David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

You and I are the same, sister , he thought, laughing to himself. We will meet on the other side of sanity, and only then will we find peace.

He grinned, gripping Darkfall’s hilt with sweaty palms. His fanatical laughter turned to sobs as he thought once more of his daughter, of her childlike face staring back at him in torment and disbelief as he whipped the flesh from her back.

It was Karak’s will , he told himself. She only received what she deserved.

And yet he couldn’t make himself believe that. Lyana was his daughter , blood of his blood, a precious creature who should have been nurtured, not sent off to live a life of perverse servitude. Anger churned in his gut, turned his heart into an iron fist that slammed into his ribcage with nearly enough force to break the delicate bones there. All excuses washed away, leaving behind a single, simple declaration that repeated over and over again in the foreground of his thoughts, one he had never believed, for all the life of him, that he would ever utter.

Fuck Karak.

His angry sobs grew in intensity, and he took a final swig from his skin. When it was empty, he tossed it aside with so much force that he smashed a vase filled with colorful wild irises. He continued on his aimless journey, wanting nothing more than for the liquor to do its magic and send him into the oblivion he had so frequently sought since that fateful day.

Before long he found himself on the first floor of the keep, staring across the open hall at the bottom of the steep staircase. His shaky vision shifted to the entrance to his father’s studio. None of the usual sounds emerged-no clanking, no grinding, no grunts of exertion as the man whose seed had created him fashioned yet another stone monument to the god in whose image he had been molded. Father must be asleep already , he thought, which seemed odd. Vulfram hadn’t seen him all day-though in fairness, his thoughts had been locked in such a drunken stupor, he rarely knew when one day ended and the next began.

He stepped into the darkened studio, all the perfect renderings of Karak staring back at him in disappointment and accusation beneath the thirty-foot ceiling. Their features shifted in and out of focus, bathed in yellow from the flickering candlelight that filtered in from the hall. The same sort of gut-wrenching vertigo he always felt when inside this room followed, dropping him to his knees as bile rose in the back of his throat. Darkfall slipped from his grip and clattered to the hard ground. He crawled across the floor and rested his head against the raised threshold of the arched doorway, waiting for the feeling to pass.

He was breathing deeply, trying to quell the coming sickness, when suddenly the sound of rushing wind filled his ears. The door to the keep opened and closed, and then voices echoed off the walls, speaking in a hushed conversation that was peppered with uneasy laughter.

Curiosity momentarily curing him of his ills, Vulfram straightened up and peered around the edge of the doorway, his eyes catching sight of four people who were standing in the middle of the hall, locked in quiet conversation.

His mother was there, looking elegant in her purple dress, her shoulders covered with a heavy shawl. His father stood beside her, hands on his hips, not speaking, and Vulfram shuddered at the sight of him. When the other two figures came into focus, Vulfram furrowed his brow in confusion, for before his parents stood the Left Hand of the Highest, Crian Crestwell, Clovis’s youngest child. A broad smile stretched across the young man’s face, one that belied the cautious expressions of Vulfram’s mother and father. Even stranger, however, was the small wisp of a girl whose hand was locked in Crian’s. She was absolutely beaming, a perfect illustration of youthful innocence, with a shock of bright red hair and a lithe frame. She was gazing up at Crian with the same sort of naïve wonder with which his wife had once looked at him. It was a look that spoke of the clarity of dreams, the purity of love. Tears formed in Vulfram’s eyes once more, and he had to hold his breath in order to stay his faltering composure.

“This will be your home for the foreseeable future,” his mother said to the young couple. “There is a room for you upstairs, but mind you, the one next to our daughter Adeline’s. Her raving may prove an unwanted antidote for sleep. If it becomes a problem, please let me know, and I can prepare a chamber higher up in the tower.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” replied Crian, gazing lovingly at the girl on his arm. “As long as Nessa is by my side, there is nothing we cannot overcome.”

“How quaint,” said Vulfram’s father.

The group made their way toward the stairwell. Vulfram caught a glimpse of his mother’s face, hardened yet striving for compassion, a look he had seen often of late as the pressures of her duty as Minister of Justice bore down on her soul.

She said, “I hope you realize how fortunate you two are. You assaulted your sister and deserted your post. And you, Nessa…you have blasphemed against your own creator. That is unprecedented in this land, and I imagine in yours as well. I have had men executed for lesser offenses. Crian, I do not know why your father has chosen to spare you both. What you did to your sister alone deserves harsh punishment. Though your lives will be difficult from here on out, you should look at this turn of events as a blessing. Your heads could very well be set on spikes right now.”

“I know, Minister,” said Crian, but the way he smiled broadly and held the young girl showed he didn’t truly understand the threatening words that came from her mouth. He was oblivious, as was this strange Nessa, the two of them trapped in a bubble of infatuation.

Vulfram and Yenge had been like that once. A long, long time ago.

That was when Vulfram noticed a strange rectangular object wedged beneath Crian’s arm. It was a mirror, framed with elegantly polished ivory. He had seen a similar one hanging from the wall in the Renson library. The sight of it set his blood to boiling, and his thoughts started spinning wildly.

The group started up the stairs, continuing their conversation, and when they were out of sight, Vulfram eased his way quietly out of the studio. He crept to the bottom of the stairwell, trying to decipher what was being said.

It was his mother’s voice he heard next.

“…as your father the Highest knows, the position is a difficult one. It is a lot of responsibility for one person, especially considering the duties he already holds. But should he take up the mantle for himself, I am sure he will make a fine Lord Commander.…”

The voices became muffled after that, as the four climbed higher up the tower. Vulfram felt faint and collapsed against the wall. The words he’d heard replayed in his mind, creating dark scenarios that threatened to undo the very fabric of his being.

His mother had betrayed him. His kingdom had betrayed him. His god had betrayed him. And though it didn’t come without its own form of heavy-handed guilt, given the way he had profaned against Karak this very evening, anger rose within him. He twirled around, making his way uneasily back to his father’s studio and snatching Darkfall from the ground. The sword had come to rest at the feet of a white marble sculpture of Karak, standing ten feet tall. He reared back and lopped the head from the statue with a mighty swipe. It clanked to the floor, cracking in two upon impact. The two halves rocked in place, both eyes seeming to stare up at him accusingly.

Vulfram slumped down, letting the sword trail out before him. In his inebriated mind, the conspiracy deepened. The mirror was further proof. They were all against him; they wished to devastate his family, take his mantle of leadership, and leave him a ranting lunatic like his sister. And then there was Crian. The man had broken his oaths, attacked his sister, and been caught red-handed with his red-headed tart. Yet Crian had been allowed a stay of punishment, given the opportunity to live his life in whatever way he saw fit, all the while holding onto the western deserter he loved.