Dawn (Society of Dawn Book 1)

by Dan O'Brien

  Dawn

  Dan O’Brien

  ©2014 Dan O’Brien

  Duedonia

  Trails of smoke enveloped a crescent moon, cold winds lashing at the smoky tendrils as they flitted through the chilly night air and obscured the mountain’s majestic peaks. Twisting, convulsing embers waltzed with the smoke as flames licked the forests at the mountain’s base.

  Duedonia lay along the foothills at the base of the mountains and was located at the far western border of the lands controlled by the Society of the Dawn. The village’s wicker roofs collapsed and were engulfed by the roaring flames, while women scattered in the night, their shrill voices calling to children lost among the ironclad soldiers who marched shoulder to shoulder.

  Their menacing eyes stared from their gaunt faces hidden by dark, greasy beards as their heavy blades carved through the defenseless and brave alike, the thunder of their footfalls echoing above the screech of the slithering flames that threatened to overtake the entire village.

  “No male children alive. No buildings left standing,” barked a mounted soldier, his dull armor accented with two dark slashes at his left shoulder and his helm decorated with a fan of vertical blades.

  The line of soldiers turned at a break in the narrow dirt streets. Behind them the village was basked in an amber glow; before them darkened homes awaited the impending assault.

  A shadow crossed the street and waited, and then another.

  The mounted officer pulled his reins tightly, drawing his mare to a stop. “Where is she?” he shouted, his voice hoarse from the ash and smoke. “We will spare the village if you bring her to me.”

  The shadows crept closer to the light of the torches held by the standard-bearers, controllers of the deadly flames that were burning Duedonia that night. In the flickering light three figures stood: one male and two female. Their brandished spears were held fast in their hands.

  “She will be found,” the mounted soldier responded to their silence as he raised his arm to signal the advance.

  He lowered his hand and the first line of soldiers stalked forward, a standard-bearer on either side setting the adjacent buildings aflame. The three shadows held their ground as the soldiers neared.

  A vicious cry filled the night and the three charged to their deaths.

  *

  “Aurora,” whispered a masculine voice.

  The man placed a hand on her shoulder. She woke with a startled jump, her hands lashing out. He caught them in his own and placed them back on her stomach. His blue eyes watched Aurora, giving her a moment to understand her surroundings.

  “Aeschylus,” she whispered in return.

  Pushing herself from the cushion of grass beneath her body, she sat up and looked down on the valley below, her breath caught in her throat. Her wide eyes pooled and a whimper escaped her lips. “They are burning it all,” she spoke in awe, her voice like a song even in sadness.

  Aeschylus nodded and adjusted his weight on his pale walking staff as he followed her gaze to the valley below, a lock of his braided, dark brown hair bouncing against his cheek.

  He wore no armor, save for a pair of blackened steel bracers fitted with long, curved guards. At his slender waist he wore a thin blade on his hip and a thick hunting knife encased in a heavy sheath was tucked into his belt. On his back his wide shoulders bore the weight of a grand blade half his height, its hilt carved from faded ivory. And clasped tightly around his neck a thick, steel collar glinted in the moonlight, revealing the ornate runes carved into its surface.

  “This is only the beginning. The people of House D’naia are no longer safe anywhere save Pa’ngarin. I fear the poor will bear the brunt of these first glimmers of war,” he spoke in a low voice. His eyes steeled, the blue there changing from calm seas to a torrent of emotion. “I would ask that you ride on, Lady Aurora. I cannot leave the innocent. I would not have Scythians so brazenly walk over your people.”

  She looked at him. Her white dress clung to her thin figure as cold winds careened through the trees sheltering their campsite. “My people?” she asked.

  He did not turn, but instead only craned his head a little. “The Society of the Dawn will soon be yours, Lady Aurora. If they are not your people….”

  She stepped forward and grabbed his hand, drawing his gaze to her eyes.

  “They are your people as well, Aeschylus.”

  He looked at her demure hand and pale, slender fingers. His breath caught in his throat for a moment before he disengaged. “I serve you, Lady Aurora, to defend your honor and House D’naia. I will never be a Child of the Dawn. My place,” he added, touching the steel ring that encircled his throat, “is quite apparent to me.”

  Aurora wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the burning village below. She understood the price of being a member of House D’naia as well as the servitude of being her guardian. His indifference saddened her, for she held him in great affection and hated the collar that bound him to her. She desperately wished that it were his affection for her that made him stay, not his sense of duty or the presence of the N’dal, the binding collar used to calm the men of the Society of the Dawn.

  She could not hide her disappointment.

  “I understand that your place is not desirable.”

  He bent closer to her, lowering his travel-tanned face until it was level with hers. His azure eyes dominated her. “It is not my place that I find unpleasant, Lady Aurora. I would defend you whether the High Sisters had bound me with this cursed piece of steel or not. But I find it unpleasant that I am simply a tool used by the powerful to crush the weak and innocent in order to achieve their goals.”

  She longed to reach out and touch his face, something that was frowned on amongst the women of Pa’ngarin, especially by a Maiden such as herself. If she were to become an Ascendant one day, then she would have to put aside such petty thoughts as love and affection.

