Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


36


The sounds of battle could be heard from a mile away. The clanking steel, the bloodcurdling screams, the thudding of horse’s hooves—all of it. It was the first time Roland had ever heard such a thing, and it chilled him to the bone. He wanted to turn around, to flee in the direction he’d come from. And when he reached Paradise, he’d snatch Mary Ulmer from her tent and tell her how much he thought of her, how beautiful she was to him—everything he feared he would never have the chance to say again, for no matter how strong the impulse, he would not turn around. He would not abandon Jacob.

They had crossed Ashhur’s Bridge not two hours before and had been following the edge of the Clubfoot Mountains ever since. The moon shone brightly overhead, casting a ghostly pallor on everything around him. The path ahead was like a milky river they might sink into, the forest to their right a dead place filled with monsters. Roland shivered and closed his eyes, squeezing his legs tight around his horse’s body, trying to force away the images that haunted him. It did no good, for he kept seeing Brienna’s reanimated face, staring blankly ahead and dripping blackened rot from her lips.

He wished Ashhur had not agreed to come. He wished Ashhur had not listened to Jacob. He wished that after thinking it over, the god had simply declined to abide by the First Man’s dire words. But mostly, he wished he could be anywhere but here.

There were twenty in their party—himself; Jacob; Azariah; Master Steward Clegman along with two more Wardens, Loen and Shonorah; and sixteen other capable men and women, including Stoke and Tori Harrow, who wished to finally set sight upon the structure for which their son had needlessly perished. When Roland had asked why they wanted to do such a thing, Ashhur had told him they required closure. Roland did not know what closure meant, but he thought the idea itself sounded stupid.

Ashhur walked alongside the group, his long, tireless strides easily keeping pace with the horses. His white robe billowed whenever a cool breeze gusted, revealing the powerful form of the god-made-flesh beneath. He had stayed silent for the entirety of their two-day journey, and everyone in their group seemed to know instinctively that silence was what the god wanted. None asked him questions, none asked for blessings. Roland wasn’t sure if they knew what they were in for when they reached Haven. He knew he surely didn’t, and that, after all the unexpected horrors that had befallen him over the last couple months, was what frightened him the most.

They rounded a bend in the path, the rocky base of the mountain jutting out, forcing them closer to the forest. A sudden, intense cavalcade of sound emerged from the trees, a chorus of mad tweeting and chirping that put his hair on end.

Azariah guided his horse—the largest steed Safeway had at its disposal—over to him.

“That is the song of the whippoorwills,” he said. “They are but birds, despite how sinister they sound.”

“They sound sad,” Roland said, his body wracked with shivers.

“They often do,” Azariah replied.

Roland looked past the Warden to his master. Just like Ashhur, Jacob had kept silent for most of their journey. At times he seemed outwardly angry, and at times contemplative and sad. But mostly he looked detached, his gaze empty, as if there weren’t a thought in his head that wasn’t well guarded. The few times Roland tried to speak with him, the First Man shooed him away. That might have been the most difficult part of all of this. During a time of inner turmoil, when the horrors he’d witnessed haunted him and his innocent view of the world had been shattered, the man he respected more than his own father wasn’t there to pull him back to safety.

Now, as they drew ever closer to the battle at Haven, Jacob looked like a man simmering in conflict. His lips were puckered, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased. Roland glanced back at Azariah, and the Warden placed a large, comforting hand on his knee.

“He will come around,” Azariah said, sensing his concern.

The words didn’t help.

Their path narrowed, steering them up a slight incline, and the convoy soldiered on. The horrific sounds of combat grew ever louder, drowning out the somber cries of the whippoorwills. When they crested the hill, the land flattened out and the path ended. A dense thatch of trees stood before them. They spread out in a line and wandered in. The forest was thin, only a hundred feet deep at most, and soon they reached its end. One by one they dismounted their horses and peered through the foliage at the vast clearing on the other side, each gasping when their eyes alighted on the horrible scene that awaited them. When it was Roland’s turn, his jaw fell open.

