Dawncaller

by David Rice

  Vargas wagged his tail once but stayed alert, head up and sniffing the wind.

  “Found something?” he asked Alain.

  Alain turned and his eyes were red. His hand shook as he held out a ring that glistened in the sun. His voice was a razor. “My family’s signet.”

  Balinor took a deep breath and waited for Alain to continue.

  “I was hoping for a better meeting,” Alain finally said. “We have to hurry. Tell people about this slaughter on their doorsteps.”

  Balinor quivered with anger and sadness. “Your immediate family?”

  “I can’t bear to descecrate the graves to find that out.” Alain looked north along the sideroad yet his eyes flitted around, lost. “We’ll go to the village and send a member of the

  Order. Warn others.”

  Balinor examined the area. “Wasn’t a battle. No horses lost or wagons destroyed. Just taken. Tracks are drifted over. Went east towards Hillsedge.”

  “But—why?”

  “Those scraps of rope make me think some were hanged. If not robbers or spies, deserters?”

  “Not my family,” Alain exclaimed. “Murdered. They were stopped on the road, rounded up and murdered.”

  Balinor shook his head in disgust. “Who would do that? It makes no sense.”

  Alain bit his lip and mounted his horse. “Someone who wanted to send a message. Someone with enough troops to face down a hundred or more.”

  Balinor whistled to Vargas and remounted. “Someone with power and an agenda. Gow,” Balinor spat.

  Alain and Balinor looked at one another.

  “And his lapdog, Egrant,” Alain spat.

  “We’d better get you back home right away. Warn them.”

  “Agreed.” Alain spurred his horse forward. Balinor followed at a gallop.

  ***

  By the time the riders arrived at the first farmhouse, their horses were winded and wet.

  The yard was empty of activity and the barn doors leaned open, creaking in the wind.

  Alain’s anxiety mounted as he dashed from his horse to the cabin door. “Relly? Mangan? Doloryz?” The floor boards squeaking underfoot gave the only reply.

  “Not been here for awhile,” Balinor offered.

  “They must be in town. Or at my father’s.”

  Balinor scowled. “How far. The horses can’t be pushed.”

  “Not far,” Alain replied.

  “Water them first,” Balinor insisted. “Then we’ll go.”

  Despite anxiety driving him with its whip, Alain relented to the hunter’s seasoned wisdom. After a short rest, they continued towards the village of Peatmoor, hoping they would find family, friends, and allies who were still breathing.

  XXVIII

  Olaf could hear the distant echoing splashes of footfalls behind him. He knew Digby had wasted no time employing runners to chase him through the sewers of Halnn. The problem wasn’t that the sewers were multi-layered and difficult to navigate, it was that they had so many locked gates and pressure activated relief pipes.

  Olaf prided himself in his ability to problem solve creatively. It was a quality not actively nurtured by Halnn. Olaf huffed as he dropped a heavy rock upon one of these valves and cheered to himself when it opened. He rapidly followed the rock as it plopped down into a dark sloping shaft that led away to the distant river. Above him, the valve slid shut once more and Olaf chuckled. It wasn’t so much that the complex Halnn sewer network was baffling to him. He had spent cycles exploring its secrets in his youth. In safeguarding the city from sudden floods and providing enough capacity for its industries to purge vast amounts of waste, the sewer simply provided too many possible options for escape. A modest gust of fresh air announced that the safety of the forest was close at hand. If Halnn’s security had been better prepared for a theft, they could have placed guards at all the exits. But Digby knew that, too. Olaf gasped at his own stupidity. Digby knew the routes in and out of the city better than anyone. And his hounds in the sewers, did they pressure him into taking this particular route?

  Olaf approached the final gate with the nimble stealth of a water spider. Was Digby waiting on the other side? Or was it Digby’s desire that Olaf escape? He peeked through the grill into the evergreens that masked the exit. The stagnant air of the sewer was being pushed back by the smell of fresh pine. He could hear a few birds and the call of a squirrel. Or were those signals mimicked by ambushers?

  Fast, quiet, careful. Pick any two. The lock and hinges of the gate were rusty and needed a few drops of oil. Olaf ‘s heart began to race. He knew he couldn’t wait for the oil to fully saturate the rust. He inserted his lock picks and whispered for a blessing upon craftsmen. Too much force and his picks would break. He took a long breath and closed his eyes to better feel the mechanism. A notch that gave against pressure. Another notch in a ring that should turn with a nudge. The picks flexed and Olaf gasped. He felt slight movement but it was not enough to release the lock. Another push would be required but he had to be careful. Holding his breath, Olaf made sure that his points were firmly in their notches. He would have to push with the same force at the same time, and twist. Olaf winced as he felt the picks bend again. Then the ring spun and the door creaked open a hair’s width. Olaf froze. The birds and squirrels had also

  fallen silent.

  Far behind in the tunnels, the sound of something heavy splashing into water made Olaf’s stomach tighten. Digby’s pursuers were back on his trail.

