Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Oh? To what?’

  ‘To new friends?’

  Bleak laughed. ‘How about to old ones?’

  ‘Won’t say no to that.’ He took a swig from the flask and handed it to Bleak.

  She saluted him, and took a long gulp. Whatever it was, it burned her insides, but she also felt the warmth of it settle over her mind and calm her anxieties. She sipped again and reluctantly passed it back.

  ‘Ya find what ya were looking for?’ Bren asked, making his way to the mainsail.

  Bleak paused. She’d never told Bren what she was looking for, exactly. He didn’t know of her ability, but he was no fool. He knew she was after something, badly.

  ‘No,’ she said finally. She readied herself to climb the rigging, while Bren did the same beside her.

  He glanced at her sympathetically. ‘There’s always next time, Half-Pint.’

  She gripped the ropes and began to haul herself up, finding her footing easily.

  Bren kept up beside her, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. The higher they climbed, the stronger the wind. It cut through her cloak and shirt, like ice on her skin. Bleak looked out to the East Sea, and the route they would take back to Angove.

  ‘Let her down, Half-Pint!’ Senior yelled out from the deck below.

  Bleak released the sail from its confinement. The enormous white canvas dropped and caught in the wind and the whole ship lurched forward.

  She looked to Bren. ‘I suppose you’re right …’

  ‘’Bout what?’ he said.

  She turned back to the open expanse of water before them, bracing herself against the cold. ‘There’s always next time.’

  The King’s Tournament

  On the eve of the annual King’s Tournament in Willowdale, Commander Swinton’s men were particularly rowdy. He himself had nearly just choked on his mouthful of ale while laughing. Fiore slapped him heartily on the back, pushing another full mug towards him, foam spilling over its sides.

  ‘Imagine that,’ Fi wheezed. ‘Surviving the Janhallow Desert rebellion only to die in Grayside Tavern, hey, old friend?’

  ‘A belly full of food and ale doesn’t seem like a bad way to go,’ Swinton countered, touching the long, pink scar across his jaw.

  It had been a fortnight of hard training with his squadron in Willowdale: a constant barrage of drills, duels and horseback riding. Swinton looked around. The exhaustion had ebbed away from the haggard faces; smiles had replaced scowls and grimaces of pain. He leaned back in his seat, content. The men had improved greatly since he’d been made commander. That was something to be proud of. They all deserved to celebrate their last day of training and the start of the King’s Tournament tomorrow.

  Stefan, one of the young squires, pulled up a stool alongside them and turned to Fi, clasping him on the shoulder.

  ‘How does it feel to be the best friend of the man who’s about to become the youngest knight in the history of Ellest?’ he asked.

  Fi laughed. ‘Ease up on the ale, Stef.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘But he’ll be the youngest —’

  Swinton watched the exchange with quiet joy. They had returned to Heathton as victors from the rebellion in Battalon. King Arden had held a ceremony to present Swinton, Fi and Lennox with medals of heroism – though they weren’t quite sure how Lennox had wrangled that. Swinton’s knighthood hadn’t been formally announced yet, but King Arden had been hinting at it for some time.

  ‘You have everything you need, Commander?’ Jasper the barman hovered by their table.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’ve had your room cleaned, so it’s ready for you.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘Anything at all, Commander. You say the word.’

  Fiore leaned in as Jasper walked away. ‘Just you wait … He’ll come crawling, asking for favours when you’re a “Sir”.’

  ‘Don’t I know it —’ Swinton stopped abruptly as he caught sight of a glowering pair of eyes from the opposite side of the tavern. Siv Lennox. One of the best swordsmen under his command; also one of the most vile. His glare was one of utter loathing.

  What in Rheyah’s name is wrong with that man? Lennox had been a thorn in his side since they’d started out as squires. Things had only got worse once Fi had arrived in Heathton and outfought them all. Lennox hated that a foreigner had brought a new, effective style of fighting into their midst and bested them. Not to mention that Fiore had been made Captain. A Battalonian. Lennox’s pride had never recovered, and he’d been itching to overthrow their leadership ever since.

