Dawn of Swords Page 7

  They did not stop when they reached the vestibule, instead continuing down into the depths below the castle. With each step they took, the air grew colder and wetter, and the rough gray walls were slick with moisture. The clanking of plated feet on stone echoed throughout the chamber, the only sound other than the prisoner’s labored breathing.

  The stairwell finally came to an end, the path branching in two directions. The left led to the dungeons, and the right was a plain door lit by a single torch. Here Awaits the Final Judgment was carved into the old, moldy wood. Soleh gripped the door’s brass ring and pulled. It slid open, emitting a waft of air that was pungent with refuse and rot. She had to hold her hand in front of her face to shield herself from the intense brightness on the other side.

  The stairwell emptied out onto a raised platform overlooking a circular ring of tall boulders, with another set of stairs leading down to the arena’s gate. The underground hollow was lit by a thousand torches that were never extinguished, the combined flames as bright as the sun on a brutal summer day. Soleh drew back her hood for the first time in hours, approached the barrier of smooth sandstone, and placed her hands on it. The surface was warm from the heat of the torches. After a tilt of her head, the guards shoved their prisoner down the second set of stairs, tossed him unceremoniously into the middle of the ring, and then beat a hasty retreat. They tossed a key at him before slamming and locking the tall iron gate behind them. Gronk stood, spit out a glob of blood and dirt, and jangled his manacles. He picked up the key, and a few turns later the chains on his wrists and ankles fell to the ground with a heavy clank.

  “You have requested audience with the Final Judges,” Soleh said. “We shall bear witness to their decision. If you live, you are a forgiven man. If you perish, you have been deemed unworthy, and your soul awaits eternal damnation.”

  She nodded to her Captain.

  Gregorian pulled a lever, raising a pair of metal gates from the walls of the arena below. Gronk faced the now opened portals, rubbing his hands together, breathing heavily. A soft, staccato-like purr filled the air, followed by an ear-splitting roar. The prisoner’s knees began to shake as he struggled to hide his fear.

  The judges stalked out of their cages like deadly shadows, and Soleh watched a puddle of liquid leak from the cuff of Gronk’s filthy pants.

  The two lions, Kayne and Lilah, Karak’s Final Judges, stepped fully into the lighted arena. They were massive beasts, almost the height of a man on their four legs. Their golden fur shone with streaks of white, and their pale yellow eyes glistened in the torchlight. Kayne opened his mouth, exposing his lethal fangs while letting out a low, guttural snarl. Lilah strode alongside him, her tongue flicking her nose.

  The lions paced a circle around the whimpering prisoner, growing ever closer with each revolution. They were toying with the man, goading him into histrionics and madness. Finally, Gronk snapped. He shot to his feet, shouting obscenities as he attempted to dart through the gap between the two lions. Kayne seemed to tilt his head and smirk as Gronk leapt onto the smooth stone that served as the arena wall. The man’s hands could find no purchase, and he slid back down until his feet touched ground.

  That was when Lilah charged, letting loose a throaty bellow as her gigantic paws kicked up dirt and dust. It took mere seconds for her to close the gap and leap onto Gronk’s back. Her claws raked down to the spine, opening four gaping maws that spat crimson blood. Then the lioness’s jaws closed around the man’s skull. She pulled him down, shook him twice, and then whipped her head to the side. Gronk Hordan tumbled through the air, landing in a heap, just inches from Kayne’s enormous feet.

  “You have been judged,” whispered Soleh.

  The man was not dead. He lifted his head as if lost in a dream. Blood poured from the incisions where Lilah’s teeth had pierced his face and neck. He swayed and rocked, swayed and rocked, moaning, unable to get to his feet. Kayne watched him for a moment before lashing out. His right paw raked across the prisoner’s chest, opening four gashes that mirrored the ones on his back. Gronk collapsed belly-up, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Lilah sauntered over to stand beside her brother, and the two lions exchanged a momentary glance before they began to feed. One of the guards standing on the platform doubled over as the prisoner’s screams filled the air. Coils of intestines slithered out of the man like so many eels, spraying all over the dirt-covered ground. The lions devoured Gronk where he lay, and his shrieks and wails slowly ebbed until all that could be heard was the smacking of the judges’ tongues as they lapped up every last ounce of blood.

