Dawncaller

by David Rice

  Eko’s mouth dropped as his preconceptions were erased in a moment. The lifebane were also the eldest. The dwarves were the second of the One’s children. But what of gnomes?

  Humans? No mention. Any fatigue vanished as his curiosity rose like an unquenchable fire.

  There must be mention of how the lifebane and his people split asunder to become enemies.

  There must be some mention of the rest of the One’s children.

  Eko was deep underground and, as he continued his reading, the rhythm of day and night vanished into one unmeasurable manic trance of discovery. His own people were far more than they believed themselves to be. And far different.

  VIII

  The Crossroads used to hum with snatches of sacred songs, the rhythm of animals tugging plows through a willing earth, and soft voices emerging from prayer. Every breath and effort humbly focused hope upon the day ahead. It was a rare place where Balinor could rely upon finding warmth in food, sincere companionship, and safety.

  Those days were gone. Now Balinor felt tears stinging his cheeks as he stared upon the Abbey’s cold broken walls. Shrouded by a dusting of snow, the remains of its oldest buildings were perched upon a hill that might as well have been a giant skull, smashed by a drunk in a fit of jealousy.

  “Track,” Balinor ordered his companion. “Go find me something.”

  Vargas barked once and tore up the hill to disappear into a maze of twilight stained rubble.

  He tied his horse to the remnants of a fence and took a deep breath. A musky scent of rot clung to the breeze while the clouds crowding the Graengrims piled themselves in orange and pink swathes to salute a fading sun. Balinor grimaced. If Kirsten and Raisha had travelled through here, it had been over a cycle ago. There was no chance he’d pick up any useful track. He heard Vargas give a series of quick barks, more curious than alarmed. Hunting rabbits again, no doubt. Hopefully not a porcupine. He swallowed away a lump in his throat as he remembered Rebel getting a snout of quills, and Helba carefully removing them one by one.

  Focus on now, he reminded himself. He readied his bow and began moving carefully through the ruins. He couldn’t be too careful. After all, there were rumours of bandits hiding in places like this. The breeze brushed through his hair and he shivered. There was just enough winter remaining to make the night come fast and hard. He’d complete one circuit of the Abbey grounds and then get a fire going. Maybe there was still a useful cooking pit, even preserved stores, buried amid the ruin. His growling stomach agreed with the plan. As he completed his circuit of the area, he caught glimpses of some lights far away in the shadows. It was not the season for fireflies but they danced about in a similar fashion. Were these lights the angry spirits, the lost wairua, passers-by feared? As Balinor approached, the lights winked out.

  Unsettled but not shaken, he turned back towards his horse and the potential of a warm meal.

  The sound of charging paws announced Vargas’s approach. The dog loped around a corner and dropped an arrow at Balinor’s feet. He sat proudly wagging his tail and yipped once.

  “Good boy. Whatta we got here?” Balinor crouched to retrieve the arrow. The light was in retreat but Balinor could still see enough detail. It looked familiar. It felt familiar, too. He twisted the flight feathers between his fingers and his expression lightened. “I don’t believe it, boy,” he muttered. He twisted the shaft where it met the arrow-head, and then pushed the nock with his thumb. His smile widened. “Careless, dropping one,” he exclaimed in wonder. “She must’ve been in a hurry.”

  Balinor rubbed roughly at uninvited tears. The arrow was certainly one made by Kirsten. She had her own stubborn way of crafting arrows no matter how he had tried to correct her. Had it been dropped on the journey to the tower? No. He needed to believe that she had escaped the explosion. She could still be alive.

  Buoyed by the thought of her survival, Balinor decided to see to his own. Fetching his horse, he pushed through piles of charred wood and broken plaster to uncover the monastery’s large cooking fire. With a bit of effort, he had its coals rebuilt to fill the encroaching night with a soft glow once more. He kept his bow and his sword within easy reach in case the call of warm food attracted strangers. He trusted Vargas to warn him long before he might notice. Sleep came slow but hard to his weary mind.

  ***

  It wasn’t a growl that propelled Balinor from empty dreams, it was Vargas’s happy whine, and the tail that kept thumping across his forehead. He scrambled to his feet and grasped for his sword. It was gone.

  Standing in the firelight, with Vargas’s nose prodding a hand for attention, was a plain robed figure whose face had lines that were etched deep and yet familiar. Balinor reached for his bow and grasped empty air. “What? How?” Balinor stumbled as his mind cleared away webs of

  sleep.

  The visitor smiled gently. “It just takes a snippet of song to calm most animals. And your dog is very friendly,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m no threat. Your weapons are just over there but you won’t need them.” He pointed towards Balinor’s horse who was crunching on a carrot. “You and I were friends of Helba,”

  “You’re a Father of the Blackthorn, aren’t you? From Highwatch.”

  The figure bowed modestly. “Father Wren.”

  “How? Everyone thinks the Blackthorn were wiped out.” Balinor stood up slowly. “I’m relieved they weren’t. Others?”

  Wren nodded sadly. “Misunderstandings have advantages, sometimes. We were almost destroyed but not entirely.”

