Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


12


Everything is falling apart.

It wasn’t just the palpable miasma of distrust that lingered in the air that made Soleh think this. The eyes of each person she passed on her way through the city skittered from side to side in panic. Shoulders hunched, hands were hidden from view, and footsteps quickened with a furtive sort of speed. The distant screams that cut through the morning air didn’t help matters any. People were being hurt, robbed, and murdered, right there in the streets. It was why Soleh now required an armed escort whenever she left the safety of either the Castle of the Lion or the Tower Keep.

Sixteen days. That was how long it had been since Clovis had drafted nearly all of the City Watch into Karak’s Army and then sent them south to Omnmount under the direction of two of his own children. Since the Left had served as the proxy Captain of the Watch, those responsibilities now fell to Malcolm Gregorian, the scarred survivor of Kayne and Lilah’s loyalty test. Serving as the Captain of both the Watch and the Palace Guard was a daunting task for one man, duties piled upon duties without ceasing. The loyal man was stretched too thin. He couldn’t control the commotion in the palace and the turmoil that boiled in the city streets at the same time.

To make matters worse, the new men who had been brought in to replace the guard were nothing more than common thugs. They had an unkempt look about them, with thick guts from years of downing copious amounts of liquor, and there was no pride in the way they wore the purple sashes of the order. Almost all of the new recruits’ had a shifty, scheming look to them. Soleh had no idea what King Vaelor, the man responsible for their appointment, had seen in these ruffians other than their apparent aptitude for violence.

“Stay close, Minister,” said Pulo, one of the three palace guards who chaperoned her around the city. Pulo was a tall and lean man, but ropy muscles defined his arms. He kept his left hand on Soleh’s shoulder while his right crossed over the front of his body, his fingers resting on the pommel of the cutlass that hung from his hip. The burgundy half-cape on his back billowed with each step. His eyes flicked from side to side through the slit in his half helm, and he gritted his teeth. The late-morning crowd was thinner than usual—much thinner—but it seemed more dangerous in every possible way.

“Hold on the left,” said another of the Guard, a short, stocky man named Jonn. A bearded drunkard staggered close by, stumbling across the cobbled street and heading right for them. The man’s expression was blank and his movements clumsy, but Soleh knew that clumsy could present the greatest danger of all.

When the drunkard didn’t veer off his course, Jonn stepped away from Soleh and Pulo and, joined by Roddalin, her third chaperone, channeled the swaying man to the side.

“F*ckin’ doddling arse,” muttered the man, taking a ham-fisted swing at Jonn. The guard ducked it easily and drew the truncheon clasped to the other side of his belt. He swung it hard at the man’s knee, striking him in the side of the cap with a sickening pop. The drunkard’s leg folded under his weight, and Roddalin clobbered him on the side of the head. The man collapsed with all the grace of a falling oak. His eyes rolled back, showing only their whites, just before his head bounced twice on the hard-packed road.


“Move along!” shouted Jonn, waving his truncheon before him. Those ahead gave them a wide berth, going about their business with practiced calm. Soleh noted a small group of older women lingering nearby, keeping an even distance between themselves and the four royal travelers. They looked scared and were likely following the royal troop in the hopes that the Guard would provide them with safe travel as well. Given the attitude that ruled the day, Soleh still eyed them warily.

Pulo ushered her along once more. They passed through sad gray streets of cold stone, avoiding all who looked like trouble. She happened to glance toward the windows of a mercantile building as she passed by and noticed that the shop owner was peering out like a child frightened of his own shadow. She wished she could feel pity for him, but her heart was too heavy. The city was in chaos, and worse, her granddaughter Lyana was far away, soon to be punished for some grave sin, by her own father. Any pity Soleh had, she reserved for herself.

The Castle of the Lion was almost in view when the sounds of a woman pleading for her life reached Soleh’s ears from one of the many downtrodden alleyways. There were three members of the Watch standing nearby, but they were lazing against the wall of a bakery, chewing bits of bread while the baker sat, cradling his arm on the front stoop.

She glanced at Pulo, who shook his head. “We mustn’t, Mistress,” he said. “Too dangerous.”

“It is my responsibility to dole out justice, Pulo.”

