Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


19


The courtyard of the Castle of the Lion was already a bustle of activity when Soleh stepped through the portcullis, entering her own secluded world on the other side of the walls. Her regiment of guards was with her, as they had been for the past several weeks. She’d grown quite attached to them, Pulo in particular, whose mane of curly black hair reminded her so much of Adeline’s before her daughter had gone gray. But she greatly appreciated all three of her protectors. Given how the mood in Veldaren had taken a sharp downturn over the passing weeks, she could not do without their protection.

She marched up the central walk, passing a pair of arguing merchants whose fingers lingered a little too closely on the handles of their daggers, and climbed the pulpit on the edge of the yard, which had been built on her orders. Behind her was the cobbled footpath that led to the entrances to the three towers. In front of her stretched an undulating sea of grass, carts, and people.

Just as she had done every day since her meeting with Karak, she lifted her arms in the air and let out her cry.

“All who are gathered in the courtyard of the Lion, here in Veldaren, capital city of Neldar, hear my voice! I beg you to pray with me!”

A few turned to face her while the rest went about their business, but she recognized the faces of those who chose to participate. These were the people who visited the courtyard on a regular basis, who had seen her demonstrations and listened. She had done what her god had demanded of her, but she found it amazingly difficult to turn heads. There was so much fear throughout the city—fear of anarchy, fear of starvation, and the sublime fear of not knowing. By now, everyone had heard of the attack on Haven, and the rumors were spreading far and wide that the fast-approaching deadline for the delta’s surrender would be a bloody affair. Commoners were being drafted into the new army, fathers leaving their families, sons leaving their mothers’ bosoms. With Karak’s return, it shouldn’t have been difficult to draw forth an act of worship from the populace. But from experience, Soleh understood that her fellow humans were a stubborn and doubtful race. They would never believe in their god’s wrath until they saw it with their own eyes.

At least she was making progress, however slight it might be.

“Let us pray to Karak, our Lord Almighty, the Divinity of the East who granted to us the lives with which we’ve been blessed! Bow down before his faithful servant, and prove your dedication. Karak has promised you liberty, the freedom to pursue your life’s goals in any way you wish so long as you adhere to his teachings. All he asks for in return is your devotion! Recognize him…kneel in this very grass and sing his name!”

Soleh dropped to her knees. Those who had heeded her call approached the pulpit and lowered themselves down, eyes upturned and hands clasped. Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin paced back and forth, full of nervous energy, searching among the faithful for any who might have approached the platform with less than honorable intentions. They found none, as Soleh knew they wouldn’t. It wasn’t the faithful she had to fear, but those who stayed back—watching, doubting, mocking.

“Let your god hear your voice,” she told the worshippers. “Let him know just how much love is in your hearts. Sing to him, for the god of order is benign and good, and he requires the adoration of his children.”

The people opened their mouths then, rejoicing in different ways. Some chanted their god’s name, others hummed a tune from childhood, and still others sang Karak’s decrees. Eventually, with Soleh’s lead, their voices melded into one, a blend of tones crooning a six-note tune melodically. The voices shifted up and down, rising in volume, and the wordless song uttered by a mere fifteen individuals filled the entire courtyard with its joyful servitude. Pride burned in Soleh’s heart, and a smile stretched across her face. She could feel the presence of Karak within her, fueled by the worship of his children, and it brought a certain lightness to her being.

Then something struck the side of her face. She fell over, clutching her cheek, which was covered in crushed tomato pulp. Flicking her fingers, she cast the juicy seeds aside, then faced the crowd. That she’d been heckled did not surprise her; despite her station, the cowardly always found courage when hidden, faceless, in a crowd. But this—this was new. No one had ever before been insane enough to throw something at her.

She spotted the objector in the crowd, a spindly older man wearing a filthy brown robe over his torn clothes. He held a bucket of spoiled fruit in his left hand, and when he opened his mouth to shout a jeer at her, she saw that he was missing half his teeth. The man’s skin was dark and rutted, as if he’d spent his whole life tied to a rock in the desert.

“What does Karak care for me?” he shouted. “I have lost everything—my honor, my land, even my children, to the Conningtons! And the courts do nothing. Karak does nothing! If he cares so much, let him do something about it! Or does his ‘caring’ only get me an arrow in the throat?”

