David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

He turned to his sister and tried to smile. The glare of the sun forced him to avert his eyes, and he caught his reflection in the mirrored crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle. Carrying the sword on his back made him unstable in the saddle, so it was strapped to the side of his horse, its scabbard tucked beneath his left knee. Snatching a handkerchief from the pocket of his light coat, he dropped the fabric over the hideous likeness, wanting to banish his reflection. Even on a good day he was a sorry sight, but after a lengthy bout of illness? It was a wonder that passersby didn’t lunge for whatever weapons they could find and vow to Ashhur to send this escaped demon of the underworld back to its hole. At least that’s the way he felt.

Nessa gave him a queer look and nudged her horse closer. Her hand fell on his leg, the pressure of her touch changing with each bob created by the horses’ strides.

“Seriously, are you all right?”

Patrick sighed and gazed into his sister’s eyes. There was concern in them, and innocence as well, and he knew that she did not look on his physical deformities the way he did. For the millionth time in his life, he was thankful for that.

“I am, Ness. I’m just hurting.”

“Is it bad?”

He waved his hand in front of him. “Manageable.”

“Good,” she said with a grin. “Because Ashhur’s Bridge is coming up soon. I can see it now. Race you there?”

Nessa kicked her horse and took off at a gallop, flying away from him without even waiting for his agreement. His sister’s red hair whipped out behind her like a comet’s tail. Patrick moaned, the ache in his head persistent, and tried to match her speed. It was no use, for the minute his steed began to pick up its pace, the wind and motion filled his skull with agony. He pulled back on the reins and tried to call out for Nessa to stop, but his throat was dry, and the words died just as they started to emerge.

Defeated, he slumped in his saddle and gazed straight ahead. He watched Nessa and her horse grow smaller and smaller as they approached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon River. In the distance he could see the misty rise of the Clubfoot Mountains, the small collection of mounts that split the river and formed the delta. There was a strange fog in the air, even though there were no clouds in the sky, but Patrick was in too much agony to think about what that might mean.

Nessa went up and over the bridge, disappearing on the other side. Patrick hoped she wouldn’t get too eager and go off exploring on her own. She could be so impatient sometimes-and quick on her feet to boot. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day trudging through swamps and wetlands, screaming out her name, while she sat on a rock, splashing her bare feet in the water as tiny fish nibbled at her toes.

Yes, that had happened once before. No, he wasn’t bitter about it.

“PATRICK!”

Her voice came to him like a flash of lightning from on high, full of panic and terror. Patrick bolted upright, the pain in his head swallowed by his sister’s distress. He urged his horse onward, slowly picking up speed. He squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out what was going on. He saw nothing, only the tall grasses that swayed like water on the other side of the bridge. Closer and closer he rode, each bump horrible, but at last he finally did see something-the strange dark fog he had noticed before, except it wasn’t fog. It was smoke.

A great fire burned beyond the bridge.

He rode faster.

Moments later he reached Ashhur’s Bridge, a wide overpass made from pearly white marble and reinforced with tall, elegant arches, a complex structure that had been created by divine hands before the dawn of humanity. The horse’s hooves hit the marble with a series of weighty thunks . Patrick could hear the river scuttling below him, rushing out toward the Thulon Ocean.

He became like that water, moving in a steady rhythm with the wind and his horse, steering the mare off the bridge and onto the dirt path that cut between the chest-high grasses. He rode a few feet down the road, and then stopped, making the horse circle in place, gazing out in all directions. All he saw was an endless sea of wavering vegetation. The billowing smoke was actually some distance to the southwest, rising in a triplet of plumes.

“Nessa!” he screamed, listening for a response that never came. At best, he caught what might have been a muffled cry, but the twirling horse kept him from honing in on it. He pulled up hard on the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. “Nessa!” he yelled again, this time holding his breath afterward and cocking his head to listen.

And then, from behind him, a voice.

“’Ello there.”

Taken by surprise, Patrick yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse bucked. He lost his balance in the saddle and teetered until the clasp holding it in place broke, and he slipped off the side. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately covered his head with his arms. His headache had reawakened with a fury, assaulting his eyes with its blinding power. Fighting the pain, he lifted himself up on his elbows.

“Well, what we have here?” the voice said.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder while doing his best to keep nausea from overpowering him. Eight figures stood in the middle of the road. Seven were bandits, with broad chests and fearsome visages, who looked-and smelled-as if they hadn’t yet learned the art of bathing. They were all dressed in black and carrying swords and daggers. Patrick could only guess that they’d circled around him in the tall grasses, blocking any retreat across the bridge. The eighth was Nessa, and his sister gasped and screeched as one of the men brought his dagger to her throat. The man held her up by the hair so high that her feet barely touched the ground, and her yellow dress was ripped and dirtied.

One of the men stepped forward. His hair was a long, grease-streaked mess, and Patrick swore he could see fleas leaping about in the man’s ratty beard.

“What-you gots no tongue, freak?” he said.

Patrick grunted and shoved off the ground with his knuckles, bringing his short legs beneath him in a single motion. His horse maneuvered close to him again, its panic gone, and he placed a hand on its neck for support.

“Yes, I have a tongue,” Patrick replied, trying to keep his gaze locked on the men while searching for his fallen saddle-and Winterbone-at the same time. “But tongues don’t do much good for those who don’t know how to use them.”

The speaker’s face scrunched up. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It means learn how to speak, you son of a three-tittied whore.”

The men behind the speaker laughed, but Patrick noticed that the one holding Nessa tightened his grip, bringing her closer to him.

“Candry,” one of them said, wheezing out a guffaw. “The freak…he done said your mama…”

“I heard ’im,” said the one named Candry. “The bastard thinks he’s a funny one, for sure.”

“On no, I don’t think I’m funny at all,” said Patrick. He stepped away from the horse and toward the men, catching a glimpse of something twinkling between the swaying blades of grass. “I know I am. Because I understand humor. And soap. And I know it isn’t funny when you smell like shit.”

More laughter from the men, only this time the one holding Nessa doubled over as she jammed her elbows into his stomach. She fell to the ground and tried to scurry away. Candry planted a foot on her back, keeping her from getting far. Nessa cried out in pain as the man ground his heel into her, which washed away all of Patrick’s false bravado. He felt his neck flush.