a strong yet youthful way. Roland adored her and thought her far more welcoming than any of the other elves he’d met. He especially appreciated her untamed spirit and bright eyes, so totally unlike her usually calculated brethren. She seemed to be the perfect match for Jacob.

“What’s wrong?” Brienna asked. “You’re trembling like a woodpecker’s jabbing at your soul.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m worried about my master. He’s been gone for too long.”

Brienna laughed. “Jacob’s fine, Roland. He’s a resourceful man.”

“But the wolves.…”

“The wolves hold nothing over him.” She had that sly look about her, a playfulness Roland had often seen. “The creatures of the wood tremble in his presence. He is the most perfect creation in the land. I think he’ll be fine.”

“And I think you give the man too much credit, Brienna,” mumbled Azariah, stirring from his rest. The Warden lifted himself up on his elbow. The light of the fire cast a haunting shade of red on Azariah’s normally pale complexion, making Roland shiver once more. “As timeless and perfect as he is, Jacob is only human, and like all of us he can falter.”

Brienna eyed him devilishly. Her relationship with Azariah often baffled Roland. Though they obviously enjoyed each other’s company, they constantly passed barbs back and forth. Rarely, if ever, did they agree on anything. About the only thing they had in common was their mutual admiration for Jacob.

“You’re no more human than I am, Az,” Brienna jested. “Actually, I’m not sure you even know what you are.”

“I very much know what I am,” replied the Warden, sitting up straight and throwing off his blankets. “I am Azariah, brother of Judarius and Laconia, son of Azekiel and Caterina-”

“Yes, but what world were you born on, Azariah? Was it here with the rest of mankind? No, I don’t think it was. You’re a Warden of Ashhur. You’re as far from a human as I am.”

Azariah glared at her, but he could not keep a straight face. Brienna grinned, and the Warden erupted into a hearty bout of laughter, which the beautiful elf was quick to join. Roland chuckled as well, and he noticed that the chill that had been weighing down his bones seemed to be ebbing.

When the laughter died down, Roland sat there grinning, poking at the fire with a long branch. He was glad Jacob had asked Brienna and Azariah to join them on this mysterious journey into the north, after passing his mentorship of Benjamin Maryll to Judarius. Whatever their flaws, both his travel companions knew how to lighten the atmosphere and set his soul at ease. The only thing he regretted was that the feeling never seemed to last. Soon his nerves stirred again, just as the crackling of the flames reemerged, along with the chirping of the insects and the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. The coldness came back to him as well, and he inched closer to the blaze, his face scrunched into a grimace.

Azariah and Brienna exchanged a frown.

“And still the boy is ill at ease,” said the Warden.

“I’m just cold,” said Roland.

“Come here,” said the elf. “I’ll warm you up.”

Brienna inched closer, wrapping an arm around him. He smelled the alluring aroma of her jasmine-scented skin as a strange feeling washed over him from the inside out. It was similar to the one he got when he stood close to Mary Ulmer, a girl of undying faith who never seemed to notice how his mind turned to mush each time they spoke.

“The boy doesn’t need warmth,” said Azariah. “It’s fear he faces, and before it he’s clueless as a newborn babe.”

Roland squinted at the Warden over the flames, his pride stung.

“I’m not some child,” he said. “I’m twenty-old enough to be a man now.”