Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Kind of them to host you, eh, old friend?’ Fi said as they walked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been staying in Grayside, Dimi. Haven’t seen you there in a week.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘Have paid for a room, I know. Damn waste of coin if you ask me.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ Swinton muttered as the Carlingtons’ modest home came into view.

  Fi huffed a laugh. ‘You’re your usual cranky self today, aren’t you? Do the Carlingtons know you’re staying with their daughter?’

  Swinton considered denying it, but realised immediately that there was no point. ‘They know,’ he allowed, pushing the small gate open and starting down the gravel path to the house.

  ‘Dimitri!’ a warm voice greeted him from the front garden. Eliza’s mother was crouched over the small herb patch, a handful of freshly picked sage grasped between her fingers.

  ‘Sorry I’m early, Dorothy,’ Swinton said. ‘My friend Fi here apparently hasn’t eaten for a week and invited himself along. If it’s a bother I’ll send him right on his way —’

  The comment earned Swinton a rough elbow to the ribs from Fi.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Dorothy waved the concern away. ‘Emmett always makes enough for an army anyway. We’d be delighted to have you, Captain.’

  Fi stepped forward and took Dorothy’s hand, planting a brief kiss on the back of it. ‘Then please, call me Fi.’

  Swinton watched the exchange with a sort of terrified pleasure. If he did away with all the secrets, this was what things would be like. Fi would fit seamlessly into his new life – wouldn’t he?

  ‘Fi!’ a soft voice called.

  Fi’s face broke into a wide smile at the side of Eliza pushing through the gate, a basket of bread hanging from the crook of her elbow. To Swinton’s relief, she was wearing a thick coat, which hid her growing belly from sight.

  ‘Eliza,’ Fi said warmly. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘And you.’

  Swinton cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t know you were coming for lunch.’

  Eliza raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely it’s not that unusual for a daughter to break bread with her own parents?’

  ‘I only meant —’

  ‘But you’re right,’ she said with a playful smirk. ‘I’m only dropping these off. There’s a horse in labour back at the stables that needs my assistance.’

  ‘What?’ Swinton stepped forward to protest. They’d had many a disagreement about Eliza working with unpredictable horses in her current state. But she knew he couldn’t say anything. Not in front of Fi.

  ‘Best be off,’ she said, flashing another grin as she handed him the basket, her eyes inviting a challenge.

  Filled with a conflicting swirl of pride and frustration, Swinton grit his teeth. His wife was a stubborn woman.

  Swinton’s afternoon was spent in the arena, overseeing the final touches to the tournament’s opening ceremony, due to start that evening. The usually sleepy village of Willowdale was bustling, with a tent city sprawling across the nearby paddocks beyond the arena. Nobles from all over the realm were arriving by the minute, shouting orders at their servants and trying to locate their accommodations.

  Swinton wasn’t made aware of the king’s arrival until he was summoned to his tent. While Arden and the royal family were to stay in one of the many royal estates, on-site quarters were still required for them to retire to amidst the revelry.

  As Swinton made his way across the grounds, he silently thanked the gods he’d had Fi ensure the tent’s readiness that morning. The king’s quarters were sectioned off away from the rest, under full guard as instructed. Swinton reached the entrance, pausing at the threshold upon hearing voices within. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ he called.

  ‘Come in, Commander, come in,’ came King Arden’s voice.

  Inside, the king’s tent was adorned with tapestries and fine furnishings. Goblets and decanters of wine, remnants of the previous meeting, lay scattered on the long table. But there was no one else here.

  ‘Commander,’ the king greeted Swinton, his face slightly flushed.

  ‘You asked to see me, my king?’ Swinton stepped forward, suppressing the urge to wring his hands. Their last encounter had not been pleasant.

  ‘Sit.’ King Arden waved a ringed hand towards a chair.

  Jaw clenched, Swinton did as he was told and waited, his palms growing clammy as he gripped the armrests.