Soleh cringed but tried to hide her frustration. This was the type of man who needed to learn to kneel, just as Karak had told her. She had to wake him up to that fact. Her Palace Guard lingered along the interior of the castle wall, watching, honoring her demand that she be allowed to handle whatever happened in the courtyard herself, in whatever way she decided best.


“Karak did not take your lands or your family away,” she shouted. “That you even had those lands was because of the freedom he granted you. But if you have lost them, if you have nothing, then that is on you. Pick yourself back up and start over. That is the right your god has given you!”

The man spit a wad of reddish-yellow phlegm. “Start over? Start over?! I’m almost seventy years old, woman! Unlike you, my bones actually turn brittle as the years wear on. I didn’t get to create my own mate, and I wasn’t granted a life in splendor. How can I possibly pick myself up when I can barely lift this bucket of fruit?”

With that he dipped his hand into the bucket and withdrew another tomato.

“One of these, though,” he said, “I can lift just fine. You lying, eternal whore!”

The man reared back and hurled the tomato at her. Soleh easily stepped out of the way, but that didn’t stop Pulo and Roddalin from rushing forward and grabbing the old man by the arms. He struggled, his teeth clenched, and called out for help from those around him. No one dared come to his aid—not when Jonn walked among them with his sword drawn. Pulo and Roddalin lugged the man before the pulpit. The kneelers, who were watching the proceedings in horror, quickly made room as the guards threw the man face down in the grass.

Soleh stepped off the platform and approached him. Inwardly she shivered, while outwardly she was a wall of iron. This was a test of her wisdom and her ability to convey the hard truths she knew. Eyes were upon her, and whatever they witnessed would spread throughout the city like wildfire. Soleh stood before the elderly man as he raised his head. His jaw swished from side to side, gathering spittle. Pulo stopped him before he could act on his disgrace, planting a booted foot on the man’s back.

“You may insult me all you wish,” Soleh said, “for I am not perfect. But Karak is divine. Karak is the reason, the Order in a universe of chaos. He is to be praised, not torn down. Will you praise him?”

“F*ck you,” the man muttered. “And f*ck Karak.”

“Very well,” said Soleh. She faced the crowd again. Beyond the kneelers she saw that a crowd of nearly a hundred had gathered, watching. Soleh addressed her words to the faithful, but they weren’t the ones she was truly addressing. They weren’t the ones who needed her message most.

“Karak is mighty, but he is also forgiving. If you have turned your back to him in pride, then kneel. Show your appreciation to your creator.”

The distant men and women were watching, and only a small handful stepped forward to join the others in prayer. Soleh sighed, wanting to give up but knowing Karak wouldn’t have given her such a task if he had not thought her equal to it. Hard truths, she told herself. They must all learn the hard truths. She turned back to the man her guards held bound.

“You must know that despite Karak’s forgiveness, he is merciless before disrespect. If no forgiveness is requested, none shall be received. Turning your back on your creator forever will result in the damnation of your eternal soul. You will be punished for an eternity in the fires in the Abyss below Afram.”

The crowd began to murmur, and Soleh knew she had their attention at last.

“However,” she cried, “this kind of damnation is a last resort. It is a sad fate that I would not wish on anyone, even this sad, disrespectful mongrel before me. No, it is up to us, the faithful, to spare the weak from the punishing fire. If you do not sacrifice your pride willingly, you will have another sacrifice taken from you by force!”

She nodded to Jonn, who sheathed his sword and withdrew a wicked-looking dagger. Pulo and Roddalin knelt on the dissenter’s back, staying him, while Jonn circled around and caught his flailing hand in a firm grip. The old man shrieked as he struggled beneath the guard’s weight. Jonn held the dagger’s cutting edge over the man’s wrist and glanced up at Soleh.

“A hand for your soul,” she said, her voice knifing through the stunned crowd. “That is not a lot to ask.”

Jonn gritted his teeth and hacked down with the dagger. As the blade pierced flesh, the guard’s breastplate was spattered with blood. The old man shrieked even louder as Jonn brought the dagger down again, this time splitting through a few bones—still, the hand remained attached. It took a third swing to finally sever the appendage. Blood poured from the stump, the frayed skin glistening, the jagged bone looking sharp and dangerous. Still the man screamed, now crying out in supplication.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I repent! Give my soul to Karak! He can have it, it’s his!”

