Dawncaller

by David Rice

Plax nodded sadly.

  Kirsten brushed away a tear and then crushed Plax with a hug. “You’ve saved my life more than once. Don’t you dare get yourself hurt or I’ll never forgive you.”

  Plax hugged back. “Save the world and I’ll call us even.”

  Kirsten and Plax pulled apart shyly. She watched him leave, each of his steps resolute, slow, and silent.

  “I’ll watch him tonight,” Tyrin stated. “He’s a quick learner. I’ll teach him what I can.” Then he transformed into a falcon and plummeted majestically from view.

  Kirsten stared at her pendant and then looked up at Besra. “I guess staying here is as good as anywhere else. You can stay, too, if you like.”

  Besra say back down and ran her fingers along the runes of her hammer. “Ye don’t snore do you?”

  Kirsten chuckled. “No.”

  “Well, I might. And there’s wine. So, yeah, I’ll stay.”

  The two talked long into the night as if they had known each other for a lifetime.

  ***

  Dria pulled away from Eko as they reached the door of the archive tree. “You’ve been thinking about something ever since you woke up. What secrets are you keeping from me?”

  Eko paused. He grinned briefly. He looked to the sky and the cooling clouds of twilight’s promise. Then he leaned close to Dria and whispered, “You like tricks, don’t you?”

  Dria giggled. “You know I do.”

  “Well, if our people won’t do the sensible thing and leave when the drakes come, then I believe I can trick them into doing it. No, I’m sure of it.”

  Dria’s smile and her playful laugh filled Eko with joy. “How? What are you going to do?”

  Eko grinned madly and put his finger to his lips. “No. Not a word. This secret is mine alone. There’s only one way this will work and not even you can know.”

  Eko turned swiftly, chased by the sound of Dria’s chiding laughter, and disappeared into the archives.

  “You are a tease, Eko! A scoundrel!” Dria smiled all the way back to her own platform, and was still chuckling as she fell asleep.

  Eko softly ascended the steps again to watch her leave. Seeing her filled him with a warmth he had never experienced elsewhere. But there was no time. Saving Longwood was more important. And he knew that if he ever acted on his feelings, Siandros would kill him.

  He chuckled as he realized that his philosophy of fate should allow such risks, and yet his stomach was firmly against it.

  Upon successfully avoiding his dozing mentor and squeezing into his concealed workspace, Eko took down the most recent scroll to be washed and dried. Its script, a lengthy text of the Rajala cluttered with symbols he recognized as representing the weave, had been maddening to view. He rubbed his eyes twice when he regarded it once more. In surprise, he almost dropped the scroll.

  This time, he could read it as if it had been written by his own hand.

  XLVI

  King Lornen slept late. When he awoke, the rush of indistinct sound echoing from courtyard made him believe that the seas had risen to the palace walls. Moving cautiously to the window, he was shocked to see the courtyard filling with countless citizens uniting their voices in a reverberating low chant. Scattered among the throng were Brothers of the Amaranth, stout with faith and purpose. With each swelling note, the phrase “Deliver us” drifted to his ears.

  Deliver them from what? There was a time when such sights and sounds would have filled him with pride but now he shivered.

  Lornen noticed the crowd parting easily. Squinting, he could make out the rotund figure of Father Stigand accompanied by an entourage of his fides militum, combat savvy monks.

  Behind Stigand’s group was a single rider sporting the colours of the King’s Courier. His horse looked like it would perish with its next step. As they approached the castle, the crowd filled in behind them and still more were pouring through the gates to crowd the plaza.

  Where were his watch? His palace guards?

  A cool gust shifted the curtains and he stepped away from the window. “Attendants,” he bellowed. “Dress me for Court! Summon the Royal Guard! And summon the Chancellor!”

  ***

  Koppinger arrived at the palace as quickly as he could manage having to push his way through the grieving masses all the way from the docks. Thankfully, two dozen of his personal guards were quite persuasive. By the time he entered the throne room, he didn’t need to quiz Stigand about the recent tragedies or listen to the exhausted courier’s report, the crowd had told him everything. If Stigand co-operated, this could be the moment. Elation and fear wrestled fitfully within him as he approached the empty throne.

  Stigand smiled coyly. “You look well. What have you heard?”

  Koppinger did not return the grin. He gestured to the courier who was resting in a plush and padded chair. “I’d rather hear it from him.” His eyes surveyed the room and was able to relax as he saw his own men take positions mirroring Stigand’s monks. “Only six of the King’s Guard?”

  Stigand nodded ever so slightly. “They are among the people. Outside. For the moment.”

  Koppinger took a deep breath. “Rumours are that drakes have attacked Gow’s camps, broken the army, burned everything north of the river.”

  Stigand’s smile twitched towards sympathy but did not fade. “Have you heard of Halnn?”

  Koppinger raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”

  Stigand’s voice dripped with honeyed sorrow. “Their mighty city is gone. Burned to the ground. Some say it will burn forever.”

