The Forging of Dawn

by Jacob Peppers

  And yet…there was the feeling. Of being watched. Of being hunted. He had experienced such before, and though more often than not he had been the cat to someone else’s mouse, he thought he knew all too well which he was now.

  Suddenly, he was painfully aware that he had not thought to bring a weapon with him—he had one still, an old dagger from his time spent in the service of the Light. He had even considered grabbing it on his way out of the door but, in the end, had decided against it, reasoning that a man who carried a weapon often found cause to use it. Foolish sentimentality. Something a man in his situation could ill afford. A merchant, damnit. That and nothing else. Yes, a merchant in truth, for a man trained the way he’d once been would have never been so foolish as to have set about his errand unarmed. He only prayed that, before the day was out, he wasn’t a dead merchant because of it.

  He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived at the street Ulem had indicated and followed it to the priest’s home. There was a small garden in the front, and though it was only a fraction the size of the church’s garden, possessed of none of the elaborate sculptures and fountains that had marked the other, it was much better tended, the blooming flowers free of weeds or debris, reflecting the regular attention the priest showed them.

  He paused on the short path to the priest’s home to admire the flowers, thinking it fine that, after a life spent in such dangerous pursuits as he had once undertaken, the priest had been able to find something to care for, some tangible object for his love.

  The street was deserted, and Torrik stood in silence regarding the flowers in their full bloom. So there was nothing to mask the sound—subtle yet unmistakable—of stealthy footsteps as they turned off the main thoroughfare to the side street. He told himself he only imagined the air of menace that seemed to accompany them, ringing out with each muted footfall, radiating out from it the way the water of a pond might spread out in ripples from a stone tossed into its depths. He told himself that—but he did not believe it.

  The footsteps could have belonged to any of a thousand people. They could have been the hurried, purposeful footfalls of a man going home to his wife and family, or the staggering, sliding steps of a man who had gotten an early start at one of the town’s taverns. But they were neither of those, so when his instincts insisted he crouch behind the biggest bush—full of red roses—Torrik listened to them without a second thought.

  Peering through the blooms, he saw that the figure wore a robe not unlike the man he had met at the church, and there was no mistaking the way his head turned left and right, scanning the street in search of his target. Come to tell me the repairs are complete, perhaps, and that I may pray in the church after all, Torrik thought sarcastically.

  He waited, his mind racing, until the robed man finally disappeared down the street. Then he slowly rose from his hiding spot and with one more glance behind him to make sure he was still alone, Torrik hurried to the door and knocked quietly.

  There was no answer, and his feeling of unease grew. Perhaps he hasn’t returned from town. But then, that seemed unlikely. After all, Torrik had been at the church himself. If Ulem had returned, then he would have seen him. Wouldn’t he? Sleeping then, that’s all. And that, at least, made some sense. After all, the priest had clearly been troubled when he left their house the night before; it wasn’t unreasonable to think he had stayed up late and was now paying for it, sleeping into the early evening. Believable. Plausible. The problem, of course, was Torrik didn’t believe it, for the feeling within him was growing stronger, an oppressive sensation he couldn’t shake.

  He knocked again, and was surprised when the door slid open under the pressure of his fist. Still no answer. Frowning, Torrik crept inside, easing the door shut behind him. The house was small but well-kept, and by the sunlight filtering in through the windows on either side of the home, he could make out a simple table and single chair where the priest no doubt took his meals. What drew the retired spy’s attention, though, was the clay bowl of soup—still sitting on the table’s surface—and the chair now lying on the floor.

  “Ulem?” he asked, his voice low, little more than a whisper, yet seeming to echo. Something near the table caught his eye and, frowning, Torrik edged further into the room, kneeling when he found that a large spot in the wooden floor was wet. He ran his finger along the wood, then held it to his nose. Soap. The floors had been recently cleaned, then. Perhaps he only spilled some soup. But even as he had the thought, Torrik dismissed it. The soup sat on the table, the spoon beside it clean and unused. Whatever had become of the priest, it had happened before the man began his meal.

  Crouching there, in the silence, Torrik became aware of another sound, a quiet, almost imperceptible hissing, and he realized it was coming from behind a closed door at the back of the room. Frowning, he moved to the door and eased it open.

  The bedroom was small, the bed taking up most of the space, and Torrik noted that there were no blankets or sheets on the bed. But of more immediate concern was the man in priest’s robes crouched on the floor, a soaping brush in hand, a bucket of water beside him. The man’s face was hidden by the hood he wore, and Torrik hesitated in the doorway. “Ulem?”

  The man jerked his head up, and his hood fell back, revealing a face Torrik did not recognize. The stranger’s eyes were wide with surprise, but his expression quickly changed to one of anger. As he rose to his full height, the analytical part of Torrik’s mind noted that the man was big, four inches taller than him and at least forty pounds heavier. “What’s going o—”

  Torrik didn’t get a chance to finish the question. The man let out a growl and rushed forward, barreling into him and slamming him against the wall, pinning him between it and a small bureau. Torrik was no soldier, trained in swords and mounted combat. In his role as an agent of the Light, he had relied on stealth, on misdirection, and concealment to accomplish his tasks. Still, although he would have been useless in a line of other soldiers, his master had insisted on training him extensively in the only weapon he would always be guaranteed to have on his person—his body.

