Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


14


The 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?”

Harren averted his eyes and muttered, “No.”

“I thought not. And you.” Crian stepped up to Grant, grabbing both his shoulders to steady the wobbling man. “Grant Tunshackle, what have you learned today?”

Grant’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his neck slumped backward, and he collapsed. Crian released the man’s shoulders, letting him fall.

He addressed the rest of the men. “Our friend here made light of an opponent. He mocked a strength greater than his because he thought he was faster and more skilled. Remember that. Any adversary can destroy you with a single swipe of a sword or launch of an arrow. Any foe we face is to be respected. It is irresponsible—and dangerous—to do otherwise. Fail to show an enemy respect, and all your advantages cease to exist. Your foe will do anything to regain the honor you stripped from him.” He whacked the prone Grant on the shin with the waster, eliciting a moan. “Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, sir!” the troupe shouted in near unison.

“Very well. Retake your positions and continue your sparring. You are not dismissed until you hear the dinner bell ringing.” He turned to Harren. “And speaking of dinner, you, fat man, bring Tunshackle to the medicinal tent; then find Moorman and assist him in preparing dinner. You will serve your fellow soldiers, but only serve. You can afford to miss a few meals, I believe. When every man has eaten his fill, tend the stables until the witching hour. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Harren muttered before bending over to lift Grant. As the fat man stumbled away, Grant’s body bouncing on his shoulders, Crian saw the defeat in his posture. He hoped the lazy, obese ruffian would learn his lesson. If not, it would be his face that was pounded into the dirt tomorrow.

The sparring continued until daylight began to wane and the bell began to chime. The exhausted recruits breathed heavy sighs of relief. Dragging their wooden swords behind them, the hundred sweaty, scorched-red men made their way out of the practice field, up the hill, and into the encampment.

Crian walked alongside them, offering slaps on the back and words of encouragement. Though he had been thoroughly disappointed by the ability displayed on this day—for the last eight days, really—he found it best to encourage his charges rather than break them down. From an adjacent field he heard Avila’s bone-chilling voice screeching at her own group of future warriors. The sound made Crian’s throat tighten. The proper method for training an army was one of the seemingly ten thousand things that he and his sister disagreed about, so they had divided the soldiers among them. Crian hoped his way, of encouragement and discipline through example, would turn out to be more effective.

He cut diagonally across the sloped hill, weaving between his charges, and came to rest on the earthen divider separating his practice space from his sister’s. With hands on his hips he watched as man after man collapsed, only to be whacked by Avila’s staff while she chastised them. More than half of her men were down for the count, but those who remained standing moved with a precision that could be matched by none of the men in Crian’s group. If that was Avila’s plan—to cull the herd until she created a handful of perfect soldiers—Crian wished her the best of luck. To accomplish what their father desired, they needed sheer numbers. It was easy for five men to sneak through a barricade and kill an enemy leader, but those five men would be severely overmatched when five hundred of that leader’s most dedicated came seeking vengeance.

At least that was the theory. But because the human race had never seen true conflict over their short existence in Dezrel, all they really had to go on was theory, plus the wisdom that Karak imparted from time to time. Thankfully, Crian knew none of it would matter. Everything they did—all the preparation and drilling—was unnecessary. Those in Haven would bow to reason. How could they not? He wished his brother were here, for Joseph was far better company than Avila, but he was still in Dezerea and wasn’t expected back for several weeks at least.


Crian turned his back on the scene just as Avila launched into another tirade against an exhausted and defeated recruit. He shook his head as he walked, progressing past the mess tent and through a group of his charges. He observed with interest the way his men scarfed down their dinner, but did not join them.

Eventually his feet found the beaten dirt path that led through Omnmount. To call the place a township was a bit misleading; Omnmount consisted of a single stone building, which served as both a temple of Karak and a central market, located at the hub of a sprawling stretch of land dotted with crude huts, tents, burrows, and low holdfasts. The area the town encompassed was monstrous—the practice fields they were using were actually located toward the center. By foot it would take three days to reach the unnamed outlying territories, where the rich soil was farmed for the grains, fruits, vegetables, and meats that fed virtually all of Neldar. Other than the thousand soldiers he and Avila had brought with them, the place was full of transient workers who spent much of their time working those fertile lands. To Crian, Omnmount was nothing more than an overwrought labor camp.

