Dawn of Swords (70 page)

They had crossed Ashhur’s Bridge not two hours before and had been following the edge of the Clubfoot Mountains ever since. The moon shone brightly overhead, casting a ghostly pallor on everything around him. The path ahead was like a milky river they might sink into, the forest to their right a dead place filled with monsters. Roland shivered and closed his eyes, squeezing his legs tight around his horse’s body, trying to force away the images that haunted him. It did no good, for he kept seeing Brienna’s reanimated face, staring blankly ahead and dripping blackened rot from her lips.

He wished Ashhur had not agreed to come. He wished Ashhur had not listened to Jacob. He wished that after thinking it over, the god had simply declined to abide by the First Man’s dire words. But mostly, he wished he could be anywhere but
here
.

There were twenty in their party—himself; Jacob; Azariah; Master Steward Clegman along with two more Wardens, Loen and Shonorah; and sixteen other capable men and women, including Stoke and Tori Harrow, who wished to finally set sight upon the structure for which their son had needlessly perished. When Roland had asked why they wanted to do such a thing, Ashhur had told him they required closure. Roland did not know what
closure
meant, but he thought the idea itself sounded stupid.

Ashhur walked alongside the group, his long, tireless strides easily keeping pace with the horses. His white robe billowed whenever a cool breeze gusted, revealing the powerful form of the god-made-flesh beneath. He had stayed silent for the entirety of their two-day journey, and everyone in their group seemed to know instinctively that silence was what the god wanted. None asked him questions, none asked for blessings. Roland wasn’t sure if they knew what they were in for when they reached Haven. He knew he surely didn’t, and that, after all the unexpected horrors that had befallen him over the last couple months, was what frightened him the most.

They rounded a bend in the path, the rocky base of the mountain jutting out, forcing them closer to the forest. A sudden, intense cavalcade of sound emerged from the trees, a chorus of mad tweeting and chirping that put his hair on end.

Azariah guided his horse—the largest steed Safeway had at its disposal—over to him.

“That is the song of the whippoorwills,” he said. “They are but birds, despite how sinister they sound.”

“They sound sad,” Roland said, his body wracked with shivers.

“They often do,” Azariah replied.

Roland looked past the Warden to his master. Just like Ashhur, Jacob had kept silent for most of their journey. At times he seemed outwardly angry, and at times contemplative and sad. But mostly he looked detached, his gaze empty, as if there weren’t a thought in his head that wasn’t well guarded. The few times Roland tried to speak with him, the First Man shooed him away. That might have been the most difficult part of all of this. During a time of inner turmoil, when the horrors he’d witnessed haunted him and his innocent view of the world had been shattered, the man he respected more than his own father wasn’t there to pull him back to safety.

Now, as they drew ever closer to the battle at Haven, Jacob looked like a man simmering in conflict. His lips were puckered, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased. Roland glanced back at Azariah, and the Warden placed a large, comforting hand on his knee.

“He will come around,” Azariah said, sensing his concern.

The words didn’t help.

Their path narrowed, steering them up a slight incline, and the convoy soldiered on. The horrific sounds of combat grew ever louder, drowning out the somber cries of the whippoorwills. When they crested the hill, the land flattened out and the path ended. A dense thatch of trees stood before them. They spread out in a line and wandered in. The forest was thin, only a hundred feet deep at most, and soon they reached its end. One by one they dismounted their horses and peered through the foliage at the vast clearing on the other side, each gasping when their eyes alighted on the horrible scene that awaited them. When it was Roland’s turn, his jaw fell open.

There were bodies everywhere, far more than had been stacked beside the fire in the camp outside Drake. They littered the ground like nettles, dark shapes bulging from the grass, unmoving. In the near distance there was a large mass of people locked in battle. It all took place in the shadow of a monstrous construction of stone
that hovered over everything less than a mile away. The combatants looked like a pulsating group of flesh and steel, the particulars of the fight indiscernible to him. Even so, he could see a steady mist hovering above the mass, a pinkish fog that grew sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, but never completely dissipated. He thought of the way the blood had spurted when the mad priest slit the throats of those poor innocent souls in the ravine and was overcome by the urge to flee.

