David Dalglish: Dawn of Swords

“Do you think they heard you?” Avila asked, her voice just as grating as her father’s.

“Aye,” replied Vulfram. “They heard, and they will obey.”

“And you are certain Karak will be with us when we return?”

Vulfram gestured behind him. “Ask your father. They were his words I spoke.”

Avila grinned, an expression that contained all the joy of a block of granite. Vulfram shivered and urged his stallion onward without another word. The horse settled into a mild canter as it maneuvered down the well-worn path through the sparse grasslands, pulling ahead of his vanguard. He wished he were home, back in bed with Yenge, touching her, tasting her, loving her. It had been eight years since he had been given the mantle of Captain of the City Watch, and his home visits were limited to once every six months. Each time he returned home, he wished to stay longer than he was allowed. He missed the simplicity of life before .

“Is that so wrong?” he whispered into the dead wind.

His only replies were the phantom memories of the screams from behind the wall, coupled with the marching feet of his army. He put them all out of his mind and rode in silence as the sun began its journey toward the other side of the world.

The road was narrow, cutting a jagged swath through the rocky, desert terrain. Jacob bounced in his saddle, the pain from the cuts and bruises on his thighs beginning to work its way up his spine. The sound of his horse’s thumping hooves filled his ears. He glanced to his left, where one of the Rigon’s snaking tributaries flowed in the distance, and then to his right, gazing down on the cracked red clay speckled with sparse brown grasses. The heat in the south was so insufferable that the river’s nourishment died only a few feet from its banks.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, yanked on the collar of his tunic, and then ran a clammy hand through his hair. Yes, the heat was oppressive, but it would have been so much more tolerable had he been able to walk. Whereas Jacob hated riding, he loved walking; it was a pastime he had indulged in for over one hundred years. But it had taken days to reach this far on horseback, and he wished to return to the Sanctuary in haste, which meant that traveling by foot was out of the question.

Besides, he would not make the kinglings walk such a distance.

Someone sniffled behind him, and Jacob cast a glance over his shoulder. There he saw Ben and Geris following on their tethered donkeys. Ben’s posture was slumped, and each time his donkey took an odd step, the boy swung far to the side, coming close to falling off. It was up to Geris to reach over and assist his fellow kingling, straightening the boy in his saddle and patting him on the back. For his part, Geris seemed to be handling the whole situation rather well. Whereas Ben’s eyes were constantly downcast, Geris would periodically steal a look at the third donkey trailing behind them. On its back Jacob had tied the body of Martin Harrow, draped in a cloth etched with the symbol of the golden mountain. Geris appeared solemn whenever he looked back, but there was an acceptance about him, a stalwartness that Ben, even though he was almost two years the boy’s elder, simply didn’t have. Geris was a born freeman, an independent soul with a quick wit and even quicker hands; his memory was short in regard to failure or, in this case, grief.

In other words, he would make a noble king.

“How much longer?” asked Geris, his voice soft and distant.

Jacob peered behind once more. “Shouldn’t be long now. Are you well?”

The boy shrugged. “Yes,” he replied. “Just getting tired.”

“This nightmare is behind us, and in time it will fade from you like a half-remembered dream.”

Geris nodded, not quite looking like he believed him. Jacob faced forward again and let out a sigh. The Lordship, which included himself and the Wardens, Ahaesarus and Judarius, had been formed four years earlier with the purpose of finding the three human children they believed best suited to take up the mantle of leadership under the watchful eyes of Ashhur, the loving god of the lands west of the Rigon. All three boys had come from strong and loyal families spread throughout Paradise-Martin from Mordeina, Ben from Conch, and Geris from Ashhur’s home city of Safeway-and had been chosen after a lengthy process during which the three mentors watched and observed a great many youths, testing their skill and intelligence, for a span of eighteen months. The newly appointed kinglings were then sent to Safeway, along with their families, to continue their training in the shadow of Ashhur’s Sanctuary. Of the three, Martin Harrow had demonstrated the greatest potential. Martin had been a hardened youth possessed of high intellect, a sense of empathy for his fellow man, and the desire to learn all his instructors had to offer. But now Martin’s body was rotting atop a donkey. Jacob shook his head; the boy’s mentor, Judarius, would be greatly upset by the news.

That left Ben Maryll and Geris Felhorn as the two in line to become king of the western lands of Paradise. Jacob knew that Geris would easily best Ben in any physical competition or game of wits. However, in deciding whom to crown ruler, the most essential qualities were faithfulness and charisma. Geris was a private child, happier when climbing the red cliffs around the Sanctuary than taking part in his lessons. But Ben drew people in. When he was comfortable, his sense of humor and timing were impeccable. He was certainly not a risk-taker, but he came across as cautious rather than fearful. As Ben’s mentor, Jacob nurtured that aspect of the boy’s personality, while seeking to instill a sense of fairness. Although Geris would be a stronger king, potentially leading the realm to greatness if Ashhur ever granted his subjects true self-rule, Jacob felt that, with the relative naïveté of the human race in Paradise, the people deserved a leader more like the one Ben would become.

Again Jacob caught Geris stealing a glance at the third donkey.

“Martin is in Afram now,” Jacob said, hoping to ease the boy’s lingering distress. “He is descending through the peaceful void, reaching out for Ashhur’s golden mountain. Cry if you must, but do not let it overwhelm you.”

Geris nodded again, the resolve in his eyes increasing Jacob’s respect for him.

What had been intended as a teaching opportunity for the kinglings had suddenly become a nightmare. After Ashhur had expressed concern about the goings-on in Haven a few weeks back, Jacob had suggested taking the three kinglings with him to preach Ashhur’s word at the Temple of the Flesh. He had been adamant that his words would reach the people of Haven, that the voice of Jacob Eveningstar, the First Man of Dezrel and Ashhur’s most trusted servant, would carry weight among the heathens.

And yet it hadn’t. The people did not wish to hear his sermons. All they wanted was to enter their temple, watch Priestess Aprodia dance erotically, and then fill the rest of their days with copulation and brandied wine. They truly were a lost people, so lost that a part of Jacob felt they deserved what had happened to them.

But there were other whispers that concerned him, tales told to him by Peytr, a merchant of precious gems from the delta, who had recently returned from the northern Tinderlands on his raft. He said there were signs of civilization in those dead plains, the remnants of fire pits and haphazardly created shelters. The bones of chickens and pigs had been scattered about the area, as well as the imprints of what could have been countless marching feet. At first Jacob had given no thought to the man’s discovery. Sinners had often fled to the vast emptiness of the Tinderlands, a place unclaimed by either Paradise or Neldar, to escape Karak’s judgment. But now that Jacob had seen a fraction of the forces led by Vulfram Mori, a new theory had begun to grow in his head.