Dawn of Swords (59 page)

The lion grinned at him, black fangs poking over an even blacker maw. By comparison, its eyes were like fire. They stared at him, pits as deep as the underworld, and despite the heat from the bonfires outside, Geris began to shiver.

“Don’t mock me,” he said, lowering his head in shame. “You know I failed.”

“You did not fail me,” the shadow-lion said. “All is how it was meant to be.”

“But the imposter still lives,” Geris sniveled. “He is king now, and the witch is by his side.”

“There is no imposter, boy,” said the shadow-lion with a laugh. “There is no witch.”

Geris’s head shot up, his eyes widened.

“What?”

“Benjamin Maryll is who he has always been—a weak child. This new strength he shows is born of cowardice and a desire to please. It will not last, no more than snow beneath a summer sun. Ashhur’s Paradise deserves such a king, a nation of rot hiding behind an image of strength and perfection.”

“But…you told me.…”

“Aye, I did. And your parents said dreams could be misleading, as did your own god.…”

“You’re not from him,” he whispered, fear forming a layer of ice around his heart. By Ashhur, what had he done?

“No. I am of something better. Something wiser. You are the puppet, and I am the one holding the strings. What a shame it is that no one will ever believe you, Geris. No one will ever listen to your mad ramblings, your screams of witches and imposters. Try if you wish, of course, but you know they won’t. Only a fool would believe such a laughable story. Only a stupid, arrogant boy grasping for a reason as to why he’s losing his only chance for glory—beyond his own slothfulness and pride.”

Geris began to sob, thick tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Do not cry,” the shadow-lion said, its voice cruelly shifting into Ahaesarus’s. “You played the only part you were ever meant to play. But if it will ease your burden, know that you would have been a fine king. A strong king. A better king than Benjamin Maryll.…”

Collapsing to the floor of his prison, Geris wailed into the night, his cries drowned out by the din of the coronation taking place only a few hundred feet away. The shadow-lion roared one last time and then disappeared, leaving him alone in the darkness. He slammed his fists into the floor of his prison again and again, bloodying his hand, breaking one of his fingers. The whole time he screamed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

He pleaded for Ashhur’s forgiveness, but it seemed as though his god weren’t listening any longer. There was no one out there to hear him. There was no one to care, no one ready to believe a scared, sick, confused young boy.

C
HAPTER

31

R
oland’s feet were sore as he pounded them into the uneven ground, running as fast as he could. His lungs burned, and sweat poured down his face despite the coolness of the day. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

They had been on the move for hours, following the eastern bank of the Gihon, constantly keeping one eye on the smoldering tower in the distance, which didn’t seem to get any closer, no matter how long or far they ran. It was hard to keep up with Jacob; the First Man was seemingly tireless as he sprinted and leapt across the rocky banks, a frightening sort of desperation shining in his eyes. Roland had tried to stop him twice, just so he could rest for a moment, but Jacob just shot him a dirty look and kept on going.

Eventually Jacob did tire, however, lying down beside the river and scooping water into his mouth with his palms. Roland followed suit, dropping to his belly a hundred feet or so behind him, not wanting to wait until he caught up for fear that Jacob might be sprinting away again by the time he reached him. The water was icy cold, and it burned his parched throat going down. He kept on drinking anyway. Thankfully, the cramp that had started
to take over his left leg began to wane. He put his head on the slick rocks of the bank and closed his eyes. Despite their need to get to the camp, despite the dread that filled him with each passing second, it was difficult to hold off the urge to lie down and sleep.

“Roland,” Jacob said, stirring him from a slumber he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. The First Man’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Roland, get up. We are not far now.”

Roland’s heart sank at the thought of more running, but he pushed to his feet anyway. The mere seconds of sleep had left him disoriented, and he kept his gaze on Jacob as they started a slow jog that gradually picked up speed as they eased back into the effort. In no time they were both at it again, running to beat the demon, arms pumping, hearts thumping, minds racing.

