The Forging of Dawn

by Jacob Peppers

  Still, Torrik told himself things were not as bad as they were the first time—the people of Entarna might have grown complacent, but not all the old secrets had been lost. Yet what good was any of it, if those who were meant to carry the Light turned to the darkness instead? The world, he knew, was poised on a cliff’s edge, one not so different from the one they had found themselves on years ago, during the Night War, despite the fact that it was not as obvious. People believed their world, their existence, to be like a mountain, continuing despite the snow and rain and the elements that pressed against it. But even mountains fell, Torrik knew, and sooner or later even the largest stone would crack under pressure.

  There was no knowing how far the conspiracy Ulem had stumbled upon reached, how much pressure it might bring, but Torrik also knew that the average person would be shocked by how little it would take to send their world crashing down around them.

  He realized he’d allowed himself to become distracted, and had arrived back in the town square almost without realizing it. The crowds were out once again, browsing the goods of the merchants, and suddenly Torrik felt very much like a man with a target painted on his back. How many of those who gave him cursory glances when he passed were in league with the darkness? Were the curious looks of the merchants no more than those of men hoping to make a sale, or were they something more sinister? Were they, instead, marking his movements, tracking him? In the wild, a deer might not be aware of the danger it was in until it was too late, but that lack of knowledge didn’t keep it from being eaten.

  A man stepped in front of him, barring his path, and Torrik’s hand went for the dagger tucked in his waist. “Excuse me, sir,” the man said, “might I bother you for a coin? I haven’t eaten in days and…really, even something so small as a Dusk will do, if you’ve got it to spare.”

  Torrik relaxed, but not all the way. If a man relaxed enough, that man died: another lesson he’d learned. He reached into his pocket and fetched out a few coins, giving them to the man who favored him with a toothless grin before hurrying away into the crowd.

  A feeling of the type for which he had been chosen to serve the Light overcame Torrik as he watched the man go. It was a feeling of inevitability, a feeling of a danger seen too late, of being one step away from falling into a pit and with far too much momentum to stop now. No, he told himself, it’s nothing. You’re just worried, that’s all, and rightfully so. The sun was still shining, night was several hours away yet, and he was seeing omens where there were none. That was all. Yet as he made his way through the crowded street, the feeling did not leave him, and the looks of those he passed began to take on their own weight, making the premonition of doom grow, a heavy burden upon his back so that it felt as if each step he took led him, inevitably, to a grim future.

  He had meant only to help an old friend, only to offer what counsel he could. But as so often happens in life, in doing such a small thing he had set his feet—and the feet of his family—on a path with only one destination. A destination which some part of him—not the gift please, not the gift, if gift it is—was afraid might only end in blood and darkness and the grief that follows.

  The feeling of imminent doom only grew with each minute that passed, so despite all of his training, he began to run once he was on the forest path outside of town, and by the time he arrived at the home in which his family waited, he was covered in sweat and gasping for air. A reminder, too late, perhaps, that he was not the man he’d once been.

  She was bent over a box, loading it with plates and eating utensils when he stepped inside. Alesh stood with her, ostensibly helping but, in truth, the boy was gazing into the box the way one might examine a hidden treasure chest found buried deep underground. As Torrik watched, the boy withdrew what appeared to be a stack of plates wrapped in fabric to prevent breaking. He was struggling with the weight of the ceramics, and Elayna reached over and took them from his hands. Then, she set the stack of plates on the ground, all the while her eyes locked on Torrik.

  For the first time that he could remember, it was not easy for him to meet that gaze, and under it, he felt somehow ashamed. She opened her mouth, as if she would say something, perhaps ask something, but she must have found her answer in his troubled eyes, for she only gave one sharp nod and turned back to her work. “We have only a few boxes left, and then we will be ready,” she said, her voice brisk, business-like. “The horses have been fed and watered, their saddlebags packed. I will need your help loading the wagon for…” She broke off then, her shoulders seeming to slump, and she took a slow, deep breath, obviously struggling to master herself. “I cannot lift all the boxes alone,” she finished.

  Hearing the fear in his wife’s voice, fear he had put there, Torrik’s own emotions rose up in response. He felt fear, of course, a fear for his family, a fear that, in the end, he would not be able to protect them. But can anyone, really? Or is the ability to protect those we love only a lie we tell ourselves, so when we rest our heads for the night, we might find the sleep for which we search? How much of our world is built on the lies of comfort and constancy that we whisper to each other, that we whisper to ourselves? He stepped forward, meaning to go to her. “Elayna, I’m so sor—”

  “We will have dinner,” she interrupted. “Yes, that’s right.” She smiled at Alesh, another attempt at comfort, the smile another lie, one that threatened to break Torrik’s heart. “Yes, my sweet. We will have a fine dinner tonight, before we leave this place, and how would you like some berries? I picked them this morning—I thought they would be a nice meal on the road, but I think now that we will eat them tonight, how does that sound?”

  Alesh was grinning, his face exultant as only a child’s can be at the mention of sweets. “That sounds great, Mama.”

