David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Azariah smiled, and his dark expression lifted.

“No, they were. After the invasion, when the razing of the other cities was completed and we were near starvation, a bright light appeared before us. The light filled our vision, washing out the horror surrounding us. That was when Celestia appeared, shining so brightly we could not look upon her face. Rana had summoned her to protect us. Ashhur was by her side, and the god-made-flesh offered us safety, asking us to join him and his brother in a brand new world. Of course we said yes, and Celestia whisked us away from our now-dead world and into this one. We were made wardens over the lives created by the brother gods. To have Ashhur arrive when he did, presenting my brothers and me with a chance to live out the rest of our lives in peace, rekindled my faith.”

“So you’re saying you’re not one for coincidences, are you, Az?” asked Jacob, leaning against one of the stunted trees at the far edge of the camp. A grin spread on his face as he dumped six large logs beside the fire.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” asked Azariah.

“Long enough,” replied Jacob as he took a seat beside Brienna. She shifted away from Roland, sliding into Jacob’s arms and planting a kiss on his face. Roland watched and couldn’t help but feel jealous. Still, his master was alive and well, and that overwhelmed any of his more petty feelings.

“What took you so long?” asked Brienna, nudging her lover in the ribs.

“Ran into a couple farmers from the Durham Township,” Jacob said, pulling his blanket tighter around him. “They must have thought I was a predator hungry for their sheep, because they came at me with weapons raised. I couldn’t help but laugh. What predator do they think their sharpened twigs would repel? Certainly not me .”

Brienna ran her fingers through Jacob’s hair and pulled back his cloak as if searching for a hidden injury. “Did they hurt you?”

Jacob laughed. “Are you even listening? No, when they realized who I was, they fell to their knees and begged for forgiveness. It was rather humorous, really.”

Roland noticed something odd about his master. His laugh seemed a bit too hearty, his smile a bit too forced. But he’d been like that a lot lately, and he seemed to be spending more and more time off by himself. While Jacob talked, his hands kept fidgeting with something he’d removed from the pocket of his surcoat, a clear and slender bit of crystal that shimmered in the light of the fire.

“What’s that?” asked Roland.

Jacob gave him a strange look, then glanced down at his hands. He chuckled, pinched the object between two fingers, and brought it up so that Roland could see it.

“A good luck charm,” Jacob replied, winking at the beautiful elf beside him. “Just a bit of glass Brienna gave me when I bested her brother in a dual.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Roland, mesmerized by his own reflection as it flashed before his eyes.

“Very much so,” Jacob said. He flipped the crystal over in his palm and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Apparently, I am not as brave as our dear Warden here. I’ve seen much of the world and tasted plenty of fear, but still I find myself unhappy in its presence. It almost makes me wonder why Azariah even bothered to tell such a sorry little tale.”

Azariah chuckled, shaking his head.

“The boy wanted to know about fear,” he said.

“What boy?” asked Jacob. Brienna giggled and snuggled closer to her man, her head resting against his chest. Jacob glanced over at Roland and winked. “I see before me Roland Norsman of Safeway, my steward and the one man I trust more than any other.” He winked at Azariah. “Certainly more than any Warden, I can assure you.”

“Thank you,” said Roland, joy filling his heart.

“It would be wrong for you to think you know more than Roland,” Jacob continued. “ Dead wrong. You know torment, not fear. There is a difference between them that’s ten chasms wide.”

Azariah chuckled, and there was a sense of familiarity to it that convinced Roland that these two had had such a conversation before.

“So enlighten us,” said the Warden. “What do you think true fear is?”

Jacob turned to Roland, fire in his eyes. It was his turn to rule the fireside chat.

“Our tall and graceful friend here has it all wrong. The worst of all fears is not doubt. For one to doubt, one first has to believe in something. That belief counts as knowledge. And should we doubt it, as Azariah did, then you have knowledge of a different kind. True fear, the fear that even little children have the moment they are born, is reserved for the unknown. That is the part of Azariah’s story that should inspire the most terror. Who were the beasts that invaded his world? What did they want? Why did they slaughter his people? And with each answer he learned, there were thousands more that he did not. The more you learn, the more you realize how much there is you don’t know, and that , my young steward, is truly frightening.”

Roland shuffled, trying to imagine it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “How could anything be scarier than what Azariah said? I’m not sure what I’d do if I found out Ashhur was wrong.”

“Your fear isn’t because Ashhur is wrong,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “It’s because suddenly death has become a great unknown. That is what you fear. Let me tell you a story, Roland, one the Neyvar of the Quellan elves told me a long time ago.”

“Fantastic,” muttered Brienna with a roll of her eyes. “This again.” She rested her head in his lap and wrapped her hands around his knees.

“Shush, you,” he said, patting her head. “Go to sleep if you don’t want to listen. Anyhow, Roland, according to legend, a thousand years ago the elves of Dezrel banded together to fight a wicked yet unknown enemy.”

“It’s just a story,” came Brienna’s muffled voice.

“Yes, it’s just a story, but one important enough for pictograms to be dedicated to it in the crypts beneath Dezerea. Roland, do you wish to hear the tale?”

“I do,” he said, captivated.

“I’ve not heard of this either,” added Azariah, looking interested.

“Then you listen up too, Az. You might learn something.”

Azariah laughed. “But if I learn something, won’t I realize I didn’t learn anything at all? Is that not what you just said?”

“Very funny. As I was about to say, a pox laid waste to this realm a thousand years ago. It was a pestilence from the underworld that came in the form of three demon kings. Their names-Darakken, Velixar, and Sluggoth-are inscribed on the walls of the largest elven crypt, dedicated to Neyvar Kardious, who ruled the Quellan elves for nearly four hundred years before his death at the hands of these demons. They were creatures of immeasurable power, and over the span of three centuries they transformed this world into a wasteland. They were masters of the dead, and their magic made them lords of blood and disease. Darakken was known for his size and strength; Velixar, for his cunning manipulation; and Sluggoth was a bringer of plagues, whose mere presence could kill. They were ancient, and the elves had no defense against them. Worse, they had no knowledge of them, and for a time it appeared that they would raze both the Dezren and the Quellan from the face of Dezrel.

“Although Darakken was the most powerful of the three, commanding a vast army of hell hounds, snake-men, and other lesser demons, it was Velixar who nearly extinguished all elven life. He was a shrewd, manipulative beast, master of the art of blood and the enslavement of the dead. Armies of elven corpses rose from the battlefields, taking up arms against father, mother, brother, and sister. Those too ruined to be resurrected had their remains used as weapons-bones for arrows, blood formed into solid whips, and rotten flesh used as burning ammunition. A few elven tales claim this Velixar once commanded tens of thousands of dead made living, though Ashhur only knows how he obtained the power to control so many.”