Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


13


“I heard that the whippoorwills in the delta have begun tweeting incessantly at night. Morgan told me so. She said they perch outside the windows of the old and dying, singing in tune with the last breaths the people take. It’s quite strange, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Who in the deep, dark underworld is Morgan?”

“Silly,” replied Nessa, playfully punching his arm. “We were guests in her home for nearly three weeks. How could you not remember?”

“Forgive me. It’s difficult when your head aches like rotten fruit that’s been popped. And in my defense, I was asleep for most of those three weeks.”

His horse trotted to the side to avoid a depression in the road, jostling Patrick in his saddle. He uttered a pained yelp and grabbed at his knobby forehead. The pain was less than it had been, but its echo still tormented him like the remnants of a bad dream. They had barely stepped foot in Lerder, the easternmost township on the Gods’ Road before the delta, when the sickness set in. Patrick’s fever rose uncontrollably, coupled with vomiting and a case of the shakes that rattled his teeth. His mind had become so clouded, it was difficult to separate reality from delusion. He remembered Nessa sitting by his bed, holding his hand while she gazed down at him with concern, but also a cloaked man in black who came to him in the night, watching over him from the shadows as he writhed and moaned.

The sickness was made all the worse by the fact that neither the Wardens nor Ashhur’s healers seemed able to quell it. Patrick had fallen ill before, but usually all it took to cure him was a healing touch from one of his siblings or the city elders who led the prayers in Mordeina. Whatever had stricken him this time had baffled everyone, and he was left bedridden. Two conclusions entered his mind: either the sickness was so powerful that only time could cure it, or the faith in Ashhur that facilitated the healing touch was waning as he got closer to the Rigon. Neither scenario was pleasant, but the latter frightened him more than anything else.

His fever had finally broken three days ago. He’d awoken, frightened and sweaty, in a stranger’s bed. His panicked voice had been so weak, it barely echoed off the bare walls. Nessa didn’t come to him until much later, when the sun was painting the horizon with deep reds and purples. She’d seemed distracted and far away while comforting him. But the next day she’d been more attentive and had helped him gather the strength he needed to continue on his journey.

The current state of his aching brain made him wonder if he should have taken more time to rest.

“Patrick, are you all right?”

He turned to his sister and tried to smile. The glare of the sun forced him to avert his eyes, and he caught his reflection in the mirrored crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle. Carrying the sword on his back made him unstable in the saddle, so it was strapped to the side of his horse, its scabbard tucked beneath his left knee. Snatching a handkerchief from the pocket of his light coat, he dropped the fabric over the hideous likeness, wanting to banish his reflection. Even on a good day he was a sorry sight, but after a lengthy bout of illness? It was a wonder that passersby didn’t lunge for whatever weapons they could find and vow to Ashhur to send this escaped demon of the underworld back to its hole. At least that’s the way he felt.

Nessa gave him a queer look and nudged her horse closer. Her hand fell on his leg, the pressure of her touch changing with each bob created by the horses’ strides.

“Seriously, are you all right?”

Patrick sighed and gazed into his sister’s eyes. There was concern in them, and innocence as well, and he knew that she did not look on his physical deformities the way he did. For the millionth time in his life, he was thankful for that.

“I am, Ness. I’m just hurting.”

“Is it bad?”

He waved his hand in front of him. “Manageable.”

“Good,” she said with a grin. “Because Ashhur’s Bridge is coming up soon. I can see it now. Race you there?”

Nessa kicked her horse and took off at a gallop, flying away from him without even waiting for his agreement. His sister’s red hair whipped out behind her like a comet’s tail. Patrick moaned, the ache in his head persistent, and tried to match her speed. It was no use, for the minute his steed began to pick up its pace, the wind and motion filled his skull with agony. He pulled back on the reins and tried to call out for Nessa to stop, but his throat was dry, and the words died just as they started to emerge.