  “Yes,” Elayna said, nodding, and Torrik didn’t miss the unshed tears in her eyes. “Yes, it does. We will have a feast, that’s what we will have. And then,” she added, turning to her husband with an unmistakable defiance in her gaze, as if he would argue, “when tomorrow morning comes, we will leave.”

  “Elayna,” he said, wincing, “the Church—”

  “Will still be the Church tomorrow,” she interrupted. “Tonight, we will feast, and then tomorrow we will go in search of another place to stay. It will be an adventure,” she said, giving Alesh a smile. “Then,” she went on, eyeing her husband once more, “we will find a place for us, a home. I don’t believe I would like to travel anymore, and it is a big world, after all; surely there is room in it for the three of us.”

  The last was said with more than a little desperation. “Of course, El,” Torrik said. “But, you need to know what—”

  “I had better go and see to the food,” she blurted. “Come and help me, Alesh.” She bent, grabbing the stack of plates—ten or so, it appeared to Torrik, the ones they kept for guests—and was about to put them back into the box when Alesh put his small, child’s hand on her arm, and she froze, her body tensing as if she’d been struck.

  “Don’t, Mama,” Alesh said. “We’ll need them.”

  Her face twitched, whatever fragile façade of calm she’d managed threatening to crack at that, and her mouth worked silently. Torrik stepped forward and knelt beside his wife and son. “What your mother is trying to say, Alesh, is that we don’t need so many plates, not just for us. There are only three of us, after all, and there are at least te—”

  “I know that, Daddy,” he said, meeting Torrik’s gaze with the earnestness that seemed the exclusive right of the terribly young or terribly old. “But we’ll need them.”

  Torrik frowned, and when he glanced up, his wife was looking at him, her eyes reflecting his own worry. “Alesh,” he began, “what do you—”

  “That’s fine, honey, we’ll leave them out,” Elayna said, grabbing his hand. “Now, come and help your mother.”

  Torrik watched her practically flee the room, their son in tow. Then, when they were gone, he gave a heavy sigh, and let his shoulders—that felt as if
some great, terrible weight rested upon them—slump in something that felt very much like defeat. Crouched there, alone, he found that his eyes were drawn to the stack of plates Alesh had insisted his wife leave out. Only a child with a child’s fancy? Or something else?

  You know well enough, some part of his mind said, there have been other signs, after all, and—

  No, Torrik answered, cutting off the thought. He’s just a boy, that’s all. Children say things, sometimes, do things. And even if some vague predictions they make in their antics turn out to be right, it doesn’t mean there’s anything sinister at work. It means only that, should even an amateur archer shoot enough arrows at a target, sooner or later he will hit the bullseye. And when he does, it is not because of magic, but simply the nature of reality.

  All logical, all true. Yet, Torrik found his gaze resting on the stack of plates, and for all his rationalizations, what he felt in his heart as he listened to his wife begin preparations for the meal they would have, was not relief, but a slow, creeping despair.

  A gift, the priest had called Torrik’s “feelings,” when taking him into the service of the Church, so long ago. But whether or not the man was sincere, Torrik decided then that he had certainly been a fool. A gift. What gift, in a man feeling the slow, methodical approach of his doom? What gift in hearing the swish of the headsman’s axe and knowing it for what it was?

  8

  They prepared the meal in near silence, save for Alesh’s insistence, from time to time, that his mother make more meat, more bread. Each time, Torrik and Elayna shared a glance in which was communicated their own dire thoughts, and she would do as the boy asked, almost, it felt to Torrik, as if they were no longer making their decisions themselves. Instead, it seemed to him, that the momentum of the moment was carrying them along, as if some great chain had been tied around their small family and was, even now, pulling them toward some inevitable fate. They could struggle, if they liked, but, in the end, it would make no difference, for the chain was strong and tied fast, and the future would come as it always did—hard and true and without consent.

  He was standing by the kitchen window, gazing out at the yard now shrouded in night, at the lights burning on the home’s property, as he used a rag to wipe a pot clean. So it was that he saw when the first of those lights, meant to ward and protect against the encroaching darkness, flickered. Flickered, and then went out. Torrik thought at first that he must have imagined it, for the groundskeeper came by each day to check the oil, had explained as much to him when they’d first arrived, and even had the man missed a day, each lantern was built with an extra reservoir that should have kept it burning. Still, there was surely a reasonable explanation—a tree limb falling, perhaps, or an unnaturally strong gust of wind that managed to get past the casing of the lantern. They were meant to have been built in a way that such a thing was impossible, but the works of men were not infallible.

  He had gone a long way toward believing it something as simple as that, had become fairly well convinced, when the second light went out, casting a small section of the yard in darkness. His wife must have seen something in his posture, for she walked up to stand beside him. “What is it?” she said, her voice low in an attempt to avoid disturbing Alesh where he was picking at some of the bread she’d made, sneaking bites of it, his child’s mind believing they did not see him. They did, but they left it, as they always did, for the world had greater crimes for a man and a woman to concern themselves with than a child sneaking food.