  Swinton turned to make a comment to his friend, but Fi wasn’t beside him anymore. The muscular Battalonian was now leaning against the bar, talking to an olive-skinned beauty. She was laughing. Hardly a surprise when it came to Fi.

  ‘Can’t help it, can he?’ Stefan quipped, following Swinton’s gaze.

  Swinton laughed. ‘Not in the slightest. He thinks he’s a romantic.’

  ‘Maybe he is.’

  Swinton raised a skeptical brow and Stefan snorted.

  As the night wore on, the men continued to drink. They broke out into bawdy tunes and the odd scuffle over cards. Everyone was in good spirits, including Swinton. It was rare that he let his guard down, rare that he took the opportunity to sit among the men as a companion rather than a commander.

  But sleep called to him sooner than he would have liked. The jugs of ale and the past fortnight of vigorous drills had him feeling heavy. He made for the stairs to retire.

  Jasper had indeed got the room ready. A fire burned in the small hearth and a basin had been prepared with fresh water to wash. Swinton closed the door behind him, nearly tripping over Fi’s pack, which had been discarded carelessly across the floor. His friend’s bed was untouched, and by the looks of things down at the bar, Swinton doubted there would be need to remake it the following morning.

  People loved Fiore Murphadias. He was a natural storyteller, a dreamer, and the type of person who put others at immediate ease. Swinton was far more reserved, which was but one of the things that made them such an odd pairing to others. The women of Ellest loved Fi too, and he loved them. He managed to strike up conversation without a care in the world, and though he had a reputation for being a charmer, Swinton was yet to ever see someone leave in tears.

  The door creaked open. ‘You’re awake,’ Fi said, surprised.

  ‘Just came up myself. You staying?’

  Fi shook his head with a grin and went to the basin. The Battalonian stripped his shirt off and wet the bar of soap sitting on the side.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Swinton heard himself say as Fi splashed water onto his face.

  ‘Always, old friend.’ Fi patted himself dry and went to his pack, pulling out a fresh, albeit wrinkled, shirt.

  ‘Have you ever wanted just one woman?’ Swinton asked, sitting on the end of his bed.

  Fi looked up. ‘Of course.’

  Swinton’s brows shot up.

  Fi laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Dimi.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But you didn’t stay with her? This one woman?’

  Fi laughed. ‘It was her who didn’t stay with me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Swinton said. He hadn’t realised. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Fi replied with a shrug. ‘Such is life, old friend. It wasn’t as the gods intended.’

  ‘How … how do you …’

  Fi pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. ‘How do you make peace with that?’

  Swinton nodded, his stomach twisting as he thought of the girl he’d last been with. Rosetta. She’d worked on his father’s estate. They’d grown up together. He’d loved her. But he’d never known if it was the same sort of love that people wrote sonnets about. That sort of love … Well, he had little experience with it.

  Fiore crossed the room and took his cloak from the hook. ‘I tell myself:
it doesn’t matter who you were with at the beginning. It matters who’s standing there with you at the end.’

  Throwing on his cloak, Fi gave a mock salute and left.

  Swinton sat there a moment before going to his own basin to wash and prepare for bed. Who’s standing there with you at the end. It was a nice sentiment.

  Swinton woke to the burn of chemicals in his nostrils. His body convulsed, but he was pinned down, a damp cloth clamped over his mouth and nose. He gasped for air, but the room spun. Hooded figures surrounded him, their thick hands restraining his weakening struggles, his cry of outrage muffled by the poison-soaked fabric.

  ‘Come on,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Get him out of here.’

  Lennox, Swinton realised as a wave of nausea hit him. He couldn’t feel his legs. Or his arms. Panic shot through him as the group of men lifted him off the bed and hauled him towards the door.

  Where are they taking me? What do they want? He’d never felt so helpless in his life. He tried to call out again, but all that escaped was a raspy moan. He could do nothing but listen to the soft thud of his own bare feet being dragged down the tavern stairs.

