Dawn of Swords (58 page)

Crian gagged on his own bile.

This is not real, this is not real
, his mind repeated over and over, a mantra that failed to change the horror in front of him. Falling on his knees, he began to weep, his arms dropping limply beside him. He tried again to convince himself it was all a nightmare, but a second glance at his dead and mutilated lover was enough to destroy that idea, as well as break the last vestiges of sanity in his mind.

“It really is a shame,” said a slurred voice behind him.

Crian recognized that voice. He slowly climbed to his feet, trying to stay upright despite the anguish that cramped his insides and turned his knees to jelly. Vision blurry through tear-soaked eyes, he turned around to face the intruder, a huffing man bathed in shadow. Crian’s mind emptied, his body numb long before he saw the flash of silver that danced before him. The knife bit into his flesh and he felt the strange, wet sensation of liquid spilling over his chest. The room tilted on its side and began to spin. Then after a sudden flash of light, Crian saw no more.

The headache hit him the second he tried to open his eyes. Vulfram ground his fists into them, wincing at the gritty sensation behind his eyelids. His chest felt constricted, as if there were a great weight
resting atop him, and when he rubbed his fingers together, he realized they were strangely wet.

“My gods, Vulfram!”

The voice came from somewhere above him, to the left, and Vulfram lifted his head toward it. His vision was blurred, and he could only make out a vague figure. The figure then lifted a torch, revealing a gruff face marred by four wicked-looking scars.

“Malcolm,” Vulfram said to Captain Gregorian, his speech slurred.

The Captain of the Palace Guard stared down at him, his features twisted with horror. To complete the bizarre image, he held a vase full of flowers in his hands.

“What did you
do
, you bastard!” he yelled.

Vulfram winced at the volume of Gregorian’s voice and brought his hands up to cover his ears. His left reached its destination, but he held something in his right that first bounced off his cheek and then brought a quick, needle-like pain to his temple. He opened his fingers reflexively, and something clanked on the floor beside him. When he looked at his hand, he saw that it was stained red.

“What the.…” he began, confusion overwhelming him. Glancing down at the floor, he saw an elegantly crafted knife, its blade curved and sharp, the grip rounded with finger notches. He couldn’t tell what material the handle was made of, however, for the entire weapon was soaked with blood.

The Captain took a few steps into the room from the doorway where he’d been standing. His eyes kept flicking in Vulfram’s direction, bulging in disbelief. A few moments later, the man dropped the vase. It shattered, spilling water everywhere and scattering the assorted lilies, orchids, and hyacinths that had filled it. Vulfram’s gaze followed the path of the flowing water, watching it twist around the strange red blotches that covered the smooth stone floor, until it reached the legs of a bed. He then glanced up, and from his vantage point on the floor all he could see were four
feet hanging off the edge of the mattress above him, blood dripping from the toes.

“Shit!” he yelped, kicking out his legs, suddenly not feeling so groggy any longer. He tried to stand, but his feet slipped and he fell back down. It was only then that he realized there was blood
everywhere
—on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and even all over himself.

In a panic he looked up at Captain Gregorian, whose attention was focused on the bed. More slowly this time, Vulfram rose to his feet. His survival instinct told him to flee, to knock the Captain out and run from this room, from this tower, from this city, from this
kingdom
, never to return again. That instinct was cut off the moment he saw what Gregorian was staring at.

The feet belonged to Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau. Crian’s throat was slit, whereas Nessa had been sliced open from breast to belly. They lay beside one another, and to complete the macabre picture, their fingers were entwined, as if they’d held hands throughout the entire horrific ordeal.

The stench hit him suddenly, the scent of ammonia and rot. He doubled over and hacked and hacked, his insides emptying, his fluids covering the blood that was smeared over everything, making him sick anew.

Hands grabbed him from behind, yanking him out of the room and into the hallway. His world turned dizzy again, and for a split second he wondered how he’d gotten to the third floor of the tower. He cried out as he was thrown against the wall. His head struck with a loud
thud
, smacking off the stone, and a loud buzzing flooding his ears. He collapsed, momentarily losing control of his bodily functions and shitting himself right then and there.

He gathered enough strength to turn his head, watched as Gregorian disappeared inside the room again. When he emerged, he was carrying two weapons—the bloody knife and Darkfall, which he slid into its scabbard. The Captain whistled loudly, and Vulfram
heard multiple booted footsteps echo through the foyer on the first floor far below them. That done, Gregorian knelt before him, staring at him with a mixture of disgust and anger. Blood was smeared on his forehead, and the four scars that had come from Vulfram’s childhood pets seemed to expand and contract like the gills of a fish as he breathed.

“Vulfram Mori, I hereby detain you for the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, beloved children of Karak,” the Captain growled.

Vulfram tried to deny it, but an armored fist slammed into his face, ending his protest before he could utter it.

C
HAPTER

30

I
t was dark but for a single peephole. Light shone through the narrow opening, creating a lance-like beam that pierced the darkness, illuminating a single spot on the slatted wood floor. Geris sat there, slumped on his knees, staring at the beam, watching flecks of dust dance within it. He tried to focus on them in an attempt to shut out the jovial sounds from outside, for in no way did he wish to witness the wicked ceremony that was even now taking place.

Eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He stood up, made his way to the side of his makeshift prison, and peered through the hole.

The cart he was stowed in was one they’d brought with them on the journey from Safeway. Ahaesarus and Judarius had removed the canvas and nailed excess wooden slats to the outside and above his head. He would never forget the look of revulsion and disappointment on his mentor’s face, nor the fury that had seeped from Judarius’s green-gold eyes. He tried to explain to them why he’d done what he had done, but they would hear none of it. If only they’d believe him! The strongest Wardens were blessed by Ashhur
to know with absolute certainty when a factual truth was spoken, yet they
still
didn’t understand. They had both told him more than once that he’d lost his mind and shamed them both in the process.

