Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


31


Roland’s feet were sore as he pounded them into the uneven ground, running as fast as he could. His lungs burned, and sweat poured down his face despite the coolness of the day. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

They had been on the move for hours, following the eastern bank of the Gihon, constantly keeping one eye on the smoldering tower in the distance, which didn’t seem to get any closer, no matter how long or far they ran. It was hard to keep up with Jacob; the First Man was seemingly tireless as he sprinted and leapt across the rocky banks, a frightening sort of desperation shining in his eyes. Roland had tried to stop him twice, just so he could rest for a moment, but Jacob just shot him a dirty look and kept on going.

Eventually Jacob did tire, however, lying down beside the river and scooping water into his mouth with his palms. Roland followed suit, dropping to his belly a hundred feet or so behind him, not wanting to wait until he caught up for fear that Jacob might be sprinting away again by the time he reached him. The water was icy cold, and it burned his parched throat going down. He kept on drinking anyway. Thankfully, the cramp that had started to take over his left leg began to wane. He put his head on the slick rocks of the bank and closed his eyes. Despite their need to get to the camp, despite the dread that filled him with each passing second, it was difficult to hold off the urge to lie down and sleep.

“Roland,” Jacob said, stirring him from a slumber he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. The First Man’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Roland, get up. We are not far now.”

Roland’s heart sank at the thought of more running, but he pushed to his feet anyway. The mere seconds of sleep had left him disoriented, and he kept his gaze on Jacob as they started a slow jog that gradually picked up speed as they eased back into the effort. In no time they were both at it again, running to beat the demon, arms pumping, hearts thumping, minds racing.


By the time they reached the camp, the sun was low on the horizon, casting purple and crimson rays over the sparse cloud cover. The camp lay on the other side of the river, and a spasm of fear attacked Roland when he looked across, staring at the burnt grass and mangled tents that surrounded the half-built tower. The clouds of smoke that had risen earlier were long gone, having disappeared into the atmosphere. In a moment of blind optimism, Roland took that as a good sign—at least any fires that had been lit were now extinguished. Maybe, just maybe, that meant everyone was safe.…

Jacob didn’t hesitate; he leapt into the water and started paddling with one hand while holding his rucksack high in the air with the other. Roland followed him in, after discarding the cloak, gasping as the freezing water assaulted him, tightening his muscles and making it difficult to move. The current tried to carry him along, and it took all his remaining effort to fight it and stay afloat in his waterlogged clothes. A distant part of his mind stood in awe of his master, who seemed to have no trouble traversing the flowing river with only one hand to help him along.

At last Roland emerged on the other side, shivering and numb. He panted as he climbed the rocks, their sharp edges piercing his wet clothing as he dragged himself out of the water. He stayed there on the bank, coughing out the water he’d gulped down, while Jacob ran on ahead, past the tower and smashed tents, over the hill, and into the main encampment. Roland tried to put himself in motion, tried to run after his master, but he couldn’t make his body move. His ears rang, and the rushing river behind him was all he could hear. Then a shrill scream pierced the air, infusing him with adrenaline, and he forced himself into action.

Once he crested the hill, it took him a long moment to understand what he was looking at. There were smoldering tents everywhere, some still erect, with long, sharpened wooden poles sticking out of them, and others that had been trampled flat. People milled all around, worn and bloodied folks who stared aimlessly at the ground, wearing glassy-eyed expressions. A few of them were in the middle of the encampment, tossing broken tent posts and furniture into a large, hastily assembled firepit.

It was the mound positioned in front of the pit that gave Roland pause and made the scene so surreal. It was a pile of bodies, stacked four high and stretching at least thirty feet in either direction. He started to descend the hill, staring at the ghastly sight in horror and disgust. He spotted the plain clothing of farmers in the pile, as well as black cloaks and chainmail armor. There were children in the pile as well, their bent and broken limbs intermingling with those of their attackers, their empty gazes staring out into nothingness. A massive river of blood streamed from beneath the pile, spouting tributaries that flowed in every direction, macabre crimson rivers that cut through the brittle grass.