It was Roddalin, the youngest of them, who snapped his heels together first. “Yes, Minister!” he exclaimed and began to cross the road, unfastening the clasp over the handle of his cutlass. Pulo and Jonn exchanged a nervous glance before Jonn followed. Pulo took Soleh by the elbow and guided her through the light traffic, holding up a mailed hand when a horse-drawn cart bore down on them. Once on the other side, they turned to the left and pursued the sound of the now-weeping woman’s voice. Soleh glared at the three Watchmen on her way past them. They leered back at her until they noticed the black cloak that hung from her shoulders. Then they covered their faces with whatever shield they could find and scurried off.

They had already sealed their fate, however, for Soleh Mori never forgot a face.

When Pulo ushered her down the alleyway from which the sobs were issuing, Soleh stopped short. Jonn and Roddalin stared at the ground, where a uniform of the City Watch lay in a pile. Beyond them Soleh could make out the backs of four men. Lying nearby in a pool of blood, his neck slit from ear to ear, was a minstrel Soleh had often seen outside the gates of the castle, peddling his songs of praise to Karak for coppers. The sobbing intensified, accompanied by baritone grunts. Soleh took a step forward, shrugging aside Pulo’s hand when he tried to stop her.

Between the backs of the standing men she spotted a flash of cream-colored flesh. She took another step forward and heard laughter. A woman’s hand slipped between the feet of the onlookers, but the men kicked it away. The woman’s screams grew louder, the pain in her voice setting Soleh’s blood to boil.

Although Soleh could be timid and prone to outbursts of panic in private, out in the city, where her duty as a mother and wife ended and her duty as Karak’s Minister began, she was something else entirely.

“You stand in the shadow of our god!” she roared, her voice launching from her throat like a boulder from a catapult. “Cease at once and face Karak’s justice!”

The four onlookers whipped their heads around, staring at her first in surprise, then with dark intentions. Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin surrounded her, swords drawn in her defense. The men’s eyes took note of the burgundy capes and the expertly crafted swords, and they backed away, revealing the horrible scene beyond. The woman’s face was so beaten and swollen Soleh couldn’t tell how old she was, but the smoothness of her flesh, where it was not gashed and bruised, suggested she was quite young. She was naked and shivering, and when the man slid off her, she drew her legs to her chest, concealing her breasts with her knees.

The man who’d raped her tried to hastily pull up his breeches. His face was flustered and angry, his beard coated in spittle. Soleh noticed that his knuckles were bloody.

“Come, lass,” said Soleh, and the girl gazed up at her through one eye, the other swollen shut. She began to pull herself across the ground until a booted foot slammed into her side, stopping her mid-drag.

“What the f*ck?” the bearded man growled. He focused his gaze on Soleh, murder in his eyes. Even from where she was standing, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. His friends tried to grab at him, but he shrugged them aside.

“Bren, that’s the Min—” one began, before the man stopped his tongue with a fist to the face.

“Who do you think you are?” Bren said, grabbing his shortsword off the ground and repetitively sliding it in and out of its scabbard, revealing a few more inches of gleaming, sharp metal with each stroke. “You think your boys with their weapons frighten me?”

Soleh met his stare without flinching.

“Release the girl, or suffer Karak’s wrath.”

“No.”

“Are you of the Watch?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

Soleh held her head high. “Then I am your superior. If I order you to release the girl, you release her. If I order you to fall on your sword, you slide the tip into your belly as quickly as you can. Do you understand?”

“F*ck off.” Bren drew his shortsword completely from its sheath and turned to his cohorts. Only one of them came forward to join him, drawing his blade as well. The other three sank further into the darkness of the alley and slipped away.

The rapist threw back his arm and hacked downward with his sword, attempting to drive the point through the chest of his weeping victim. Pulo closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, and steel clanged against steel. Jonn and Roddalin weren’t far behind. Her guards’ foes may have been ungainly brutes, but they handled their weapons with skill. Parry after parry, thrust after thrust, they held off her escorts’ attacks. The alley was filled with grunts, yelps, and the clanking of steel on steel. Yet for all their skill, the two could only defend. The moment they tried to attack, they found themselves overwhelmed by a coordinated offensive. Bren suffered a gash on his upper arm, his partner a slash on his thigh, and yet Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin had not even suffered a scratch, and the thin chainmail over their chests and the silver vambraces on their forearms were as shiny as they’d been earlier in the morning. Even so, it was a chaotic ballet, one that allowed the naked, violated girl to crawl across the dirty ground and into Soleh’s waiting arms.

When the girl was safe, Roddalin ended the fight, drawing his dagger from his belt. Sliding sideways past a thrust, he dropped to one knee, and his dagger swept through the heel of Bren’s ally, severing the crucial tendon there. The man collapsed screaming, clutching at his leg. Jonn silenced him by hacking through his neck, spilling blood over his tunic and his purple sash. The man was dead an instant later.

