David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Growing weak and sleepy from loss of blood, Patrick slid down from his knuckles to his shoulders until he finally fell face first into the dirt and rocks. Nessa screamed, and then hands were on him, rolling him over so that the sun shone brightly in his fading vision. One of the shadows bent over him. The figure touched the side of his face with one gloved hand and lifted the hood from its head with the other. A woman gazed down at him, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with bronzed skin and piercing green eyes. Her hair was dark, with two or three pale streaks, wavy almost to the point of curls, and when one of her locks drooped near his nose he smelled a combination of sweat and peppermint. It was a delicious scent.

“I think I’m in love,” Patrick whispered, just before losing consciousness.

Patrick awoke on a comfortable bed-by far the most comfortable bed on which he had ever laid-in a lavishly decorated room. Artwork hung from the walls; flower arrangements sprouted from within skillfully crafted vases; and the air was infused with the sweet scent of lilac. A man sat by his bedside. Without a word he handed Patrick a waterskin, which the latter downed in half a heartbeat.

While Patrick wiped water from his chin, everything came back to him. He remembered the attack on Nessa, his defense of her, the loss of Winterbone, and the blessed arrival of the three black-cloaked figures. He patted his stomach and rubbed his forearm, where he had been stabbed, but it seemed as though his wounds had been healed. His body felt free of aches, and it didn’t hurt to look into the light. In fact, the headache that had tormented him for days had diminished to a tiny fragment that lingered in the back of his skull like a mischievous mouse. He glanced up at the bearded man beside him, who nodded as if some silent message had passed between them.

“Pardon my rudeness,” Patrick said finally, “but who are you?”

The man offered his hand, which Patrick shook.

“Deacon Coldmine,” the man said, his smile revealing a set of crooked yet well cared for teeth. “Some here call me the Lord of Haven, but please, just call me Deacon.”

Patrick sat up, his jaw dropping open. This was the man he’d been sent to find? Well, find him he had…though it had been more of the other way around.

“I take it that this is your house?” he asked. “I must say, it’s wonderful.”

“No, no, not mine,” replied Deacon, shaking his head and grinning. “My abode is much more…unpretentious than this. This place is a little extravagant for my tastes, not to mention my means.”

“Is that so? Then who should I honor for housing me?”

“That would be Lady Gemcroft. She brought you here three days ago.”

Patrick whistled, his eyes widening. “Three days?”

“Yes. You were in rough shape when you were discovered-lost a lot of blood. I was called here immediately to assist in your care, but your injuries were beyond my abilities as an herbalist, so…other means were necessary.”

“What other means?”

Deacon reached out and rapped three times on the table beside him. The door cracked open, and when Deacon nodded, swung fully inward. Four people entered the room in rapid succession, Nessa in the lead. His sister was beaming, and the moment she spied him she broke into a run, leaping into his lap with every inch of force her tiny frame could muster. Patrick caught her, the air blasting from his lungs, and gave her a tight squeeze.

“Thank Ashhur, you’re all right,” she whispered into his ear.

“Yes, thank Ashhur indeed,” a second woman spoke.

Nessa slid off his lap and fell into place beside him, and Patrick looked up at the sound of that familiar, feminine voice. There she was, the woman he had dreamed of, the one who had saved him. She was as near to perfect as a human could be, every curve of her body faultless, every angle of her face exquisite in its brilliance. She wore a pair of tight, calf-length breeches and a green satin chemise that perfectly matched her green eyes.

Patrick was so focused on her that it took him a moment realize that others were there too-a young woman with silver hair and eyes like azure gemstones, who held the splendid woman’s hand in a curiously intimate manner, and an old and frail, dark-skinned man with a thick white beard, who looked strangely familiar.

The splendid woman smiled, curtseyed, and said, “Patrick DuTaureau of Mordeina, my name is Rachida, and I welcome you to my home. This is Moira to my right, and to my left is Antar Hoonen, whom I think you know.”

Patrick snapped his fingers. “Antar? Bardiya’s friend, Antar? But…you were so young when last we met!”

Antar smiled a toothless smile. “Ah, if only we were all bestowed with the blessing of timelessness. I, my friend, am not.”

“It’s not such a blessing,” Patrick muttered out the side of his mouth.

“Anyhow,” said Rachida, breezing through the room as if she weighed nothing, “it was Antar here who healed you. He’s been acting as the township’s healer when it comes to the more…extreme illnesses and has been ever since the masters of House Gorgoros evicted him from their land.”

Patrick cocked his head. “Why did they evict you?”

Antar shrugged. “I disagreed with Master Bessus, so I struck him. I was not welcomed after that.”

“And yet you can still heal?” asked Patrick, staring at his hands in disbelief.

“I lost no faith in Ashhur, only in Bessus,” replied Antar. “My faith has never gone away, and it never will until the day I die.”

“Well, thank you, old friend,” said Patrick, bowing. He then turned to Rachida. “And thank you , my dear, for rescuing us on the road that day. I don’t know how you did it, but you and your partners were a wonder to watch. Disregarding all the blood, of course. Who were the others?”

Rachida tapped the head of the lithe, silver-haired girl, who giggled and nuzzled into her touch. “Moira was one of them, and the other was Corton Ender, the man who taught us what we know of fighting.”

“Two ladies and an unknown gentleman took down seven bandits? I’m impressed.”

“Six men. You took care of one yourself.”

“By accident.”

Rachida knelt by his bedside. “By accident is a good start. Some of our greatest accomplishments happen when we least expect them to.”

“I suppose you’re right. I truly never expected to get into a skirmish. The reason I came here was to make sure Deacon took down his temple before the third new moon.”

“Wait,” said Deacon. “You were sent here?”

“Well, yes. Nessa didn’t tell you?”

Nessa shook her head. “Wasn’t my place.”

Patrick sighed. “Well, all right then. I was sent here by Jacob Eveningstar, Ashhur’s most trusted servant, with a plea for those in the delta to yield to Karak’s will. I wasn’t told much, just that Jacob fears the worst will happen to you should you refuse to yield.”

Rachida’s expression turned from warm and welcoming to hard and blunt.

“So even Jacob is against us now,” she said. “I expected better of him.” She slapped her knees and stood up, pacing around the room, weaving in and out of those who were standing. “Those men you ran into were sent here by Karak’s followers, the same god you would ask us to kneel before. They’ve burned four holdfasts, slaughtered thirty heads of cattle, and murdered six men. And those seven are just a small number of the many who have ‘visited’ us here in the delta since Karak’s Army loosed their arrows on our temple. Our wills have been made iron. They will not best us, even if Karak himself comes here to show us his wrath, as promised.”

Patrick swallowed hard. “But…don’t you fear being destroyed? Karak created you, all of you…well, except for you, Antar…and trust me, I’ve spent many hours with Ashhur, and I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side either.”