Dawncaller

by David Rice

  “Hear me?”

  Arundy nodded. “You have given your voice to just enterprises before. And I might not be able to give you my voice directly, but I can give you something of worth.”

  Wyntress’s voice barely concealed disappointment. “What’s that?”

  Arundy’s eyes filled with certainty. “A reliable messenger.”

  “I have some dispatches that are already prepared, Arundy. Thank you for your faith in me.”

  Arundy nodded once. A smile eluded him.

  ***

  Once Wyntress and his guards had departed, Arundy took a simple breakfast in the shadow of the keep’s walls. Wyntress relied too much upon the approval of others, he thought. He wanted to be trustworthy and noble but not disliked in the process. That could be a problem when challenging a King who considered himself the One’s Chosen. Arundy resolved that it wouldn’t be safe to stay at Wyntress’s Keep any longer than necessary. Future compromises by Wyntress might include his own health and welfare or those he needed to protect. And that would not do.

  The rest of the morning was spent over maps and parchment with his regiment’s quartermaster. He would help Wyntress this once. Then he would consider other options.

  ***

  Steps, almost too soft to notice, forced Arundy from his brooding. The Duke turned slowly, expecting the worst had already been decided. Instead, before him stood the scout, Balinor. He had shaven away his beard, cut his hair, and cleaned the leather of his kit. As usual, he carried his bow and was accompanied by his large shaggy shepherd, Vargas.

  Balinor bowed hastily. “Your Grace. You mentioned that I should be ready to travel. I am prepared. What would you like me to do?”

  Arundy felt some hope flow into a tight smile. “You possess some rare talents, sir. You have a way of engendering trust, a way of moving through crowds without attracting attention, and a way of observing your surroundings and people.”

  Balinor did his best not to look away. Arundy was not known as a flatterer. Something about the Duke’s blunt assessment chilled Balinor’s blood.

  “Don the colours of the Royal Courier once more,” Arundy urged, “Deliver some messages for me and, most importantly, discreetly measure the displeasure of the people.”

  Balinor cursed his luck. A courier again? “Where shall this duty take me, Your Grace?” “The smaller towns between Hillsedge and Eastfork on your way to Graniteside. You will bear scrolls for a select number of Lords and Barons I still hold in some esteem.”

  Balinor shivered. “Graniteside, Your Grace?”

  Arundy’s eyes studied the scout’s composure. “Specifically, the Docks.”

  Balinor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  “And,” Arundy stepped closer and patted Balinor on the shoulder. “Only the recipients of my scrolls shall know you represent me. Their names are encoded upon the filigree of the cases. The code breaking key is hidden in the legend of a map I shall provide”

  Balinor’s mind tightened around the precautions being taken. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “If it seems the scrolls are to be seized from you, destroy them.”

  “Absolutely, Your Grace.”

  “This might be dangerous.”

  Balinor’s eyes darkened as he thought of Muren. Mac. Helba. “I’ve faced trouble before, Your Grace. Your scrolls will be safe.”

  Arundy slapped Balinor’s shoulder once more and flashed a smile. “Good.” The Duke paused before adding one more instruction. “While on your way to Graniteside, check the ruins of the Crossroads.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “I was horrified when I discovered that Gow destroyed the Order of the Blackthorn. Yet, given how efficient that action seemed to be, I am puzzled why more of the Blackthorn senior leadership were not paraded as trophies.” “Your Grace?” Balinor recoiled.

  “I’m not wishing that was the case, of course. But it is something Lornen has done repeatedly with other opponents. I suspect that there might be some Blackthorn hiding away, serving the One quietly, and awaiting safer times.”

  Balinor’s expression relaxed. “I hope that is true, Your Grace.”

  Above serious eyes, Arundy smirked briefly. “Blame this request on the superstitious hunches and desperate hopes of an old man. Say a prayer there for me, then look around very carefully. Like you did when you discovered the lifebane arrows and blackpowder, hmm?”

  Balinor was stunned. How did Arundy know that had been him? He accepted the scrolls with a deep bow and was soon on his way to the stables for his horse. New courier’s livery awaited him there, along with a full pack of supplies and a finely crafted leather map. Once again, he was a keeper of secrets. Muren, Helba, Kirsten. His throat thickened as he rode away from Wyntress Keep, his companion Vargas jogging alongside. He hoped that these newest secrets would not cost more innocent lives.

  II

  King Lornen cast derisive glances at the portraits of his predecessors while he paced the throne room’s width. He had issued a Royal Summons half a morning earlier and this was the response? If most of his guard had not already been dispatched to reinforce Gow’s forces north of the Raelyn, he’d have a mind to— The cadence of soft leather announced the arrival of Baron Egrant and his honour guard. Lornen turned to observe the fastidiousness of his approach.

  Egrant knelt with a flourish while his guardsmen stood to attention on either side of the distant entrance.

  “Your Majesty. I await your command.”

  Despite knowing their sincerity was as habitually wooden as their motion, Lornen still enjoyed such displays of loyalty.