Bren wasn’t so lucky. Pulo struck the man in the forehead with his pommel, and then looped his cutlass around like an oarsman, burying the blade in the man’s crotch. He yanked it free with a revolting plop, and the rapist backed into the wall, his cries shrill. He grabbed at his severed nether parts, blood spurting between his fingers and darkening his breeches. Soleh watched him suffer, the rage in her breast slowly abating. When she gave a nod, Jonn took off the man’s head with a single swipe of his sword.


Holding the shaking girl in her arms, a half-disgusted, half-satisfied grin crossed Soleh’s lips. Adeline would have been proud.

They waited as more members of the City Watch arrived, summoned by the commotion. They were members of the old guard this time, men she recognized. They whisked the raped girl to safety, hunted down the three remaining men, and cleaned the bodies out of the alley. Soleh made sure to confiscate the coin purses of the criminals, the living and dead alike. She emptied their contents on the blood-splattered ground of the alleyway. Silvers and coppers bounced and spun on the cobbles. She stared at the contents of each in turn, particularly the crest adorning each coin, and then up at Pulo.

“This is Connington swag,” she said. Pulo nodded back at her, his expression dire. She shook her head. It had been the Conningtons who had accused another of hiring a rapist to strike against their family. Now they were lending coin to the kingdom to lure those same types of men into the Watch. She wondered who had suggested these bastards—the brothers, or the king.

When the mess in the alley had been cleared, Soleh handed four of the five sacks of gold to the victim, who thanked her mightily before Roddalin took her away to be treated for her wounds. Soleh then hurried to the castle. The streets were more crowded with curious onlookers now, but all it took was one glance at Soleh’s hard expression for them to clear a path. She stormed through the portcullis and into Tower Justice, telling Captain Gregorian she was canceling the day’s docket. The poor, overworked man looked less than happy about it, but he bowed and acquiesced, barking orders at the rest of the Palace Guard to stow the prisoners away once more.

Soleh felt for him, but she had more pressing matters to address.

She crossed the courtyard and burst into Tower Honor, still dragging Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin along with her. She stormed into the King’s Court, but the room was empty. Karl Dogon, King Vaelor’s personal shield, informed them that the king was ill and would be receiving no visitors. No matter how much Soleh demanded, the man would not cave. “Sickness is sickness,” he said with a dismissive wave. Furious, she scoured the rest of the tower, seeking out Cleo or Romeo Connington, or both. One of them was always lingering about the castle somewhere, sidling up to the king or the royal Council, trying—often successfully—to curry favor for his mining and weapons trades or toss more unfounded accusations on Matthew Brennan.

Much to her chagrin, however, neither Connington was to be found. Tower Honor was a ghost town, with only cooks, servants, and whores lingering about. Not even Clovis, who never missed an opportunity to let everyone know how important he was, had shown up yet.

If the esteemed Highest Crestwell wasn’t in the palace, there was only one other place he could be.

Soleh left the castle and commandeered a horse and carriage from a jeweler who had been selling his wares in the courtyard. As payment, she tossed him what remained of Connington coins that she’d taken from the purses of the five criminals. Pulo slid in beside her in the front of the carriage; Jonn and Roddalin took the rear; and they set off without delay.

Pulo guided the cart without care for those before them, the horses’ hooves pounding away. The wagon bounded along the streets of Veldaren, heading west toward Karak’s Temple. She didn’t need to look at her escorts to know they were worried, much more worried than they’d been when confronting the gang. Their tension hung in the air like a poisonous mist.

The streets emptied out the farther west they traveled, the buildings and homesteads giving way to wide expanses of dirt where only a few abandoned tents and lean-tos stood. Vulfram had insisted that in time the whole city would become a sprawling paradise of brick and stone, but that had not yet come to fruition. The sight of the bare earth, where all the trees had been felled and grass refused to grow, was actually more depressing than the gray gloominess of the finished sections of the city.

Soleh had embarked on this trek at least a couple times a week since Karak had returned to her, constantly needing to be in his presence. The deity preferred to greet his subjects in the home he had built for himself, located in the far west of the city. The structure slowly appeared before her, rising above the brown ruinous soil like a shimmering diamond in a sea of coal.

