Dawn of Swords (2 page)

P
ROLOGUE

T
oday
, thought Clovis,
is a perfect day for bloodshed
.

The air was hot, the wind dead, and the tall grass still. The flags his bannermen carried hung limp on their shanks. To Clovis Crestwell’s right was a vast open plain, empty of settlements for miles. To his left were the tightly packed trees that formed the edge of the Ghostwood. The soft, insect-like whispers that oozed from the haunted forest carried without any apparent need for wind. The whispers caused a collective shudder to work through the battalion that marched on the Gods’ Road, intermixing with the sound of marching feet.

Clovis sat tall in his saddle, his shoulders pulled back and his long silver hair swept from his face. While on the outside he exuded calm indifference, his insides shuddered with anticipation. It was on this day—this bright and windless day—that his years of planning would finally be set in motion. Today was the day he paved the way for his god to rule the world.

The man riding astride the lead stallion, Lord Commander Vulfram Mori, raised his hand. Immediately, the progression halted. The fighting men removed their helms and unhitched the waterskins
from their belts, taking long gulps and wiping sweat from their brows. They’d marched all the way from Veldaren, the capital of the eastern land of Neldar, and the long journey had left them exhausted. Their leader, though, showed not the slightest sign of wear from the trip. Vulfram looked barbaric; naked from the waist up, his muscular physique was an intimidating sight that dwarfed the greatsword strapped to his back. His head was shaved bald, though a lengthy auburn beard speckled with gray fell from his chin to the middle of his breastbone. But the Lord Commander’s deep brown eyes contained a wisdom that betrayed the impression of barbarism. Vulfram was forthright, cautious, and loyal, and he did not question his superiors. His choice in appearance was purposeful; he demonstrated his boldness by donning no protective armor, inspiring his armored charges to be as fearless as he was. He was a suitable man to lead the army of Karak, the God of Order made flesh, Divinity of the East.

Though deep down, Clovis knew
he
should have been granted those duties, not Vulfram.

“How much farther?” he asked.

The Lord Commander swiveled in his saddle.

“We should be on the bridge in forty minutes, Highest,” he replied, bowing low in his saddle. Clovis allowed himself to smile at this gesture of respect, his jealousy lessening. Forty-two years before, Karak himself had bestowed Clovis with the title
Highest
. It had happened on the very day that the First Families, House Mori and House Crestwell, crowned the first king of the eastern realms.
Highest
meant that none were more trusted in the eyes of their god, granting Clovis sovereignty as the king’s advisor. Humanity was in its infancy, Karak had told him, and they needed strong men like him to show the way.

Vulfram gazed west, to where the Gods’ Road wound off into the distance.

“Are you certain we must show force, Highest?” he asked. “Would a warning not suffice?”

“It is not your place to question the will of our god,” Clovis said. “It is your duty to obey.”

“Yes, Highest,” said Vulfram, bowing low once more.

Kicking his horse, the Lord Commander galloped around the resting troops, shouting for them to make ready for the onward march. The men groaned but offered no complaint, sacking away their waterskins, and putting on their helms. They formed two lines and advanced once more, their chainmail glimmering with the water that had dripped from their chins. Clovis noticed that many were red-faced from the heat, even though they’d been fitted with light filament shirts and breeches instead of sterner steel. He grunted, thought of delaying. It would not do to have the men passing out on the Gods’ Road before fulfilling their duty to their god and realm. His impatience won out, and he joined Vulfram in urging them onward.

The dusty road passed with numbing steadiness, and Clovis allowed his mind to wander. He had not seen his god in decades. Shortly after the naming of Neldar’s king, Karak had left the realm and not been spotted by living eyes since. Clovis’s only interaction with his deity had been through a series of recent dreams and visions, which had instilled in him a desire to teach a wayward faction of his people the price of blasphemy. Yet Clovis had been hesitant, as dreams were unreliable. He pulled out the pendant he wore around his neck, which had mysteriously appeared at his bedside one morning, its crystal forged by the breath of the last dragon of the land. Were it not for the Whisperer, a being of shadow that contacted him through the pendant, he would never have acted. At first he had thought the Whisperer to be Karak himself, come to offer him guidance from wherever the god had isolated himself, but even when he learned that was not the case, Clovis could not deny that the Whisperer’s desires mirrored his own—a longing for a land ruled by a single, divine presence. Those most blessed by Karak, such as Clovis and the rest of his immortal House
Crestwell, perhaps even the mysterious Whisperer, would hold stations of divine power in this new realm. This vision of holy unity began with one simple act, confirmed to him in the dreams sent by Karak—a show of force against the people of Haven, the township nestled within the delta that sprouted from the southern tip of the Rigon River, the body of water that split the land of Dezrel into two equal halves.

The trees of the Ghostwood soon gave way to the eastern spine of the delta that lay before them, and the rocky soil was replaced with marsh grasses. The Gods’ Road flattened out, and at the Lord Commander’s urging, the men picked up their pace to a brisk jog.

“Who do we fight for?”
Vulfram yelled, and the soldiers answered,
“For Karak!”

They came upon Karak’s Bridge minutes later, a sturdy overpass of wood, granite, and black marble fifty feet across. On the other side of the river was the stumpy rise of the Clubfoot Mountains. To the south, obscured behind a thick line of evergreens, was a series of crude huts. They were the beginnings of a new extension of the Haven Township. And at the base of the nearest mountain, rising into the sky like a stone guardian, was the end result of the peoples’ blasphemy. This was it, the reason they had come, the edifice whose destruction the Whisperer had preordained since the first day of its construction.

The Temple of the Flesh.

Vulfram held up a single fist, and the soldiers halted their advance.

“Ready arrows!” he shouted, and his men pulled the bows from their backs. They nocked arrows and lifted them skyward, one hundred taut strings awaiting the call.