  Outside, they pulled a hessian sack over his head. Now, the night was nothing but darkness. He was flung roughly across the back of a horse, where the chemicals finally took hold of his consciousness. As they rode off into the night, Swinton blacked out.

  A swift kick to the ribs and blooming pain woke Swinton for a second time. He groaned, still unable to move.

  Someone spat on him. ‘Not the hero everyone thinks you are, eh, Commander?’

  The sack was tugged off Swinton’s head, and he squinted at the half-dozen men surrounding him. Lennox and his lackeys. The men who consistently gave less but expected more.

  Lennox crouched before Swinton and grabbed him by the throat. ‘Let’s see them give a knighthood to you now. The commander who snubbed the King’s Tournament.’

  Swinton cursed himself. He’d underestimated the pack mentality and jealousy of Lennox and his brutes. He should have known better. He’d seen Lennox in action before.

  ‘Poor Sir Caleb. He’ll be so ashamed …’ the bastard sneered.

  Swinton’s stomach churned at the mention of his father. Sir Caleb was expected at the tournament tomorrow, and if Swinton didn’t show … Well, it wasn’t just his reputation and future on the line.

  Someone dealt him another blow, this time to the abdomen. Pain ricocheted up his body and his eyes watered. He rasped, finally finding his voice.

  ‘You …’ he managed. ‘You had to drug me. Had to bring five friends … to beat me?’

  It earned him a kick in the side. ‘End outcome’s the same, isn’t it?’

  ‘Coward,’ Swinton spluttered. He knew he should shut up. Knew he wasn’t doing himself any favours. But this … this pathetic excuse for a man wasn’t going to get away with this.

  Lennox just laughed, before his fist slammed into Swinton’s face, and all went black once more.

  The soft glow of dawn warmed Swinton’s chilled skin and he woke with a start. He was lying in the damp grass of a woodland area, hands bound behind him. With a moan, he sat up, his whole body searing with pain from his injuries. He could feel how swollen his face was, could taste blood on his tongue. He felt dizzy – it was as though there was a fog over his thoughts. Gameswood. That was what Lennox had used to paralyse him and drag him out into the countryside of Willowdale.

  Gods. The tournament, Swinton realised, struggling to free himself from the binds. How am I going to explain this? What will Father think? What will the king think?

  He forced himself to slow down. One thing at a time. He managed to loosen the rope and twist his wrists free. Wincing, he stretched both hands out before him. His back and shoulders ached. Lifting his shirt, he found a collage of blue-and-violet bruising across his ribs.

  Bloody bastard, he cursed Lennox as he staggered to his feet.

  A rush of nausea hit him. Leaning against the trunk of a tree, Swinton hurled his guts up, praying it was the last of the poison leaving his battered body. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around. They couldn’t have travelled more than an hour out of Grayside. This was still very much Willowdale county – the green paddocks in the distance, the cluster of woodland, the deer grazing happily on the nearby foliage. If he hurried, Swinton could be at the tournament by noon.

  It was harder than he anticipated, finding the strength to trek across the farmlands in his injured state. But every time he wanted to collapse, he pictured Lennox’s sneering face. He pictured his knighthood slipping from his grasp. He wasn’t going to let that happen. He had worked too damn hard to get to where he was, had spurned his father’s influence to make a name of his own. When he became Sir Dimitri Swinton, it would be because he and he alone had got himself there.

  Finally, he saw the town of Willowdale in the distance. From the sound of the crowd, the tournament was in full swing. He had no idea how he would explain his absence, or his dishevelled state; all he thought of was getting there.

  At last, Swinton entered the town and headed straight for the makeshift stands where the jousting was in full swing.

  ‘Dimi!’ Fi exclaimed, catching him by the elbow. ‘What in Liir’s name happened to you?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Swinton muttered, spotting his father and King Arden side by side in the royal box in the stands.

  ‘So shorten it.’

  ‘Lennox.’

  Fiore whirled around. ‘What did he do?’

  Swinton gestured to his swollen face. ‘You need further explanation?’

