Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


35


There were people everywhere, a bustle of activity that rivaled the chaos Patrick had witnessed the one and only time he’d visited the Temple of the Flesh with Rachida. Ah, Rachida. He hadn’t seen her since she’d departed with her husband for the southern islands. He would do anything to spend just one more moment with her, alone, naked, ravenous.…

“Patrick!” Deacon shouted. “Patrick, stop daydreaming! We need to get these people to safety.”


He sighed and tried to straighten his deformed spine so he could see over the gaggle of people—the very old, the women, and the children—standing in front of him. He caught a fleeting glance of Deacon, who was manning the other side of the temple threshold beneath the sweltering late afternoon sun, his cheeks flushed as he handed out pillows, blankets, and sacks of food to those who were heading inside.

“I’m not daydreaming,” he shouted back.

“Well, your line is growing. I don’t want people to skip your line for mine. Our supplies are divided equally. So hurry up!”

Patrick grunted, forced himself to look presentable, and handed a bundle of goods to a young woman wearing a drab gray dress. She looked haggard, with two small children clinging to her sides, and when Patrick smiled his hideous, uneven smile, he could tell she was trying her best not to appear revolted.

“Name?” he asked.

“Matilda Brownstone,” she replied.

He jotted her name on the massive roll of parchment that sat on the desk beside him and ushered her along.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, and then curtseyed and walked through the temple gates. Another woman with another group of children stepped up in line, and Patrick repeated the process again.

It was going to be a long day, made all the longer because the plan he was helping facilitate was so shockingly stupid.

When Deacon had suggested stowing those who could not defend themselves in the temple and reinforcing the gates to keep them safe, Patrick had freely expressed his opinion that it was a stupid strategy. Send them all farther south, he’d said, where there were several other small settlements. Or better yet, have them wait out whatever was to happen at the Gemcroft’s island estate—a scheme that Peytr himself had proposed. But Deacon would have none of it. He promised them all that the temple was the most secure structure for the women, children, and indigent, and that they would be hunted down and executed if they hid anywhere else. At least in there, he reasoned, the thick walls would give them a chance at escape through the sally port and into the Clubfoot Mountains should their defenders fall.

I refuse to be intimidated, Coldmine had said. If we send our loved ones away, we are admitting our fear that we might lose.

All of which completely ignored the fact that defeat was a probability, not a possibility. Every single man, woman, and child in the delta knew they clung to only the tiniest sliver of hope. Given how Deacon’s own wife had taken their children and fled to the shores of Pebble Island with Peytr and Rachida, Coldmine’s statement seemed rather hypocritical.

Patrick sighed. The longer he stayed in Haven, the more he realized how stubborn and pig-headed Deacon could be; he was a man who always thought he was right and wouldn’t listen to reason. Unfortunately, he was considered a hero in Haven, and his words were taken as gold. Even Moira, as strong and independent-minded a woman as he’d ever met, bent to Coldmine’s whims. Only Rachida and Corton Ender seemed to be able to think for themselves, but Rachida was gone and the old man had been raised a warrior. To him, talk was cheap. He did his talking with the pointy end of his sword, as he was fond of saying, and it was not his place to question those whose station in life was higher than his own.

To Patrick, that fact alone confirmed what Rachida had said about the uneven nature of life in the east. How could the people of Haven claim their freedom when they had been raised not to question their superiors? How could there be equality if the term superiors existed at all?

He shrugged those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the faces of all the women who passed through his station, making a mental note of their differing levels of attractiveness, and allowing his mind to wander when one or two of them accidentally brushed his hand with their own. Might any of them be the one to end the ever-loving torture of immortality from which he suffered? He laughed at himself. Here he was, a man from Paradise, ushering women and children into a temple designed for worshipping sexuality, all so they might wait for that night’s full moon, and the attack that had been threatened to follow thereafter. It didn’t seem real.