  “Leave me,” Soleh told Captain Gregorian, who ushered his two guards up the stairwell and out of the arena.

  Kayne and Lilah were the only lions in all of Dezrel—and perhaps the only two that had ever existed. They’d been discovered on the doorstep of the Mori homestead sixty-seven years ago, on the day Soleh’s precious Vulfram was born. They were but cubs then, gifts from Karak, and Soleh’s family raised them as their own kin. The lions ate the food Soleh prepared for her family, slept in Vulfram’s room, and ran and played with him and the rest of the children, even when they grew so large that they dwarfed the girls. Soleh didn’t consider them pets; to her, they were another son and daughter. Unlike her flesh-and-blood children, however, Kayne and Lilah did not age. They simply grew larger with each passing year. Sometimes she wondered if they would grow to the size of horses.

  It was Karak himself who had informed Soleh of their true reason for existence. Kayne and Lilah could sense a person’s faithfulness, could understand the depths of his or her beliefs and loyalty. When the Castle of the Lion was built, and the first king was named to assist in governing their burgeoning society, the lions were brought north to Veldaren to fulfill this purpose. If any accused wished to prove their loyalty to the one true god of the land, he or she could face the lions in the arena.

  In all her years as Minister, of all the hundreds of men and women she had escorted down into the bowels of the castle, only one man had passed the test. He still bore the four wicked scars running across his face to prove it. That man was Malcolm Gregorian, who now served beside her as Captain of the Palace Guard. A man who, even when the lions bore down upon him, refused to show fear.

  She stood there for a long while, listening to Kayne and Lilah finish their meal. When they were done and had returned to their lavish pens, she pushed back the lever. The two gates slowly lowered, the winches squealing as thick ropes rubbed against them.

  “Do you not like watching your children fulfill their duties?” asked a commanding yet familiar voice from behind her.

  Soleh whirled around, eyes frantically scanning the darkness behind the torches’ powerful glare. Her heart began to beat excitedly, and she feared she might faint.

  “Of course not,” she replied, her voice high and innocent, like a child’s. “But I do so because it is my duty, just as it is theirs to punish the guilty.”

  The torches before her extinguished—the first time they had gone dark in more than forty years—and a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared at her from the new darkness. The eyes came closer, and a colossal figure stepped into the light of the remaining torches on the far wall. He was a picture of beauty, with hair a deep shade of earthy brown, eyes rich with wisdom, and thick and powerful arms and legs. He towered over her, wearing an outfit of woven black and a silver breastplate embellished with his sigil, the roaring lion. Soleh dropped to her knees as he offered her his hand.

  “Karak, my Divinity, my Lord, my Father,” she whispered. She began to weep.

  “Stand, child,” said Karak, his voice as soothing as hot milk on a chilly evening. “Stand and do not cry.”

  Soleh rose to her feet, and with a racing heart, brushed aside the large hand before her and threw herself at him. She collided with her god’s belly, just below his metal breastplate, and wrapped her arms as far around his waist as she could. She buried her face into his clothes. He had the smell of winter about him, of snow a
nd pines and smoke.

  “You have been gone for so long,” she said into his clothing. “I feared you wouldn’t return.”

  “Forty years is not long, child,” her god replied. He brushed back her hair, his touch warm and comforting. “Not to those like us.”

  “It seemed like a long time to me.”

  Karak laughed, and the sound filled the arena. Kayne and Lilah bellowed in their cages.

  “You were always such a sweet girl, Soleh. So beautiful and innocent, so pure.” He slipped a huge knuckle beneath her chin and lifted her head. “And those eyes, still like a babe filled with wonderment. The most beautiful thing I have ever created. I could gaze into them forever.”

  “So why did you leave me, my Lord?” she asked.

  “I did not leave you, child. I have been near. I have heard your prayers, uttered every night by your bedside. I have watched as you dutifully fulfilled your promise to help the people learn to serve their own justice. You have helped our society grow strong, yet it cannot stand on your shoulders alone. You make me proud. You are one of the few who do.”