There were bodies everywhere, far more than had been stacked beside the fire in the camp outside Drake. They littered the ground like nettles, dark shapes bulging from the grass, unmoving. In the near distance there was a large mass of people locked in battle. It all took place in the shadow of a monstrous construction of stone that hovered over everything less than a mile away. The combatants looked like a pulsating group of flesh and steel, the particulars of the fight indiscernible to him. Even so, he could see a steady mist hovering above the mass, a pinkish fog that grew sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, but never completely dissipated. He thought of the way the blood had spurted when the mad priest slit the throats of those poor innocent souls in the ravine and was overcome by the urge to flee.

Something brushed past him, and Roland shifted to see that Jacob was close by, his eyes suddenly more alert as he took in the awful scene. His lips moved as if on their own accord, forming words Roland couldn’t hear, and his hands were shoved into the front pouch of his dirty tunic. Roland felt for him. His master looked completely horrified.

Ashhur stepped forward as well, standing alongside Roland. His face a mask of disbelief and resignation, the god shook his head.

“Such madness,” he said. “Such unnecessary bloodshed.”

“We are too far away,” Jacob said. “Do you see Karak?”

Roland was shocked by his master’s voice, which didn’t match his expression; it sounded more curious than sad.

“I do,” the deity replied. “I sense that he is here, but hidden.”

“How about Patrick?”

“I see him on the battlefield. He is injured, but still alive.”

“Do we go retrieve him?” asked Loen the Warden.

“No,” said Ashhur. “It was his choice to join this conflict.”

“What of the people?” asked Jacob. “The children, the elderly? Did they flee?”

Ashhur closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He rocked back and forth as if listening to a song only he could hear. When he opened them again, his lips stretched into a smile that looked heavy with relief.

“They did not,” he said. “I sense them in the temple. They are afraid, but they are safe.”


Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. His unseen hands clutched at the fabric of his tunic.

“Should we get closer?” he heard Azariah ask.

“I think not,” Ashhur replied. “We will watch from here. I trust my brother. Those in the temple will be allowed another chance to kneel, to turn their hearts back to the deity who loves them with all his—”

The sky suddenly lit up, a supernova of blinding yellows and reds that burned through the canopy, illuminating the forest like the brightest day. All but Ashhur shielded their eyes from the intensity; the god’s gaze was lifted upward, watching the white-hot column of fire blaze overhead. Roland could hear nothing but the roar of flames and an insufferably loud yawning sound, but he could see his god’s mouth open and close, screaming unheard admonitions at the heavens.

The center of the fireball was black like obsidian, and the tail trailing behind it shimmered as if it were cooking the air itself. Then it picked up speed, fell straight downward, and struck the earth.

Right into the center of the temple, that strange edifice that had stood so proud behind its wall.

The explosion was so loud, it was as if no other sound had ever existed. The ground quaked with such ferocity, it knocked Roland to his knees. An extreme flash of light turned the world temporarily translucent, and then came the wind. It was a stiff, hot breeze that carried with it the scent of sulfur and scorched meat, pummeling Roland’s face with such force that he covered it in his hands lest his eyeballs roast in their sockets. He was momentarily deaf, dumb, and blind; the only thing that existed in his awareness was overwhelming, sweeping, paralyzing fear.

When it was over, a muddy silence followed, as if the delta had been plunged into the depths of the ocean. Roland risked a glance over his elbow, and through the starbursts in his vision he saw the rubble that remained of the distant temple. Stones were pulverized, scattered across the battlefield, some large enough to crush a man—and many of them had. A thick column of smoke rose from the ruins, the moonlight making it look like a billowing manifestation of all the nightmares that had ever disturbed Roland’s sleep. An inferno blazed around that column, burning bright as the sun. It was all too horrible to be real, and in a daze Roland stumbled from their hidden spot in the forest, emerging onto the far end of the clearing. He glanced over the sprawling meadow, where warriors from both sides of the conflict were standing around, staring at the blaze. They all seemed as horrified and dumbstruck as he was.

