The Forging of Dawn

by Jacob Peppers

  By the time the door finally opened, his hands were sweating, but it was only the robed man again, his fake smile well in place. “Sir, if you will come with me, Bishop Deckard will see you.”

  “The bishop?” Torrik asked, surprised, though in truth, such a meeting was what he had intended all along. “Surely, I don’t want to bother one so important as—”

  “It’s no bother at all, sir. Truly. The bishop believes we are all servants of Amedan, no matter title or station.”

  Torrik gave the man a fake smile of his own but, behind the expression, his heart was racing. A visit with Deckard had been what he wanted, of course, but the thought of entering that church just then was a terrifying one. “Of course, and I am grateful for the bishop’s attention.”

  The robed man inclined his head. “This way.” He stepped aside, making room, and Torrik followed after. As soon as he was inside, the man closed the door behind him, and Torrik did not like the sound of finality he heard in its closing. But if the robed man had some dark fate planned for him, it was not here. Without a word, he turned and began leading Torrik down the hallway. They passed the room housing the altar to Amedan, but it was dark, without light, and he could only see the vague outlines of the chapel where worshippers of the God of Fire and Light would kneel, beseeching his blessings.

  That, too, was strange, and despite the man’s words from the day before, Torrik detected no signs of ongoing repairs. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, but it did little to quell the fear in his heart. Still, he schooled his features to appear friendly enough, a lowly merchant in awe of being granted admittance to see the bishop himself.

  They passed other robed men as they moved through the corridor, but none acknowledged Torrik or his escort. Finally, they arrived at a door, and the robed man glanced at Torrik, as if to make sure the merchant was still there before knocking.

  “Come,” a voice responded from somewhere inside, and the priest pushed the door open, waving Torrik inside.

  The retired spy glanced at his escort’s face, searching for some sign of what awaited him within—a simple chat, or men with blades intent on finishing what the others had started?—but the man’s features were an expressionless mask, and Torrik could divine nothing from it. A choice then, and one that had to be made with haste, for a simple merchant would not hesitate on the threshold of such an honor. He could leave, could turn and run, but things that ran were chased, and if the man was harboring any suspicions about Torrik, his flight would only confirm them, bringing what, for all he knew, could be an army down on him and his family.

  Torrik had been forced to make many such decisions in his past—always wondering if his cover had been discovered, if this time would be the time when all of his posturing, all his training, failed him, and the knife that had been seeking him for so long finally found its target. But it was not just himself he had to think about this time—there was Alesh and Elayna as well. Still smiling, Torrik stepped through the door, managing—barely—to keep from cringing as it closed behind him.

  While the outside of the church might be in a state of disrepair, the bishop’s office was certainly not. The walls were adorned with various paintings, though Torrik’s analytical mind noted that not a single one depicted Amedan, the God of Fire and Light. An oddity, certainly, but one explained easily enough, and not enough proof that the man himself, currently sitting behind a fine oak desk, had anything to do with whatever had befallen Ulem.

  Torrik had met Deckard before, years ago, then under the guise of being only a merchant, and though the man was easily recognizable, the passing of the years showed in his appearance. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and his hair, once a severe black, was now streaked with gray. Yet despite these outward signs, Deckard had clearly taken pains with his appearance—his hair was meticulously brushed and oiled, his salt and pepper beard equally cared for, and Torrik thought he detected signs of powder on the man’s face, the kind noblewomen used to cover the blemishes and flaws of their skin.

  The man was vain then, particularly for a priest of Amedan. Such a fact might have mattered little to most people, if they noticed it at all, but Torrik had been taught to notice just such things, knew them to be of incalculable value. After all, such tidbits each served as small pieces that, when put together, might create a key with which a man could unlock the truth of another’s character, understand his motivations and his fears and, thereby, determine how he would act in any situation. Such information had saved Torrik’s life on more than one occasion. After all, as his master had told him so long ago, if you knew where a man was coming from, it was often easy enough to know where he was going.

  The bishop seemed engrossed in a parchment he was reading, and he waved a ring-bedecked hand at the chair in front of his desk without looking up. “Thank you, Bishop,” Torrik said, taking the offered seat.