Soleh gestured for Jonn to switch sides, which he did, grabbing the man’s other hand and holding the dagger to his flesh.

Hard truths, she told herself.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her expression hard as granite. “Or do we need to take another sacrifice?”

“No, dammit!” the man squealed. He was sobbing fully now, shock robbing him of his will to do anything but raise his voice. “Praise be to the Divinity! He who created me deserves my love and respect!”

Soleh let the moment linger, let her silence stretch over the crowd. She passed her eyes over them, let them imagine themselves standing before judgment, a knife raised over their own sinful lives.

“I believe you,” she said.

She beckoned to the palace servants who had been observing the event and told them to help mend the man’s wounds. Then, loudly enough for everyone watching to hear, she spoke: “This man is truly repentant and now stands in Karak’s favor. Make sure he is given the best healers at our disposal, and instruct the minister of agriculture to find him a position. Make certain he has a place to rest his head at night and money to keep him fed. That is all.”

“Thank you, Minister,” the man groveled as the servants led him away, doing their best to staunch the blood still pouring from the stump of his right wrist. “You are merciful, you are great. Praise Karak, praise Karak, praise Karak.…”

This continued until the servants brought the man through the entrance to Tower Servitude. Soleh turned around, filled with pride that she had saved the man’s soul, and that pride doubled when she saw what awaited her. The rest of those gathered in the courtyard—merchants, commoners, and vagrants alike—were all on bended knee.

A smile, perhaps the largest ever to cross her face, appeared on her lips as she joined them.

“Let us pray.”





Court in Tower Justice dragged on and on that day. Thankfully, the docket was empty of the more heinous offenses, but the sheer number of minor crimes Soleh needed to preside over was mind numbing. To make matters worse, for some unknown reason King Vaelor had decided he would sit in on the day’s session. The king’s bodyguard, Karl Dogon, set up a makeshift throne on the far side of the room, where the king sat through the proceedings, looking bored. It wouldn’t have been that much of a bother if not for the way every convict brought before Soleh spent more time staring in his direction than hers. Few commoners seemed to understand that it was Soleh who ruled in the courtroom. When it came to power in Neldar, he was the face, she was the fist, and Karak was the heart.

But finally the day was over. The king returned to his chambers in Tower Honor, and Soleh looked forward to nothing more than getting back home, eating whatever Ibis had prepared for the evening meal, and then falling into a comfortable sleep before she had to do it all over again. Pulo met her in Tower Justice’s circular anteroom, helped her remove her cloak, and then held open the door.


“Will you be walking today, Minister?” he asked.

“Not today,” she replied. “If you could please find me a carriage, it would be appreciated. My feet are sore.”

“Yes, Minister,” he said and turned away with a bow.

“Oh, and Pulo—” she called out after him.

He turned around to face her.

“You did well today. All three of you did. I’m proud of you all.”

Pulo bowed again and then went along his way, leaving Soleh alone on the pathway outside the tower. She gazed up at the stars on this clear autumn night, lost in thoughts of her home and her god. She felt a stirring in her loins and decided that if she felt up to it, she would throw Ibis down later tonight and remind him why she’d created him.

The sound of beating hooves reached her ears, and Soleh stepped out into the middle of the courtyard to greet her escort. It took her a moment to realize that the hooves were growing too close, striking the ground too quickly, to be a carriage. She took a few hurried steps back, and watched as a brown stallion galloped through the portcullis. The Palace Guard did nothing to stop the horse or its rider, stepping out of the way so as not to be crushed. The bald rider, wearing ratty clothes, yanked up on the reins, bringing the stallion to an uneasy halt. He immediately leapt from the saddle, his hands flexing as he marched toward the doorway to Tower Honor. Soleh’s eyes widened.

It was her son.

“Vulfram!” she shouted, just as he grabbed the handle on Tower Honor’s great door and gave it a mighty yank. The huge oaken portal flew open as if her son had been granted the strength of ten men. When he stormed inside, he looked angry enough to kill. Soleh swore she could hear him growling.

