The Forging of Dawn

by Jacob Peppers

  There was another roar, this one as loud, if not louder than the first, but this one did not come from beside them, as the others had. Instead, it came from in front of them, somewhere down the path. Torrik spun to see a large shape standing in the road up ahead, its form only vaguely outlined by the weak, pale light of the moon. Elayna screamed, and Torrik gave a shout of his own, tugging on the reins to try to go around.

  For a second, he thought that they would make it, but another creature dove out of the darkness, right in front of the horses. There was a sickening crunch as the horses collided with it with shocking force, as if they had struck a castle wall. The wagon, and the family sheltered within it, went flying over the horses, hurtled into the air by the force of the impact.

  Torrik’s breath was torn from his lungs, as he hit the ground in a bone-jarring roll. When he finally came to a stop, he was covered in cuts and abrasions, and he groaned, climbing to his hands and knees. By some miracle, the lantern had not gone out. It lay in the road, casting a circle of protective light in the darkness. A circle that, unfortunately, Torrik was not within. Still, its light was enough for him to see that the wagon had flipped on its side. Alesh. Oh, please be okay. He rose dazedly to his feet and realized that something was wrong with his left arm. He glanced at it and was shocked to see bone sticking out of his forearm, stark white, the blood coating it black in the moonlight. Surprisingly, there was little pain—his body, he assumed, in too much shock to feel it.

  Ignoring it as best he could, he drew his dagger with his other hand, starting toward the wagon in a limping shuffle, suddenly terrified of what he might find there. The wood was cracked, but the compartment itself was still whole, and Torrik had reached the circle of light—was halfway to the wagon itself—when he heard a pained gasp from off to his left.

  A vague form, barely visible in the darkness. Peering into the night, Torrik grunted as he realized it was his wife, lying on her side. All around her, gathering in a circle, were nightwalkers, their fangs and claws glistening. He was safe, in the light, but his wife was not, and so there was no question. With a growl, Torrik broke into as much of a run as his battered body would allow. “Get away from her, you bastards!”

  His blade dug into the nearest, and there was a screech of pain as it stumbled away. But there were more to take its place, dozens, hundreds more, and his dagger flashed out again and again, cutting into their ranks, even as they encircled him. He was close, now, only feet away. His wife met his gaze. In her eyes, he saw understanding, knowledge of how the thing would end, how it must end.

  “Torrik, watch out!” she screamed, pointing. He tried to spin, to look where she’d indicated, but he was too slow, and he cried out as something crashed into him from the side, sending him sprawling. Hissing through teeth clenched in pain, he brought his blade down again and again, digging into dark flesh, his arm a blur as he fought to fend off his attackers. But they were all around him now, swarming like vultures, and the blade could not be everywhere at once. Claws and fangs flashed out, coming back coated in blood, yet he barely felt it.

  He swung the blade wildly, reaping a bloody harvest among his attackers even as his body was wracked with a violent, pulling sensation, repeated again and again, all over his body, until the dagger fell from fingers that no longer possessed the strength to wield it. Then, his eyes fell on the lantern flame, still burning weakly. And his last thought, before the darkness took him, was that, in the end, it had not been the light that had failed. It had been him. I’m sorry, he thought. Sorry to the horses, to Olliman and the rest of the world who would not know the truth but, most of all, he was sorry to his wife and son.

  And then there was only darkness.

  10

  They watched, the two of them, while the beasts finished what they had come to do. “We could help them,” she said, her voice full of grief and anguish. “We could do something.”

  Javen, the God of Chance, turned and studied his sister with one eye that was completely white, the other black. Her beauty—legendary to those mortals who had seen her—was etched now with a profound sadness and pain, as if she felt each wound when it was struck, as if the flesh that those claws scored was her own. “We cannot,” he said, softly. “You know that. Father was particular on that point.”

  “Then why are we here?” she demanded, as the beasts continued their meal. “Why did he make us come?”

  “We are here for him,” he said simply, gesturing to the covered wagon, where one of the creatures tore at the wooden slats. This one was bigger than most of its kind, and it growled in frustration and hunger, seeking to tear the wood apart and reach the mortal boy cowering inside. “As for why we could not help them,” he said, his own voice sad and full of regret, “she would know, if we did. And she would come for us—for him. Only by doing nothing can we help him.”

  Deitra, the Goddess of Music and Art, sighed heavily, but she remained silent, and the two children of Amedan watched as the creature continued to tear at the wooden cart, its fellows snuffling and growling around it, wishing to claim the prize for their own but not brave enough to challenge the hulking brute.

  Soon, the creature managed to tear off a piece of the wagon, and it bared its fangs in what looked like nothing so much as a grin, its red eyes studying the terrified, crying boy inside. Its arm thrust into the opening it had made, surprisingly fast given its bulk, and the boy screamed as one of its talons dug deep into his shoulder.

  “And so he is marked,” the God of Chance said.

  Deitra did not answer, for a moment later an explosion of light erupted in the darkness, so brilliant the two gods had to shield their eyes against the glare, clenching their teeth as they were buffeted by some invisible wind. Screams filled the night, inhuman, bestial, and full of pain. Javen let out a low hiss, feeling as if he might be torn apart before that invisible force. Then, as abruptly as it had come, it was gone.

  Blinking, he saw that the hundreds of creatures who had crowded the road were nowhere to be seen, either destroyed by the burst of light or fled back into the darkness. Javen found that he was breathing heavily, and he turned to his sister to see her studying him with wide eyes. “He…is powerful.”

