Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


33


She had been sitting at the feet of her god, listening to his sermon alongside her husband, Ibis, and their children, when the rider came barging into the temple. Soleh leapt up at the sight of the soldier—his skin was pale, his hair disheveled, and his armor hastily donned. She exchanged a look with Ulric, who shrugged his shoulders in reply. Adeline smiled at the newcomer, giggling madly to herself, as she had done for the majority of Karak’s homily. Soleh looked over at her husband, who had just grabbed her hand, and then at her god, whom she had crafted Ibis after, resplendent in his black platemail, his golden eyes peering at the man at the door.

“Why do you interrupt us?” Karak demanded, his voice excessively loud.

The soldier dropped to his knees in an instant, the clank of his platemail echoing through the hall of worship.

“Many apologies, my Lord,” he stammered. “It is not my purpose to intrude. I was sent by the Highest to inform our lady the Minister that her presence is required at the castle.”

Karak looked at Soleh, his eyes boring into her soul, and she shivered as she faced the soldier.

“Why would Highest Crestwell require me now? It is barely dawn.”

“He did not tell me, Minister. He said only that I must come fetch you and that it was a matter most dire.” The soldier gulped and turned to the god. “And…h-he said you would want to be there as well, my Lord.”

“Is that so?” Karak asked. The tone in his voice had not changed at all, but the sheer volume with which he spoke made it all the more imposing. The soldier bent his head even closer to the ground, his affirmation whispered so quietly that Soleh could only guess at his words.

“Very well,” said the god. “Take your leave of us.”

“Sh-shall I tell the Highest you will be arriving shortly?”

Karak smiled. “There will be no need of that.”

The soldier stood, bowed, and then clanked out the door as noisily as he’d arrived. Soleh glanced at her god, her beloved Karak, and held her hands together beneath her chin, awaiting his command.

“Ibis, take your children home to the Tower Keep. Stay there until I tell you your presence is required.”

Ibis bowed, so handsome with his twinkling eyes and dimpled chin, a near perfect replication of the god who was now addressing him. Then she glanced at Ulric, who had inherited many of those same traits. Soleh felt a shimmer of pride just looking at them, so long as she ignored Adeline, who continued her mad cackle, albeit under her breath now.

“I will, my Lord,” said Ibis. He grabbed Adeline by the wrist and dragged her out of the temple, where Soleh’s bodyguards awaited with a carriage. Ulric followed close behind.

“And what of me?” asked Soleh. “We arrived in a single wagon. Should I depart with them?”

“No, sweet Soleh,” Karak said, his voice lowered. “You require neither horse nor carriage—not when your creator is by your side.”

The deity held his hand out to her, which she took. He scooped her up, as though she were a small child, and carried her toward the inner sanctum of the temple, where darkness loomed. Soleh couldn’t stop staring at him as she rode along, drinking in his scent, fussing over every smooth line and crease in his perfectly chiseled face. So lost was she in her obsession that she never once thought of the words the soldier had spoken, nor of the aura of portent they carried.

Karak stepped behind his altar, around a vast collection of potted ferns that grew as tall as he, and entered the shadows. Soleh’s head grew dizzy, her vision swelling and then fading until all she saw was blackness. She felt herself reduced to the smallest of particles, soaring along the cosmos at a speed her human mind could not comprehend. She knew she should be alarmed, but the presence of her god surrounded her, infused her, soothed her, and Soleh Mori knew no fear.

When the light returned to her eyes, she could see a dimly lit sky in the distance. They were sheathed in darkness, beneath the stables on the far side of the Castle of the Lion. Soleh gasped in wonder. She knew Karak could ride shadows to wherever he wished, but she had never experienced it for herself. That she had been given the opportunity made her feel very blessed indeed.

Karak placed her two feet on the ground and gestured for her to lead the way. She did, feeling light as air, almost floating along the cobbled walk as she pulled open the door to Tower Justice. Karak did not enter, instead signaling for her to go on without him.

“Remember, sweet Soleh,” he said. “To maintain order, sacrifice is sometimes necessary.”

With that he turned away from her. She sighed, stepped into the tower, and closed the door behind her with a heavy thud.

Once inside, any lightness she’d felt instantly disappeared.

Standing in the rounded antechamber was Highest Crestwell. With him were Thessaly, Captain Gregorian, King Vaelor, two Sisters of the Cloth, and half of the Council of Twelve. They had been deep in discussion when she entered, a conversation that ceased so quickly, it was as if a thousand stones had been dropped on them all at once. Every eye turned her way, the group’s panic and anger shining through at her. Captain Gregorian seemed particularly fearsome; his face was so taut it seemed as though his flesh would split along the fissures in it. He wore common breeches and a tunic rather than armor, but his swordbelt was fastened around his waist. It was then she noticed his clothes were soaked with blood.

“What happened?” she asked, panic beginning to gallop up her spine. “Why have I been summoned?”