  Deckard continued to study whatever report he held for another few minutes, enough that Torrik supposed he could have read it five or six times by now, at least, but he wasn’t particularly surprised. A man like Deckard craved power and all of its trappings, and no doubt enjoyed having others wait on him. So Torrik did, fidgeting nervously as a lowly merchant might be expected to do in the presence of someone such as the bishop, or, at least, in the way Deckard no doubt expected.

  Finally, the man set the paper aside, raising his head to Torrik and offering him a smile that never touched his eyes. “Greetings, son. And how does the Light find you today?” And that was enough to make it apparent the man did not recognize him. No surprise, really, as men like Deckard cared only for their own goals, their own status, and spent little thought on others.

  “I’m well enough, sir Bishop,” Torrik stammered, bobbing his head, “thank you for asking.”

  The man’s smile widened, and his eyes danced with amusement. “Oh, I think Bishop will do well enough. Now, my priest told me that you had a question about one of our own, is that right?”

  “Yes, si—Bishop. It has been years gone now, but I once was acquainted with a priest by the name of Ulem…forgive me, but I don’t remember his surname.”

  “Friends, were you?” The question was asked simply enough, but Torrik didn’t miss the gleam of interest in the man’s eyes.

  Be careful now, Torrik, he told himself. Be so very careful. If the bishop was behind whatever had happened to Ulem, he would now know of the two dead men at the priest’s residence and would, no doubt, be searching for the identity of the man who had interrupted them at their work. Torrik hesitated, wincing. “Well, I told the man I spoke with—one of your priests—as much. But the truth is, Bishop, well…the man wasn’t exactly a friend. I only met him the one time, you see. I…I hope you’ll forgive me the falsehood. The gods know it’s a fool who lies to a priest, but…well, it’s a bit of an awkward situation, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Oh?” the other man asked. “Well, go on, my son. Please, tell me what troubles you.”

  An invitation, so casually put, as a spider might say to a fly, were it able to speak. “Well,” Torrik said, rubbing at his jaw, “the thing is, I met Ulem years ago…sir, I really don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

  Deckard leaned forward, and though his expression was open, comforting, Torrik could see the eagerness in his eyes. After all, whatever else he was, the man was ambitious, and the easiest way to the top was by stomping on others to get there. The knowledge he might gain here could, even were he not behind Ulem’s disappearance, serve at least as a means of blackmailing the priest. And if he were behind it, well, what better way to avoid people asking after a priest than to discredit him in the eyes of the public and the church? “I am Amedan’s servant, nothing more, son. And it is not within my power to condemn or to save. Whatever news you have, I will do my best to help you—as well as Ulem.”

  Torrik feigned a sigh of relief at that. “Thank you, Bishop. It’s only…priests are supposed to avoid…well, indulgences. Aren’t they?�
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  The man was practically shaking with excitement now. “Yes, it is true that, in serving the Bringer of Light and Carrier of the Flame, my brothers and I must sacrifice some of our more…worldly desires.”

  Torrik nodded. “I thought as much. Well, see, the thing is...years ago, I found myself at a brothel…I’m not proud of it, and I swear, Bishop, I ain’t been to one since. Only…it had been a trying few weeks, then, and…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Anyway, I was surprised when I went in to find a man in priests’ robes there as well. The brothel had bouncers, of course, men paid to make sure folks didn’t get it in their mind to take out their frustrations on the women or, you know…” He hesitated, studying his feet. “Or to sneak out without paying. That sort of thing.”

  “Yes?” Deckard prompted.

  “Right, well, the priest, he was of the second sort. One of the bouncers had a hold of him, you know, roughin’ him up like, demandin’ money. Well, I didn’t know the priest from anybody, but my ma always taught me that you don’t treat priests such a way but with respect. Funny thing, maybe, thinkin’ of my ma in a place like that, but I couldn’t shake it, so as much as I wanted to get on about my own shameful business, instead I walked up and asked if I could help. This priest, he introduced himself as Ulem, said that there had been a misunderstanding about payment, and if I could cover his expenses, he’d pay me back and then some, the next day.”

