Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  The war had stumbled on for another two moons after the fall of Cottrill. The Litten armies had headed north, hoping to use their familiarity with the cold weather of their own country as a weapon in itself. But that weapon had misfired.

  Despite it being the season of Taan, the warmest season of the year, the temperatures were viciously cold. The driving sleet and snow that were a permanent facet of the upper reaches of the country were merciless.

  The army of Litt had been made a pauper during the conflict. The army of Felthiss was much better supplied and much better prepared. The Littens were not able to trade or to access the essential supplies that would have enabled them to survive the climate. They could not hunt enough meat or skin enough fur. They were blocked at every turn.

  The biting wind swept ice down from the foothills of the mountains. Swords jammed stuck in their scabbards; the frost proved more effective that the strongest glue. Men on both sides lost fingers, toes and noses to frostbite. Injuries that should have been survivable became fatal. Nature punished the merest hints of weakness almost instantly.

  The final battle that ultimately decided the fate of the country took place in the foothills of the mountain range so massive and intimidating that it prevented habitation of the furthest reaches of the country. Litt had thrown all of its remaining resources into a suicidal last stand. The native generals did not have the imagination or the energy to come up with any better plan than to fight a pitched battle on open ground. The Felthissians, specialists in that type of warfare, were easily victorious.

  More than half of the Litten army lay dead or dying on the field before their leaders conceded defeat under a white flag of truce.

  Following their resounding victory, the Felthissians had remained in the country as a peacekeeping force. For the past three moons they had been assisting the Littens to rebuild their ravaged country. After all, there would have been little point to the war if the country could not yield the profits that it had sacrificed life and blood to protect.

  News of Dimacius’ death had reached the camp as the final, epic battle had concluded. Jorrell had made his way back from the front, surrounded by the cheers and congratulations of his men, to find the messenger waiting for him. Jorrell was bloodied, cold and exhausted beyond his worst imaginings, but the messenger would give the scroll to no one else.

  The First Father’s death had been greeted with sadness. The news that Erkas was to be his successor had been received with almost universal derision. The contents of that scroll had smothered the success of their victory and had left a bitter taint on the day.

  It was end of the season of Taan now. What little summer Litt ever experienced had passed in a flood of slush and cold rain. Jorrell was not looking forward to another winter in this country. His men were loyal to a fault, but without battles to occupy them, they were beginning to become restless and were prone to moaning. He feared that there might be mutiny if they did not receive a new assignment soon.

  He was proud of what they’d achieved in Litt in a short time. The native people would never be happy about being under the thumb of the conquering country, but at least now they would have a respectable quality of life again, no longer swallowed by the shadow of war.

  The army had moved its base of operations to the southernmost point of Litt to take advantage of the meagre degree of warmth that the location provided, but still, Jorrell was not sure that he would ever feel warm again after spending so many years in the almost constant onslaught of snow and ice. He suspected he could live in Velth for the rest of his days and still feel chilled.

  Jorrell resettled his heavy wool and fur cloak across his shoulders as he walked through the camp, heading for the rough log cabin that had been built in the centre to serve as a debriefing point. He had been recalled from a project to rebuild the ravaged city of Cottrill because another messenger had arrived from Felthiss. Jorrell feared all news from home; none that he had received to date had been good, or even remotely encouraging.

  He knew that this news would be no better when Cael met him before he got to the cabin.

  “Bad news?”

  “Don’t know yet, but it’s unlikely to be anything but. Hitaal, Vassant and En Balamon are inside. Makesh is still riding in from the west. He’s not expected to arrive for another day, so they’ve agreed to carry on without him.”

  “All the Generals have been brought together?” Jorrell frowned. “That’s ominous. Who’s the messenger?”

  Cael sighed. “It’s no mere errand boy. They’ve sent a consul. Tayban. Ever heard of him?”

  Jorrell shook his head. His furrowed brow had not eased. “No. What sort is he?”

  “The sort with soft hands who’ll stab you while your back’s turned.”

  “He’ll be one of Erkas’ cronies, then.” They were almost at the door to the cabin. “Watch your tongue,” Jorrell advised his quick-tempered friend in a low voice before they entered.

  Once inside, Cael took a position by the door. Ostensibly he was standing guard in case anyone was foolish enough to try and enter, being in ignorance of the proceedings, but really Jorrell preferred to have him close at hand. Cael was talented at watching the proceedings and spotting minor details in people’s manner and speech that Jorrell occasionally missed because he himself was talking or listening to another speaker.

  Jorrell greeted Hitaal and En Balamon as the old friends that they were. The gryphons had remained during the reconstruction, as they were an effective policing force. Anyone hearing their caw or the swoop of their wings generally stopped doing anything that they shouldn’t have been doing immediately. And one gryphon could patrol a much greater area in flight than a battalion of men on foot. Jorrell and Vassant exchanged cursory nods. It was well known that they often clashed, and any further pleasantries were not expected. The men had become used to the battlefront, which was so far from home that only the most basic plays of politics were indulged. Being army men, even when they disagreed or needed to manipulate each other, they did so in a fairly straight forward manner. Complicated plotting was left to the politicians.