Finally, the last stragglers—an old woman and man who walked arm in arm, their hunched, uneven strides nearly matching—were escorted through the gates. Patrick looked over his list of names. Two hundred sixteen adults and two hundred eighty-seven children, and he still had nine sacks of foodstuffs sitting in the cart. He whistled, amazed at the amount of preparation that had been put into this endeavor. Given that each sack contained enough food to last a family of five for three days, Deacon had cultivated or purchased virtually three full years’ worth of food. It seemed an amazingly generous amount, especially considering that farming in swampland didn’t necessarily yield the most favorable crops. Although a great number of those who resided in the other townships around haven had came to them in search of safety, it was a good thing the many who resided in the far south of the delta had not decided to join in the fight. It would have been nice to have more men to fight by his side, but Ashhur only knew how Deacon would come up with the provisions to feed those who needed protection.

Two men gathered up his cart and Deacon’s and pushed them into the temple, most likely to be stored for emergency rations. The gates swung shut and a low thud could be heard as the people inside dropped the heavy wooden crossbar into place. Deacon strolled over to him, smiling broadly, though his good cheer seemed to be forced. He chuckled, as artificial a sound as Patrick had ever heard, and ran his fingers through his beard. They began walking back toward the forest’s edge, where their makeshift army awaited. Deacon threw an arm over his shoulder.

“Have I told you how glad I am you decided to stay?” he asked.

Patrick sighed. “Relentlessly.”

“And have I told you how sorry I was for the way I treated you that day at the estate?”

“Again, more often than you should.”

Deacon swallowed hard and glanced at him sideways, as if uncertain.

“It’s just that I am impressed with your resolve,” he said hesitantly. “Giving yourself so freely to others is truly a gift. You are a god among men, Patrick DuTaureau, no matter what your father thinks.”

Patrick stopped in his tracks, allowing Deacon’s arm to slip off him.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“If you don’t know,” said Deacon, “then I’d much rather act as though I’d said nothing.”

Patrick stood baffled. Deacon appeared to regret his words, but at the same time, he’d been the one to clumsily bring up the subject in the first place. His father? What did the Lord of Haven know about his father?

“Just speak, man,” he said, grunting in frustration. “You can’t say something like that and then fall silent.”

Deacon opened his mouth, shut it, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then grimaced. Patrick rolled his head back.

“Forget it,” he said. “I’m getting some wine.”

“Wait.”

Patrick stopped and tapped his foot, gesturing for the man to get on with it.

“It’s just…I have heard stories. The Paradise has long been intriguing to those of us who grew up in Neldar. The song, the dance, the simplicity of existence. We hear of your freedom to do whatever you wish, whenever you wish it, living free of sickness and early death…none of us had any of that growing up. When Antar Hoonen arrived, he fed us all the tales we so desired. You must understand, we fled our land because we were either destitute or criminals. We downtrodden lived under constant fear of hanging or the executioner’s ax. So to hear him say how Ashhur forgave all sins so long as the sinner was truly repentant…how could I not be intrigued?”


Patrick shook his head. “Do they often execute those who swipe an apple from a farmer’s field? Because to be honest, that’s about the most major sin I witnessed while growing up. Antar is telling tales, alright, and tall ones at that.”

“According to Antar, there was at least one man in Paradise guilty of more than petty theft,” said Deacon, lowering his voice. “He told me the story of your parents.”

That got Patrick’s attention. “Go on,” he said, his lips curling inward.

“According to the story, your mother was so vain that when Ashhur granted his First Children the ability to craft a mate, she chose to make one who was nearly her twin, simply so she could look on her own image at nearly all times…”

He paused, and Patrick motioned for him to continue.

“Because of the vanity Isabel put into the vat of creation, the being she created—your father—emerged just as vain and conceited as she was. He wanted your mother for himself, to be with her night and day, and for no other man to come between them. When your sister Abigail was born, she looked just like your mother, and your father was pleased. But when Isabel became pregnant a second time, she was convinced she was to have a son. Rumors abound of your father’s anger and of how he supposedly took it out on those around him. Antar is convinced he feared you would come between him and his lover, no matter how mad, how nonsensical it was for him to feel that way. He didn’t want you to be born, and he told your mother so. Your mother refused.

“It was in her seventh month of pregnancy, when the stars said the child would be born soon, that your father dropped a vial of crim oil into her milk. How he got his hands on the drug, Antar didn’t know. All he did know was that your mother was ill for days afterward. She suffered from high fevers and night bleeds, and cried often for fear of losing the baby. Neither the Wardens nor those with Ashhur’s gift of healing could mend her. They didn’t know what was wrong. But Ashhur did. He traveled north on hearing the news of your mother’s illness, placed his hands on her stomach, and removed the poison from her system, saving you. But it was too late. The poison had altered your form, and you ended up being born…the way you are now.”