That was when he learned that sound did still exist, for a thunderous crack reverberated from behind him. A tree came crashing to the ground. Ashhur was the one who had felled it, and the deity leapt over the fallen trunk, landing so hard on his feet that he formed a shallow crater in the grass. The expression on his godly face was one of pure rage.

“KARAK!” he bellowed. His golden eyes burned just as bright as the temple inferno, his jaw stretched wider than Roland had ever seen it as he roared. The veins in his neck bulged so prominently that for a moment it seemed as though his head would extend away from the rest of him, devouring everything in his path.

It wasn’t far from the truth.

Ashhur began to run. As his legs and arms pumped, his body shimmered, and his fine white robe began to transform itself—hardening and melding to his body until he was wearing a full array of shining silver plate. His every footfall was like a sledge striking the soil. Roland stepped forward, still disbelieving, wondering who had taken the place of his calm, forgiving Ashhur. He felt himself close to blacking out when a pair of hands grabbed him on either side.

“Come!” shouted Azariah in one ear.

“Yes, move your feet, boy!” Jacob screamed into the other.

He had no choice but to obey, as the First Man and the Warden seemed intent on dragging him with them. They were far behind the god now, but still he dominated their field of vision. Roland looked on as Ashhur approached a group of Karak’s soldiers. They cowered before him, some fleeing, others tossing aside their weapons and falling to their knees. Ashhur pulled his arm back. From his fist came a great iridescent light that grew outward and upward, forming a thick shaft that ended in a point. When he swung downward, the glowing object, now fully recognizable as a sword, hacked the soldiers to pieces. With a single blow, seven men died in an instant. Their bodies caught fire as they fell to the ground, burning bright blue, consumed by the flames of Ashhur’s wrath.

Jacob urged the group to stop once they reached the site of the first massacre. There they stood, not more than two hundred feet away from the carnage, with little to do but watch Ashhur work his way from unit to unit. The god was a hulking figure that towered over every man he killed, his sword—massive, radiant, and blue—making quick work of them all. Roland thought it the most horrible thing he had ever seen: his creator, who had preached always of love and forgiveness, was now taking the lives of dozens in what appeared to be a thoughtless rage. One glance at Azariah showed Roland that the Warden felt the same way, but when he looked at Jacob, a chill came over him. His master appeared fascinated. A hint of a smile played on the corners of the First Man’s lips.

“What’s wrong with you?” Roland gasped.

Jacob glanced his way, jutting his chin toward the battlefield.

“Poetry in motion,” he replied, then fell silent.

Looking to his right, Roland caught a glimpse of a lone fighter kneeling in the grass, staring out at the temple, his face streaked with tears. His skull was malformed, his arms were too large for his body, and his hunched back and blood-matted red hair completed the wretched picture. He seemed to be the only one who was not intent on watching Ashhur’s irreconcilable outburst of violence.

“BROTHER!”

The cry rocked over them all, and Roland turned to see Ashhur had ceased his butchery. The god stood in the center of the killing field, chest rapidly rising and falling, his glowing sword held low. Ashhur’s eyes narrowed, staring off into the distance. Roland did the same, and he saw a figure emerge from the darkness on the other end of the clearing, entering the light of the inferno.

It was a man, incredibly tall, dressed in black plate armor, the breastplate bearing the glowing red symbol of a roaring lion. The man’s hair was dark and wavy, his face chiseled and smooth, and his eyes glowed golden, just like Ashhur’s.

This time Roland did fall to his knees, yanking Azariah down with him.

“Karak,” the Warden whispered, as if in awe.