The Highest grimaced, giving King Vaelor a disapproving look. He then said, “You are the Minister of Justice, Soleh, and it is time to do your job.”

The king and the council members nodded in agreement, and then ushered their way out of the tower, without giving Soleh the courtesy of an acknowledgment. She felt more than insulted, though her anger could do nothing to override the fear of the unknown that was building up inside her.

“I demand to know what this is about,” she said, trying to sound forceful.

“You will,” mumbled the Captain.

The Sisters remained silent, as was their wont.

“Tell me, both of you. Now!”


“No!” the Highest snapped. Soleh was taken aback by both his tone and the better-than-thou look that crossed his face. “You will not make demands of me. I am still your superior, Minister. I expect you to treat me as such.”

Soleh forced her head to bow. “You have my apologies, Highest. Please, show me where I must be, so I can dispense Karak’s justice.”

Strangely, Clovis motioned to the two Sisters and allowed them to lead the way as he walked toward the staircase at the far end of the circular room. Captain Gregorian scaled the steps after him, with Soleh on his heels. She had to get up there. She had to see what was important enough to rip her from the arms of her beloved creator. Thessaly took up the rear, a guarded look on her face as she climbed the steps one at a time. She refused to look Soleh in the eye.

When they reached the courtroom’s antechamber on the second story of the tower, the Sisters walked straight through it, not stopping to wash their hands or to genuflect before the placard professing Karak’s commandments. Neither did Clovis. Soleh would not allow herself such insolence, though she seemed to be the only one who felt that way, as Captain Gregorian mimicked the Highest and Thessaly; normally just as much a stickler for court tradition as she was, he passed her by. Shivering, Soleh hastily wetted her hands with lukewarm water from the carafe, whispered a few quick words of praise to her god, and followed the rest into the main courtroom, where she promptly began to feel weak in the knees.

The scent hit her first, nearly knocking her off her feet. It was a pungent, coppery scent, smelling strongly of ammonia and human waste. The sight hit her second, and that finished the job the smell had started. She collapsed to one knee, holding a hand over her mouth, gagging.

Laid out in the middle of the courtroom, on a pair of wooden slabs, were two bloodied bodies that were so debased she couldn’t tell whether they were male or female. There was blood everywhere; it covered the corpses, the slabs. Drips even speckled the courtroom floor. Soleh noted, though not consciously, that one of the cadavers was unnaturally bloated, whereas the other was not. That accounted for the horrible smell.

“What…is this?” she gasped.

“Get off the dais,” said the Captain. “See who they are for yourself.”

She didn’t want to. In the name of all that was holy, she truly didn’t. Yet she saw in the faces all around her, save for those of the Sisters, which were expressionless as always, that this emergency call of justice would not commence until she had. She covered her nose with her hands, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for what lay ahead. She took each step deliberately, just as she had done every day for many, many years. The appalling odors became all the more dreadful the closer she came, but she dared not stop. She realized that the bodies belonged to a man and a woman. The woman was in a horrific state, completely disemboweled, while the man’s throat had been slit and his member mutilated. She grew pale.

Soleh looked at their faces closely, the only parts of either body that had been scrubbed clean of blood. Both were badly bruised and distended from the gases of death, but she almost immediately found something familiar about them. Then she noticed their hair—the woman’s was red and curly, the man’s brown with a few streaks of gray. Their identity hit her all at once, and she backpedaled, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

It was Crian Crestwell and the western deserter, Nessa DuTaureau.

Her eyes shot up, seeking out Clovis.

“I am so sorry,” she said, her voice echoing throughout the chamber.

The Highest scowled at her. “Save your apologies for when your duties are complete,” he said harshly.

Soleh wanted to retort but held her tongue. His outrage is understood, she thought. I cannot imagine how I would feel if I lost a child in this way. She thought of the time that had almost happened, when Oris had been badly burned, trapped in a raging fire while stupidly trying to rescue the three whores trapped inside. He had been unconscious for nearly a month, and during that time Soleh had been nearly inconsolable. There were moments when she’d wished she could take her son’s place. It was only when Oris finally opened his eyes—scarred for life, but alive—that she allowed herself to live once more. She then thought of Vulfram, residing in the same tower as the two of them, and immediately feared for his safety. He wasn’t there, not standing with the others, not dead on a slab. That could mean.…

She shook with fright even as she nodded to those who formed a bracketed line around the two corpses. She then made her way uneasily across the remainder of the courtroom floor, climbed the stairs on the other side, and took her place in the Seat of the Minister. Thessaly did not join her, instead remaining by her father’s side. The woman who had sat at Soleh’s right hand while she interpreted Karak’s justice for the guilty still refused to look at her. Soleh drummed her fingers on the armrest of the throne, a lump in her throat, and waited.

Captain Gregorian took two steps forward. He swallowed hard and snapped his feet together. Unlike the way he had been down in the antechamber, he was now completely composed and businesslike. It was a transformation that gave an illusion of normalcy to this strange and disturbing call to duty.

