Dawn of Swords (28 page)

Patrick awoke on a comfortable bed—by far the most comfortable bed on which he had ever laid—in a lavishly decorated room. Artwork hung from the walls; flower arrangements sprouted from within skillfully crafted vases; and the air was infused with the sweet scent of lilac. A man sat by his bedside. Without a word he handed Patrick a waterskin, which the latter downed in half a heartbeat.

While Patrick wiped water from his chin, everything came back to him. He remembered the attack on Nessa, his defense of her, the loss of Winterbone, and the blessed arrival of the three black-cloaked figures. He patted his stomach and rubbed his forearm, where he had been stabbed, but it seemed as though his wounds had been healed. His body felt free of aches, and it didn’t hurt to look into the light. In fact, the headache that had tormented him for days had diminished to a tiny fragment that lingered in the back of his skull like a mischievous mouse. He glanced up at the bearded man beside him, who nodded as if some silent message had passed between them.

“Pardon my rudeness,” Patrick said finally, “but who are you?”

The man offered his hand, which Patrick shook.

“Deacon Coldmine,” the man said, his smile revealing a set of crooked yet well cared for teeth. “Some here call me the Lord of Haven, but please, just call me Deacon.”

Patrick sat up, his jaw dropping open. This was the man he’d been sent to find? Well, find him he had…though it had been more of the other way around.

“I take it that this is your house?” he asked. “I must say, it’s wonderful.”

“No, no, not mine,” replied Deacon, shaking his head and grinning. “My abode is much more…unpretentious than this. This place is a little extravagant for my tastes, not to mention my means.”

“Is that so? Then who should I honor for housing me?”

“That would be Lady Gemcroft. She brought you here three days ago.”

Patrick whistled, his eyes widening. “Three days?”

“Yes. You were in rough shape when you were discovered—lost a lot of blood. I was called here immediately to assist in your care, but your injuries were beyond my abilities as an herbalist, so…other means were necessary.”

“What other means?”

Deacon reached out and rapped three times on the table beside him. The door cracked open, and when Deacon nodded, swung fully inward. Four people entered the room in rapid succession, Nessa in the lead. His sister was beaming, and the moment she spied him she broke into a run, leaping into his lap with every inch of force her tiny frame could muster. Patrick caught her, the air blasting from his lungs, and gave her a tight squeeze.

“Thank Ashhur, you’re all right,” she whispered into his ear.

“Yes, thank Ashhur indeed,” a second woman spoke.

Nessa slid off his lap and fell into place beside him, and Patrick looked up at the sound of that familiar, feminine voice. There she was, the woman he had dreamed of, the one who had saved him. She was as near to perfect as a human could be, every curve of her body faultless, every angle of her face exquisite in its brilliance. She wore a pair of tight, calf-length breeches and a green satin chemise that perfectly matched her green eyes.

Patrick was so focused on her that it took him a moment realize that others were there too—a young woman with silver hair and eyes like azure gemstones, who held the splendid woman’s hand in a curiously intimate manner, and an old and frail, dark-skinned man with a thick white beard, who looked strangely familiar.

The splendid woman smiled, curtseyed, and said, “Patrick DuTaureau of Mordeina, my name is Rachida, and I welcome you to my home. This is Moira to my right, and to my left is Antar Hoonen, whom I think you know.”

Patrick snapped his fingers. “Antar? Bardiya’s friend, Antar? But…you were so
young
when last we met!”

Antar smiled a toothless smile. “Ah, if only we were all bestowed with the blessing of timelessness. I, my friend, am not.”

“It’s not such a blessing,” Patrick muttered out the side of his mouth.

“Anyhow,” said Rachida, breezing through the room as if she weighed nothing, “it was Antar here who healed you. He’s been acting as the township’s healer when it comes to the more…extreme illnesses and has been ever since the masters of House Gorgoros evicted him from their land.”

Patrick cocked his head. “Why did they evict you?”

Antar shrugged. “I disagreed with Master Bessus, so I struck him. I was not welcomed after that.”

“And yet you can still heal?” asked Patrick, staring at his hands in disbelief.

“I lost no faith in Ashhur, only in Bessus,” replied Antar. “My faith has never gone away, and it never will until the day I die.”

“Well, thank you, old friend,” said Patrick, bowing. He then turned to Rachida. “And thank
you
, my dear, for rescuing us on the road that day. I don’t know how you did it, but you and your partners were a wonder to watch. Disregarding all the blood, of course. Who were the others?”