Only it was something more, for now it was the staging ground for Karak’s Army.

Crian approached his tent, a tall swath of canvas as big as his room back in Tower Servitude. He wiped his sandaled feet on the mat before slapping aside the flap and stepping through the threshold. There were already candles burning, lit by his squire, Leonard, so that the space would be comfortable when he arrived.

Being inside his temporary home brought a bit of relaxation to his tired bones. All of his amenities from Veldaren had made the trip with him—his vanity, his wardrobe, his writing desk, and especially the dragonglass mirror. A thick carpet had been brought along as well, soft and supple beneath his feet. Grabbing a copper goblet from his desk, he poured himself three fingers of mulled wine, took a sip, and began to undress. His sweaty garments came off with some effort, like shedding a second skin. He hung Integrity on the corner of his wardrobe, fitted his armor on the frame beside it, and tossed his breeches and tunic onto a pile for the washwomen to take away. In the corner of the room was a giant iron bucket, and he stepped inside it. Above his head was a spigot attached to a tarred sack filled with water that hung outside the large tent. The tar kept the burlap sack waterproof while also attracting the sun’s rays, which warmed the water. With a pull of a lever, a gentle stream of tepid fluid cascaded over him. Crian proceeded to wet his hair and scrub the day’s grime from his body.

By the time he was finished, it was almost dark, and he was exhausted. He slipped his nightshirt over his head and stood before the mirror. Slowly he applied a mixture of watered-down tannins and ground oak bark to the silver streaks in his hair that seemed to multiply daily. That done, he stretched out on his bed, which was made from seven fat blankets stacked atop each other on the ground. Finally alone, all thoughts of training and military theory left him. He allowed his mind to wander to what mattered most: Nessa. He thought of her petite stature and wild red hair, her piercing blue eyes, and the gentle rise of her small breasts. When he closed his eyes, he could smell her rosemary perfume. He hoped the letter he’d sent five days ago had reached her. It had been difficult to find an opportunity to set Atria to flight. The bird had arrived two weeks ago, bearing news of Nessa’s journey through the west. With Avila’s watchful eyes always around, it had taken unbearable patience to find a safe time to release his message. On several occasions he’d almost been caught by one of his sister’s spies. He worried the delay would cause his love to think he had forgotten her.

I could never do that, he thought. And as he drifted off to an easy sleep, he held onto an image of the two of them lying naked by the southern bend of the Rigon, their bodies entwined. Celestia’s star shone overhead, and the future before them was one of never-ending joy.





In the dream a hand, cold as ice, caressed his stomach, bringing an uncomfortable sensation creeping up his spine. Crian’s sleeping mouth rose into a grin, and he brushed the hand away playfully.

“Stop that,” he mumbled.

The hand returned, and his mind began a steady journey back to wakefulness. He felt the fingers tiptoe over the hair on his chest and slide seductively down his sides, tracing his hips and the inside of his thigh until they wrapped around his manhood. He let out a drowsy chuckle.

“I said stop, Ness,” he mumbled. “It’s cold.”

“Who’s Ness?” said a familiar yet out of place voice.

Crian’s eyes snapped open, his vision greeted by the pale blue light of near darkness. He felt pressure bearing down against his side and held his breath, listening. The light wheeze of inhalation reached his ears as fingers squeezed his upper arm. He uttered a cry of surprise and hastily rolled off his pile of blankets, the frigid midnight air biting at his naked body. The presence on the bed stayed silent. Stumbling, he thumped into the wardrobe and reached out blindly, searching for his tindersticks. He found them on the second try and struck one, touching the flaming tip first to one candle, then another. Soft light filled the tent, creating a dome of brilliance around him. He picked up one of the candles and, very slowly, turned around.

The person on the bed was ghostly white, leaning up on one elbow and staring at him. The eyes reflected the candlelight, refracting back at him like a pair of distant stars. He inched forward, knowing exactly who it was, but refusing to accept it. Only when his ring of light fully revealed the invader did the knowledge register.

“What…why are you here?” he stammered, aghast.

