Dawncaller

by David Rice

  He did sense some movement above and heard the hiss of an arrow’s release.

  The gnome cried out and disappeared from view.

  Siandros hopped from a shattered gatehouse window and landed beside Tyrin. The Third Warden was peppered with small wounds and wobbling on a broken ankle.

  Tyrin shrunk into his normal form and pointed at the tower. “You hit him?”

  “And he hit you,” Siandros mumbled. “He’s in the tower now. King’s probably there, too.” He stared at Tyrin for a moment. “No time to waste You have to stop your bleeding.”

  “Where are you going?” the forestward called out as Siandros hobbled away.

  “Finish’em both,” came the gruff reply.

  Tyrin reached for his shoulder and was shocked when his hand stuck in a mess of warm clotting blood. He tried to concentrate on a healing charm but the weave would not coalesce in his mind. Cursing, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled to where he had seen the gnome’s sled. Thankfully, it was still there, its sparkgems small and gleaning along its sides.

  Tyrin took out his knife and began prying at the gems. “Perhaps there’s hope yet,” he mumbled, his head swimming with every breath.

  ***

  Siandros had hit the little bastard. He followed the trail of blood up the stairs and was relieved to see the rifle dropped in his path. Expecting nothing but a trap, Siandros hugged the spiralling wall and pulled the rifle down and past him with the hook of his bow. He let it clatter the rest of the way down the stairs and snapped his eyes upward once more ready to throw a dagger at whatever appeared.

  Some noises and shouting echoed down the stairs, followed by a door slamming. Two male voices. His quarry. Siandros took a deep breath and tried to recall a charm Ballok had taught him a long time ago. He slowed his breathing and whispered the half-forgotten syllables. A numbness coursed through his body, enough to help him move, yet hopefully not enough to make him clumsy when it mattered most. Gripping his blades, he continued upwards. He would have to be precise in his attacks. They were cornered. The hunter was an artist of the ambush.

  And Dria could be trapped with them.

  Siandros passed a richly furnished library with a fireplace, a pile of gold and silver splayed across a bearskin rug. The blood trail pooled here and then continued as if the gnome had considered making his stand in that room. Siandros continued to the final door and sneered. They were ornate double doors made of Longwood’s best oak. He’d pin their corpses to them, he decided. One on each.

  It would be a bedroom, Siandros mused. It might be barred, or blocked by furniture. It was the only entry point so it would be defended. The hunter liked traps. Siandros had noticed the direction of the twist in the rifle’s sling that suggested the gnome was left handed. So…Siandros took a moment to rehearse his actions in his mind. The gnome would be on the left, and the King would either be offering some resistance on the right, or cowering behind Dria and the bed.

  The gnome was the only real threat. Siandros harnessed his pounding heart, grinned a wicked grin, and cast the only charm Galen had ever taught him. The wooden doors withered and vanished. Siandros rolled through the smoke. He immediately thrust once to the left and then threw three daggers in an arc. When he stood, he was facing the hunter who was falling away from an armoire while clutching the hilt of a dagger that was jutting from his stomach. With a desperate swipe of his hand, Corebit latched onto a small clay jar and hurled it towards his attacker. Siandros knocked it away. The jar bounced off the door, skittered under the bed and smashed. Grinning at such a feeble attack, Siandros did not hesitate. He lunged forward and kicked the gnome in the mid-section, driving the dagger deep, and severing the gnome’s spine.

  Aldo Corebit collapsed in plume of dark blood, only his upper body twitching.

  A smug smile bursting across his face. Siandros spun to finish the job. The sight of Dria made the Third Warden freeze.

  She lay naked on the bed, covered in superficial wounds and bruises, her eyes nearly swollen shut, and her leg twisted awkwardly underneath her. Her eyes were open but unfocused, and the hair around her ears was a clotted wreck.

  Siandros pulled his gaze from the ruin of her body and cast a raptor’s stare upon Lornen. For some reason, the monster was sneering back. It was then that Siandros noticed the silver glint of the hunter’s pistol.

  The room shook with a thunderous flash.

  ***

  Tyrin had managed to seal his wounds and catch his breath, but transforming back to his gryphon form took all of his energy. Slowly he forced his wings through stoke after painful stroke until he managed to grasp the lip of the roof.

  He heard some crashing below, and then the crack of a shot. He quivered with the effort of maintaining his form, and positioned himself by the roof’s door. He hoped against hope that it would be Siandros who would appear, and Dria, too. Then he prayed he’d have the energy to fly them to the ground where they could hide. They couldn’t stay where they were. That crowd from the lower tier had seen him. They’d be heading this way quickly.

  Those waterfalls would be a lovely place to rest, he thought.

  When the door crashed open, Tyrin felt ready to crush the Third Warden with a hug. Instead, a slightly plump human in a purple fur-lined silk housecoat sprung onto the roof with a frenzied cackle. Then the human sniffed the air, made a face, and turned. His eyes widened at the sight of a gryphon.

  “You can’t touch me. I’m the King,” the man squeaked. “The chosen.”

