David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Dreams can be portentous,” Ashhur said after a time. “They are not to be ignored, but considered, for in dreams we can receive warnings of the future or messages from the past. In worlds far from here, dreams have saved lives, stopped wars, and reunited long-lost loves. For when our minds are free from the earthly ties that bind us, we can sometimes see into the distance.”

Geris felt Ashhur’s finger slide over the back of his palm, and the warmth of his insides heightened.

“And what of my dream?” he asked. “Were the words of the shadow-lion…um… portentous? ”

“You worry so,” laughed Ashhur. “No, my son, they are not portentous. My love for you is as great now as it has ever been. And my love for the goddess is not new. I have loved her from the moment our essences drifted past each other in the milky ether of infinity. I owe her much. She is wise, wiser than I am at times, and I benefit from her counsel. But she could never take your place. You are my children, and my responsibility lies now, and always, with you. Please do not fear my abandonment. It is not in my heart to ever leave you.”

“Thank you,” said Geris, his gratitude overwhelming him to the point of tears. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I love you so much…more than anything…more than my parents…more than becoming a king…more than my own life. The thought of losing you…I never want to feel that again.”

“Hush now,” the deity said, pulling the child in close. “There is no shame in fear, and there is no indignity in doubt. Beware your dreams, Geris, for while they can bring wisdom, they can also bring lies and despair. They can be the spreaders of falsehoods, the builders of a life of apprehension. So be still, my son, and hear my words. No harm shall befall you, and I promise, I will never leave your side, whether you become a great king or a simple farmer. You are perfect in my eyes, Geris Felhorn, and always shall be.”

Geris allowed the god to embrace him and fell fully into a trance of comfort. So contented was he that he never saw or questioned the touch of concern that darkened Ashhur’s features when the god turned his gaze toward the rolling meadows and the lands across the river to the east.

E verything is falling apart.

It wasn’t just the palpable miasma of distrust that lingered in the air that made Soleh think this. The eyes of each person she passed on her way through the city skittered from side to side in panic. Shoulders hunched, hands were hidden from view, and footsteps quickened with a furtive sort of speed. The distant screams that cut through the morning air didn’t help matters any. People were being hurt, robbed, and murdered, right there in the streets. It was why Soleh now required an armed escort whenever she left the safety of either the Castle of the Lion or the Tower Keep.

Sixteen days. That was how long it had been since Clovis had drafted nearly all of the City Watch into Karak’s Army and then sent them south to Omnmount under the direction of two of his own children. Since the Left had served as the proxy Captain of the Watch, those responsibilities now fell to Malcolm Gregorian, the scarred survivor of Kayne and Lilah’s loyalty test. Serving as the Captain of both the Watch and the Palace Guard was a daunting task for one man, duties piled upon duties without ceasing. The loyal man was stretched too thin. He couldn’t control the commotion in the palace and the turmoil that boiled in the city streets at the same time.

To make matters worse, the new men who had been brought in to replace the guard were nothing more than common thugs. They had an unkempt look about them, with thick guts from years of downing copious amounts of liquor, and there was no pride in the way they wore the purple sashes of the order. Almost all of the new recruits’ had a shifty, scheming look to them. Soleh had no idea what King Vaelor, the man responsible for their appointment, had seen in these ruffians other than their apparent aptitude for violence.

“Stay close, Minister,” said Pulo, one of the three palace guards who chaperoned her around the city. Pulo was a tall and lean man, but ropy muscles defined his arms. He kept his left hand on Soleh’s shoulder while his right crossed over the front of his body, his fingers resting on the pommel of the cutlass that hung from his hip. The burgundy half-cape on his back billowed with each step. His eyes flicked from side to side through the slit in his half helm, and he gritted his teeth. The late-morning crowd was thinner than usual-much thinner-but it seemed more dangerous in every possible way.

“Hold on the left,” said another of the Guard, a short, stocky man named Jonn. A bearded drunkard staggered close by, stumbling across the cobbled street and heading right for them. The man’s expression was blank and his movements clumsy, but Soleh knew that clumsy could present the greatest danger of all.

When the drunkard didn’t veer off his course, Jonn stepped away from Soleh and Pulo and, joined by Roddalin, her third chaperone, channeled the swaying man to the side.

“Fuckin’ doddling arse,” muttered the man, taking a ham-fisted swing at Jonn. The guard ducked it easily and drew the truncheon clasped to the other side of his belt. He swung it hard at the man’s knee, striking him in the side of the cap with a sickening pop . The drunkard’s leg folded under his weight, and Roddalin clobbered him on the side of the head. The man collapsed with all the grace of a falling oak. His eyes rolled back, showing only their whites, just before his head bounced twice on the hard-packed road.

“Move along!” shouted Jonn, waving his truncheon before him. Those ahead gave them a wide berth, going about their business with practiced calm. Soleh noted a small group of older women lingering nearby, keeping an even distance between themselves and the four royal travelers. They looked scared and were likely following the royal troop in the hopes that the Guard would provide them with safe travel as well. Given the attitude that ruled the day, Soleh still eyed them warily.

Pulo ushered her along once more. They passed through sad gray streets of cold stone, avoiding all who looked like trouble. She happened to glance toward the windows of a mercantile building as she passed by and noticed that the shop owner was peering out like a child frightened of his own shadow. She wished she could feel pity for him, but her heart was too heavy. The city was in chaos, and worse, her granddaughter Lyana was far away, soon to be punished for some grave sin, by her own father. Any pity Soleh had, she reserved for herself.

The Castle of the Lion was almost in view when the sounds of a woman pleading for her life reached Soleh’s ears from one of the many downtrodden alleyways. There were three members of the Watch standing nearby, but they were lazing against the wall of a bakery, chewing bits of bread while the baker sat, cradling his arm on the front stoop.

She glanced at Pulo, who shook his head. “We mustn’t, Mistress,” he said. “Too dangerous.”

“It is my responsibility to dole out justice, Pulo.”

It was Roddalin, the youngest of them, who snapped his heels together first. “Yes, Minister!” he exclaimed and began to cross the road, unfastening the clasp over the handle of his cutlass. Pulo and Jonn exchanged a nervous glance before Jonn followed. Pulo took Soleh by the elbow and guided her through the light traffic, holding up a mailed hand when a horse-drawn cart bore down on them. Once on the other side, they turned to the left and pursued the sound of the now-weeping woman’s voice. Soleh glared at the three Watchmen on her way past them. They leered back at her until they noticed the black cloak that hung from her shoulders. Then they covered their faces with whatever shield they could find and scurried off.