Dawncaller

by David Rice

  “Why, Raisha? Why did you stop talking to me? Why did you even start?” The dry leaves still hanging upon a nearby oak rattled in a gentle gust. “I’m just imaging it all. I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should’ve taken us right to Longwood instead of hiding, instead of waiting for—”

  Memories of being trapped atop that tower with Raisha’s eyes glowing like coals burned silence into Kirsten’s tongue. She looked up at a sky of indifferent grey and tears began to roll down her cheeks, stinging in the cold.

  There was a great deal that was her fault, and a great deal that wasn’t. Kirsten lowered her head and gritted her teeth while rocking back and forth. Her head streamed unfiltered curses into her heart.

  “You used to say that our choices let the One work some good into this world.” Her voice thrust through her tears. “But it only got you killed, didn’t it? All that good you did and the One let you die.”

  She shouldn’t have let Helba leave the church to be killed by soldiers. She shouldn’t have let Raisha lead her to her Papa’s old home, an obvious place for assassins to come searching.

  She shouldn’t have put Balinor in danger not after what she had done to—No. She wouldn’t return to that terror again, she lied to herself. She certainly shouldn’t have let her Papa turn himself in to the King. If she had told him no, would he have listened? Just one moment of strength in standing up to her father would have prevented so much loss. Was he rotting in a prison cell now? Was he dead, too? Was she even capable of finding out? Of doing anything?

  She pulled her sword from its sheath and stared into the soft glow of its white gem. “What am I doing now, sword? What do you want from me?” Her whisper held its edge but the Fahde parried with silence.

  “If you think I’m going to lead another group of friends to their doom–” In a flash of anger, she drove the sword into the center of the juniper bush, leaned back, and shrieked, “NO!”

  Heavy footsteps snapped Kirsten from her tearful rage. Across the clearing stood Grumm.

  The dwarf cleared his throat gently. “You know, that’s why dwarves drink so much,” he said.

  Kirsten couldn’t smile but she took a deep breath and retrieved the sword, sheathing it harshly.

  “It’s not nice to eavesdrop,” Kirsten whispered.

  Grumm snorted. “I came when I heard ye shout. I thought it was Plax buggin’ ye or Olaf being a nuisance again.”

  Now Kirsten let a smirk appear briefly. “No,” she said. “Nothing as bad as that.”

  Grumm rocked back and forth on his heels searching for the right words. Since none came, he barged ahead anyway. “There’s no bigger teacher than loss an’ we’ve all been through it. All going to be through it again.”

  Kirsten’s eyes welled up and she tightened her jaw. “I hate that. I don’t want that.”

  “Toast yer losses an’ live the way ye think would make yer ancestors’ proud.”

  “They’d have to forgive me first,” Kirsten mumbled.

  Grumm fumbled for one of his father’s analogies. “When a hammer meets steel, it also makes a choice about what to be and when to break.”

  Kirsten’s nose wrinkled. “What?”

  Grumm sighed. “Yer not responsible for everything or everyone. Quit whining over choices others make.”

  “Not easy, Grumm. Not when I don’t want anyone else hurt.”

  “If anyone has to answer about that, it’s the bastard responsible for waking those drakes, doncha think?”

  Kirsten shrugged. “I wish I could be sure that my choices wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

  “Just do yer best. It’s been good enough so far.”

  “But the price that others could end up paying keeps getting bigger, Grumm. I don’t want that—guilt.”

  “You’ve got a sword no one else can use. Gotta be a good reason for that.”

  “Helba had more faith in good than I do. Look what happened to my Papa when he tried to do the right thing.”

  Grumm placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Those were his choices not yours.”

  Kirsten brushed angrily at a tear.

  “Yer doin’ the right thing taking that sword to the elves. They’ll teach ye more about it. As for everything else, yer doin’ better than most. An’ you’ve a good heart.”

  “Sure,” Kirsten spat.

  Grumm’s hand held her firm until she looked him in the eyes. “Ye do,” he stated. “I know that as clear as I know Plax can’t cook.”

  “Alright,” Kirsten pulled her shoulder out from under the dwarf’s meaty grip. “I just don’t want so many sacrifices to be for nothing.”

  “Look. Just before I left on this Bildugsroam, my Da’ told me that duty can give a person a purpose but it can also be a prison.”

  Kirsten scowled. “How’s that going to help me?”

  Grumm smiled. “Ye gotta trust yerself an’ not pay attention to what you thing anyone else would choose.”

  Kirsten suppressed a dark laugh. “Not easy.”

  Grumm patted his friend on the shoulder. “What’s yer gut say?”

  Kirsten closed her eyes and looked away. She paused before whispering. “That the One works in strange ways. That’s what Helba said all the time, and if she meant strange as being stupid and cruel then she got that right. But I don’t know—”

  “Still, ye trusted Helba? In yer gut?”

  Kirsten swung back towards the dwarf. “Of course,” she snipped. “She was the only one who always told me the truth. Even if I’m still figuring that out.”

