Dawn of Swords

CHAPTER 9

Vulfram’s heart beat a mile a minute as he guided his horse through the massive oaken gates surrounding the inner sanctum of Erznia, deep within the forest. The giant pines that served to shield the township from the outside world gave way to vast courtyards, humble wooden cottages, and lush gardens. The leaping doe was everywhere he looked, painted on the gates and on flags and banners that fluttered in the early afternoon breeze. Dread pulsed in Vulfram’s veins, the opposite of what he should have felt upon entering his childhood home. He had seen his family so little over the past eight years that their reunions always ended up feeling more sad than joyous. His children and his wife needed him, but the realm needed him more.

He urged his tired horse down the dirt path that ran through the center of the township. Erznia had been the lovechild of his mother and father, built in the months after the creation of humanity and twenty-six years before his birth. They had chosen the location because of its isolation, natural beauty, and proximity to the Queln River. Erznia had originally housed all five hundred youths created to be the wards of House Mori, youth who would soon mature and have families. Over the inevitable march of the years, many in the first and subsequent generations had ventured out of the enchanted forest to build inland townships along the southern edge of the Gods’ Road and the eastern coastline. Only those closest to the Mori bloodline stayed behind, the families who would give birth to some of the prosperous merchants and tradesmen of southern Neldar. The intimacy of the populace had made living here a warm experience, one Vulfram had hoped would never end. He had resisted leaving for many years, staying behind even after his mother moved to Veldaren when he was twenty-seven. Although he had missed her, she’d visited often in the early years, to spend time with her family, and had always been greeted warmly on her return, which had convinced Vulfram it would be the same for him.

It wasn’t. After eight years of sporadic visits, and whispers of what had happened in the delta, the same people who had once viewed Vulfram as a member of their extended family now eyed him with dubious expressions as he rode through the township. They seemed friendly enough, offering smiles and salutations, but he could read the fear and uncertainty in their stares. He was no longer Vulfram Mori, son of Soleh and Ibis, no longer the gentle man who loved children and helped build many of the cottages that dotted the township’s inner sanctum. Now he was Lord Commander Mori, imposing leader of Karak’s Army, come to implement the Divinity’s justice. He thought of Darkfall, the giant broadsword sheathed on his back that would carry out that justice if need be, and decided that the people were right to fear him. The thought of what he might have to do to his own girl wracked him with a special kind of anguish, no matter how unlikely it was she’d done something terrible enough to warrant such a punishment. Sometimes he hated so much that King Vaelor had thrust this title upon him.

Ignoring the suspicious looks, he pulled on the reins and nudged his mare faster. More cottages and larger chalets passed him on either side. They were packed so tightly together that elaborate gardens edged by dogwood trees were grown between them to give the residents a semblance of privacy. The sight of so many homes made Vulfram feel decidedly less at home. It had only been a few months since his last visit, yet over that short span his childhood village seemed to have grown and changed.

Finally Mori Manor appeared before him. The thick pine logs that formed the outside of the manor were stained a deep shade of reddish brown. The door was painted lavender, a color of which his mother had long been fond. It was the largest structure in the township, stretched out so wide it filled nearly all his peripheral vision. Vegetable and fruit gardens dotted the quad, and the peach tree Vulfram had planted when he was ten years old grew to the left of the front walk, looking decidedly taller than the last time he’d laid eyes on it. His heart warmed despite the dire nature of his visit, for at least some things in Erznia would never change.

The front door creaked open as he tethered his horse to the thick post in front of the walk. He glanced up, and there she stood-Yenge, his wife of nineteen years, resplendent in a simple yellow country dress that clung to a body still supple even after birthing and feeding three children. As Vulfram approached, his gaze moved over the curve of her breasts to the soft nub of her chin, the plumpness of her cheeks, and those blue eyes that seemed to glow against the backdrop of her tanned skin. Her hair was dark and uncontrollably wavy, hanging to the middle of her back. She’d been twenty-five when he’d left to fulfill his duty to Karak, and the only sign that she’d aged a day since then were the tired lines that had sprouted from the corners of her eyes. Vulfram felt his insides tremble, thinking of the last night he’d spent in Erznia-the kisses he and Yenge had shared-and smiled.

Yenge didn’t return his smile. Her expression was nervous as she scraped her teeth against her lower lip. He hadn’t seen her this way since they’d discovered problems with the health of their youngest child, Caleigh, in the hours after the girl’s birth.

