David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

The sound of beating hooves reached her ears, and Soleh stepped out into the middle of the courtyard to greet her escort. It took her a moment to realize that the hooves were growing too close, striking the ground too quickly, to be a carriage. She took a few hurried steps back, and watched as a brown stallion galloped through the portcullis. The Palace Guard did nothing to stop the horse or its rider, stepping out of the way so as not to be crushed. The bald rider, wearing ratty clothes, yanked up on the reins, bringing the stallion to an uneasy halt. He immediately leapt from the saddle, his hands flexing as he marched toward the doorway to Tower Honor. Soleh’s eyes widened.

It was her son.

“Vulfram!” she shouted, just as he grabbed the handle on Tower Honor’s great door and gave it a mighty yank. The huge oaken portal flew open as if her son had been granted the strength of ten men. When he stormed inside, he looked angry enough to kill. Soleh swore she could hear him growling.

Picking up the front of her dress, she ran across the pathway as fast as she could, slipping as she took the turn and entered the still open doorway. Thoughts of Lyana overwhelmed her mind. What fate had Vulfram declared for her? She forced her legs to move faster as she raced through the carpeted hall. Up ahead she finally caught sight of her son, who seemed oblivious to her pursuit. He was grabbing the palace’s guards, shouting up a storm as he passed, demanding answers to questions she couldn’t hear. She got closer, and amid her own panic she heard terrible words. Treason, Crestwell , and murder came from his mouth. She reached out, close enough to see the sweat soaking through his tunic.

Vulfram wheeled around, fist cocked, ready to strike, only to have that fist snatched by the guard he had just accosted. Soleh saw the gleaming rage in her son’s eyes and shrank back. She held her hands beneath her chin, fighting the urge to chew on her knuckles, a nervous tic she’d had since the first day she’d opened her eyes to the world.

“Mother,” Vulfram said harshly, tearing his wrist away from the guard. His breath reeked of liquor.

“Vulfram, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I could care less where I’m supposed to be,” he growled. “Fuck the army, fuck Omnmount, and fuck Haven. I have business to attend to.”

Soleh was taken aback by his language and the drunken gleam in his eyes.

“What sort of business?” she asked, trying to remain calm.

“None of yours.”

He turned away from her, continuing up the hall toward the double doors that led to the royal court. From around the corner appeared Malcolm Gregorian, the Captain of the Guard. He stepped in front of the doors, holding his hands before him, his scar-marked face look drawn and serious. Soleh noticed that the Captain’s fingers were twitching over the pommel of his shortsword.

“There is no entrance at the moment, Lord Commander,” Gregorian said, calm as could be. “You will have to come back on the morrow.”

Vulfram strode up to him, his face inches from Malcolm’s. Vulfram was shorter than the Captain, but his girth was greater. He looked like a bull standing before a gazelle.

“You’ll get out of my way now ,” Vulfram shouted. “The Highest and I have matters we need to discuss.”

“Highest Crestwell is not here.”

“I’ll see for myself,” Vulfram snarled.

When Vulfram moved to pass him, Malcolm drew his sword and pushed the large man back with his other hand. Vulfram tore his own greatsword from its scabbard, holding it unsteadily before him. The tips of their blades were nearly touching, but so far neither of them had made a move. Vulfram breathed heavily, the breath of a desperate man. Malcolm was expressionless, like a living statue.

Soleh was nearly overwhelmed with horror and fury. She stood frozen in place, her hands shaking at her sides.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Vulfram! Captain! Put your swords away, now! Your Minister demands it!”

Malcolm did as he was told without question, slipping his blade back into the scabbard on his belt without pause. Vulfram, however, allowed Darkfall to hover there a few moments longer. Soleh could tell he was unsure-she knew her son better than he knew himself. That he was so upset, so out of control, put a silent terror into her. What must have happened to Lyana for him to be acting this way?

“Please, son,” she whispered. Vulfram turned to her, tears streaming down his cheeks, making his beard glisten. She touched his hand, and he released the heavy sword, which bounced twice on the carpeted floor before coming to a rest. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her, peering over Vulfram’s shoulder, and Soleh nodded in response. He nodded back, bent over, lifted Darkfall, and gently slid it into the scabbard that was slung across Vulfram’s back. Then the Captain turned, leaving through the same side opening from which he’d appeared.

Soleh took her son by the hand and led him down the hallway, the Palace Guard averting their eyes out of courtesy. She led him out of the tower, to where Pulo waited with the carriage. She lifted a finger to him, telling him to wait a few moments, and guided her strangely silent son back into Tower Justice, where they might find some privacy.

Once the door closed and they were safely locked inside the tower, Vulfram began to pace. He circled the entirety of the round hall, slapping at the doors of the holding cells in turn. Every so often he would run his hand across his shaved head, whipping his fingers out afterward as if he were trying to rid himself of some taint that wouldn’t go away. Soleh stood in the middle of the anteroom and watched him in silence. He would come to her when he was ready.

That time came after three more laps around the interior. Vulfram strode before her, his eyes still red but his expression more composed. The flush was gone from his face. He knelt before her and took her hand.

“I apologize, Minister. I spoke out of place.”

“Vulfram, forget the titles. We’re alone, and I’m your mother. What is wrong?”

He nodded, still reluctant to meet her gaze. He was ashamed of his earlier outburst, she knew. An urge to gather him to her bosom washed over her, but she resisted it as best she could. Too often she had shown weakness. It was time for her to display the strength Karak had assured her she possessed.

“Talk to me, son,” she said. “Tell me what vexes you so.”

His hands shook, this large beast of a man who now looked fragile as an eggshell.

“I kept it together for so long,” he said. “Nearly the entire journey here I was fine. My exhaustion caught up with me, I think. I shouldn’t have snapped at you so.”

“All is forgiven, my precious boy. Now tell me, what was the matter with Lyana?”

Vulfram swallowed, looking away again.

“One of the local boys, named Kristof, got her pregnant. They panicked, went to Broward Renson, the boy’s own grandfather, for help.” Vulfram sighed. “He gave them crim oil, Karak help us. My son discovered the evidence, and put on trial, Lyana confirmed it.”

The story hit Soleh like a blow to the face. Suddenly, remaining strong in front of Vulfram felt impossible. She pleaded with Karak to give her his aid.

“What was your ruling?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Broward and Kristof were executed,” he said. His head hung lower. “I swung the sword, both times.”

“And Lyana?”

At last he met her eye.

“Forced into the Sisters of the Cloth.”

Soleh couldn’t contain her muted cry. Her fingers pressed against her mouth. The thought of her precious Lyana imprisoned in that secretive organization filled her with horror. Worse, she knew of the initiation rites they endured. Lyana would have been stripped naked and then whipped. Whipped by.…