Patrick crossed his arms, refusing to look at Deacon as he let the story settle into his mind. When he stayed silent, Deacon continued.

“Ashhur confronted your father, told him he knew what had been done. Your father fell to his knees, groveling before the deity, begging for his life. Now, in Neldar perhaps the greatest sin one could commit is to murder—or attempt to murder—an unborn child. Yet Ashhur decreed that your father was truthful in his contrition and absolved him of all sins.”

Patrick lowered his head, looking at Deacon from beneath his distended brow.

“Is that it?”

Deacon shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“Interesting story.”

“Are you sorry I told you? Do you wish I had stayed silent?”

“No. And no.”

He sighed. “It is but a story, however horrible it may be. I would understand if you wished to depart now and confront your parents.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well,” said Deacon, his cheeks growing redder by the second, his fingers nervously playing with the hem of his doublet. “I figured you might want to be…certain?”

At that, Patrick laughed. Hearty, true laughter that rattled his crooked spine.

“Are you trying to be rid of me?” he asked. “To be honest with you, Deacon, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if it were true. To be even more honest, I couldn’t give two shits and a piss. None of that matters. What was done was done a long, long time ago, in a place where I never felt true belonging. Nessa has gone to live her fabulous life with her little renegade. She was my last remaining tie to Paradise other than my god. I belong here now, among these people, and I feel that truly. Besides, I’ve never liked my father much.” He winked. “I guess now I know why. Perhaps I still carry a few old, old memories from floating around in the womb, eh?”

He slapped Deacon on the back hard enough that the man began coughing, which brought on another fit of laughter.

“Come on, man, it was only a tap!” he exclaimed, and away he ambled across the wide, soggy field, heading for Corton and the soldiers who were waiting by the forest’s edge.

He had been honest in his reaction to the story and honest in the words he’d spoken to Deacon afterward. Strange as it seemed to his waking mind, he really didn’t care, no matter how disturbing the tale was or how true it rang. Richard DuTaureau could shove a goose egg up his own ass, and Isabel too. Patrick had come on people who viewed him as more than his deformities or his lineage. Here he had friends, even if his relationships with a few of them might be awkward, to say the least. What mattered was that his last name had no bearing on the impressions he made here. Something just seemed right in Haven, even with that atrocious temple rearing over everything. As far as Patrick could tell, living a life free of sickness, fear, and disagreement was not the best way to go. He offered a silent apology to Ashhur for thinking thus, but he’d never been happier than he was here. Perhaps humanity had been meant to battle through, to learn to live in harmony through strife, through hardship. It was the people of Haven who had taught him this, people he would die for if need be—which he had to admit wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, how many times had he moaned and groaned like a spoiled little child about his desire for a mortal life?

He joined Corton’s side and spent the next several hours laughing and drinking with the many men and few women who were around. Later, when the liquor was all but gone, Moira joined them, and she and two other men—Opal and Mertz, if he remembered their names correctly—assisted him in donning the mishmash of armor Corton had set aside for him. It was an arduous task given his strangely shaped body, but eventually the plates were fastened, the chainmail draped over his chest, the vambraces clasped to his forearms. He stood there, holding a half helm in his arm (his misshapen head made it impossible to wear a great helm; the bottom was loose because his cheeks and jaw were so thin compared to his bulbous cranium), and addressed the crowd that had gathered.

“How do I look?”

They cheered and whooped in response.

Sunset came before he knew it, and a man named Varimor arrived from the deserted township, lugging a cart full of cider for everyone to drink. The conversation went on and on, peppered with irreverent and nasty jokes, until finally a rider came galloping across the distant field, coming from the direction of Karak’s Bridge.

“They’re here!” he shouted. “The soldiers—they’re actually here!”

“They damn well better be,” Patrick shouted before nervousness grabbed hold of those around him. “I didn’t spend half an hour getting dressed for nothing!”

The men smiled through clenched teeth, laughed amid grunts and frightened looks. Cups were carelessly tossed aside, replaced by the swords, daggers, axes, mauls, and shields Peytr Gemcroft had supplied them with as his parting gift. The moon rose full in the night sky, and the air was filled with the sounds of clanking metal and animalistic grunts as the ragtag defenders of Haven formed their first line of defense under Corton’s instruction.