  Olaf forced himself to wait twenty heartbeats and then added some more oil to the hinges. A few bird calls returned. Perhaps spring was near. Olaf would welcome the warmth but not the mud. It would slow him down and leave tracks. He couldn’t wait any longer and pushed gingerly upon the gate. It opened outward with a thin screech. Olaf was instantly on the other side jamming the gate shut with a pinion. Then he found his footing in the slope of the ditch, grabbed some overhanging pine boughs and climbed into cover.

  His heart started to hammer. It wouldn’t take long for his pursuers to communicate with those outside the wall. Olaf cursed himself—What was I thinking?—and then he remembered the drakes. His people were insane to believe that they could tame such a force. Get the gem to Longwood, no matter what, he told himself. Before Digby, his mercenary ruffians, or a patrol of Halnn’s finest could arrive.

  Olaf began a loping run that slashed from rock to rock and from tree to tree. He only paused to catch his breath and was amazed at the stamina that a purpose driven panic was providing him.

  Olaf worked his way close to the shore of the lake and ran until the sun set and several leagues separated him from Halnn. Then finding a hollow log of driftwood, he bundled himself up for the night and tried to sleep. Remarkably, his bones only complained of distant aches, and his body was filled with warmth.

  ***

  This wasn’t the reward Digby had planned. They were in a poorly lit room crowded with agents of justice and smelling of urine. His own.

  Strapped to a chair with thick leather bands and repeatedly leaned over a tub where he was thrust until almost drowned, Digby’s entire body quivered uncontrollably. His eyes could not focus, his throat was clenched like a hand before a flame, and his heart ricocheted against his ribs as if looking for the most painful place to burst.

  Muscular and tall for a gnome, Prime Inspector Galvry leered over Digby’s half naked body and his voice rumbled, “Once more, I shall ask you. Who stole the gem? Where is it being taken? Why have you chosen to betray, no, even risk dooming your own people?”

  Digby sputtered his answers between gasps. “I had a contact who promised me a place I could hide from the drakes.”

  The Inspector struck Digby across the jaw with a short leather strap. Blood bubbles sprayed across the tub of water. “Who?”

  “Dwarves? Elves?” Usurer Ghent suggested from across the room. “Our banks could pay you for this information if it proves accurate.”

  “No,” Galvry insisted. “There will be no deals with
this traitor.”

  Ghent shook his head slowly. “Inspector. Mister Glintwell only respects a deal. Entertain the possibility. He will enjoy giving us nothing if we do nothing for him.”

  Digby tried to grin but Galvry pushed his face into the water again.

  “Names,” he bellowed.

  Digby burbled and gagged until the Inspector raised him. “No—more,” he squeaked.

  Galvry smirked at the banker. “Seen the light, have you? Speak up, then.” “Lornen,” Digby barely mouthed.

  “What? King Lornen” Ghent cried. “Impossible. His Kingdom is financially ruined. He would have to borrow the money for a bribe from us.”

  Inspector Galvry laughed. “You are a fool, Digby. There’s no place Lornen can hide from a drake unless it is under our walls.” His voice lowered. “And we need the gem to be sure we are safe.”

  “There are places,” Digby whispered. “—to hide.”

  Ghent chuckled. “Even the dwarves couldn’t hide, Mister Glintwell.”

  “Where?” Galvry scoffed.

  Digby spat away some blood. “Go ask Lornen’s little spy, why don’t you? The one who came back here from Graniteside. The one who was supposedly cast out. He was the one who hired me. He has all the answers, not me.”

  Usurer Ghent gasped. “Subterfuge and trickery from that feckless peacock, Hubbard?”

  Galvry grasped Digby by the hair and tossed him to the floor. He whirled to face the banking guild representative with a smile riven of all joy.

  “Bring him,” Galvry thundered. “Now.”

  XXIX

  Alain and Balinor rode slowly up the central street of Peatmoor while dark windowed shops stared back as if holding their breath.

  “Where did everyone go?” Balinor stopped near a hitching post and jumped down from his horse. “Patrol, Vargas.”

  The shepherd wagged his tail and loped behind the building, head down, sniffing everything.

  Alain’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “Hundreds used to live here. My oldest sister, Yegrane, is a candlemaker. I don’t see her shop sign.” He pointed at a weathered and boarded up building. “She should be right there. I don’t understand.”

  “I need to deliver a message to the Duke. He must know.”

  “Hmm. My distant relation, Farley.” Alain squeezed the family ring in his fist. “He will answer my questions.”

  “Is his keep much farther?”

  “It’s the only stone structure in the moor. About a league from here on the other side of the hill. They can see anyone who approaches.”

  “Let’s look around a bit, first.” Balinor whistled for Vargas who came hustling from across the street. He circled in front of Balinor and barked several times.

  Alain stayed atop his horse. His eyes darted about, expecting the worst. “What’s he so riled up about?”

  Balinor reached for his bow. “Let’s find out.” He patted Vargas on the neck. “Show,” he ordered.

