David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“I’ll go with you,” Nessa said, piercing the sudden silence. She pressed herself against him, this time far more subdued. “I’ll never leave your side. Never again.”

“I know,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “And I won’t leave yours either.”

Deacon slapped him on the shoulder, jarring his tired body.

“You know,” he said, “we’re always on the lookout for another good swordsman. As it is, our one lone warrior is a bit…overmatched…given the number of citizens he is saddled with training. You were the Left Hand of the Highest, the instructor of countless troops of Karak’s Army. Your knowledge and skills could aid us in so many ways.”

Crian clutched Nessa tighter.

“I can’t,” he insisted. “My devotion is to Nessa, and she holds precedence over all else. I must get her out as soon as possible and enter Paradise before it’s too late. Her place is not in this battle, and I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

“You needn’t say more,” said Deacon, nodding. “I understand your dilemma, and I’m sure Moira does as well.”

“I do,” said Moira.

“Thank you both for your understanding,” whispered Crian.

He gave Nessa a last, loving embrace and then sent her off to gather her things. He lingered in the solarium with Moira and Lord Coldmine after she left, and an uncomfortable silence spread over them. The bright southern sun shone through the gaps in the solarium dome, gaps that were cutouts of human bodies standing hand in hand, with a hole in the center shaped like a shining star. Sunlight glowed off the sparkling, gem-encrusted edges of the cutouts. Crian clutched his hands behind his back and stared through each opening, admiring the blue autumn sky and wondering how the interior of the room could ever remain dry during the rainy summer months. He shivered, feeling a sudden chill wash over him.

Deacon cleared his throat, looking to him with uncertainty.

“I was wondering,” said Deacon, “how do you intend to reach the western bridge? Does your horse require new shoes? And are you low on food?”

“I have no horse,” Crian replied. “I left him behind when I fled the Ghostwood. As for food…in that I am severely lacking.”

“Do you have any coin? There are a few markets between here and there that offer reasonable options.”

Crian shook his head, eliciting a dry laugh from Deacon.

“No money, no horse, no nourishment-nothing at all but a sword and a will. How very rugged of you.”

“We’ll manage,” Crian muttered.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Come now, boy. Your clothes are filthy and soaked; you’re shivering like a whore standing before a vanguard of angry wives; and there are bags the size of feed sacks beneath your eyes. You are exhausted.”

Crian breathed deeply. “I am.”

“Then stop acting like a fool, rushing into things you’re not prepared for. That’s what put you in this situation in the first place, I’d wager. I have supplies aplenty back at the homestead, including a stable filled with fine young geldings. Come with me, have dinner with my family, and rest your weary bones. I’ll give you a horse and all the provisions you require for your trek through the desert. My home may be more humble than this one, but it is a home nonetheless.”

“Could we not just stay here?”

Deacon shrugged. “You could, I suppose. But if you wish to flee quickly, it would be best for you to stay with me. The Gods’ Road is a few hours’ ride from here, but my home is half that distance. You could leave the stables at first light and cross the bridge before it’s time for breakfast.”

“Take him up on his offer, Crian,” said Moira, placing a warm hand on his cheek. “Do it for Nessa’s sake, if not your own. She’s a sensitive girl, strong in some ways but fragile in many others. Besides…she means a lot to Patrick, who is staying with Deacon. He should get a chance to say good-bye.”

“Very well,” said Crian. The notion of a warm place to rest his head was indeed inviting given his makeshift accommodations the past few nights. He offered Deacon an appreciative bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Coldmine. It is very much appreciated.”

Nessa came running into the room then, lugging a rucksack stuffed to overflowing with clothes. She dropped the bag and embraced Moira, the rose color of her flushed cheeks making her look much younger than her thirty years.

“Thank you. I love you, Miss Moira,” she said, her voice childlike.

Crian slung a heavy arm over Nessa’s shoulder. “Come now, my love. The kind lord here has invited us to his estate this evening for food and a warm bed.”

“He has?” Her face lit up with a smile, and he was surprised by how relieved she seemed to be. “Good. I wanted to say good-bye to Patrick-I really did. And there’s a few more dresses I can pack in here if I fold them tightly.”

She looked him over, poked him.

“And I have every intention of running you ragged tonight,” she said. “So thank Ashhur you’ll get to take a bath beforehand.”

Despite everything, Crian let out a laugh.

“My beloved Nessa,” he said, grinning. “How will you ever survive the journey west?”

“With you,” she said, kissing his nose.

The road to the Coldmine homestead was an arduous one, snaking through perilous swampland, rushing waterways, and knee-deep mud. Crian and Nessa rode on Moira’s horse. Despite the size and apparent amenities of the Gemcroft estate, their stables were extremely lacking. The only saddle they had on hand was fitted to his sister’s measurements, meaning he had to go bareback on the large mare. His tailbone ached and the pressure on his back, where Nessa was resting her head, threatened to warp his spine. The terrain was so treacherous for the horse that on more than one occasion he wished they were simply hiking instead.

Then again, even on horseback it took more than an hour to reach the Coldmine homestead, and the last thing he had wanted was to try to navigate his delicate Nessa through a potentially hazardous bog under the cover of night. They’d wasted enough time chatting with his sister, repacking Nessa’s things for the journey, and getting him cleaned up.

By the time they arrived, the whippoorwills were frantically chanting, filling the dusk with their macabre song. The homestead was indeed more humble than the grand Gemcroft estate, but only to a degree. The home itself was a practical, square construction made of tall logs and carefully placed stone pillars, two stories high and with numerous casements dotting the walls, giving it the look of a garrison. The setting sun silhouetted the dwelling, made it appear like a menacing obelisk rising up between tall, lavish gardens of roses and yellow daylilies.

They left their horses in Deacon’s stables, which were certainly as well stocked as the man had claimed they were, with at least twenty horses stowed away inside. Crian picked out two strong-looking steeds, one of which was very similar to his father’s favorite white mount.

“Good choices,” Deacon said. “They’re all yours.”

The stable boy gave his master a queer look and then quickly turned his head and went about his chores, brushing the horses down and filling their feed bags. Crian chuckled, figuring the boy was confused about why his master would bestow such a handsome gift upon a stranger. Crian figured he should get used to this sort of anonymity. Perhaps he could change his name, lie about his heritage.…

Nessa held his hand as they paraded up the front walk and through the main entrance to the ample home. The inside was brightly lit, with candles placed on every available flat surface. Numerous servants bustled about, dusting the simple country furnishings and scrubbing the floors. They were a quiet lot, and they kept their eyes downcast, politely nodding if they were ever addressed. It reminded Crian of his time among the wealthy in Veldaren. So it seemed as though pieces of the two kingdoms had slowly made their way into the delta.