Battle Dawn: Book Three of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  “Like swear loyalty to a tyrant,” Otho muttered. “I also find it peculiar that not one of Joaquin’s three sons went to war. The whole lot of them are of age. Two of them are even trained for combat. The youngest, Tarquin, was in Roland’s advanced weaponry class just last fall. I remember him going on about how he wanted to be a captain someday. Seems odd that he didn’t march to Shiraz.”

  “Aye,” Marc said. “Tarquin was enlisted, but his father convinced him at the last moment to stay behind and help oversee production at the armory.”

  Otho’s eyes narrowed. “Convinced—or ordered him?”

  Kirk pressed his hands to his aching temples. This was all too much information to process. He felt overwhelmed, like he was slowly drowning. “Neetra could have threatened to send all three boys to the front. Maybe he promised their safety in return for Lord Aldino’s support.”

  “Anything’s possible.” Marc sighed wearily, his age-lined face drawing tight. “We can speculate all we want, but there’s no way of knowing for sure. Joaquin’s not going to talk, especially if it means putting his family in jeopardy. It’s a lost cause. All of this is a lost cause.”

  The midday bell rang, and Marc closed his eyes, as if mesmerized by the steady resonation. Or perhaps he was just tired—tired and ready to give up. Kirk could hardly shake the gloom from his own bones. He wished there was something more he could do. He felt so helpless.

  The bells grew softer, and soon the airy melody faded altogether. Marc rose and went over to the window. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared bleakly into the courtyard once again. “I think we’re done here for today. You two can leave.”

  “But—” Kirk protested.

  “I’ll summon you if I receive any news out of Shiraz.”

  “But—”

  “C’mon,” Otho said. “Let’s go.” He closed a hand around Kirk’s arm and guided him toward the door. Kirk was too upset to fight against it.

  Once they were in the hall, however, the shock had time to wear off. Kirk balled his hands, anger swelling so rapidly it might burst forth from his skin.

  “Well I’m not ready to give up!” he spat. The words echoed down the length of the empty corridor.

  Otho turned away from the door. “Who said anything about giving up?”

  “Couldn’t you see it in his eyes? Marc is completely defeated. He’s not even trying anymore!”

  A sly smile briefly softened Otho’s homely features. “Has anyone ever told you that you really need to calm down?”

  “I—” Kirk pursed his lips. Keni did. All the time. He groaned. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you should start listening to them.”

  Kirk huffed and began to walk away. If Otho thought for a second he was going to have a good laugh at Kirk’s expense—

  “I might have an idea.”

  The burning anger subsided just slightly. Kirk stopped, despite his better judgment, and glanced over his shoulder. “What kind of idea?”

  Otho trotted to catch up. “Meet me at the Rose Bouquet tavern tomorrow after sundown.”

  “You think drinking ourselves into a stupor is going to help rectify Arden?”

  “Do you want answers or not?”

  “Y–yes.”

  “Then meet me there. And don’t be late.”

  Gib could recall, in vivid detail, the fear of the crops not pulling through. He remembered lying awake at night, listening, waiting, and praying for the rains to come. Because if it didn’t rain, the seeds wouldn’t take. And if the seeds didn’t take, the crop wouldn’t grow. No crop meant little food in the winter. Little food in the winter meant he and the boys would be outside, rummaging for roots in the snow, worried about when their next meager meal would come, and Gib fearing Tay and Cal might not see the next spring.

  He never let the boys despair the way he did though. He was too stubborn to allow hope to fade from their eyes. Even when their father had died—in the family’s darkest moment—the gut-wrenching, mind-numbing terror that cost Gib so many a good night’s sleep had never once lined Tay’s and Cal’s young faces. Gib had vowed his brothers would never know true fear, and so they hadn’t.

  But these people, the peasants of Shiraz, they knew. Fear governed every aspect of their lives. The slouch of their shoulders wasn’t that of a young boy thrown too early into manhood, but of people who, for countless generations, had been born with nothing. They had no glimmer in their eyes—not even in the eyes of their children. Bone thin, living in naught but rags, and oppressed by their own rulers and foreign conquerors alike, their desolate, sunken faces would haunt Gib forever. He was sure of it. These people hadn’t lost hope. They’d never known it to begin with.