It was an overwhelmingly simple construction, square at its base and tall, the thick stones of its walls stained black. The onyx lions guarding the entrance were mirrors of those outside the Castle of the Lion; in fact, they were exact copies carved by Ibis. The entrance to the temple was a huge door marked with three stars set in a triangular pattern—a symbol representing the cooperation between the three gods of the realm.

There was a white mare tied to a post in front of the temple. Soleh recognized it instantly, and her heart started racing. She had Pulo bring the carriage to a stop beside it.

“Stay here,” she told her entourage, knowing they wouldn’t mind remaining outside. Karak was beloved throughout the realm, but his forty-year disappearance had made him a mysterious figure for most of the populace. A small dose of fear to keep the people in line, Lanike Crestwell had told her, and Soleh readily agreed. It was too bad those words hadn’t proved true. Perhaps if Karak had made himself more available, the city would not have plummeted into this violence; perhaps it might in fact have retained the short-lived peace and harmony that had emerged just after his reappearance.…

She ran her hand along the smooth hairs covering Highest Crestwell’s horse on her way by. The mare whinnied and kicked its hind legs slightly. Soleh ignored the irritable beast, so much like its master, and climbed the steps, pulling open the tall temple door.

The inside of the temple was lush, filled with fineries donated from every corner of Neldar and beyond. In the antechamber alone there were stuffed carcasses of pelicans, cranes, and brightly colored kingfishers, pottery from the ruins of Kal’droth, potted plants as tall as grown men, and weapons that predated man by a thousand years, which had been given as gifts by the Quellan elves. The items had built up over Karak’s absence, as visiting the temple had become a pilgrimage for many of the deity’s children. It struck her as ironic that now that the god had returned, the temple saw far less traffic.

She walked through the antechamber and entered the monastery, where there were no more fineries to distract from the hall’s true purpose. Twenty rows of pews lined the floor, leading up to the altar at the rear of the chamber. On his return, the great statue of the deity had been removed. It was the true Karak who now sat on the altar steps, hands dangling between his knees as he listened to the confessions of Clovis Crestwell.

The god glanced up the moment her feet hit the polished stone floor. He didn’t move, only acknowledging her with a slight rising of a single eyebrow. Highest Crestwell kept his posture as well, kneeling in the front pew, head bowed, hands folded in prayer, his mouth whispering his wrongdoings so that they could be absolved by Karak. There must be many, she thought, but silenced that part of her brain. Soleh clasped her hands in front of her and slowed her pace. No matter what her problems were with the Highest, she needed to show respect to her god, especially in his own house.

By the time she reached the foot of the altar, Clovis had finished his confession. He slid from the pew and kissed Karak’s bare foot.

“You may go in peace now, my son,” the god said. Clovis bowed his head and shuffled away, nearly running into Soleh. The Highest didn’t acknowledge her presence, but she swore she saw a grin spread across his lips.


It wasn’t until the sound of the outer door closing echoed through the hall that Karak gestured for Soleh to sit.

“I would prefer to stand, my Lord,” she replied.

“As you wish,” said Karak, rising to his feet and turning to tend to the candles burning behind him. “Why are you here, my sweet Soleh? It has been many days since you last visited, and I have missed you.” Moving back toward her, he looked down at her closely. “Yet there is no peace in your heart as you look upon me. What troubles you?”

“So much more than I can handle, my Lord,” she said. “The whole of your kingdom is falling to pieces. You must help us.”

Karak faced her, his glowing eyes like portals into the heart of a sun.

“What is wrong with my kingdom, sweet Soleh? And why must I help you?”

She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Clovis is ruining everything. It was difficult enough to keep the peace before, but your Highest ordered most of the good men of the Watch into the army that bears your name, leaving us shorthanded, and replaced them with hired thugs and cutthroats. There is no honor among them and little love for you. The castle dungeons are overflowing, as are the tombs. The merchants are fearful of selling their wares, for the thieves and delinquents the Watch had kept under control are now running unchecked. The new Watchers either can’t handle the situation or won’t.”

Karak sat once more on the edge of the altar and lifted his hands, palms up. “What would you have me do?”

“For one, you can order Clovis to return the men of the Watch to their posts!” she replied, her frustration robbing her of her better sense. She immediately reined herself in. “I apologize, my Lord. I meant no disrespect.”

“None is taken.”

“My point is this, my Lord…even before the Highest spirited our best guards away, the city was growing difficult to manage. Haven is a tiny community. Barely a thousand live there, of which perhaps half might be capable of mounting a resistance—much less than Clovis now has at his disposal. He has no need of so many soldiers!”