Patrick hefted Winterbone, the massive sword feeling natural in his grip, and took his place at the front of the vanguard. Adrenaline rushed through him, making his heart race and his toes twitch, but he did not feel scared. If anything, he felt expectant, as if this were the natural next step in his life’s path. The thud of marching footsteps hit his ears, followed by the repetitious shouts of what sounded like thousands of voices, and on the horizon, coming across Karak’s Bridge, there was a flurry of movement. Row after row of men stormed over the bridge, marching in rhythm, twelve bannermen leading the way. In their hands waved the sigil of the Lion, the flags held high enough for all to see. A single voice called out above the rest, ordering the approaching army to stop. Patrick looked at them, then at his comrades, and for a moment he felt paralyzing fear. They were horribly outnumbered. Whereas the approaching army had what looked to be two thousand men, if not more, they were but three hundred. They would be overrun in seconds. Deacon must have realized this as well, for Patrick caught sight of the man slowly inching away from the line of defense, heading for the trees. “Figures,” Patrick whispered, and returned his attention to his impending doom.

The next call came, and he watched as a row of archers stepped away from the rest. They raised their bows to the sky, waiting, and Patrick realized that there would be no discussion; there would be no demands to drop their weapons and surrender to the eastern god. The temple still stood, and that meant annihilation. Still, he wondered, given the vigor with which the army marched into the delta, if there would have been mercy even if they had torn it down. He squinted and stared, past the army, past the bridge, and into the lands beyond.

Barely visible in the intense moonlight, surrounded by three other riders, was a being larger than life, standing with its hands on its hips. Even though his companions were mounted on horses, this great man towered over them. And Patrick caught sight of the man’s eyes, which looked like swirling stars of fire and brimstone.

Karak was here. There would be no mercy.

Another shout from the opposing force, and the archers drew back their strings. Patrick braced himself, holding Winterbone out to the side with both hands as Corton had taught him, his fear dwindling down to nothing.

“Steady!” he heard Corton scream. “Don’t do a f*cking thing before my orders!”

Two more riders came galloping over the bridge.

“Release! Release!” the riders shouted back to the gathered force, and all at once, a hundred arrows climbed high into the blackened sky.

The assault on Haven had begun.





Clovis sat atop his horse beside his god, on the eastern side of the bridge, watching his army spread out beneath the solemn near-daylight of the full moon. The pain in his side from the wound Soleh had given him lingered like an impure thought. Far off to his right loomed the Temple of the Flesh, the monstrosity that had been necessary to set these events in motion.

Deacon was a good choice, he thought. His pride wavered, however, when he saw how well the people of Haven had armed themselves. Bringing his looking glass to his eye, he gazed across the expanse and saw two hundred, perhaps three hundred men, clad in polished armor and brandishing weapons. They presented no flags, bowed before no monuments, and showed no loyalty to any but one another. A short but hulking figure stood at their center, holding aloft a giant sword Clovis recognized. The man looked like a demon, with his hunched gait and warped body. It was Patrick DuTaureau, Clovis was sure of it. He knew Deacon had done what he’d asked, for the man was nothing if not reliable, but Isabel’s boy was still there, ready to fight, which could be a problem. DuTaureau was an unknown, and Deacon had told him that the man inspired confidence in the forces of Haven. He’d thought to murder the man in his bed, yet the Whisperer had advised against it. His unknown accomplice had never steered him wrong yet, so he’d let the matter drop. Lowering the looking glass, Clovis reached inside his shirt, wincing as his rough stitches pulled taut, and lifted out his pendant. It shone purple under the light of the moon, but there were no swirls of deep shadow to be seen within the crystal, no sign whatsoever that his Whisperer was ready to give him more guidance.

Two horses circled in front of him. Mounted upon them were Avila and Joseph, the children he was proudest of, ready to carry out any order he decreed.

“What is your command, Highest, our Lord Commander?” Avila asked, bowing low in her saddle, her silver hair like satin in the moonlight.

Clovis paused, then looked up at Karak. The deity stood motionless, his shimmering golden eyes fixed on the temple and the small number of men ready to die for it.

