David Dalglish: Dawn of Swords

Then the brother gods chanted, and Celestia’s star doubled in brightness overhead. The ewers glowed and shook, and their shapes changed. The light was so vivid that Jacob was blinded to what came next. When it was all over and his vision cleared, he saw that the ewers were gone; in their stead were two thousand fully developed young men and women, a thousand on each side of the river. They were new beings, infused with preternatural knowledge by the gods yet still frightened and confused, and the Wardens called them into their arms and quelled their fear. Ashhur and Karak then shared a silent nod, brother deities acknowledging their mutual respect for one another, and led their children away, deep into their separate lands.

Thus went the birth of humankind.

“We’re ready now,” said a timid voice, tearing Jacob from his memories.

Jacob turned to find Ben standing there, hands tucked inside his cotton breeches, cheeks flushed and eyes watery. He placed a hand on the boy’s back. Geris was off wandering the road, looking beneath rocks in search of centipedes and scorpions. It seemed some things never changed.

Just as dusk began to settle over the world of Dezrel, Jacob and his charges finally entered Safeway, the growing community surrounding the Sanctuary. The land shifted-where once there had been reddish, cracked earth, now there were green, cultivated fields. Much of Safeway looked just like this-miles upon miles of flatland, two days across by foot, bordered by the river to the east and the Kerrian desert to the west, the clay cliffs to the north and the shores of the Thulon Ocean to the south. The whole area was peppered with small tent- and hut-dwelling communities for as far as the eye could see. Near ten thousand men, women, and children called it home, just as they all in turn called Ashhur their kind and loving god.

Bareatus-one of the Wardens Ashhur and Celestia had brought over from some different reality-stood off to the side of the dirt road, hand raised in greeting. Just like the rest of the Wardens, he was tall, almost seven feet, and sublimely graceful. Jacob always thought the Wardens looked eerily similar to elves, only with rounded ears and hair like spun silk. Though all were male, their smooth ivory features held certain feminine qualities, which made them seem approachable despite their size. Bareatus glanced at the trailing donkey and the wrapped lump atop it, and his smile of greeting wavered. His hand fell to his side, and he stood still as a stone, his eyes narrowed to mere slits framed by a mane of straight, golden locks.

“Are Ahaesarus and Judarius about?” asked Jacob.

Bareatus shook his head, his gaze still trained on Martin’s covered body.

“They are in Ang, holding court with Bessus and Damaspia.”

Of course, thought Jacob. The masters of House Gorgoros were always requesting spiritual guidance.

“And our Lord? Is he here?”

Bareatus nodded.

“He is.”

“Good. I will meet with him at once. Please send word to my fellow mentors that their presence is required back at the Sanctuary.”

“Very well, Jacob. I will send a crow bearing that message. In regards to our Lord, please be forewarned that Ashhur is spending time with the children. ‘At once’ may not be as quick as you wish.”

Jacob gestured for the youths to follow him and kicked his mare, leaving Bareatus alone on the road. He heard the massive Warden’s long strides as he loped away, heading for the tents that were just visible at the tip of a distant rise.

The road rose and fell, rose and fell, and as the sun slowly descended, casting the sky with a deep burgundy pallor, people came into view all around him. There was a group of men in the meadow to his right, dressed in dirty rags and hacking away at the soil, seemingly vacant smiles plastered on their faces. To his left were seven children, running and laughing through a field of short corn, ducking below the stalks and daring others to find them. Beyond the children was a mixed group of men and women, twenty of them at least, on their knees facing the setting sun, their eyes closed and chins held high. Farther ahead, a group of women sat around a small fire. A young mother, no older than fourteen, held a babe in her arms, and she put it to her breast as they passed. One of the other women, much older and more wizened looking, tended the small garden before her. She sprinkled dust onto the carpet of dirt, chanted a few choice words, and from the ground sprouted three buds. The buds grew and grew, and in a matter of moments the three sprouts joined to became a full strawberry bush. The woman plucked a ripe fruit from the vine and fed it to the young mother, whose child continued to suckle at her breast.

That was life in Safeway: praying, farming, breeding, and playing, all under the watchful eye of Ashhur, their god made flesh.

“They’re back!” shouted the voice of a young boy. “Jacob and the kinglings!”

A crowd gathered, running alongside their mounts as they made their way down the uneven road. The people called out to them, cheering for each of the kinglings in turn. Jacob glanced at them, taking in the hope on their faces. Geris waved, and even Ben’s spirits seemed to lift, if only a little. Someone shouted out Martin Harrow’s name, but none of those who gathered let their gaze linger on the sack draped over the rear donkey.

“Where is he?” asked a woman’s voice. “Where is Kingling Harrow?”

Jacob peered over his shoulder to see that there was still a smile on the querying woman’s face. She did not understand. None of them did. Around here, with Ashhur, the Wardens, and the healers tending to the wounds and ailments of the populace, unnatural death was unheard of. In western Dezrel, over the span of ninety-three years, no one had perished before his or her time.

Jacob had a feeling that was about to change.

The crowd gradually thinned as the land sloped downward, and Jacob and the kinglings entered the Cavern of Solitude, a tapered passage cut through the middle of a foreboding hillock. Jagged spires of stone protruded from the sides of the cliff, narrowing the road. Jacob was grateful that it was still daylight, as the passage could prove treacherous when traversed in the dark. The cavern was guarded by the great statue of Ashhur, a twenty-foot behemoth carved into the side of the red clay cliff. The deity’s statue stared down at them as they passed beneath it, his left hand holding an olive branch to the heavens, his right hand crossed over his immortal heart. Jacob heard Ben whistle a quiet lullaby as the statue disappeared behind them-the very same lullaby the god himself had sung to the kinglings on the night they were anointed.

When they exited the Cavern of Solitude, the horizon stretched out before them. Clay huts and lean-tos constructed of desiccated animal hides peppered the land. From these abodes more people emerged, forming an assembly in front of the colossal building at the center of it all-the Sanctuary itself, forty feet high and circular, built with smoothed stone from the northwest coast. It was the only building in Safeway, and the tallest in all of western Dezrel. On its sloped crest, above the solarium, was etched the Golden Mountain of legend, the final, peaceful resting spot of the spirits of the dead in Afram. Below that were etched Ashhur’s two guiding principles, both of them concepts to revere and commands to obey: Love and Forgive .

Jacob saw the Marylls and Felhorns emerge from their crude domiciles, making their way toward the passageway that was cut into the short wall bordering the Sanctuary. He searched for the unmistakable bald pate of Stoke Harrow, Martin’s father, and eventually found the burly man in the crowd. He was wearing a burlap robe and pulling his wife Tori along. Soon the families of all three kinglings stood front and center, waiting with wringing hands and expressions overwrought with excitement.