  King Arden paced the carpets, his gaze flicking to a canvas bag by the tent’s entrance.

  ‘I have a task for you, Commander,’ he said slowly. ‘Should you complete it, it will see you earn the title you have so desperately sought all these years.’

  A great thrill rushed through Swinton, and his mind began to race. His future wasn’t lost! He had been right to be patient for all this time! At last, his moment was here.

  ‘I am at your disposal, Your Majesty,’ he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘What must I do?’

  The king considered Swinton, scanning his uniform and the battleaxes strapped to his back. ‘You are to go to Valia Forest with a package of immense value. You will deliver it as per a very specific set of instructions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You will leave today.’

  ‘To-today, my king?’ He swallowed. Eliza would be furious. ‘What of the tournament?’

  ‘Your captain will take over for you. And in any case, you no longer compete, do you?’

  Swinton flushed. ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘A shame. But you’re available to attend to far more important matters.’ He pointed to the canvas bag. ‘That is your cargo. Treat it with the utmost care. If it is broken, the consequences will be … unimaginable.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  King Arden nodded, motioning for Swinton to stand. Swinton did and moved towards the bag.

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘Yes, my king?’

  ‘Tell no one where you’re going. Discretion is paramount to the success of this task. You’ll find detailed instructions inside the bag. Do not open it until you reach the Valia River. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Swinton said, reaching for the bag. ‘I live to serve you.’

  ‘One last thing.’

  Swinton waited.

  ‘Remove your axes before you set out. In those parts of Ellest, it may prove prudent to not be so easily recognised.’

  ‘As you wish, my king.’

  King Arden brushed past him, nodding to the two guards stationed outside the tent. ‘You are to leave at once, Commander Swinton. Good luck.’

  Before Swinton could respond, the king’s thick cloak was trailing through the mud, a set of guards on his heels.

  Swinton glanced at the canvas bag now in his hand. He couldn’t open it here – or at all, not until the Valia River, if King Arden’s orders were to be followed.

  And of course he would follow them.

  ‘What do you mean you have to leave?’ Eliza’s voice rose as she stood firmly before the cottage door, barring Swinton’s exit.

  ‘I told you,’ Swinton said gently. ‘I have orders from the king. There is something I must do for him.’

  Eliza gaped. ‘Now? Amidst the biggest event of the year? What has he asked you to do, Dimitri?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  Eliza folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m your wife.’

  ‘He’s my king, Eliza. I’ve been ordered not to disclose any information.’

  ‘Do you even have any information? Do you even know what he’s asking of you?’ She fired the questions mercilessly at him, but her words were laced with worry. Swinton faltered – and Eliza pounced. ‘Dimitri, how can you follow someone so blindly?’

  Swinton threw his hands up. ‘Do you expect me to disobey our king? What then? What would that mean for our family? Eliza,’ he implored. ‘If I do this, I can take care of us. I
f I —’

  But Eliza was shaking her head. ‘This is about knighthood again, isn’t it?’

  Swinton was quiet. He watched Eliza’s body slump and she stepped aside, holding the door open for him.

  ‘You are chasing something we don’t need,’ she told him, her eyes lined with tears. ‘But if it will make you happy …’ She put a hand to her swollen belly. ‘We won’t stand in your way.’

  He stepped forward, folding her into his arms. ‘Eliza … I’m sorry —’

  ‘Do not miss the birth of your daughter,’ she said into his chest.

  He hugged her tightly, savouring the warmth and comfort of her body against his. ‘I won’t,’ he murmured. ‘I love you. This will help us, I swear it. Let me do this for our family?’

  Eliza nodded sadly within his embrace. ‘Come home to us. Quickly.’

  Fi insisted on riding as far as the Angove River with Swinton. It was already dark when they set out, tension thick between them. Swinton ground his teeth as they rode through the crisp night air. He wasn’t sure he could handle the lecture his friend was sure to deliver, not after saying goodbye to Eliza like that. His chest hurt at the thought of it. He wished there was some way he could prove to her that he was trying to do right by her, right by their child.