The two gods faced each other, Ashhur shaking with rage, Karak firm and calm. All else seemed to halt at their meeting, as if the entire world were focused on the reunion   of the two brother gods in the center of a battlefield strewn with blood and death. Even the flames erupting from the temple’s ruins seemed to die away.

It was Karak who spoke first.

“Has justice been served, brother?”

“Do you know what you did?” Ashhur spat through clenched teeth.

“You slaughtered my children,” said Karak, ignoring his question.

Ashhur pointed toward the temple. “You butchered the helpless. Hundreds of them. Is this not what we came to this world to prevent?”

Karak tilted his head forward. His eyes glowed brighter.

“I will punish my creations as I see fit. That is the deal we made; that is the deal I have stood by.”

“They were children!” Ashhur screamed. “Innocents! We did not come to this world to slaughter those who do not agree with us.”


Karak shrugged.

“I gave them their chance. It is out of their own vanity and defiance that they hid in the very object I had ordered them to destroy.”

“And the children, given no choice? The young, the helpless?”

“Do not chastise me on this, brother. You would have done the same.”

Ashhur’s teeth ground together, the sound like two boulders colliding.

“Never,” he said.

“Of course, the pacifist, Ashhur,” laughed Karak. “My gentle brother, who bribes his children with flowers and fornication and loathes violence.” The god gestured to the bodies lying all around him. “It is a poor god who cannot practice what he preaches.”

“Enough,” growled Ashhur.

“Yes, enough. This land is mine, brother, as are its people. I will do with them as I choose.”

“This land was given to neither of us.”

Karak shook his head.

“You are an ignorant, idealistic fool, brother. We fled here for a reason, seizing the chance to make amends. We would wash away our failure, give life to a far greater kingdom than the one we saw destroyed. Yet it seems that as long as you are here with me, there will always be at least one failure hanging over our perfect world.”

Ashhur lunged, his colossal blade aimed for Karak’s head. The Eastern Divinity raised his hand, and a blade of purple-tinged blackness, the mirror of Ashhur’s, appeared where before there had been none. The swords met, and an explosion of light flashed across the meadow. Sparks rained down all around the gods, and as their blades slid against each other, the sound was like a thunderclap. Energy sizzled overhead as the gods danced. Ashhur swung, Karak blocked. Karak jabbed, Ashhur parried it aside. And that same rumble and flash came each time their blades collided. The ground beneath them cracked from the power of their movements, and the air became supercharged. Roland could feel it penetrating his flesh, setting his insides abuzz, making goose pimples rise on his flesh.

Karak landed a blow on Ashhur’s left breast, charring his brother’s polished silver armor. Ashhur fell to a knee, holding his sword up with one hand, his body jolting each time his brother battered it with his own. Roland feared the his god was done for, that Karak would sever Ashhur’s head from his spine right there and then, but Ashhur was far from beaten. He dropped his sword arm, providing a tantalizing opening. Karak immediately lunged for it, and when he did, Ashhur rolled to the side. Karak stumbled past him, and Ashhur spun in a circle, chopping slantwise at his brother. The blade found purchase in the bare flesh below Karak’s coal-colored vambrace. Its cutting edge sank deep into the eastern god’s forearm, almost to the elbow. Streams of liquid shadow flowed from the wound, snaking around Ashhur’s blade, dulling its brightness.

Ashhur pulled his weapon free, and Karak’s wound closed almost instantly. It was his turn this time, and he slashed out with his sword of shadow. Ashhur tried to lean back but was not quick enough. The blade passed through his neck without the slightest resistance. Ashhur’s throat bled out smoldering magma, dripping down his chest and coating his breastplate. Roland screamed in horror, thinking that he was witnessing the death of his god, but then that wound closed too.

The two gods met each other once more, slamming their ethereal swords together in mid air. Clouds rolled in, blocking out the moon, and a light rain began to fall, forks of lightening flashing down from above. Roland looked up at the pitch-black sky that sizzled with electricity and wondered with strange detachment if this were Celestia’s way of closing her eyes.