“They are not afraid,” Karak said, his voice like thunder that rumbled along the countryside.

“Then we shall give them reason to be,” said Clovis, trying to sound confident.

Karak gave him a nod.

Clovis turned to Joseph and Avila.

“Let loose the arrows,” he said.

On hearing his words, his two most precious children kicked their steeds into motion. They rumbled over the wide bridge toward the rows of soldiers. Clovis heard Joseph’s voice ring out, unnaturally loud.

“Release! Release!”

Arrows flew into the air. Karak remained motionless while Clovis allowed himself a nervous smile, hoping beyond hope that his Whisperer would reveal the next part of the plan to him when the time was right.





“Hold!” shouted Corton as the arrows rose high in the air, passing beneath the moon and casting a litany of ominous shadows on the ground. “Hold, I said!”

Patrick did as he was told, his body rigid, his arms growing sore from Winterbone’s weight. He glanced to his left and saw that Moira was beside him, decked out in her boiled leather and light chainmail, holding aloft a slender cutlass. Her hair cascaded from the back of her helmet like a silver waterfall. She winked at him, and he chuckled.

“Ready for this?” she asked, having to shout to be heard over the din.

“Ready,” he shouted back.

“Shields up!” came Corton’s voice, and the clamor and clang of steel was deafening. Patrick knelt down. Moira and the two shield-bearers on either side of him lifted their enormous curved buffers, forming a dome of protection over them. A second later the arrows struck, clanking off metal, thudding into wood. A few shrieks of pain came as arrows found purchase in human flesh, but thankfully there seemed to be few injuries. The barrage lasted only a few seconds, and then Corton was back at it.

“Up, now!” he screamed. “Up, and charge until they fire again!”

A battle cry rose up from all those around him, three hundred bellowing as one, and Patrick joined in. He shouted until his throat ran dry, shambling to his feet, running as fast as he could while weighted down by the fifty pounds of armor on his back and the forty pounds of sharpened steel in his hands. But he soldiered on nonetheless, guided forward by Moira, who was shoving her shoulder into him. He gazed ahead with narrowed eyes, watching the column of enemy soldiers draw ever closer.

“Stay in formation!” shouted Corton from behind, his voice sounding small beneath the clanging of armor.

Patrick watched as the archers lifted their bows once more, aiming lower this time, and another volley released. He kept pushing his feet to move, his legs sore, his back barking in agony, until he heard the command to hunker down yet again. He skidded to a stop, falling on his side in the process. The shieldmen were slower this time around, clumsy in the handling of their much too large shields. They failed to get close enough together, and as the arrows rained down, Patrick heard Moira shriek. He shifted abruptly to the left, found her lying there, and covered her body with his own. Again the arrows pummeled the shields, bringing still more screams from those gathered around him. Two arrows passed through the gap between the shields, one clanging off his right pauldron, the other skimming past his side, where there was no protection. He felt an instant of burning pain, but then it was gone—though now there was a warm sort of wetness dribbling onto his stomach.


“You’re all right?” he asked Moira.

She nodded in reply.

The shields were lifted and the charge began anew. This time Patrick didn’t struggle; his legs moved with a mind of their own, and his arms swung forward and back, easily holding Winterbone aloft. It was as if the bolt that had pierced his side had severed his ability to feel pain.

He didn’t need Corton’s next bellowed command to know that this was it. No more volleys would come their way, as they had gotten too close for a rain of arrows to be practical. Instead the archers spread out, making way for the men with pikes who stood behind them. The pikemen stepped forward and knelt down, holding their spears out at an upward angle, waiting for the charging force to collide with their sharpened tips. Meanwhile, the archers began picking off the approaching force, one by one, using measured shots.

One man fell. Then another. The shield bearer who had stood to Patrick’s right collapsed, grabbing his abdomen and screaming in pain. From his peripheral vision he saw one of his sparring partners—Big Chuck, they called him—take a shaft in the face. The man collapsed right then and there, falling backward, hands at his sides.

As Patrick worked his way toward the awaiting pikemen, arrows missing him by mere inches, he could only hope his end would be that quick.