  “Rise,” Lornen commanded. “What news of Duke Gow’s progress?”

  Egrant stood quickly and did not waver in his response. “Duke Gow remains encamped north of the Raelyn. The troops are training with their new rifles and cannon, they have cut their rations until additional supplies arrive, and they await a break in the weather before advancing.”

  King Lornen did not appreciate delays. His scowl was an effective reply. “I hope Gow is not losing his nerve. The roads are secure? Recruitment is proceeding?”

  “Your Majesty, we control everything that moves along the King’s Roads. I reluctantly report that the lowland Dukes have delivered every soul not essential for planting in the spring.”

  “There are no more to be had?”

  “I am sure there are still resources to be tapped in Graniteside, Your Majesty. City watch can be used to reinforce the Duke, and the taxmen can be deputized and armed to replace the watch. Any watch who are too old can be ordered to send their oldest son in their stead.”

  Lornen nodded. “Sound advice. Order all families to provide their eldest to the town guard immediately.”

  Egrant did his best to disguise a surge of concern.

  “You have a son, Baron?” Lornen smiled.

  “Three, Your Majesty. Two already serving. One who is five cycles.”

  Lornen nodded. “Of course, they aren’t tucked away in some safe harbour, are they? It will be good to see your sons serving with distinction when the final battles come.”

  Baron Egrant swallowed. “Of course, Your Majesty. They will do their duty.”

  “You have anything to add, Baron? Any other helpful advice?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Egrant forced his voice into the shape of calm water. “I humbly thank Your Majesty for your patience.”

  Lornen turned his back and waved his hand. “Send in the next. Return to your duties.”

  Egrant bowed, and then hustled away, his brow furrowed around a single thought. Lornen asked too much. If the elves defeated Gow in the spring, the realm would face certain famine. The plague would look mild by comparison. And then there were the drakes to contend with. With the utmost determination, Egrant squeezed that image from his mind. One tragedy at a time, the Baron counselled himself.

  ***

  The ink was still drying on Lornen’s latest conscription orde
r when a surprise visitor, potbellied and impeccably dressed, entered the chamber. He walked with an uneven and hurried gait, on his toes, as if the habit of running was a recent acquisition.

  “Baron Hubbard?” Lornen’s tone pierced the visitor mid-step, sending him to his knees prematurely.

  “Your Majesty,” Hubbard’s voice shook.

  Lornen let the silence rush in upon the pale diplomat before continuing. “You are a long way from Halnn.”

  “Forgive my sudden appearance, Your Majesty. I bear a missive from Halnn’s Ruling Guild Council.” He drew a scroll case from the inner folds of his jacket and thrust it forward.

  Elaborate bronze filigree sparkled in the throne room’s many shafts of light.

  Lornen snapped his fingers and the Captain of his guard crossed the room, snatched the scroll from Hubbard’s hand, and deftly delivered it to the King. Lornen left Hubbard kneeling while he withdrew the scroll from its case and unrolled it, scanning each line like a hawk.

  When Lornen was finished, he tossed the scroll and its case to the floor. Hubbard winced as the case clattered upon the marble.

  Lornen took a long breath and began to pace, his voice climbing as he progressed. “The gnomes wish to leave their work unfinished?”

  Hubbard stared at the floor as he tried to explain. “Your Majesty, they cite a clause in their contracts allowing for a temporary recall of all necessary craftsfolk in a time of emergency.”

  Lornen stopped his pacing and whirled. “An emergency is why I need them.”

  Hubbard recoiled from the King’s frustration. He managed to squeak a reply. “They will return when the danger has passed. And they’ll share their knowledge of how to defeat the drakes when they do.”

  Lornen lunged towards Hubbard as if to kick the Baron in the stomach. Only the greatest of restraint compelled him to delay. “They’ll want to sell me that secret, too? How much are

  they paying you, Hubbard, to be their errand boy?”

  Hubbard rolled away from the feigned kick then scrambled to a kneeling position once more. All blood had fled from his face. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I serve you faithfully, Your Majesty. Halnn pays me nothing. Halnn fears the drakes. They’ve heard of what happened to Port Lornen in the west. They’ve had witnesses report of Duke Stronn’s lands in the east and how they were consumed by those purple flames. Those drakes could strike anywhere next. Halnn is our best hope. They are building a wonderous machine.”

  Lornen snorted. “Aren’t they always.”

  “Your Majesty. They have had some success driving away drakes with the use of the weave. And now they have a special crystal from the Rajala that gives them more than hope.”

  “Hope to do what?”

  “They hope to subdue a drake, Your Majesty. Study it. Perhaps even tame it.”

  Lornen laughed. “You’ve been lapping up far too much of their favours, Hubbard. It’s made you drunk with their pride.”

  Lornen raised his fist to strike Hubbard but the thought of drakes bled the rage from his heart. He stared at the man before him, let his gaze linger like an executioner, and then turned away.