The Lord Commander turned and directed a questioning look at Clovis, who gestured at the monstrosity before them with an open palm. For a brief moment he saw worry, perhaps even a glimmer of defiance, and then Vulfram shook his head and galloped to the
rear of the convoy. He did not give the order, which disappointed Clovis. So be it. Such a weighty responsibility should be his anyway.

There’d be no warning. No message beyond what was delivered with steel barbs. No chance for the men, women, and children to seek shelter within their blasphemous temple.

“For Karak!”
he shouted, and the soldiers loosed their arrows. With a smile, Clovis watched the shafts sail into the afternoon sky.

C
HAPTER

1

W
hen the first arrow impaled Martin Harrow’s chest, the sun was at its highest point in the sky. Thirteen-year-old Geris Felhorn stared at his friend as blood poured from the wound, flowing around the shaft in a puddle of crimson. Martin’s hands came up to touch the end of the shaft, his eyes bulging in pain and disbelief. He teetered to the side. Geris stepped forward, reaching tentatively for his injured friend, but he was too late. Martin collapsed onto the hay-covered ground, shuddering, his life’s fluid spreading around him in a lake. Geris dropped to his knees, his mind a whirl of bewilderment. He touched Martin’s leg, and the shuddering stopped.

That’s when the screams began.

The first came from Ben Maryll, Geris and Martin’s friend. Ben hovered over Martin’s body, his blue eyes wide and filled with tears. He tugged on the fallen boy’s auburn hair, looking like he would rip it out of his head. Geris wanted to cry out to him, to ask his friend what was happening, but his voice stuck in his throat. The screams grew louder, and something whistled past his ear, followed by a soft
thud
. People rushed by, shouting in panicked, shrill voices.
Geris sat motionless, watching as the Guardmaster of the Haven township—a tall, stout man named Torgen—was impaled in the throat by an arrow. Blood spurted as he gasped and fell just inches from Geris’s feet.

Still the pointed shafts rained from the sky.

A group of five huntsmen, clad in leather skirts and sashes, ran past him, hunting bows on their backs. They climbed the ladders propped against the high wall of the newly completed Temple of the Flesh. When they reached the top, looking at what lay outside the wall, they nocked their own arrows and began firing blindly.

Geris watched it all with disbelieving eyes. He wanted to move—
tried
to move—but his body betrayed him. His heart raced and his throat tightened. Glancing back at the wagon, he spotted Ben staring at him from beneath it, his expression the same as when he awoke from a nightmare. He must have managed to drag himself under it without Geris noticing. Geris felt his bladder threaten to release. He could not name the emotions he was experiencing—only knew he had never felt them before. It was all so unreal. He shouldn’t even be here.

He, Ben, and Martin were kinglings from the west, brought here from the Sanctuary to learn. He wished Ahaesarus, his mentor from home, were with him now, wished that he had the man’s wise council. Perhaps the Warden would know what to say to make his legs work, to banish the terrible shaking of his hands and the tears streaming down his face.

“Ben! Geris!”

At the sound of his name, Geris swiveled his head. It was Jacob Eveningstar, the kinglings’ chaperone and mentor for this journey. Jacob sprinted down the hay-strewn corridor between the temple’s central hub and its outer wall. His long, dark hair streamed out behind him as he ran like a man possessed. Geris raised his hand in greeting, as if this were a normal day and he were eating a lunch of apples and salted beef in the golden fields surrounding the Sanctuary.
Taking note of Jacob’s clenched jaw, squinting eyes, and the reams of sweat soaking the front of his shirt banished Geris’s momentary relief, instead magnifying his already overwhelming fear.

Jacob swept him up in his strong arms as another arrow sailed overhead, and then swung him around and threw him across the alleyway, where the arrows couldn’t reach. Geris struck the wall and slid down, letting out a cry of pain. Meanwhile Jacob pulled Ben from beneath the carriage and dragged him across the slender pathway too. Ben collapsed beside Geris, who sought out his friend’s hand. Their fingers intertwined, and they stared at each other, matching tears dribbling down their cheeks. Jacob hovered over them, shielding the two potential kings from the death that came from the sky.

Balanced on the ladders that lined the wall, the huntsmen were but shadows beneath the blazing sun. At regular intervals they poked their heads over, and whenever the pace of the attack slowed, they slipped arrows from their quivers and launched them into the air. Bringing his gaze down to the streets, Geris realized that they were covered with blood. He watched as a woman was skewered through her stomach. Her bare breasts flopped as she doubled over, the bells adorning her silver girdle tinkling as she fell. She struggled forward, clawing at the dirt, until another arrow pierced the back of her skull. Geris squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, desperate not to see any more. Ben trembled beside him. Jacob was standing over the two of them, his sturdy hand clutching Geris’s shoulder. He could feel the man’s hair brush against his cheek as he scanned one side of the path and then the other.

Before long, all the people who were still alive had their backs pressed against the wall. Jacob ceased his protective hovering and sat down beside his two remaining charges. The arrows still came, but they were slower now, harmlessly pelting the ground and piercing already deceased bodies. Geris shivered, watching as the spilled blood formed tributaries in the open space. He spotted
Martin beside the carriage, six shafts sticking out of his body. His eyes were open and unblinking, his face pale and bloodless. An irrational desire filled Geris, a yearning to see his friend shake off the arrows as if they were props from a game. Martin, so long the favorite for the kingship, would laugh and roll his eyes as if it were nothing. But Martin didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Geris’s eyes filled with tears. Jacob grasped Geris’s chin and turned his gaze away from the scene.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the barrage of arrows ceased. All was silent but for the cawing of the birds and the moans of the dying. It stretched on for a long moment before it was broken by an unnaturally loud voice from the other side of the wall.