David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

The rumble of countless running feet seemed to be closing in from behind them. Jacob pulled Roland away from the river’s edge, depositing him a few feet away, and then shouted, “You two-get in a raft!”

Roland heard swishing and clunking as Brienna and Azariah climbed aboard one of the rickety boats.

“I’ll meet you in Drake,” Jacob said, and Roland saw the reflection of light off steel as Jacob whipped out his knife and slashed through the rope. The raft began to drift away quickly, as if it were being pulled by an invisible string on the other side.

Still the robed men came closer.

“Are we next?” asked Roland, bracing himself on the edge of the bank and testing the solidity of the next raft.

“No water for us, son. We’re sticking with dry land.”

Before he could protest, Jacob leapt to action, working his way down the line, cutting the tethers that held the rafts in place. When he was done, he rushed back to Roland and grabbed him again. The mob of angry Karak worshippers sounded like it was right on top of them.

“Sorry, but I had to do that,” panted Jacob as he dragged him quickly along. “Couldn’t let the bastards chase after the others. If they go on foot, they’ll have a much harder time catching them.”

“And what…about…us…?” Roland was able to wheeze. His lungs felt like they were on fire as his exhausted, frozen limbs struggled to keep up.

“You and I, we hit the high ground. Lose them in the cliffs.”

As the land beneath his feet began to rise sharply upward and the burn in his muscles became so intense, it felt as though he’d been dipped into a vat of magma, Roland couldn’t help but wish his master had let them climb onto the last raft before cutting the rope.

Bardiya felt his god’s presence long before he arrived. It was an itch that spread inward from his extremities, settling in his chest, making his heart thrum quickly with anticipation. His knees began to quake as he sat cross-legged on the hot desert sand. He opened his eyes, which had been closed for untold hours while he honored the memory of his dearly departed parents, and stared at the black monument before him.

The Black Spire was a magnificent natural creation, a twenty-foot-high slab of sparkling onyx, granite, and clay that had broken through the thin earthen crust when the world was first created, rising into the desert sky like the giant finger of a deity pointing the way toward salvation. The Dezren elves called it Ker-dia , which meant “the light of night” in their peculiar native tongue. Bardiya’s father had told him the Black Spire was the first landmark they’d come across after Ashhur gave life to his First Families, when Ezekai and his fellow Wardens led Bessus, Damaspia, and the litany of wailing babes to the land that would become their home. Bessus thought the Spire, a beacon that swallowed moonlight and cast it out tenfold, was a gift from Ashhur, a lighthouse in the middle of a tranquil yet hazardous sea of sand, and he’d dubbed this land Ker in its honor.

The endless stretch of rolling dunes around the Black Spire, miles from the nearest vegetation or water source, became a secluded holy place. It was also the final resting site for all Kerrians; their bodies were buried beneath the shifting sands, and the light emanating from the Spire guided their souls to the gateway of the golden afterlife.

An ache of sadness overcame Bardiya as he thought once more of the corpses buried here. It did not escape him that Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros, along with the rest of their brethren who had been slaughtered by Stonewood elves, were the first individuals in all of Ashhur’s Paradise to expire before their time. Never before had anyone lost their lives due to a fit of rage or perished from sickness or an animal attack-though Lamarto Dusoros, one of Bardiya’s childhood friends, had come close once, when a hunt went badly and he found himself on the wrong end of a hyena’s claws. Bardiya remembered the blood spilled that day, the screams as Lamarto lay writhing in the tall grasses of western Ker, crying out for his god, his mother begging the healers to come quickly.

And yet the healers had arrived, and after Warden Ezekai channeled Ashhur’s power, it was as if Lamarto had never fallen beneath the beast’s attack. But no Wardens or healers had been there when Ethir brought his elves to destroy Bardiya’s parents.

Bardiya placed his hands on the sand before him, sifting it, feeling its tiny granules as they rubbed against his flesh. They were under there, two supposed immortals whose bodies were now rotting, becoming one with the land that had created them. Yet he could feel no sorrier for them than any of the others who had died that day-Zulon, Tunitta, Hermano, Cruckus, and Drieson, good men and women, all so young, so full of life. They would never breathe the air again, nor run with the horses across the plains, nor hunt, nor splash in the river, nor help raise the side of a cabin-and that fact hurt Bardiya more than anything.

He touched his shoulder, where Ethir’s sword had tried to halve him, and felt the soreness beneath his fingers. The wound was stitched and scabbed over, hidden beneath a thick layer of healing mud. He had refused the healers’ magic, insisting that the gash should heal on its own. Had it been wiped from his body, he feared he might one day forget it had ever been there, and if he forgot that, then what of the rest of his memories? Forgetting was something he could not do, would not do, and he allowed that horrible day to linger in his mind even as the shimmering loveliness of his god’s looming presence washed over him.

Heavy footsteps pounded the sand. Bardiya glanced to the east and saw Ashhur’s towering figure span a dune’s crest, though somehow he looked shorter than usual. The god was dressed simply, in a plain white robe and a pair of sandals. The last time Bardiya had seen him, his hair had been long, almost down to the middle of his back, but now both his hair and his beard were trimmed and neat. His stride was purposeful, each step seeming almost rigid or angry, making Ashhur appear much unlike the whimsical and peace-loving deity he had known all his life.

Bardiya’s heart clenched with fear.

Ashhur didn’t once look at him directly, even when the god stopped before the Spire, his chin tilting back so that he could gaze on its gleaming apex. A hand did fall to his shoulder, however-his injured one, at that-and Bardiya breathed a sigh of relief. He felt Ashhur’s calming energy flow through him, just as constant and reassuring as it had ever been. Ashhur began whispering to the spire. Bardiya bowed his head and prayed along with him.

“Where are they buried?” Ashhur asked softly, breaking a long silence.

“Right beneath me,” Bardiya answered without raising his head.

“And where are your brothers and sisters?”

“I sent them away yesterday. I wished to be alone. With my parents, I mean.”

He felt Ashhur nod. “I understand. I felt the pain of his loss the moment his heart ceased to beat…just as I feel the loss of all my children when they depart this realm. There was a piece of me in each of them, and when that piece is ripped away, it aches.”

“I know, Your Grace. So you have told me.”

Ashhur removed his hand from Bardiya’s shoulder.

“Stand up, my child,” he said. “Please, I wish to know what transpired on that day.”

Bardiya glanced at his god, bemused.

“You do not already know?” he asked.

Ashhur lowered his eyes. “I do not.”

Grunting and pushing off the sand with his knuckles, Bardiya stood. He faced his god, the reason for his existence, and noticed again that Ashhur’s once awe-inspiring size seemed to have lessened. Now Bardiya was less than a foot shorter than he, a realization that caused that familiar panic to establish itself again in the recesses of his brain. In time, if he kept growing the way he always had, he would dwarf the deity.