Defeated, he slumped in his saddle and gazed straight ahead. He watched Nessa and her horse grow smaller and smaller as they approached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon River. In the distance he could see the misty rise of the Clubfoot Mountains, the small collection of mounts that split the river and formed the delta. There was a strange fog in the air, even though there were no clouds in the sky, but Patrick was in too much agony to think about what that might mean.

Nessa went up and over the bridge, disappearing on the other side. Patrick hoped she wouldn’t get too eager and go off exploring on her own. She could be so impatient sometimes—and quick on her feet to boot. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day trudging through swamps and wetlands, screaming out her name, while she sat on a rock, splashing her bare feet in the water as tiny fish nibbled at her toes.

Yes, that had happened once before. No, he wasn’t bitter about it.

“PATRICK!”

Her voice came to him like a flash of lightning from on high, full of panic and terror. Patrick bolted upright, the pain in his head swallowed by his sister’s distress. He urged his horse onward, slowly picking up speed. He squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out what was going on. He saw nothing, only the tall grasses that swayed like water on the other side of the bridge. Closer and closer he rode, each bump horrible, but at last he finally did see something—the strange dark fog he had noticed before, except it wasn’t fog. It was smoke.

A great fire burned beyond the bridge.

He rode faster.

Moments later he reached Ashhur’s Bridge, a wide overpass made from pearly white marble and reinforced with tall, elegant arches, a complex structure that had been created by divine hands before the dawn of humanity. The horse’s hooves hit the marble with a series of weighty thunks. Patrick could hear the river scuttling below him, rushing out toward the Thulon Ocean.

He became like that water, moving in a steady rhythm with the wind and his horse, steering the mare off the bridge and onto the dirt path that cut between the chest-high grasses. He rode a few feet down the road, and then stopped, making the horse circle in place, gazing out in all directions. All he saw was an endless sea of wavering vegetation. The billowing smoke was actually some distance to the southwest, rising in a triplet of plumes.

“Nessa!” he screamed, listening for a response that never came. At best, he caught what might have been a muffled cry, but the twirling horse kept him from honing in on it. He pulled up hard on the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. “Nessa!” he yelled again, this time holding his breath afterward and cocking his head to listen.

And then, from behind him, a voice.

“’Ello there.”

Taken by surprise, Patrick yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse bucked. He lost his balance in the saddle and teetered until the clasp holding it in place broke, and he slipped off the side. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately covered his head with his arms. His headache had reawakened with a fury, assaulting his eyes with its blinding power. Fighting the pain, he lifted himself up on his elbows.


“Well, what we have here?” the voice said.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder while doing his best to keep nausea from overpowering him. Eight figures stood in the middle of the road. Seven were bandits, with broad chests and fearsome visages, who looked—and smelled—as if they hadn’t yet learned the art of bathing. They were all dressed in black and carrying swords and daggers. Patrick could only guess that they’d circled around him in the tall grasses, blocking any retreat across the bridge. The eighth was Nessa, and his sister gasped and screeched as one of the men brought his dagger to her throat. The man held her up by the hair so high that her feet barely touched the ground, and her yellow dress was ripped and dirtied.

One of the men stepped forward. His hair was a long, grease-streaked mess, and Patrick swore he could see fleas leaping about in the man’s ratty beard.

“What—you gots no tongue, freak?” he said.

Patrick grunted and shoved off the ground with his knuckles, bringing his short legs beneath him in a single motion. His horse maneuvered close to him again, its panic gone, and he placed a hand on its neck for support.

“Yes, I have a tongue,” Patrick replied, trying to keep his gaze locked on the men while searching for his fallen saddle—and Winterbone—at the same time. “But tongues don’t do much good for those who don’t know how to use them.”

The speaker’s face scrunched up. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It means learn how to speak, you son of a three-tittied whore.”

The men behind the speaker laughed, but Patrick noticed that the one holding Nessa tightened his grip, bringing her closer to him.

“Candry,” one of them said, wheezing out a guffaw. “The freak…he done said your mama…”

“I heard ’im,” said the one named Candry. “The bastard thinks he’s a funny one, for sure.”