  Torrik was twenty pounds heavier than he had been before retiring, and in all the wrong places. He was slower, too, but the memories remained, and so when the bigger man launched a fist at his face, Torrik turned his body on instinct, absorbing the blow with his shoulder instead. But the man was shockingly strong, and the merchant’s shoulder went numb when the fist struck him.

  Ignoring the pain as best as he could, Torrik forced himself around to fully face his attacker. The man grabbed his shirt with both hands, slamming him against the wall again, and Torrik’s teeth snapped together at the impact. But before his attacker could do anything more, Torrik stomped down hard on the man’s foot. The priest—if the man was a priest at all—grunted in pain, his grip loosening enough for Torrik to bring his forearms up, breaking free of his attacker’s hold. Then, before the bigger man could grab him again, the merchant slashed out with the ridge of his hand, striking his attacker in the throat.

  The robed man gasped in pain, stumbling backward. Torrik started forward but hesitated as the other reached into his robe and withdrew a knife with a six-inch blade. “Look,” Torrik said, holding his hands up and struggling to catch his breath, “I don’t know what’s going on here but—”

  The man wasn’t listening. His face twisted with rage, and he charged again, grabbing at Torrik with his free hand. Among the many lessons he’d been taught, Torrik had learned well the dangers of allowing a man with a knife to control the range of the encounter, so he pivoted, twisting his body and striking the man in the wrist with his forearm, knocking the grasping hand away.

  He followed through the pivot, stepping to the man’s flank and striking him twice in the ribs. The man groaned, but did not go down, and Torrik kicked his opponent in the side of the knee. There was a loud crack, and this time the big man screamed as his leg gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees.

  Growling, the man’
s hand shot out, grabbing for him. Torrik tried to step back, but age and the added weight of years spent peddling goods cost him, and he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the big man’s hold. In another moment, his attacker was pulling him down, intending to bury the blade in this stranger who had dared interrupt him in his work. Torrik didn’t struggle against the man who was far stronger anyway. Instead, he lunged forward, slamming his forehead into the man’s nose.

  There was another crack and blood fountained from the man’s broken nose. He screamed again, this one a gargled, liquid cry of pain, and dropped the blade. Torrik fought down a wave of dizziness, snatched the knife off the floor, and buried it in the other man’s heart.

  For a moment, the two knelt studying each other from inches away, the big man’s eyes wide, his expression confused. Then, the breath left him, and he collapsed to the ground, his weight pulling the blade—still in Torrik’s grasp—free.

  The merchant stared at the corpse in disbelief, gasping for breath and wincing as his body, unused to such punishment, screamed in pain. Amedan be good, what have I stumbled onto here? And the even more pressing concern…where was Ulem?

  Something metallic caught his eye where it lay in the spreading pool of blood by the big man’s body, and he realized it must have slipped out of the man’s pocket. Frowning, Torrik retrieved the item and wiped away the blood covering it.

  His breath caught in his throat as he realized what he held. Ulem’s ring. The ring Maline had given to the priest so many years ago, the one that had not left his finger since. The priest would have never taken the ring off. Not while he was still alive, at any rate. The thought brought a terrible, unwanted clarity.

  He looked to where the big man had knelt when he entered the room. The bucket had been knocked over in the brief scuffle, spilling its sudsy contents on the floor, but he could make out well enough what the man had been cleaning. Blood. And he thought he knew all too well whose blood it must be. Oh major and minor gods both, Ulem, I’m so sorry.

  Whatever had happened to Ulem, whatever had been done to him, it was clear that the robed man had intended to clean up the evidence. Which meant being here, in this place, was putting Torrik—and by extension his family—in terrible danger. How long before one of the dead man’s compatriots came to check on him? Half an hour? Less?

  His heart hammering in his chest, he rose and started for the door. He’d barely taken a step when it was flung open and another robed figure stood in the doorway—the same man who had been following him. The newcomer took in his counterpart lying dead on the floor, and with a curse, drew a knife identical to the blood-soaked blade Torrik still held.

  Torrik was tired, hurting, and in far worse shape than he once had been. When the newcomer charged him, it was all he could do to stumble backward, narrowly avoiding the blade flashing inches from his throat. The robed man waded forward, swinging the blade in wild, cruel arcs that, while unpracticed, would finish the thing quickly enough should one of them land.

  Torrik continued to back away from the onslaught until he struck the bed, grunting in surprise as he tripped and fell backward. His attacker took advantage of his misfortune, lunging on top of him and bringing the knife down. There was no time to move, and the man’s momentum virtually guaranteed he would be able to overpower Torrik, so instead of trying to grab his wrist, the once-spy did something he had been trained in but, up to that point, had been fortunate enough never to have to do. He brought his forearm up to block the questing steel, crying out as the knife plunged deep into the meat of his arm.