  “Yes,” she said, and in that single word, he could hear sadness, regret. Javen understood, for one of the first lessons he had learned was that power, in any form, was never free. There was always a cost. And he felt sure that despite his losses, the boy had only begun to pay it.

  A sound drew his attention back to the wagon, and he saw the boy crawling out of the hole the creature had made. He climbed to his feet and, for a time, only stood there, a dazed expression on his face, as if he could not fully comprehend what had happened. He turned and looked at the cart as if wondering how it came to be there, how he had come to be there.

  “Even now, he forgets.”

  “Yes,” his sister said. “Will he remember?”

  “Perhaps,” Javen replied, “but better if he does not. Not all hurts are lessons. Some serve only to weaken, to twist and pervert that which might have been pure.”

  The boy began walking then, his face expressionless, his feet seeming to move of their own accord, as if he were some puppet with no control of his own actions.

  And aren’t we all? Javen thought darkly. Gods or mortals, it seemed each was only performing a role in some play, their lines already written, their lives—and deaths—fated and beyond debate. And was it fate, then, that guided them, that allowed them the illusion of choice, of will—an illusion easily shattered, easily shown false? Strange thoughts, perhaps, for the God of Chance, but ones not easily set aside.

  “He goes to Ilrika.”

  He turned back to his sister. “Yes. And to Chosen Olliman.”

  “Perhaps it would be better, a kindness, were he to have died along with them,” she said, and whether she spoke to herself or him, he could not have said.

  Still, he answered. “Perhaps. But then, the world is ever stingy with its kindnes
s.”

  “His life will be one full of pain.”

  All lives are full of pain. “Yes.”

  “And do you believe that he will be the one, that he will do what Father believes he will?”

  Javen considered. “Father is no fool, and he knows many things we do not.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “It is the only one I can give, Sister.”

  Silence, then, as both gods watched the boy. He was farther along now, disappearing into the darkness, traveling a path with pain behind and more to come.

  “Do you believe he will succeed?” she asked.

  “He will have help.”

  “That is also not an answer.”

  Javen sighed. “He is young, and he is powerful. Will he succeed? Will any of us succeed, in facing what’s coming? I do not know, Sister—I cannot. But I will tell you this.” He paused, giving her a small grin, and should someone have been there to see it, they would have noted that his white eye seemed to shine in its socket, the black one becoming a dark, bottomless pit in which men’s lives could—and had—fallen. “There is always a chance.”

  A single nod, no more, and that was as it should be, for in such great matters, words often failed. The two gods looked once more upon the departing child, young yet aged by the tragedy he had undergone. Then, they vanished.

  After all, the true Dark was coming, a shadow deep enough to swallow even the gods themselves.

  And there was little time.

  Well, dear reader, we have come to the end of The Forging of Dawn. But Alesh’s story, our story doesn’t end on some lonely forest trail. To figure out what has become of Alesh, continue your journey with The Son of the Morning, book one of The Nightfall Wars now.

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  About the Author

  Jacob Peppers lives in Georgia with his wife, his one-year-old son, Gabriel, and their three dogs. He is an avid reader and writer and when he’s not exploring the worlds of others, he’s creating his own. He is the author of the bestselling epic fantasy series, The Seven Virtues, and his short fiction has been published in various markets. His short story, “The Lies of Autumn,” was a finalist for the 2013 Eric Hoffer Award for Short Prose.

  Note from the Author

  And so, Dear Reader, we must bid goodbye to Torrik and Elayna. Mourn them, if you must, but know that for them, at least, the battle is done. We that remain, then, must take up where they have left off and see this story, this war, to its conclusion.

  But we will not be alone—there will be others to help, for where darkness rises, light will always stand against it. So continue with me a bit further, won’t you? Not all is shadow, not all is darkness, and we will meet allies along the way. A woman with a voice blessed by the gods themselves, a reluctant hero whose luck might well be enough to see us through. And, of course, there is Alesh. He is grown now, that which befell his parents a memory that plagues him, and his scars, those both visible and not, still remain.

  Yet, we must hope that all the pain Alesh has endured has not been for nothing, that he has been forged, like a blade, by the fires of his past, a blade that, in time, might well quest for and find the corrupted heart of the darkness.

  Our enemies are many, our allies few, but even one light might conquer the darkness, so stay with me, won’t you?

  The journey is not yet finished.

  As always, I’d like to thank all the people without whom this book would have been much worse, if it was finished at all. Thanks to my wife, Andrea, whose unwavering support includes making sure that I wake up at a reasonable hour to get started for the day. Thank you to my son, Gabriel for proving to me that a person can function with only an hour or two of sleep.

  Thanks, of course, to the beta readers who are kind enough to dedicate their time and energy to keeping me from looking like a complete fool. Any obvious foolishness is, I assure you, mine and mine alone and no fault of theirs.

  And lastly thanks to you, Dear Reader, for spending your time with me and Alesh and his family. A special thanks to all of you who have reached out to me, either in reviews or emails, to let me know your thoughts on my books. Writing is a crazy business, but there’s nothing better than hearing that someone has enjoyed something that I’ve written.

  If you haven’t reached out to me but would like to, you can email me at JacobPeppersauthor@gmail.com.

  I can’t promise I’m interesting, but I promise I’ll answer.

  Happy Reading,

  Jacob Peppers