The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3

by R. G. Triplett

  “Run, girl!” came the shouts of Fryon and his brother.

  “Stop it!” called the soft, girlish voice upon the wind.

  Vŏlker growled at the men and shook off their attack, but when he turned his head back towards the voice, the vengeance melted from his eyes.

  “Lies from spies?” he asked, without conviction.

  “Stop it, please, sir!” Georgina begged as a trickle of crimson ran from the corner of her brow. “They are not lying, and we are not spying … well, not like you say we are at least.”

  “Georgina, no!” Michael said. “It is not safe … please run from here!”

  Vŏlker kicked the two brothers and sent them sprawling in a heap with just one sweep from his large, wool-lined boot.

  “We are not Ravens, sir.” Georgina continued. “The Ravens took our homes, broke our city … killed our friends.”

  “Then … what are ye?” Vŏlker asked in an almost remorseful tone as he peered down at her.

  “I am a girl. A girl from Haven, is all.” She walked closer to the mighty giant.

  Vŏlker dropped the stone, and it shook the very ground beneath their boots. “How do I know for true that ye are not a Raven spy, telling me Raven lies?”

  “I can’t prove it, sir. But maybe you could trust me?” Her steady gaze seemed to humble the great creature before her. “We mean you no harm. Michael was right when he told you so. Our home is gone … stolen and burned, and we ...” She trailed off as tears began to fall. “We don’t know where to go,” she finally whispered.

  Margarid breathlessly appeared from the darkness behind her and wrapped her arms around the child, the others now following close behind her.

  Vŏlker’s countenance broke behind the rush of his own sorrow. His bearded lip began to quiver, and tears the size of ripe grapes began to form in the corners of his eyes.

  He knelt, then sat hard upon the valley floor; the ground shook as the weight of his weariness overcame the mighty giant. “I, too, have lost me home, me HlÍf… me wife.” Vŏlker wiped his tears on the sleeves of his tunic.

  Georgina left the safety of Margarid's arms, overcome with empathy, and bravely made her way to the weeping giant. “There, there … I am sorry for your loss, master giant.” Her tiny hand reached up to pat his large leg.

  Vŏlker reached into his pocket, and with a rather alarming rush of sound he blew his sadness into a sodden rag. “Vŏlker is not one for tears, girl,” he managed as sternly as he could muster, surveying the dumbfounded gazes of these woebegone strangers. “But now … me is all alone.”

  It was an odd moment for Michael and his remnant of friends. So much desolation and loss, so much destruction and death had befallen all of them these last long days. And yet, it was here in the valley of the wilderness, in the presence of a stranger’s honest grief, that they all surrendered to the sadness that they had not had time to truly feel. It weighed heavily upon them all as their eyes clouded with tears of their own.

  “If I may ask, Lord Giant?” Celrod said, breaking the quiet of the moment. “Your HlÍf, your wife… is that where she fell?” He pointed to the mound of rock and rubble there on the pass before them.

  “Aye, there she lay,” Vŏlker said as he turned his bearded head to gaze at the grave pile. “The ravens!” He growled as he pounded the ground with his mighty fist. “They cut her down. They pierced her beautiful body with their ugly black bolts,” he said as he dabbed at a lingering tear.

  “What was she doing out here?” Margarid asked him. “In the middle of nowhere, I mean?”

  “This is not nowhere, girl. This is Halvard! We Mågąn have guarded its pass for generations,” the giant told them. “Me father, and his father, and his fathers before him – all of our kind, at that – we have been stewards of this place for far longer than me can hope to remember.”

  “What happened, then?” Timorets asked him.

  At that question a guttural sob began to well up inside the mighty giant. “It’s all me fault, all me fault!” Vŏlker bellowed. “Me saw a Stag, a mighty White Stag, out beyond the keep. And we was hungry! Ever since the light started to fade, strange things have been happening … and the game … well, they have been all too scarce, you see.”

  He snorted and blew his veiny nose into his rag. “Me thought, me thought me would catch us something tasty to eat for supper; and so me went out for a hunt … and … me left the Halvard gate wide open!”