  He adjusted his grip on the reins. He was already doing the only thing he could do.

  After a time, he chanced a glimpse at Fi riding beside him. ‘You’re not going to say anything?’ he asked his friend, the silence getting the better of him.

  Fi shrugged. ‘What is there to say, old friend?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  A loud sigh sounded. ‘You know this feels all wrong, no?’

  ‘I’m doing as my king commands.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not wrong, Dimi.’

  ‘You don’t even know what it is.’

  ‘Neither do you.’

  Swinton took a deep breath before he said something he would regret. He was saved by the sudden sound of rushing water. They had reached the Angove River.

  ‘It’s here I leave you, old friend,’ Fi said, bringing his horse to a halt and looking at Swinton, a glint of sadness in his eyes.

  Swinton forced a smile. ‘I’ll see you in a few days.’

  Fi merely nodded. ‘Be careful, Dimi.’

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, until now.’

  ‘Fi —’

  But Fi had already turned his horse around. He didn’t look back as he rode towards Willowdale once more.

  Swinton pushed on, towards the roar of the river, and towards his future.

  It had been a long time since Swinton had made an extended journey alone. Since Fi’s arrival in Heathton, the Battalonian had accompanied him on every ride, which meant there had never been a dull moment. Now, his journey across the moonlit plains of the East Farmlands was different. Quiet but for the drum of his horse’s hooves upon the earth. No one to laugh at Swinton’s seriousness, or tell embellished tales of the festivals in Battalon.

  Swinton found the silence disconcerting, and his thoughts became too loud. Eliza’s tear-lined gaze appeared before him, the disappointment on her face more crushing than any blow.

  Never again, he vowed. Never again would he be the cause of that look.

  He rode hard the next day, across vast fields of wheat and sugarcane, only stopping to water his horse twice. He thought only of home. He daydreamed about the kind of life he’d be able to offer his family upon his return. Hope spurred him on, and it wasn’t long before he reached the foot of the Hawthorne Ranges.

  In their shadow, he paused, marvelling at the sheer size of them – their forest-covered peaks disappearing beyond the clouds. It was rumoured that the mountains before him paled in comparison to the Hamasaand Ranges and Kildaholm Alps of Havennesse. Perhaps one day he’d see them for himself.

  Swinton rubbed the goosebumps from his arms, his eyes scanning the slopes and treetops. In their presence, his skin prickled uncomfortably.

  Magic.

  Folk believed that it still ran wild and unchecked in Valian territory, and although the ranges weren’t technically part of Valia, he knew the kindred paid that minor detail no heed.

  There’s magic here, alright, Swinton thought. The most ancient and powerful kind. He’d never met a magic wielder, or Ashai, as some people called them. He hoped he never would. Magic brought nothing but trouble, from what he’d heard.

  At last, exhaustion gripped him. Resigned to spending the evening at the foot of the mountains, he brought his horse beneath the shelter of the trees to set up camp. Tomorrow they would reach the Valia River, but for now, they needed rest.

  Swinton tried to walk off his saddle-stiffness as he chewed on a hard piece of bread. It was a clear evening, the stars brilliant in their thousands against the midnight-blue canvas. Filled with a sense of awe, Swinton sighed. He’d right everything with Eliza. And he’d be home in time to greet their little one with the life she and her mother deserved.

  He drifted off to sleep beside the crackling campfire, a smile on his face.

  A scream pierced Swinton’s dreams.

  A scream of terror, a sound so deeply primal it wrenched him back into consciousness. He bolted upright and whirled around, scanning the trees in the dim light of the dying fire. His gaze went to his horse – she was calm. The mare was exactly where he’d left her. She stared blankly at him as she chewed a mouthful of grass.

  What in the name of all the gods …?