His hands found hers as he climbed the steps. There were tears in her eyes. She didn’t say a word to him as he gently placed his lips against hers; her response was to kiss him back slowly and then wrap her arms around him.

“I’ve missed you,” Yenge said as the kiss ended.

“As have I you,” he whispered. He tipped his shaved head so that it rested in the nape of her neck. She smelled of honey and flour. “Did you receive my letter?”

“I did, yesterday.”

“And you told the Magister that I was coming?”

Her eyes dropped. She sniffled but kept her composure. “Yes, Magister Wentner is in the courtyard with the offenders…and others.”

He stepped back. “Offenders? Lyana was not alone when she broke Karak’s law?”

“No, my love. There is another. Kristof Renson. The boy’s father and mother await you as well.”

“Kristof? The boy is what-fourteen? What could these two have done to draw the ire of the Magister worthy of a Minister’s delegate?”

Yenge sniffled again. “I’ve been told not to tell you, my love. I’m truly sorry.”

“Wentner’s instructions?”

Her downcast eyes were answer enough. Vulfram grunted, furious the Magister hadn’t thought to contact him personally regarding the matter. He was the girl’s father, for Karak’s sake, as well as Lord Commander and one of the Divinity’s most loyal servants. If anyone should have been trusted, it was he.

The interior of the manor looked much like he remembered it, with its open rooms, rustic wood floor, and log walls. Lavish furniture filled the vast spaces, gifts bestowed on his family by the greatest craftsmen in Neldar. The candelabras placed in each crevasse were ornate creations, looping rods of silver and gold that held six candles apiece. But Vulfram forgot them even as he saw them. Nothing could remain on his mind except his daughter.

He stormed through the arched portal cut into the limestone wall of the interior square of the manor, the only part of the dwelling not made of felled trees. The courtyard was vast-two hundred feet in either direction-and surrounded on all by sides by four thick walls. When he was a boy, Vulfram played in this open space with Kayne and Lilah, pretending to fight dragons, giants, and demons from the underworld, thrusting wooden swords at his brother and sister lions while they leapt around him.

Now, all that youthful innocence of the courtyard was gone. In its place were a great many people milling about, all wearing dire expressions. He saw his brother Ulric’s wife, Dimona, and her three children. Here also was his other brother, Oris, former servant of the City Watch under Vulfram, his lower jaw and neck rippling with red scar tissue, an injury from when he’d rescued three whores trapped in a burning brothel. Oris’s wife, Ebbe, a woman with skin as tan as Yenge’s and tightly knotted hair, stood at her husband’s side. She was tall and proud, exuding strength and an intensity of faith. Their two children huddled behind her flowing sarong, which was painted with sunflowers. To their right was Broward Renson, young Kristof’s grandfather, born on the same day as Vulfram; they had been best friends since they were toddlers playing at being adults, with fake wine to drink and blunted sticks for spears. The man looked much older than Vulfram, carrying the weight of all his sixty-seven years on his broad shoulders. Broward’s son, Bracken, stood next to him, along with Bracken’s wife, Penelope. Every member of the Renson family looked tense and fidgety, Bracken in particular. The man chewed on his fingernails as if they were kernels of sweet corn.

Beyond the gathered crowd knelt two young people, shackled to a concrete slab. Vulfram’s heart dropped when he saw Lyana, his precious little daughter. Just like the town, she seemed to have grown so much since last he saw her. She looked almost an adult, as stunning as her mother, possessing the same blue eyes and untamable hair. But instead of a beautiful, carefree girl, she was presented to him as a broken woman, her lips and cheeks painted like those of a whore. She was dressed in a plain canvas kirtle-prisoner’s attire-that was covered with splotches of dirt. Beside her knelt Kristof, his sandy hair as filthy as straw in a horse’s pen, his eyes closed and his hands clenched before him as his whole body shivered. His kirtle, nearly identical to Lyana’s, was coated with fresh, glistening blood.

Only shock and an iron will forged over decades kept Vulfram from drawing Darkfall and thrusting its blade through the heart of whoever dared insult his daughter in such a way.

“By the order of Karak, all kneel in the presence of the Lord Commander!”

