Dawn of Swords

CHAPTER 16

Bardiya awoke to the sound of a strange bird cawing. He shifted on his bed of leaves, mindful of the bundles of fur nestled against his sides. One of the bundles exhaled a sleepy breath, and the stink of rotting meat hit Bardiya’s nostrils. He cringed and turned his head aside.

He opened his eyes and tilted up his head. The two wolves, a male and female who frequented the fringes of Stonewood, had arrived early that morning to slumber beside him, as they often did. They had taken a shine to him two years earlier, accompanying him when he slept beneath the canopy beside the Corinth River on the southern periphery of the Stonewood Forest. He slipped his hands beneath their bellies and lifted them as he sat up, careful not to injure them by squeezing too hard. Part of the problem with his ever-increasing size, he had found, was that his strength continued to increase proportionately. He had only tested the extent of this newfound strength on a few occasions, but the last time he had, he’d lifted a felled tree blocking his hiking trail and hurled it a good twenty feet. Such strength made tender moments a difficult proposition, for he feared that in a moment of distraction he might crush someone.

It was still somewhat dark as his fists rubbed at the sleep dust rimming his eyes. The morning was overcast, gray clouds billowing through the gradually changing leaves of the canopy above him. He stood to crack his back, causing the still dozing wolves to yelp and rise from their new resting spot. His entire body ached as if he’d been running for hours without end. I must have grown again, he thought. I wonder if it will ever stop. A touch of fright prickled his insides as he considered the ramifications of that idea. What would happen if he outgrew the world, if he became so big that he towered over not only the trees but the world itself, a solitary being with his feet anchored on solid ground while his hands touched the stars above? The imagery was terrifying.

The strange bird cawed again. It was such an odd, out-of-place sound. Bardiya prided himself on knowing every species of animal he came across, from lizards to antelope, to fish, to birds, but this particular call he’d never heard before. He moved toward the noise, hoping to catch sight of the creature, when a rush of air blew past his ear. A weak smidgeon of pain followed, biting his shoulder like an insect, and a surprised yelp sounded from behind him. Bardiya glanced at his bare shoulder, where he could plainly see a strip of glistening red. He touched the spot, gazing at his fingertips as if it were the first time he’d ever seen blood, and then he realized there was an animal bawling behind him.

Bardiya whirled around. The bawling came from the female wolf, who was nestled up against her mate. The male was on his side, tongue lolling, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his skull. It took Bardiya a moment to realize what was happening. When he finally did, anger cascaded through him, and his ears caught the barely perceptible thwump of a bowstring being pulled taut.

His body seemed to react on its own, a survival instinct he had never known he possessed coming into effect. He veered to the side, his movements lumbering but quick, as another arrow pierced the space he’d just occupied. His knees struck the ground, but his body felt weightless. His fingers wrapped around a heavy stone half buried in the soft loam of the riverbank. Yanking it free, he spun on his knees and hurled it as hard as he could at the treetops. The stone was large, as big as a man’s head, and the crashing sound it made as it ripped through the branches was like a hundred sparrows panicking and taking flight at once. The stone hit a tree trunk with a thump, and someone screamed. From above a solitary figure plummeted down, arms and legs undulating as it fell.

The figure struck the ground in front of him and bounced twice. A series of agonized groans emanated from him or her. The bow his attacker held had snapped on impact. The female wolf, seeing the one who had killed her mate, rose up on her haunches and skulked forward, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Stop,” Bardiya said. He held out his hand, ready to use the seducing whisper should his friend refuse to obey, but the wolf sat down obediently, gazing up at him with gray, impatient-looking eyes. Bardiya knelt down, caressed the wolf’s back, and kissed her on the snout. She snarled a bit in return, but he did not react. He knew her aggression was not aimed at him, but at the rolling, moaning figure that had fallen from the treetops.

He ran his finger between the wolf’s eyes, beckoning it to stay put, and approached the wounded attacker. The gloom of the overcast morning made it difficult to see, but as he grew closer, he could plainly tell it was a male elf. He had the pristine, pale skin of the Dezren, the distinctive high cheekbones and slightly upturned nose, and he wore the standard earth-toned clothing. The elf’s left leg was bent at a dreadful angle, and one of his ribs had ripped through his chest, shimmering red and deadly at the jagged breaking point. As Bardiya knelt beside him, he realized he knew his attacker, knew him well. This was the elf who had discovered him with the kobo two years ago, the elf whose accusations had started the conflict between their people, poisoning Bardiya’s relationship with his father.

