Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  There was no time to process the questions, as the gap between the black army and the charging faithful, led by Ezai, closed to a matter of feet. Voices merged, the screams of one indecipherable from another, and suddenly the air filled with the sound of clashing weapons and lethal blows.

  She linked her channel just in time, finally breaking through to Ferai, and cast a ring of light around her and propelled figures out and away. The command earned her confused stares, but the warriors quickly refocused on the fight. She hovered just above the ground and maintained the field, observing but not taking part. Instead, she fixed her vision on the two men of the Dawn who squared off against each other, given a wide berth in the midst of chaos, swords flashing in the fires of war.

  Ezai pushed harder, trying to force the blade of Dawnbreak down to shear through the jewel-encrusted hilt of Veydun's rapier, but his Brother resisted and matched Ezai's strength. The man was much younger and well-muscled, despite his skinny frame. They stood there, battle flowing around the edges of the pocket they’d been given, eyes locked each other and filled with hate.

  It was not regular hate. It was a hate born from years and years of competition while growing up in the Keep, like two brothers who won't admit their faults and won't back down.

  “Why have you done this?” Ezai spoke through gritted teeth and under his breath.

  Veydun laughed, a familiar and disturbing cackle. “You know why. I've been telling you all along.” He suddenly pulled back, trying to draw Ezai off balance, and at the same time ducked and swept his blade low.

  But Ezai reacted too quickly, being more experienced and better trained. He shifted his weight and sidestepped, as he brought Dawnbreak down to catch the blow. Veydun scowled, pivoted, and swung again. Again, Ezai parried.

  “Find your calm, Son. Let it flow. Let it pass.”

  Ezai stood at peace in the death striking all around, air ripe with sulfur and blood flowing through cracks of cobblestone. Serenity fell upon him, time slowed, and his breath stilled.

  An explosion to his left shook the ground, smoke rising from where a hundred faithful and blackguard had stood. Ezai glanced over, catching sight of cinders and dying men in different colors crawling from a crater. A group of singers stood on a ridge far away, merging their light into another swirling ball of energy.

  “MOVE!” Ezai shouted the command at a group of faithful who rushed to aid the survivors. They looked at him, wide eyed and frozen. They were farmers and weavers, but not soldiers. These people stood no chance, not with Astral on the battlefield.

  Veydun swung again, trying to seize on Ezai's distraction. But again, Ezai reacted, never allowing his attention on his foe to waver. Ezai raised his arm, the strike glancing off the plate armor running from his gauntlet to his shoulder. At the same time, he dropped to one knee and rolled, his sword protruding from his side as he moved. Momentum carried the blade, and the tip slashed at Veydun's leg, opening a shallow wound. The red-haired Arbiter gnashed his teeth, a wounded wolf, then roared at Ezai, voice filled with hatred.

  “Shut out your emotion, push it to the back of your mind. Find your calm. Let it flow. Let it pass.”

  Ezai stood tall and assessed the man across from him. His surroundings stilled, as if a living portrait, and the scene played out before his eyes. Energy streaked through the air, chains of starlight lit the clouds, and singers laughed and cackled safely behind rows and rows of soldiers dressed in black. They marched through the one great promenade of the district, now a tattered ruin. Directly opposite, a staff-wielding maniac led his blue-robed allies in a brazen attack, unyielding to the crashes of magic leaving holes in their ranks alongside smoldering embers that were once people. And in the middle of it all, Ahryn hovered above the ground in a cocoon of translucent blue light, sheltered from the storm of war, eyes locked on him.

  The last Ferai singer—the last hope for peace.

  Disgust and resentment flooded Ezai when he had first spotted Veydun running with the Tsac soldiers, the full scope of his Brother’s betrayal plain to see. Ezai had charged without thinking—without concern for the young girl who'd followed—spiteful and thirsty for vengeance. The risk had escaped him and he was blind to the peril. But then he saw. Then, he understood. She needed be saved. She needed him.

