Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


8


The grass was soft against Bardiya Gorgoros’s rear end as he sat cross-legged beneath the shade of a cypress tree. His eyes faced north, locked on the slender Gods’ Road and the small cloud of dust that had formed in the distance. The Gods’ Road stretched the entirety of Ashhur’s Paradise, running diagonally down from the northwestern township of Drake until it crossed the Corinth River, cut through the grasslands of Ker, and reached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon Delta. From there it continued east, maintained by Karak’s people instead of Ashhur’s. The road was rarely traveled, and Bardiya knew this because he sat in that same spot beneath the soul tree almost every day, surrounded by mile upon mile of high plains grasses, to say his afternoon prayers to Ashhur. Only when an envoy from Mordeina or Safeway came calling was there any traffic at all. It was not that the two factions of Ashhur’s children did not get along or that they considered themselves separate. In truth, the lack of travel and cohabitation stemmed from one simple fact: almost everyone in Paradise lived perfect lives, and no one had no real desire to go anywhere other than where he or she had been raised.

Bardiya leaned back against the trunk of the soul tree, and his head struck a branch. He muttered and rubbed the spot. Glancing behind him, he looked at the many notches carved into the tree, the highest groove added only a month ago. Bardiya sighed.

He’d grown again.

Over his eighty-seven years of life, Bardiya had never stopped growing. Each year had meant another inch or two of height, ever since the day he was pulled from his mother’s womb, the first human child born in all of Dezrel. He now stood almost ten feet tall, towering over everyone. A few of the Kerrians thought his constant growth was a defect, but to the populace at large, the reasons for his gigantism were obvious: it was a sign of his undying belief in the teachings of his deity. Many whispered that Bardiya was Ashhur’s most devout follower, an assumption that Bardiya himself doubted. He could never explain to them the deep ache he felt in his bones from such constant growth. At times, he just wished the pain would end.


Yet he could not deny how much he loved his deity. He felt genuine peace only when he was by his god’s side, learning the virtues of forgiveness, family, honor, poise, and spiritual strength. He worshipped Ashhur completely, dedicating his life to his god’s service, eschewing even something so simple as the love of a woman. He had become a beacon for his people, showing them how to live at peace with the land, teaching them how to respect the nature of all gods and their creations, not just those of Ashhur. Bardiya lectured to his fellow worshippers that the antelopes, wolves, bovines, and horses that Celestia had created were just as important as their own friends and families. He even expressed a vast respect for Karak, the deity of the east. He and Ashhur are brothers, he was fond of saying, and as such, they are both divine.

A thudding reached his ears, and he turned his gaze to the expanse of brown grass behind him. A large antelope, its antlers curved and regal, bounded through the swaying grasses. Chasing it were a group of people clothed in simple cured skins, their hair braided and their dark skin beaded with sweat. They used their spears as walking sticks. It was a hunting party, led by Bardiya’s mother and father. The long pole for the day’s kill hung empty, but given the antelope’s exhaustion, it would not remain that way for long.

Hands rose in greeting, and Bardiya raised his own massive hand in return. The party knew better than to interrupt his prayers. His mother smiled up at him, her broad cheeks spread as wide as possible, and his father offered a gentle nod. Their ageless beauty, and the potency of their smiles, reflected the simple affection they held for their son. Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros were dedicated to advancing their culture under the loving gaze of their god, so much so that they’d only had one child, eager as they were to devote their lives to leading their nation along the path of Ashhur.

Up ahead, the antelope slowed its frantic gallop, trudging through the field but keeping up a determined forward momentum. Bardiya watched as his father, Bessus, gestured for a young lady near the back of the party to come forward. The young girl approached them, the spear she held dwarfing her tiny frame. Bessus pointed to the antelope and mimicked a throwing motion. The girl followed his lead, her eyes focusing as she reared back, trying to stay upright while holding the much-too-long spear aloft. Two hopping steps, a thrust, and out soared the spear, wobbling as it flew.

The girl had been too slow, and the spear came in low, burying into the animal’s rear thigh with a faint squirt of red. The hunting party cheered, but their merriment was short lived. The spear was not embedded deeply enough, and when the antelope jolted, the weapon bobbed and fell into the deep grass. The animal began to buck, picking up speed as it raced through the meadow toward the Gods’ Road. Bardiya’s mother shouted for the party to give chase, and they did, but human legs could not match those of a wounded beast. By the time it reached Bardiya and his tree, it had put a lengthy distance between it and the hunting party.