  Torrik shrugged. “I ain’t a rich man, Bishop. Not now and not then, but like I said, my ma always told me a man ought to treat holy men with respect, and that our blessings on another’d come back to us tenfold which, I’ll admit, sounded mighty fine just then. So I paid his tab, and off he went. He never showed up where he told me to meet him the next day, and I never heard another word about him, not, leastways, until I came here to Entin, and heard mention of a Brother Ulem here.”

  The bishop nodded thoughtfully, but Torrik could see his mind working, turning over the story, looking for ways he might use it. “I see. Yes, it is, I fear, a great tragedy to learn so revered a priest as Brother Ulem has succumbed to some of the more base temptations. I thank you for sharing it with me. Now,” he said, withdrawing his purse and placing it on the desk, “tell me, how much exactly were you owed?”

  “Oh, please, Bishop,” Torrik said, as if scandalized, “I wouldn’t dare take money from you. Why, I wouldn’t even have considered taking it from Ulem himself, if’n I didn’t need it. My family and I, you see, we’re thinkin’ about buying a home here in your fine town, and, as I said, I am not a rich man. If you’ll just tell me where Ulem is, I’m sure I can work something out with him myself.”

  Deckard sighed, smiling sadly. “I wish that I could help you, Mister…I’m sorry, I fear I never got your name.”

  “It’s Torrik, if it pleases you, Bishop.”

  “Yes, well, Torrik, I’m afraid Brother Ulem has only just been reassigned to a different church in another city.”

  “Really?” Torrik asked in surprise. “You’re sure?”

  Annoyance flickered across the man’s features, that a simple merchant should dare question him, but in another moment his fake smile was back in its place. “Yes, quite sure. In fact, I saw him onto the caravan myself. I fear you will not be able to seek repayment of your debt from Brother Ulem. Still, I myself would be more than happy to cover the cost of it.”

  And, just like that, two things were confirmed. One, Ulem, his old friend, was certainly dead and, two, the man sitting before him was responsible for it, which in turn meant the conspiracy Ulem had feared was true and this man was either the leader of it or, at the least, directly involved.

  Anger roiled through Torrik, and he fought back the urge to jump across the desk, to kill the man where he sat smiling smugly. Such a thing might have been satisfying, but it wouldn’t bring his friend back. Instead, it would only put Torrik and his family in terrible danger.

  “Is everything quite all right, Torrik?” the bishop asked, and he looked up to see Deckard studying him carefully, his expression guarded, his eyes piercing as if he might somehow see into Torrik’s mind, uncovering whatever secrets lay hidden within.

  “Everything is fine, Bishop,” he answered. He rose from his chair, bowing his head. “I thank you for your time. I really must be going now.”

  “Oh?” Deckard asked. “And are you sure you would not like your coin?”

  “It’s quite alright,” Torrik said, forcing himself to smile at the man when what he really wanted to do was to beat him until his arrogant expression was covered in a mask of blood. Forgive me, Ulem, for not believing you. I am so sorry. “Thank you again, sir. For seeing me.”

  He started for the door then, eager to be away and back to his family, but the priest spoke. “Torrik,” he said, musing. “That name almost sounds familiar to me.”

  “Oh?” he said, turning back. “Well, I might not be rich, Bishop, but I travel a lot, for my work. Maybe you heard of me in that capacity.”

  “Yes,” the man said thoughtfully. “And what work did you say that was again?”

  Watching him with that dark, studying gaze, waiting for him to make a mistake. “I’m a merchant, Bishop, a light merchant. Lanterns, torches, materials for making either, that sort of thing. Though,” he said, shrugging, “I have on occasion dabbled in other goods.”

  “I see. And you’re quite certain that we have not met before?”

  “I think I would have remembered.” With that, he turned and left, closing the door behind him. The priest was waiting for him outside and escorted him to the church’s entrance.