Bardiya scooped his oversized hand under the elf’s head. The elf’s eyelids blinked rapidly, as if he were trying to adjust to the light, and a bubble of blood popped on his lips.

“Davishon, why did you attack me?” he asked.

The elf moaned in reply. Despite all that had just happened, Bardiya’s heart broke.

Placing Davishon’s head back on the ground, he went to work, shoving the protruding rib back beneath the flesh, forcibly straightening the shattered leg, and tearing open the elf’s tunic. Davishon screeched the whole time. When he was done, Bardiya crossed his legs and laid his hands on the elf’s chest. What followed was his healing prayer, a song that he imagined lifting into the air and floating across Dezrel, directly into the ears of his god. He felt the burning in his hands that always followed, and suddenly the inside of his eyelids was awash with light. In that instant he felt every trauma that had befallen the elf-the broken bones, the punctured lung, the ruptured kidney, the fractured skull. Those sensations began to lessen the more intensely he prayed, the healing magic flowing from his heart, pouring out his fingertips. The elf below him gasped as if waking from a dream, his body stitching itself back together, piece by piece, with a speed accelerated by Bardiya’s faith.

The light subsided and Bardiya fell back, exhausted. He slumped to the ground, striking his elbow on an exposed root. It hurt, but he was too drained to utter a cry of pain. He heard the shuffling of a body hastily retreating and opened his eyes.

Davishon was kicking himself across the ground, backing up until he collided with the base of a tree. When he could move no more, he glanced over himself, as if in disbelief. His eyes flicked up and met Bardiya’s, his hands touching the spot on his chest where his rib had pushed through.

“You…you healed me?” he whispered.

Bardiya nodded.

Davishon’s eyes darted to his shattered bow, then up into the treetops, where a quiver full of arrows dangled from a branch high above. Once more he turned to the giant who had healed his mortal wounds, and his lips quivered.

“Why?”

“I harmed you with my actions,” Bardiya sighed. “I have sworn to protect life, not harm it. It was only right to mend the body that I broke.”

Davishon stared at him blankly.

The female wolf, still sitting obediently as Bardiya had left her, let out a low, threatening growl. Bardiya gestured toward it.

“I feel you owe someone an apology,” he said. “You killed her mate, whom she’d been with since she was just one year old.”

The elf glanced from Bardiya to the wolf and then back again, but said nothing.

Bardiya drew in a deep breath, gathering his patience. “Davishon, I know you do not like me-perhaps even hate me. But I ask again…why did you try to kill me?”

Davishon’s eyes widened.

Bardiya touched the now-healed slice where the arrow had grazed him. “Please, Davishon. For the respect of this land and its beauty, tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” said the elf. His expression became one of angst-ridden regret, even as he suddenly jumped to his feet. “If you hurry, there still may be time.”

“Time for what?”

Davishon’s eyes, glowing as the sun began to melt away the cloud cover, grew wide with despair. “The morning prayers. The mangold grove. Be quick. And again, I’m sorry.”

The elf disappeared into the cover of trees. Bardiya heard splashing as Davishon crossed the river at a breakneck pace. He mulled over the elf’s words, completely befuddled, until the wolf beside him whimpered. He glanced over and saw that she was once again lying against her dead mate. He watched the blood that still flowed around the base of the arrow shaft, dripping over the creature’s unblinking eyes and pooling on the ground. Bardiya gasped, a lightning bolt of horror piercing his soul.

There may still be time. The mangold grove.

He leapt to his feet and ran. He ran faster than he ever had before, his long legs covering yards with each stride. In a span of mere moments he was out of the Stonewood borderlands and dashing across open fields that stretched out as far as his eyes could see.

The mangold grove. Morning prayers.

He ran faster.

A few miles outside the village of Ang there lay an isolated grove overflowing with broad-leafed flora whose stems shone red as blood. The mangolds were abundant there, the only place in all of Ashhur’s Paradise they could be found. Bessus often talked of how the air was different in the grove, sweeter and more life sustaining. His father also spoke of how the mangolds were red because their roots were connected to the heart of the land. Much like the black spire, it was a wholly unique place, which was why Bardiya’s parents and a select few of their people gathered there each morning to bestow their blessings on Ashhur in thanks for the life the god had given them.

If Davishon knew about the grove, and about the prayers conducted there, then so did others of his race.…

He shoved his sore, oversized body to its limits. He ran over the hilly ground, grass whipping against him like a million tiny knives, opening slender cuts on his bare shins and knees, while roots, briars, and stray twigs gouged the bottoms of his bare feet. As he ran, the sun slowly climbed higher in the sky, and his body soaked with sweat that evaporated beneath its heat.

