Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  “You can’t see it from here, it’s further that way.” Jorrell pointed westwards. “It’s quieter, away from this road.”

  “A choice location in such a prestigious area.”

  Jorrell shrugged and began walking again. “I suppose so. Not that it matters. The house will have passed to whichever consul took my father’s place.”

  At that moment, Jorrell realised that the person who had taken his father’s place was Erkas. The thought of Erkas sleeping in his childhood home, touching the furniture and eating from the plates and dishes; the thought of that maggot casually residing in what had once been a place of joy and safety, turned Jorrell’s stomach. But as they passed the palace, Jorrell realised that wouldn’t have been the case. Erkas would never had left the palace, not if he didn’t have to. It was probably some jumped up pompous prick like Tayban that was resident in the house now, but that thought didn’t sit much better in Jorrell’s gut.

  The barracks were still seething with the people who were working to prepare the buildings for the return of the army. There would be room enough. For all the recruitment that had been undertaken over the years, the wars and campaigns had laid a harsh levy on the ranks.

  Jorrell and Cael allowed themselves to be shown to their quarters. They were still laughing and joking about nothing particularly serious, just enjoying the feeling of being home, of being able to relax without fear of the enemy descending over the nearest rise at dawn. Although two rooms had been prepared, they both agreed that only one was needed. As the servants hurried to make the necessary arrangements, Jorrell despatched one of the more senior staff to negotiate with the wine merchants in the city. His men would celebrate their return before they were informed of their next assignment.

  Jorrell and Cael sat in the parade yard while their room was readied. Jorrell was describing his first encounter with a gryphon to Cael when a messenger arrived.

  “General Jorrell?” The scroll bearer was barely old enough to be a young man.

  “Yes.”

  The boy held out a rolled scroll to Jorrell. Jorrell took it and passed it to Cael. Cael broke the seal and scanned the script as the boy spoke. “It’s an invitation for you, sir, and the Generals Hitaal, Vassant and Makesh.”

  “They’ll be along shortly. An invitation to where?”

  “To the palace, sir. The First Father is holding a reception tonight to welcome his victorious army home and to celebrate its triumphs.”

  Disappointment warred with anticipation. Jorrell had been hoping to get rowdy and drunk with his men. A formal, disciplined gathering was not what he had in mind, but there was a better than average chance that Serwren would be there, and maybe Elthrinn. It would be the soonest opportunity he would have to see them both.

  “Very well.” Jorrell nodded at the imposing figure of General Hitaal who was emerging through one of the archways. “There’s one of your other targets. Hitaal,” Jorrell advised, before the messenger scurried off.

  “There better be wine there,” Cael muttered at the scroll.

  “Oh, there will be. But not so many whores. You can stay here if you’d rather relax with the men. I’ll go and make polite conversation with the politicians.”

  Cael re-rolled the scroll emphatically. “Fuck that. Where you go, I go. You think I’m going to let you wander into the presence of your nemesis without me by your side?”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Jorrell grumbled.

  Cael pointed the scroll at him accusingly. “Many of the scars on your skin tell a different story.”

  Jorrell sighed in amused defeat. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could stop you, anyway.”

  Cael shrugged. “No not really. Besides, I’m eager to see the beautiful waif who holds your heart, still, after all these years. And I’m curious to see if your sister is as pretty as you say.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Jorrell threatened, but his ire only made Cael chuckle.

  “Dare what?” Cael asked with all the innocence he could muster, which wasn’t much.

  “I’m not sure the palace is ready for you.” Jorrell paused and then laughed. “All the more reason for you to be there, then. Come on, let’s see if we can get a bath before we go, instead of turning up like the stinking barbarians that I’m sure they think we are.”

  Cael waved the scroll accusingly again. “You are a barbarian. I haven’t forgotten what you did to that Litten General after the battle of Cottrill. Next to you, I’m pretty fucking refined.”

  Jorrell thought about arguing, and then decided his position was indefensible, so he shrugged and stood. “We better keep those details to ourselves, for now.”

  “I was hoping you’d give a demonstration,” Cael muttered, with only a little dejection. “It sounds like more than half those fuckers deserve it.”

  “Easily half. But let’s drink their wine first, eh?”

  “Yes. Let’s drink the wine. Let’s drink all the wine,” Cael agreed enthusiastically.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The palace seemed smaller than he remembered, but no less familiar. Jorrell could have found their way to the ballroom without the aid of the servant guiding them, not least because the noise of the reception; the chatter of the voices and the lilt of the instruments, could be heard several corridors away.

  It had been a long time since they had been in such formal company, but Jorrell was not apprehensive. Primarily because he intended that if anyone treated them with less respect than they deserved, than they had earned with their blood, then he was going to turn the fuck around and walk out. He was sure that there would be one or two characters who would enjoy belittling the rough soldiers, to make themselves look superior at the expense of the - as they thought - uneducated riff raff. But Jorrell would not allow them that pleasure. Although he might stay to watch Hitaal knock down anyone who tried such theatrics. Jorrell suspected that several years of warfare in a remote country, uncivilised by comparison with Felthiss, had blunted the older general’s diplomatic edge.