  Gib wasn’t sure how long he wandered aimlessly through decrepit shacks that, together, made up what could scarcely be called a village, but when he did finally glance up, he was surprised to see a familiar figure just ahead.

  Kezra leaned against a crumbling fence, staring with dull eyes across the settlement. She’d been scarce of late, withdrawn and often hostile, but she was his friend, so Gib approached, despite fear of dismissal. His stomach tightened as he neared. She looked almost as ragged as the Shirite villagers. Were the moonturns of endless marching beginning to dampen even Kezra’s tenacious spirit?

  Gib opened his mouth, meaning to greet her, but what spilled forth sounded more like a snide taunt. “Don’t you have orders to pillage?”

  Kezra folded her arms defiantly over her chest. “Pillage what? Their mud bricks? This village is the same as the others. There’s nothing new to be found here.”

  Gib tried to swallow against his sand-dry mouth and followed Kezra’s gaze.

  She was right, of course. The village—more of a drab smudge among the dunes—was like every other they’d passed through. The same mud huts and reed roofs baked in the sun. The same scrawny goats scavenged for tufts of dead grass. The same tired, meek people hung back with lifeless eyes and broken spirits as their meager possessions were dumped out and gone through, and the best of everything was pilfered. They didn’t even protest. Not a single one of them.

  “When did we become the monsters?” Gib asked, wiping at his damp eyes. “They’ll tell their children stories of the Ardenian oppressors who stole their food and left them for dead.”

  “If they survive to tell stories.”

  “This is outrageous. Morathi knows what he’s doing. How can he leave these people like this?”

  “He doesn’t care.” Kezra’s voice was a hollow husk of what it used to be. “No one cares. The monsters from the bedtime tales are real. And they are roaming among our own ranks.”

  Again, Gib raked a sleeve across his face, watching as soldiers broke through rickety stick fences and pushed their way into huts. The entire scene was eerily quiet: no protests, no cries, just deathly silence.

  Kezra shoved a wineskin at him. “Here. Drink. And no more tears. You could die of such a thing out here.”

  “So now I’m not even allowed empathy?” Gib took a swig, nearly retching as stale, lukewarm water touched his tongue. Corking the canteen, he handed it back to Kezra. “What if we really are monsters?”

  “You’re not a monster. You know the difference between right and wrong. And someday you’re going to sit on the High Council and make fair laws. Arden will be better off for having you.”

  “The Shirites aren’t ‘better off’ for having me here. Or any of us.”

  “I know. But we can’t stop the general from giving his commands. We can, however, choose not to follow them.”

  Gib glanced around, petrified someone might overhear such bold insubordination. “Kezra—”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “I’d rather be whipped. I won’t kill these people, Gib, because that’s exactly what we’re doing by taking their belongings. This war has already driven me to do deplorable things. I’m no saint, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Morathi turn me into a monster like the rest of them.” She came away from
the fence, almost unrecognizable in her fury. “Tell me, Gib. Who’d even care if that murdering bastard ended up dead?”

  Gib took a terrified step backward. “I don’t know. But, Kezra, please don’t do anything foolish.”

  Kezra’s eyes remained dark, but her rigid stance loosened. “Don’t worry. Like I said, I’ll be damned if I let him make the choice for me.” She backed off. “I’m going to water the horses.”

  “Kezra—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of trouble. You do the same.”

  Gib watched her go until he could no longer distinguish her armor from the other soldiers. In more ways than one, he felt as though he was slowly watching his best friend slip away. Was she going to be all right? After war’s end, would there be anything left of the Kezra he’d grown to cherish?

  Gib wrapped his arms around himself and went to find Koal.