“Court is in session,” stated the Captain. He genuflected on one knee before the Seat of the Minister, then stood to his full height once more, following protocol.

“Bring out the accused,” Soleh said, fearful anticipation causing the knot in her stomach to tighten. Please let it not be him.

Gregorian bowed his head and made his way not to the main vestibule, which was where the criminals were normally ushered in from, but to the side passageway, built into the tower as an alternate route of escape in case of fire. The Captain yanked open the door and dipped inside. When he returned, he dragged behind him a stumbling man whose arms and legs were chained together. The man was bare chested, with a messy stubble of hair on the top of his head. His face was bruised and bloodied, and he walked with the lurch of one who’d either taken in far too much liquor or had been beaten senseless.

Soleh’s heart sank despite the shock of his condition.

She wheeled on the Highest. “Why is my son in this state? Why has he been beaten?”

“SILENCE!” screamed Clovis, his voice echoing so loudly, she could imagine it reaching the top of the spire. “Your responsibility on that throne is to pass judgment on the accused, not question the bearers of the law.”

She sat back down, flabbergasted and afraid.

Gregorian hauled Vulfram through the courtroom, past the onlookers, past the two mutilated corpses, and threw him down before her. Her son’s back flexed with each breath he took. He stayed where we was, on his shackled hands and knees, head down. The Captain walked in front of him and addressed the court.

“Before the Seat of the Minister I present Vulfram Jorah Mori, son of Ibis and Soleh, a man whose current position is that of Lord Commander of the Army of Karak. He stands accused of the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, children of Karak, the Divinity of the East.”

Soleh swallowed hard, trying her best to keep calm. “And who witnessed these crimes?”

“I have, Minister,” the Captain said, glaring down at Vulfram as he said it.

At those words, Vulfram vaulted up. His irons caught, limiting his movement, but he strained his neck, looking like he was trying to force his skeleton from his body. He stared up at Soleh, eyes so wide it seemed as though they might explode out of their sockets.


“It is not true!” he yelled. “I swear on all that is holy, it isn’t. You must believe me!”

Gregorian planted a boot in his back, knocking him to the floor, where he bashed his chin against the bottom step of the dais.

“He lies,” the Captain said. He reached behind him, pulled a knife from the bag that hung on the side of his belt opposite his sword. “I found him in the deceased’s room in the Tower Keep, passed out on the floor. The Lord Commander was completely unharmed, though he reeked of liquor and was covered with their blood. He held this blade in his hand—the very same blade responsible for the mutilation of the victims. I swear upon my life that this is true.”

Soleh believed him. Malcolm Gregorian was not a man predisposed to lying. He certainly believed Vulfram was the murderer and had found her son in a very compromising position. But was he mistaken? Had Vulfram been attacked by an unseen assailant and framed for the crime?

She shook her head and tugged at her hair, trying to ready herself for what might come next.

“Accused,” she said, as coldly as she could, “what say you?”

“It’s not true! I didn’t…I couldn’t.…” He sighed and dropped his head. “I have never seen that blade before in my life. Look at me, Minister. Mother! Do you think me capable of such atrocities?”

“What I think matters not,” replied Soleh, her heart breaking even more. “Only the facts do.”

The Captain stepped on the dais, handed Soleh the knife, and then beckoned Thessaly forward. Thessaly lifted a sack from beside the two bodies and emptied the contents. At least a dozen empty bottles and half as many wineskins fell to the floor.

“I discovered these strewn about the keep,” Gregorian said, looking beyond disgusted now. “Many are freshly emptied. With the amount of liquor consumed, I fear the accused would not be capable of remember his name, let alone his actions.”

“Is this true?”

Vulfram slid up on his knees, blood dribbling from his newly split lip. His bloodshot eyes drooped downward, and he nodded shamefully.

Soleh’s heart nearly dissolved in her chest, and she let out a long, agonized moan. The proof against her son—and his acknowledgment that he had been too intoxicated to remember anything—was staggering. He had been found in the room, covered in their blood, with the killing blade in his hand. She had sentenced men to death based on much less. A cry began to build in her throat, but she held it down. She remembered Karak’s last words to her before she entered Tower Justice: To maintain order, sacrifice is sometimes necessary.

He had known. All along, Karak had known, and in his love for her, he had allowed her to face this trial on her own, giving her the chance to prove herself worthy of him. That was when she realized that Vulfram would receive that same chance.

With renewed confidence, she looked down on her son and stated the required words.

“By the power of this court, handed down by Karak, the Divinity of the East and father to us all, I find you guilty of all charges and hereby sentence you to death by beheading. Do you accept this judgment with an open heart, knowing that Afram awaits if you are repentant, or do you wish to prove your faithfulness before the Final Judges?”

The Captain went to grab Vulfram, but her son shoved him away. He defiantly rose to his full height, threw his shoulders back, and said, “I will do it. I will prove my faithfulness.”