“Jacob?” Roland murmured, wanting his master to comfort him, to reassure him about the nature of death and its part in the cycle of nature. Because what he saw felt utterly unnatural. He fell to his knees, emptying his stomach of what little wine remained. He hacked, his throat burning along with the rest of him, until that bloodcurdling scream sounded again, much closer this time. Any hope of comfort left him. That voice, that agonized voice, was Jacob’s. Lifting his head beneath the rapidly darkening sky, he caught sight of the Eschetons’ large pavilion, half standing, half flattened, surrounded by a group of townsfolk and fifteen lanterns on stakes. It was where the scream was coming from.

“I’m on my way, Jacob,” he said, struggling to his feet. He felt feverish from the water, numb from the run. He made his way forward with a lurching, uneven trot, his eyes never leaving the pavilion. Suddenly he saw Turock Escheton emerge from the throng. The crimson-haired oddity meandered away from the tent, his head shaking. His bright orange robe was soiled, whether with dirt or blood, Roland couldn’t tell. He held his pointed hat in his hands, staring at it as if tearing his eyes from it would mean the end of his life.

Roland was almost there, his legs picking up speed, when Azariah’s tall form emerged from inside the pavilion. The Warden’s eyes were watering and his shoulders were shaking. Without warning he collapsed into the grass, hiding his face with his hands as his body was thrown into a massive quake. Roland had never seen the Warden show this amount of emotion before—he had never seen any Warden show so much emotion. Roland’s heart thumped even harder. The scream came once more, softer now, more defeated, as he went dashing for the tent.

Azariah lifted his head when Roland was only a few feet away.

“Roland, wait…NO!” he shouted, just as Roland passed him by. Roland felt fingers reach for—and miss—his drenched clothing, but he did not stop. He did not even pause. The tortured wailing of the First Man issued from within the tent. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, Roland knew what it meant. His heart steeped in terror and sorrow, he bulled his way through the crowd until he emerged on the other side.

He wished he hadn’t.

Abigail Escheton lingered at the rear of the pavilion, near where structure had collapsed, surrounded by overturned chairs, smashed crates, and torn articles of clothing. She was sobbing, silently but uncontrollably, while staring down at Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was hunched over on the ground, his head down, his dark hair hanging over Brienna’s unmoving body. It was the beautiful elf’s face Roland saw most clearly in that frozen moment, her perfect features twisted into a mask of pain, her wheat-colored hair matted with blood. Jacob shuddered, and tears dripped from his chin, soaking the front of Brienna’s blouse. There was a thick, black scorch mark at the center of her stomach. It had charred the fabric of her shirt, and on the bare flesh beneath he could see thick, blue-black veins that stretched away from the wound, disappearing beneath what was left of her garments.

Overwhelmed, Roland’s knees went out and he crumpled to the ground. He couldn’t avert his gaze from the dead elf’s face, this exquisite woman who had made his master so happy, whose joy had been infectious, her spirit one of a kind. Dark liquid began to ooze from her open mouth.

“Brienna?” he whispered, but her eyes never moved.

“She’s gone,” moaned Jacob without looking at him. “Gone.”

Roland crawled forward and grabbed her wrist, which lay limp on the grass, and lifted her hand. It dropped with a thud after he released it and fell still. Never again would those long, slender fingers play with his hair, never again would that hand gently squeeze his shoulder, never again would those arms wrap him in a welcoming hug. He broke down, crying into the sleeve of his already wet tunic. His prayers meant nothing any more, nor the words of his god. Even if he could count on Ashhur’s promise of the Golden Afterlife, Brienna was one of Celestia’s children. He would never see her again, even after he’d drawn his last breath. As Jacob said, she was just…gone.

For the first time, Roland Norsman understood what death truly meant.

Jacob’s head shot up then, his manic, bloodshot eyes staring first at Roland, then at the crowd beyond. Abigail went over to him, trying to offer him comfort, but he shrugged her aside. He leapt to his feet, letting Brienna’s body fall to the earth, and violently hauled Roland up by the collar as he passed him. Roland struggled to stand as he was towed along. The crowd parted before them, and Turock was there to greet them once they reached the other side.


“Where is he?” Jacob shouted into Turock’s face.

Turock simply pointed to the west in reply.

Jacob released Roland’s collar and stormed off, heading for points unknown. Roland thought to follow him but decided otherwise when he saw that Azariah was approaching him. His clothes were torn and bloodied and his pristine skin covered with wicked-looking gashes, including one that ran from the tip of his scalp to just below his ear. The Warden stopped in front of him, looking down at him with sorrowful eyes.