Vulfram turned at the sound of his son’s voice, while the rest of those in attendance bowed on a single knee. Alexander Mori, eighteen and looking strong as an ox in his stained riding leathers, escorted his youngest sister, Caleigh, down the steps and into the yard. Behind them walked Magister Wentner, a man looking every bit his eighty years, with a sickly frame, a turkey-like wattle for a neck, and eyes reduced to a haunting gray by age. Alexander stared at his father, jaw unyielding, and it seemed as though his strength were passed along to his sister, for Caleigh kept her expression as hard as the limestone that made up the house’s inner walls. As far back as Vulfram could remember, his youngest would startle at the buzz of an insect whizzing by her ear. He couldn’t help but feel a queer sort of pride at the strength she now displayed.

The magister in his deep black robes stepped toward him, while his children took their places beside their mother. Wentner offered him a frail bow, the sight of which only enhanced Vulfram’s rage. This is the man who would make my daughter up as a whore, this bastard, years past his prime?

“What’s the meaning of this?” Vulfram said with a growl. “What in Karak’s name makes you think yourself justified in humiliating my daughter this way, chaining these children up like common felons?”

The magister didn’t flinch at his tone, and when he gazed up at Vulfram his gray eyes dripped with frost.

“The law is direct and strict, Lord Commander,” the magister said. “When found guilty, the prisoners will be presented before the bringers of justice with appearances befitting their crimes.”

Vulfram’s blood boiled. “What crimes have they been found guilty of? And who deemed themselves worthy to determine such guilt?”

“I found them guilty, Lord Commander,” said Wentner, the slightest scowl appearing on his withered visage. “I am the Magister of Erznia, and by decree of Highest Crestwell, it is the magister’s duty to adjudicate any accused crimes of blasphemy before awaiting a delegate of the Inner Sanctum to serve punishment.” He pointed a finger at the two chained youngsters. “These two have been accused of infanticide, the utmost crime against our god and his gift of life.”

Lyana and Kristof both began weeping, and the anger broiling inside Vulfram was replaced by a jolt of shock.

“That cannot be,” he said, softly. “They are only children.”

“They ceased to be children the moment they consummated their attraction,” said Wentner. “And they became criminals once they performed the unspeakable.”

“It’s not true!” shouted Lyana.

One of the magister’s gnarled hands shot out, lashing Lyana’s painted cheek. Her head snapped to the side, and a string of bloody spittle flew from her lips.

“Silence,” the magister said. “The convicted shall speak only when spoken to.”

The magister’s hand rose again, but this time Vulfram caught it. The two men stared eye to eye, each one challenging the other. Wentner was a representative of their deity, and it would be blasphemy for Vulfram to supersede his granted authority. But Lyana was also Vulfram’s child, and Wentner clearly saw the death that awaited him if he pressed Vulfram too far.

After taking a deep breath and releasing Wentner’s hand, Vulfram asked for the proof of their crimes. In answer, the magister reached a hand into his robe and withdrew a small burlap sack. From the sack he removed a small wooden vial and an article of clothing. Holding up the vial he said, “Lyana Mori was discovered moaning in pain by her brother Alexander thirteen days ago. Beside her, on her bedpost, was this vial. It was empty, but it still carries the scent of oil of crim.”

He handed the vial to Vulfram, who sniffed the opened top. The bitter and unmistakable stench of crim oil, an extract taken from the base stems of crimleaf, assaulted his nostrils. Crim oil was a powerful tonic traditionally used to treat cattle when they fell ill with infection. The oil caused massive internal hemorrhaging while obliterating whatever sickness had struck the bovine. It was rarely used on humans, and never if the victim was pregnant, due to the danger to the growing babe. That fact alone made it a popular-and highly illegal-commodity that was sold only in the darkest of back alleys.

His mind spun as Magister Wentner handed him the article of clothing.

“This was the garment the offender was wearing on the morning she was found. Take a look at it, Lord Commander. Take a good look.”

Vulfram held the garment with shaking fingers. It was a satin nightdress, one he had given Yenge many years before as a gift. It was soft and pink, colored using dye made from roses that grew in the Manor’s gardens. As it fell open in his hands, he saw the shade grew darker and darker the farther down the garment he looked, until it was a deep red tinted with orange down at the hemline. He crinkled the nightdress in both fists and brought it to his nose. He smelled the blood, along with something that smelled oddly sharp, like vinegar. He dropped the garment to the ground and wiped at his nose.

“What you just smelled,” said Wentner, “is all that remains of your grandchild.”