  His attacker tried to rip the blade free, but it was stuck fast, and Torrik hissed in pain as he brought his own knife up and buried it in the man’s neck. Arterial blood fountained out, spraying onto the floor and walls, soaking Torrik and the bed beneath him in seconds. He held the robed man off him until his struggles weakened and finally ceased altogether. Then, grunting with the effort, he rolled, dumping the corpse unceremoniously onto the floor where it landed less than a foot away from the other body.

  Torrik’s breath was wheezing in and out of him now, and there was a stitch in his side, but neither of these were the most immediate concerns. Instead, his attention was focused on the knife still jutting from his arm. The blade had gone completely through, coming out the other side, and blood was steadily leaking from the wound. Ideally, he would leave the knife there until he made it back to his home—assuming he could make it back—but that wasn’t really an option. A man walking around town with a knife sticking out of his arm would raise more questions than he was prepared to answer.

  The second priest had obviously been sent to follow him, to keep an eye on him and perhaps to check on his companion to see how he was progressing in erasing any proof of what had happened to Ulem. That meant that Torrik should have bought himself a little time until whoever was behind the conspiracy grew concerned enough to send someone else. A window, then, in which he might make his escape, might erase any sign of his presence.

  Two options then: one sure to end in pain and probably death, the other with death a certainty. Using his good hand and his teeth, Torrik ripped a piece of his sleeve free then folded it up and bit down on it. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he began pulling at the blade. At first, it didn’t want to move, and he groaned in pain, redoubling his efforts until, finally, it came free in a spurt of blood. He was overcome with a fresh wave of dizziness, but he bit on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, waiting several seconds until the worst passed.

  When he was sure he wasn’t going to fall unconscious—a death sentence as sure as if he dragged the blade across his own throat—he pressed the folded cloth against the wound, applying as much pressure as he could and wincing at the sharp pain in his arm. Once the flow of blood had lessened, he removed his shirt, and tore off a long strip that he used as a makeshift bandage, wrapping around the wound.

  That done, he searched the priest’s closet and found all of his clothes—simple trousers, shirts, and robes—in a pile at the bottom. The man he’d interrupted then, hadn’t just been intent on cleaning up the blood, but on removing any trace of the priest’s presence, making it appear as if the man had disappeared in the night. His own anger rising within him, Torrik donned a long-sleeved, dark shirt from the pile. Ulem was a smaller man, so the shirt was tighter than Torrik would have liked, but it was clean and hid the makeshift bandage—already stained crimson—well enough.

  Now for the hard part, he thought, frowning. He would have to make his way through the city, wounded, hoping none of the robed men found any reason to grow suspicious of him or track him down before he made it home. He wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost, but it was enough to make each step feel uncertain, for his thoughts to swim in his head, and he knew well enough what the outcome would be, if another of their number come upon him.

  He wanted to leave then, to run back to his family as fast as his feet would carry him. Instead, he took his time, sweeping his gaze around the room, searching for anything that might betray his presence to those who would come.

  He retrieved the bloody piece of his shirt he’d used to apply pressure to his wound, and stuffed it in his pocket. Then checked to make sure he still had Ulem’s ring. Then, with one final look around the room, he left. He paused at the main door, cracking it enough that he could see out in the street. No army of robed men waited for him. In fact, the street seemed all but deserted, and Torrik took a slow, deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, to fight back the lightheadedness sweeping over him, before stepping out of the priest’s home.

  The temperature couldn’t have changed much from when he’d gone into the house—in fact, it was nearing the warmest time of the day now—but that didn’t stop Torrik from being wracked by cold chills as he started away from the house. He scanned the streets as he walked, careful to do it slowly, the way a man might who was only out for a stroll, not one who had finished murdering two fake priests and had a knife secreted in the waistband of his trousers.
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  Torrik forced himself to take his time. He was weak and tired, not strong enough to beat another of the men, should they find him so, as his master had taught him so many years ago, he would have to be smart instead. Stalls of merchants and farmers come to sell their wares became more prominent as he drew closer to the town square, and he took time to stop at a few, admiring the products and answering the merchants’ inquiries as best he could while focusing on not passing out. Then, after a reasonable amount of time, he would excuse himself and move on, continuing the circuitous route which, barring falling unconscious or being set upon by robed men with matching blades, would lead him home.

  4

  It was nearly dark by the time he caught sight of the house in the distance. The sun sat low in the sky, its weak light casting the world in shadow. The trees on either side of the path, majestic sentinels in the day, were changed into twisted, cruel things by the near-darkness, an effect made all the worse by the confused fog that had settled over Torrik’s mind, growing worse by the minute.

  He had no lantern—had grossly underestimated the time it would take him to make it back in his weakened state—but it was too late to turn back now, the succor of his family’s rented home far closer than the town itself. So, he forged onward, concentrating on putting each foot in front of the other, the glow of the property lanterns in the distance shining with the promise of sanctuary, of safety. Yet no matter how much time passed, by some trick of the light and his muddled thoughts, it seemed that he grew no closer to the torches, as if the house itself was pulling away from him even as he stumbled toward it.