  Gib found his mentor near the edge of the settlement. Flanked by Hasain and Deegan, Koal sat in his saddle, observing with silent fury as a group of soldiers emptied a goat pen. An elderly man crouched with two small children just outside the fence. He murmured consolations into their hair, but as each bleating goat was carried past, the younglings pointed and cried hysterically. Tears flowed down their faces, leaving streaks on their cheeks where the dirt had been washed away.

  More men were forcing their way into nearby huts and coming out with their spoils. Animals were thrown into crates and taken away. Food and medicine were stacked into wagons and hauled off. Everything else was dumped into the soil. Some of the villagers distanced themselves as their belongings were sacked by the foreign invaders. Others merely sat where they were and cried.

  Gib’s neck burned as he slunk over to Koal. He’d never felt more ashamed in his life. This wasn’t Arden’s way. This was the act of tyrants.

  Deegan sat rigidly with both hands clutching his reins. “What will the villagers feed their children? After we’re gone, will Tahir send aid? The soldiers are taking everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” Koal replied. “I don’t have any answers for you. And I don’t have the authority to stop this madness.”

  The young prince clapped a hand over his mouth and looked away. “Father would never allow such injustice to take place beneath Arden’s banner.”

  “Koal,” Hasain said quietly, turning in his saddle. “Deegan shouldn’t have to see this.”

  Koal shook his head. “No. Cruel as it is, Deegan needs to see this. A good king must witness the darkest side of humanity if he wishes to be a truly compassionate ruler.”

  “You’re right, uncle,” Deegan said. Sniffling, he raised his chin. “I won’t forget this day. And when I’m king, those responsible will be held accountable for such injustice.” His dark eyes were pained as he watched the soldiers pillage, but he didn’t look away again.

  Neither did Gib. Staring into the hopeless gazes of the peasants all but shattered his soul, but he refused to turn his head. He refused to pretend he didn’t see them.

  Anger surged inside him, flooding his veins and causing his head to pound. He welcomed it—harnessed it. The rage only fueled his determination. Someday things would change, and men like Morathi and Neetra would pay for what they had done.

  A moment passed, or it might have been entire marks for all Gib knew, when a scuffle broke out between a pair of soldiers and one of the villagers. A woman stumbled from within a hut, gripping a bundled sack and trying desperately to keep it away from the men who pursued her.

  She tore across the clearing, screaming and sobbing. The soldiers overtook her in no time, however, and grabbed her willowy arms.

  “All right, hand it over,” one of them said, reaching for the sack.

  The woman howled and clutched her bundle more tightly. Jumbled pleas tumbled from her mouth. Gib didn’t understand the words, but the poor woman’s desperation was clear enough.

  “Stop!” Deegan cried. “Leave her alone!”

  The command was lost beneath the peasant woman’s terrified wails. She struggled against her captors as they tried to rip the sack out of her hands.

  “I said stop! Let her go!”

  This time, the soldiers heard Deegan’s words. They froze, turning with bulging eyes and gaping mouths, but didn’t release their hold on the young woman’s arms.

  Koal brought his horse within a pace of where the men stood, looming above them. “Is this how you address your prince?”

  “No, sir! We were just followin’ commands!”

  “Please, Prince Deegan, forgive us!”

  The sound of horse hooves pounding against the dirt caught Gib’s attention. His stomach flipped at the sight of the general’s grey stallion weaving through the crowd. He, along with everyone else in the vicinity, must have overheard the scuffle.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Morathi demanded as he rode closer. His lofty gaze passed over each of them before settling on the besieged woman. “What does she have?”

  “We don’t know yet, sir,” one of the soldiers replied.

  “Well, take it from her and find out!”

  “We were tryin’, sir, but—but—”

  Koal squared his shoulders. “The Crown Prince gave a command.”

  “Oh, did he now?” Morathi glared down the wide bridge of his nose at Deegan. “And what was your command, Highness?”

  All eyes fell onto Arden’s heir. Even the Shirite woman had stopped struggling against her captors and was now watching the prince.

  Deegan hesitated, looking to Koal for direction. The seneschal nodded, so the prince said gingerly, “I–I said to leave this woman alone.”