By the time they reached the camp, the sun was low on the horizon, casting purple and crimson rays over the sparse cloud cover. The camp lay on the other side of the river, and a spasm of fear attacked Roland when he looked across, staring at the burnt grass and mangled tents that surrounded the half-built tower. The clouds of smoke that had risen earlier were long gone, having disappeared into the atmosphere. In a moment of blind optimism, Roland took that as a good sign—at least any fires that had been lit were now extinguished. Maybe, just maybe, that meant everyone was safe.…

Jacob didn’t hesitate; he leapt into the water and started paddling with one hand while holding his rucksack high in the air with the other. Roland followed him in, after discarding the cloak, gasping as the freezing water assaulted him, tightening his muscles and making it difficult to move. The current tried to carry him along, and it took all his remaining effort to fight it and stay afloat in his waterlogged clothes. A distant part of his mind stood in awe of his master, who seemed to have no trouble traversing the flowing river with only one hand to help him along.

At last Roland emerged on the other side, shivering and numb. He panted as he climbed the rocks, their sharp edges piercing his wet clothing as he dragged himself out of the water. He stayed there on the bank, coughing out the water he’d gulped down, while Jacob ran on ahead, past the tower and smashed tents, over the hill, and into the main encampment. Roland tried to put himself in motion, tried to run after his master, but he couldn’t make his body move. His ears rang, and the rushing river behind him was all he could hear. Then a shrill scream pierced the air, infusing him with adrenaline, and he forced himself into action.

Once he crested the hill, it took him a long moment to understand what he was looking at. There were smoldering tents everywhere, some still erect, with long, sharpened wooden poles sticking out of them, and others that had been trampled flat. People milled all around, worn and bloodied folks who stared aimlessly at the ground, wearing glassy-eyed expressions. A few of them were in the middle of the encampment, tossing broken tent posts and furniture into a large, hastily assembled firepit.

It was the mound positioned in front of the pit that gave Roland pause and made the scene so surreal. It was a pile of bodies, stacked four high and stretching at least thirty feet in either direction. He started to descend the hill, staring at the ghastly sight in horror and disgust. He spotted the plain clothing of farmers in the pile, as well as black cloaks and chainmail armor. There were children in the pile as well, their bent and broken limbs intermingling with those of their attackers, their empty gazes staring out into nothingness. A massive river of blood streamed from beneath the pile, spouting tributaries that flowed in every direction, macabre crimson rivers that cut through the brittle grass.

“Jacob?” Roland murmured, wanting his master to comfort him, to reassure him about the nature of death and its part in the cycle of nature. Because what he saw felt utterly unnatural. He fell to his knees, emptying his stomach of what little wine remained.
He hacked, his throat burning along with the rest of him, until that bloodcurdling scream sounded again, much closer this time. Any hope of comfort left him. That voice, that agonized voice, was Jacob’s. Lifting his head beneath the rapidly darkening sky, he caught sight of the Eschetons’ large pavilion, half standing, half flattened, surrounded by a group of townsfolk and fifteen lanterns on stakes. It was where the scream was coming from.

“I’m on my way, Jacob,” he said, struggling to his feet. He felt feverish from the water, numb from the run. He made his way forward with a lurching, uneven trot, his eyes never leaving the pavilion. Suddenly he saw Turock Escheton emerge from the throng. The crimson-haired oddity meandered away from the tent, his head shaking. His bright orange robe was soiled, whether with dirt or blood, Roland couldn’t tell. He held his pointed hat in his hands, staring at it as if tearing his eyes from it would mean the end of his life.

Roland was almost there, his legs picking up speed, when Azariah’s tall form emerged from inside the pavilion. The Warden’s eyes were watering and his shoulders were shaking. Without warning he collapsed into the grass, hiding his face with his hands as his body was thrown into a massive quake. Roland had never seen the Warden show this amount of emotion before—he had never seen
any
Warden show so much emotion. Roland’s heart thumped even harder. The scream came once more, softer now, more defeated, as he went dashing for the tent.

Azariah lifted his head when Roland was only a few feet away.

“Roland, wait…
NO!
” he shouted, just as Roland passed him by. Roland felt fingers reach for—and miss—his drenched clothing, but he did not stop. He did not even pause. The tortured wailing of the First Man issued from within the tent. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, Roland knew what it meant. His heart steeped in terror and sorrow, he bulled his way through the crowd until he emerged on the other side.