Avila’s expression was a mask of intrigue and disappointment. She pushed herself upward on his makeshift bed, her pale flesh and white hair making her look all the more like a phantom. The only color in her was those icy blue eyes and her tongue, which looked red as blood when it snaked out to lick her lips. Like him, she was fully naked, her breasts and sex bared, and yet unlike him, she appeared completely at ease with the night’s chill. It was as if the bitter air couldn’t penetrate her porcelain skin.

“I was hoping for a release after a difficult day,” she replied, her voice emotionless.

He stared at her, confused and horrified at the same time, his mouth unable to form words. Finally he managed to choke out, “A release?”

His sister nodded, pulling back her shoulders so that her chest jutted toward him, as if the sight might hypnotize him. “Yes, a release. The decree of our family states that we are the betters of humanity. We are the pure, the holy, the direct offspring of Karak. To sully our bodies by giving them to the impure is forbidden, and yet our bodies still require intimacy. Who better to share that intimacy with than another who is as perfect as we are?”

Crian shook his head defiantly. “No. I am not hearing this. You wish…to mate with me?”

“No,” replied Avila, her chin dropping and her gaze becoming even colder. “I want to f*ck you, my dear brother, that and only that.”

“But you’re…you’re.…”

She shrugged. The gesture was so detached from any sort of feeling, so different from his lingering dream of Nessa, that to Crian’s mind she seemed more alien than human.

“And?” she said. “I have shared a bed with Father, Joseph, and Uther. For Karak’s sake, Thessaly and I have explored each other as well during our more anxious years.”


Crian’s horror grew. He felt his jaw hang lower and lower by the second. “That…that’s abominable!”

“Father has sheltered you for too long, it seems. He has kept this secret from you out of mother’s desire to protect your pure thoughts. I beg to disagree, my sweet brother, but it is not abominable. There is nothing more natural. Like should comfort like in any way they desire. We are different parts of the same whole, Crian. The same blood flows through our veins. I don’t see why you would be opposed to us pleasing each other.”

He turned away from her and leaned against the wardrobe, holding his throbbing forehead in his hand. “I’m not hearing this. Please dress and leave my tent at once, and when morning comes, I don’t want to hear a word of what happened here.”

He stood there in the quiet for a few moments, waiting for Avila to do as he asked, but he heard nothing but her repetitive breathing. His anger grew, and he was about to spin around and scream, when Avila broke the silence first.

“You never answered my question,” she said. Whatever sexuality she had tried to exude was gone. “Who is Ness?”

His heart clenched and he found it difficult to draw in air.

“It’s no one, just a peasant girl,” he replied, but the tremble in his voice exposed his lie. With his family, Crian was always exposed by his emotions.

Avila laughed, and it was such a dispassionate sound that it chilled him to the bone.

“Just a peasant girl? I think not. The men of our house have taken a peasant or two over the years for sport, but they’ve never whispered their names in passion. Tell me the truth, Crian. Does this Ness have anything to do with the hawk you released?”

Crian spun around and stared at his sister, who gazed back with an expression of cold calculation that showed in the smooth rigidity around her eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, did you not wish me to know of that? There are always eyes upon you, Crian, as there are upon the rest of us. At first I thought you were communicating with Father behind my back, but the hawk was not one of ours. Now, though…” Her fingers traced absently through the space between her breasts. “Now you make me wonder.”

Crian kept his mouth shut.

Avila laughed. “Your silence is answer enough, brother. There could only be so many women with such a name who are worthy enough to steal your favor. Is it Nessa DuTaureau, youngest daughter of Isabel DuTaureau? A member of Ashhur’s First Families? If so, at least your tastes haven’t fallen all the way down to the mud. I wonder where the child is now.…”

“You leave her be,” growled Crian. He inched to his right, where Integrity hung from the corner of his wardrobe. If Avila noticed, it didn’t bother her. If anything, she looked more pleased.

“At last you admit it. I know the girl crossed Ashhur’s Bridge and into the delta. She arrived with her brother, and last I heard, they were staying at the Gemcroft estates.” Her tone became taunting. “Is that why you were sending the bird, sweet brother? Does my sibling turn down my advances because of forbidden love?”

She paused, her eyes boring into him. Thinking. Plotting.

“I almost didn’t believe it,” she said. “But it’s her, isn’t it? The reason you dye the silver from your hair?”

Her words were like a spear to the gut. His lack of clothing was nothing compared to the nakedness he felt now.