  “Go,” Lornen commanded. Don’t ever let me see you again.”

  Baron Hubbard wasted no time obeying.

  Lornen grumbled to himself. How dare the gnomes refuse his summons, break their oaths, abandon their alliance? He swore that he would have more than words for the Innovator Prime when that little popinjay finally deigned to arrive.

  The cold click of boots upon marble grew to a thin echo in the hall. Lornen spun to face those who would dare make a King wait.

  A single gnome tugged against the rumpled creases of his uniform and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty. I am Artificer Cogtap, and I humbly beg your forgiveness for my tardy nature.”

  Lornen’s face reddened and his words jabbed like knives. “I summoned the Innovator Prime, not some third-rate carpenter.”

  “I truly beg your understanding, Your Majesty. Innovator Prime Clearwhistle has been ordered back to Halnn.”

  Lornen’s voice rose. “Without even speaking to me first?”

  Artificer Cogtap remained bowed but he fumbled for a folded parchment and thrust it nervously in the direction of the King. “He wished this missive to be the means to sooth your disappointment, Your Majesty.”

  “Keep your worthless words. I have already received the same message from my former ambassador.”

  Still frozen in his bow, Cogtap’s voice shook as he ventured to ask, “Your Majesty, may I stand?”

  Lornen ignored the gnome. He clenched his jaw and let his glare fall upon the gnome.

  “Stay where you are,” he ordered harshly, “and deliver this message to your Guildmasters.” Lornen’s cheek twitched while he waited for the gnome to focus. “This is a time of war and not a time for friendships to be abandoned.”

  “I am certain the Prime Innovator would agree with your sentiment, Your Maj—”

  “Sentiment?” Lornen spat. “In the middle of the greatest threat to any Realm, Halnn has chosen to abandon me?”

  Artificer Cogtap swallowed any retort. Instead, he waited for Lornen’s infamous temper to be spent.

  The King continued, “There are consequences for betrayal, carpenter. I am gravely disappointed in their decision to break contracts and abandon agreements. There will be no more ore for Halnn. There will be no more timber. Tell your traitorous leaders that.”

  Cogtap shook with nervous energy. “Your Majesty, I am certain that once the danger passes—”

  Lornen’s eyes darkened. As Hubbard had reminded him, it was the Time of the Drakes. He let his fury uncoil in a single command.

  “GO!”

  Artificer Cogtap almost ran from the throne room. On the way out, the gnome narrowly missed smashing into a party of Graniteside nobles entering warily.

  The four nobles bowed deeply, knelt before their King, and began to speak in a jumbled flurry of subservient worry.

  “Your Majesty, we bring reports—”

  “—information—”

  “—concerns—”

  “—of blockade—”

  “—exodus—”

  “—unauthorized departures—”

  “—and grievous theft, Your Majesty.”

  Lornen’s eyes sharpened. “Theft?”

  The lords looked at one another imploringly. The balding man with the greatest tangle of golden chains about his neck cleared his throat to begin. The other lords sighed.

  “Your Majesty, I am Lord Brakkit of the Merchant Guild.”

  King Lornen looked down at the man. “A trader of silks. I remember.”

  “You remember me well, Your Majesty. There’s lots of talk of the drakes. Lots of fear in the streets about how Port Lornen was melted into the sea and how that could happen here, too. The Amarinth are packing the cathedral for prayers, to be sure, so they are happy at least.

  However, now that the gnomes are leaving—”

  Lornen’s eyes flashed. “I’m not interested in gossip. Get to the point. The gnome merchants are leaving, too? All of their families?”

  Brakkit shivered but continued. “All heading to Halnn, Your Majesty. To defend their homes in these end times, or so they say.”

  Lornen stomped his foot. “End times? Ridiculous. There will be no such talk! Who is spreading such lies?”

  “Cultists of that Starwatcher are still about, Your Majesty, especially in the Docks. They seem to be convincing the people—”

  Lornen held up a hand, silencing Lord Brakkit. “I’ve had enough of this talk. There will be no more Starwatcher Cult. Captain Handris?”

  The lone guard knelt. “Your Majesty’s commands?”

  “Take a patrol and make some examples. Anyone caught speaking of doom, or the Starwatcher, kill them.”

  Captain Handris stood, bowed, and departed briskly.

  Lornen’s attention returned to the lords. “You spoke of a blockade of our harbour? I did not see one thi
s morning.”

  Brackett nodded to the younger noble to his right who, despite the efforts of perfume, still smelt of brine. “Your Majesty, Lord Kinth knows more of this.”

  Kinth’s voice was low and clear. “My King, Rajalan ships haved anchored off the mouth of our harbour, an’ more have been spotted to the south. They’re not letting the fishing boats

  out.”

  “Rajalan ships?” Lornen’s face fought for control. “Those flimsy rowboats? We’ll give them a taste of cannon. Our new naval ships will crush them.”

  “The Rajala are using some of our older ships, too, Your Majesty,” Kinth added. “The ones you gave ‘em in trade.”