He drew ever closer to the awaiting army, so close that he could begin to make out their features. Some appeared angry, barking back at the loud, quickly approaching mass, but they were in the minority. Others appeared exhausted, as if the act of holding their weapons aloft took more energy than they could afford to expel. But mostly he saw wide eyes and clenched teeth, shaking hands gripping swords they weren’t prepared to handle, archers who winced at every yelp and shout, sending their arrows flying wildly, looking like they wanted to be anywhere but right there, right then.

They were frightened. Terrified. Patrick grinned and forced his uneven legs to move faster. For the first time, despite the opponent’s much greater numbers, he truly believed the haggard residents of Haven could win.

He crashed into the first line, twisting to the side and avoiding the outstretched pikes. His armored shoulder struck a man in the jaw, shattering it, splashing blood and spittle across his back. Patrick braced his legs, swung Winterbone up in an upward-arcing circle, and then brought it down diagonally the way Corton had taught him. The two soldiers in front of him held up their swords to parry the blow, but it was too fast, too powerful. Both their blades shattered on contact, and Winterbone continued on its sloping trek, severing one man’s head from his spine and cutting through the thin leather armor worn by a second man. Winterbone took off the man’s arm before getting lodged midway through his midsection. Blood erupted in a thick sheet, drenching Patrick’s face and shoulders. He planted a boot in the dead man’s abdomen and kicked, freeing his blade.

The rest of his team followed his lead, barreling into the line of defenders, hacking and slicing, jabbing and thrusting. The pikemen fell, as did a good number of the archers, and those standing behind them moved forward. Patrick pushed on, his people killing and dying alongside him. He felt something strike his back and turned ever so slightly. Moira was leaning against him, using his bulk for balance as she whipped about, her sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Men fell at her feet like flies, throats slit, all with a simple flick of her wrist. He marveled at her speed even as he fought through the danger before him. For every one swing he completed, she achieved five or more. She was like a dervish of ruin, dodging every strike that came her way.

Patrick batted aside a thrust from a tall soldier with hair so black it shone blue in the moonlight, then rammed Winterbone’s pommel into his nose. Cartilage snapped, gushing blood down the soldier’s face, and Patrick took that opportunity to lope back, and then plunge forward, piercing the man’s heart with the tip of his sword. That man fell away, replaced by another and another. Patrick cut each of them down, though not without cost to himself. His armor was dented, his chainmail torn away, and his arms were starting to tire. Everywhere he hurt, numerous gashes covering the unarmored portions of his body. The blood of the enemy mixed with his own, turning his entire body into a glistening red monstrosity. His vision began to waver and he stumbled, which caused Moira to cry out in surprise from behind him.

But still he would not stop, could not stop.

After ending the life of yet another soul, he saw a breach in the defenses. He threw back his arms, looked at the sky, and bellowed so loud, he was sure even Celestia could hear him from her secluded, heavenly star. His compatriots had thinned substantially on either side of him—perhaps half now lay on the ground, bleeding into the damp, swampy grass—but the rest continued to fight, every shred of their will hurled into their efforts. He spotted even Corton among them, the old man taking on two soldiers at the same time, his gray hair whipping around his helmless head. Seeing his bravery and prowess gave Patrick new strength.

“Behind me!” he shouted to his people, and they complied, disengaging from their opponents and falling in line as he charged like the bull Corton told him he was, deep into the third line of resistance. The enemy soldiers fell back, looking like they wanted no part in what was to come. Patrick held Winterbone out before him like a lance and drove into them, impaling two men at once, hurtling ever deeper into the line while his cohorts fanned out wide, striking out at those who attempted to overwhelm him. Man after man fell to the ground beneath their fury.

The sound of thundering hooves reached his ears, and Patrick glanced up to see a pair on horseback charging into the melee, weapons drawn. One was a man with a sword that looked like Winterbone’s smaller twin, the other a woman with an evil-looking mace. They shared a similar appearance, each with silvery-white hair and a porcelain face. They galloped in, looking like phantoms, and when Moira flashed beside him, bending to one knee to fend off a wild swing with her dagger while gutting another opponent with her sword, Patrick knew exactly who the riders were. Twenty more riders appeared behind them, surging over the bridge in an equestrian tide.