  “And why would you do that?” Morathi scolded the Crown Prince like he was a pauper child. “She’s clearly stealing something. Look at the sack she carries.”

  “She can’t steal what’s rightfully hers. And what can such a small satchel hold anyway? Grain for a single soldier for a handful of days?”

  “Or a blade meant to stab the clueless child heir to our throne!”

  Deegan paled and flinched away.

  Point made, Morathi steered his horse over to the woman. She screeched as he reached down and snatched the bundle out of her arms. The woman bawled, clawing at the general’s cape and pleading in her native tongue. With a callous sneer, Morathi kicked her in the abdomen. The blow nearly sent the woman to her knees.

  “Let’s see what she was so determined to hide,” he snarled as he sat upright in his saddle.

  He tore open the sack—

  —and visibly startled when a baby began to wail.

  Gib couldn’t breathe. A child? That’s what she’d been safeguarding?

  “Chhaya’s bane!” Koal hissed, his face twisting in horror. “She was only trying to protect her infant. For Daya’s sake, give the child back!”

  Morathi shoved the baby back at the woman. “She can keep the miserable sand rat until it withers in the sun for all I care.”

  Cradling the infant’s dark head, the woman fled to a nearby hut, where a group of older children embraced her. The family held each other, sobbing, and then disappeared inside.

  “Back to work!” Morathi barked at the gaping bystanders. “Take everything you can find. And do not pity these savages, for we will find no such pity when we reach Tahir’s gates.”

  Dust flew into their faces as the general’s stallion galloped off.

  Gib tried to get his jagged breaths under control. Morathi might as well have given the order to slay the villagers. Perhaps it would even have been the merciful thing to do, rather than leave them to slowly waste away.

  The truth was a black smear on Gib’s heart. They were going to die—the goat-herding children, the frail elderly man, the young mother and her too-thin infant—all of them. And here he was, standing and doing nothing to prevent it. Even if Gib survived the war, he might not be able to live with himself when the dust settled.

  “What’s to become of them, uncle?” Deegan asked, his voice brittle, like it might sha
tter at any moment.

  The seneschal looked on with cloudy eyes. “I don’t know, Deegan. I’m sorry.”

  Gib wiped away a rebellious tear. There were far too many sorrows to count this day. And The Two only knew how many more were yet to come.

  The merry music drifting through the open windows should have lifted Kirk’s spirit, but instead, it only made him furious. How could these people laugh, knowing their Crown Prince and seneschal were at war? How could they celebrate, when any day now Arden’s army would march into battle? Wasn’t anyone worried? Did no one care?

  Patrons of Silver City’s most renowned tavern gathered on the steps, overflowing from within the crowded building and into the darkness outside. A tepid breeze carried their boisterous voices and the scent of ale to where Kirk waited on the opposite side of the street.

  It was well past sundown. A crescent moon already hung high in the cloudless sky, spreading crystalline illumination over the cobblestones. The eventide bells had long since quieted, and the vendors who made a living selling their wares along Traders Row had vanished marks ago. Further down the alley, a lamplighter moved to and fro, setting oil lanterns ablaze. Kirk watched curiously, wondering if all streets inside Silver were brightened by fire each night. Surely the poorer districts couldn’t afford to waste the oil.

  Letting out an agitated sigh, Kirk tapped his fingers against the stone wall at his back. Where in the two worlds was Otho? The apprentice said he’d be there after sundown.

  Well, the damn sun is nowhere to be seen. Did he forget? Or just decide not to show up? I swear to the Blessed Son, if this is some kind of cruel prank—

  “Hey.”

  Kirk whirled around. “Daya, Otho! I didn’t even hear you approach.”

  Shadows played upon the dips of Otho’s washed out face as he came within a pace of where Kirk stood. Otho smiled mockingly. “Maybe you should pay better attention then.”

  “Or maybe you should announce yourself sooner, like any civilized person would.”

  The smile widened into a toothy grin. “Bad day? You usually play nice longer than this.”