“Would you have me call them back?”

“Perhaps.” Soleh swallowed hard and continued hesitantly. She felt like she was tugging on the tail of a lion. “Or, perhaps you could show your face among the people once more. After you came back to me, there were five days of peace. Five days when wrongdoing all but halted. The people saw you, and they rejoiced! There was calm, there was brotherhood, there was harmony. But it seems now as if you have…”

She paused.

“It seems you’ve given up on your children. I sense the angst when I walk the streets. The people think you no longer care, and if their own god does not care for their lives, why should they?”

Karak stared at her with heart-wrenching intensity, his eyes filled with an emotion she had never before seen on his face: anger. The god-made-flesh stood, and his lips twisted into a frown. When he spoke next, his tone was so cold it chilled her to the bone.

“The responsibility for the current state of affairs lies solely with you, my…sweet…Soleh. Did I not give you life? Did I not give you laws to govern your own land? Did I not provide you with the knowledge of carpentry, farming, metallurgy, and combat? What more would you have me do? Act as nursemaid, sitting you all in a corner when you misbehave? I have seen much, child, and believe me when I tell you that the gifts I have bestowed on you are well beyond any that humanity, in all the worlds it populates, has ever been given so freely. Do you think my brother has allowed this much autonomy to his children, giving them the opportunity to live how they desire, building prosperity that’s equal to their efforts? I can assure you, he has not. All I have ever required from you is your respect and worship, honoring me by understanding my teachings and bringing order to this world.” He laughed then, a frigid sound like ice scraping against brittle steel. “Do you know why my Highest was with me this day giving his confession? He came to beg forgiveness for his failures, for helping to create a city filled with murder, greed, and corruption. He begged my forgiveness. And what do you do, sweet Soleh? Do you fall to your knees and beg absolution? No, you dare stand before me and demand further action on my part. You blame me, not yourself. Was the act of creating you not enough? Do you not value this immortal life you have been given?”

The tears came upon her all of a sudden, pouring over her cheeks. Soleh collapsed, her elbows striking the ground as she stooped before her beloved deity. All desire to live abandoned her in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I was not thinking.”

“Stand up, child.”

“I deserve no mercy…I deserve no honor…I do not deserve this life you have given me.…”

A hand fell on her shoulder, warm and inviting. Soleh lifted her head and Karak was her Divinity again, smiling tenderly as if his tirade had never happened.

“Stand up, Soleh.”

She did so mindlessly, and the god took a moment to straighten out her cloak and even tug out a snarl in her hair with his gigantic finger. “I apologize for my tone,” he said, “but sometimes one must break a child in order to open their eyes and make them see the folly of their ways. Do you understand?”

Sniveling, Soleh nodded.

Karak rubbed his palms against her shoulders. “Then calm yourself. You have much work to do. You must preach the message, scream it loudly over the rails of every shop and homestead if need be. Show the people the right way, even if that means making an example of some. In a scant ninety-three years our population has risen to nearly eighty thousand. As much as it disappoints me to see the state your city has fallen into, I knew that such growth would bring pains. In Omnmount, across the Ramere, in Thettletown, Brent, and Hailen, things are much better. There it is peaceful, calm…and empty. But a third of our people reside within the borders of this city, and I consider it a notable accomplishment that most are kind, lawful men and women.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Soleh.

“That does not release you from responsibility, my child. That does not absolve your failure. It is still a mess that you must fix. When you leave this place, sing my message far and loud. Make sure the people hear you; make sure they understand. And find relief in this: whether Haven repents or we must forcibly burn their temple to the ground, all will see what it means to deface the nobility of their creator. It will be a lesson none will forget.”

Soleh curtseyed. “I understand, my Lord.”

“Now go from this place, child, and sing my name.”

Soleh turned to leave but paused, casting a hopeful glance over her shoulder. She trembled like a schoolgirl, even though she had never once been that young in all her god-crafted life.

“My Lord?” she said.

“What is it, child?”

“Please tell me you love me.”

The god laughed sweetly then and strode across the short distance between them. He took her in his arms, lifted her off the monastery floor as if she weighed nothing, and kissed her cheek. Soleh felt the blood rush through her body.

“I love you, sweet Soleh. More than any who have ever come before.”

She was crying again when he put her down, but by the time she arrived back at the wagon and rejoined her escort, her cheeks were dry.

There was much work ahead, and she had to be strong. As strong as the title of Minister of Justice deserved.