Karak leapt into the air, holding his blade above him like an executioner’s ax, and landed hard. Ashhur’s sword came up, and the two weapons locked together, sliding downward until their pommels touched. The blades wound together, their light and darkness swirling together into a single beam of gray. The brother gods began to thrash wildly, trying to free their swords, but both slipped from their grasp at the same time. The weapons disappeared, vanishing into the night before they ever reached the ground, the magic that formed them dissolving as soon as they left the gods’ hands.

The loss of their swords didn’t mean an end to the gods’ battle. Now weaponless, they rained fists down on each other. Heads snapped back and bodies doubled over as blow after blow landed. Ashhur flipped backward, barely avoiding a swinging punch from his brother, but then Karak leapt high into the air and knocked Ashhur flat by planting both feet firmly on his chest. Karak slid down, pinning down his brother’s shoulders as he mercilessly clouted his face, time and again, until Roland’s beloved god was covered in a litany of bulging, magma-leaking wounds.

“Stop, please!” Roland shouted, running forward. Azariah snatched him by the collar and pulled him back before he could get too close, but his sudden outburst seemed to have distracted Karak, for Ashhur managed to slide a hand out from beneath his brother’s knee. His usually powerful voice was weak and rasping as he whispered something Roland couldn’t hear. His free hand touched Karak’s chest, then a loud thwump followed, like a hammer striking a sack of flour, and the eastern god was sent airborne. He landed on his back twenty feet away, a smoldering hole burned into his chestplate, revealing the charred flesh beneath.

Karak and Ashhur each struggled to rise, and they knelt across from each other, gasping, their eyes locked together. It was Karak who got to his feet first. Ashhur looked tired and defeated, as if his attempt to save himself had drained the last of his power. Karak fared no better; he clutched at the hole in his armor as his entire body rose and fell with his breaths.

“Why?” asked Ashhur. Even in his weakened state, his voice still boomed. He reached beneath his armor and pulled out his pendant, the bas-relief of the lion standing atop the mountain. With a single, sharp motion he snapped the chain and tossed the pendant across the span between them. “Does this mean nothing to you now?”

Karak scowled at him, picking up the pendant. “It does, but its meaning has changed. Do you remember why we came here? Why we came to Dezrel, why we created humanity on this planet?”

“We were to find a better way—one that would not destroy each another. Violence is not the better way.”

“Life is destruction, dear brother, it always has been. You should know that better than anyone.” Karak smiled then, perhaps the most hideous and malignant smile Roland had ever seen. “But you are right; we wanted to find a better way. A way for humanity to fully realize its potential, without the destruction and war that has always befallen it. And I have, brother. I spent many years in the mountains, contemplating this very subject, and do you know what I realized? In every world we have visited where humans existed, they were locked in a never-ending chain of unnecessary death. What did all of these places have in common? In each world, every single one, the humans fought over the dominance of one god over another. Do you not realize what that means, brother? We are the cause of this violence! We will never be able to leave them. Never be able to step aside and watch our creations flourish to their greatest heights. No matter how long our pact remained strong, one day our people would clash, and they would clash over us.” Karak’s expression became passionate. “Look how little time it took for a blasphemous temple to be built. Look at the soldiers who clashed in this place, even as you preached against violence and I remained distant in the mountains. There is a better way. Let there be one truth, one god, one faith. Imagine it, brother—all of humanity, united! An end to violence, an end to warfare, an end to chaos. What would follow would be a rise of order! Would that not be wonderful? All I need…is for you to step aside.”


Ashhur stared at him, wide eyed and appalled.

“This has been your plan? You are mad,” he said.

Karak offered him a sad shake of his head.

“Not mad, brother, nor did I plan this. I stood back and watched as the events unfolded. Despite our teachings, our wisdom, our First Families, humankind sank to the same conflicts as always. This cycle must be stopped, and I will put a stop to it, no matter what the cost. My way is the only way, and I promise you now that if you stand aside, if you relinquish your Paradise to me, it will remain unscathed.”