Vulfram’s stared at his daughter, tears pouring down her cheeks in torrents while she shook her head. It felt as if the entire world stood still, and there was only Vulfram, Lyana, and the vile Wentner.

“Please, Father!” the girl screamed.

Magister Wentner reached back to slap her again, but thought better of it when he caught Vulfram’s glare.

“And what of the boy?” Vulfram asked. “What is he accused of?”

“He supplied the oil, Lord Commander,” replied Wentner, slowly lowering his hand. “We found four more vials hidden inside his mattress.”

“Is that true?”

Kristof didn’t answer; he simply dropped his head, closed his eyes, and wept.

Alexander strode forward. “It is true, Lord Commander. I discovered the vials myself when I went to question Bracken Renson on the whereabouts of his son.”

“You little shit!”

Bracken Renson barreled full steam at Alexander, a club held high to strike. In a single movement, Alexander shielded his sister and mother with one hand and unsheathed his sword with the other. Bracken flung aside Magister Wentner, the muscles in his face tensed to the point of snapping. His club swung, ramming into Alexander’s raised sword. The two shoved against one another, the sword buried deep into the thick wood of the club. His shock finally abated, Vulfram grabbed the collar of Bracken’s tunic and yanked hard enough to send the father of the convicted boy thudding to the ground. The attached sword and club skittered off to the side. Oris rushed in, a meaty fist drawn back, but Vulfram held his scarred brother at bay with a single glance. Alexander tried to advance on Bracken, but Vulfram stood in the way, feeling like a bull as he breathed heavily through his nose.

“Get Yenge and Caleigh out of here,” he told Alexander, who opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded in respect. As his son led the girls away, Vulfram let out a cry as a sharp heel connected with his shin.

“Enough of this!” he shouted, whirling around and planting a boot on Bracken’s chest.

“He’s…my…son!” shouted Bracken, thrashing beneath the weight.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. In his wrath Vulfram turned with fist at ready, but when he caught sight of graying hair and sad brown eyes, he let his arm drop. Broward Renson stood there, staring down at his eldest boy.

“I apologize for his actions,” the old man said, without once looking in Vulfram’s direction. He reached down and grabbed Bracken’s hand. Vulfram removed his foot, allowing his old friend to help the man to his feet. Bracken huffed and puffed while the two walked back to their place of waiting.

His blood still racing, Vulfram looked from the magister to the accused children, to Alexander and Yenge, who lingered just inside the doorway, cowering near the shadows as if they didn’t want to be seen. Vulfram shook his head and approached Lyana, kneeling before her, taking her chin in one hand and wiping away her tears with the other.

“Tell me, child,” he whispered. He fought to keep his hand still, to keep his jaw from trembling. “What they say…is it true?”

It broke his heart the way she looked at him, quivering in fear as if he were a monstrous stranger. Even when he lowered his voice to the levels he had used to tell her stories when she was a young child, her fear never left her. Was he that kind father no longer? Had that man become a distant memory? Was he now just a stranger arriving in their midst to pass judgment?

“Be honest, Lyana,” he said. “Karak is merciful to the truthful. You have nothing to fear, not from me. Just tell me the truth. Is the magister right?”

Lyana met his eyes, looked away, and then nodded.

Vulfram’s heart broke once more.

“I stopped bleeding,” she whispered in a timid voice only he could hear. “I was scared. Mother said I was to marry Boris Corineau, and Kris said his father would kill him if he found out. I’m so sorry, father. No one was to find out. The oil wasn’t to leave a trace-that’s what he said! Please.…”

Vulfram peered to the side, to where Kristof stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“And where did you get the crim oil?” Vulfram asked. The boy simply continued staring, his body shaking so hard Vulfram feared his heart would stop. “Speak, son. Where did you get the oil?”

“He got it from me.”

Vulfram stood up and faced the voice. It was Broward, his childhood friend, who had spoken. He stood in front of his still fuming son. Broward took a single step, his hands held out in supplication.

“You?” asked Vulfram, wondering if the day could get any worse. “Why?”

“The boy came to me, knowing I had plenty because of my cattle. So I gave him a few vials and told him the decision was his.”

“You left poison…and a decision with such dire consequences…to a child?”

Broward bobbed his head at Magister Wentner. “As the magister said, they ceased being children the moment his cock entered her.”