Picking up the front of her dress, she ran across the pathway as fast as she could, slipping as she took the turn and entered the still open doorway. Thoughts of Lyana overwhelmed her mind. What fate had Vulfram declared for her? She forced her legs to move faster as she raced through the carpeted hall. Up ahead she finally caught sight of her son, who seemed oblivious to her pursuit. He was grabbing the palace’s guards, shouting up a storm as he passed, demanding answers to questions she couldn’t hear. She got closer, and amid her own panic she heard terrible words. Treason, Crestwell, and murder came from his mouth. She reached out, close enough to see the sweat soaking through his tunic.

Vulfram wheeled around, fist cocked, ready to strike, only to have that fist snatched by the guard he had just accosted. Soleh saw the gleaming rage in her son’s eyes and shrank back. She held her hands beneath her chin, fighting the urge to chew on her knuckles, a nervous tic she’d had since the first day she’d opened her eyes to the world.

“Mother,” Vulfram said harshly, tearing his wrist away from the guard. His breath reeked of liquor.

“Vulfram, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I could care less where I’m supposed to be,” he growled. “F*ck the army, f*ck Omnmount, and f*ck Haven. I have business to attend to.”

Soleh was taken aback by his language and the drunken gleam in his eyes.

“What sort of business?” she asked, trying to remain calm.

“None of yours.”

He turned away from her, continuing up the hall toward the double doors that led to the royal court. From around the corner appeared Malcolm Gregorian, the Captain of the Guard. He stepped in front of the doors, holding his hands before him, his scar-marked face look drawn and serious. Soleh noticed that the Captain’s fingers were twitching over the pommel of his shortsword.

“There is no entrance at the moment, Lord Commander,” Gregorian said, calm as could be. “You will have to come back on the morrow.”

Vulfram strode up to him, his face inches from Malcolm’s. Vulfram was shorter than the Captain, but his girth was greater. He looked like a bull standing before a gazelle.

“You’ll get out of my way now,” Vulfram shouted. “The Highest and I have matters we need to discuss.”

“Highest Crestwell is not here.”

“I’ll see for myself,” Vulfram snarled.

When Vulfram moved to pass him, Malcolm drew his sword and pushed the large man back with his other hand. Vulfram tore his own greatsword from its scabbard, holding it unsteadily before him. The tips of their blades were nearly touching, but so far neither of them had made a move. Vulfram breathed heavily, the breath of a desperate man. Malcolm was expressionless, like a living statue.

Soleh was nearly overwhelmed with horror and fury. She stood frozen in place, her hands shaking at her sides.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Vulfram! Captain! Put your swords away, now! Your Minister demands it!”

Malcolm did as he was told without question, slipping his blade back into the scabbard on his belt without pause. Vulfram, however, allowed Darkfall to hover there a few moments longer. Soleh could tell he was unsure—she knew her son better than he knew himself. That he was so upset, so out of control, put a silent terror into her. What must have happened to Lyana for him to be acting this way?

“Please, son,” she whispered. Vulfram turned to her, tears streaming down his cheeks, making his beard glisten. She touched his hand, and he released the heavy sword, which bounced twice on the carpeted floor before coming to a rest. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her, peering over Vulfram’s shoulder, and Soleh nodded in response. He nodded back, bent over, lifted Darkfall, and gently slid it into the scabbard that was slung across Vulfram’s back. Then the Captain turned, leaving through the same side opening from which he’d appeared.

Soleh took her son by the hand and led him down the hallway, the Palace Guard averting their eyes out of courtesy. She led him out of the tower, to where Pulo waited with the carriage. She lifted a finger to him, telling him to wait a few moments, and guided her strangely silent son back into Tower Justice, where they might find some privacy.

Once the door closed and they were safely locked inside the tower, Vulfram began to pace. He circled the entirety of the round hall, slapping at the doors of the holding cells in turn. Every so often he would run his hand across his shaved head, whipping his fingers out afterward as if he were trying to rid himself of some taint that wouldn’t go away. Soleh stood in the middle of the anteroom and watched him in silence. He would come to her when he was ready.

That time came after three more laps around the interior. Vulfram strode before her, his eyes still red but his expression more composed. The flush was gone from his face. He knelt before her and took her hand.

“I apologize, Minister. I spoke out of place.”