Bardiya cracked his back and slowly rose to his full height. Changing positions was murder on his joints, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain. The section of the Stonewood Forest that rested on the southern bank of the Corinth River was visible on the horizon. He knew that if the injured antelope made it to the cover of trees, a much less dignified death awaited it, be it an agonizingly slow demise from blood loss or the slow horror of being devoured alive by the wolves and hyenas that prowled come nightfall.

Cupping his enormous palms around his mouth, he let out a low, vibrating hum, working his jaw up and down and circling his tongue, a trick taught to him by one of the Dezren elves before relations between the Kerrians and the elves had deteriorated even further than their original standoffish state. The sound shimmered in the air, causing everything in the path of his voice to appear hazy as a desert oasis. The antelope stopped in its tracks and turned to him, its head tilted at a curious angle. The beast seemed to forget the chase, seemed to forget about its injuries, and slowly approached the giant human, drawn in by the seductive sound.

The hunting party ceased their running, not daring to approach while he performed the seducing whisper. Bardiya raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment but didn’t stop his humming until the animal was near. The creature’s antlers were huge and deadly, and would have dwarfed a regular man, but they barely reached Bardiya’s chest. It was certainly a healthy beast, strong and meaty. It would feed the village of Ang for at least a night, perhaps the children for two. He reached down and gently rubbed the back of the antelope’s head, letting calming energy seep from his core, putting the creature at ease.

Bardiya gradually lowered himself back to the ground—he needed to stand to issue the seducing whisper, as the act stretched his lungs to their limit—and continued massaging the antelope’s head. It nuzzled against him, wide antlers scraping past his cheek. He examined its wounded thigh, which was still seeping blood. The leg beneath quivered with weakness.

He grabbed the animal beneath its narrow snout and lifted its head so he could gaze into its huge brown eyes.

“You are precious,” he said while massaging the creature’s jowls. “You are important. I give you Ashhur’s grace and wish you happiness when you are once more in Celestia’s arms.”

He grabbed the immense antlers where they began at the top of the skull and jerked his arms in a circular motion. The antelope’s expression didn’t have time to change as its head was twisted around, snapping the bones in its neck and severing its spine. It collapsed to the ground, offering a final, gaseous moan before the light faded from its eyes. Bardiya placed his hand over its snout, leaned over, and gave it a final kiss.

“I am sorry,” he said. In all honesty, he wished he had healed the majestic creature instead.

With the deed done, Bardiya’s mother urged the hunting party to approach the scene. They drew near one by one, each offering him a bow or curtsey of appreciation. Then they began the process of roping the dead antelope to the carrying pole. They had to saw off its majestic antlers, which would have dragged along the ground.

His parents approached him last, while the rest of the hunting party began the trek back to the village. Bessus sat down across from him while Damaspia gently massaged the shoulders of her giant and tender son. He leaned his head back and gazed into his mother’s eyes. They were sea blue, contrasting wonderfully with her skin tone, which neared black. Damaspia Gorgoros was at least five shades darker than her husband. Bessus claimed it was because he had created her using stones from the heart of the Black Spire, a mount that rose in the center of the desert and was considered a sacred monument by their people.

Bessus himself exuded dignity. He was understated, hardworking, fiercely loyal, and always questing to further his knowledge, the ideal figurehead for an infant species. He looked up at Bardiya and rested his hand on a knee that was wide as the trunk of the tree. Bardiya knew from the conflicted expression on his father’s face, one black eyebrow raised higher than the other, that he wasn’t pleased with how the morning had gone.

“Thank you, son,” he said, his voice wavering from reverence to irritation. “Though I wish Taniya had stronger arms and better aim. The girl is eleven, and it is long past time for her to learn the art of the hunt.”

“She will grow stronger, Father. And more capable.”


“I know. I simply wish you had given us the chance to follow the beast.”

“The antelope was beyond your hunting party and would have escaped into the Stonewood. It would have died a horrible death had I not intervened.”

“Your mercy knows no bounds, my son. However, you must remember that every action our people make is a potential lesson to be taught. We must allow them to fail, even if that failure is embarrassing.”

Bardiya shook his head. “We may use the creatures around us for clothing, shelter, and food, but it is still our duty to preserve the life that surrounds us, showing it dignity even in the face of death.”