Rachida tapped the head of the lithe, silver-haired girl, who giggled and nuzzled into her touch. “Moira was one of them, and the other was Corton Ender, the man who taught us what we know of fighting.”

“Two ladies and an unknown gentleman took down seven bandits? I’m impressed.”

“Six men. You took care of one yourself.”

“By accident.”

Rachida knelt by his bedside. “By accident is a good start. Some of our greatest accomplishments happen when we least expect them to.”

“I suppose you’re right. I truly never expected to get into a skirmish. The reason I came here was to make sure Deacon took down his temple before the third new moon.”

“Wait,” said Deacon. “You were
sent
here?”

“Well, yes. Nessa didn’t tell you?”

Nessa shook her head. “Wasn’t my place.”

Patrick sighed. “Well, all right then. I was sent here by Jacob Eveningstar, Ashhur’s most trusted servant, with a plea for those in the delta to yield to Karak’s will. I wasn’t told much, just that Jacob fears the worst will happen to you should you refuse to yield.”

Rachida’s expression turned from warm and welcoming to hard and blunt.

“So even Jacob is against us now,” she said. “I expected better of him.” She slapped her knees and stood up, pacing around the room, weaving in and out of those who were standing. “Those men you ran into were sent here by Karak’s followers, the same god you would ask us to kneel before. They’ve burned four holdfasts, slaughtered thirty heads of cattle, and murdered six men. And those seven are just a small number of the many who have ‘visited’ us here in the delta since Karak’s Army loosed their arrows on our temple. Our wills have been made iron. They will
not
best us, even if Karak himself comes here to show us his wrath, as promised.”

Patrick swallowed hard. “But…don’t you fear being destroyed? Karak created you, all of you…well, except for you, Antar…and trust me, I’ve spent many hours with Ashhur, and I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side either.”

Once more Rachida knelt before him. This time she slid a long object out from beneath the bed, grunting as she lifted it and leaned it against the bed. It was Winterbone, retrieved from the marsh grasses, scabbard and all.

“We are tired of being slaves,” she said. “Karak preaches freedom and prosperity for all, but the game is fixed. The wealthy are free to amass as much affluence as they wish, so long as their tithes and professions of faith remain plentiful. But they prey on the weak and the unfortunate, and Karak does nothing to stop it. He has abandoned his people. I don’t care if he ever returns, though I doubt he will ever step foot in our village. This is a power play by Moira’s father. He is trying to prove his might before his followers by scaring us into submission. He hates humanity and is bitter that his family wasn’t allowed to rule. He will take us down to prove his point to his beloved god, and trust me, Patrick, he won’t stop at the delta—not when your people are so unprepared to defend themselves.”

His head swimming, Patrick gawked at the gorgeous woman and asked the only question that popped into his mind. “Moira’s father? Who
are
you people?”

Rachida stood and threw back her shoulders. “I am Lady Gemcroft by title only. My husband Peytr bestowed the title upon me to help hide my true heritage. Before, I was Rachida Mori. As for Moira Crestwell…”

Patrick blinked, hardly able to believe it. Mori and Crestwell…two women of the First Families…here in the delta? He looked over at Nessa, whose face was stretched into a huge grin.

“You knew?” he asked, and she nodded exuberantly.

Suddenly, Patrick didn’t feel quite so upset that Jacob had sent him there. Things had just gotten far, far more interesting.

C
HAPTER

14

T
he smell of sweat hung in the air as line after line of the newcomers to Karak’s Army practiced their thrusts and parries in an enormous field. The grass was matted, torn down to the rocky soil in spots from the clomping of countless booted feet. The township of Omnmount’s lone building was barely visible over the rise of a distant hill. The recruits’ swords were cheap and wooden; the genuine articles hadn’t arrived yet. According to the bird sent by Romeo Connington, the delay had been caused by Matthew Brennan’s attempts to fleece them with high shipping rates, which meant that the Conningtons needed to hire their own people to convey the new weapons all the way from the Thettletown refineries, by horse instead of boat. Crian rolled his eyes on reading the words. He knew for a fact that the Conningtons owned boats of their own. It was an excuse, another way for Romeo and Cleo to curry sympathy in their pathetic turf war with the Brennan family while hiding how far behind they were in production.