Something brushed past him, and Roland shifted to see that Jacob was close by, his eyes suddenly more alert as he took in the awful scene. His lips moved as if on their own accord, forming words Roland couldn’t hear, and his hands were shoved into the front pouch of his dirty tunic. Roland felt for him. His master looked completely horrified.

Ashhur stepped forward as well, standing alongside Roland. His face a mask of disbelief and resignation, the god shook his head.

“Such madness,” he said. “Such unnecessary bloodshed.”

“We are too far away,” Jacob said. “Do you see Karak?”

Roland was shocked by his master’s voice, which didn’t match his expression; it sounded more curious than sad.

“I do,” the deity replied. “I sense that he is here, but hidden.”

“How about Patrick?”

“I see him on the battlefield. He is injured, but still alive.”

“Do we go retrieve him?” asked Loen the Warden.

“No,” said Ashhur. “It was his choice to join this conflict.”

“What of the people?” asked Jacob. “The children, the elderly? Did they flee?”

Ashhur closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He rocked back and forth as if listening to a song only he could hear. When he opened them again, his lips stretched into a smile that looked heavy with relief.

“They did not,” he said. “I sense them in the temple. They are afraid, but they are safe.”

Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. His unseen hands clutched at the fabric of his tunic.

“Should we get closer?” he heard Azariah ask.

“I think not,” Ashhur replied. “We will watch from here. I trust my brother. Those in the temple will be allowed another chance to kneel, to turn their hearts back to the deity who loves them with all his—”

The sky suddenly lit up, a supernova of blinding yellows and reds that burned through the canopy, illuminating the forest like the brightest day. All but Ashhur shielded their eyes from the intensity; the god’s gaze was lifted upward, watching the white-hot column of fire blaze overhead. Roland could hear nothing but the roar of flames and an insufferably loud yawning sound, but he could see his god’s mouth open and close, screaming unheard admonitions at the heavens.

The center of the fireball was black like obsidian, and the tail trailing behind it shimmered as if it were cooking the air itself. Then it picked up speed, fell straight downward, and struck the earth.

Right into the center of the temple, that strange edifice that had stood so proud behind its wall.

The explosion was so loud, it was as if no other sound had ever existed. The ground quaked with such ferocity, it knocked Roland to his knees. An extreme flash of light turned the world temporarily translucent, and then came the wind. It was a stiff, hot breeze that carried with it the scent of sulfur and scorched meat, pummeling Roland’s face with such force that he covered it in his hands lest his eyeballs roast in their sockets. He was momentarily deaf, dumb, and blind; the only thing that existed in his awareness was overwhelming, sweeping, paralyzing fear.

When it was over, a muddy silence followed, as if the delta had been plunged into the depths of the ocean. Roland risked a glance over his elbow, and through the starbursts in his vision he saw the rubble that remained of the distant temple. Stones were pulverized,
scattered across the battlefield, some large enough to crush a man—and many of them had. A thick column of smoke rose from the ruins, the moonlight making it look like a billowing manifestation of all the nightmares that had ever disturbed Roland’s sleep. An inferno blazed around that column, burning bright as the sun. It was all too horrible to be real, and in a daze Roland stumbled from their hidden spot in the forest, emerging onto the far end of the clearing. He glanced over the sprawling meadow, where warriors from both sides of the conflict were standing around, staring at the blaze. They all seemed as horrified and dumbstruck as he was.

That was when he learned that sound did still exist, for a thunderous
crack
reverberated from behind him. A tree came crashing to the ground. Ashhur was the one who had felled it, and the deity leapt over the fallen trunk, landing so hard on his feet that he formed a shallow crater in the grass. The expression on his godly face was one of pure rage.

“KARAK!”
he bellowed. His golden eyes burned just as bright as the temple inferno, his jaw stretched wider than Roland had ever seen it as he roared. The veins in his neck bulged so prominently that for a moment it seemed as though his head would extend away from the rest of him, devouring everything in his path.