  He sobbed against his embarrassment, growling in hatred both of himself and of those who had stolen his wife. “Me such a failure, such a shame. Her would still be here if it were not for that damned Stag, and those double-damned Ravens. And if it not be for me.”

  Georgina patted his leg again, and Vŏlker sighed. “By the time me had come back, it was too late. I saw the broken bodies, the mangled feathers. They had walked right through that gate and me HlÍf was the only one to stand in the Ravens’ way. And her was gone. Dead and gone.”

  Michael sheathed his sword, looking compassionately at the giant. “Have they come back this way? The Ravens, I mean,” Michael asked him. “Is that why you thought we were Ravens too?”

  “No,” he grunted softly. “Though me wish they would! Give me my hammer and the chance to revenge me HlÍf!” His angered voice now rose upon the wind of his words.

  “But,” Georgina said matter-of-factly, “but then you might die too!”

  “Me would like to see them try!” Vŏlker growled.

  “She is right, Lord Giant,” the schoolmaster said. “We have seen them, thousands of them! There are far too many of them for one giant!”

  “And dragons,” Harmier said. “They have dragons.”

  “It is better to stand and fight and fail, than to fail to stand and fight,” Vŏlker said obstinately.

  “More death!” Margarid shouted. “More death? Is that really the answer? We have all lost, we have all failed, we have all seen honor overrun by cruelty! Do you really think another dead man or woman or child or giant is going to change the appetite of evil?”

  The group stared at her for a moment, the tumult of her emotions resonating within all of them.

  “No, it won’t!” she blurted out desperately.

  Vŏlker furrowed his bushy brows as he pondered her words. “What would ye do then, woman?”

  “Live,” Margarid told him resolutely. “We have watched everything we have loved crumble. We have seen those whom we have trusted and followed, destroyed by the Raven devils. And yet, here we are! All of us, here, now together in this … this Halvard Pass. And for what?” she asked them. Emotion, bridled by pure clarity, pulled against the reins of her heart. “To die, and make their loss and sacrifice meaningless? No! We must fight death and destruction with life itself.”

  Vŏlker stared at her for a long moment, then surveyed the ragtag remnant before him. At last his eyes fell upon the tiny hand of the girl at his side. “Me not so sure about choosing to live. But ye … ye might need some food, and some rest, and mayhapse some mead to start with.” He looked longingly back to the grave, and then again to the group of travelers.

  “And a fire?” Georgina asked as she shivered against the cold, northern winds.

  “Aye, a fire too,” Vŏlker agreed. “Come on then, all of ye. Me is not gonna die today; and neither are ye.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cal held tightly to the leather reins of his wounded friend, Farran, leading him through the rushing water. Astyræ followed atop her chestnut, both taking cautious and exploratory steps in the cold waters of this unfamiliar river.

  The Argiñe was wide, but at this fork in the river, the main body of its strength flowed eastward; out into the black waters of the Dark Sea. This path they had chosen to follow led them across the western branch of the river, whose waters noisily began to gain speed towards the treacherous Falls of Ammon.

  “Come on now, boy,” Cal whispered into Farran’s ear. “If we are ever going to find out just where the Stag is leading us, we
are going to have to get across.”

  “Cal!” Astyræ called out against the rush of the river’s chatter. “Cal, it is getting deeper, the water is nearly up to your chest now.”

  “Just stay atop your chestnut, she will carry you across well enough,” he reassured her. “We haven’t got much more to go.”

  “Deryn?” Astyræ called out. “Can you see the falls? I can hear them, but I can’t tell how close we are?”

  “They are not far at all,” he reported as he flew back towards his river-sodden friends. “Not even half a league from here, the toothy underbite of Ammon crests the river and sends it plummeting below.”

  “Cal,” Astyræ said worriedly as she watched him and Farran struggle against the sweeping current.

  “I heard him!” Cal shouted over his shoulder at her.

  “You should mind your step, groomsman,” Deryn offered.

