David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

The quartet rode their horses onward, and all of a sudden Roland’s warm and enticing feelings of expectation began to wane. The streets of Drake were deserted, even though it was midday and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. There should have been children running about or at least a group of elders commencing their afternoon prayers. But there was none of that. When Azariah called out, it was only his own voice that answered him.

“This is odd,” said Brienna, visibly shuddering in her saddle.

“It is,” replied Jacob. The First Man glanced left to right, peering into the open windows of every empty domicile they passed. “What do you make of it, steward?”

Roland cleared his throat and thought of the day he had come home to find his parents missing. It had been the Sharing Fair that day, but he’d been busy tending to Jacob’s cottage and had forgotten all about it. His terror had been so real, yet afterward, when he’d discovered his parents among the fair goers, he’d laughed it off as nothing.

“Is there a clearing beyond the town border on the other side?” he asked. “Perhaps they’re having a festival of some sort.”

“A festival?” Jacob tilted his head. “Strange. If that’s the case, the festivities must be taking place a long way away from here. I hear nothing but wind and leaves.”

“It was just an idea,” replied Roland, feeling embarrassed.

“A fine idea,” said Azariah. “One I still hope is correct.”

“Keep riding,” Brienna said, urging her own horse along. “Perhaps we’ll find them gathered further into the city, doing something silly and pointless like you humans love to do.”

The group voyaged from one end of Drake to the other, where the grand constructions ended and the Gods’ Road came to an abrupt halt in front of a field of short, frost-tipped grass, in which grazed a cluster of giant grayhorns. Though his concern was unabated, Roland still gazed on the foraging beasts with wonder. He had never seen a real, live grayhorn before, with its horned nose, enormous tusked snouts, and massive, gray-rippled hide. Each one was the size of his hut back in Safeway; the grayhorns were truly beautiful, yet also frightening.

“So what do we do now?” asked Brienna.

“We push on through,” answered Jacob. “There might be some clue up ahead as to what happened.”

“But there’s no road,” Roland said.

“Since when does mankind travel only by roads?”

To Roland’s surprise, the grayhorns didn’t react at all as their horses trotted by. The beasts kept their noses to the ground, tugging up tufts of grass. Jacob explained that the animals were trying to get as many nutrients from the soil as they could, for when the snows came in a month, food would be scarce, and they would need to survive a long time without eating. It amazed Roland that these massive creatures could go for weeks without nourishment. He was famished if he missed a single meal.

The land started to undulate once they passed the grazing field, becoming more rocky and hazardous. To stay out of the more dangerous terrain, they moved closer to the river. The rushing water hemmed them in on the right; the mountains pushed in closer on their left. Strange sounds-to Roland it sounded like wolves grunting-started to fill the air. Azariah pointed out horse tracks in the soft ground between stone retaining walls, and Jacob found a trench that looked like the impression of something being dragged. They were signs of life, which helped calm Roland’s worry, but only a little.

Azariah’s horse reared back suddenly, forcing the tall Warden to clamp his hands down on the stag’s mane and hold on for dear life.

“Whoa, Thunderclap,” he said, his voice unusually shaky. The horse did not calm himself until Brienna steered her mare in front of him and began gently stroking the side of his neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” replied Azariah, trying to keep his horse calm.

“Perhaps that has something to do with it,” Jacob surmised.

Roland noticed that the First Man’s eyes were glued to the horizon. He squinted, trying to see what his master was seeing. All he saw up ahead was what looked like a skinny mountain that had been cut in half.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” replied Jacob. Roland found the expression on Jacob’s face disturbing. He looked beyond worried, as if there were something about that skinny mountain that could mean the end of them all. Roland began to feel that way too.

Their fear was answered a moment later, when an arrow flew through the air, landing not five feet in front of where they had stopped to gaze at that distant half-mountain. Azariah’s horse reared back a second time, throwing him from the saddle. The Warden hit the ground with a thud but rolled quickly to his feet.

Pounding hooves sounded from their left, and six white horses raced into sight from within the canopy of stunted trees on the side of the small mountain, kicking up a massive spray of dirt and stone as they galloped. Jacob quickly steered his horse in front of Roland and Brienna, using the majestic beast as a shield in case anything went wrong. Azariah appeared beside him, a look of grim concentration on his flawless face.

The riders drew closer, close enough for Roland to see that the six men were dressed in heavy furs. They looked like what he imagined the barbarians from the Wardens’ stories would look like, and he couldn’t help but inch his trusty mare back a few steps, just in case. But when the riders pulled up, stopping within shouting distance, Roland’s panic abated. The men might have worn furs and full beards, but they didn’t seem to be rough natured. Instead, they seemed just as concerned as his travel companions, with no obvious trace of malice.

“Who rides on these hills?” one of the men shouted, his horse trotting out in front of the others.

For some reason Jacob’s smile made Roland more nervous.

“No, I think I should be the one who asks who you are, considering we are heralds from Safeway, and the village we just passed through is as abandoned as a dried-up well.”

One of the other men urged his horse forward. “An envoy from Safeway, eh? What proof do you have?”

“Proof?” laughed Jacob. “What more proof does Ashhur’s most trusted servant need than his mere presence?”

“Not one for humility, are you, Jacob?” asked Azariah in an aside.

“Nor you for humor,” Jacob scoffed, brushing the Warden aside. “These men pose no threat to us.”

The six men across from them huddled together, discussing something in hushed voices. Eventually they broke rank and began to slowly approach. They all had clubs within reach, and two had simple bows slung across their backs.

Jacob urged his horse forward and greeted the men with a half-bow from his saddle. The grin on his face was wide as could be, which obviously made the advancing men slightly uneasy, as the tight formation of their horses faltered.

“By Ashhur, it is him!” one of them said.

The man threw his leg over the side of his saddle and jumped to the ground. He virtually ran up to Jacob, casting aside his bow and club as he did so, and then fell to one knee. Despite his beard, he looked very young. “I apologize, Master Eveningstar. We knew not that it was you. Otherwise, we never would have fired a warning arrow.”

The others gaped in slack-jawed amazement. Roland found himself envying Jacob for his celebrity within the Paradise. He wondered whether folks reacted to him the same way in the east.

“Stand up, Bartholomew,” Jacob said, rustling the man’s unkempt hair with his gloved hand.

Bartholomew bounced to his feet, tossing giddy grins at the men behind him.