It was closing in on late morning by the time he heard the first of the shouts. The bunching of willow and palm trees that contoured the grove came into view. Bardiya pushed himself harder, the echo of those pained, continuous wails piercing his ears like a flaming knife. He roared, moving much too quickly as he came upon the bordering trees and ground cover, his right foot catching a vine and sending him sprawling. Soaring forward, his side struck a thick trunk, which sent him spiraling in the other direction. He put out his hands to brace his fall as he flipped over and over again, his vision a wash of coalescing color. His hip struck the ground first, sending a bolt of pain across his abdomen, and when his back struck something fleshy yet substantive he heard a shout of surprise.

He came to rest on his hands and knees, panting, the ache in his bones cramping his gut and making it difficult to focus. The red and green of the mangolds were beneath him now, but there was something strange about it; the red stems glistened in the soft glow of the late morning sun, appearing much more visceral than they should have.

People bellowed orders. Others howled in misery. A shadow loomed over him, as giant as he, and the sound of displaced air swooshed past his ear. He flinched and was struck with a jolt, something sharp sinking into in his collarbone. Whatever it was didn’t strike him deep-Bardiya’s bones were thick and strong, and they had never been broken in all his long life.

He snapped to attention, flicking his massive hands out in a warding off motion, sending the figure before him flying. He sat up then, grabbed the object jutting from his flesh, and tore it free. It was a slender blade, a khandar of the sort he had often seen the elves wield in their sparring matches. The steel was soaked red. The air grew thick with an eerie silence. His gaze shifted from the blade to the grove before him, and his heart caught in his throat. The strange color infusing the mangold was blood; the ground was coated with it. There were bodies resting in the tangled plants, unmoving, their forms athletic, their flesh dark. There were eight elves before him, all armed with blood-soaked swords of their own, save the one closest to him. They formed a semicircle around three terrified, huddled forms: Gordo and Tulani Hempsmen, and their young daughter, Keisha. Their water-rimmed eyes lifted to meet his, and they huddled even closer together.

The elves made no move against him. They froze as if they knew not what to do, like a group of deer mesmerized by a predator. Bardiya shut his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to steady himself, trying to quell the pain that squeezed his bones. Slowly he rose to his feet. He approached the first prone body and used his foot to roll it over. It was Zulon Logoros, his father’s most ardent spiritual advisor. Zulon’s neck had been split from ear to ear. Blood-bubbled gasps still issued from his mouth, even though the man’s heart no longer beat and breath no longer blew from his lungs.

There were six bodies beside that one. He knew who two of them were without turning them over. His ardent desire was to collapse beside his parents’ remains, to weep and howl over them and bathe their faces with his tears. Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros, First Family of Ker, embraced even in death, their eyes shut against the horror of their fate.

Bardiya stood tall, his shoulders back, his vision marred red with his fury.

“Why?” he bellowed.

There was no answer from the elves, only action. The one in front, whose khandar had been embedded in Bardiya’s neck, clucked his tongue. The other seven surged past him, swords raised, their war cries pulsing through the air.

Despite the danger, Bardiya felt unnaturally calm. He still held the khandar in his hand, his fingers so large that they could have wrapped around the handle twice. The thing looked pathetically small in comparison to his great size. He swung the sword sideways as two elves came near enough to hack at him. So powerful was his strike that the attackers’ blades shattered on impact, as did his own. Shards of metal rained to the mangold-covered ground with the sound of tinkling glass.

Bardiya tossed the broken khandar aside and grabbed one of the elves, lifting him as if he were nothing. With a cry, he launched him through the air. The body struck another two assailants, knocking them over like a gale-force wind. Bardiya snatched up a fallen limb from a willow tree, this weapon far more comfortable in his grasp. With an easy swing he cracked the other nearby elf across the face, snapping his head back. A gush of red ejected from his mouth as he fell.

There was sound behind him, soft footsteps and crinkling leaves. Without thinking, Bardiya flipped the tree limb to his side and thrust it backward. It met resistance, followed by the gasp of someone struggling for air. Two more elves came at him from the front, trying to keep their distance, maximizing their reach with elongated lunges. It meant nothing, though; Bardiya’s arms gave him a reach far greater than that of the short, lithe elves. His branch crashed through their bodies, smashing bones, pushing aside their blades as if in mockery of their futile attempts at defense.

One of the elves held up his hand, halting the others from advancing. Bardiya looked at him closely, studying his face, and recognized him as one of those who had come to threaten Ang after Bardiya’s merciful slaying of the kobo. The elf’s name was Ethir, and a hateful sneer twisted his lips.

