Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Eliza’s mother came forward. Her warm hand gripped his arm and her voice trembled as she said, ‘She’s gone.’

  Eliza. She was – she couldn’t be – how – what had —

  Swinton searched Dorothy’s bloodshot eyes and there, he found the truth. A mother’s eyes could say more than any reality placed before him could.

  Eliza was dead.

  Swinton’s face was wet. He hadn’t realised he’d been crying.

  ‘Our daughter?’ he croaked.

  ‘Son.’

  Emmett, eyes hollow and face bone-white, appeared in the doorway, a bundle cradled carefully in his arms. ‘You have a son.’

  Swinton took a single step forward before his legs gave out.

  He didn’t try to stop the fall. He let himself crash to the floor. He felt no pain where his knees slammed into the ground. Felt no stinging scrape against his face as he screamed into the stone. The only thing he knew was the agony of his chest ripping open, of his soul splitting into a thousand pieces.

  He screamed and screamed as his whole world caught alight.

  When Swinton opened his eyes it was as though a hundred years had passed. He was weary to his very bones and his head ached horribly. He heard the soft crackle of the fire and sat up to find himself on the Carlingtons’ settee, a heavy blanket draped over him.

  He whirled around to face the dining table. There was nothing on it.

  It was just a nightmare —

  But he knew in his heart that that wasn’t true. The world held less life – he could feel it in his very being, could see it in the dullness of the colours around him.

  He knew she was gone.

  He stood, unsteady on his feet, feeling weaker than he ever had before. But he couldn’t sit, couldn’t stay here —

  ‘Dimitri.’

  Dorothy’s voice sliced through him like a knife, his name on her lips reminding him instantly of Eliza. He couldn’t be here. He stumbled towards the door.

  Dorothy stopped him, eyes blazing, her grip on his arm surprisingly strong. ‘Dimitri, you will meet your son. Now.’

  An order. Orders were simple. Orders were what he knew.

  Numb, he followed Dorothy up the short hallway, to the room he knew used to be Eliza’s as a child. Morning light streamed through the window, making shadows dance across a wicker basket on the bed. The blankets within it stirred.

  Swinton let out a shaky breath and a gentle hand at his back pushed him forward.

  A dark head of hair peeked out from beneath the soft fabrics, and a pair of dark, curious eyes.

  ‘This is Zachary, Dimitri,’ Dorothy said, her voice breaking.

  ‘Zachary?’ Swinton heard himself ask, not taking his eyes from the bundle before him.

  ‘A few days … before … we told her to choose a boy’s name, just in case. She was so sure it was going to be a girl, but I had this … feeling. I knew he would be a boy. Knew it in my bones.’

  Swinton reached out, but withdrew his hand just as quickly. ‘Zachary?’

  Dorothy stepped up to the infant and with an effortless motion, scooped him up into her arms. It forced Swinton to look at both her and the child. His child.

  ‘Zachary Caleb,’ Dorothy said, offering the bundle to Swinton.

  Terrified, he stepped back.

  ‘She bet three bronze coins we wouldn’t need the name.’

  Hot tears stung Swinton’s eyes at that and Dorothy seized the moment, pressing the baby into his arms. Swinton let her, suddenly mesmerised by the dark eyes staring up at him. His son blinked, seeming to take in his features. It was impossible, but it was as though he recognised Swinton. His gaze seemed to say, I know you.

  Swinton stared back, in awe of the little life he now held in his hands. Together, he and Eliza had made this tiny person —

  But then thick panic filled Swinton’s throat. He pushed his son back into Dorothy’s arms and ran from the room, shoving past Emmett at the front door.

  Grief and terror raking his insides, Swinton turned back and grabbed a fistful of his father-in-law’s shirt. ‘I can’t do it,’ he cried desperately. ‘I can’t do this. Not without her. I can’t —’

  And he ran.

  He ran and ran, all the way back to where he’d left his horse the night before. Someone had tended to the mare, but she eyed him warily as he approached.

  ‘I have a task for you, Commander.’