  “Thank you, I will … take that into consideration,” he spoke with barely veiled annoyance.

  Cal felt the sole of his boots slide against the boulder-laden floor of the riverbed, the ancient stones slick with ages of silt. His feet lost their purchase, and he slipped down into the rushing water.

  “Cal!” Astyræ yelled in panicked surprise.

  He kicked against the rushing water, his hand still tightly wound in Farran’s leather reins, and he pulled against the current with all his might. Farran whined against the awkward strain, but the weight of his body shifted as he braced his equine strength on his wounded leg. Cal breached the surface, his blonde hair soaked brown, as he gasped for breath.

  “I’m alright!” he blurted out as his feet frantically searched for safe ground.

  Farran snorted with both worry and pain, but sighed in noticeable relief when both the weight and the concern dissipated at Cal’s surfacing.

  “Are you alright?” she called out from atop her chestnut. “I thought I lost you over the falls.”

  “No … yes, I’m alright,” he said as he wiped his dripping hair out of his eyes and then reached up to thank Farran with a pat to his neck. “I’ve taken a perilous ride down some treacherous falls once before,” he said, smiling back at the violet-eyed beauty that worried for him. “I’m not looking to take another trip like that anytime soon.”

  “We are nearly there, Cal,” Deryn told his sodden friend. “Perhaps you should mind your step the rest of the way.”

  Cal laughed good-heartedly, then shook the water from his hair as he pressed on through the cold rush of the river. “Come on, then! Not much further now, and besides … I’ve already found the slick spots.”

  The small band of friends finished fording the river, but as they reached the stony, western shore, the worsening of Farran’s wounds became all too apparent to Cal. The mighty horse limped and snorted with great effort as he climbed out from the water and up the steepened bank. Although Cal had cleaned and bound the wound with herbs, it was clear that an infection had set in.

  “Oh, Farran,” Cal whispered as he bent low to see the fingers of angry red spreading beneath the grey coat of his friend and steed. The groomsman began to shiver as the air chilled his soaked clothes. Although the wind was cold, it was something more that chilled him all the way down to his bones.

  “Do you see the markings?” Astyræ said as she laid a hand on his shoulder, redirecting his attention to the darkened highlands.

  “Th-there!” the words shivered in time with his chilled body. “Th-the t-t-t-tree, over there.” He pointed to the base of a massive cedar, two dozen paces from the bank of the river.

  “We’ve got to make a fire, and soon, Calarmindon,” Deryn said, the playfulness gone from his voice. “I’ll not have my charge dying of a chill, not when we have come this far.”

  “I-I couldn’t agree with you m-m-more, my Sprite friend,” Cal managed with a smile. “Bu-ut I don’t feel safe lighting one out here in the open.”

  “Not in the Queen’s wood,” Astyræ agreed.

  “My lady, these trees and this place … these are not hers,” Deryn scolded. “Not even if she inhabited them with a legion of dragons, for a century of time, would I acquiesce to her the ownership of so divine a space.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” she fumbled over her apology, taken aback by his unforeseen wrath.

  “Just because those who walk upon these lands have resigned themselves to her rule, does not mean that the world itself has given up as easily,” Deryn continued.

  “I—” she tried to apologize again, but Cal interjected with excitement.

  “There!” he exclaimed. “The next marking!”

  Astyræ and Deryn halted their discourse and whirled about to see where the groomsman was pointing. “Where is it?” she asked him.

  “Right there, next to the top of the falls, less than half a league away,” he told them. “They are getting cl-closer together!” He took one of the packs off his saddle and hoisted it upon his own back. “Come on then, it could be a safer place to make a fire!”

  “What do you think it means?” she asked him. “The markings getting closer together, I mean.”

  “I hope it means that we are getting cl-closer too,” he said as he patted Farran’s neck, leading him by the reins down the rocky path towards the next Stag marking.

  As they reached the edge of the mighty falls, Cal spotted yet another marking down at the base of the falls, near a calm pool of water below.

  “Down here!” Cal called triumphantly. “I see it.”