  Balinor crossed the distance to his horse and grabbed his sword and bow. “If you don’t mind, I’ll feel safer with these anyway.”

  Wren nodded calmly. “We thought you might be another bandit. We tried the dancing lights. They usually do the trick. Then we were able to get a better look and I knew we had to talk. We’re happy that you didn’t run.”

  “We?”

  Wren’s tone drifted towards an edge. “What brings you here? Don’t you know these ruins are haunted?”

  Balinor’s mouth dried as he formed a reply. “I’d heard the rumours,” he said. “But you’re not—”

  Wren smiled again. “No, my friend. You may relax. I am still of this world.”

  It was Balinor’s turn to attempt a smile. “I know that—now.” He sat back down and opened his pack. “You don’t look like you’ve been eating much.” He tossed a strip of venison jerky towards the Father who snatched it nimbly from the air.

  “Thank you,” Father Wren answered. He tore away a chunk of the venison to share with a grateful Vargas and then nibbled upon the remainder. “Again. Are you here by accident, or has someone sent you?”

  Balinor paused to consider his response. “I am here at the request of a—noble—who holds no ill intent. I’m also hoping that the girls you helped shelter—on the night Helba was murdered—might have come this way. I’m hoping to steer them clear of further trouble.”

  Wren closed his eyes as if to savour the taste of the venison. He nodded slowly. “Thank you for being truthful. Is there more you would like to tell me, my son?”

  Balinor shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t take that risk. Not until I know more about you. How did you survive the attacks by Gow? Why hide here? Are there other survivors?”

  Wren chuckled. “Some dangerous questions. The people of the villages warned many of my Brothers before the Amaranth attacked.”

  Balinor jumped. “Wait. The Order of the Amaranth attacked the Blackthorn? I thought it was Gow and his soldiers.”

  Wren wiped at his eye. “They worked together, of course. The greatest of betrayals.”

  “Hmmf,” Balinor quivered with rising anger. He pulled the Amaranth symbol from his pouch and thrust it towards the Father. “I found this in the remains of the Starwatcher’s old tower. They tried to kill Kirsten and Raisha, too. I think the girls got away and headed this direction. But that was last cycle. Were you even here then?” Balinor’s heart sped up. “Did you see anything
?”

  Another figure in a monk’s robe approached from beyond the firelight. Balinor whirled to face the newcomer and began to raise his bow.

  “Please, no. I have been guarding you both from a safe place.”

  “Who are you?” Balinor demanded.

  “I am Brother Kellen. Father Wren was very sick when he came to us. We’ve been surviving in the dwarven passages under the Abbey.”

  “How many were able to survive?” Balinor asked.

  Kellen glanced towards Wren for reassurance and then bowed tentatively. “I’m sorry but that is our business. I do remember a younger girl coming through here last cycle.”

  Balinor scowled. “Only one?”

  “She scared off some bandits and stole one of their horses. She had some means of using the spark without being corrupted. It was truly remarkable.”

  “That must’ve been Kirsten. I found one of her arrows. Are you sure there was only one? There should have been a second girl, darker skin, doesn’t talk—well, not the way we do.”

  Wren shook his head. “I’m sorry. Only one.”

  Balinor swore under his breath. “I’ve got to follow her. But first, I have to deliver a message to Graniteside.”

  Kellen and Wren stiffened.

  “Graniteside?” Kellen’s voice shook. “If Lornen finds out, and you give him our secret—”

  “No. Not like that,” Balinor hastily spoke. “I have a message to deliver to a noble who should be a friend. Someone who could help restrain Lornen’s madness. Someone who will likely be happy that the Blackthorn still live.”

  “It’s time to tell us more, my son,” Wren encouraged.

  “We’d best do it underground then,” Kellen added.

  The hair on Balinor’s neck bristled. Could he dare to trust them? Did they trust him? Or would they guard their secret by any means? Balinor squinted at Wren and Kellen. There was no duplicity that he could see. Then again—

  “Aghhh,” Balinor finally groaned. “Alright. I’ll follow and I’ll tell you more. But nothing sneaky, okay, or you’ll have to answer to Vargas.”

  The dog sniffed Wren’s hand for more venison, and thumped his tail.

  Balinor followed Wren to the top of the hill, into the ruins of the central building, and then down a maze of stairs he knew he would never be able to retrace.

  IX

  It was unusual for an elf to yawn, and a rarity for one to drift asleep. Eko caught himself doing both. Consumed with sudden frustration, he stood swiftly and tossed a precious scroll to the ground. To his amazement, the surface of the scroll cracked in several places.

  Fearing some instant reprisal from Alvilas, Eko scooped up the scroll swiftly and examined where it had chipped. Was it an attempt to repair a torn parchment? Unrolling the scroll created a web of fractures to spread across its surface, distorting the writing carefully scribed tens of thousands of cycles earlier. His heart fell. He would have to be gentle with the oldest scrolls if they were all in similar condition. And he would have to be sure to rewrite them or they would be lost.