“Just listen,” Geris moaned as he pressed his fingers against the wagon. “Why won’t you just listen?”

Now Geris was imprisoned in a place faraway from home, and the rest of his family had been sent away in disgrace. The wagon had been parked on the very edge of a vast courtyard, and he was left to watch helplessly through that tiny slat in his prison as the people of Mordeina gathered around Manse DuTaureau to observe the crowning of the first ever King of Paradise, the imposter Benjamin Maryll.
“A punishment,”
Judarius had said, and oh what a punishment it was.

It was a joyous scene, and laughter and singing filled the night. Great bonfires were lit, fires that burned so strongly that the normally chilly northern fall air was hot as summertime. Even Geris, many yards away, was sweating because of it. People danced around the bonfires, arms locked. There were children everywhere, hundreds of them under the watchful eyes of the Wardens, and the expressions on their faces spoke of blissful joy. He wished he could feel that joy, but instead his insides twisted and his cheeks flushed with anger.
You’re blind!
he wanted to shout.
Can you not see the truth?
But what good would it do? The people of Paradise were ignorant fools, as the shadow-lion had said, happy just to make babies, grow vegetables, and pray to Ashhur. A simple life was what they had, and they thought themselves lucky for it.

That simple life was going to be the end of them.

The party raged on, as if the events of the previous evening had never happened. It was yet another example of their ignorance, yet another example of why the witch would win. At that point the singing toned down a bit, and as if on cue, the witch scaled the platform that had been raised in front of the manse’s back gate in between two bonfires. The creature was elegant, that much Geris
could admit, what with her silken clothing and the crystal diadem that shone atop her fiery red hair. The witch hushed the crowd with a wave of her hand, and she smiled at them—a smile that only faltered when her eyes darted toward Geris’s prison. Within moments it returned. Geris was taken aback by how she glowed, how beautiful she was—Ashhur’s mark was all over her.

When the crowd quieted, the witch signaled for others to join her on the platform. First it was the witch’s male look-alike, then Ahaesarus, who never once glanced in his ward’s direction. Howard Baedan followed, the witch’s master steward. Finally, Judarius scaled the steps, his chest puffed out with pride, his dark hair neatly trimmed, the light of the twin bonfires reflecting in his intense eyes. The two Wardens flanked the witch and her steward, towering over them, looking like the otherworldly creatures they were.

“Citizens of Mordeina,” the witch said, addressing the crowd, both human and Warden, with her hands clasped together in a show of humility that was much too convincing for so vile a creature. “Citizens of the Paradise created by Ashhur, our creator most divine, this is truly a special evening. On this night we cast aside the restraints of our childhood. Our species is no longer in its infancy, and like birds, we are finally ready to step out from the nest that has sheltered us so long and spread our wings. For we children of Ashhur, self-governing is our first glorious moment of flight.”

The crowd cheered at that, but there seemed something off about their applause. Even to Geris’s young ears, it sounded like they weren’t really sure what they were cheering
for
.

“We gather here tonight to crown our first sovereign king. The process has been a long one, and not without error, but at last a suitable ruler has been chosen. Citizens of Mordeina, I would like to introduce you to the King of Paradise, Benjamin Kartalan Maryll!”

The crowd roared, this time much louder than before, as Ben appeared from behind the platform. He didn’t climb up, but just…rose, as if he need not obey the laws of nature. Geris stared,
slack-jawed and amazed, until he saw the witch standing aside, her eyes closed and her neck tensed, her mouth uttering silent words as her fingers pointed at Ben. When he had floated up over the platform, she gently lowered him. Once he was firmly on his feet, the witch gasped, falling backward a bit, only to be caught by Judarius’s massive paws.

“Witch’s magic,” Geris muttered, disgusted. A pathetic display to enhance Ben’s image in the people’s minds.

Ben stood before the host of hundreds and bowed. He wore purple clothing that shimmered in the firelight, much like the witch, and a cloak of fur was wrapped around his shoulders. His long, dark hair was tied back, leaving only a couple of strands, one at each of his temples, that curled down like corkscrews. A black scarf was wrapped around his neck, no doubt to hide the wound Geris had given him the night before. Geris grunted in disgust. Martin would have looked better up there, with his deep ginger hair and broad shoulders.

But then again, Ben wasn’t Ben. This Ben was an imposter. He had to remember that.

Geris ducked away from his tiny portal just as Ben knelt before Ahaesarus to receive his crown. It lacked any jewels or precious metals, and was instead made of simple polished wood. “A crown fashioned by a carpenter, to instill humility in the new king,” his mentor had told him. Geris couldn’t watch any more of the sham ceremony. All he wanted to do now was sit alone in his dark prison, drink stale water from the ceramic bowl they’d given him, and think of ways to escape so he might take down the witch and her imposter.

“You’ve done well,” said a voice in the darkness.

Geris started, his head whipping back and forth, trying to find the source of the voice. There was a deeper blackness on the other side of the wagon, a dark, misty cloud that swirled around the shaft of light created by the peephole. He
knew
that voice. It was the one from his dreams, the voice of the shadow-lion.
Have I fallen asleep?
he wondered. He slapped his own cheek to make sure. The sound echoed through the interior of his prison, and the side of his jaw throbbed.

The deep shadow drew in on itself, solidifying, becoming even blacker. In the darkness Geris could make out the outline of the smoky lion. It drew nearer to him, so near that he could smell the rankness of its breath—damp soil mixed with sulfur. The thing leaned forward then, getting closer to the shaft of light, and he could see its features clearly.