  It had been in his dream, then, he concluded. Though the sound of it was still ringing in his ears. It had seemed so real …

  Suddenly, he was cold. An icy shiver shot down his spine as the trees around him quivered in the wind.

  Swinton’s skin prickled again —

  ‘Stop!’ Eliza’s voice trembled.

  She stood in one of the empty stalls at the stables, rake in hand, facing five men who blocked the gate.

  ‘No can do, sweetheart,’ one said menacingly.

  ‘There is nothing for you here. The best horses are at the tournament —’

  ‘We ain’t fussy. And besides, that don’t mean there’s nothin’ here for us, does it lads?’ The man stepped into the stall.

  Eliza’s knuckles were white as she gripped the rake, holding it before her like a weapon. Fear poured off her. She backed into the wall, but the man lunged, grabbing her arm in a bruising grip. Her coat fell away, revealing her pregnant belly.

  The man’s lip curled. ‘Shouldn’t be here all alone, should you?’

  Eyes wide, Eliza looked from him to the others leering from the gate. She took a deep breath, and screamed —

  Swinton couldn’t breathe.

  It was real. It was happening. Or about to happen. There was something deep within him that knew.

  He was already swinging his pack onto his shoulders and mounting his startled horse. He didn’t know what sort of magic lurked in these woods, or what magic had been awoken in him, but what he’d seen … It had been a vision.

  He had to get back to Willowdale, now.

  His heart hammered as hard as his horse’s hooves. They galloped across the county at breakneck pace. Swinton didn’t care if he damn near killed his mount. Eliza needed him. He should never have left.

  Fear like he’d never known rose in Swinton’s throat. He rode through the dark and then the light with sweat coating his skin, unable to shake the gut-wrenching sound of Eliza’s cry from his mind.

  The journey was a blur. He didn’t know how long they’d ridden for, only that it was dark again when he finally reached the Willowdale stables. He jumped down from his sweat-slicked horse and burst inside.

  Eerie quiet settled around him. Once again, he couldn’t breathe. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Swinton made his way to the southern wing. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and his head was filled with an ominous humming.

  Then he smelled it. An unmistakable scent to anyone wh
o’d been on a battlefield. A scent that lingered, days after …

  Blood.

  Swinton began to shake uncontrollably as he reached the stall he was looking for.

  He fell to his knees. The hay within was in disarray – and spattered with violent red. The walls, too.

  A strangled sob escaped him. He looked around, eyes wild.

  Eliza … She wasn’t there.

  With a desperate gasp for air, Swinton hauled himself to his feet and launched himself through the stables once more, boots pounding the cobblestone and then the earth as he raced towards the Carlingtons’ cottage across the paddocks.

  Candlelight flickered within.

  He reached the door, panting, and flung it open, praying that he’d find the Carlingtons having a late supper, that Dorothy would dish out a stern warning for his bad manners.

  But that wasn’t what he found.

  Eliza lay on the dining table. A white sheet, stained red at her middle, covered her still body.

  Swinton didn’t remember crossing the room. All he knew was that he was now beside his wife, her skin cool to his touch, her eyes closed and her long lashes resting against her colourless cheeks.

  An icy fist gripped his heart, and the cold spread outwards through his veins.

  He stared at her, studying her face, so different in death than it had been in life. His eyes travelled down to the bloody patch at her stomach.

  He gulped for air, not able to inhale deeply enough —

  Their baby —

  His hands shook so badly he couldn’t grip the sheet. And he knew that some part of him didn’t want to see what lay beneath. But the fabric – it didn’t rise in the right place … It was too flat —

  ‘Dimitri.’

  The voice was no more than a whisper, but to Swinton his name was the loudest thing he’d ever heard. He tore his gaze away from Eliza and found Dorothy standing in the hallway.

  Words wouldn’t form on his tongue. His mouth was dry. And he still couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Dimitri.’ Dorothy said his name like a command this time, and he latched onto it, as though it were all he had left.