  “There is no hope for you, Ezai. Surrender. I'll put in a good word with Sotma. Perhaps he'll let you live,” Veydun snarled. His face was dirty, his hair was wild, and blood dripped from his leg. “Though I doubt it. Never caught that killer, did you?”

  Ezai did not intend to trade wits with Veydun. Not now. Instead, he diverted energy and focused on the pocket of singers who made hell for the faithful and held their advance.

  Veydun jerked backwards, face distorting in shock as Ezai ran straight at him, sword held horizontal and shoulder height. Ezai closed the distance in an instant, smashing the sword down before Veydun reacted. The force of the collision caused Veydun to lose his grip and knocked the rapier to the ground. As Veydun tried to dodge and retrieve his weapon, Ezai thrust a knee forward and caught him in the face, then drove an elbow down onto his shoulder. The blows debilitated Veydun, who also fell to the ground, groaning.

  But Ezai did not take the man's life. Instead, he delivered a strike to the back of Veydun's head with Dawnbreak's pommel, and watched Veydun’s eyes roll upward as the man fell unconscious.

  Satisfied, Ezai sprinted toward the ridge where the singers were posted, hidden between two fallen structures. They saw him coming and lashed out with narrow slivers of starlight meant to pierce, but he crossed his arms and ran straight through, the beams deflecting away from him like winds to a swiftclip. He heard their shouted realization when they became aware of his defiance and the coming Dawnman. But they could do nothing. Ezai struck them down one by one, an unstoppable rolling boulder of justice.

  When he finished, when the singers lay dead and the starlight stopped filling the air, the faithful yelled with joy and resumed their push into the black army, passion and numbers driving the army back. He watched the slow onslaught, margins of victory earned an inch at a time, and sensed the impending victory. If the black army did not retreat soon, they'd be wiped out. Indeed, he saw Veydun—who had regained consciousness—among the fleeing crowd. The rogue Arbiter was waving to the soldiers and urging them back.

  Eventually, the night quieted as the fight for the promenade ended. Blue-robed faithful cheered, clapped each other on the back, and fetched water from the channels—dirty as it was—to fill their stomachs. Ezai walked down from the ridge and moved to join the celebrations, if only to plead for restraint. They’d won a battle, but not the war.

  Takha navigated ringed hallways of the shrine, passing flickers from candles lining the walls. He took quick steps, his pace hurried. He’d been dispatched by the Starmother to receive the runner and hear the report from the battlefield.

  From their vantage point atop the shrine, through long, flat windows carved into the domes of the spires' structure, he had watched the light show and illumination of the fog storm; he’d seen the pillars of smoke rising on the horizon. Their only information about the ebbs and flows of combat came from the runners, young boys and girls chosen for their lean, athletic builds. Throughout the night, they had continued to bring bad news.

  The fog storm had not affected the singers to the degree they’d expected or hoped. Some reports detailed delayed ability to link and wavering strength of starlight, but most told a story of the faithful’s failure and wanton slaughter at the hands of magicians bearing unimaginable powers.

  And then came the black army, the thousands of ribbum laborers turned soldiers, conscripted to take up arms against their starless brothers and sisters. Their presence had also unexpected. None of his planning and plotting had accounted for a sizable force of steel wielders at the vanguard of the Astral assault.

  Takha kicked the stone walls as he exited into the cool night, a drizzle of rain pattering against his robes and threating to quen
ch the torch he held high to illuminate the darkness. He looked down the long stairway and searched the dusk for the figure of the approaching runner, a bouncing spot of flame moving directly toward the shrine.

  There, he saw the boy. Takha descended the steps until he saw the dirty face and heaving chest of the runner, lit up from the two torches. Takha stopped ten or so steps from the ground.

  “You, boy, what news?”

  The runner took a few more deep breaths before collecting himself. “The promenade is ours.”

  Hah! Cursed Astral! Slowly we will take back this city.

  Takha clapped, then rose his arms into the air. “Gethael is with us! Tell me, were the losses heavy?”

  “They were as expected,” said the runner, bent over with his hands on his knees. “But only because of the Dawnman and his singer friend.”

  “What?” Takha frowned, confused. He didn't like surprises, even when they favored him. “What Dawnman?”