“On no, I don’t think I’m funny at all,” said Patrick. He stepped away from the horse and toward the men, catching a glimpse of something twinkling between the swaying blades of grass. “I know I am. Because I understand humor. And soap. And I know it isn’t funny when you smell like shit.”

More laughter from the men, only this time the one holding Nessa doubled over as she jammed her elbows into his stomach. She fell to the ground and tried to scurry away. Candry planted a foot on her back, keeping her from getting far. Nessa cried out in pain as the man ground his heel into her, which washed away all of Patrick’s false bravado. He felt his neck flush.

“Well, now,” said Candry. “Looks like the hunchback done got mad. He’s turnin’ red like a beet!”

The men laughed again. Patrick smiled back, letting his blood boil, his anger giving him newfound courage. Diving to the side, he let the tall grass swallow him and cushion his fall. Swiping his hands from side to side, he searched for what he knew had to be there. When his fingers touched the leather he let out a gasp of relief. It was the saddle, and Winterbone was still secured to it.

“He’s gettin’ away!” one of the men yelled.

No I’m not, thought Patrick as he grabbed Winterbone’s handle, undid the clasp, and slid the blade from its scabbard. The sound it made, the unnatural hiss that had fascinated him for so long, seemed to silence the bandits. Rising to his feet, a smile still on his face, he let them see the death in his eyes. His voice filled the sudden quiet, a beastly cry fueled by his pounding heart. He churned his short legs, emerging from the grass like a sea beast leaping from the ocean to nab its prey, the heavy broadsword raised high above his head.

The men were wide-eyed, stunned, but when Patrick swung the blade, Candry raised his own sword. The two met with a loud clang. A vibration shot up Patrick’s forearms, numbing his fingers, jarring his elbows, and making his shoulders strain. Candry used that opening to shove him away. Patrick stumbled, his uneven legs wobbly on the dirt-strewn road.

“Hunchy’s got a big sword,” one of the other men said. Candry didn’t answer. Nessa watched in quiet horror as the lead brigand narrowed his eyes and brought his sword to bear.

Patrick knew it was hopeless. He had no business taking on seven challengers. Though he’d owned Winterbone for years, he had never swung the sword in battle—not even the practice kind. Who in the west would he have practiced with? The most he had ever done was rehearse his balancing act and occasionally hack at a few dying trees in the garden behind the Homestead as a way of letting off steam. However strong he might be—and Patrick was indeed strong—he was comically overmatched in a swordfight. Hand to hand, sans weapons, he might have stood a chance. But with blades? He didn’t have the speed to block and counter, didn’t have a feel for the blade like the nasty ruffian before him did.

But none of that would stop him. Hopeless or not, that was Nessa they held captive. He’d often pined for death. At least now he’d have a chance to take it with some measure of dignity.

Candry grunted and rushed forward, holding his sword in one hand. The sword itself, with its pale blade and gnarled wooden pommel, was nothing compared to Winterbone, but its cutting edge was no less dangerous. Candry brought it down in a sideways arc, his feet balanced evenly, his opposite arm serving as a counterbalance. In a surprising feat of strength, Patrick hefted Winterbone with a single sore arm. The blades met, stopping the swipe before it beheaded him. Patrick ground his misshapen teeth and fought through the pain. Candry staggered back from the recoil, staring at his sword, which now had a rather large chip where the two blades had clashed.

A combined roar sounded as the rest of Candry’s men rushed Patrick, leaving Nessa where she lay. Patrick panicked, about to be overwhelmed with their killing blades and murderous eyes. His mind spun in confusion. He didn’t know what to do, how to defend himself. He acted on pure instinct, whipping Winterbone at the first attacker, then driving his stunted leg at the second. The sound of clashing steel rang through the air as his boot connected with the soft flesh of someone’s groin. Two screams filled his ears, screams he echoed when he felt a great white heat invade his body.

Patrick glanced down to see the tip of a sword protruding from the fleshy part of his side. The tip withdrew, and a shower of crimson squirted from the wound. Blood began drenching his tunic, and he heard someone exclaim, “I got ’im!”