Inwardly, Soleh smiled. Standing up, she ordered her son taken to the Arena. She then glanced down at the knife, the murder weapon, and hefted it in one hand. It looked strangely familiar, but she could not recall why. She lifted it, staring at the finger notches, and ran her finger down the blade. Her memory betrayed her. She flipped it over and carried it with her as she descended the dais, hoping that the answer would come to her if she had longer to study it.

The truth was, she had other pressing things to worry over at the moment, for she knew in her heart that Vulfram was innocent, no matter what the evidence stated. She only hoped that Kayne and Lilah felt the same way.





The Captain of the Palace Guard shoved Vulfram down the cold, damp stairwell leading to the Arena, jostling him from side to side. His mother followed behind with a veritable posse, which oddly consisted of two members of the Sisters of the Cloth. They had arrived at Tower Justice perhaps an hour after Gregorian threw him into the courtroom’s barred emergency cell as he kicked and screamed, proclaiming his innocence all the while. He kept giving the Sisters sidelong glances. His loathing for them grew with each passing second, these beasts who had stolen his daughter away. He wanted nothing more than to toss Gregorian aside, break his shackles, and slice their throats.

Stop it, he admonished himself, wishing his chains allowed him enough freedom to reach up and slap his own face. They are not the enemy. Their lot has been forced on them, just as it was for Lyana.

Suitably shamed by his own common sense, he bit his tongue and concentrated on walking. Perhaps if he kept his mind on putting one foot before the other, Gregorian wouldn’t have to shove him around so maliciously.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairwell, the door was opened for him, and Gregorian guided him around the viewing platform to a second staircase, this one leading to the entrance to the Arena. Vulfram couldn’t help but feel a bit awed at the sight of this place. The ceiling was high, perhaps as tall as the top three floors of the Tower Keep combined. The area was lighted by what looked to be thousands of torches, lining the walls of the platform that overlooked the arena. The Arena itself was a huge circle ringed with massive boulders that seemed as smooth as marble. The entrance to the ring was an iron gate at least three times as tall as a man. There was an aura of hopelessness about the place, which, combined with the cold and damp air, made him feel almost despondent. He had never seen the place where Kayne and Lilah, his childhood companions, passed final judgment on the guilty, and he finally understood why any who had seen it called it the atrium of the abyss, the place where all hope goes to die.

Gregorian removed his shackles, unlocked the gate, swung it wide, and tossed him inside. The gate slammed shut a moment later, a certain finality to the sound. Vulfram lay sprawled out on the dirt of the arena floor, his entire body feeling like one gigantic bruise. Over the past few hours the Captain had physically accosted him, and for the last month, perhaps two, he had been spiritually battered by his own conscience. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and in a silent proclamation told himself he was through with the pain. This would be the end of it, of that he was certain. Kayne and Lilah would prove his faithfulness, and he would demand, right then and there, that his daughter be released.

A faint whisper met his ears. Vulfram lifted his head. It had sounded like his name. He squinted through the bars of the gate and into the blackness behind the staircase. There he saw a pair of eyes staring back at him, burning yellow like twin suns. He felt a gentle vibration in the air, the same whole-body tremor he experienced each time Karak came to visit him, and he clumsily scrambled to his feet. He was about to offer his respects to his god, but he paused. No one else on the platform above him, including his mother, seemed to have noticed that Karak was in attendance. He ran a hand over the stubble atop his head and turned away from the gate. If Karak wished to be noticed, he would have made himself visible. It was not Vulfram’s duty to honor his wishes.


Instead he faced the gathered onlookers and held his arms out wide.

“I wish to be judged!” he decreed. He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked nonetheless. Knowing that Karak was watching made him nervous, made him doubt the certainty of his innocence.

His mother waved her hand at Gregorian, who had reappeared on the platform and was standing next to the two Sisters. The Captain leaned over and pulled a massive lever. Pulleys spun and whined, and to his left a pair of iron gates, each larger than the one leading to the Arena, slowly grinded upward.

He turned to face the cages, two giant black holes like the eyes of eternity cut into the wall of rock. A low growl shook the very floor of the Arena, making loose particles of dirt bounce as if locked in a macabre dance. He took a few steps toward the grottos, slowly at first, then more quickly, more confidently, until finally one of the lions emerged from the darkness. It was Lilah who showed herself first, as tall on four legs as he was on two, her fur glowing surreally in the glittering light. Then Kayne appeared, stalking out of his cage, his mane grand and stately. Both lions’ eyes glowed yellow with flecks of green and blue mixed in, looking so very much like the eyes of Karak.

They approached him gradually, their giant heads swinging to glance at each other before turning back to him. Kayne’s mouth yawned open, his blood-red tongue licking at his massive incisors, and Lilah rose up on her haunches, her fur standing on end, as if preparing for an attack. Vulfram was speechless. It had been so long since he had seen the two lions, so long since they’d played together in his family’s inner sanctum in Erznia. They were bigger now—more frightening. Their eyes shone with an intelligence he hadn’t seen there before. They had always been smart creatures, but now their stares seemed almost human. Human or perhaps even godlike.