“Leave,” Bardiya said in a low murmur, “and tell Cleotis to never step foot in our land again. Do that, and I will let you live.”

“Cleotis is in Stonewood no longer,” Ethir replied, puffing his chest out to look bigger, a fool’s gesture with Bardiya so close by. “His reign was weak and foolish. I answer only to Detrick Meln, the new Lord of Stonewood. Your threats mean nothing to me.”

“They should,” Bardiya said.

“And what of them?” the elf asked. He gestured toward the Hempsmen family, still surrounded by the remaining elves. The parents cried as they held their daughter close. Blades rested against all three of their necks.

“Would you let your grief doom them as well?” Ethir asked. Bardiya let his body relax, let his head dip in defeat. Ethir laughed, and the anger that had fueled Bardiya’s earlier rampage returned. He leapt from his kneeling position, crossing the distance between them with shocking speed. His hands clamped around Ethir’s shoulders, and with a simple twist of his waist he slammed the elf into a nearby tree. Ethir’s head crashed against the trunk, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The remaining elves drew their bows and aimed in his direction. Going against his every inner principle, Bardiya screamed over his shoulder, “Which is faster, your arrows or my hands? Put them down, or I’ll cave in his skull!”

He sensed their uncertainty, saw the tension of the men who held the family captive. Bardiya prayed Ethir was important enough for them to make such a compromise. It appeared as though he were. Bows dipped, and the elves stepped aside so Gordo and Tulani Hempsmen could shuffle their daughter out of the grove. He hoped they reached safety, that there weren’t more elves lying in wait around the grove.

Bardiya turned to his captive, who coughed and wheezed under his grip. Ethir’s expression was no longer quite so impudent. The elf looked frightened. Bardiya took a deep breath. Never before had the commandment of forgiveness been so hard.

“I do not know why you hate us so,” he said, “nor why you wish us harm. If my parents had lived through this, they would have hunted you down and placed your heads on spikes along the Corinth’s western banks. But I am not my parents. I am Bardiya Gorgoros of Ker, the land we have so named. Violence is not in my heart, nor in the hearts of my people. You will never again see us near your forest home, but hear this: should you ever step foot into these plains again with any intention but love and cooperation, I will strike you down. That is a promise, from one man of honor to another. Am I understood?”

Ethir nodded.

“Good.”

Bardiya released his grip, allowing the elf to fall. Ethir stood up shakily, brushed himself off, and flexed his arms. He whistled to his fellow elves, and one by one they disappeared from the thicket. Ethir was the last to leave, fixing Bardiya with one final, conflicted stare.

“You will not see us again,” the elf said.

“Before you go,” said Bardiya. “I must know. Please. Was this my fault, because of our misunderstanding about the birds?”

Ethir shook his head. “Birds? No, giant, there are things much greater than you moving through this world now. I will not weep for the rulers of House Gorgoros, but neither would I have moved against them if not for the gods. Put the blame on them, if you must.”

Before Bardiya could ask him what he meant, the elf ducked out of sight. Once he was gone, an emptiness flooded into Bardiya’s massive chest. The tree limb, the blood on it still drying, dropped from his limp fingers. Slowly he shuffled over to where his parents lay. He fell to his knees before them, rolling them apart so that he might gaze at their beautiful faces. He placed his hands on their broken, blood-soaked chests, and began uttering his prayers. In the back of his mind he knew it was hopeless, but in that moment he didn’t care. His father and mother, the people who had raised him, who had first imparted to him the glory of Ashhur and the virtues of peace and prosperity, were gone. No matter how much healing magic he poured out of his fingers, he could not reverse that.

Death was permanent-forever.

Tears flowed down his cheeks. He felt no hatred for the elves, but he wished he could dive into their minds. He wished he could hunt them down, drag them before the corpses, and plunge into them the sadness and ache he felt. But what could he do? What explanation was there for such madness? He scooped up the corpses, all seven of them, and positioned them in a line beneath the shade of the largest willow in the grove. That done, he knelt beside them and let loose his despair, weeping as he waited for the Hempsmen family to return with more of their people. Then they could begin the procession into the desert, where the bodies would be buried beneath the silhouette of the black spire.

Love and forgiveness, that is the key, he heard Ashhur’s voice whisper in his mind. Bardiya clung onto that mantra for all it was worth. The first man solely created by Ashhur, Bessus Gorgoros, was dead. As far as omens went, none could be darker or more ominous.