  “Trust yer gut, then,” Grumm said. “Helba was wise by the sounds of it and she trusted you.”

  Kirsten looked away once more.

  “She’s still in there, you know,” Grumm added. “An’ after what we’ve been through, I trust you to do the right thing.” He watched Kirsten shiver as his words struck home. “I’ll see ye back at the camp.”

  Kirsten’s throat tightened as emotions drowned speech. She followed Grumm slowly back to their cooking fire. Trust her heart? But what if her heart was an abomination?

  DAWNCALLER:

  PART ONE

  I

  Duke Arundy could not see the mountains to the east but he could feel their distant chill. The damp was magnified by the morning’s shadows that stretched across his camp of survivors. Dark fingers cast by the battlements of Wyntress Keep became an unwelcome reminder of homes charred, and families lost. The wind circled in small gusts that tossed tent flaps and blankets like shreds of surrender. Despite the gloom, he forced his reluctant bones to step into the hazy light that preceded the sun. Eventually the warmth would win, and the camp would be alive with the rush of children and the rhythm of work.

  As he took a better look at his surroundings, Arundy cleared his throat, and stomped the ache from his legs. Endurance was a habit, he thought, both good and bad. Now that his people had found relief from an endless wilderness, they were growing restless for home. Over every meal, voices whispered about new hopes of returning to the Highlands, but they feared Lornen’s desperate desires for more soldiers, more taxes, and more daughters to quench his lust. It was a shallow comfort that King Lornen was not concerned about this distant region. There were greater fears nestled deep in the survivors of Port Lornen, and that terrible day kept their eyes upon the horizon, searching for approaching storms, the flicker of purple flames within the clouds, and the shadows of wings.

  Arundy knew they could leave but would the Highlands be any safer? Arundy’s three sons were there, two in the Hussars and one in the King’s Own. Of course, they were probably deployed north of the Raelyn to fight the elves in Lornen’s ludicrous war. His three daughters were still there, married off to well established Lords, but allegiances would be twisted by their proximity to Graniteside. He’d also heard that one of his headstrong grandsons had purchased a commission. Or rather his foolish father had fronted the gold.

  Arundy kicked at the dirt and sighed. There was no solace to be found in the Hi
ghlands now. Perhaps his people, the survivors, would choose to return in happier times but he knew that he could not. Not only were his children bound to the duties surrounding Lornen’s hatred and Gow’s ambitions, without his wife, there was nothing for him but ghosts.

  Was it any safer to remain here as guests of Duke Wyntress? Port Lornen’s survivors had started to prove their worth to the Wyntress lands, making up for the shortage of labour in the fields. Yet, Wyntress’s eldest daughter had once been courted by Lornen. Did the family still hold some hopes in that direction? Arundy shivered. If so, Wyntress might be tempted to use Arundy as a negotiating chip.

  The King would certainly blame him for the loss of Port Lornen, and he would unquestionably use the disaster to extend his own power. Just like the King had so ruthlessly done with Demitros. Arundy rubbed his chin and looked upward. There were forces more powerful than Lornen in motion now. Everywhere the sky could reach lay under the threat of annihilation. Now that the drakes were the dominant force of this world, every option seemed reduced to hide, fight, or find the most comforting place to die.

  Or pray? The thought appeared unexpectedly. Would it matter if one did? Arundy examined the colours of the sky and a hesitant smile twisted his tight expression before vanishing into the edges and valleys of his brooding. The One did not seem to care that creation was unravelling. He rubbed at smooth patches on his forearm where the hair would never grow again. The realm was powerless to affect the drakes.

  Arundy rocked back and forth on his heels and began to pace. If he was to help his people, he must ignore what he could not control. His heart whispered to his habitual worry, it might still be possible to influence the realm for the better. After all, he did have a few cards hidden away that he could play if the opportunity arose. The most valuable was the child, Leah. Beyond all else, he had to guard her secret and keep her safe. And her questioning nature did not make that an easy task.

  Loyalty would be the key. Trust. But fear made trust as flammable as dry leaves. If they were to survive, they had to stay loyal to one another. Arundy sat upon a rock. Could he dare lead his people again? His wife’s smile flashed through his memory unbidden and salt filled his thickening throat. The survivors had followed him so far and lost so much. He couldn’t ask his entire realm to face such dangers. They needed—they deserved—better than a worn down old man weakened by guilt. Would he be able to find that strength in others? There must be other dukes who were as concerned with Lornen’s foolish rule. Stronn was too ambitious. And he had just lost his own lands to drake fire. Rumour had it that Stronn’s people were heading north to shelter under the protection of the duchess of Hillsedge. Arundy grumbled. She was also a fickle and ambitious sort. He continued to rub his chin. What of those already close to the King? Too many of the nobility in Graniteside were addicted to privilege. They would be the last to take risks.

  Stigand? The Order itself? No. Demitros had been troubling enough. And the purge of the Blackthorn had angered the entire kingdom. Some even believed the drakes were punishment for that atrocity.

  Wyntress perhaps?