It wasn’t far from the truth.

Ashhur began to run. As his legs and arms pumped, his body shimmered, and his fine white robe began to transform itself—hardening and melding to his body until he was wearing a full array of shining silver plate. His every footfall was like a sledge striking the soil. Roland stepped forward, still disbelieving, wondering who had taken the place of his calm, forgiving Ashhur. He felt himself close to blacking out when a pair of hands grabbed him on either side.

“Come!” shouted Azariah in one ear.

“Yes, move your feet, boy!” Jacob screamed into the other.

He had no choice but to obey, as the First Man and the Warden seemed intent on dragging him with them. They were far behind
the god now, but still he dominated their field of vision. Roland looked on as Ashhur approached a group of Karak’s soldiers. They cowered before him, some fleeing, others tossing aside their weapons and falling to their knees. Ashhur pulled his arm back. From his fist came a great iridescent light that grew outward and upward, forming a thick shaft that ended in a point. When he swung downward, the glowing object, now fully recognizable as a sword, hacked the soldiers to pieces. With a single blow, seven men died in an instant. Their bodies caught fire as they fell to the ground, burning bright blue, consumed by the flames of Ashhur’s wrath.

Jacob urged the group to stop once they reached the site of the first massacre. There they stood, not more than two hundred feet away from the carnage, with little to do but watch Ashhur work his way from unit to unit. The god was a hulking figure that towered over every man he killed, his sword—massive, radiant, and blue—making quick work of them all. Roland thought it the most horrible thing he had ever seen: his creator, who had preached always of
love
and
forgiveness
, was now taking the lives of dozens in what appeared to be a thoughtless rage. One glance at Azariah showed Roland that the Warden felt the same way, but when he looked at Jacob, a chill came over him. His master appeared fascinated. A hint of a smile played on the corners of the First Man’s lips.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” Roland gasped.

Jacob glanced his way, jutting his chin toward the battlefield.

“Poetry in motion,” he replied, then fell silent.

Looking to his right, Roland caught a glimpse of a lone fighter kneeling in the grass, staring out at the temple, his face streaked with tears. His skull was malformed, his arms were too large for his body, and his hunched back and blood-matted red hair completed the wretched picture. He seemed to be the only one who was not intent on watching Ashhur’s irreconcilable outburst of violence.

“BROTHER!”

The cry rocked over them all, and Roland turned to see Ashhur had ceased his butchery. The god stood in the center of the killing field, chest rapidly rising and falling, his glowing sword held low. Ashhur’s eyes narrowed, staring off into the distance. Roland did the same, and he saw a figure emerge from the darkness on the other end of the clearing, entering the light of the inferno.

It was a man, incredibly tall, dressed in black plate armor, the breastplate bearing the glowing red symbol of a roaring lion. The man’s hair was dark and wavy, his face chiseled and smooth, and his eyes glowed golden, just like Ashhur’s.

This time Roland did fall to his knees, yanking Azariah down with him.

“Karak,” the Warden whispered, as if in awe.

The two gods faced each other, Ashhur shaking with rage, Karak firm and calm. All else seemed to halt at their meeting, as if the entire world were focused on the reunion of the two brother gods in the center of a battlefield strewn with blood and death. Even the flames erupting from the temple’s ruins seemed to die away.

It was Karak who spoke first.

“Has justice been served, brother?”

“Do you know what you did?” Ashhur spat through clenched teeth.

“You slaughtered my children,” said Karak, ignoring his question.

Ashhur pointed toward the temple. “You butchered the helpless.
Hundreds
of them. Is this not what we came to this world to prevent?”

Karak tilted his head forward. His eyes glowed brighter.

“I will punish my creations as I see fit. That is the deal we made; that is the deal I have stood by.”

“They were children!”
Ashhur screamed. “Innocents! We did not come to this world to slaughter those who do not agree with us.”

Karak shrugged.

“I gave them their chance. It is out of their own vanity and defiance that they hid in the very object I had ordered them to destroy.”