Vulfram couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was his old friend. They’d played siege the castle together among the tall elm and maple trees of the surrounding forest, shared stories of first kisses. And now, to hear him speak in such a way to him…even worse, he seemed to not care that he’d given Vulfram’s daughter-and Broward’s own grandson-a potent remedy he knew damn well to be unlawful.

Vulfram didn’t know what to do. Wavering in place, he cast his gaze on them all, begging for a sign from his god. Please, Karak, give me guidance, he silently pleaded. He looked to his daughter once more, saw her bawling in her whore’s garb. Deep inside him, something snapped.

“Get out!” he roared. “All of you, out!”

“But Lord Commander, there must be a verdict,” said Magister Wentner. “I must witness Karak’s justice as it is passed down.”

Vulfram leveled a lethal gaze at the old man and pointed a thick, shaking finger at him. “I couldn’t give a shit about what you must do, old man. Karak’s justice can wait for tomorrow, after I’ve had time to think. Now everyone. Fuck off!”

The people departed, filing out of the interior courtyard with quickened paces. Vulfram breathed heavily, watching them leave with disdain in his eyes. When Magister Wentner started to grab the chains binding the two children, Vulfram stopped him.

“My son will watch over them tonight,” he said.

The magister didn’t dare argue.

Alexander came over, helping Kristof to his feet, then Lyana. The two were quiet but for their sniffling. Vulfram wanted to embrace them, to tell them everything would be well, but he couldn’t. Not now. What he wanted was answers, and not from them. From his son, who looked at his sister as if she were less than human.

“Alexander,” he said.

“Yes, Father?”

“Why did you turn your sister in instead of notifying me? Do you want her enslaved or dead?”

“No, Father,” he said, coldly. “I wish her truthful and pure, not deceitful. But I suppose I have higher expectations of our blood than you do.”

“She is my daughter.”

“And she is my sister, and I love her no less. Yet she sinned and shamed the family. Not even the offspring of the great Lord Commander are unbound from Karak’s law. Or have you forgotten that?”

Without thinking, Vulfram backhanded his son across the face. The boy stumbled back a step, the side of his lip cut, his motions dragging Kristof and Lyana along with him. His hand reached up to touch his cheek, already swelling. When he looked at his father, he appeared genuinely hurt.

“Don’t speak to me that way,” Vulfram said, his voice ice. “Like you know better. Like you could stand for a moment in these shoes.”

Alexander’s tone shifted, becoming more contrite. “Forgive me,” he said, his head bowed. “I never meant to disrespect you. You always taught me that Karak’s will and judgment ruled over all else. That his laws must be obeyed and enforced, no matter what. So I did as you have always taught me. I thought you would be proud.”

It was Vulfram’s turn to feel ashamed. He gazed at his son, all grown up and taking responsibility just as he had done at that age. Tears formed in the corners of Vulfram’s eyes, tears it cost him to hold at bay.

“You’re right, son. I’ve lost my way. I…I’m.…”

He thought of Karak and the god’s last words to him before he went on his sojourn forty years before. “I have faith in you, Vulfram,” he had said. “You will be tested, and tested greatly, but there is no test that you cannot pass.” He wished that were true, for he felt lost. More than anything, he wished Karak were there with him now, to offer him guidance, to give him strength.

Vulfram pulled Alexander in close, held the sides of his face as he pressed his own forehead against his son’s.

“You were right,” he said, his voice nearly pleading. “But don’t you dare stop loving her, sin or not. That I could never forgive. Do you understand me?”

Alexander swallowed, and he saw sudden guilt flicker in his eyes, then understanding.

“Good,” Vulfram said. “Take the guilty to the magister’s hovel. But clean them up beforehand. And tell the magister that he is to treat them with respect, unless he wishes to have a personal meeting with Darkfall. Tomorrow we gather at the common green, in the shade of the statue of the lion, at high noon. I will carry out Karak’s justice then, whatever I determine it to be.”

“Yes, Father,” Alexander said with a bow, and went about escorting the two youngsters out of the courtyard. Vulfram heard Lyana plead for him to stop, to let her stay the night in her own bed, but he closed his ears to the outside world.

Caleigh tried to comfort him as he made his way back to the manor, but it did no good. Even Yenge’s words did nothing to improve his mood. He brushed his wife aside, no longer thinking of how he wanted to bed her, but instead telling her he wished to spend the night alone.

It was only half a lie.