His father’s expression began to grow angry, his dark cheeks turning a deep crimson as they often did during these sorts of conversations. Unlike the general populace, his father did not buy into Bardiya’s impartial view of the gods. To Bessus Gorgoros, there was Ashhur and only Ashhur, and he would never see things differently.

“You are an overly sensitive fool,” Bessus said in a hoarse whisper.

“Bessus!” exclaimed Damaspia. “Don’t speak that way to your son.”

Bessus turned on his wife.

“I will talk to him as I please. He disobeys my edicts, teaches sacrilege to our children, and usurps my authority at every turn, as if he were the patriarch.” He pointed a slender finger into Bardiya’s face. To the giant, it seemed small as a twig. “You forget that I was forged by Ashhur’s hands, not you. I was given the ability to create an everlasting life to join with my own so we could lead our people into the golden forever. All you have done, Bardiya, is grow.”

“Bessus, enough,” scowled Damaspia.

Bardiya placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder, stilling her rage. He refused to raise his voice under any circumstance, and decades of meditation and prayer had taught him to never lose his temper.

“Father, you are turning red,” he said. “I have angered you. I apologize.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“I’m not. I truly am sorry.”

He was, and his father knew it. He watched as the ageless patriarch’s anger deflated ever so slightly. Bessus was a smart man, the most capable of all their people. He knew when a battle wasn’t worth fighting. He dropped his head, frowned, and grunted.

“You disappoint me, Bardiya,” he said, sadness in his tone. “You make the job your mother and I have undertaken much harder than it should be. Do not return to Ang for a week. Think about what you have done, and the lesson you have denied Taniya. Stay out here with your tree and sleep beneath the stars. However, do not offer your mercy to the wild things of Stonewood, and do not step foot within the elven lands. Should you bring Cleotis Meln’s wrath down on our people again, I may have to send you away for good.”

Bardiya sighed. As if I need to be told that.

Though he and his father had always clashed about faith, it was only recently that Bessus had taken to verbal outbursts or the occasional punishment. And it was Bardiya’s own fault.

Two years ago, as he’d waded in the section of the Corinth River that flowed through Stonewood Forest, a flock of kobo had wandered into the water nearby. Bardiya had sensed a shift in the air, the scent of putrefaction filling his nostrils, choking him to tears. He’d stumbled toward the kobo, arms outstretched, his vision shaky from the horrific smell. A single touch on the beak of the majestic birds was enough to tell him that the entire flock had been stricken with the hacking, an uncommon disease that doomed its victims to cough up blood until their lungs finally ruptured. The worst part was that the hacking was seemingly immune to Ashhur’s healing grace, at least when administered through Bardiya’s hands. An entire generation of brine geese had been obliterated in his youth, and half the population of desert foxes not ten years after that.

So he gave the sick birds his mercy. One by one he dispatched them, right on the banks of the river, and then built a large fire to burn their remains. He sang songs of Ashhur’s blessings as the flames crackled and hissed. It was there the elves had found him, on their land, filling the forest with smoke and destroying its creatures. The elves did not believe his story, as the hacking had never shown its ugliness in Stonewood before. Bardiya was thrown out, threatened with staffs; the elves had even fired arrows on him as he fled. Since that day, humans were no longer welcome in the heart of Stonewood Forest. Arguments over boundaries and ownership of land had followed ever since. Bardiya’s simple act of mercy had driven a wedge between their two peoples, creating a chain of bad will that was yet to be broken.

“I apologize again, Father,” he said.

“I know that you are sorry,” his father replied, looking disappointed. “I simply wish you could see things from my perspective at times. It is no easy task, leading a whole society into maturity. You do not seem to respect that, or my wisdom, and you act as if my head is filled with nothing but air.”

“There is something to be said for a head filled with air,” proclaimed a familiar voice. “If not for women like that, I might still be a virgin.”

Bessus whirled around, as did Damaspia. Bardiya lifted his head slowly, gazing down the slight rise to the edge of the Gods’ Road. The dust cloud in the distance was gone, replaced by two gray horses that stood twenty feet away. How they had arrived without him noticing the sound of clomping hooves was baffling.

On one horse sat the youngest DuTaureau child, Nessa, her face youthful and na?ve as she picked dirt from beneath her fingernails. Patrick DuTaureau sat on the other. Bardiya hadn’t laid eyes on his oldest friend in nearly five years, but Patrick’s unusual appearance couldn’t allow his being mistaken for anyone else. Back hunched, sprays of wild orange curls dancing like sprigs on his head, and legs, too short for his large upper body and dangling like limp noodles over each side of his mare. The massive sword he always carried hung from his saddle, and an impish grin stretched his misshapen features.