  Rising upon buffeting wings, Tyrin struck with his claws, piercing the man in a dozen tender places and then hoisting him into the air.

  Skin waxen with shock and his eyes glossing over, Lornen raised the pistol once more and fired.

  ***

  Below, at the locked palace gates, High-Father Stigand called for guards who were not capable of responding. Then, Stigand turned his eyes to where his horde of followers were shouting and pointing. On the top of Starwatcher’s Tower, a King and a gryphon were dancing together. Then there was the crack of thunder, and they both fell. Down the side of the tower.

  Past the wall. Straight into the sea.

  ***

  When he heard the second shot and the gyphon’s cry, Plax found himself on his feet once more. With a will of their own, his legs propelled him like a jackrabbit to the top of the stairs. A lever opened the wall to reveal a wooden closet. He pushed past a flurry of extravagant unworn clothes, and pushed hard against the doors until a deadweight on the other side rolled away with a thump.

  Plax’s nose was assaulted by the smell of salt and iron, and blood was everywhere. To his left, the gnome hunter who had trapped Dria lay dead, pasted to the floor in a slurry of crimson. To his right, Siandros lay eyes half-shut, a deep hole in his chest, and his hands slowly flaying to stop his life from rushing out.

  Then he saw Dria, unmoving, exposed, her eyes tormented by trauma and pain. Plax grabbed a shirt and rushed to cover her. Her eyes did not flicker and her body did not fight.

  “He—he—help me,” Siandros whispered, blood bubbles flicking from his blue lips. “Mercy.”

  Plax lifted his shirt to expose the scar Siandros had given him. “The same mercy you showed me?” he hissed. Then he turned his back to lift Dria as gently as possible, and drawing upon the last of his strength with the weave, he held her tight, pushed through the concealed door, and descended the stairs.

  There was no time for pity of any kind. Dria needed help from someone far more able. Dria needed his help to escape. And then Plax had to get her back to Longwood. He hoped that the itch in his skull would show the way.

  VII

  “This is it,” Balinor announced. “Just ahead.”

  Kirsten stopped to catch her breath. “He’s right in there?”

  “Last time I checked there were several caring for him,” Balinor replied. “It will mean so much for him to see you alive and well.” The he reached out to touch Kirsten’s forearm. “But don’t expec
t too much. He wasn’t able to speak when I saw him last. And you know how your Papa can be.”

  Kirsten shivered. “I—I’ve forgotten everything I was going to say.”

  “I’ll go in first so that we aren’t surprising everyone.” Balinor turned and disappeared around a bend in the tunnel.

  Besra reached out and drew Kirsten towards her. “Look. Just stare at one another until words happen. It’s what I do with my da’”

  Kirsten smiled briefly and nodded.

  Balinor was quick to return. “They aren’t there. But I think I know where they could be.”

  “What?” Kirsten exclaimed. “Not there?”

  “I think they’ve moved into an old dwarven area for safety. It’s not far, but we might need a hand opening their doors. They tend to be hidden.”

  Besra grinned. “No problem if ye know what yer looking for.”

  “Balinor?” Kirsten leaned towards the hunter and whispered, her voice vibrating. “I was expecting to be happy and excited. But now I’m feeling more angry than anything else. How does that make any sense?”

  Balinor shrugged and looked away. “I know,” he responded. “It’s okay. Just feel what you feel.”

  ***

  Stigand’s Fides Militum quickly scaled the palace wall and threw the gates wide. With Stigand leading, the crowd flooded into the courtyard.

  “The gryphon’s returned!” some shouted.

  “It took the King flying again,” others replied.

  “No,” more corrected. “They fought. They fell.”

  Stigand stopped outside the open doors of Starwatcher’s Tower and turned to face the crowd. “No,” his voice filled the royal courtyard. “Lornen was Chosen to lead us. Lornen failed. And now we have seen The One’s judgement delivered from on high!”

  Murmurs and shouts crashed through the crowd like a storm. Once they crested, new shouts erupted.

  “Who will be the King?”

  “What will we do?”

  “How will we survive?”

  “Friends,” Stigand smiled. “Has the Order of the Amaranth ever failed you?”

  The rough texture of the voices gradually soothed.

  “We withstood the plague,” Stigand knew this was his moment, and he shaped the truth with a rapturous glee. “We overcame a blockade, betrayal, even an attack by a drake.”

  “Yes. Yes!” the crowd’s hope rekindled swiftly.

  “We have been spared because our faith is strong.”

  “Yes! The One has spared us!”

  “For there to be a strong kingdom, the faith of the King must be strong, and today we saw how Lornen was judged.”

  “Lornen has no heirs!”

  “Oh, that’s what you think—” a cutting voice added.

  “Who will rule?”

  Stigand’s face looked sadly skyward. “The Chancellor Koppinger should rule, but you must remember how he fed his own in the docks and starved the rest of you.”

  Jostling began in the crowd. “True! All true!”

  “Dockfolk, get out. Go on!”

  “No,” Stigand spread a beatific gaze across his flock. “We must care for one another by trusting in our faith. We should pray for guidance. And look for leadership from someone who is truly virtuous.” He lowered his eyes in humility while his heart hungered for what they would naturally do next.