“Horses!” he heard Corton shout. “Horses! Everyone get—”

The command ended there, mid-word. Patrick dared a glance. Corton was kneeling on the ground out in the open, hands hanging limp, half his face a bloody pulp, his left eye hanging by a slender tendon down to the middle of his blood-washed cheek. Patrick screamed as the male rider galloped by, swinging low with his great sword, severing the old man’s head in an instant. Corton’s body collapsed, his life’s fluid spurting into the air as he fell.

The sight of Corton’s death broke something inside Patrick. He turned away from the main battle and ran headlong at the soldiers on horseback. One struck him in the back with an ax, which stunned him but did not pierce his platemail. He hacked at the legs of one of the passing horses, and the beast tumbled down, sending its rider careening through the air. He shoved his shoulder into another horse, his strength immense in his rage, and the thing fell over, crushing the rider beneath its weight.

At last Patrick found him, Moira’s brother, Joseph, with his short-chopped white hair. He was facing away from Patrick, hacking at someone on the other side of his horse. Patrick took the opening, and leapt into the air, hoping to tackle the man and wrest him from his saddle. But even with his battle-fueled strength, his short legs couldn’t lift him high enough, and he crashed face first into the side of the horse, which bucked on contact. Patrick jarred his neck, sending a spasm of numbness through his spine, and he clutched madly for something, anything, to break his fall. He ended up snagging the top of the man’s greave. The metal dug into his fingers, but he held on tightly. A cry of pain followed. Patrick tumbled to the ground, yanking Moira’s brother down with him. He landed hard on his back.


While he lay there, the wind knocked out of him, everything grew muddled. The sounds of crashing swords and dying humans were like the honking of migrating geese in autumn. His vision blurred, shapes merging with one another until all he saw were brief flashes of light against a bluish-grey backdrop. His stomach hitched and he rolled to the side, trying in vain to keep his wits about him.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back, and everything started to come back into focus.

“Patrick, get up!” a woman’s voice said, so close that her wet breath slapped his ear. “Come on, man, stand!”

He glanced over his shoulder, but his vision was partially obscured by his crooked helm. He tore it off and looked up at Moira, whose expression was one of pure, unadulterated terror as she gazed behind him.

Turning, he saw Joseph rise from the ground, holding his side, where blood trickled from beneath his armor. Grime streaked his silver, spiky hair. The man glanced at his hand, saw the blood on it, and then fixed his eyes on Patrick. If a look were capable of killing a man, this one would have done it.

“Stay back!” Moira shouted at him. Her voice was shaky, and as she pointed her sword at him, her arm began to tremble. She was terrified of him. Patrick struggled to his feet, saw Winterbone lying in the grass a few feet away, and made a dive for it. Joseph simultaneously leapt into action, and before Patrick could lay a hand on the hilt, a fist connected with the top of his head. The blow brought stars to his vision, but Patrick’s head was harder than most. He heard bones snap, and he watched as Joseph pulled back his hand and stared at his mangled fingers, a look of shock and agony painted across his elegant features.

Patrick swung a backhand, catching Joseph flat in the mouth. The chainmail glove he wore shattered the man’s front teeth, sending him flying backward at an awkward angle. Then Patrick reached down, grabbed Winterbone—the sword was so heavy that he could barely lift it in his exhaustion—and swung wildly. The tip caught Joseph in the midsection as it flashed by, in the gap just below his breastplate. His stomach opened like the maw of some hideous ocean fish, spilling forth his innards. Joseph’s eyes bulged from their sockets. He reached down, grabbing at his intestines as if he could stuff them back into his belly. Consciousness fleeing him, he fell with a thud, his broken face landing hard against the ground.

Patrick dropped Winterbone to his side and panted, the strength sapped out of him.

“NO!”

Patrick turned at the sound of the shrieking voice and saw a woman galloping toward him. Moira still stood there, sword outstretched, eyes locked on her dead brother. She never saw the approaching rider, and the mace connected with the back of her helm with a thunk. Moira collapsed as if she’d been hit by a charging boar, smashing down face first. The horse ran on by, missing him by mere feet. From Patrick’s fleeting glance, the woman could have been Moira’s twin if not for the right half of her face, which was a twisted mess. It looked as if she had been tenderized by a meat hammer, an image that would have made him chuckle if he had been any less terrified.