But as human as their eyes were, he saw no compassion in them.

Lilah burst into motion. She bolted around Kayne, who still skulked deliberately, and pulled up short a few feet in front of Vulfram. A threatening rumble reverberated from her throat—a throat so large that if Vulfram were to throw both his arms around her neck, he doubted his hands would touch on the other side. The lioness leaned in close, sniffed his feet, then his hands, then his face. She let loose with a grunt, showering his face with breath that reeked of meat and putrefaction. He wondered if he smelled the same way to her, as he was covered with blood.

Kayne slunk past Lilah, and then behind Vulfram’s back. Vulfram closed his eyes, mouthing, Please, Karak, I am sorry. Karak, I love you—Karak, while the male lion sniffed at him the same way Lilah had. Kayne let out a sharp, bark-like sound, soaking Vulfram’s shoulders with hot saliva. Vulfram tensed, clenching his fists, defiant to the last.

Wetness suddenly assaulted his face and he was nudged heavily from behind. He fell to one knee, his back pressing against a mountain of fur while the battering continued. He opened his eyes to see Lilah’s giant tongue lash out, slapping him across the cheek, slathering his face with spittle.

“Whoa, girl,” he said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

He leaned to the side to avoid another attack of Lilah’s persistent tongue, which smacked against his chest instead, and he ended up face to face with Kayne. He was reclined against the male lion’s side, and Kayne gazed deep into his eyes, as if studying him. Kayne then lolled his neck, his cheek sweeping against Vulfram’s. Both lions began purring—throaty, shuddering hums that sounded almost sexual in nature.

Vulfram placed a hand atop each creature’s head, pulling them in closer, these beasts he had known all his life, and began to laugh. That laughter soon turned to sadness and then finally evolved into a righteous conviction that flowed from his pores like steam from a hot mountain spring.

Kayne and Lilah swiftly backed away from him, and he stood, casting a quick glance toward the gate, where Karak’s eyes still glowed, before whirling around to confront those on the platform. Each of them looked down at him with their own unique expression—his mother’s joyful, Clovis’s deeply irritated, Gregorian’s wide-eyed and disbelieving, and Thessaly’s almost sad. The Sisters, of course, showed no emotion at all, as their faces were covered.

“I…have…been…JUDGED!” Vulfram shouted at them. This was it, he knew—the moment Karak had been waiting for, the reason the deity had lingered in the darkness instead of exposing himself to the rest. Because what Vulfram did now, he had to do on his own.

“You have, Lord Commander,” said his mother, her smile all teeth. “Under law, this court grants you a full pardon. Your station shall be restored, and you will be released immediately.”

Clovis mumbled something under his breath, and the Captain shot him a quick look.

“That is right,” Vulfram said, making sure to pronounce every word clearly. “I have been found faithful, and I will be released with a full pardon.” He gestured behind him. “The Final Judges have decreed my faith to be true, and in so doing, they have validated every thought that led me to standing right here, right now.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Thessaly.

“My daughter!” he screamed. “My daughter was manipulated by devious forces that wished to wrong my family through her innocence. My entire purpose for returning to Veldaren was to clear her name, to free her from a fate worse than death, and now that I have been found worthy of life, I decree that she has been, as well!”

“Well, I.…” Soleh began.

She was cut off when Clovis began to laugh, a deeply resounding, almost maniacal cackle that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber.

“Her innocence is not yours to decree,” he said, venom seeping out with every word he spoke. “Karak’s law is true, his law is final, and you yourself carried out the verdict against her. Your god is infallible, Lord Commander. Are you claiming otherwise?”

“No!” shouted Vulfram defiantly. “I am saying that men interpret the laws of our divine deity, and men are fallible! My daughter is but a child.” The words were like knives as they left his mouth. He wished he could scale the smooth stone and strangle Clovis where he stood.

Clovis shook his head. “So foolish, Vulfram. So vain and foolish.” He then stepped around Thessaly and approached the two Sisters. The one closest bowed and backed away, and he placed his hands on the second one, moving her to an open area of the platform not blocked by the sandstone balustrade. His fingers laced around a piece of wrapping that dangled from the side of the Sister’s face, and slowly Clovis began to unwind it. The wrappings peeled off like petals from a rose, gradually revealing the face hidden beneath.

Vulfram gasped. His heart leapt into his throat.

It was Lyana up there, her eyes wide and glassy, the hair shaved from her head. Her face was expressionless, her jaw rigid, even as Clovis removed the cloak from her shoulders, even as he unwound the coverings from her chest, her midsection, her hips. It all fell to the ground like the molting skin of a snake, until his daughter stood naked before him, her youthful body firm but scarred at the sides—the marks of the whipping Vulfram had given her on that fateful day. She did not move. She did not speak. For all he could tell, she did not breathe. She simply stood there as if in a trance, staring out into space, gazing over and beyond him.