Despite the numbness that pervaded his every fiber, Roland finally managed to ask what had happened.

“They followed us,” Azariah said, shaking his head. “The bastards followed us. The moment our feet reached solid ground they were on us, hurling spears, firing arrows. They hovered their way across the river and came at us with swords. They hovered. The mad priest even threw fire with his hands. We didn’t have time to warn Turock or Abigail or Ephraim or Bartholomew. They were here so quickly.…”

Roland swallowed, trying to keep his composure.

“Ephraim and Bartholomew, where are they now? Did they live?”

“They did,” whispered Turock. “They were positioned at the far end of the camp. The butchers never reached them.”

“So violent,” Azariah said, as if he hadn’t heard Turock speak. “We tried to fight them, but it was no use.” He stared at his hands. “These are so useless. We had no weapons, nothing but the sticks and stones that were strewn along the ground. I couldn’t…couldn’t…and Brienna, she…by the time I reached her, it was too late to heal her…she was already gone.…”

Azariah lost his composure then, standing in place and sobbing. Roland pulled the Warden close and did his best, even in his deadened state, to comfort him. His face only came up to Azariah’s chest, and he felt heavy tears fall atop his head.

“It was my fault,” said Turock, who appeared to have regained some of his equanimity. He still spoke as if in a dream, but at least he was looking at Roland now, however mournfully. “One of my men complained of sickness, and instead of replacing him, I let one less man watch the river. If only I had been there.…”

“What could you have done?” asked Roland. He was completely besieged now, playing a role he didn’t know how to play.

“I could have stopped them!” Turock screamed suddenly. He swept his arm out wide, gesturing to the pile of bodies. “There were only thirty of them, and they ended the lives of sixty of my people.” His expression kept shifting, first a terrible grin, then a scrunched-up look of anguish. “When I arrived with my spellcasters, we crushed them, all but one. Our magic was greater. If I had just assigned another watcher, if I had taken up the duty myself, then—”

Roland grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Despite all the horror, sorrow, and pain he had just experienced, frustration was the emotion he felt most keenly.

“Who lived?” he asked, staring into Turock’s wide, shocked eyes. “You said you ended all but one. Who was it?”

Turock tilted his head as if Roland shaking him had broken him out of his stupor, and pointed in the direction where Jacob had run off. Roland whirled around and put one foot in front of the other, hit by a sudden surge of panic that momentarily cured his tired and worn-out body. He sprinted around the crowd, around the tent and into the open space behind it, chasing after his master. Two pairs of heavy feet followed hard behind him.

He spotted the First Man the minute he rounded the collapsed end of the tent. Jacob stood over a man who had been strapped to a pole in front of a small fire. Roland skidded to a stop a few feet away, recognizing the man’s shaved head, black robe, and piercing, ocean-blue eyes.

It was the one Jacob had called Uther Crestwell, the mad priest.

Azariah and Turock almost collided with him from behind, and they all stood and watched as Jacob leaned forward and whispered something into the mad priest’s ear. Uther’s eyes widened, and he began screaming, struggling against his restraints, trying desperately to free himself. Jacob reached for his belt, the spot where he normally kept his skinning knife, but he ended up patting his side, looking confused. The knife wasn’t there. Roland’s breath caught in his throat, and he began moving slowly forward, as if caught in a dream. Helpless, he looked on as his master bent down and lifted a burning log from the fire. Uther’s cries cut through the night as the First Man brought the log down on his head, the sound of snapping bone echoing between them with a resounding crack.

“No! Stop!” Turock yelled.

Roland forced his feet to move, but it was too late. Jacob brought the log down again and again, blackening Uther’s face, sending streamers of blood flying. Even when the monster had fallen still, Jacob continued to beat his motionless body, caving in his face, snapping his neck so that his head hung at an unnatural angle. By the time Roland reached him, and Azariah grabbed Jacob’s arm, halting him mid-swing, all life had left Uther Crestwell’s body.

Jacob whirled around, yanking his arm free of Azariah’s grasp, swinging the log as if he were ready to attack. Both Azariah and Roland backtracked and stumbled, but Turock stepped forward, holding his hands out wide.

“It’s all right, Jacob, we’re not going to hurt you.”