“Vulfram, forget the titles. We’re alone, and I’m your mother. What is wrong?”

He nodded, still reluctant to meet her gaze. He was ashamed of his earlier outburst, she knew. An urge to gather him to her bosom washed over her, but she resisted it as best she could. Too often she had shown weakness. It was time for her to display the strength Karak had assured her she possessed.

“Talk to me, son,” she said. “Tell me what vexes you so.”

His hands shook, this large beast of a man who now looked fragile as an eggshell.

“I kept it together for so long,” he said. “Nearly the entire journey here I was fine. My exhaustion caught up with me, I think. I shouldn’t have snapped at you so.”

“All is forgiven, my precious boy. Now tell me, what was the matter with Lyana?”


Vulfram swallowed, looking away again.

“One of the local boys, named Kristof, got her pregnant. They panicked, went to Broward Renson, the boy’s own grandfather, for help.” Vulfram sighed. “He gave them crim oil, Karak help us. My son discovered the evidence, and put on trial, Lyana confirmed it.”

The story hit Soleh like a blow to the face. Suddenly, remaining strong in front of Vulfram felt impossible. She pleaded with Karak to give her his aid.

“What was your ruling?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Broward and Kristof were executed,” he said. His head hung lower. “I swung the sword, both times.”

“And Lyana?”

At last he met her eye.

“Forced into the Sisters of the Cloth.”

Soleh couldn’t contain her muted cry. Her fingers pressed against her mouth. The thought of her precious Lyana imprisoned in that secretive organization filled her with horror. Worse, she knew of the initiation rites they endured. Lyana would have been stripped naked and then whipped. Whipped by.…

She saw the same horror in Vulfram’s gaze, the lingering guilt and doubt. Soleh suddenly felt so proud of him for containing himself so well. It was astounding that he had made it through such a public spectacle without cracking.

“My dear Vulfram,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her forehead against his broad chest. “I know you think yourself a monster, but you mustn’t. You acted according to your god’s law.”

“You’re right,” he replied, tapping on the pouch attached to his belt. “The punishments were just for the crimes committed. If that were all, I think I would be fine in time, once given chance to grieve. But this…this…I fear all may not be as it appears.”

“What do you mean?”

“Although Karak’s judgment is true, I fear the crimes were not.”

Soleh frowned, confused.

“You said that Lyana confessed?” she asked.

Vulfram reached into his pouch, removing a folded bit of parchment. He handed it to her and she stared at it, unsure of what to do.

“Read it, Mother,” her son said.

“Very well.”

She wandered closer to one of the torches fastened to the wall and unfolded the letter. Her eyes scanned every indistinct word and phrase. It was a note of gratitude sent to Broward Renson, written in a familiar script whose author nevertheless eluded her, but other than that it told her nothing.

“I don’t understand,” she said, holding out the paper. “What is this?”

“Master Bracken Renson found that in his father’s library,” Vulfram said. “A conspiracy is at work in Neldar, and I am the target.”

She looked at the letter again. “What makes you think so?”

“Read the words!” he said with a hint of frustration. “This letter spells it out, albeit in a devious way. The writer wished to disgrace my family, to cause my faith in Karak to waver and plunge me into madness.”

“It seems to have worked,” she said, unable to hold her tongue.

“It has, most brilliantly. By soiling Lyana, then forcing me to punish her…I was broken, Mother. Fully broken. He wants to take it all away…my family, my position, possibly even my life.”

Soleh tugged at her hair. “Vulfram, you are making no sense. Who wants this, and why?”

“How is it not obvious?” her son asked. “Don’t you recognize that handwriting? It’s the Highest himself. He wants my position as Lord Commander; he has since the day the king bestowed that honor upon me. I never knew he would sink to such lows.…”

“Vulfram, listen to what you are saying. Clovis is the Highest of Karak and the king’s advisor. Surely he must have had a part in Vaelor’s decision to appoint you?”

Vulfram’s eyes widened, and she could almost see sparks of frenetic energy burst forth from them. He shook his head.

“One would think, but I’ve heard many times that Vaelor chose me to spite the Highest, that Clovis demanded leadership only to be denied.”

“Where have you heard this?”

“Men talk, Mother. Fighting men especially.”