“No,” Vulfram moaned. “Oh, Lyana, no.”


Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother shriek.

“This is the child you so seek to reclaim,” Clovis said, taunting him by peeking over her shoulder and leering downward at her supple breasts. “This child who sinned knowingly against her god, who broke the most sacred of laws, all to keep her name from being sullied.”

Vulfram shook his head in defiance.

“Oh, but it is true,” said Clovis. “The girl admits it herself.”

“She does not!”

Clovis waved a hand in front of Lyana’s face. Her eyes did not even blink.

“Go ahead, Sister,” he said to her, his voice just loud enough for Vulfram to hear. “Tell us why you have entered the order.”

“I have sinned against my god,” she said, and Vulfram’s whole body quaked. Her voice didn’t sound like her own any longer, as if some strange, emotionless being had crawled into her skin and taken over. “It is my life’s regret, one that I will spend the remainder of my days attempting to absolve. The child that was inside me deserved life, and I denied it that life. This is a fate I accept willingly, and as such I have given up my name forever. I am only Sister now, and Sister is all I will ever be.”

“NO!” wailed Vulfram, falling to his knees in the dirt.

“You see, it is done,” Clovis said as he removed his cloak and covered Lyana—or the impassive being Lyana had become. “There is no innocence for you to prove, for the Sister has freely admitted to her wrongdoing. Her life is what it is now, one that belongs to her god and whoever wishes to purchase her services.” Before he wrapped the cloak around her entirely, he reached over and pinched one of Lyana’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Lyana winced slightly, but remained otherwise motionless. “And to be honest, after seeing what she has to offer, I might be the first to do just that. Gold may not be able to buy happiness, but it can buy a few hours of contentment.”

“You bastard!” Vulfram heard his mother proclaim, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the show that was playing out for him, to taunt him, to toy with him.

And in that moment, he knew it had been Clovis all along.

“F*ck you!” Vulfram screamed. His trance broke and he charged the wall of stone, beat his fists into it. He broke a bone in his right wrist as it slammed against the rock-hard surface, one to match the broken bone in his left hand, but his rage was so complete, pumping through his veins so strongly, that he hardly noticed.

Glancing up, his eyes met Captain Gregorian’s. The man’s expression was queerly conflicted but hard, which made Vulfram all the angrier. None of them would listen to him. Not that bastard Clovis, not Gregorian, not his mother, who was leaning against the balustrade weeping, while his supposed murder weapon dangled from her fingers, and certainly not his brainwashed daughter and her handler. Not even his god would hear him out, it seemed. His god. His god.…

He backed away from the wall, kicking it for good measure, and ran toward the gate.

“Karak!” he bellowed, desperately seeking out those glowing eyes in the darkness. “Karak, why have you done this?” He slammed into the bars. When he saw the figure of the deity lurking in the back, he reached his ruined hands through the gap. His fury turned to sorrow, and he began weeping. “Why have you forsaken me, my Lord?” he cried. “Why…have you…FORSAKEN ME?”

He spit through the bars, and those glowing eyes flickered. From behind him came the roar of a lion, followed by another, then the sound of thudding paws. That was when the cacophony of pain began. Teeth bore into Vulfram’s sides, his neck, his thighs. He was ripped backward, his elbow catching on the bars on its way through, shattering his forearm. Lilah threw him to the ground with a thud, her jaws clenched tightly around his midsection. One of her massive paws raked down his shoulder, the claws shredding his flesh, and try as he might to beat her off with his flopping, useless arm, it was no use. Kayne leapt in front of him, swiping at him so powerfully that he severed the broken arm that Vulfram held up to defend himself. Blood erupted in a geyser from the stump, splashing the ground, the lions, his face, everything. In the distance, his mother’s screams were unending.

Vulfram felt a moment of agony, then nothing, as he watched himself being devoured by two beasts that he had called brother and sister. It was as if the part of his mind that allowed him to feel pain had been shut off, replaced with a hollow sensation that was almost blissful in its emptiness. When Lilah lifted her head, a tangle of his dripping intestines dangling from her maw, he felt not fear or loathing, but an all-encompassing love. He tried to tell her that, to whisper how much he adored everyone in that room, even Clovis and Gregorian. But Kayne’s jaws clamped down around his neck, tearing out his throat, ending his words a second before they came out, and his life a moment later.





