David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Roland nodded. He didn’t like the idea in the slightest, but in the end he trusted Jacob Eveningstar more than anyone in the world. If Jacob said everything would be fine, then everything would be fine.

“Very well,” he said with a nod. “Come find me when you’re finished.”

“Oh, and Roland,” said Jacob, reaching down to grab his wineskin off the floor. “Take this with you. The cloak may keep you warm, but if you really wish to keep the shivers away, take a few sips of what’s inside.”

Roland stared at the skin, jiggled it, and heard liquid swish .

“I will,” he replied. “But please, take care of yourself.”

“I will. You have nothing to worry about.”

Roland picked up his candle, turned away from his master, and squat-walked his way back through the cave’s narrow passageway. The channel seemed thinner than it had before, his uncertain nerves playing games with his sense of perspective. He took a deep breath and, telling himself that Jacob knew best, tried to clear his mind of unease.

He walked out into the cold air of night, a biting wind assaulting his face the instant he stepped outside. He flipped the hood of Jacob’s cloak over his head and immediately felt its blessed warmth. He then positioned himself against the side of the mountain, a few feet from the opening to the cave, and slid down to his rump, tucking his legs up under the cloak after he was seated. He listened for signs of life around him, but all he could hear was the rush of flowing water somewhere off to his right. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be alone. Tilting back the wineskin, he took a few swigs of the bitter fluid, feeling the alternating burn and comfort as it slid down his throat. Then he stared at the sky, noticing that a few streamers of deep purple were beginning to crawl their way across the horizon. That meant sunrise was only an hour away, two at most. Although he was sitting on the wrong side of the mountain to actually see the sunrise, as Jacob had suggested, that was fine by Roland. He was much more interested in the way the rising sun changed the colors in the sky, the way it shoved aside the darkness like Ashhur vanquished pain and sin from the hearts of his children.

His head began to grow dizzy, and Roland leaned back against a hard stone. For a second he thought he heard multiple voices whispering from somewhere deep within the cave, but the dizziness increased, and soon all he heard was the rush of blood between his ears. He didn’t fight against the sensation, and a few moments later, he was fast asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the day was bright as could be. The sky was no longer overcast, the way it seemed to have been during their entire stay in the Tinderlands. Roland found himself lying face down in the dirt. He rolled onto his back, stretched his arms high above his head, and yawned.

When he sat up, a strange wave of vertigo came over him. He teetered there for a moment, his stomach feeling as if it would empty itself of its meager contents. The only other time he’d felt this way was when he’d stolen a few swigs of ceremonial wine when he was fourteen years old. He’d become extremely ill, and his head had ached for days afterward. He pulled the hood of Jacob’s cloak down low, shielding his eyes from the day’s brightness, and looked around.

He was still on the ledge outside the cave, and by the position of the sun, which was still hidden behind the peak of the mountain behind him, he assumed it was early morning. That meant he’d been sleeping for perhaps two or three hours. Still feeling queasy, he lifted the wineskin, which lay empty beside him, and stared at it.

That has to be the most potent wine I have ever tasted , he thought. He had only imbibed of a drop or two. That was when he realized how long Jacob had left him out here. Panic surged through him. In his mind’s eye he saw his master lying in a pool of blood, his body mutilated by whatever strange creature he had been trying to commune with, dismembered like the poor folks whom Karak’s followers had butchered the previous night.

A strange sound reached his ears, like the screeching of a distant hawk, and Roland’s panic multiplied. He staggered to his feet, ignoring the dizzy spell that ensued, and stared across the wide space of dead, sloping earth. He was high up on the side of the mountain, which offered him a clear view of the land for miles. To his left were numerous mountains and hills, all brown limestone and craggy granite. In the center was a valley filled with patches of yellowing grass, at the end of which was another slight rise that emptied out into a huge, circular depression-most likely the same depression where the horrible ritual had taken place. Nothing was alive anywhere he looked. In fact, it wasn’t until he glanced to his right, where the waters of the Gihon flowed, that he saw any movement at all.

The hawk’s screech came once more, and he squinted against the bright light and the headache that spiked behind his eyes, trying to make out something far off in the distance. A thin black cloud sprouted from a tiny monument somewhere on the far side of the river, seemingly miles away. The distant black cloud rose higher and higher, its smoky tendrils wafting this way and that. When it mixed with the puffy white cumulus that hung low on the horizon, the different colors of vapor combined, and Roland swore he saw the visage of a roaring lion.

That was when he realized that the tiny monument producing the smoke was the half-constructed tower by the Drake Township. Panic swelled inside him. He imagined Uther Crestwell and his minions performing the same rituals they had enacted the night before on all the poor, tormented people of Drake.

“Ja- COB! ” he screamed, falling back against the side of the mountain, his fingers digging into the rock and dirt. He scrabbled across the ledge, lingering in front of the cave’s mouth. A moment later Jacob emerged into the light of day, his dark hair disheveled, his tunic ripped and torn, his face smeared with a crusty sort of dirt.

“What happened?” he asked, looking and acting as dazed as Roland felt.

Roland’s fear overwhelmed any relief he might have felt for the fact that his master was alive and well. Unable to form words, he pointed toward the smoke, which now rose in twin columns. Jacob followed his finger, and the First Man’s eyes opened wide.

“Wait here!” he shouted and then disappeared back into the cave. When he reemerged, he was carrying his hastily packed rucksack. He took Roland by the arm and began leading him down the steep side of the mountain at a fast clip. Both of their feet slipped and slid on loose rocks, and Roland feared he might fall the rest of the way on his face. It didn’t escape him how miraculous it was that they’d scaled this peak in near-complete darkness only a few hours before, but that thought was soon swallowed by the terror that steadily rose up his throat.

For now there weren’t two columns of smoke, but four. Jacob pulled him along all the faster, steering him toward the river.

He never once asked Jacob what had happened with his experiment. At that point, the only thing that mattered was reaching the camp before it was too late-which it probably already was.

Crian opened the door to the Tower Keep and carried Nessa inside. His love lounged in his arms, her head thrown back, a broad smile plastered on her face. The sheer baptismal gown she wore was soaked, as was her stunning red hair, which dangled below his forearm like ocean weeds. The thin material of her gown had gone transparent, and he could see the outline of her nipples, the depression of her belly button, the gentle slope of her thighs, and the hair between her legs, which shone as brightly as that atop her head. His manhood rose, and he suddenly found it difficult to hold her, despite her diminutive size.