  Soleh took a step back. Doubt began to infiltrate her pure thoughts.

  “I don’t understand, my Lord,” she said. “If you have been watching, then you know of the ugliness that has been spreading across our lands. The sickness, the greed, the violence. Years ago we had riots over the price of wheat. You are the God of Order, my Lord, and yet all I see is chaos.”

  Karak shook his head and smiled softly.

  “You do not understand, my child. There is order in all things, eventually. I stepped away because you, my children, needed to grow up. You needed to learn to exist on your own, without me lording over you day and night. My children need to make their own decisions, to build their own destinies, to maintain their own order. If that does not happen, you will never be free. You will be slaves, just as the children of my brother are. You deserve freedom. I have given all of you the framework for success, and I leave it up to you to carry those lessons forward, to improve, to thrive.”

  Soleh gazed once more into those beautiful eyes, larger than life itself, and saw the kindness and honesty in them. She could not help but smile. She stepped back and bowed, sweeping her arms out wide so that her cloak flowed over her like the cascade of a waterfall.

  “You have, my Lord, and we are trying.”

  “That is all I can ask of you, sweet Soleh,” replied the god. “Now if it pleases you, I should like to visit my temple and rest. The journey home has been a long one.”

  “Of course, my Lord.”

  “Will you walk with me for a while?”

  “I would never think to do otherwise.”

  Soleh led Karak up the stairwell and out of Tower Justice. The god-made-flesh needed to stoop beneath the doorframe, even though it stood over ten feet tall. It was early evening, the half-moon low on the horizon, and yet the castle courtyard was teeming with people. All activity stopped when Karak emerged, and in an instant the crowd was dropping to their knees and singing his praises. Karak waved to his children, most of whom had never before seen him, a smile still painted across his large, handsome face. He bestowed his graces on them before guiding Soleh out of the main portcullis, leaving the people groveling and praying on the castle lawn.

  All across Veldaren the same scene repeated itself over and over again. The evening crowd parted, and guards and commoners and thieves alike all chanted the name of their god. There was no violence to be seen, only reverence, and amidst this sudden outpouring of peace and togetherness, Soleh dared question Karak’s decision to be gone for so long.

  But Karak talked to her and only her, as if the multitudes around them didn’t exist, and she forgot all of her doubts. He spoke of the sunset over Mount Hailen, of projecting his form from his body and soaring through the heavens. He told her of touching the constellations that lit up the northern sky, of the worlds that existed within each burning star, of lives beginning and lives coming to a close. All of these words he spoke in a velvety and intimate voice, luring her closer with each step, wrapping her body in the comforting embrace of his voice, until they reached the hub of the southern end of the city, where four roads met at a roundabout. At its center was a great fountain, on which stood a statue of the god that was taller than he was in real life, a regal work of art, created by Soleh’s husband, showing the divinity on one knee, handing a child a spear. Karak stopped there, staring at the effigy, and the heavy weight of his arm fell on Soleh’s shoulders. She leaned her head into his side, feeling the rumblings in her belly, the excitement that caused her legs to quiver.

  It was then Karak left her, kissing her lightly on the forehead before stepping into the darkness of the northern road, no doubt riding the shadows to his temple far across the city. Soleh whirled around when he disappeared, her feet light as feathers. She danced through the worshiping populace, down the boulevard and across the cobbled walk. Her soft-soled shoes barely touched ground. She didn’t notice the people around her, exiting pubs and closing their shops for the evening. All recollection of the day’s docket left her mind, as did the memory of Gronk Hordan and his ugly demise. She didn’t care that she’d forgotten to remove her Minister’s cloak. Only one thought circled in her mind, and she whispered it again and again while she danced.

  He is back! My Lord is back! Karak has returned to me.

