David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

There may still be time. The mangold grove.

He leapt to his feet and ran. He ran faster than he ever had before, his long legs covering yards with each stride. In a span of mere moments he was out of the Stonewood borderlands and dashing across open fields that stretched out as far as his eyes could see.

The mangold grove. Morning prayers.

He ran faster.

A few miles outside the village of Ang there lay an isolated grove overflowing with broad-leafed flora whose stems shone red as blood. The mangolds were abundant there, the only place in all of Ashhur’s Paradise they could be found. Bessus often talked of how the air was different in the grove, sweeter and more life sustaining. His father also spoke of how the mangolds were red because their roots were connected to the heart of the land. Much like the black spire, it was a wholly unique place, which was why Bardiya’s parents and a select few of their people gathered there each morning to bestow their blessings on Ashhur in thanks for the life the god had given them.

If Davishon knew about the grove, and about the prayers conducted there, then so did others of his race.…

He shoved his sore, oversized body to its limits. He ran over the hilly ground, grass whipping against him like a million tiny knives, opening slender cuts on his bare shins and knees, while roots, briars, and stray twigs gouged the bottoms of his bare feet. As he ran, the sun slowly climbed higher in the sky, and his body soaked with sweat that evaporated beneath its heat.

It was closing in on late morning by the time he heard the first of the shouts. The bunching of willow and palm trees that contoured the grove came into view. Bardiya pushed himself harder, the echo of those pained, continuous wails piercing his ears like a flaming knife. He roared, moving much too quickly as he came upon the bordering trees and ground cover, his right foot catching a vine and sending him sprawling. Soaring forward, his side struck a thick trunk, which sent him spiraling in the other direction. He put out his hands to brace his fall as he flipped over and over again, his vision a wash of coalescing color. His hip struck the ground first, sending a bolt of pain across his abdomen, and when his back struck something fleshy yet substantive he heard a shout of surprise.

He came to rest on his hands and knees, panting, the ache in his bones cramping his gut and making it difficult to focus. The red and green of the mangolds were beneath him now, but there was something strange about it; the red stems glistened in the soft glow of the late morning sun, appearing much more visceral than they should have.

People bellowed orders. Others howled in misery. A shadow loomed over him, as giant as he, and the sound of displaced air swooshed past his ear. He flinched and was struck with a jolt, something sharp sinking into in his collarbone. Whatever it was didn’t strike him deep-Bardiya’s bones were thick and strong, and they had never been broken in all his long life.

He snapped to attention, flicking his massive hands out in a warding off motion, sending the figure before him flying. He sat up then, grabbed the object jutting from his flesh, and tore it free. It was a slender blade, a khandar of the sort he had often seen the elves wield in their sparring matches. The steel was soaked red. The air grew thick with an eerie silence. His gaze shifted from the blade to the grove before him, and his heart caught in his throat. The strange color infusing the mangold was blood; the ground was coated with it. There were bodies resting in the tangled plants, unmoving, their forms athletic, their flesh dark. There were eight elves before him, all armed with blood-soaked swords of their own, save the one closest to him. They formed a semicircle around three terrified, huddled forms: Gordo and Tulani Hempsmen, and their young daughter, Keisha. Their water-rimmed eyes lifted to meet his, and they huddled even closer together.

The elves made no move against him. They froze as if they knew not what to do, like a group of deer mesmerized by a predator. Bardiya shut his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to steady himself, trying to quell the pain that squeezed his bones. Slowly he rose to his feet. He approached the first prone body and used his foot to roll it over. It was Zulon Logoros, his father’s most ardent spiritual advisor. Zulon’s neck had been split from ear to ear. Blood-bubbled gasps still issued from his mouth, even though the man’s heart no longer beat and breath no longer blew from his lungs.

There were six bodies beside that one. He knew who two of them were without turning them over. His ardent desire was to collapse beside his parents’ remains, to weep and howl over them and bathe their faces with his tears. Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros, First Family of Ker, embraced even in death, their eyes shut against the horror of their fate.

Bardiya stood tall, his shoulders back, his vision marred red with his fury.

“Why?” he bellowed.

There was no answer from the elves, only action. The one in front, whose khandar had been embedded in Bardiya’s neck, clucked his tongue. The other seven surged past him, swords raised, their war cries pulsing through the air.

Despite the danger, Bardiya felt unnaturally calm. He still held the khandar in his hand, his fingers so large that they could have wrapped around the handle twice. The thing looked pathetically small in comparison to his great size. He swung the sword sideways as two elves came near enough to hack at him. So powerful was his strike that the attackers’ blades shattered on impact, as did his own. Shards of metal rained to the mangold-covered ground with the sound of tinkling glass.

Bardiya tossed the broken khandar aside and grabbed one of the elves, lifting him as if he were nothing. With a cry, he launched him through the air. The body struck another two assailants, knocking them over like a gale-force wind. Bardiya snatched up a fallen limb from a willow tree, this weapon far more comfortable in his grasp. With an easy swing he cracked the other nearby elf across the face, snapping his head back. A gush of red ejected from his mouth as he fell.

There was sound behind him, soft footsteps and crinkling leaves. Without thinking, Bardiya flipped the tree limb to his side and thrust it backward. It met resistance, followed by the gasp of someone struggling for air. Two more elves came at him from the front, trying to keep their distance, maximizing their reach with elongated lunges. It meant nothing, though; Bardiya’s arms gave him a reach far greater than that of the short, lithe elves. His branch crashed through their bodies, smashing bones, pushing aside their blades as if in mockery of their futile attempts at defense.

One of the elves held up his hand, halting the others from advancing. Bardiya looked at him closely, studying his face, and recognized him as one of those who had come to threaten Ang after Bardiya’s merciful slaying of the kobo. The elf’s name was Ethir, and a hateful sneer twisted his lips.

“Leave,” Bardiya said in a low murmur, “and tell Cleotis to never step foot in our land again. Do that, and I will let you live.”

“Cleotis is in Stonewood no longer,” Ethir replied, puffing his chest out to look bigger, a fool’s gesture with Bardiya so close by. “His reign was weak and foolish. I answer only to Detrick Meln, the new Lord of Stonewood. Your threats mean nothing to me.”

“They should,” Bardiya said.

“And what of them?” the elf asked. He gestured toward the Hempsmen family, still surrounded by the remaining elves. The parents cried as they held their daughter close. Blades rested against all three of their necks.

“Would you let your grief doom them as well?” Ethir asked. Bardiya let his body relax, let his head dip in defeat. Ethir laughed, and the anger that had fueled Bardiya’s earlier rampage returned. He leapt from his kneeling position, crossing the distance between them with shocking speed. His hands clamped around Ethir’s shoulders, and with a simple twist of his waist he slammed the elf into a nearby tree. Ethir’s head crashed against the trunk, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.