  Fi’s gaze clouded with fury. ‘Where is he. That piece of scum. I’ll —’

  ‘Not now, Fi,’ Swinton said, grabbing his friend’s arm. ‘Not in front of the king and my father. This has to be handled differently.’

  There was a loud crunch as one opponent’s lance splintered against the other’s armour. The loser was sent flying across the field with a loud cry, hitting the ground with a thunk.

  The crowd erupted with applause as the victor removed his helmet.

  Lennox.

  Fiore made to charge forward again, but Swinton grabbed him.

  ‘Not like this,’ he hissed, spotting King Arden motioning for him to join them.

  Leaving Fiore behind, Swinton approached the foot of the dais and bowed, flushing furiously. He knew how disrespectful he looked.

  ‘Your Majesty. Sir Caleb.’

  His father said nothing, but the shame in his umber eyes was piercing.

  From the corner of his eye, Swinton could see his mother, Lady Yuliana, with Queen Vera and the little prince and princess.

  The king, however, stood. ‘What in Rheyah’s name happened to you, Commander?’

  Without so much as a glance at Lennox, Swinton bowed deeply. ‘An embarrassing tale, my king. One that involves much ale and stupidity. I apologise for my tardiness.’

  King Arden’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the bruising and swelling on Swinton’s face. He pursed his lips before turning to Sir Caleb.

  ‘Every young man makes mistakes, eh, Caleb?’

  ‘Indeed, sire,’ Sir Caleb said stiffly.

  King Arden turned back to Swinton. ‘Get yourself cleaned up, Commander.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Swinton made to leave, but behind him, someone cleared their throat.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ called Lennox, stepping forward, helm in hand. ‘If the commander will allow it, I’d like the honour of challenging him.’

  Swinton froze.

  Frowning, the king leaned forward in his throne. ‘Now?’

  ‘If the commander doesn’t object.’

  The king beckoned Swinton forward once more. ‘Do you accept Lennox’s challenge?’

  Swinton met Lennox’s cocky stare. Like he had a choice.

  ‘I accept.’

  ‘Very well, then. Prepare yourself. The next round is in fifteen minutes.’

  Swinton bowed
once more and ducked away to the staging area, mind racing. He’d have to borrow armour. His own was still back at the tavern. He didn’t like the idea of using someone else’s, but there was nothing for it.

  A hand grabbed his arm. ‘Are you mad, old friend?’ Fi hissed, dragging him out of earshot. ‘You can hardly stand straight. Let alone joust.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Reject a challenge from that bastard?’

  ‘If it means you remain in one piece for the day, yes.’

  Swinton simply shook his head and walked on.

  The weight of the armour pressed painfully against Swinton’s battered body. He grit his teeth as Fiore strapped the breastplate in place.

  ‘You’re still sluggish from the poison,’ Fi muttered. ‘You don’t have to —’

  Swinton cut him a glare. ‘You know I do, or you wouldn’t be helping.’

  Fi gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But gods, Dimi, you’d better be careful. He’s the best jouster we have. And you’re …’

  ‘Not experiencing my finest hour.’

  On the field, the trumpets blared and Lennox was announced as the reigning victor. He rode up and down the pitch, shaking his fist triumphantly at the onlookers. A true champion. The crowd cheered and stomped their feet in the stands. To Swinton, it sounded like the thunder before a storm.

  ‘Here,’ Fi said, handing him a helm.

  Swinton took it and fit it over his head with a wince. The cold steel pressed against his swollen face.

  ‘Dimi?’ Fi asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? What for?’

  ‘I should have been there.’

  ‘Not your fault, Fi.’

  ‘All the same. I should have been there. I hope you’ve got a plan.’

  Swinton took in the jousting pitch before him, littered with the remains of splintered lances. ‘We’re about to find out.’

  A young squire helped Swinton up onto his horse. The heavy armour was cumbersome, but he didn’t doubt for a second that he’d need it. He brought his steed to the end of the tilt barrier and halted. Stefan handed him his lance.