  She danced all the way to the Tower Keep in the center of the city, the place she had called home for the last forty years. It was a solemn building, designed by Jacob Eveningstar, the First Man, before he took up residence on the western side of the Rigon River. The tower had originally been intended to serve as the inner sanctum of the palace of the king, but Karak had built only half of it before deciding it was not lavish enough to inspire awe and obedience in the populace. Its cold gray walls were unwelcoming; its height and angularity, strangely dour; and the spire that rose into the night sky was like a fist constantly shaking at the city in anger. But Soleh didn’t care, for her Lord was back. Karak had returned to her.

  She threw open the door to the keep and slipped inside, spinning and singing and stomping her feet. The sound of clanking reached her ears, and she knew immediately what it meant. When she stepped into her husband’s studio, the candles were lit on the walls, and the space was filled with the smell of the oils and acids used for curing stone. She tiptoed around chunks of discarded rock and sediment, and dozens of statues of her god, exacting replicas carved from mica, onyx, and marble. A few of the statues showed Karak flanked by Kayne and Lilah. On the wall beyond the main workstation, resting on a slightly raised platform, hung a huge painting crafted with unmatched skill and detail. At the center of an elaborate landscape swirled a giant portal, a great fire burning within it. Standing before the portal were the brother gods, one blond and the other brown-haired. Perched on the clouds above was a woman with hair as black as coal and eyes that were empty orbs of shadow. The painting had been created by the brother gods as a way of commemorating their arrival on Dezrel. It showed them with Celestia in front of the gateway that had brought them into this world. The painting had hung on that very wall since Karak began building the Tower Keep decades ago. It was the only work in the entire studio that had not been created by the sculptor who resided there.

  At the center of it all was that sculptor, hacking away at a tall block of jet with his hammer and chisel. Soleh tiptoed up behind Ibis and slid her hands around his waist.

  “Soleh, darling, you’re home,” said her husband.

  She stepped back, giving him room to turn around. His eyes, jaw, hair, and physique were all perfect imitations of the statues he carved and installed throughout the city. He was Karak’s absolute likeness, albeit in a smaller body. In the days after Karak and Ashhur created humanity, they gave each of the First Four a clay ewer with which to forge their mate. It was the first and only time a human had been granted the power of a god. Soleh, who had loved her creator since the moment she opened her eyes and saw h
is face, chose to make Ibis in his image. In a way, she told herself, he was like Karak made flesh, made flesh yet again.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she said, coyly.

  “What is it?” asked Ibis.

  Soleh backed away, beckoning him with her finger.

  “In time,” she purred. “But first, you must catch me.”

  It was a game they’d played since the very beginning of their ninety-three years of marriage. She tore off her cloak, spun around, and darted up three flights of stairs, heading for their chambers. By the time she reached their bed, she was already naked and soaked with sweat. And when Ibis leapt atop her, she took him into her arms and held him close, smelling his sweat, feeling his strength, allowing herself to pretend that he was the god he’d been molded to resemble.

  My Lord is back, she thought as he kissed lines across her neck. Karak has returned to me.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The girl moaned and thrashed her head while she rode him, her hair a sweat-soaked mess that whipped from side to side. Her young, slender body glistened in the candlelight, and her breasts bounded with each seductive motion. She couldn’t be more than sixteen. She kept her eyes closed the entire time, shouting his name as she traced the outline of his body with tense hands. That alone convinced Patrick DuTaureau she was faking it. He’d experienced sincere lovemaking a few times before, most recently with a blind woman during a fishing trip to the seaside town of Conch. Not that this girl’s fakery mattered much to him. The illusion did its job, and he felt his gut tighten. He shot his seed deep inside her, grinding his teeth and groaning as the girl let out a wild screech and threw back her head.

  When it was over, the girl slid off him and lay on her back, giggling into her fists. She began singing a quiet tune, one her mother had most likely sung to her when she was just a babe. The innocence in her voice was enough to remind Patrick of how youthful she really was, forty-nine years his junior. He rolled away from her, slipping his feet over the side of the bed. The elation of the lovemaking faded quickly, his constant physical torment seeping back into the hidden chambers of his body. He dropped his head into his hands, stroked the knobbiness of his eyebrows, and abruptly stood. His sudden ascent from the downy mattress brought a surprised yelp from the girl, but she went right on singing a moment later.