He went to Mori Manor’s temple, located at the eastern end of the structure. It was a tall room, the ceiling as high as the manor’s three floors. In the center of the temple was a life-sized statue of Karak, the first ever sculpted by Vulfram’s father. The statue faced the east, twelve feet tall and imperial in stature. Vulfram knelt on the pew before the statue, staring up at the visage of his most beloved god, and prayed.

Late afternoon gave way to twilight, which gave way to night, and still Vulfram moved nary a muscle. He stayed on his knees with his hands clasped before him, uttering words of entreaty. When his stomach rumbled, he did nothing. When darkness moved over the room like the tide over the shore, he did nothing. When the air grew cold, he shivered and did nothing else. Before long he knelt in near complete darkness, gazing up at a vague yet mighty outline of holy strength, as tormented as if he were trapped in the bottommost level of the underworld.

His mind was beginning to falter, his body to give out, when suddenly he heard a soft scraping sound, like linens being rubbed against a grainy surface. He blinked his eyes, bleary with sleep, and watched the god’s outline shift before him. It moved as if crouching, until it lay across the expanse of the statue’s platform, no longer part of the statue, which remained exactly as it had been when Vulfram entered the temple.

The silhouette of a massive hand reached forward and snapped its fingers. Candles flamed to life all around him, illuminating the temple with vaporous light. Vulfram could have wept with joy. There he was, live and in the flesh-Karak, reclining on the dais as if the hard marble were the most comfortable surface in both kingdoms. His huge yellow eyes gazed at Vulfram with compassion and wisdom.

“My Lord,” Vulfram gasped.

“My son,” said Karak, his voice loud and booming, seemingly shaking the temple. The statue above, a perfect likeness in white and black marble, trembled. “I heard your prayers. Something troubles you.”

Vulfram lowered his head. “I have lost my faith, my Lord,” he said, before cowardice could change his mind. When the tears came, he did nothing to stop them. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.”

Karak’s leisurely posture didn’t waver. “You have done no such thing, my son. Why would you think so?”

“My daughter has sinned gravely, yet I do not wish to punish her. More than anything, I wish to take her into my arms and flee this place, running forever if I must. It’s a desire I don’t think I can overcome.”

Karak stared at him with glowing eyes seeming to burn right into his soul, bringing warmth to his quivering bones. “You can overcome anything,” said the god. “I have faith in you.”

“What if that faith is misplaced?”

The god grabbed his shoulder, engulfing nearly a quarter of his body in his palm. “It is not. I know you will do what is right and that all who deserve judgment shall receive it.”

Vulfram nodded. “I have no choice in the matter, do I?”

“There is always a choice, my son. Most often, knowing the correct one is not the hard part. No, what takes courage, what takes strength, is making the choice we know is right despite every desire otherwise. Do you love me?”

“Of course. More than anything.”

“Then remember that my love supersedes all. If it is torment you fear, remember that the greatest torment would be to exist knowing I am no longer by your side. Do not run, not from me, and not from what you know is right.”

The god touched a finger to his forehead, and white light filled his vision.…

He awoke on the floor of the temple, his face resting in a small puddle of his own drool. The sunrise cast sparks of shimmering red on the statue above him. Vulfram lifted his head and gazed at the statue. The only sign of Karak’s visit was the aching hole in Vulfram’s heart. His back sore from sleeping on the hard floor, he limped out of the temple, shutting the door quietly behind him. He heard Ulrich and Oris’s children playing in the sitting room and smelled the sweet, narcotic scent of bacon frying over an open fire. Yenge’s voice cut through the morning air as she sang the sad song of love and loss she had sung to him on their first night together. His family, those who had not betrayed his trust, was waiting for him. It should have filled him with happiness, but it did not.

His decision was made. He had the hole in his heart to thank for that.

The sky was ominous, but even so, the effigy of the lion cast a long shadow over the damp grass that covered Erznia’s center square. Even more townspeople gathered than before, onlookers who congregated on the fringes of the assembly. The whole square was a giant bundle of nervous energy.

Vulfram strode to the center, feeling like a statue carved and come to life. He gazed at Bracken Renson, who stared back at him with fearful eyes. Where was the man who had so brazenly attacked Alexander the day before? In his stead was a frightened, yet hopeful, child. Vulfram wasn’t sure what had brought about this change, nor did he care. Bracken realized his son’s fate rested in the hands of the Lord Commander. Perhaps that was it.