  A jolt of surprise slipped past Koppinger’s usual control. “Drakes again?”

  A horn, played by an unpracticed mouth, announced Lornen’s arrival.

  Koppinger and his guards kneeled. The courier jumped from his chair and followed suit. The Order of the Amaranth bowed slightly.

  Lornen swept into the room in full attire. Fur cape, layered robes, and heavy crown glinting with jewels. He cast a disdainful eye upon all, and then took his seat the way a tired hunting cat might perch upon a height.

  Lornen pointed at the courier. “You’re my Courier Quartermaster, are you not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Tosh answered.

  “You really need to set higher standards for yourself,” Lornen commented. “You are filthy.”

  Tosh’s voice was thick and slow. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I have brought news that could not wait.”

  “Will this news ruin my breakfast?” Lornen laughed.

  The courier looked down. “Elves, gnomes, dwarves, and drakes have attacked our army in the north. Gristmill and all of its surrounding camps are lost.”

  Lornen fidgeted anxiously as he fought for words. “What is Gow’s next plan? Where has he rallied our defences? Why is he not here to deliver this news himself?”

  The courier forced his eyes upward and concentrated on the clarity of his speech. “Marshall Gow and most of his officers are dead, Your Majesty. Every regiment under his command has been lost. Scattered survivors are making their ways home.”

  King Lornen squeaked. His face turned red and then pale. He fidgeted and then slammed his hands repeatedly against his throne. “No! No! No! No! No! No! NO!” His cry filled the palace and froze everyone who heard.

  Stigand stood calmly, a grin quivering just under the surface. Koppinger’s eyes flashed left and right, measuring the readiness of his guards. Randall Tosh remained still and silent.

  Lornen had a history of whipping messengers, or worse.

  Lornen bellowed at each in turn.

  “Father Stigand! Where are your prayers? What are you praying for now? Don’t think I don’t know!”

  “Why, the good graces of the King, of course, and better health for our people,” Stigand smiled tightly.

  Lornen pursed his lips and focused upon his latest chancellor. “Koppinger! Where is Gothert’s stolen money? I have a wedding! I need my army!”

  Koppinger winced. “It would be best that we have those d
iscussions in private, Your majesty.”

  Lornen blinked and turned away dismissively. “And you,” his finger jabbed at Tosh like a spear, “I need some good news. Where is it?”

  Quartermaster Tosh sighed. “I have substantiated reports from the Peatlands. They have seen the reflection of massive purple fires across Lake Halnn. Fires that were as tall as the clouds at night, and explosions that could be heard, and that moved the waters of the lake from so far away.”

  Lornen paused.”Purple flames? Drakefire?” His mood calmed. “You are telling me that Halnn—the city—is gone? Destroyed by drakes?”

  Tosh nodded.

  Lornen erupted in cruel laughter. “We may have bent but we survive!” We are the sole power in the realms now.”

  Koppinger frowned. “We have no army, Your Majesty.”

  “And the drakes,” Stigand added. “They could strike at any time.”

  Lornen’s laughter vanished. He looked as if he had been thrown under the icewater of the Swordfall.

  “We must speak of what to do, Your Majesty. Privately,” Koppinger insisted.

  “We must ensure your safety, My King,” Stigand gently added.

  Lornen’s gaze tossed about the room. His voice became shrill. “No. No. No army at all? That can’t be possible. Where are my nobles? Are they in rebellion?” He stood. “They will be punished. I still have Egrant and Eastfork. He controls the roads from there.”

  Koppinger sighed. Egrant did control the roads, but for which side in the coming coup? “Let’s speak of this together away from so many ears, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes,” Stigand soothed. “Wisdom is best seasoned by a calm spirit.”

  Lornen nodded his head nervously. “Alright. Alright. Alright. Disperse that crowd outside. Convince them everything’s going to be fine.”

  It would be as easy to tell the ocean to quietly leave the harbour, Koppinger mused.

  Stigand and Koppinger exchanged wary glances as they carefully let their jittery King towards his private balcony.

  ***

  In the morning, hundreds of elves had greeted Ballok to wish him well. Dorak had crafted a wooden prosthetic, woven it from the living wood of an oak, that served as a tolerable leg and foot. Enough for standing and riding, at least. His stolen blades and bows had been replaced with the best Longwood could provide, and a new quiver was thick with the finest arrows. Ballok was thankful but his words were terse as he rode away. Sentiment kills, he reminded himself.

  He had ridden a league when a familiar figure appeared to block his path.

  “Have you come to return what is mine, thief?” Ballok challenged.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Plax quipped. “You may have your blades and the bow if you wish.” Plax gestured to the weapons he now carried. “Though, I believe that you now wield better.”

  “The ones you stole are tainted with your dishonour,” Ballok spat. “I will not touch them again.”

  “Then I would like to offer a kindness to you.