“And if I do not?”

“I will march west and burn all that you have created. Either way, there will only be one truth. My truth.”

Ashhur stared him down, then placed his hand on the ground and used it as leverage, shoving his body upright until he stood at his full height. He looked his brother dead in the eye and gave his answer.

“No.”

Karak sighed.

“Very well. Then let it be war.” His next words were spoken louder; he was clearly addressing all who remained in the flickering light of the burning, corpse-riddled temple. “Consider this a warning to you all. The men who came here in my name are but a fraction of the warriors Neldar will soon have at its disposal. We will march again, with far greater numbers, and all who stand before us shall either pledge obedience or perish. Citizens of Haven, consider this my gift to you. If any wish to join me now, you may do so. All sins will be forgiven. This is your chance to serve a true deity.”

Roland felt the sensation of falling backward. No, that wasn’t it; he wasn’t moving back, it was Jacob who was moving forward. It was a nightmare coming true, a sight that Roland could not comprehend. The First Man took great, prideful strides, crossing the empty space that separated him from the eastern deity. Roland ran after his master, frantic, but then realized that it might look as if he too were betraying his beloved god. Horrified, he fell to his knees, close enough to hear Jacob’s stunning words.

“Karak, my Lord, my Creator, I am your humble servant,” he said.

Roland’s heart almost stopped beating.

Ashhur’s eyes shimmered and his lips parted ever so slightly.

“Jacob,” he asked. “What are you doing?”

“I am a child of two gods, not one,” Jacob said. “I have always chosen whom to serve, and I have come to realize that I believe in Karak’s vision.”

Ashhur shook his head in disbelief. He showed more pain than he had from any of the blows his brother god had unleashed on him. “I do not understand. You said you loved me. You said you believed in my teachings…and I sensed no lie.…”

“That’s because I never lied, your Grace. You are my father, one of two. I do love you and always will. And I truly do believe that your teachings are righteous and well intentioned…but unfortunately, I believe in Karak’s more. You would never lead humankind to true greatness. You would only coddle us like children, denying us wisdom, denying us knowledge, until some greater threat came along and destroyed everything we held dear.”

Having said his piece, Jacob took his place by the eastern god’s side. He looked at Roland, eyes full of hope, and beckoned him to follow. Roland almost did. His master was all he had ever known, his hero since the first day he could remember, his cool breeze on a warm day, his burning light in the darkest night. If it had not been for Azariah, who clamped down on his shoulder and locked him in place, he might have run across that field and embraced Jacob once more, allowed him to drag him down into the underworld by his side.

“Don’t,” said Azariah, tears cascading down his cheeks. “You know what is right.”

He did. He cast his eyes to the floor, sensing his master’s frown without having to see it. Only Jacob wasn’t his master anymore. Betrayal, Roland thought, felt. Nothing but betrayal.

Karak turned away, Jacob alongside him, heading for the other side of the field, where a white-haired man on horseback awaited them. With a wave of the deity’s hand, the soldiers who still drew breath, were rounded up by the horsemen, forming lines and marching wearily back toward Karak’s Bridge. They disappeared into Neldar, the sound of their clanking armor a ghostly echo. The few remaining defenders of Haven—those who had not fled to join the invading force, as a few had done—stood there silently, staring at Ashhur, who seemed frozen in place. The light in his eyes had nearly extinguished, and the aura of kindness and invincibility he normally displayed had all but been shattered. His silver armor receded, becoming a simple robe once more, the torn and burnt sections slowly fading away. He looked not like a divine being, but like a simple farmer after a day spent tending his fields: exhausted, beleaguered, vulnerable. At that moment, Roland realized that all innocence was lost, for everyone, everywhere, and it would never return.

And the Temple of the Flesh, along with the bodies of more than a thousand old men and women, mothers and children, continued to burn.