  The king’s words rang out in Swinton’s mind, clear as the day before him. He thought of the cargo he had abandoned near Valia, the half-completed task King Arden had given him. He thought of what it had cost.

  Swinton mounted his horse. He didn’t look back at the stables. He couldn’t. The very sight of the place would kill him.

  But orders … orders were simple. Orders were what he knew.

  Interlude

  Dawn of Mist

  To the known realm, the mist had always been there. It lingered in the dark pockets of outer territories: a whisper, a dare, a quiet threat. But for all its uncounted years of existence, it remained dormant, as though happily contained to its own self-imposed borders.

  Until something changed.

  Amidst the secrets, the grief and the greed of the world, there had been a shift. A hooded man, cloaked in sorrow and shame, had followed the orders he’d been given. And now, little by little, the mist began to creep forward, searching.

  In eerie silence, it roiled slowly across deserted lands, unknown to those who would yet be at its mercy. It yearned for magic – magic to feed its insatiable hunger.

  Once inert, it now gathered strength, as though a formidable purpose had stirred within it. As though a sleeping beast had at last opened an eye.

  Dash

  Far from the creeping walls of mist, beyond the stretches of forests, farmlands and rivers, the stable master’s son awoke.

  Five-year-old Dash Carlington was too excited to sleep. It was not yet dawn, but he could hear his pa and the stable hand, Alfred, already packing the carts for their journey. He kicked the quilt off his legs and ran to the window, his stuffed bear, Bryson, tucked under his arm. On his tiptoes, he peered out across the front garden. Sure enough, Pa was tying a thick rope across their belongings while Alfred harnessed the horses.

  ‘Master Dash,’ his mama’s voice sounded from the doorway. ‘If you insist on being up this early, quit your spying and come help.’

  Grinning, Dash made to bound past her. Today was the day! He and Bryson Bear were off to the capital!

  But Mama blocked his path, hands on hips. ‘How many gentlemen you know go about town in their nightclothes, eh?’

  He looked down at the oversized nightshirt that hung to his calves. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  Mama’s face was stern, but as always, there was a glint of a smile in her eyes. ‘Get dressed, then come have some breakfast. We can’t have you packing carts with no sustenance.’

  Dash nodded vigorously. He was starving.

  As he dressed and scoffed down the porridge Mama had made, Dash daydreamed of the journey ahead. Pa had been summoned to work in the royal stables in Heathton, which meant all three of them, and Bryson, were to move to the capital, where all manner of adventures awaited. Heathton was where all the knights and ladies lived – where the king himself lived! Dash had been waiting weeks to leave the sleepy town of Willowdale and start their quest.

  The front door groaned as Pa walked inside, dusting his hands on his trousers.

  ‘You nearly ready, Dash?’

  Dash nodded, showing Pa his empty bowl.

  ‘Good boy. You go wash that up for your mama. Then we’ll see how well you’ve packed up your room … You’ve got everything you need?’

  Dash nodded, waving Bryson Bear at Pa.

  Pa gave an amused sigh. ‘Well, as long as you’ve got him, I suppose.’

  They were on the road just after dawn, gold and rose hues sprawling outwards from the horizon. They had two carts filled with their belongings, and a number of horses
and stable hands in tow.

  Dash looked back at their entourage. The older boy, Alfred, rode Mama’s favourite mare, Silver, keeping the rest of the horses in line. Several belonged to the king, but the one Dash liked best was the black stallion that belonged to the Commander of the King’s Army. Xander is a real beauty, Pa would say as they worked the horses around the corrals. He’d been boarded at Willowdale since he was a foal, but now he was old enough to ride, he was coming with them to Heathton.

  ‘What are you doing, Dash? You’ll fall off the wagon craning your neck like that,’ Pa chastised him.

  Sitting up front beside Pa, Dash faced the road once more, but couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He’d never been outside of Willowdale. The furthest he’d been was the outer grounds of the stables, where Ma sometimes took him to visit her favourite tree. She was odd like that. Dash didn’t know why anyone would want to visit a tree. Not when there was a whole big realm out there to explore.