  “His name is Ezai. He came from nowhere and took out the singers laying siege from behind the black soldiers. Juppa led an easy thrust after that.”

  Takha considered. “Did you see any other Dawnmen?”

  The runner shook his head. “No, prophet. Just him.”

  “You bring me good tidings, boy. Gethael won't forgot. Now go, run back and keep your eyes and ears open. I look forward to another report.” Takha placed his palms together, one over the other near his belt, careful not to burn himself with his torch, and bowed ever so slightly. The runner returned the gesture, then turned to leave.

  Instead, he crumpled in a spray of blood, and his torch extinguished. Darkness returned to the bottom of the stairs, and Takha fell back on the steps and raised his own flame in front of him.

  “Who's there!” he shouted, panicked.

  In response, two spots of white glowed where the boy had stood. Eyes.

  “You!”

  “Yes,” said the shadow man. “Me. Did you forget about me?”

  Takha chuckled nervously. “Of course not.” He stood on the stairs and smoothed his robe.

  “Liar,” the shadow man hissed and his eyes burned brighter, the glow revealing his outline. “You've been enjoying yourself here, in this palace of deceit and sin, haven't you?” Takha opened his mouth to respond, but the figure cut him off. “Shh, don't speak. I've watched you, Takha Shun, watched you spread this faith like a disease. That's not what we discussed, is it? Instead of bringing down this temple of blasphemy, you've raised it up, even led a rebellion against the singers.” Takha gulped, the shadow man's words delivered with an obvious threat. “I'm so disappointed in you.”

  In that moment, Takha made his choice. Playing both sides had taken him far, but when the faithful won the city and the Astral fell, he would rule. Him, Prophet Shun. He'd never go back to cold nights in tattered blankets and morning walks to the water dispensaries. His zealots would bring him water, and he's sleep warm and safe.

  Takha shouted at the barely visible figure. “I don't care anymore.”

  The white eyes burned even brighter as they drew closer to the bottom of the stairs. “Is that so?” The shadow man spoke so softly.

  “You heard me, shadow! Go back to wherever you came from or find another poor soul to do your bidding. I won't listen to you anymore. I've found a new home, a new path.” Takha grimaced, aware of his unlikely survival in the confrontation. His stomach turned, anticipating the worst.

  It came. The shadow man roared. Takha heard a whistle in the air, and a dagger slammed into his thigh. He cried out, the pain intense, then fell again upon the steps. He looked down, shaking, and saw the dagger buried deep into his muscle. No blood flowed from the wound, and he knew enough not to pull at the weapon. He left it in his leg, tears in his eyes, and waited for another blow.

  It didn't come. Instead, the lash of the shadow's whip raked against the steps just below where he lay. Another strike, another miss. Takha didn’t move, frozen in pain and fear. The whip continued to strike the steps, leaving black marks on the smoothed white leystone just below his feet. The shadow roared and lashed against the steps again, still missing Takha.

  He can't get to me.

  Takha started laughing maniacally, his mind floating, attempting to wall off the signals from his leg. “You can't enter the shrine, can you?” He laughed harder.

  The shadow man didn't respond, but the white glow of his eyes began to fade as he drew back from the shrine. Takha yelled into the night. “Why can't you enter the shrine, shadow? I'm right here! Come and get me, Takha Shun, the disappointment! Don't worry, I've been a disappointment my whole life! Why do you think my parents got rid of me and sent me to the slums of Celaena?”

  This time the shadow responded, his voice faint, already far from the shrine. “I will not forget, Takha Shun. Sleep well in your house of sacrilege for all the days of your life, lest my blade find your back.”

  Takha shouted again into the darkness, yelling all manners of curse and slander, but the shadow did not respond. After a while, Takha rumbled a slow chuckle, appreciating but not understanding his circumstances. When he could laugh no more, he turned up the stairs and crawled, dragging his leg behind, hilt of the dagger clanking off each stone step.