The woman steered her horse around, her silver hair flying out behind her like the hem of the goddess’s dress. Her face was twisted in rage, her mouth opened in a constant, primal cry. She kicked the horse and it charged, heading right for him. Patrick tried to stand one last time but couldn’t. He couldn’t even get Winterbone off the ground. He fell back on his ass, and then closed his eyes. He’d accept his fate with dignity and begged Ashhur that it wouldn’t be painful or long.

It never happened.

He heard a clunk, and opened his eyes. The woman’s mace was no longer in her hand, and she sat atop her horse, spinning in all directions, searching for something. A dark object flashed seemingly out of nowhere, colliding with her and knocking her from her steed. The woman hit the ground and rolled to avoid further injury. The shadow, meanwhile, landed a few feet away. Patrick looked upon his savior—a slender female figure dressed in tight black leather, her body bent in such a way that the twin blades held in her hands were pointed directly at her opponent. Patrick gulped down a breath, looking on in shock as Rachida flashed her eyes in his direction.

“Are you hurt?” she shouted, keeping most of her focus on the white-haired woman with the mangled face, who had risen to her feet and drawn her sword.

“More than I’d prefer,” Patrick said.

“Doesn’t matter. Get up. Sound the retreat. I’ll handle this one.”

Without waiting for his response or explaining her sudden presence, Rachida charged. Her twin shortswords crashed with the woman’s saber, and the two women began a dance that would have been quite beautiful if life hadn’t been on the line. Parry and thrust, hop and dodge, swing and retreat. Patrick was mesmerized.

“Go!” Rachida shouted, sensing his delay.

Patrick followed her command, pushing his feet beneath him and rising shakily from the ground. He looked out at the battle that raged around him and was amazed to see just how far it had spread in all directions. He began to run at a limping trot, dragging Winterbone behind him because he didn’t even have the energy to sheathe it on his back.

“Retreat!” he yelled, his voice hoarse and weak. “Come on now, re—”

He stopped short, standing alone in the middle of the grass. There…in the sky…

Patrick fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror while his mouth shrieked, “No, no, no, no, NO!”





The battle was going quite well. Better than Clovis had expected as a matter of fact. He chuckled at his own foolishness for thinking that the DuTaureau boy might spur the enemy on to greatness. No matter how charismatic a leader might be, numbers always mattered more, and Karak’s two thousand trained soldiers would crush three hundred ruffians every time.

Peering through his looking glass, he could see that perhaps fifty or sixty of the Haven traitors were left, and though they battled diligently, killing hundreds, they would soon be finished. He leaned back in his saddle, another wave of pain knifing his side. Then he glanced at Karak, who seemed disinterested in the events down below, and smiled. Perhaps he didn’t need the help of his Whisperer after all.

As if in answer to that thought, he felt a gentle vibration against his chest. He leaned forward with a start, grimacing with pain, and stared at the pendant. There it was, swirling with mist blacker than night. He clutched it tight in his palm, closed his eyes, and listened.

And the Whisperer spoke.

Clovis’s eyes snapped open. He felt a moment of intense guilt, thinking of the instructions he’d given Deacon, but he stubbornly shoved his weakness aside.

“My Divinity,” he said, “it is time to end this.”

Karak stirred like a statue coming to life.

“It is,” his god said. “They will soon be crushed. When they are, we will move inland and set the town ablaze. No one who resides in the crook of the rivers shall live.”

“Yes, we will crush their bodies, but do you not think it best to crush their spirits as well?”

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to him.

Clovis pointed to his right. “The temple. It is the source of their mutiny, the insult they spit in your face. Let us send a message to any who might survive or flee to Ashhur’s Paradise. This blasphemy will never be allowed ever again.”

Karak inhaled deeply, then let the breath out.

“You are right,” he said. “A message must be given.”


“However, you must know—”

“Do not think me a fool, Lord Commander. I see more than you do.”

The deity raised a single hand, pointing two fingers at the heavens. His mouth began to utter words of magic, strange and powerful phrases Clovis had never heard before. Karak’s voice grew louder, more insistent, and then, with a final, demanding bellow, he clenched his giant fist and sent it crashing down onto his opposite palm.

Clovis’s eyes lifted, and he stared up in disbelief as a giant ball of flaming rock lit up the night sky, screaming in toward the township of Haven as if from the very heavens.