  The excitement of the adventure ahead soon wore off as the monotony of the long, slow journey sank in. There was no one to play with except Bryson Bear, and games were limited sitting beside Pa, who kept sighing heavily. Pa didn’t seem happy about their move to the capital. Dash had heard him and Mama arguing a few times about it when he was supposed to be sleeping.

  As they travelled, Dash tried not to frustrate Pa with questions. He sat quietly, munching on an apple, recalling stories Mama had told him of mythical beasts that had once prowled the lands. Mama was a wonderful storyteller. Maybe tomorrow he’d ride with her instead.

  That night, they camped beneath the stars. Dash was giddy with excitement once more. He’d never camped before. Had never eaten by a fire, with the brilliant moonlight shining down upon him. This really was an adventure. This was the sort of thing knights and warriors did all the time.

  He slurped his soup, gazing around the campsite in awe. Mama and Pa were sharing a flask of something that eased the crease between Pa’s brows, and Alfred was lying on his bedroll, humming a melody out of tune.

  The country air was sweet, despite the smoke from the fire, and Dash needed no instruction from Mama to find his own bedroll. Holding Bryson Bear tight against his chest, he lay down, eyes heavy, and was soon dreaming of swordfights and creatures of legend.

  The next day, the paddocks and rows of crops either side of the dirt road became fewer and further between. They passed a number of other travellers, who all smiled when Dash waved at them. One man even handed Dash a plum after Pa gave him directions to the river.

  On they rode, barely stopping to water the horses. Pa was eager to reach the capital well before nightfall. Dash rode with Mama this time, Bryson Bear tucked between them as she entertained them with stories of a warrior queen from a distant territory who travelled the realm, training for war.

  But then Mama stopped mid-story. Dash looked up to find her staring ahead, her eyes glazed over.

  ‘Look …’ she said, more quietly than before.

  For upon the horizon was the shadow of the great city of Heathton.

  ‘That’s Heathton?’ asked Dash.

  ‘That’s Heathton. See the castle atop the cliffs?’

  Squinting into the distance, Dash’s heart soared. Mama was right – he could make out the outline of the sturdy walls and the castle beyond, looking out over the lands.

  ‘Whoa …’ he breathed.

  Mama squeezed his knee before clicking her tongue and urging their horses onward.

  Dash squirmed in his seat for the rest of the journey. It felt like forever until they reached the city gates, but at last they were there. Dash stared in awe at the guards who stopped their carts. He recognised the symbol on their uniforms: two mighty axes and a fiery crown. The royal crest.

  Pa handed them a piece of weathered parchment. Dash could see the king’s wax seal on it.

  ‘Very good, stable master. Welcome to Heathton,’ said one of the guards, handing the parchment back.

  The first thing Dash noticed as their entourage entered the city was the smell. Unlike the sweet open air of the countryside, the air within the city walls was damp and rotten. Dash wrinkled his nose and looked up at Mama. Her expression mirrored his.

  They followed the main road into the town centre. Dash had never seen anything like it. Men stumbled out of inns, cursing with words he’d never heard. Ladies stood beneath unlit streetlamps, smoking pipes and inching their skirts up their legs.

  ‘Eyes forward, Master Dash,’ Mama said with a frown.

  He did as he was told – and gasped. Now he could see the castle walls much more clearly, looming over the city. The castle sat atop great cliffs, with a waterfall cascading down into the river below.

  ‘That’s Heathton Falls,’ Mama told him, following his gaze. ‘And that is Heathton Castle.’ She pointed to where watchtowers and turrets peeked out from behind the immense stone walls.

  Dash squirmed in his seat again, a thrill rushing through him. ‘Are we there?’

  Mama gave a knowing smile. ‘Not long now …’

  The final leg of the journey was the hardest. By the time they reached the castle gates, the horses were sweating and panting. As they pulled into the courtyard, they drew to a sharp halt. A royal carriage was passing.

  Dash gaped openly as guards opened the carriage door. Queen Vera stepped down, followed by her young daughter, Princess Olena. Dash had never seen clothes so fine. The gowns they wore had so much fabric they could make twenty dresses! No wonder they needed help.

  Their carriage was led away, and the queen and princess started up the steps.