Jacob stared at them each in turn, his eyes looking crazed as his wild gaze passed over their faces. Then he threw down the log and ran past them.

Roland turned, watching helplessly as Jacob bellowed at the small crowd that had gathered to watch what was happening. Then he disappeared into the Eschetons’ tent and, after a few moments of cursing and loud rustling, he emerged with Brienna’s lifeless body slung over his shoulder. The First Man made a beeline for the edge of the camp, where their horses were tethered.

“Azariah! Roland!” he shouted. “Come now or stay—I do not care!”

Roland glanced up at the Warden, and then they both followed. They reached the horses just as the sky turned completely dark and the nearly full moon began its ascent. Jacob tied Brienna’s corpse to his horse and then hurried back to the unmoving body of the mad priest. After lugging it behind him like a sack of flour, he flung it over the steed Brienna had ridden north, unceremoniously binding the corpse’s hands around the beast’s neck. The horse bucked and snorted, as if uncomfortable with its forced proximity to a vile predator. Jacob untied both horses from the posts. His gait was one of a man on the verge of insanity.

The First Man then glared at Turock, who had followed them and was watching Jacob’s preparations in silent confusion.

“Escheton!” Jacob shouted. “You call yourself a caster, so make me a portal!”

Turock stepped closer to him, his lips askew. “A what?” the spellcaster asked.

“A gate! A portal! A dimensional passage to elsewhere—do these words mean anything to you?”

“Um…to where?” Turock replied, sounding completely bewildered.

Jacob took a few menacing steps forward, looking as if he was ready to strike his friend, but his head swiveled and his gaze settled on Brienna’s body. Roland watched his master’s demeanor shift once more. When he turned back around, his jaw was slack, defeated, and when he spoke his words were deliberate but tinged with melancholy.

“I must return to Safeway—and quickly,” he said, gesturing behind him. “All of us.”


Turock grimaced, seeming uncertain.

“I can’t get you that far,” he said softly. “In theory, the farthest I can send you is to the outskirts of the Gorgoroses’s land, but I have never sent anyone that great of a distance.”

“How far have you sent someone?”

“Safely, only a few hundred feet,” said Turock, coughing and refusing to meet Jacob’s eye. “I know the spell, and I can gather the power, but I fear you might not be in one piece when you arrive.”

Jacob bowed his head. “I will take the risk,” he replied, and he sounded more than appreciative when he said it.

“But—”

“Just do it!”

With that, the First Man grabbed his horse’s mane and swung up into the saddle. He pulled Brienna’s lifeless body into his lap, before taking the reins of the steed that carried the corpse of Uther Crestwell. Azariah stayed by his side there in the middle of the field, seemingly willing to let Jacob try whatever he had planned.

Roland heard whispered words of magic, and he looked on as Turock closed his eyes and rubbed his wrists together. The air seemed to shimmer around the red-haired spellcaster, and his features shifted in and out of focus beneath the moon’s ghostly glow. A glowing blue orb formed in front of the four horses, hovering above the ground. Its swirling beauty stole Roland’s breath away. It grew rapidly outward, becoming the size of a fist, a man, a horse, then so large Ashhur himself could have walked through it. Roland stood in awe, watching shapes alter within the vaporous, resplendent mist. Jacob nodded and thanked Turock.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said the spellcaster. “Save your thanks for when you all get there safely, with all the proper limbs and digits.”

Jacob nodded.

“Very well, then,” he said.

“What will you do if you survive?” Turock asked, shouting over the steadily growing roar of wind that was pulsing from the portal. Jacob urged his frightened horse forward, and when he answered the question, there was a chilling flatness in the First Man’s voice.

“I will demand a miracle from a deity.”

Jacob kicked his horse, imploring it and the steed carrying Uther into a gallop. They disappeared into the swirling blue portal as if they’d never been there at all. Azariah shrugged and followed after, vanishing in the same way. Roland stood paralyzed, watching the colors swirl, afraid of getting lost in whatever had been opened before him.

“Better make it quick, son,” Turock told him, the strain of what he was doing clearly evident on his grimacing face. “I can’t hold this thing open forever.”

Roland took a deep breath, then jostled the reins. His horse leapt forward, heading for the potentially deadly gateway. It was only because of his faith in the man he called master that he didn’t soil himself as he passed through it.