“So,” said Patrick, “how is my favorite dysfunctional family? Righteously f*cked or f*cking righteously?”

“Patrick!” exclaimed Damaspia, throwing a hand over her mouth.

Bessus rolled his eyes, but held back a biting comment and simply bowed. In that instant Bardiya appreciated, and even admired, his father’s restraint. They might occasionally not be on the greatest of terms, but he could not deny how much he loved and respected the man whose seed had produced him.

“It has been a long time, Master DuTaureau,” Bessus said. “But I ask that you refrain from profanity while visiting our lands.”

“Not visiting,” said Patrick. “Just passing through.”

A bird cawed overhead, and Nessa lifted her pretty head to stare skyward. Bessus brushed dirt from his elbows, hefted his spear, and slipped his free arm around Damaspia. Bardiya noticed that his mother, while acting courteous, refused to lift her gaze to Patrick’s deformities. But then again, most people didn’t. That was something that Bardiya could not understand. Patrick might look different, and he was certainly crude and derisive at times, but in his heart he was a good man, as good as anyone else in Ashhur’s Paradise.

“We will be going now,” said his father, turning toward the trail that led back to Ang. “Have a good journey, Patrick, wherever it is you go. Bardiya…I love you, even if you anger me.”


Bardiya leaned back, saddened. His head struck the same branch he’d hit earlier that morning. Bringing up a giant hand, he rubbed the sore spot and groaned.

Patrick whispered something to his sister and clumsily dismounted his mare. He waddled over to where Bardiya was leaning against the cypress tree, and cupped his eyes against the glare of the sun so that he could look east, to where the grasslands ended and the desert began.

“You and the old man are still fighting, I see,” Patrick said.

“We are.”

“Sounded a bit more…emotional than before.”

“It was. It has been. A lot has happened since we last met.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly. Our people squabble with the elves. Let us leave it at that.”

“There’ve always been squabbles with elves, from the day we first stepped out from the clay. What does that have to do with you and your father?”

Bardiya let out a long sigh.

“I might have made it significantly worse.”

Patrick turned to his sister, who was still sitting on her horse and staring at the sky.

“Ness,” he yelled. “I think I know why those Dezren acted like we didn’t exist when we crossed the Corinth. Big bones over here made them angry.”

“Big bones?” asked Bardiya.

“Eh, it’s the best I can come up with at the moment. It’s so hot I see three of everything. By Karak’s fiery cock, I think I’d be more comfortable in mother’s bed, and I haven’t slid beneath those covers in sixty years.”

Bardiya chuckled. Five years had passed since they’d last met, and Patrick was still Patrick.

“It’s fine, my friend,” Bardiya said. “I can handle fights with father. I don’t need to be coddled any longer.”

“You positive?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I’m tired of coddling you. You’re way too big to be a baby.”

Bardiya rose up on his knees, leaned forward, and wrapped his friend in a tight embrace, his size nearly swallowing the much smaller Patrick.

“I missed you, old friend,” he said.

“Missed you too,” replied Patrick. “But don’t suffocate me.”

“My apologies.”

Patrick pushed away from him, swiping at his breeches to flatten the folds. “You’re always so damn sorry,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”

“I know. It’s my nature.”

Patrick grinned his snaggle-toothed grin. “Well stop it already. It isn’t becoming of the great Bardiya of Ker to be apologetic all hours of the day.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Using his right hand for support, Bardiya lifted his body off the ground. His knees popped once more.

“Oh shit,” said Patrick, “you grew again.”

“I did.”

“I figured it would have stopped by now.”

“I wish it had.”

“Well I’ll be,” said Patrick, slapping him on the lower back, which was as high as the hunchback could reach. A wave of concern washed over Bardiya when Patrick’s hand touched his flesh, a sensation that trickled into his mind from the ether. He silenced his old friend’s banter with a single raised finger.

“Patrick, why are you here? Where is it you’re going?”

Patrick shook his head. “Some obtuse garbage. I guess Karak finally tired of the folks in the delta not bowing down to him, so he sent some soldiers to teach them a lesson the really hard way. Don’t know the whole story, really. Jacob wasn’t very forthcoming in his letter—just said I need to go to Haven and convince them to tear down that temple they built.”