  As Eko began to read of his ancestors being given their divine duties by the One, larger chips flaked away. Instead of the expected fibrous surface, he could see another layer of writing on an older layer. He gasped and tossed a worried look over his shoulder. What was hidden here? And why?

  Carefully, he brushed a few flakes into a small mortar bowl. If he could determine what coating was used to cover the original, then a means to remove the offending outer layer might be devised. He would need help from someone skilled with herbs and potions. A loremother would be the obvious choice. But whoever he asked would have questions and that could not be risked. No one else could know what he was doing. Not a Woodmother or a loremother. Not an elder. Certainly not Alvilas.

  Eko’s mind buzzed. There was one young loremother’s apprentice he had met when Reshae followed the Calling. He remembered her smile too well. And her eyes.

  Perhaps he could approach her? He would have to frame his request delicately in order to stir no suspicions. He hoped his responsibilities would suitably impress her. Now if he could just recall her name where it hid among the shadowed worries that cloistered all around. He had been speaking with Galen about their declining numbers and had stared a little too long at her.

  She had giggled and he had looked away. Perhaps he had been too forward with his questions.

  But when she smiled—his confidence rose with the memory. Dria. Her name was Dria.

  Something indefinable reassured Eko. He knew she would help.

  Eko spent the rest of the day hunting for other altered scrolls and found seven. He carried them down the steepest stairs to an area he knew Alvilas refused to visit because of his fears of falling. This is where he would solve this latest mystery. Hopefully this would be where he would learn how to save his people, both from the drakes, and from the slow withering of their number.

  X

  “What do I want of Stronn’s wine?” Lornen threw the pitcher directly at his servant’s head. It missed by a wide mark, smashing its honey coloured vintage upon the marble floor, and scattering shards throughout the throne room. “He denied my orders for more troops. And he tried to cut trade deals with those damned Rajala behind my back. Did you see what happened to him?” Lornen laughed. “A drake burned his lands and his keep. That’s judgement, you see? That’s what happens when you cross a King.”

  The servant kept his head down and began to clean frantically.

  “Graniteside isn’t burning, is it?”

  The servant risked a brief and precise nod of acknowledgement.

  Lornen seemed pleased enough to stop throwing any more objects. “And now those Rajalans are blocking my harbour. Well, I have plans for them.”

  The servant cut his palm on a shard of crystal but pressed back the impulse to flinch. He reached to his belt pouch where he kept a vial of vinegar, and dabbed his rag carefully. On the floor, his blood swirled in the pool of wine like prophetic patterns being shaped in a gnome’s tea.

  The acid stung madly in his wound but it cut through the blood and the wine quickly.

  Lornen squinted at his servant. “No. There shall be no burning for us. But those who resist the Chosen—” The King swung on his heels and strutted over to a mural depicting Graniteside’s harbour crowded with fishing vessels. “This was during my great grandfather’s rule. Notice how the sun lights up every space?”

  The servant nodded unseen.

  “There will be a new mural here, soon enough. My newest flagship, the Lornen III, will smash those paltry Rajalan skiffs. And those who resist? I’ll give’em a broadside from my newest cannons. I’ll have the finest artists commemorate our victory, right here. For all the ages to celebrate.”

  The servant stopped to dig at stubborn chips in the marble that were not releasing the bloodstains easily.

  “I’m going to watch from my private balcony,” Lornen announced. “And once the harbour is cleared, the Rajala will sue for terms and I will be able to join our army north of the Raelyn.”

  The servant tucked away his rags and bowed deeply. “How may I next serve, your Majesty?”

  Lornen continued to stare at the mural, and beyond. “Leave me,” he casually commanded.

  The servant repressed a long sigh. “At once, your Majesty,” he stated, and began to hustle from the room.

  “Wait,” Lornen’s voice pierced the servant’s hopes. The King stared at the overflowing docks and ships of the mural for a moment longer. “Have a messenger fetch Koppinger from the docks.”

  “Baron Koppinger?”

  Lornen spun around. “Is there a new Baron of the Docks that I should summon instead?”

  “N—no. Your majesty.”

  A cynical grin lit Lornen’s face. “Then go,” he urged. “Swiftly.” The servant ran.

  Lornen’s smirk faded when his view of the retreating slave was replaced by the pompous sweaty bulk of High Father Stigand.

  “What
do you want?” the King grumbled.

  Stigand dismissed his entourage with a casual glance, nodded with a thin smile, and pointed at the remnants of wine upon the floor.

  “I recognize the vintage, my King. Poor Stronn. That may have been his last bottle.”

  “You’ll find better in the kitchens if that’s what you are here for.”

  “No, my King,” Stigand chuckled. “I have been listening to the concerns of many over the past season, and even more in the days since the Rajala blockaded our fishing fleet.”

  Lornen gritted his teeth. Since being named High Father of the lone remaining Order of the One, Stigand had refused to address him as Your Majesty. It was exceedingly disrespectful. He pointed to the door. “Unless you have aid from the One that will spawn troops, warm weather, and fill my coffers, I have no need of you. Leave me to my affairs as I have granted you reign to pursue yours.”