David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Ouch!” he exclaimed.

“What in the name of Ashhur?” Jacob’s voice called out.

Roland flipped onto his stomach and lifted his head. The light from his quaint fire was enough to illuminate Jacob and Brienna’s sleepy, stunned gazes. He opened his mouth to tell his master about what he had heard, but the effort was unnecessary. The sound rang out through the valley again, louder than before, this time not fading away, but seeming to linger, like fizz bubbling at the top of a mug of mead. It was droning and deep, yet its tone was oddly inconsistent.

“What was that?” asked Brienna.

Roland shrugged.

“How long has it been happening?” asked Jacob.

“Not long. A few minutes, maybe.”

Roland watched Jacob cock his head. When the sound came again, still increasing in volume, the First Man grinned.

“I knew it,” he whispered.

A short while later-it had taken a bit of effort to rouse Azariah, who was a deep sleeper-the quartet was wandering through the darkness, a single torch lighting their way. They progressed in a single line: Jacob in the lead, Brienna behind him, Roland third, and Azariah taking up the rear, each holding the shirt of the one in front so as not to fall out of line. The strange sound increased in frequency and consistency the farther north they tread, until it became as ever present as the insects that rubbed out their nightly song back in Safeway’s numerous gardens. Roland’s heart started to race. He knew he should be frightened, but Jacob diffused that fear with his unyielding excitement and curiosity. The fact that his master wasn’t scared meant he shouldn’t be either.

The noise led them up a steep incline, the loose rocks underfoot making each step treacherous, and then along a narrow ridge, the right edge of which fell into a steep drop. Jacob kept his eyes focused on the landscape before him, calling out urgent whispers to those following him whenever he came across a potential hazard. Somehow, despite the array of dips and cracks and sharp stones that littered their path, all four of them made it across the precipice without losing their footing.

And still the sound rose in volume.

Jacob steered them downward, through a narrow passage cut into the rock that reminded Roland very much of the Cavern of Solitude back home, complete with the sharp edges jutting from either side. With Jacob’s torch as their only light, Roland found himself flailing in the darkness. Once he veered too close to the wall, and a pointed stone slashed through his heavy woolen tunic, leaving a shallow gash on his arm. Roland bit down his cry. The last thing he wanted to do was to appear a burden to the others.

The cavern emptied out behind a row of boulders twice his size. A strange glow lit the top of the boulders, flushing the surface red and yellow. Once they emerged, the strange sound could be recognized for what it was-voices chanting. It was almost like prayer, an everyday occurrence for anyone who had been born and raised in Paradise. Jacob stopped, extinguished his torch, and pressed them all against the rocks, raising a finger to his lips. He was still grinning.

“I think this is another valley,” he whispered. “Proceed with caution. We do not know who lies beyond this wall.”

They all nodded in silent agreement and followed him.

The wall of stone progressed in a curve, the narrow duct they found themselves in gradually expanding until they had room to walk abreast of one another. The height of the wall lowered, allowing in more light from the other side. Roland tugged at his collar, sweat building up at the base of his neck, and it took him a few moments to realize he was no longer cold. In fact, he felt hotter than he had on the most sun-drenched summer day while slathering fresh tar on Jacob’s roof. Though it was a surreal feeling, he was silently thankful that his bones were no longer rattling.

A few hundred yards farther along the crevasse, they came upon a gap in the wall. Jacob halted them there, gazing around the uneven stone portal, his entire body bathed in red light. Roland saw his eyes widen, his jaw drop open, and his hands fall to his sides.

“What is it?” asked Brienna.

Jacob turned toward her slowly and then moved so that the rest of them could get a look at whatever strange ritual was taking place on the other side. It seemed to take forever for the line to progress, and impatience tickled the back of Roland’s throat and tingled in his legs.

When he finally arrived at the gap, squeezing in next to the beautiful elf while Azariah wedged his head in on the other side, he understood Jacob’s shocked reaction.

It wasn’t a valley below them, but a ravine, a bowl-shaped gorge of blackened rock and glistening crystal. A large group of cloaked individuals had gathered, hundreds of them, all arranged in five tightly packed groups. They were on their knees, folded over at the waist as if in appeal to a god, their outstretched arms pointing toward a gigantic bonfire so bright it was as if the sun itself had dropped from the sky and settled there. They chanted in a language Roland didn’t recognize. It sounded nothing like Elvish, and was as far removed from human dialect as the chirping of insects.

Hands grabbed either side of his head and moved it, shifting his field of vision. “Look at that,” Jacob whispered into his ear. “I knew it.”

Jacob had brought his attention to at a single man who was standing on the outskirts of the gathered worshippers. From a distance, Roland couldn’t make out his facial features, but he could tell that the man was bald and wore a long black robe. His arms were lifted up toward the star-dappled sky. This was the man who was leading the chanting, and each time words exited his mouth, the rest of the congregation answered.

“Who is it?” Roland whispered.

“Uther Crestwell,” Brienna answered. She gave Roland a grave look, then Azariah, and finally turned about to fix Jacob with an intense, knowing stare. “The mad priest. You were right.”

“Unfortunately,” Jacob replied.

“Is that Karak’s Army?” asked Roland, not understanding what they were talking about.

Jacob swallowed hard, gesturing for Roland to keep watching what was going on below. “Part of it, I assume,” he said in a soft voice. “But it’s worse than I thought.”

“Why?”

“Uther Crestwell, better known as the mad priest, is a zealot. Before I left Neldar for good, he and I argued about the practicality of having a land divided by three deities. He was an outcast of his own family, yet so dedicated to Karak that no one dared deny him his birthright, as they did his sister Moira. He believed Karak and only Karak should rule Dezrel, and even went so far as to suggest genocide for not just those created by the other gods, but the other gods themselves. Hence his more common name, for those brave enough to use it. Twenty years ago he retreated to the Crestwell stronghold in the north, at the base of Mount Hailen. Then, from what I’ve heard, he began researching the magics of blood and darkness, which were expelled from this realm long before the dawn of humanity.”

“The same sort of magics that were used by those demons you told me about?” asked Roland.

Jacob smiled. “Yes, Roland. It is good to know you listened.”

“What does he mean to do?”

At that, Jacob frowned. His lips compressed a thin white line and he shrugged.

“I guess we need to find out,” he said, turning his attention back to the happenings below.

A change had come over the assembly during their short conversation. The worshippers were standing now, and the man in charge-Uther, the mad priest-had moved into the throng and was standing directly in front of the raging, unnaturally bright bonfire. He motioned with one outstretched hand, and six more cloaked figures appeared from the other side of the ravine. Roland felt his blood rush through his veins as he watched them drag three individuals-a man, a woman, and a young girl-dressed in torn and filthy rags across the blackened, uneven floor of the culvert. They were handled roughly, without any care for their well-being, treated like they were less than animals. Roland remembered what Turock had said about the family that had been taken- the Rodderdams, that was it -and his breath caught in his throat.