  Arundy rubbed at his eyes. How could he ask his fellow Dukes to overthrow a King? What would happen to the realm if rebellion was seen as possible—as justifiable? Peace and security would never return.

  Arundy cursed himself. Worries hamstrung each of his decisions. So much had changed since he had entertained a room full of concerned nobility in Graniteside. His heart swelled with grief. If only his wife had been here beside him. He brushed roughly at the first sign of tears. He no longer felt worthy of leading, or of asking others to sacrifice. And he hated himself for it.

  The snap snap rhythm of an approaching snare drum forced Arundy to straighten his aching frame and stand. Rounding the shadows of the wall came four guards and their Lord, Duke Wyntress. Arundy’s neck stiffened as if expecting the axe. Wyntress smiled. “I hoped I wouldn’t be disturbing you.”

  Arundy’s lopsided grin barely disguised his scowl. “I’m glad you came,” his voice grumbled like gravel.

  Wyntress sighed, took off his gloves, and waved at the guards dismissively. Immediately, the guards took sentry positions a bow shot away looking outward. The younger duke met Arundy’s worried gaze and did not try to force a smile. “I know it’s been hard on you. All of you.”

  “Going to be harder still, I’m afraid,” Arundy replied. “You’re taking a risk having me here.”

  Wyntress shook his head. “And you took risks for us cycles ago when we approached you for aid.”

  “What else was I to do?” Arundy replied.

  Wyntress stepped towards Arundy and extended a hand. “We thought you dead, Arundy.

  Of course, my home is open to you and your people. Anyway, Lornen’s not the biggest worry these days.”

  Arundy grasped Wyntress’s hand and squeezed it once. Hard. “Stronn found that out, didn’t he?”

  Wyntress’s smile flashed with the handshake and fell away. “Drakes? No. I mean worse.”

  Arundy arched an eyebrow.

  “We don’t have the numbers to plant or bring in the next harvest. And we’ve been ordered to provide more recruits for an army that can no longer feed itself. Gow has stripped all the lands of every scrap of food, and it’s likely he’ll be ordered to take what little we have left to feed his army because his bloated garrison has eaten everything for a hundred leagues.”

  Arundy nodded slowly. “You have an idea about how to keep everyone from starving?”

  Wyntress’s face reddened. “It’s breaking my heart but I think we have to force Lornen to compromise on his war. Force him to make a deal.”

  Arundy snorted. “That boy doesn’t have the sense.”

  “But you remember,” Wyntress pressed, “Our group of nobles. Discontent has made friends of many since then. Fear about a famine and revolt. We could parade a fine list of Dukes to pressure the King. We just need a voice.”

  Arundy’s blood froze. “He thinks me dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Lornen wants me dead.”

  “He did—once.”

  Arundy’s voice chilled. “I am not aware of any pardon being granted.”

  Wyntress shook his head. “You’ll be safe. With us. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

  Arundy’s stare bore into Wyntress. “Of course you are.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve fumbled this badly. Can you give me leave to explain a bit better?”

  Arundy sat down. “I have no where else to be.”

  Wyntress began to pace. He stared at the sky absently as he collected his scattered thoughts. “We’re all used to the King pulling our lands together, giving us purpose and unity, squelching squabbles between Duchies and such.”

  “I remember why our ancestors chose a Monarch. Go on.”

  Wyntress flashed a grateful glance. “Well, we haven’t had such a failure in a King before. He’s led us down the road to disaster and we have to stop this war before it kills us all.”

  “You want me to lead this assembly of Dukes that will somehow dictate terms to the King?”

  “Yes. That’s essentially it. Rather delicate stuff.”

  “How many already know I am alive?”

  Wyntress’s eyes bobbed about. “I can’t control every servant’s mouth but the press gangs ensure there’s very little travel between regions—”

  Arundy’s tone was sharp and clear. “It’s treason, Wyntress. I can’t be your voice.”

  Wyntress’s shoulders wilted. “But you can rally—”

  “As a person stripped of my title by the King, as a deserter who abandoned my post, as a criminal in the eyes of the Order, all I would do is bring axes down on all of your necks. Every Duke who aligned with your cause. You know Lornen would do that. All he would need is an excuse. Do you want that, Wyntress?”

  “No. Of course not. For a moment I hoped—”

  Arundy stood and grasped Wyntress by the shoulders. “Your idea of gathering support to
influence the King is a good one, Wyntress. I’m not deterring you from that.”

  “Then what do you propose?”

  Arundy released his grip but held his stare firm. “Who are nearest to your heart in the pursuit of this?”

  “Stronn, of course. Koppinger. The Dukes bordering Halnn and the Peatlands south of the Lake. They have all suffered most. Koppinger has control of the Docks and Graniteside’s fishery.”

  “I was never impressed by Baron Koppinger but his control of Graniteside’s food supply is a worthy tool for negotiation. Gather these Dukes, only ones you can absolutely trust, and prepare your message carefully. But wait for a moment when Lornen is desperate enough to hear you.”