  It was not the way.

  Distancing herself from those thoughts, she stepped away from him and looked at the steeple of smoke that cascaded from the village below. “What will you do?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  He moved to the tree line near the edge of their campsite and stopped in front of a tree where their horses were tied. Beyond their camp was a dirt road that ran along a ravine that wound down the mountain toward the haze that now consumed the border village. “Duedonia will not long stand. It is too close to the eastern gate of Scythia. I will ride down and do what I can. With any luck, the main Scythian force may have withdrawn from battle.”

  She thought him brave, yet she feared, as she ever did, for his life.

  “Is that not dangerous?”

  He smiled. “If I judged all my actions as dangerous and sought to determine their worth from that alone, I would not do much indeed.”

  She nodded numbly.

  He often rode off to defend her honor, or the honor of those of her station, and each time without fail. Despite her resolute belief in him, she feared to the depths of her being for his safety.

  Her stomach tightened.

  “Who would guard me if you perished?”

  Aeschylus approached her, grasping the reins of her horse, a stallion as dark as night with a bright white stripe that wove from head to tail. “The Council of Ascendants would quickly find a fitting guardian for their young Maiden, who very soon will be Lordess Ascendant. The road ahead is difficult. If you keep a steady pace, you should reach a mining town in the next valley by late morning. Make for it and wait no more than a single night and day. I will come for you. But if I do not, then ride on until you see the white walls of Pa’ngarin.”

  She allowed him to grasp her around the waist and lift her onto the back of her
stallion. Rubbing the muscled neck of the beast, she felt a deep comfort. She knew her mount well and it calmed her nerves. Aeschylus placed the reins in her hands as she answered with a heavy nod, “I will wait for you to return.”

  “No more than a single rise of the moon and then you are to ride on.”

  Aurora did not dare look at him, for she would betray her feelings.

  She did not wish to leave his side. “As you say, I will ride on.”

  The air stilled for a moment, a second trapped in time as their eyes met and his warrior’s gaze softened. His hand dug into the silky hair of her mount as if he wished for something that was not his place. “I will find you, Aurora. On my honor, I will see no harm come to you.”

  She reached down, but drew back her hand before she touched his face. Much was expected of a Maiden. Aurora was to be the next Lordess Ascendant. To touch him now would set her on a path that would take her farther from him than she wished.

  Not yet, she reminded herself.

  With a tight smile, she turned her stallion away from her guardian. Restraining her desire to turn and look at him, she stared forward as she eased the beast forward. Her heart sunk with each step.

  It was customary for Maidens of the Dawn, especially those of her station, to take her first lover at an early age and ascend. This would guarantee that she could harness the most potent magicks, the kind that were required of Ascendants so that they can govern Pa’ngarin with complete authority. However, her resistance to take a lover created tension amongst her peers––especially the women on the Council of Ascendants.

  Aeschylus watched as his charge moved east at a slow, methodical pace. Her unfulfilled desires were not lost on him, but he, like many other guardians and men of Pa’ngarin, knew his place. She was to assume the Ivory Throne, to rule over Pa’ngarin, and perhaps even Scythia, if the Council had its way.

  He would be her First, if she chose.

  It would be an honor.

  Yet she would not extend the honor to him.

  Shaking his head, he turned back to look at the valley. The smoke had darkened as the fire began to eat away the village’s smoldering structures. His dark boots crushed earth underfoot as he strode toward his bay mare, whose wispy amber-colored hair curled in places. Throwing his foot into a stirrup, he pulled himself onto the saddle with a grunt, and then tucked his pale staff through a leather girdle near the saddle horn.

  Such thoughts would have to wait.

  There was business left to attend to.

  Aeschylus

  The village was little more than burnt-out remnants of farmhouses, skeletons of timber and broken clay. The ground was blanketed in a thin layer of black ash, hiding the boot prints and horse tracks of the Scythian invaders.

  Aeschylus walked slowly down the hillside that overlooked Duedonia, choosing his footing carefully as he approached the outskirts of the village.

  He stayed low to the ground as he maneuvered through the undergrowth, bracing himself with his long staff on the uneven ground. Slowing, he pressed his body against a tall oak, taking care that his tied-back hair did not get tangled in its branches.

  Aeschylus craned his neck.

  Watching the darkness carefully, he saw that a lone guard was patrolling just beyond the mostly unscathed livery stables.

  And then another patrolman appeared.

  The Scythians were no great fools when it came to war, especially when the matter was occupation. They knew Pa’ngarin would not send reinforcements to protect Duedonia.

  He paused as a branch snapped in the gloom in front of him and watched as a sheep passed slowly through some bushes. Its fur was matted in places and its dark eyes were hidden by the shadows of the covered night.

  His slowed breathing drifting like wisps on the chill night air, Aeschylus touched the runic collar at his throat. Often had the guardians of Pa’ngarin been called slaves and sheep by Scythians.

  Without a sound he covered the distance to the stables and then pressed his body against the splintered wall of an adjoining shed. His cold blue eyes watched the soldiers carefully as the strong scent of the stables filtered into his nostrils.

  The Scythian soldiers reached each other in their silent march.