  Vassant, of course, was likely to be welcomed with open arms, by his brother, Bornsig. Now that was a man that Jorrell was not looking forward to seeing. He felt the edges of his temper fray at the mere thought of the man.

  There were gasps when the four Generals and Cael, who now carried the rank of commander, were presented at the entrance to the ballroom. Heg, whom they had brought to Felthiss, and who was currently getting obscenely drunk with the other soldiers, had excelled himself. Jorrell wasn’t sure how Heg had done it, but after being told of their appointment, he had shooed them all off to the communal baths. By the time their skin was clean and dried, their armour was gleaming, and their cloaks were clean and fresh, and only slightly damp.

  They had donned clean leather trews and freshly laundered shirts that Heg had procured from who-knew-where, and had then donned as little of their plated armour as they could possibly be comfortable wearing for the evening. Vassant, out to impress, had put on nearly the full complement of his armour. Makesh had followed suit, but had exercised a little more decorum. Hitaal, Jorrell and Cael had all chosen to wear only their breastplates and gauntlets, leaving the majority of the shielding for their arms and necks behind. Vassant was even carrying his helmet under his arm.

  The night air was cooler without the glow of the sun, so Jorrell had chosen to keep his cloak. He had not shaved fully; it was against his solider habits to scrape the skin of his chin and neck raw. The chafing of armour against freshly shaved skin was a pain that one did not forget easily. He knew that the shaggy pelts of wild animals that lay over his shoulders, coupled with his short beard and uncut hair, gave him a feral look, and he did not mind. He looked like what he was, a killer. The soft-handed politicians should not forget that at their pretty dinner party.

  The Generals, for one reason or another, had all had reason to visit the palace before, and all had witnessed the grandeur of the ballroom when it was prepared for a great event. Cael was a little wide-eyed at
the expensive crystal and marble that twinkled and shone in the expansive candlelight, but he hid it well behind his customary humour. A casual observer would never have guessed that Cael was a farm boy from a rough village.

  The musicians had falteringly halted their tune when the crowd had fallen silent. And now the pack of people parted as Erkas made his way down from the dais towards the Generals . Not one of the soldiers had moved yet from the doorway.

  “Generals, gentlemen. Welcome.” Erkas approached them with his arms spread wide in welcome. Gods, but Jorrell hoped it was for show and that he didn’t actually mean to try and embrace them. He didn’t think even Hitaal would stand for that.

  Thankfully Erkas dropped his arms as he reached them, and instead turned and faced the still silent audience. “A round of applause for our honoured guests. And wine!” Erkas clapped sharply, twice, as the spell was broken by a wave of sound from the clapping hands.

  “Yes. All the fucking wine,” Cael muttered at Jorrell’s ear. Jorrell coughed into his fist to hide his chuckle.

  “Come my friends.” Jorrell didn’t miss Hitaal’s wince at the overtly familiar address. “Eat and drink. The Forum of Felthiss honours you all.”

  Erkas led the way down the steps and into the throng. Privately, Jorrell thought that the Forum of Felthiss would fucking faint if it had been within half a league of any one of the battles that they had fought in the country’s name. And then there had been the pike incidents in Cottrill.

  The five men allowed themselves to be guided into the mob of well wishers, who all darted slightly frightened glances at the huge, muscular, rough men. Jorrell wondered what rumours had been spread already. They weren’t cannibals, contrary to some of the popular lore that had abounded through the ranks recently.

  Jorrell was looking, without trying to look. Disappointment was beginning to wrap itself around his gut. The more people he saw, the more people he saw who weren’t her.

  And then, through a gap in the press of bodies, he saw her.

  She was standing by one of the gleaming marble columns, watching the proceedings, watching him. The crowd moved again and she was obscured from his view, but he felt that blue gaze still piercing his soul.

  He muttered something nonsensical at Cael, and to his eternal credit, he thought, Jorrell managed to keep a casual pace and not shoulder every single living person that stood between him and Serwren out of his way as he went to her.

  She stood her ground as he approached. She did not flinch or run. Her face betrayed no expression at all. Had she heard the exaggerated stories of the army’s ferocity, some of which were based on his own actions? If she was scared of him, she wasn’t showing it.

  Serwren stood straight, facing trouble head on, as she always had. There was a touch of imperiousness about her now, that hadn’t been there before, a sharpness. Jorrell supposed he was probably somewhat to blame for that.

  The black dress that she was wearing hugged curves that had still been developing when he’d last seen her. The long sleeves were wide to accommodate heavy silver jewellery at her wrists; prettier, feminine versions of his own gauntlets. The front was cut deeply over her breasts, exposing the enticing slopes, and extending almost to her navel. His eye was drawn to her neck, to her chest, by an elaborate diamond and ruby necklace that glinted with dancing fire in the candlelight. He clenched his fists, lest he insolently brush his fingers over that perfectly pale skin which appeared unchanged by time.

