David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Thank you, friend,” said Turock. “But I’m curious, why are you here?”

Jacob paused, leaned back in thought.

“I’ve heard rumors of strange happenings in the Tinderlands,” he said. “Isolated as you feel, it was a merchant in Haven who first mentioned such happenings. So I convinced Ashhur to allow me to venture north to make sure there is no risk to our people.”

Roland frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but a sideways glance from his master stopped him.

“Thank Ashhur you have come, my friend,” Turock said, and it looked like relief was finally starting to work its way into his face. “Your concern is much appreciated. As for our course of action, what plan do you feel is best?”

“We go in,” Jacob replied, as if it were nothing. “We cross the river and discover for ourselves what foul thing troubles your village.”

“Are you sure that idea is prudent?” asked Abigail.

“You tell me,” Jacob said. “With your people disappearing, and the threat ever present, do you see any other way?”

“But what if you don’t come back?” she asked.

Jacob stood, gestured to his party.

“I am the Eveningstar, and with me is a Warden of mankind and an elf of the deep forests. I fear no creature, no monster, no shadow, for what can withstand us? Tomorrow, we go into the dead lands. Tomorrow, we find out the truth of this, and then we will know whether to fight or flee.”

He smiled at Abigail.

“Either way, I assure you that we will return.”

The courtyard of the Castle of the Lion was already a bustle of activity when Soleh stepped through the portcullis, entering her own secluded world on the other side of the walls. Her regiment of guards was with her, as they had been for the past several weeks. She’d grown quite attached to them, Pulo in particular, whose mane of curly black hair reminded her so much of Adeline’s before her daughter had gone gray. But she greatly appreciated all three of her protectors. Given how the mood in Veldaren had taken a sharp downturn over the passing weeks, she could not do without their protection.

She marched up the central walk, passing a pair of arguing merchants whose fingers lingered a little too closely on the handles of their daggers, and climbed the pulpit on the edge of the yard, which had been built on her orders. Behind her was the cobbled footpath that led to the entrances to the three towers. In front of her stretched an undulating sea of grass, carts, and people.

Just as she had done every day since her meeting with Karak, she lifted her arms in the air and let out her cry.

“All who are gathered in the courtyard of the Lion, here in Veldaren, capital city of Neldar, hear my voice! I beg you to pray with me!”

A few turned to face her while the rest went about their business, but she recognized the faces of those who chose to participate. These were the people who visited the courtyard on a regular basis, who had seen her demonstrations and listened. She had done what her god had demanded of her, but she found it amazingly difficult to turn heads. There was so much fear throughout the city-fear of anarchy, fear of starvation, and the sublime fear of not knowing . By now, everyone had heard of the attack on Haven, and the rumors were spreading far and wide that the fast-approaching deadline for the delta’s surrender would be a bloody affair. Commoners were being drafted into the new army, fathers leaving their families, sons leaving their mothers’ bosoms. With Karak’s return, it shouldn’t have been difficult to draw forth an act of worship from the populace. But from experience, Soleh understood that her fellow humans were a stubborn and doubtful race. They would never believe in their god’s wrath until they saw it with their own eyes.

At least she was making progress, however slight it might be.

“Let us pray to Karak, our Lord Almighty, the Divinity of the East who granted to us the lives with which we’ve been blessed! Bow down before his faithful servant, and prove your dedication. Karak has promised you liberty, the freedom to pursue your life’s goals in any way you wish so long as you adhere to his teachings. All he asks for in return is your devotion! Recognize him…kneel in this very grass and sing his name!”

Soleh dropped to her knees. Those who had heeded her call approached the pulpit and lowered themselves down, eyes upturned and hands clasped. Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin paced back and forth, full of nervous energy, searching among the faithful for any who might have approached the platform with less than honorable intentions. They found none, as Soleh knew they wouldn’t. It wasn’t the faithful she had to fear, but those who stayed back-watching, doubting, mocking.

“Let your god hear your voice,” she told the worshippers. “Let him know just how much love is in your hearts. Sing to him, for the god of order is benign and good, and he requires the adoration of his children.”

The people opened their mouths then, rejoicing in different ways. Some chanted their god’s name, others hummed a tune from childhood, and still others sang Karak’s decrees. Eventually, with Soleh’s lead, their voices melded into one, a blend of tones crooning a six-note tune melodically. The voices shifted up and down, rising in volume, and the wordless song uttered by a mere fifteen individuals filled the entire courtyard with its joyful servitude. Pride burned in Soleh’s heart, and a smile stretched across her face. She could feel the presence of Karak within her, fueled by the worship of his children, and it brought a certain lightness to her being.

Then something struck the side of her face. She fell over, clutching her cheek, which was covered in crushed tomato pulp. Flicking her fingers, she cast the juicy seeds aside, then faced the crowd. That she’d been heckled did not surprise her; despite her station, the cowardly always found courage when hidden, faceless, in a crowd. But this-this was new. No one had ever before been insane enough to throw something at her.

She spotted the objector in the crowd, a spindly older man wearing a filthy brown robe over his torn clothes. He held a bucket of spoiled fruit in his left hand, and when he opened his mouth to shout a jeer at her, she saw that he was missing half his teeth. The man’s skin was dark and rutted, as if he’d spent his whole life tied to a rock in the desert.

“What does Karak care for me? ” he shouted. “I have lost everything -my honor, my land, even my children , to the Conningtons! And the courts do nothing. Karak does nothing! If he cares so much, let him do something about it! Or does his ‘caring’ only get me an arrow in the throat?”

Soleh cringed but tried to hide her frustration. This was the type of man who needed to learn to kneel, just as Karak had told her. She had to wake him up to that fact. Her Palace Guard lingered along the interior of the castle wall, watching, honoring her demand that she be allowed to handle whatever happened in the courtyard herself, in whatever way she decided best.

“Karak did not take your lands or your family away,” she shouted. “That you even had those lands was because of the freedom he granted you. But if you have lost them, if you have nothing, then that is on you . Pick yourself back up and start over. That is the right your god has given you!”

The man spit a wad of reddish-yellow phlegm. “Start over? Start over?! I’m almost seventy years old, woman! Unlike you, my bones actually turn brittle as the years wear on. I didn’t get to create my own mate, and I wasn’t granted a life in splendor. How can I possibly pick myself up when I can barely lift this bucket of fruit?”