  “I…don’t know,” Torrik said, frowning, and answering in a whisper to match his wife’s. “Two of the lights have gone out. I’m not sure—” He cut off as a third flame sputtered and failed. He turned, looking beyond the ring of lights to the side of the property where sat the small shed that housed all his merchants’ supplies. Lanterns and torches. Tools and materials for the maintenance and creation of each.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Torrik?” his wife asked, and there was no masking the unease in her voice, not now.

  But he was gripped by a sense of urgency, and did not answer, rushing toward the door, intent on retrieving the materials—materials bought for profit but that could, given the right circumstances, save a man’s life—and bringing them back to the house.

  “Torrik?” There was a shrill, frightened quality to his wife’s shout from the kitchen, one that he did not like, but there was no time. He flung the door open and froze, stunned, as he gazed out at the property. All the light was gone. Not a single lantern burned in the darkness. Torrik’s mind raced, as he thought of what lights they had in the house. Plenty of candles, of course—those, at least, they had in abundance, as well as the means—flint and steel—by which to light them. And, he realized with more than a little fear, only the one lantern, the same that was even now sitting on their dining room table, its light illuminating the room.

  Gazing out at the night, Torrik thought he saw movement in the darkness, shiftings and swayings that were sporadic but purposeful for all that, and he slammed the door closed, jerking the lantern from where it sat and hurrying back into the kitchen. He was thankful upon arriving to see that his wife had lit several candles, spreading them out along the wooden counter and cutting board.

  “Daddy, what’s happening?”

  Torrik forced a smile and walked to his son before kneeling in front of him. “We’re okay,” he said, “everything’s fine, Alesh. Just some issues with the lights is all.”

  “But we have more, don’t we, Daddy?”

  “Of course,” he answered with far more confidence than he felt. “Of course we do. Your daddy’s a light merchant, after all, isn’t he?”

  The boy grinned at that. “Yeah.”

  Torrik looked over to his wife. “I’m going to take the lantern and go to the shed.”

  She was shaking her head before he was finished. “No. No, Torrik, something is going on and—”

  “We don’t have a choice, El,” he said. “I’ll carry the lantern, and I’ll be safe, but we can’t rely on, on candles,” he finished. “You know that.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, most likely to tell him that he was being a fool, that there was another way, a better one, and most likely she would be right. But whatever words she’d been preparing to utter never came as there was a knock on the door, one that sounded impossibly loud to Torrik, as if the entire house would fall apart from the force of it.

  Don’t be foolish, it’s just a knock, that’s all, he told himself. And another of his master’s sayings came into his mind. Don’t let your fear blind you, for fear will make a fool of even the wisest of men.

  Just a knock, nothing more. But from whom? “Stay here,” Torrik said, starting for the door.

  “Torrik, don’t answer it; just leave it.”

  He hesitated then, meeting her eyes. “And if it’s someone needing our help? If it’s a traveler lost in the woods and looking for succor?”

  “Then let them find it somewhere else,” she snapped, her fear and the anger birthed from that fear clear in her words. “Not us, Torrik. Amedan be good, we’re not in a position to help anybody.”

  “There is no one else, El,” he said, “you know that. No one any closer than town, at the least, and that’s nearly two miles away. If someone is out there, and they do need our help, they’ll never make it that far.”

  Still, he saw her hesitating, turning the problem over in her mind. And, feeling like a traitor, Torrik leaned close, taking her hands. “As soon as we stop helping each other, the darkness wins.” And then, “We carry the light, Elayna.”

  She winced, as if he’d pricked her with a blade. Which, in a way, he had. But finally she met his eyes, her own full of unshed tears. “So others might see the truth.”

  “It’ll be okay, El,” he said, giving her hands a squeeze. “Everything will be okay.” Torrik had never lied to his wife before, and he did not like the feel of it then, the callousness of the thing, and though she nodded and too
k the words at face value, there was an understanding in her eyes, a realization they both shared of the wall that had suddenly sprouted between them. A wall meant to protect, true, but a wall just the same. “I’ll be back,” he finished lamely, then, lantern in hand, he walked out of the kitchen.

  The knocking had started again. He opened the door and, at first, had a terrified moment in which his distressed mind told him a group of nightwalkers stood at the threshold. He started to reach for the dagger still tucked inside his tunic, but paused as the shadowy figures began to take shape. “B-Bishop Deckard?” he said, surprised.

  The older man smiled pleasantly enough, but the expression, Torrik noted, was not shared by the six robed men standing behind him. “Hello, Torrik. It is good to see you again. I thought about our conversation, and decided it was only right to pay you back the money Ulem owed you. After all,” he said, winking, “the Church has debts enough to the people of Entarna already—we need not gather more.”

  Torrik’s thoughts were jumbled by the unexpected visit, by the menacing gazes of the men standing with the bishop and the knowledge that his wife and child were only a room away. “I…that is, Bishop, perhaps it isn’t the best time. There’s something wrong with the lanterns you see and…” He trailed off as he realized, for the first time, that the bishop and those men standing with him carried no lights of their own, no lanterns or torches to keep back the darkness and the things which called it home.