  He wanted... He wanted... His mind was so full of long dormant desires and fantasies that he wasn’t sure what he wanted. To touch her, certainly; to kiss her, to hold her, to lay her down on the floor and fuck her like a desperate animal, definitely.

  “Serry?” His voice came out as a mere gasp. She was an illusion that might disappear if he spoke too loudly, like the spirit in his dreams that disappeared when he reached out to grasp her on waking.

  “Jor.” Her voice was barely more audible.

  For that moment in time, everything else in the world dropped away. All was silence. The chatter, the music, the crowd, the gaudy ballroom, all of it faded to nothing. It was him and her, as it always should have been, but with an endless chasm of memories and time between them.

  He couldn’t think what to say. He hadn’t thought to have this opportunity. He had never prepared for it. Anything that sprung to his mind now seemed ridiculously inane. And it seemed she was suffering from the same malady.

  “Mama!”

  Jorrell was struck by the shout, by the idea that a child should be present in this room at all, much less at this late hour. He hadn’t thought it was that kind of gathering, but the boy, older than a child, younger than a man, was hurrying to Serwren’s side. To Serwren’s side. It was Serwren that was being addressed as mother. Any half-formed thoughts that might have become words fled from Jorrell’s mind as Serwren put her hand out and the boy grasped it.

  “Mama. Uncle Erkas says he’ll make sure there are fire eaters at the Feast of the Twelfth Moon. I can’t wait to see that. Do they really eat it, the fire, I mean? Doesn’t it burn them?”

  Serwren did not take her eyes from Jorrell as she answered her eager son. Her son.

  “Does he now? He’s really planning something quite extravagant, then. And no, it doesn’t burn them. There’s a trick to it. I’m sure they’ll tell you if you ask.”

  “Can I try it?”

  That question had her eyes narrowing and had her turning her full attention to her son. Her son. Her son who had thick black hair and bright blue eyes.

  “No you can’t. Ulli... I want you to meet someone.”

  Jorrell’s heart ceased to beat.

  “This is General Jorrell.”

  Jorrell’s heart restarted with a painful thump, and stuttered again as a face filled with half-familiar features turned to him.

  “Really?” The boy looked a little more awestruck than Jorrell was entirely comfortable with. He hoped the boy didn’t ask him about any of the popular fables of the army's exploits. He would hate to have to try and explain them. But the boy didn’t. Instead he showed great reserve and poise, much more than Jorrell felt at that moment. The boy held out his hand. “My name is Ulli. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Jorrell took the small hand and shook it, trying not to crush the delicate limb in his great paw. Ulli had long fingers, like his mother.

  “Consul Remmah taught me about the rebellion in Naidac. You were promoted there? To Commander?”

  Jorrell cleared his throat. He was going to have to speak. “Yes, eventually.”

  Thankfully the boy was not unnerved by his gruffness, indeed, it looked as though Ulli would ask him more, but his mother intervened. “It’s getting late, Ulli.”

  The boy pouted. Jorrell hid his smile. He could understand the boy’s frustration and disappointment at being sent to bed. Serwren continued, “You can stay until the musicians take their next break, but then you must find Aileth. Remmah will have me whipped if you fall asleep during your studies tomorrow.”

  The boy’s pout disappeared as he recognised the temporary reprieve he’d been given. “Thank you, Mama.” And just like that, he was gone, flitting into the crowd to escape, and possibly extend his curfew.

  “Your son?” Jorrell wondered if he’d lost the ability to speak in full sentences forever.

  “Yes.”

  “He lives with you and your husband?” No one could persuade Jorrell that Ulli bore any blood of Bornsig’s, but any deeper investigation on that point was beyond Jorrell’s abilities this night.

  “No. My husband is dead.”

  Jorrell was shocked. Bornsig was dead. He would have thought that Vassant might have mentioned something as momentous as the death of his brother, even though he and Jorrell were not friendly.

  “When?”

  “Only two moons since.”

  That explained it. The news would not have reached them in time, and anyone who would have thought to send a messenger would have known th
at the army would be returning soon enough. But that was beside the point. Serwren had been married for as long as he’d been absent from Felthiss. And that had been a very long time.

  There was more he wanted to ask her, more he wanted to say to her, but the thoughts were a jumbled mess in his head. An intrusion pushed Jorrell's intentions to one side.

  “My lady, might I steal you away for a moment?”

  The smooth voice at his shoulder made Jorrell turn more sharply than was seemly. He found one of the consuls that he recognised standing just behind him. It was the Vuthroan emissary, Seddrill. An errant thought skittered in Jorrell’s mind. He wondered what Seddrill had made of Erkas' plan to invade Vuthron, if indeed he knew of it at all. But it was the possessiveness in his address to Serwren that caused Jorrell to scowl.

  “Please, excuse me.” Serwren's voice was barely more than an apologetic murmur.