“You don’t control me,” he said, doing his best to remain calm. “I can do as I wish, fall in love with whomever I would like. I have broken no law, no commandment.”

Avila leapt off the bed, her lithe, naked form as agile as that of a lioness.

“You are Left Hand of the Highest!” she screamed, before regaining her composure. Her voice lowered. “You have a responsibility to your station and your family, not to mention your god. To continue on with her, you must disown us, your own kin. If you do that, you will not be welcomed in Neldar any longer. You will be an outcast, a man without a country. Ashhur’s people will not take you, I guarantee you that.”

“I’ll stay in the delta,” Crian said. “We can make a home there, far to the south, where the people are few. We wouldn’t be the only ones to have left the First Families.”

Avila shook her head and sighed. “You have always been na?ve, brother, but this is painful. Why Father chose you as his Left Hand over me, I will never understand. Haven is doomed no matter what those heathens do. In five weeks the entire area will be crushed, and the delta will become part of Neldar. Father has ensured that a faction within will resist no matter what the rest might say, and their resistance is all we need. It is on his order, the order of the Highest, that this scenario has been plotted out, and he has Karak on his side.”

Crian’s blood pumped faster and faster. “What of the innocents? What of the young? What of our sister? Moira still resides in Haven! We have not been given word to bring her out.”

“We have no sister in Haven, brother. Moira ceased to be a Crestwell the moment she disobeyed our family’s edicts. She receives no warning, no special treatment. She is what you will become should you continue your stupid infatuation with this Nessa: banished. And what is this talk of innocents? The delta is populated by miscreants and blasphemers, adults and children alike. There is no innocence to be found. They have all turned their back on their creator, and they deserve every bit of the righteousness they are about to receive.”

“You’re going to let them all die,” he whispered.

“No,” replied Avila, folding her arms over her bare chest. “We’re going to kill them.”

He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Crian wanted to tell her she was wrong, deluded, but he knew enough about his father’s greed, his cold, unmoving faith in both Karak’s and his own perfection, to know that her words were true.

“Come back to us, brother,” Avila said, softening her voice. “Lie with me. Don’t do anything you might later regret.”

What happened next was a blur. Without thinking, Crian snatched an iron candleholder from atop his wardrobe. Avila lunged for a bundle that lay at her feet, possibly containing her hidden sword, but Crian was quicker. Down came the candleholder, striking her in the middle of the forehead. Her head snapped back, a red gash opening up in the middle of her pallid flesh. Again he hit her, and again, spraying dark blood in the candlelight. Avila slumped in his arms, and he shoved her backward, sprawling her across the makeshift bed with her arms and legs splayed. Her face was destroyed, her lovely features warped and speckled with crimson. Her chest rose and then fell, exhaling a bloody fizz that spread over her pale lips.

“What have I done?” he whispered, panic roaring through him, pounding between his ears.

Crian turned away from his sister’s still form, tearing through his things. He flung on a smock and leather breeches, and tossed a chainmail vest over his shoulder. Into a sack he dumped a change of clothes, three candles, a dagger, a box of tindersticks, and his wineskin. As a final keepsake he snatched the dragonglass mirror off the post on which it hung, stuffing it in the sack with everything else. In his haste he didn’t bother fastening Integrity to his waist, instead holding the scabbard by its strap and letting it dangle from his hand as he hefted his sack and bolted out of the tent.


The waning moon lit the countryside in an unnatural glow, and to Crian it seemed to stare down at him with a menacing sideways grin. The chill in the air took hold of him, even as the heat generated by his pumping arms and legs grew. His booted feet pounded the grass, shifting between the tents and lean-tos that surrounded him. His senses seemed heightened, his eyes wide, his ears on alert for the slightest shift or call. He ran into the stables, saddled a chestnut mare, fastening his belongings to the saddle, and then mounted her.

“Hey there!” called a voice. Crian spun on instinct, Integrity lashing out. Its sharp steel found flesh. Mouth open, jaw trembling, he watched as Harren crumbled to the ground beside the horse, a wide gash in his throat. Crian stared as the blood pooled beneath the fat man. In his mind’s eye, he didn’t see the lazy grunt he’d sent to the stables for punishment. Instead he saw Nessa in the ruins of Haven, bloodied and beaten by his father’s army.

He fled Omnmount as distant voices began to call out in alarm.