He stepped up to the executioner’s stone, a thigh-high slab of granite positioned in the corner of the lion’s shadow. The only other time it had been used was fifteen years ago, when a rapist had been caught stalking the young girls of Erznia. It had been Joseph Crestwell who’d doled out Karak’s justice that day, just as it was Vulfram who would carry it out today. The stone still bore the faintest hint of the rapist’s blood.

Taking in a deep breath, Vulfram turned to address the crowd.

“We have gathered here today to bear witness to the punishment of Kristof Renson and Lyana Mori. They have been found guilty of infanticide, one of the worst sins against our god and creator, Karak, the Divinity of the East. Our race is in its infancy, and the lives blessed by our god are precious and rare. To end a life before it has even begun is not only a crime against Karak, but against all of us. The cost of this sin has been decreed by the Divinity himself, and that judgment is final. Bring out the guilty!”

A rumble passed through the crowd as Magister Wentner led a hooded Kristof and Lyana through them, flanked by Alexander and Vulfram’s scarred brother, Oris. The emotions of the assembly grew tenfold with each passing moment, some sobbing, some shouting in disbelief, a select few jeering. Those jeers cut into Vulfram, but he hardened his heart against them. To think on what he had to do, to dwell on the horror…he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, so he let it pass over him like water across a stone. Someone shouted “Karak!” and threw a rotten potato that exploded against Lyana’s pale, cream-colored gown, bathing her in stinking juices. He should have been enraged, but instead it was like a stake driven into the hole in his heart. At least the whore’s outfit and makeup had been washed off her. Lyana was about to greet her fate; at least she could do so with some measure of dignity.

The pair was brought before him and their hoods were removed. Lyana’s rosebud lips twitched and tears cascaded down her cheeks, but Kristof’s expression was wistful, almost dreamlike. His bloodshot eyes gazed up at him, and a half-smile appeared on his lips. Just looking at him, Vulfram felt a new respect for the doomed boy.

Then Kristof stepped forward, fell to one knee, and said, “I have sinned against my god. I accept the penalty without reproach, Lord Commander.”

Vulfram’s respect heightened even more. He nodded to the magister, who guided the boy back to his feet. Onto the executioner’s slab went his head. Oris began to walk away, to rejoin his wife and children at the forefront of the assembly, but Vulfram grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“Make sure they don’t turn away,” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “Neither your children nor your wife. They must learn a lesson from this. Not even the blood of the First Families supersedes our responsibility to the one who created us. Understand?”

His scarred brother nodded before Vulfram released him. Oris held his wife close and guided his two children in front of him, making sure they had the best view of all.

Vulfram drew Darkfall from its sheath on his back. The steady hiss that followed crept along on the breeze, making the crowd shiver. He held the sword aloft with both hands, the blade shimmering beneath the cloudy sky. Kristof offered the tiniest of whimpers from his place on the stone.

“Karak, have mercy on the soul of this sinner, who has so bravely accepted his fate. May he reach Afram safely and in the afterlife find the peace we all seek.”

Hands gripped tightly, muscles tensed, Vulfram brought the sword down as hard as he could. The cutting edge sliced through the boy’s neck, easily severing the spine. Deep in the crowd, the boy’s father screamed. The head fell to the grass and rolled five times before stopping. Kristof’s visage stared blankly at the overcast sky, while a few feet away a stream of blood spurted from the stump of his neck. The body shuddered, went taut, and then slumped to the side. The blood flow trickled until it finally stopped, bathing the stone in a fresh coat of red.

Servants came forward to take the body and head, placing both on a flat hay cart supplied by the Renson house, before toting the cart away. Magister Wentner and his young steward then yanked a shrieking Lyana to meet her fate. Vulfram halted them, gesturing instead for Alexander and Oris to approach once more. He heard Karak’s words in his head: All parties who deserve judgment shall receive it.

“There is another who has been judged,” Vulfram shouted to the crowd. “One who betrayed Karak through his irresponsibility and lack of wisdom. It is because of this man that the children have sinned, and his own involvement cannot go without retribution. Broward Renson, it is time for you to answer for your sins.”

Broward, who had been consoling his weeping son and daughter-in-law, looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. The crowd gasped. Broward tried to flee, but the gathered bodies formed a barrier behind him, blocking his exit. Bracken collapsed on the ground and his weeping intensified as Oris and Alexander snatched his father by the arms and hauled him backward, kicking and screaming, toward the stone.