  Mama hopped down from their cart, leading the horses by hand into the courtyard, averting her gaze from the royals. But the young princess, a few years Dash’s senior, reached the top of the stairs and turned to face the gates, her gaze falling upon Dash’s cart.

  Thrilled, Dash waved at her, Bryson Bear flapping in his other arm.

  The princess stared right at him. But Dash’s heart sank as she took a breath and turned back to the castle.

  ‘Princesses don’t wave to stable boys,’ Alfred sniped as he jumped down from the cart behind.

  ‘Why?’

  But Alfred merely scoffed and went to take the reins from Mama.

  Dash looked up to the castle to see the train of the princess’ gown disappear into the grand entrance. He didn’t know why she wouldn’t wave to him. It seemed like she needed a friend.

  Their cottage was located on the outer castle grounds, not far from the royal stables. It was smaller than their home in Willowdale, but it had a great hearth, perfect for telling stories by. Mama said that if Dash was good, she’d tell him one of his favourite tales after dinner.

  The afternoon grew late as Mama and Pa unloaded the carts, Dash hovering nearby.

  ‘Dash, stay in the corner over there, you’re getting underfoot.’

  ‘But Mama ⁠—’

  ‘Master Dash, what have I told you about backchatting?’

  ‘Can I go exploring then?’

  Mama clicked her tongue, exasperated. ‘Do you ⁠—’

  ‘Dore,’ Pa stepped in. ‘Let him go. It’s his home now, and he’s been cooped up on the cart for two days.’

  Mama looked from Pa to Dash, a slight crease between her brows. She sighed. ‘Very well, but be careful. And be sure to be back here before sundown or there’ll be trouble.’

  Dash couldn’t believe his luck. He snatched Bryson Bear from the bench and made to race out the door.

  ‘Forgetting something, Zachary?’ his father’s voice sounded. Dash knew he’d made a mistake when Pa used his proper name.

  He turned back to his parents. ‘Thank you, Mama.’

  ‘Off with you,’ she replied with a smile.

  Grinning, Dash bolted from the cottage, Bryson Bear in tow. Across the vast green paddocks, he ran and ran. He was in Heathton! Here, he could be a real knight – just like in the storybooks Mama had read to him.

  In the near distance, he saw
the royal stables, and Alfred tending to Xander and the king’s horses. Dash shook his head – there would be plenty of time for the stables. Now, he wanted to explore the castle.

  He wandered the great structure’s perimeter in awe, gazing up at the thick stone towers and at the bustle of servants and guards who paid him no heed. He watched as a cart, piled high with food, was brought in from a side gate. Kitchenhands emerged from a small wooden door and began to unload the crates of fruit and vegetables with great efficiency. Dash spotted why: a pinched set of eyes oversaw the proceedings. By the spotless apron and muscular arms folded across her chest, Dash guessed the woman was the castle cook.

  Getting the distinct feeling he was about to get ‘underfoot’, as Mama said, he left the kitchenhands to their tasks and continued his exploration.

  He was about halfway around the castle when he heard a shout, and the sharp sound of sticks hitting sticks. Were there other boys playing nearby? Rushing towards the noise, eager to make new friends, he reached a private courtyard.

  There, he saw what he’d only dreamed about. Squires in training.

  Dash’s mouth hung open as he watched two older boys spar with wooden practice swords. The taller boy was advancing on the shorter one, using his size to his advantage. Dash clutched Bryson tightly as he watched in suspense, noting the way the smaller boy’s feet moved like a dance. He did what Mama had explained was a feint – and went on the attack! It was everything Dash had imagined. He watched in utter awe, chest bursting ⁠—

  Until a pair of dark eyes fell upon him from across the courtyard.

  The gaze shifted from his dark mop of hair to the toy bear in his arms ⁠—

  ‘You there.’ The Commander of the King’s Army crossed the yard in what seemed like a single stride. Dash gaped up at him, the warrior’s battleaxes gleaming across his back. It was the closest Dash had ever been to the famous leader. Mama and Pa always sent him off with a task when Commander Swinton visited Willowdale.