But it was all a concern for another day. Real steel would do his inexperienced soldiers little good if they didn’t know how to wield
swords properly. The members of the City Watch that he and Avila had brought with them from Veldaren had spoiled him. They’d been given leave from their positions—along with a hefty raise of two silvers a week—to join in the fight against the blasphemers in the delta. Lord Commander Mori had already trained them well, training Crian had continued upon taking over as Watch captain. These new recruits, however, were farmers and peasants plucked from their homes in Omnmount and the outlying agricultural territories, as far away as Ramere, with the promise that King Vaelor would make sure there was plenty of gold to feed their families and pay for their crops.

Crian watched two men in particular as they sparred—a balding waif named Grant and a fat tub named Harren. Despite Harren’s advantages in both girth and reach, it was always Grant who landed the winning blows with the tip of his waster. The waif laughed like a hyena whenever he struck Harren a solid blow, and the fat man’s jowls were growing red with anger. Crian knew a dangerous situation was building, but he remained silent. Every moment was a teaching moment, as his father had been wont to say.

Grant sidestepped a clumsy thrust and poked Harren in his meaty thigh, barely missing his balls. The waif then spun away and cackled. “Fat man can’t move!” he shouted. “Fat man needs another side of beef!”

When Grant’s back was turned, Harren threw down his waster and, moving much faster than in their training, leapt forward and wrapped the smaller man in his chunky arms. Grant’s eyes bulged as the breath was squeezed out of him. His slender fingers lost grip on his waster, which fell harmlessly to the dirt. Harren tossed him to the ground, where he bounced once, twice, striking a rock hard enough to make his mouth bleed.

Harren was on the waif a second later, straddling him, and pressing the whole of his weight down on the smaller man’s back. He grabbed a fistful of his opponent’s hair and drove the man’s head
into the earth again and again. Grant’s screams rose and fell as the fat man pulverized his face to the tune of a series of dull thuds.

All other exercises halted. It was only when the entire group of new recruits had gathered around the scene that Crian stepped in. He used the tip of his saber to wedge his way through the perspiring masses.

“Cease at once!” he bellowed.

Harren acted like he couldn’t hear him, continuing to pound poor Grant into the stone-covered earth. Already a wide swath of blood had formed, growing steadily. Crian grabbed the back of Harren’s practice armor and yanked him away. The fat man fell off to the side but kept on his knees. In his rage, he twisted and tried to launch a closed fist into Crian’s stomach. Crian knocked aside the blow with the base of Integrity’s handle, while angling the blade so that its tip lightly pierced the folds beneath Harren’s chin. The obese man froze, a thin stream of red trickling down his folds of flesh, disappearing beneath his chipped and filthy practice armor. His lips quivered as he stared up at Crian.

“Are we done now?” Crian asked, keeping his expression serious despite the fat man’s preposterous appearance.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then help your sparring partner up.”

Crian withdrew Integrity and watched as Harren awkwardly got to his feet. The man’s fleshy hands groped Grant’s prone body. The injured man moaned and began coughing as his small frame was jerked upward from the pool of blood surrounding it. When Grant turned to face the gathered crowd, a series of gasps came from the onlookers. The man’s face was dripping with red from pate to chin, his nose flattened, his lips split. He looked wobbly and confused, but at least he was conscious. When he opened his mouth to reveal missing teeth, Crian felt his stomach clench. He pulled his shoulders taut and addressed the pair.

“What happened here?” he asked.

Harren stammered and said, “He been poking fun at me, sir, and I lost control. I’m sorry.”

Grant wheezed and tottered.

Crian bent over, picked up Harren’s waster, and began swiping at the empty air before him. “I find it strange, Harren Langfeller, that you move so quickly when mauling your opponent from behind, but when handling your sword, you are slower than a slug in salt. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, sir. I think—”

Crian lashed out, thumping Harren on the side of the head with the broad edge of the waster. “
That
is your problem. You spend too much time thinking, rather than
learning
. To swing a sword is an art, but it is also a reaction. If you practice your jabs, your thrusts, your defensive positions, and practice them tirelessly, they will become as natural as breathing.” He poked the wooden tip into Harren’s breastplate. “You, however, look as uncomfortable today as the day you came here. You’re slothful and lazy, but at least you have
plenty
of experience lashing out against unsuspecting, lesser men. Am I wrong?”