  Jorrell examined the politician who stood in the middle of the room, observing all, as he took his customary seat at the long oak table besides General Hitaal. Hitaal was almost a giant of man, hugely muscled and a head taller than Jorrell, and Jorrell was taller than most men he met. Hitaal had not held Jorrell’s youthful escapades against him, even though it had been one of his meetings that Jorrell and Serwren had interrupted when they had decided to investigate the gryphons. Over the years, Hitaal had become one of Jorrell’s valued friends and a tutor, almost a father figure.

  The politician - Tayban - a thin, angular man, had the air of someone who was calm and controlled at all times, an air at odds with the pale red-gold hair that stuck up in uncontrollable tufts from his scalp. It had been cut short, almost to the skin, to tame it, but the effort had not been a success.

  “We were waiting on you, General Jorrell.”

  That the consul tried to chastise him for tardiness as if he were an errant child did not make Jorrell think any better of him.

  “Consul Tayban, is it? I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced.”

  Jorrell stood and reached across the table to offer the consul his hand. Tayban could not very well refuse without looking churlish. When he clasped Jorrell’s hand and shook it, Jorrell hung on a fraction longer than necessary, squeezing his grip until the muscles in his arms bunched, although the action was not noticeable, as most of his body was still hidden by his cloak.

  A grimace flashed across Tayban’s face, and when Jorrell released him and took his seat again, the consul tried to surreptitiously shake out and stretch his crushed fingers.

  The consul gave Jorrell an assessing look before he began to speak.

  “Gentlemen, as General Makesh is still a day’s ride away, and as I am eager to return to Felthiss, you will have to relay the new orders for the army to him. The First Father and the Forum of Fel
thiss, on behalf of the people of Felthiss, have entrusted me to deliver this message to you. Your orders are as follows: you have one moon in which to tie up the loose ends of your work here. The people of this country are quite capable of rebuilding their own homes, and will do so without your assistance. You and your battalions will return to Felthiss.”

  At that Jorrell’s heart thudded sharply in his chest. To return home had long been his most cherished dream. He had often wondered what he would find on his return. A nation changed, he knew that much, but what of the people he’d left behind, his sister and Serwren? On the tail of that elation came a sickening sense of foreboding. The consul had not yet completed his message.

  “You will remain at the barracks for the span of one moon. During that time you will re-arm and replenish the ranks.”

  “And then?” General Hitaal asked. He was the most senior among them, being the longest serving officer, and although capable of dealing with politicians when he wanted to, rarely had the patience to toady to them.

  “And then, General,” there was more than a hint of a sneer in Tayban’s tone which did not go unmissed, “then, you are commanded to march north east. You will invade Vuthron with the aim of conquering the country in the name of Felthiss and the First Father.”

  Jorrell’s sense of unease had proved true. Of all the directives that he could have imagined, this would never have been even one of his worst nightmares. The armies of dead that the King of Vuthron would raise would decimate the mortal ranks of the Felthissian force. Jorrell knew that he would not survive this next campaign.

  “That is suicide!” En Balamon exclaimed, standing so suddenly that his chair tipped over. “You seek to murder your own troops!”

  “Be careful of your tone, General. I speak for the Forum.” There was a sly self-importance to the consul’s tone.

  En Balamon, as leader of the troops from the Isle of Gryphons, was also leader of the Isle itself. He had a degree of power in his own right, and did not answer to Felthiss, but still it was not wise to anger the patently unstable governing body of the far larger country.

  “My apologies,” En Balamon grated as he regained his seat.

  Hitaal remained silent, as did Jorrell. They knew better than to question these orders outright. But Jorrell could tell from the way that Hitaal’s jaw was clenched and his hands fisted on the table that the older man was as unhappy as he was. Jorrell looked over to Vassant and saw a man who was not as entirely surprised as he, Hitaal and En Balamon had been, but who was no less pleased. Jorrell supposed it must have been at least a small shock to find out how disposable he was, even with his influential connections.

  “Gentlemen, do you have any questions?” Tayban asked.

  Jorrell answered before En Balamon could speak, as he so obviously wanted to. “No, Consul. Thank you for taking the time to deliver these orders personally. Of course, we will abide by them. You had best leave now if you wish to get back to the coast in time for the dawn tide.”

  Tayban opened his mouth, but stuttered over his next words. Jorrell had effectively dismissed him, cutting him off from any more self-aggrandising posturing. “Very well, gentlemen. I will see you next in Felthiss.”

  “Safe journey, Consul.” Jorrell hoped that the lack of sincerity he felt had not seeped too clearly into his words.

  The consul looked to be at a loss, sure that he was being insulted in some way, but without being able to latch on to any one word or phrase that he could call anyone out over. He huffed, and stalked out of the room. Jorrell watched him go and saw that Cael was already holding the door open for Tayban before the consul reached it. That in itself was a subtle message, too.