  Vargas barked once more and bolted up the street and between two buildings. A few shouts were mixed with barks followed swiftly by the sound of horses galloping away.

  Alain spurred his mount into a gallop and pursued. Balinor whistled once more for Vargas and waited for the horses to come into view. He held his bow taut and gauged his shot against the wind.

  Alain was rounding the blacksmith’s quiet forge when a frail figure popped from cover and raised her hands.

  “Stop. Stop, please,” she shouted.

  Alain brought his horse to a sudden halt, leaning hard against the stallion’s neck to avoid being thrown.

  “What in the Twelve,” he began to curse at the disheveled woman. “I could have run you down.”

  She tossed her hood back, revealing black hair peppered with grey. “You can’t go closer. Please leave.”

  Balinor and Vargas jogged up. The shepherd wagged his tail at the woman.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Alain snipped. “I travel with a King’s courier.” He held out his hand. “And this signet ring demands some answers from Lord Farley.”

  The woman’s face bent with grief but seemed incapable of tears. “Farley’s dead. Where did you steal that?”

  “Steal this?” Alain’s voice sharpened. “This is my brother Hain’s. Found him murdered and buried with many others near the King’s road, and I’m going to see that he rests easy.”

  The woman quivered. She squinted hard at Alain and then her face paled. “How?” she rattled. “Everyone said you were—”

  Recognition jolted through Alain. “Little Edrie?”

  “Rickert?” Her gaze fought through a web of disbelief. “It is you.”

  Alain jumped from his horse and embraced his younger sister.

  Balinor looked away while the siblings wept and laughed quietly.

  “What happened—to everyone—everything?” Alain stumbled.

  Edrie stepped back and lowered her head. “Too much, and not enough.”

  Balinor turned to the north and readied his bow. “Those riders mean us trouble? They going to tell the Duke that we’re here?”

  “Who is the Duke? Does Father know what happened to Hain?”

  Edrie quivered again and tried to catch her breath. Tried to frame the words. “You can’t go to the Duke’s,” she continued. “He’s thick as thieves with Gow. He’ll take what you have and string you up as bandits.”

  “You’re saying our Duke did this to his own people?”

  “They were coming back to work the fields,” Edrie said, “but the Baron who patrols the roads caught them and called them deserters.”

  “The Baron’s name is Egrant. He ordered them all killed?”

  “I didn’t see. I heard. I couldn’t do anything. Please understand.”

  Alain scowled. “Of course, you couldn’t.” His face reddened and he rested his hand on her arm. “You’re telling me it’s too late for the family?”

  She let out a dry sob and her voice scratched at the air. “It’s been fifteen cycles since you marched off. They’re gone, Rickert. Some to sickness, some to accidents, some to Gow’s

  camps. And the rest to that field.”

  Alain muttered a curse in dwarvish. His next question took all his strength. “Everyone?”

  His little sister’s lips fought to frame the shape of yes.

  Alain looked to the sky and squeezed the ring in his hand. “Damn us all!” he shouted. His voice quivered and cracked. “Too late.” He spat into the dirt. “I’ve been a fool. I waited too long for everyone else. Too late.”

  “What happened, Rickert?”

  He looked away. “Duty,” he hissed.

  Edrie’s face twisted as she waited for her brother to say more. The silence grew.

  “Look,” Edrie attempted a smile. “Whatever it was, I know, everyone knows, you’d do anything to get back to your family. It couldn’t be anything you did.”

  “Almost died. Almost never walked again.”

  Edrie’s eyes softened for a moment. “The Order heal you? Why couldn’t you send a message?”

  “Nothing like that,” Alain faced his sister once more. “Rough times. Imprisoned for awhile to keep a priest safe.”

  “A priest?”

  Alain frowned. “Owed them all a debt. Still paying, it seems.”

  Edrie almost rolled her eyes. Her voice took on a bashful lilt. “I keep a small home here, away from the drama of Eohan’s little court. I have some biscuits and some wine. You must both be famished.”

  Alain looked sideways at his sister. Her dark eyes. The tinge of purple bruises on her arms. Her scant frame. “I think we should be sharing our provisions with you, Egg.”

  “I don’t answer to that no more, Rikkety.” Edrie flashed a small smile but the tone was not playful. She tossed an inviting glance towards Balinor. “What about your friend?” she asked.

  Balinor responded quickly. “I’ll keep watch out here, thanks.”

  She chuckled and led her brother to the small cabin attache
d to the smithy. Inside, the room held a single rumpled bed, and smelled of stale tea and sweat.

  While his sister fumbled to clean a plate and fetch two mugs, Alain scanned the room and wrinkled his nose.

  “Found the bottle, brother of mine,” she chuckled again.

  Alain’s expression hardened. “Drink later, Egg.”

  “What?” she stepped back, her smile turning to a sneer. “Still too good for the rest of us?”

  Alain realized what the riders were doing in the town. His voice shook like a gentle question, “Edrie.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me,” she lashed back. “I know too well what soldiers are like. You’re no different.”