“The Temple of the Flesh?”

“That’s it.”

“And Eveningstar sent you on this mission?”

“The one and only.”

Bardiya frowned. He’d heard whispers from his people that the temple had come under fire, but he’d passed them off as wild fireside stories. Many Kerrians tried to outdo each other with tall tales of war and great battles, things none of his people, nor anyone in the west, knew about. It made for interesting mealtime conversations and nothing more…or so he’d thought. If Jacob, Ashhur’s most trusted, was involved, then the situation was far more serious than a fireside tale. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks to his god that none of his people had been harmed.

“And what are you to do if they don’t do as you tell them?” he asked Patrick, who shrugged.

“I guess I charm them into submission.”

“Seriously?”

“Bardy, I don’t know. I’m no diplomat. I’m walking as blind as a goat at the bottom of the ocean. But if you’re so worried, why don’t you come with me? The delta’s still a few days’ journey from here, and I’m sure you could use a nice escape from your father.”

Patrick’s easy smile vanished from his face.

“Please. I could use your help.”

Bardiya wanted to go and hated that he couldn’t.

“I apologize, my friend,” he said, trying to ignore the guilt in his stomach. “My place is here in Ker, whether my father wants me or not. I’m bound to this land as its protector, its guiding light.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Patrick, come on,” shouted Nessa from behind them, impatiently tapping her foot against her horse’s flank. “This saddle is chaffing my thighs; we’re running low on water; and I need a bath. Can we please go now?”

Patrick laughed and said, “She’s an impatient one, isn’t she? We’ve only been traveling for less than a week, and already she’s complaining. Spoiled brat. With how much she whines, you’d think she was only ten years old.”

“If she’s spoiled, you know it’s your fault.”

“Don’t remind me, please.” His warped face softened as he gazed at the petite girl. “But it’s tough to say no to her. She’s so innocent and na?ve. She looks at this world with Ashhur’s love in her eyes. She doesn’t know pain or suffering—can’t even understand that they might exist. She’s also one of the few who doesn’t mind my appearance, which I much appreciate,” he said with a laugh. “Other than yourself, of course.”

“Patrick, please!”

“All right, Ness!” Patrick shouted back. He glanced up at Bardiya, shook his head, and extended his hand. “I guess I should be moving along,” he said. “I am itching to get out of these riding pants and slip into something more comfortable. Besides, I shouldn’t keep the princess waiting any longer, should I?”

“Not if you want to stay sane,” laughed Bardiya. “Take care of yourself, Patrick.”

His deformed friend slowly departed, shuffling sideways so he could still look at Bardiya despite the painful twist in his back.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “Always have. And you take care of yourself too, my friend. I know how difficult a distant father can be, and I’d hate it to get you down. Perhaps when I’m done in Haven, I’ll come back for a spell. We can sit around the campfire, bitching about the bastards and how they lessened our lots in life. It’ll be just like old times.”

“That would be nice.”

A pang of sorrow struck Bardiya’s heart. As the only two male offspring of Ashhur’s First Families, he and Patrick had always shared a special bond, one their mutual oddness only reinforced. But Patrick had it wrong. Bardiya’s father was not distant, nor had he hurt him in any way that mattered. Richard DuTaureau, on the other hand, had damaged his son more than Patrick would ever know. Ashhur’s forgiveness of that man was truly remarkable considering what he had done.…


Bardiya shook the ugly thought from his mind.

“Stay safe, and stop growing already!” Patrick shouted, after awkwardly mounting his mare. He and his sister held hands as the horses broke into a slow trot. It was a sublime and beautiful moment, one that demonstrated just how pure Patrick DuTaureau was despite his flaws. Bardiya smiled and waved his giant hand, understanding that no matter how physically twisted he was, his friend was as perfect a creation as Ashhur had ever made. I only give to my children the trials they are capable of overcoming, the god was fond of saying. It seemed as though Patrick were capable of conquering anything. Bardiya decided that Jacob had chosen wisely when he’d selected Patrick to do whatever it was he’d been sent to do.

Bardiya watched brother and sister depart into the east, the dry dust kicking up behind them. When they disappeared from sight, he sat back down beneath the tree, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. His stomach cramped from hunger, but he ignored it. Leaning his head back, this time twisting his neck to avoid the branch, he prayed to Ashhur to keep his friend safe, no matter what trials he might encounter along the way.