Soleh watched in horror as her son was devoured by the Final Judges. Her gullet was in agony from shrieking, and her pulse throbbed in her temples. She felt like she might die herself at any moment. She didn’t want to keep watching as Kayne and Lilah tore into Vulfram’s midsection, lapping up his blood as if he were just some common blasphemer and not a man who had been raised alongside them, but she could not tear her gaze away. Her shock locked her in place, and she watched helplessly as Karak appeared, stepping through the Arena’s gate, shooing the lions away. The Judges skulked off, licking blood from their chops, while Karak knelt over her son’s unmoving body. For a moment she thought she was imagining his presence, for he looked distraught, disbelieving, and she had never seen him this way before.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and looked up. It was Clovis, guiding the two Sisters—one of whom was Soleh’s granddaughter—toward the stairs leading out of the Arena. The sight of the man, and the memory of how he had taunted Vulfram into his eventual death, destroyed the last shreds of her sanity. She glanced at her hand, which still held the strangely familiar, blood-soaked blade that had been used to murder the young lovers. She gripped the handle tight, felt its killing weight. Vulfram will never hold his daughter again, she thought. He will never see his wife. He will never again stand proud by my side. These thoughts darted through her mind, swirling the cocktail of sorrow and rage that was quickly building up inside her.

A savage roar left Soleh’s throat, and she brought up the knife and ran. The Highest turned at the last moment, his eyes bulging in surprise at the sight of her. She saw her reflection in them for the briefest of moments; she looked like a demon from the Abyss, her mouth hanging open, her hair like writhing snakes, her flesh stretched and pale. Clovis brought his hand up, trying to push her away, but she had surprise on her side. She barreled into him with her shoulder, driving him backward while the two sisters scampered out of sight.

“You did this!” she shrieked. “You killed him!”

Voices shouted at her, from beside her and from below, but she ignored them. She thrust the knife at Clovis, the first time she had done any such thing in all her life. The Highest was much stronger than her, and he was able to knock her strike off target. But the weapon found purchase in his flesh nevertheless, the ultra-sharp blade sliding through his black leathers and piercing his side. Clovis let out a scream of pain and thrashed, knocking her away. He pulled the knife free of his side, which spurted blood.


The Highest collapsed, frantically kicking himself across the floor while staring at the blood that covered his hand. He tried to draw his own dagger, but its hilt caught in his belt. Soleh, her mind white-hot with fury, charged once more, knife raised above her head with both hands, ready to plunge it directly into the murdering bastard’s heart.

Hands grabbed her from behind, spinning her around. She reacted on instinct, swiping out with the blade, bent on death. Her attacker slid to the side, the faintest glimpse of four diagonal scars flashing before her vision. That was when Soleh felt a great pressure in her midsection, a tugging sensation that gradually worked its way beneath her ribcage. A sound like tearing parchment reached her ears and she grew dizzy. She glanced down to see Captain Gregorian crouched below her, arm stretched out, his shortsword deep inside her lower torso. The man was clearly dismayed. Her dizziness grew and she stumbled forward, driving the sword even deeper beneath her ribs, ever closer to her heart.

The last thing she heard before she collapsed, and her eyes closed forever, was the sound of her god screaming.





The sound was loud enough to shatter the fabric of reality. Clovis held his head, trying to block it out while attempting to stem the flow of blood that leaked from his side. He watched as Soleh slid down on Captain Gregorian’s sword until its tip exited her back with a plop. The bloody knife fell from her hand, clattering to the floor. The screaming from below abruptly stopped.

Captain Gregorian hefted to the side, removing Soleh from his blade. Her body flopped to the ground, her head teetering for a moment before falling still. The Captain stood over her, his agonized expression making Clovis quite nervous. Not wanting to think too much about what it might mean, Clovis forced himself to sit up and then stole a glance toward the balustrade, trying to catch the eye of his god. He saw nothing through the sandstone slats, only the bumpy rise of the Judges’ cages of rock and steel.

“Captain, bring her to me,” he heard Karak say. The god’s voice hitched, suffused with sorrow.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied Malcolm. Then the Captain closed Soleh’s sightless eyes, gently kissed her forehead, and lifted her dead weight over his shoulder. He did so with great ease, as if the Minister of Justice were but a child. He left the platform with thudding footsteps.

Thessaly, tears streaming from her eyes, knelt before him.

“Father,” she said, reaching for his leaking wound. “You are hurt.”

He batted her hand away. “It is nothing,” he grumbled.

“She could have killed you.”

Clovis offered a contemptuous laugh. “She could have, yes,” he replied. “But alas, I live, while she does not.”

She nodded. “It is a tragedy.”

“A tragedy?” He reached out quickly, ignoring the pain in his side, and grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her close. “A tragedy that she perished while I did not? Do you wish that it had been otherwise, daughter of mine?” He reached with his free hand for the dagger on his hip. “Should I allow you to join your minister in death?”

Thessaly shook her head and began to tremble, which made Clovis seethe.

“Leave me!” he shouted, shoving her away. His daughter ran past him and up the stairs. She is so weak, that one, he thought. Just like Crian was. So focused on the moment instead of the bigger picture. So much more like her mother. If she stays on that path, he continued, I do not think I could bear the consequences. Despite his show of coldness, he loved his family dearly and regretted threatening Thessaly so. It had even hurt him to banish Moira, though he would never let anyone outside of Lanike know that.