  Their backs to him, they chatted quietly.

  Their voices were lost in the night.

  His earth-colored coat invisible in the shadows and darkness, Aeschylus stalked across the well-trodden ground separating him from the soldiers. Replacing his staff at his back, he wrapped his fingers around the bone handle of his hunting blade and removed it.

  Holding the blade in his right hand, he raised his left as he crept forward. Each step brought him closer to the guards. They were smaller than he was, narrower in the shoulders, wider in the waist.

  A vile stench emanated from them.

  The world had grown silent as he approached, except for the thud in his chest and the whispering of his mind. He could see the heavy, unwieldy swords the Scythians carried. The soldier on the left had his blade sheathed against his back, a choice that would prove fatal.

  Aeschylus moved with nightmarish speed. Grabbing the sheath roughly, he drove his hunting blade into the chest of the soldier on the left. Spinning his gurgling victim to the side as he removed his blade, Aeschylus grabbed the second soldier’s wrist before the man could react, immobilizing him with a simple movement that forced him to his knees.

  The Pa’ngarin slave looked down at the Scythian soldier, whose dull brown eyes looked up at Aeschylus in fear. His words were stuttered, laced with pain. “Please….” he begged.

  Aeschylus’ cold eyes were an ocean of disregard and distance.

  “Why have you come here? Why did Scythians cross the border?”

  The man swallowed hard, sweat beading on his dirt-spattered neck. “We…they….”

  The Pa’ngarin guardian twisted the soldier’s wrist suddenly, drawing him forward with a whimper. He grabbed the man’s hair and pressed his hunting blade to the man’s throat, gesturing toward the other soldier, whose body convulsed slightly, a pool of blood forming beneath his torso.

  The dying man’s wide, gray eyes looked up into the heavens.

  “I can leave you to die as I have your friend, or I can end your life quickly. Tell me why the Scythians have attacked Duedonia. What purpose is there to this madness?”

  His brown eyes filling with tears, the soldier looked at his comrade, and then winced as Aeschylus pressed his blade into the man’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood that mixed with the Scythian’s dirty, sweaty neck.

  The man whimpered, his lower lip trembling.

  “Speak,” demanded Aeschylus harshly, pulling hard on the man’s hair.

  The soldier’s lips moved, but no words came out. Aeschylus shook his head and drew his blade across the man’s throat, allowing the dead man’s weight to fall against his leg before sheathing his knife.

  Looking deeper into the village, the Pa’ngarin slave moved forward.

  A few buildings were still aflame, though most were collapsed and smoldering. Ignoring the heat emanating from the buildings, he moved along the walls until the street opened on to a small square. In the center of the square was a burning pyre on which the bodies of Duedonian warriors and male children were piled high. The stench of flesh and smoke joined to create a suffocating haze.

  An intermittent scream pierced the air.

  It was a woman’s voice.

  Aeschylus knew the tone of the voice. He had heard it many times when armies had sacked towns. It was the chorus of the spoils of war, though the guardian was not yet certain this was war.

  He unsheathed his long blade and held it tightly in his hand as he flattened himself against a blackened wall at the edge of the square. Pulling his hunting blade free with his left hand, he listened closely for the next cry as he surveyed the area.

  He did not have to wait long.

  The sound came from a squat building on the opposite side of the square. Sticking
to the shadows, Aeschylus stalked toward the source of the cries. He paused as he rounded a corner and the building came into view.

  Standing in front of the door were three guards, each wide in the shoulders and imposing in disposition. The Pa’ngarin guardian evaluated the situation, noting that a frontal assault seemed like the quickest option; though it would put him in greater danger.

  Aurora’s words from earlier in the night came back to him.

  Thoughts of her made his mind drift, wandering to her skin, her eyes.

  Shaking his head, he moved alongside the adjacent building, keeping to the shadows. The screams were louder now, intensified by what sounded like violence.

  Aeschylus quickened his pace, his breath even.

  The first guard did not feel the long sword pass through the back of his neck. Eyes rolling to white, the Scythian fell to his knees. Not bothering to remove his sword from the body, Aeschylus vaulted over the kneeling guard, his hunting knife tucked against his forearm as he brought it parallel to the second soldier, who had turned with purpose.

  The second soldier was taller than Aeschylus by a hand and weighed a few stones more, but that did not save him as the Pa’ngarin slave’s hunting knife lodged deep into the man’s torso. Using the dying man as a shield, he turned toward the third guard, a gray-haired man, who wasted no time trying to avenge his compatriots.

  The last guard drove his blade through Aeschylus’ rotund, human shield, piercing the man’s beige outer armor and tearing through the softer fabrics beneath until it stung Aeschylus’ flesh. Aeschylus released the heavyset soldier, who twisted as he slumped to the ground beside his fallen comrade. The older Scythian’s soldier cursed as his weapon was taken to the ground, lodged in his dead compatriot’s chest.

  “Were you sent by Pa’ngarin?” asked the gray-haired Scythian breathlessly.

  Maintaining eye contact with the man, Aeschylus reached back and pulled his long sword free with a grunt. “How could I have been sent by Pa’ngarin? They know nothing of this treachery.”