  In the street, Torrik took a slow, deep breath in an effort to still his racing heart. The bishop would look into his name, would do some inquiries, of that much he was certain, but that, at least, did not concern him. After all, the identities of the Light’s agents were kept secret, known only to the Chosen themselves and to each agent’s individual handler. For Torrik and Elayna, that had been Ulem, and the knowledge of Torrik’s and his wife’s identities would have followed the priest to the grave.

  Thoughts of the priest sent a fresh wave of anger and grief through Torrik. He had suspected, upon seeing the mess in the priest’s house, that Ulem was dead, but now, after his conversation with Deckard, he was sure of it. Gods, but I’m sorry, old friend. Still, Ulem would not have died in vain—of that much, at least, Torrik would make certain. Tomorrow, as soon as the sun had risen into the sky, he would take his family away from this place. Once Entin was safely behind them, he would stop at the closest place—of which there were many spread across the country—where men and women serving the Light waited, ready for any information that one of their agents or, in this case, one of their retired agents, should wish to pass on.

  Information such as that the small town of Entin was, undoubtedly, home to a conspiracy, though what its goals were, Torrik did not know. He knew only that to agree with part of Ulem’s theory meant to agree with all of it. Including the fact that Deckard, and those working with him, were not servants of the Light at all. And, following that logic, it meant that the disappearances and killings Ulem had spoken of hadn’t been random. Deckard, and whoever else was in league with him, was sacrificing people to the nightlings intentionally.

  The thought sent a chill up Torrik’s spine. Of course, he’d known people sometimes chose to align themselves with the nightlings—finding these people, tracking them down in whatever holes they hid had been a large part of his and Elayna’s role as agents of the Light. But to know that a bishop of the Church, as well as the gods only knew how many “priests” were working in league with the darkness was terrifying.

  The Night War had been a close thing—just how close was a truth the Church desperately guarded. After all, it was not so easy to preach that the Light would, in the end, always defeat the darkness, while in the same breath telling people just how close the nightlings had come to destroying everyone and everything.

  When tales first cropped up of creatures appe
aring in the darkness, killing with abandon, the people of Entarna had discounted them, claiming they were no more than drunken rumors. And who could blame them? After all, the night was an inconvenience sometimes, sure, and children had always shown a fear of it, but tales of bogeymen were not so easily swallowed by men and women who had long since outgrown such stories. The Church, too, had laughed at the idea, and more than one sermon in those days had referenced, with more than a little scorn and pity, those who believed in the creatures.

  Even when corpses began to show up mangled, when people traveled into the darkness never to be seen or heard from again, still people refused to see the truth, choosing instead to believe there was a killer in their midst. A danger, true, something to fear, but something they could understand.

  By the time the people of Entarna finally realized they were in a war, they were already losing it. The nightlings, nightmare creatures of fangs and teeth, seemed to be everywhere, spread across the breadth of the country, waiting with fangs poised and teeth bared for any foolish enough to travel into their domain without a lantern or torch to protect them. But lanterns ran out, torches failed, and Entarna was brought to its knees. Merchants who had once traveled all over the country stopped braving any but the nearest towns and cities, trips that could be made in a day. Fortunes and lives were lost as shortages of oil, food, and other necessary commodities began to take hold.

  Then, when all seemed lost, the Chosen appeared, six men and women, priests of Amedan and chosen by him to bear his gifts, each endowed with abilities beyond those of normal men. Led by Olliman, the Six began to marshal the armies of Entarna, forcing the nightlings into decisive battles and bringing light to the darkness. Until, finally, Chosen Olliman had met the king of the nightwalkers, King Argush—a man himself—in decisive battle, beating him and scattering what remained of his forces.

  And then there had been peace and, within that peace, people did what they always did: they became complacent. Growing more and more sure, with each day, of their security, their safety, believing the Church when it told them that the light had finally won, as it must, as it always would. Until, that was, the nightlings had come again. The Chosen were old now, men and women past their prime, but gifted with longevity from the god they served, and the armies they once possessed were largely nonexistent. After all, in leading Entarna, the Chosen had brought the people together as one, and gone were the bitter border disputes and small clashes of arms that had categorized Entarna’s history up to that point. What need, then, of an army, of soldiers, when there was no one to fight?