Clovis struggled to rise, weakened by blood loss. The bitch had cut him. Cut him. He stumbled across the platform and collapsed against the balustrade, rage burning inside him. Leaning against the rail, he peered into the Arena below. He saw the two lions sitting before their cages, heads bowed in respect. Captain Gregorian was there as well, his hands gripping the iron gate. His back was turned to the body of Soleh, which had been positioned respectfully on the blood-and-dust-covered ground. Karak knelt at the dead woman’s side, her tiny hand held in his massive one. The god’s great body shuddered as he caressed her arm, her neck, brushed wisps of hair from her pasty white brow.

“Sweet Soleh,” Karak whispered. “Oh, sweet Soleh, what have you done?”

Despite the torment of his still-leaking wound, despite the agony of his god, Clovis smiled, shielding the expression with one hand. His every desire had come to fruition. Vulfram’s blasphemy had sealed the Lord Commander’s fate, removing a rather potent obstacle from Clovis’s path. The soldier’s conscience and his doubts about Clovis could have proved disastrous. Clovis had played him brilliantly, and the man had reacted just as Clovis’s Whisperer had said he would. And now, with Soleh’s unexpected demise, the Mori line was truncated, leaving himself as Karak’s only true child.

It was all coming together, just as the Whisperer had promised. Clovis pressed against his wound, gritted his teeth, and offered a silent thank you to his unseen guide, the voice in the dark that was helping to bring about Clovis’s vision—a united people worshipping one single god. The attack on Haven, the rise of a weakling king in Ashhur’s lordship, the elves’ standoff with the Gorgoros clan, and now the fall of the Mori family, had all been a part of his unknown accomplice’s design. The end game was in sight, apparent even in the events the Whisperer had not brought about.

The lone fly in the ointment was Jacob Eveningstar. The First Man was knowledgeable and an immortal, like himself, and his understanding of magic and the inner workings of their world was unmatched by any but the gods themselves. Jacob could have muddied the waters of the coming conflict, he mused.

Clovis thought of the message he had received that morning and shuddered with anticipation. Unbeknownst to anyone, including his Whisperer and Karak, he had sent his mad son Uther into the Tinderlands, giving him the task of releasing the legendary demon kings from their prison to assist in their decimation of the west. Clovis knew that Ashhur had Celestia on his side, which left Karak at a distinct disadvantage should the final solution he envisioned play itself out. The demon kings would even those scales. Although his son’s efforts had been unsuccessful thus far, his trials had recently brought about an unanticipated advantage: Eveningstar was now trapped in the northern lands, hunted by Uther’s dedicated soldiers. He would be dead soon, Clovis just knew it, clearing the path for the toppling of Ashhur’s Paradise, paving the way for Crestwell to prove to his god, once and for all, that he and his family were the only ones truly fit to rule. And if that were the case, perhaps he could at last convince the deity not to stop there.…

Karak’s sobbing abruptly stopped, and the god lifted his shimmering golden eyes to the platform above. Clovis forced the smile from his face and lowered his head, attempting to appear somber.

“This day has been most distressing indeed,” he said.

The god glowered at him. He looked as though he were ready to climb the platform and throw Clovis to his death, but he did no such thing. Instead, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and asked, “Are the armaments in place?” His tone was flat, detached.

Clovis nodded. “Avila has been sent back to Omnmount. Joseph is already there, readying the troops to march.”


Captain Gregorian turned from the gate, stepped forward, and knelt before the deity.

“If you are intent on moving toward Haven, my Lord, would you like me to fetch King Vaelor? With all due respect, a new Lord Commander is needed, for your army requires leadership.…”

Karak waved him away.

“I have no need of advice from that man, nor any man at all,” the god said. “I am through with this sport of kings and subjects. I am the god of the land, the creator of you all. I will pass the mantle on to whomever I see fit.” His eyes once more lifted to Clovis. “I am dismayed, my child. Two of my greatest creations are gone. You are the last, my final hope for order. You are Lord Commander now. See to your wound, then ready my troops. We march on Haven come dawn.”

A well of gratification built up in Clovis’s heart upon hearing those words, even though they were spoken so dully. The only title that would have made him happier was King of Dezrel. He could not wait to see the expression on Vaelor’s face when he shoved a blade into the puppet ruler’s belly. That would be a memory he would cherish forever, possibly even more than the sight of Soleh’s head lolling off her neck.

Karak lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if he were looking through the layers of stone and earth and into the sky above.

“Come,” he said. “The third full moon is nearly upon us. I wish to teach my children a lesson.”

The god left the arena, standing tall at the base of the staircase. Clovis limped to the side of the platform, which the Captain had scaled. He draped his arm over Malcolm’s shoulder and allowed the man to help him up the stairs. His blood left a trail of tiny droplets behind him.

Omnmount awaited on the other side, as did his destiny. It could not come soon enough.