  Sotma cleaned his blade with a scrap of blue robe he’d cut away from a dead man lying at his feet. Another skirmish had been won, and another portion of the city had been claimed by his forces. The blackguard had successfully pushed south from the Rayn city-home toward the Nightmarkets to meet the Vo forces. Then they had circled east like a wave of death, leaving faithful bodies in their wake.

  He listened to Veydun's report, eyes burning red and fists clenched so hard his fingertips numbed. He stood at the edge of the Lokka quint, enjoying fresh water and bread brought in from the tattered Nightmarkets, whose array of shops lay just over the channel to his south. It was a shame the once majestic central district had borne the brunt of the first moves in this war.

  The Arbiter at least had the decency to drop his act. He was no longer smug or sneering, no longer laughing in Sotma’s face and confident in a false superiority. Instead he rubbed the back of his head and favored one leg over the other. Sotma saw trickles of blood from both and wondered where he'd received the wounds. As much as he detested the man, he respected Veydun’s ability to fight. No wild zealot—starless filth who’d never before held a weapon—could have bested him so. Curious.

  Sotma sighed. Battle wearied him, despite the ease with which the faithful fell before his Elegance.

  When did I grow old?

  It had only been ten years since the last war, but he’d been a different man then. His joints hadn’t ached with the change of the wind, his limbs had responded quicker, and his constitution had been more resolute. Where had that man gone?

  They were foolish thoughts. His blood had surged as he fought this evening, his link with his star had been pure despite the fog, and his sword hand had been steady and strong. Many had fallen before his blows, melting at the heat of his blade, which was infused with red starlight flickering from but not touching the metal, like a halo.

  Perhaps he needed to dispatch the Arbiter to another district, maybe to the Vo quint, or one of the other battlefronts throughout the city where the blackguard held countless starless as prisoners. Anything to rid himself of the man. But having heard about the fall of the promenade, lost to a throng of rabble, it felt prudent to keep him close.

  Veydun continued rubbing his head, and blood seeped thick. The wounds nagged at Sotma, though Veydun refused to reveal the source when pressed. Sotma doubted even the rumored staff-wielding fanatic could have left such a mark.

  “Veydun, walk with me.” Sotma moved along the channel bank, kicking rubble into the water, hands squeezed behind his back. The Arbiter obeyed as he took long strides next to him and kept pace.

  When they separated from the band of singers, their bodies disappearing into the thickening fog and only Sotma’s glowing eyes revealing their presence,
the starlord spoke again.

  “I want you to take another host of blackguard south, to reclaim the promenade and the bridge.”

  Veydun rejected the idea immediately. “Impossible.”

  “Oh?” said Sotma. “Why is that?”

  The Arbiter scowled. “There are too many, and they are too strong. Perhaps they concentrated their strongest fighters at the choke, due to the importance of the location.”

  Sotma hummed. “Maybe.”

  “Bah, this is silly. You'd need to send a host of singers as well for us to stand a chance.”

  The Raynlord again pressed for more. “We cannot afford to move singers from the Nightmarkets. Even now more are funneled into the central island. Soon, the majority of our forces will congregate. From there, we may strike out at any place within Celaena in the same amount of time, and from there we can cut off the rebellion. More and more territory falls into our control. The war is almost won, but the district you lost is too important to stay lost. The promenade is the key to holding the southern city. We cannot reinforce without it; the faith will know this and marshal their forces and circle around.”

  Veydun stopped, held his arms akimbo, and laughed. “Maybe you should lead the surge, Sotma, if the promenade is so important? You know, I’ve heard tales of your Elegance, but never understood—not until I saw tonight with my own eyes. Whatever it is you do with your starlight and sword, it works. I don't know how you lost last time.”

  Sotma also stopped. They reached a junction between channels, and boats bounced in the water along the edges, waiting for riders to enter and journey through the city. Several burning boats floated adrift in the channel.

  “I will be in the Nightmarkets soon, Veydun, preparing the final push to take the city and stamp out this pathetic force of worshipers. Their arrival stops nothing; it is just a delay and distraction. Celaena is only the first step, the first song as we take the Dominion for ourselves. That requires planning, coordination, organization. I am needed elsewhere.”