David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Perhaps Karak will visit again in the night, he thought. Perhaps he will tell me what to do.

It was the lie he told himself every night, the way he calmed himself enough for sleep. Rising from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his tipsiness, he proceeded to the cot in the corner of the room and collapsed on it. He didn’t bother to extinguish the candles or close the flue to the hearth. Eyelids half-open, he stared at the flickering light until it sent him off to another drunken and restless sleep.

He was awakened by a foreign scent and something soft touching his face. The shocking revulsion he felt snapped his eyes open with a start. He lashed out with his fist, striking nothing but air.

“Please be calm, Lord Commander,” a voice spoke from the darkness. “I mean you no harm, but we must speak.”

Vulfram recognized the voice, but distantly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blood pounding in his head a reminder of how much he had drunk. The throbbing across the front of his face was almost as bad. He groaned and leaned over, searching for his waterskin on the ground and not finding it.

“You wish for some water, sir?” the familiar voice asked.

A figure stepped forward in the darkness, and for the first time Vulfram understood that it was dark.

“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, snatching the proffered jug from the stranger and taking a long pull from it.

“I don’t know, sir. I just arrived.”

“Has the worship bell rung?”

“Um, no sir. That isn’t until tomorrow evening.”

“Good,” he said. He scanned the darkened room, lit only by the still glowing embers within the hearth, but he couldn’t find his sword. Instead, he reached beneath his mattress and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his spare dagger.

“Sir, I assure you there is no need for that. I mean you no harm.”

A flame was struck in the darkness, momentarily blinding him. Vulfram covered his eyes with his arm, almost cutting himself with his dagger in the process. Silently he cursed his carelessness. His sight adjusted to the new light, that of a lantern. When he lowered his arm, he recognized his visitor as Weston, one of the Renson’s elderly family servants. The old man tilted his head and gave Vulfram a queer look.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

A curved, slender finger pointed at him. “You have blood all over your mouth and beard, sir.”

Vulfram wiped at the area and sure enough, there was blood there, mostly dried. The ache in his nose…he must have struck it somehow while collapsing onto his cot. He took the jug Weston had given him and splashed water over his face, which served to fully rouse him, and then wiped his face with yesterday’s tunic. He felt a cold breeze and looked over to see that the outside door to the study, which opened onto the rear court of Mori Manor, had been left ajar. Rising from the cot, he paced to the door, closed it, and headed back to his desk. The candle there had dribbled wax all over his meager supply of parchment. Sighing, he began peeling the bits of dried wax off, dropping them into an empty cup.

“Weston,” he said while he performed his mindless duties, “I’m tired and irritated. Tell me why you snuck into my quarters in the middle of the night. Come to avenge your master’s death, perhaps?”

The last part had been said in jest, but the old servant seemed to take it seriously. “Absolutely not, sir. To me, the Lord Commander’s decree is as good as Karak’s. I would never do such a thing.”

“So why are you here?”

“My new master sent me, sir.”

“Bracken?”

“Yes.”

“Then out with it,” Vulfram said. “What does he want?”

“He wishes to speak with you immediately.”

Vulfram chuckled. “Two weeks go by, but now is when he wants to see me immediately? I supposed he needed time to work up the nerve. I take it he will be the one who takes revenge for Broward’s death, eh? Better him than a crooked-backed old servant.”

Weston didn’t laugh; he simply stared at him with a dire expression.

“I apologize,” said Vulfram, feeling like an ass. “Please, Weston, what does Master Renson want with me?”

“I do not know, sir. He has been searching the house for days, and this very evening he emerged from the library in hysterics. He told me to find you immediately or he would cut off my head.” Weston licked his dry lips. “I hope you do not wish me beheaded, sir.”

Vulfram shook his head. That a man who had served his friend so faithfully for decades might doubt him filled him with shame.

“Of course not, Weston. I do not punish the innocent, only the guilty. Please, let me put on clothes that do not smell like a brewery. Wait in the front courtyard. I will join you in a few moments.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston said with a bow and left the room.

Twenty minutes later, under the faint light of a half moon, Vulfram followed Weston down the winding dirt path that led from Mori Manor to the quaint manse that the Renson family called home. The home was solidly built, two stories high, with a garret protruding from the top like a dunce cap. Vulfram remembered the days of his childhood when he and Broward would play in that garret, fooling around with wooden swords in the vast open space. Humanity had only been around for a tad more than thirty years at that time, and the garret had been virtually empty of belongings and knickknacks. He was sure it had filled up now, with four subsequent generations of memories added to the place.

They approached the front entrance to find Bracken standing there. His body was shaking, his eyes frantic. Instinctively, Vulfram reached for Darkfall, which he had strapped to his back. The new housemaster did not seem to notice.

“Good, you brought him,” Bracken said, his voice cracking. He didn’t look at Vulfram, instead shouting, “Follow me!” and storming back into the manse.

Weston stepped aside so that Vulfram could enter the abode, then turned and began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” asked Vulfram.

“I cannot enter,” the old man said. “My master gave strict orders in that regard. All servants have been sent to stay with other households. Even the master’s other children have been sent away. You two will be alone. That is what he wanted.”

“Why?” Vulfram asked, suspicious.

Weston shrugged. “I do not know, Lord Commander. ‘Prying eyes,’ was all the master told me.”

With that the old man limped away down the dirt path. Vulfram patted his sword’s handle for comfort and then walked inside, hoping for the best.

He followed the trail of burning candles, which led him to the library at the far end of the home. Bracken sat behind a table, frantically scanning line after line of whatever document lay before him. The man looked as if his sanity had fled him, and Vulfram took a quick inventory of the room to see whether any weapons were hidden there. He didn’t notice any save the great axe that Bracken’s grandfather Brutus had used to fell the trees with which he had built this very home.

“It’s funny how things work sometimes,” said Bracken, still not looking up from the table. “Despite the many vile, lawless men of this world, it is men of good heart who often commit the greatest crimes. Orders, orders, always orders!”

“What madness do you speak of?” asked Vulfram, slowly making his way through the library.

Bracken slammed his fist on the table. “It is not madness!” he shouted, looking at the Lord Commander for the first time that evening. Vulfram could see the lunacy shining through in his clenched-lipped gaze. “It is reality! We are guided by forces greater than us, forces that manipulate us, and we will never understand what it is that they seek!”