  Vassant was the first to speak in the consul’s absence. “I suggest that we keep this news to ourselves until we can relate it directly to Makesh. I’m sure he would rather not hear a bastardised version before he reaches camp.”

  “I would suggest that we reconvene when he arrives. We should all be here to tell him,” Jorrell said. “And further, we should keep the information about the invasion between us until we reach the barracks at Thrissia. If that gets out to the troops, we’ll have deserters jumping overboard to face the unknown terrors of the ocean rather than stand against the relentless armies of the undead.”

  Vassant looked as though he might disagree, but then nodded his head as his expression cleared. “Until Thrissia,” he agreed, and then he, too, left the room.

  “Lock the door, Cael,” Jorrell instructed.

  Cael did as he was bid, and then joined the other men at the table. En Balamon and Hitaal had no problem with Cael joining their conversation, it had long been accepted that Jorrell and Cael were a partnership.

  Cael had barely taken his seat before En Balamon almost shouted, “This is madness,” punctuating his statement with a bang of his first on the table.

  “This is Erkas,” Jorrell remarked wryly.

  Hitaal stroked the scruff of his black beard, now much more liberally threaded with grey than it had been when Jorrell had joined the army. “From the moment we received word that Erkas had taken the head of the Forum, I’ve been expecting some ridiculous demand. That young pup will want to make his name in the way that they all do. But this, it makes no sense. This won’t make any name for him, not in any good way. He’ll always be referred to as the leader who massacred his armies.”

  “There is always, always, a reason behind whatever Erkas does, even when it appears that there must be no sense, ” Jorrell said. “Unless the man has gone completely insane, this will benefit him, somehow.”

  “How can killing every one of us benefit him?” En Balamon asked with exasperation.

  “What do you care? The undead can’t fly. You’ll be safe on your gryphon, bird boy,” Hitaal joked with a wide grin. The mood around the table lightened, but only for a moment.

  Cael leaned forward his hands clasped together on the table. “I’m a soldier, not a politician, but Jorrell has told me a little about our new leader. It's true, a man like that may have lost his mind, but I doubt it. There’ll be a solid reasoning behind this. Solid to him, anyhow.”

  “And what possible reason could he have for such genocide?” En Balamon’s impatience with the situation had not lessened.

  “What easier way to hide the murder of one man, than in the murder of thousands?” Cael asked of no one in particular.

  Hitaal and En Balamon’s confusion was evident, but Cael turned to Jorrell.

  “It’s you. It’s you he wants dead. You need to take great care when we land in Thrissia, he might not wait for Kavrazel’s troops to do his dirty work for him. You go nowhere without me. Erkas still bears his grudge against you, after all this time, and now he has the power to kill you. Except that you’ve gone and gotten your own amount of power. You’re a famous General, he can’t simply slip a knife between your ribs. So he has to send his whole army to their deaths, against a foe so deadly that your death will be assured right along with everyone else’s.”

  “Surely not,” En Balamon exclaimed.

  Hitaal was looking at Cael with great interest. “For a soldier, you have remarkable clarity of thinking in such political matters.”

  “It’s not politics,” Cael returned. “It’s fucking cold-blooded murder. And what is a soldier’s business if not that?”

  Jorrell had been quiet while they bantered. “No, Cael is right. This is exactly the sort of thing Erkas would do.”

  “In that case,” Hitaal lowered his voice to little more than a hoarse rasp. “We cannot allow him to continue as First Father. It is our duty. We are sworn to protect Felthiss, and we must protect her, if even from herself.”

  Jorrell’s tone was barely more audible. “Careful, gentlemen. What we say here is treason. We must be careful of the ears that might overhear us. If we speak of this, we should be sure we are alone.”

  “Then this is not the place to speak of it.” En Balamon nodded. “But I don’t see how we can avoid returning home, and t
he gods know that I’m ready to.”

  Hitaal smiled widely and sat back, but kept his voice low. “That order we need to comply with. It’ll be good for the troops. And whatever is good for the troops is good for us. You have the army at your back, Jorrell. Better an army of men who are home in warm country with willing women and bellies full of wine, than an army half-frozen and full of discontent.”

  Jorrell couldn’t agree more, for himself as much as the men. Even if he was facing his murder, he couldn’t deny he was glad to be going home. He was eager for it. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he’d be willing to walk onto the sharp end of a lance for one more chance to see Felthiss, to walk the streets of Thrissia, to see his sister... and Serwren, of course, to see Serwren.

  Cael spoke again. “There are better places in Felthiss, in Thrissia even, that we can meet. We all have friends there. We’ll have the span of one moon to stop this madness.”

  “Agreed,” Hitaal said. “We have the span of one moon to do what we can for these people. It sits ill with me to leave them destitute. We’ll say nothing until we’ve spoken to Makesh, but news of home will motivate the men to work quickly. We should be able to achieve a lot in that short time.”