David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

The prisoners screamed and pleaded, and Roland watched the woman pound her fists into the hard-packed ground. Her keeper, faceless behind his black hood, violently yanked her arm until she stopped.

“We must do something,” he heard Azariah say, a frightened sort of rage rising in his voice.

“And what is that?” Jacob asked. “The four of us against hundreds? We watch and learn, so others may learn as well. That is the best we can do here.”

The Warden had no reply to that, and Brienna began to silently sob.

Back in the gully, the prisoners were forced to their knees, facing the blaze. Uther took his place before them, hands clasped in front of him, head down so that the fire reflected off his bald pate. Then he reached into the sleeve of his cloak and withdrew a dagger. The mother and daughter shrieked and began to struggle once more, this time so fiercely that it took eight men from the congregation to hold them in place.

Uther lifted his gaze skyward, and Roland thought he could make out the whites of the mad priest’s eyes in spite of the distance. Then he shouted a series of nonsensical phrases into the air, barking like a dog, twirling his hands in circles, firelight dancing off the dagger’s blade. Jacob gasped, and Roland felt the First Man’s hand wrap around his arm, squeezing so tightly that his fingers began to numb.

“No, no, no,” repeated Jacob.

“What?” asked Brienna, sniffling.

Jacob pointed to the far wall of the ravine, where a strange symbol, three diagonal lines intersected and overshadowed by a large circle, had been carved.

“I know why the villagers were taken. I know that symbol. I know this place . According to legend, back when Kal’droth still existed and this ravine was filled with rushing water, it was here that the war with the demon kings ended. It was here that Celestia banished the monsters from Dezrel, sending them to an unknown point in the universe.”

“So that means what, exactly?” Azariah asked.

A red shadow crossed Jacob’s face.

“Uther is trying to resurrect them.”

“And will it work?” Azariah asked, the blood seeming to drain from his face.

Jacob shook his head.

“But how can you be sure?” asked Roland.

“Because they’re in the wrong place,” Jacob said, adamant.

A scream split the night, and Roland glanced through the rocky portal to see Uther standing above the woman. He clutched her hair in one hand, yanking back her head, while the other lifted the dagger. The zealot plunged the blade into her neck, and even from high above Roland could see blood gushing from the wound, soaking the front of Uther’s robe. Brienna threw her hands over her mouth and backed away from the portal, eyes squeezed shut.

Shrieks reverberated from down below. Uther moved to the man next, performing the same duty with his sharp blade, and then finished off the young, sobbing girl. In moments, the Rodderdams were no more than three bodies bleeding out on the ground. Uther then went about tearing open their tattered clothes, using the dagger that had taken their lives to carve dreadful runes on their backs.

Roland felt like he was going to be sick. It was the first time he had ever watched anyone die, let alone in such a violent manner. Life with Jacob was steadily becoming a never-ending string of unwanted firsts.

When the mutilation of the corpses was complete, those who had dragged the prisoners before the congregation returned. One by one they tossed the bodies into the bonfire, the flames rising higher as each corpse was fed to it. Uther turned to face the blaze, dropped to his knees, raised his hands, and began chanting once more.

Bolts of black and purple lightning danced from Uther’s fingertips, growing both deeper and brighter in the same instant. Jacob and Azariah gasped, while Roland simply watched, spellbound and horrified. The raging of the bonfire diminished, darkening the air, and an inky pool of blackness appeared above the flames. It started out the size of an apple but grew with each passing second, until it looked large enough to swallow a man whole. The sphere of blackness undulated and writhed, as if alive, the meniscus stretching into ungodly shapes.

For the first time, Roland heard the sadistic man’s true voice as he shrieked up at the writhing orb.

“Come, beasts of the underworld, lords of death, emissaries of the darkness, reveal yourselves now and bow before the glory of Karak!”

The floating sphere rippled, looking like a school of tiny fish were pecking at it madly just beneath the surface. The bonfire’s flames flared once more, licking the bottom of the orb. Uther shouted in disbelief, and the orb seemed to collapse in on itself, folding over and over again, a shriek emanating from within that was so shrill, Roland thought it might burst his eardrums. He covered his ears, the pain so intense it whitewashed his thoughts, and he screamed along with the orb, his voice completely drowned out.

And then he could hear his own voice, as well as Brienna’s and Azariah’s. He felt hands on his back, shoving him, pulling him, shaking him. He opened his eyes to find his three companions staring back at him, each of their faces a mask of panic.

“Run,” Jacob said, but he could barely hear the words through the echo inside his skull. He stood still, frozen by his lack of understanding, even as Brienna and Azariah scampered away, disappearing around the bend of the narrow causeway. Roland turned toward the portal, saw a multitude of eyes staring up at him. Their screams had lasted longer than that of the sphere, alerting the murderous bastards to their presence. Some of the men began to dart out of sight, disappearing below the wall.

Jacob grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard.

“Come on, Roland!” he shouted. “Snap out of it!”

He did, albeit sluggishly. Jacob took his hand and yanked him around the bend, heading back the way they had come. Only this time they didn’t break off where they had originally entered the chasm, instead continuing to follow it in a wide circle, even as the sound of shouted orders and the clank of metal on rock sounded all around them.

“We missed the opening!” said Roland.

Jacob pulled him harder.

“I know a different way.”

It was a different way indeed. Just as the cloaked men appeared ahead of them, brandishing swords and daggers, Jacob leapt on top of the passage’s low-standing wall. The First Man still had a grip on Roland’s wrist, so he had little choice but to follow his lead. They dashed across the thin ridge until Roland noticed that his rapid footfalls were now splashing instead of thumping. Jacob then leapt off the other side, dragging Roland along with him. They hit a slope, ice-cold water cascading all around them, propelling them downward. The freezing water made every nick and scrape Roland had amassed on the way down hurt far more.

They hit solid ground without warning, because the moon was shielded from them by what Roland now realized was a hollowed-out mountain. He scampered to his feet, no longer attached to Jacob, and tried to follow the sound of his master’s voice as he scurried across the hard, slate-like ground.

“It’s only a few more feet!” Jacob shouted. “Stay with me!”

The sound of rushing water reached his ears, and suddenly Roland was grabbed from behind. His feet flew out from under him and he dangled in the air, as if flying, until his legs swung back down and his heels collided with the earth.

“Shit,” he heard Jacob mutter.

“What now?” asked Brienna’s voice, and Roland was thrilled to realize that the elf was with them.

“Look at them all,” said Azariah, revealing his presence as well.

Roland’s eyes began adjusting to the dark, and he glanced down and saw that his feet were positioned perilously close to the rocky riverbank. Only Jacob’s arm, firmly wrapped around his waist, had spared him from a terrible fall. The river was wide and moving swiftly, numerous white caps appearing and disappearing, seeming to glow in the faint light. There were a great many rafts floating there, bobbing up and down, stretching the ropes that tethered them to shore.