“You can’t do this Vulfram!” Broward shouted, panic making his voice crack. “We grew up together! We were friends!”

“Friendship is not enough,” Vulfram said coldly.

Oris and Alexander forced Broward to his knees. The man struggled mightily, but his bones were too old, his muscles too tired to resist the strong hands that held him. His head was pushed against the stone, his cheek slipping against the blood that still glistened on its surface.

“Accept your fate like your grandson did,” growled Vulfram as he raised Darkfall for a second time. “With honor.”

“This isn’t right!” shouted Broward. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro-”

The sword came down, cutting off the protesting man’s words. Broward’s head rolled away much like Kristof’s had, but his body stilled faster. Vulfram glared down at the corpse of the man he had called friend, the same man who had sealed his daughter’s fate. Momentarily overwhelmed by his anger, he spit on the headless body before the servants came to take it away.

Vulfram re-sheathed his sword, its blade coated in the blood of the guilty, and turned at last to the remaining sinner. Lyana stared back at him, her eyes wide with shock, her body trembling. His face a mask, hiding his emotions, denying the pounding of his heart, he pointed at her and flicked his finger. Magister Wentner and his steward stripped Lyana of her clothing, leaving her exposed to all of Erznia.

With a crooking of his finger, Vulfram summoned three women from the hushed crowd. The Sisters of the Cloth appeared like phantasms, beings covered from head to foot in gray wrappings and cloaks. Only their eyes peered through slits in their hoods.

Vulfram faced his daughter. “Karak’s will is clear; those accused of the most heinous of crimes must be punished, and that punishment is binding. Lyana Mori, daughter of Vulfram and Yenge, you have murdered the child within you, and for that crime, you are henceforth sentenced to twenty-five lashings and a lifetime of servitude to the Sisters of the Cloth. Never again shall your face be seen by eyes other than your suitors’, and no longer may you have a will of your own. Any children you birth shall become wards of the kingdom, and you shall give them up willingly. Do you understand your sentence?”

Lyana didn’t answer. She simply gaped at her father, shaking, whimpering, pleading.

In many ways, Vulfram felt Kristof was luckier than his daughter. Given the infancy of humanity, it was against Karak’s law to execute a woman of childrearing age except in the most extreme circumstances. Women who served with the Sisters were condemned to a life of isolation and servitude to prove their fidelity to their god. They pleased men, served as nursemaids, or worked as enforcers of Karak’s law, depending on their talents. They could have no belongings other than the attire of the order, and they could not show any part of their body in public other than their eyes. Lyana might have escaped the blade, but she was now presented with a fate many considered worse than death-she would become less than human, a tool for men and their god, an empty vessel whose personal wants and desires counted for nothing.

The Sisters approached Lyana and dragged her to the stone. Two held down her hands, while the third carried the wrappings and cloak that would become her nearly constant attire. She was left exposed to the crowd, her body glistening with sweat as she struggled against the Sisters’ restraints. She cried out into the late afternoon air, her voice filled with anguish.

Magister Wentner handed Vulfram a whip whose five strands were barbed with tiny, sharp stones. Lyana wept and writhed before him as he brought his arm back.

“Karak forgive me,” he whispered and lashed out with the whip.

The strands gouged Lyana’s flesh, opening ugly gashes that trickled blood down her buttocks and thighs. “Daddy, stop!” she screamed, the cry of a wounded animal, and Vulfram swung again.

As the whip sheared his daughter’s back, flecks of bloody skin flying into the air with each crack, he saw her as a child in his lap while he read to her before the fire; saw her at the dinner table, picking through her vegetables with a sour look on her face; saw her in bed at night, listening to his stories of Karak’s glory. Tears fell from his eyes, but his arm performed his duty. The air was filled with the crack of the whip and his daughter’s wailing. The crowd remained strangely silent. He refused to look at anything but Lyana, didn’t want to see his wife’s face as he doled out their daughter’s punishment. He hoped Alexander and Caleigh were watching. He hoped they learned the bitter cost of their faith. The memories slowly faded away until nothing was left but the sinner and the lashing of the whip.

By the time he had finished and the Sisters had dressed Lyana’s battered form in the wrappings that would stay with her for the rest of her natural life, Vulfram felt nothing, nothing at all.