Soleh rubbed her cheek. “And men lie. It makes no sense. Why go through with this…conspiracy?” she asked. “Why not simply put a blade in your back and be done with it?”

“Would that it were so easy!” Vulfram said with a laugh. “Should the Lord Commander end up dead in his bed, questions would be asked, especially now that Karak has returned to us. And if questions were asked, then many eyes would turn toward our beloved Highest and his recent dealings.”

“What dealings would those be?”

“Haven.”

“And why would he not wish for any to look deeper?”

“What if his plans for the delta aren’t Karak’s true wishes?”

Soleh shook her head. “You’re being delusional. Karak wishes to teach the deserters a lesson, a lesson that will ring out to all of Neldar. He has told me as much.”

Soleh felt helpless as her son squirmed before her. He was convinced of this conspiracy, she realized, so convinced that her words were nothing but an annoyance for him to brush aside.

“But look at the handwriting! That letter was written by the Highest; I would wager my very soul on it.”

She glanced again at the words on the paper, and now she understood that nagging sense of familiarity she’d felt earlier. The penmanship did look very much like Clovis’s, but something was different about it. The letters were too sloped, the t’s crossed too elegantly.

“This is not Clovis’s handwriting,” she said. “Similar, but penned by a different hand.”

“How can you say that?” Vulfram exclaimed. He snatched the letter from her grasp, crumpling it in his massive fingers. “Look at it! Look at it! I’ve read decree after decree written by this man, and the writing is the same!”

Hoping her son wasn’t beyond reasoning just yet, Soleh walked toward the Station of the Guard, the desk used by Captain Gregorian to notate the daily court dockets. Bending to reach the cabinet beneath, she rifled through a stack of documents, pulled out a particular piece of parchment, and placed it atop the desk.

“Come, look,” she said.

Vulfram stepped up to the desk and placed his note directly beside it.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“This is one of Clovis’s decrees, written around the same time as your letter. Look at the handwriting, son. Look at it closely.”

Vulfram leaned in, his eyes squinting. Soleh grabbed a torch from the wall and lowered it closer to the desk. She watched as her son’s appearance shifted, at first rock-jawed and stubborn; then his lips creased in confusion, and finally his shoulders slumped.

“It’s not the same,” he whispered.

“No, it is not,” Soleh replied. “It is comparable, but Clovis had no hand in its making. The author of this note has much more of a flair for style; he or she was a storyteller rather than a simple compiler. But I fear you are right, my son. You were being deceived…and it was by yourself.”

Vulfram’s knees gave out. His head struck the edge of the desk. He fell back on his rump, holding the now bleeding spot on his scalp and moaning. Soleh knelt down beside him, taking him in her arms as she had been longing to, rocking him and humming.

“She’s lost,” her son moaned. “I’ll never get her back.”


“Hush now, sweet boy,” she whispered. “All will be all right. Trust in Karak, he will see to that.”

Vulfram didn’t answer. He simply grabbed her arm and sobbed into its crook, soaking her with his warm tears.

It took quite awhile for him to calm down, and when he did, Soleh bid him to return to his room in the Tower Keep. He declined, saying he wished to take a walk to clear his thoughts. A frown on her face, she watched as he stumbled across the anteroom, threw open the tower door, and disappeared from sight. She debated for a moment whether she should go with him but decided against it. His display of weakness notwithstanding, her son was a man, and a man made his own way. Instead, she gave him time to make headway before she exited Tower Justice, climbing into the waiting carriage beside a sleeping Pulo. She didn’t wake him; instead, she used the stillness and silence to think.

As she stared into the night sky and saw Celestia’s star winking down on her, her confidence wavered. What if Clovis had penned the letter, altering his writing ever so slightly in case someone recognized it?

“Pulo,” Soleh said, deciding silence was actually the last thing she needed right now. “Take me home.”

The guard stirred in his seat, his eyes fluttering open.

“Of course, Minister,” he said groggily.

On their way to the keep, Soleh decided to tell Vulfram that he was not going to Omnmount to rejoin the army under his command. No, she wanted him here, with her, because she was determined to find out exactly who had written that letter. Whoever it was would be punished, no matter if it were some lowly merchant or the Highest himself.

Come morning, she looked, but Clovis Crestwell was nowhere to be found.

Neither was her god.