  Deryn flew out in front, leading the way downward and doing his best to illuminate a course for his friends. The way was steep, though not impassible, and the two dismounted riders led their horses slowly and cautiously back and forth down the rocky hillside.

  Farran labored harder than did his chestnut friend, and a white froth began to gather in the corners of his mouth. Although Cal was mindful of his steps, Farran stumbled and tripped, tearing open the already worsening wounds on his foreleg.

  “Almost there, boy,” Cal whispered as he watched tendrils of red blood and yellow puss soak through the fabric of his tunic and ooze down onto the massive hoof of the courser. “Easy now … take your time. I’m not going to fre-freeze just yet.”

  The weary whine of his four-legged friend pulled at his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to be off of this cliffside and back home in his stable yard with real medicine and fresh hay for Farran to rest in.

  “He needs to rest!” Cal shouted out to Deryn who flew out in front of them. “Are we close to the bottom yet?”

  “Nearly there!” Deryn called as he flew up high enough to see the worry in Cal’s eyes. “Nearly there.”

  Farran touched his nose to Cal’s forehead, but it was dry as dust, and that worried the groomsman all the more. The exhausted horse sighed, and as he did splatters of blood flecked Cal’s hands and forehead. The groomsman held his hands up for a closer look, and what he saw made his heart sink.

  “I don’t know what kind of damned venom breeds in the mouths of those vile wolves, but I don’t for one moment doubt that it comes from that damned Sorceress,” he grumbled to himself, worry giving way to hatred.

  When at last they had reached the valley floor, Cal quickly set about unburdening Farran of the saddle and supplies that were still tied to him. He laid him down on a bed of soft green grass that grew serendipitously along the banks of the massive pool.

  “Please, can you get a fire going?” he asked his friends, no longer caring to hide his worry.

  Cal took the wounded leg and placed it as close to the cold, clear water as he could manage. He cupped his hands and scooped the water, then poured it over the infected wound.

  Farran winced, raising his head up off the grass in pain, then laying it defeatedly back down again. “I’m sorry, boy,” Cal whispered, washing and rinsing and washing the sour smelling gashes again.

  The sounds of the fire popping and crackling behind did little to distract him from his task, and the comfort of its warmth seem
ed almost sinful to think about as his friend lay in such pain.

  “Look there!” Astyræ called out. “The herb, the same herb that Dilly found. It’s everywhere, growing all over the walls of the cliffside.”

  “Aye, but they haven’t seemed to do much for him, have they?” Cal said defeatedly.

  “Yes, but she said they would boil them into some kind of tea,” Astyræ told him, desperately wanting to help. “Maybe we could do that, too?”

  “We don’t have any pots or kettles,” Cal mumbled.

  Astyræ, determined to help her friends, was not content with so easy a resignation. “There has to be something about!” she insisted as she stood to her feet to survey the area around them. “A shell, or a bone … something! There has got to be something we can use.” She walked over to him as he was kneeling by the edge of the pool, fussing over Farran’s leg. She laid a soft hand on his shoulder, and her tenderness temporarily overcame the anxiety of the moment.

  “Please, will you help me look?” she asked him. “There has got to be something out here.”

  He nodded his agreement. Gently patting the side of his horse, he stood to search the banks of the pool. His clouded eyes scanned the reeds and grasses that grew along the rocky boundaries, following the lazy current of the river as it departed from the spacious pool and continued on into the wilderness of the Wreath.

  He kicked at stones and picked through the reeds, looking for a tortoise shell or some other long-forgotten treasure on the floor of the pool. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t see a thing, not even fish to catch and cook on the fire.”

  “Keep looking, there has got to be something,” she told him from further down the shoreline.

  The amber light of the fire cast its shadows, and Cal looked up to take in the fullness of his surroundings for the first time. What had seemed like a valley from the high grounds turned out to be not much more than a grotto, a grassy relief, probably carved out by the river long ago. Now, the swollen river had subsided, allowing the cedars and grasses to reclaim this land back from the intruding river.