He wished he hadn’t.

Abigail Escheton lingered at the rear of the pavilion, near where structure had collapsed, surrounded by overturned chairs, smashed crates, and torn articles of clothing. She was sobbing, silently but uncontrollably, while staring down at Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was hunched over on the ground, his head down, his dark hair hanging over Brienna’s unmoving body. It was the beautiful elf’s face Roland saw most clearly in that frozen moment, her perfect features twisted into a mask of pain, her wheat-colored hair matted with blood. Jacob shuddered, and tears dripped from his chin, soaking the front of Brienna’s blouse. There was a thick, black scorch mark at the center of her stomach. It had charred the fabric of her shirt, and on the bare flesh beneath he could see thick, blue-black veins that stretched away from the wound, disappearing beneath what was left of her garments.

Overwhelmed, Roland’s knees went out and he crumpled to the ground. He couldn’t avert his gaze from the dead elf’s face, this exquisite woman who had made his master so happy, whose joy had been infectious, her spirit one of a kind. Dark liquid began to ooze from her open mouth.

“Brienna?” he whispered, but her eyes never moved.

“She’s gone,” moaned Jacob without looking at him. “Gone.”

Roland crawled forward and grabbed her wrist, which lay limp on the grass, and lifted her hand. It dropped with a
thud
after he released it and fell still. Never again would those long, slender fingers play with his hair, never again would that hand gently squeeze his shoulder, never again would those arms wrap him in a welcoming hug. He broke down, crying into the sleeve of his already wet tunic. His prayers meant nothing any more, nor the words of his god. Even if he could count on Ashhur’s promise of the Golden Afterlife, Brienna was one of
Celestia’s
children. He would never see her again, even after he’d drawn his last breath. As Jacob said, she was just…gone.

For the first time, Roland Norsman understood what death truly meant.

Jacob’s head shot up then, his manic, bloodshot eyes staring first at Roland, then at the crowd beyond. Abigail went over to him, trying to offer him comfort, but he shrugged her aside. He leapt to his feet, letting Brienna’s body fall to the earth, and violently hauled Roland up by the collar as he passed him. Roland struggled to stand as he was towed along. The crowd parted before them, and Turock was there to greet them once they reached the other side.

“Where is he?”
Jacob shouted into Turock’s face.

Turock simply pointed to the west in reply.

Jacob released Roland’s collar and stormed off, heading for points unknown. Roland thought to follow him but decided otherwise when he saw that Azariah was approaching him. His clothes were torn and bloodied and his pristine skin covered with wicked-looking gashes, including one that ran from the tip of his scalp to just below his ear. The Warden stopped in front of him, looking down at him with sorrowful eyes.

Despite the numbness that pervaded his every fiber, Roland finally managed to ask what had happened.

“They followed us,” Azariah said, shaking his head. “The bastards followed us. The moment our feet reached solid ground they were on us, hurling spears, firing arrows. They hovered their way across the river and came at us with swords. They
hovered
. The mad priest even threw fire with his hands. We didn’t have time to warn Turock or Abigail or Ephraim or Bartholomew. They were here so quickly.…”

Roland swallowed, trying to keep his composure.

“Ephraim and Bartholomew, where are they now? Did they live?”

“They did,” whispered Turock. “They were positioned at the far end of the camp. The butchers never reached them.”

“So violent,” Azariah said, as if he hadn’t heard Turock speak. “We tried to fight them, but it was no use.” He stared at his hands. “These are so useless. We had no weapons, nothing but the sticks and stones that were strewn along the ground. I couldn’t…couldn’t…and Brienna, she…by the time I reached her, it was too late to heal her…she was already gone.…”

Azariah lost his composure then, standing in place and sobbing. Roland pulled the Warden close and did his best, even in his deadened state, to comfort him. His face only came up to Azariah’s chest, and he felt heavy tears fall atop his head.

“It was my fault,” said Turock, who appeared to have regained some of his equanimity. He still spoke as if in a dream, but at least he was looking at Roland now, however mournfully. “One of my men complained of sickness, and instead of replacing him, I let one less man watch the river. If only I had been there.…”