Patrick whirled around, gripping Winterbone tightly with both hands, swinging it as he would a heavy sack of meal in with the childhood games he had played with Bardiya. Patrick had always won then, anyway. The tip of the blade clipped the man behind him, sending him backpedaling. Patrick kept up his spin, the long sword creating a wide, lethal circle around him. One of the men got too close, and Winterbone sheared through his belly. Patrick kept right on spinning, thinking maybe this method—crazy though it was—could work. The bandits still continued to rush him, and he heard another cry of pain as one of the men fell to his knees, his intestines spilling across the dusty road. Patrick was so dizzy he could barely register what he was seeing, nevermind understand the man’s dying moans.

Suddenly someone slipped beneath the circle of razing steel, taking out Patrick’s legs. He continued to twirl even as he fell, and panic took him completely as Winterbone flew from his grasp and disappeared into the grass once more. Patrick hit the ground hard, and he heard what sounded like cracking bone. He teetered on his side, his vision swimming, his legs in agony.


The one who’d tripped him jumped atop him, and before he could react, blows began to land hard on his face, without rest. There was another piercing stab, this time on his massive forearm, and he snapped his arm up and away from the sensation, clobbering his attacker on the side of the head in the process. For a moment he could breath again. Salty liquid dripped over his distended brow, down his cheeks, and into his mouth. He sucked on it while he rolled over and tried to stand.

While braced on one knee, his knuckles plunged into the ground for balance, Patrick’s vision finally stopped swirling. Six men were standing now. Many of them were bleeding. The one he’d killed lay atop his bloody heap of insides a few feet away. They were furious now, shouting at one another. Patrick frantically scanned left and right, but found no trace of Nessa.

Thank Ashhur, he thought. Let her get away from here; let her escape back home. I don’t care if I die, as long as she remains safe.…

One man went to charge, but Candry held him back, obviously wanting to finish Patrick off himself. When Candry snarled and reared back with his sword arm, Patrick closed his eyes, prepared for the strike to come, prepared for an end to his never-ending life. It never came. Instead, several people screamed at once, followed by a strange sluicing sound and the ringing of steel on steel.

Patrick opened his eyes to see three human shadows bouncing around the group of bandits, moving so quickly their bodies were mere blurs beneath the afternoon sun. One bandit after another was taken down, their bodies geysers of blood. Candry hopped around in a circle as his men fell around him, thrusting and hacking with his sword, never able to make contact. When all his men were dead, he flung his sword aside and tried to flee. He received two sabers through the chest for his troubles. He collapsed to the road and bled out, a pathetic moan piercing his lips.

Patrick gawked at the scene in wonder, incapable of understanding what was happening.

“All is fine, you can come out now,” said an unfamiliar feminine voice. Patrick watched as Nessa emerged from the grass on the other side of the road, dirty and frightened, but very much alive. Her eyes met his, and she gasped. Tears filled his eyes, and he wished he could tell her how happy he was that she was safe.

One of the shadows approached Nessa, wrapping an arm around her and leading her away, while the other two cautiously approached him. They held out their hands as if he were a wild beast they should be wary of, which he found amusing. The throbbing behind his temples, mixed with his body’s violent aches and various stab wounds, left him equipped for little more than lying on the ground and bleeding. He couldn’t have hurt anyone if he wanted to.

Growing weak and sleepy from loss of blood, Patrick slid down from his knuckles to his shoulders until he finally fell face first into the dirt and rocks. Nessa screamed, and then hands were on him, rolling him over so that the sun shone brightly in his fading vision. One of the shadows bent over him. The figure touched the side of his face with one gloved hand and lifted the hood from its head with the other. A woman gazed down at him, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with bronzed skin and piercing green eyes. Her hair was dark, with two or three pale streaks, wavy almost to the point of curls, and when one of her locks drooped near his nose he smelled a combination of sweat and peppermint. It was a delicious scent.

“I think I’m in love,” Patrick whispered, just before losing consciousness.





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.