  “You’ve called me a liar for saying it but we are both horsewardens. I know what it is to be alone in these wilds. I have survived here by myself for far too many cycles and I would not wish that experience upon—” His voice warbled. “—upon even you.”

  “Do not offer me your pity,” Ballok drew an arrow and readied his bow. “Begone.”

  Plax gritted his teeth. “I’m here to escort you home.”

  There was some quality of the thief’s voice that scratched at the surface of Ballok’s memory and fueled his impatience. “You owe me nothing and I want nothing from you.”

  Ballok raised his bow halfway. “I said begone!”

  Plax frowned. He let his illusion drift away until he stood mottled and grey, imperfect and scarred, before his father.

  Ballok jolted in his saddle and his bow lowered. “By the One,” he cursed. “This is some cruel trick. Impossible.”

  In the heartbeat before Ballok could snap his bow upward again, Plax vanished into the cloak of a shadowspark. Swiftly, he moved from tree to tree, circling Ballok, tossing words like daggers.

  “No. Your eyes see right, father,” he taunted. “You left me to die but I did not. I was as stubborn as you. And I survived.”

  Ballok tried to spin his horse and train his bow on the ghostly voice. The horse was not happy with the harsh thrusts of his oaken leg and it jumped awkwardly in fits, tossing Ballok about.

  Plax continued in his scraping voice, “And while you tried to be a hero to Longwood and have a child worthy of your eyes, the One stepped in with other plans.”

  “You are a liar and a thief. My son is dead.”

  “No. You lost your chance to have another because you squandered me. And I ended up discovering something better about myself. That I could be a hero.”

  Ballok laughed. “Ridiculous. You are unworthy of all song.”

  Plax’s voice sharpened. Why he had confronted his father finally surfaced in his mind. It wasn’t to judge him. It was to forgive him. Only then could he live free of his father’s mistakes. “I guided Kirsten to the ruins where we discovered the sword, father. I am worthy even though you can’t see it. This son of yours is worthy.”

  Ballok stopped trying to spin his horse. He settled in his saddle and lowered his bow while choked tears burned his eyes and pride stung like poison in his throat.

  “If you think this will weaken my resolve, you are mistaken, child!”

  Plax decided to reappear. He stood beside a tall sugar maple just budding with leaves within easy range of Ballok. “I am giving you the opportunity to travel with me for a time, together, father and son. And then, if you wish, I will leave and never bother you again.”

  Ballok’s eyes sparkled and his bow came up in with a snap. “I have no son!” he shouted and fired.

  The shaft hissed by the maple to thud into the flesh of an oak. Ballok swore. A motion above made him look up. A raven was spiralling upward and away. And it was laughing.

  ***

  Once in the fresh air of the balcony, Lornen pulled away from Koppinger and Stigand. He hurried to the northern face and stared at the crashing white waters of the Swordfall.

  “The harbour is beautiful today,” Stigand observed. He helped himself to a glass of sherry from an abandoned bottle.

  “I refuse to look in that direction,” Lornen stated fiercely.

  Koppinger and Stigand casually approached Lornen from either side. He stood right at the railing, a dizzying drop below him.

  Lornen’s shoulders softened. “The army is gone, and there’s no money for another?”

  “Perhaps it is time to rebuild, Your Majesty. I should be able to scrape enough together for a memorable wedding.”

  “My uncle did that once. Large parties after the plague. People did support him for a time.”

  “We remember,” Stigand replied. “I will perform the ceremony, of course. The realm needs a celebration.”

  “A way to forget the drakes. Even if just for awhile—”

  Koppinger nodded. “Happy people pay more in taxes.”

  Lornen’s mouth twitched. “What about Gothert?”

  “We’ve had leads,” Koppinger commented flatly, “But no pay-off yet. We continue to look, and we have offered a reward, a cut of the find.”

  Lornen stiffened. “How much of a cut?”

  “Five percent.”

  Lornen sighed. “Five percent could raise a regiment!”

  “It has been a highly motivating incentive,” Koppinger observed.

  “People are seldom motivated by the pursuit of less,” Stigand intoned.

  Lornen laughed suddenly and leaned upon the rail. Stigand grasped the King’s arm as if in support. Koppinger’s eyes flashed but he did not reach for the King. Lornen slowly pulled himself upright and stepped back from the rail still smiling. The three regarded one another as if they were trying to guess who was the cobra and who was the mongoose. Stigand took a sip of sherry and chuckled. “All this fresh a
ir,” he said. “It makes a person light-headed, doesn’t it?”

  Koppinger had heard stories from the Rajala. He began to cast his eyes about looking for a small crafted jar from the southern realm. He worried it might have its lid off.

  “All those people in the plaza,” Lornen began. “They make me nervous. I mean I appreciate their prayers and songs but a King must sleep in peace.”

  Stigand smiled. “I agree.”

  “What do you suggest, Your Majesty? With so few guards, and their morale suffering because of our defeat, this palace is not easily secured.”