  “All-Father! You lead us!”

  “Yes. You!”

  The crowd surged to surround Stigand, full of joyous voices, and hands grasping for something pure and unreachable. Only his Fides Militum kept him from being swept away. His monks formed a semi-circle around the door, protecting their divine leader.

  “My people,” Stigand announced. “Let me bear such duties that you grant me with grace and modesty. Let us first mourn the passing of our King.” And he shuffled into the relative dark to escape up the stairs.

  Stigand slowed when he saw drops of blood and followed their spiral upward. A glint of gold caught his eye as he passed the library, and he gasped when he saw the wealth laying there so casually. It was enough to bribe every guard that Koppinger’s hired, Stigand grinned. He pulled himself away and pushed upward until the entry to Lornen’s room appeared. The doorway was withered and the doors were gone. He looked beyond the room and could see the stairway continue to where a trap door bumped in the wind.

  Steeling his nerve and attempting a prayer, Stigand stepped into the room. The sight made Stigand shiver. There was blood on the floor, the walls, the bed. A gnome lay dead slumped between armoire and mattress, his face twisted with anger. An elf lay dead on the floor, his expression lost in surprise.

  Elves had attacked? Gnomes, too? Could there be others? Had it been Lornen who had fallen? Stigand’s first impulse was to shout for his monks, but he stopped. No. He had to control the way these evernts were to be understood. He had to see more by himself, and then make it fit his needs.

  Stigand threw open the armoire, half expecting a body to tumble out but there was nothing beyond a clutch of imported shirts. He hurried to the other side of the bed. Nothing more aside from clothes hurriedly tossed to a corner.

  As a hunch, he looked under the bed. Something was there, under a shirt, but it was difficult to see in the shadows. Was it something valuable? Stigand strained to reach. It moved. Something sharp stabbed him in the palm. A sting that burned. He pulled his hand back in shock and his eyes began to blur while he stared at the angry puncture wound. His heart fluttered. A Rajalan scorpion? This was how Demitros had killed a king. Stigand convulsed, reached for his closing throat, and rolled away to thump against the wall like an empty drum.

  The Fides Militum heard the noise, came charging up the stairs, and crushed the offensive skittering desert insect with their boots. But when they looked at All-Father Stigand’s blue face and glassy eyes, they understood that any rule by holy writ would no longer be possible.

  The city would be the Chancellor’s until royal lineage could be proven. Leadership of the Amaranth would require a new and lengthy series of debates within their Order.

  Chanting their prayers, the monks bundled the High-Father’s body in royal linens, and carried him through a hushed crowd to their Cathedral.

  ***

  Besra grinned when she pressed the two small panels and listened to the stone slide away. From the other side of the door came a surprised cry. “Hide! Away! We cannot stay!” Several pairs of steps caught flight and faded.

  Balinor smirked. “That’s Ardir. He’s a gnome. A starwatcher, too. He’s been caring for your Papa.” The hunter stepped through the low doorway, his hands raised. “It’s Balinor. Nialle’s messenger. I’ve returned with news from Thunderwall. And I am bringing guests you can trust.”

  An old rumbling voice sounded from around a corner. “What guests?”

  Balinor waved Kirsten, Grumm, Olaf, and Besra inside. “Can you close that?” he asked.

  Besra nodded and complied.

  “Two envoys from Thunderwall, and Muren Starwatcher’s daughter.”

  An uncomfortable pause was ended by the appearance of the archivist. His eyes were wide with wonder when he saw the dwarves. “Oh, this is most remarkable,” he whispered. Then he bowed and hurried forward. “I have tripped across some rooms full of dwarven tomes. But I cannot read them. And there are many more rooms beyond. Ardir and I think this ruin may be as big as a holdfast.”

  “It’s in good shape,” Besra said, “so ruin might be stretching the truth.” Then she smiled when she noticed Nialle’s discomfort. “No offence, good sir. We are overjoyed to meet yer acquaintance.” She nudged Grumm in the ribs. “Aren’t we.”

  “Oh, yes,” Grumm blushed. He held out a meaty hand. “Honoured.”

  Nialle shook the dwarf warrior’s hand. He looked towards Kirsten and gasped when he saw the gem of the sword adding its light to the room. “You are the Starwatcher’s daughter?”

  Kirsten nodded. “Where’s Papa?”

  Nialle’s eyes never dropped
from the sword as he advanced reverently. “The Seer spoke of a sword and a shield. This is the sword?”

  Kirsten drew it from its scabbard. “It’s called the Fahde.”

  Nialle gasped. His eyes sparkling with its light. “Remarkable.”

  “I think it’s pretty,” Kirsten mumbled shyly, then her voice took on an edge. “I’ve come a long way and don’t have much time. Where’s my Papa? I’ve been told he’s hurt.”

  Nialle stepped back. “You’re threatening me?”

  Balinor stepped forward and flashed a chiding glare at Kirsten. “No. Like you, she is concerned for his safety.”