Haggart's Dawn

by Martyn J. Pass

  “I took the liberty of having a meal prepared for you by my aid, Herbert. Every bite you are experiencing is real, Summoned into your body. It's a strange thing to see from the outside - a plate that empties without anyone touching it. Still, I digress. What was I saying?”

  “The Captain?”

  “Yes, the Captain. His arrest and subsequent escape...”

  “Escape?”

  “Yes, he was placed in a cell to await being seen by the Chief of Guards. Clearly the cell wasn't strong enough. He put his fist through the door and wrestled with eight of our strongest men. We southern folk don't seem to be able to best you northern types. Anyway, this action drew the attention of the Council who demanded he be brought to them immediately. A hasty meeting was arranged and it was here that the Captain was able to relay the facts to us - facts, I might add, led to the arrest of many of Marcus DeToro's men.”

  “You mean Marcus, the brother of Hector?”

  “The same. He's been shipping in these machines for months now, possibly longer, under our very noses. We were able to halt his last shipment before it left the City.”

  Haggart had finished eating and he sat back in his chair, sipping his ale. He knew it was only part of the illusion - the same as the pub and the City, yet at this moment he felt very well indeed.

  “What about the others?” he asked. Dagna sipped his wine and smiled at the taste.

  “It's been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a nice red. Yes, Lorrie, John and Talbert. They are well. They are by your bedside as we speak. They alerted the Guards to your need for urgent care and you were conveyed to me.”

  Dagna stood up as if to leave.

  “Wait, I need to know more,” said Haggart, but he felt his eyes growing heavier again. The fire was warm and the silence of the almost empty pub made it difficult for him to remain awake.

  “In time. I will come and see you again tomorrow. For now, enjoy and rest.”

  Before he knew it he was asleep and Dagna was gone.

  *

  His understanding of time was gone, lost in the incoherent leaps from memory to fantasy and back again, yet it felt like reality was teasing at the corners of his mind, tugging him back into the real world. He would hear conversations from his friends, then find himself dreaming again, ridiculous dreams that gave away their origins, then he would return to snippets of life as he once knew it.

  At some point he found himself awake in his bed at the Sundered Helm and knew that Dagna had returned. The furnishings of his room, the touch of the bedding fabric between his fingertips, the smell of summer, all these things were signs that he was no longer in the dream realm but in the world of Dagna's summoned creation. He dressed immediately and went down stairs.

  “Good morning,” said Dagna, seated at the same table as before and eating a breakfast of eggs, bacon and bread soaked in dripping. Haggart joined him and Harry appeared from behind the bar and put a plate of eggs and bread in front of him.

  “How long have I been asleep now?” he asked him. Dagna's face lost some of its usual merry glow.

  “Over a month now.”

  “Why can I not come out of this?”

  “Time, Haggart. Time is a great healer but a slow one. You must wait until your mind allows you to return to reality. You almost died, you pushed yourself beyond your ability and a person cannot fail to be touched by such power.”

  “But you believe I will - awaken, I mean?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, some of his mirth returning almost immediately. “Or we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

  Haggart attacked his eggs and washed it down with a glass of water. “We've run out of ale,” Dagna confessed.

  “Oh.”

  “On the brighter side your friend Lorrie believes she has found the meaning behind the rune she received from the vision.”

  “You know about the visions?”

  “Of course. It helped to have Captain Dern's explanation but it was easy enough to root around in your mind to find it. I can't say I’ve ever received a vision so clearly as yours before. Quite impressive.”

  “You can know my memories?”

  “Yes, but don't be too quick to worry - the mind will only ever yield a thought it feels comfortable offering. Even the worst kept secrets are hidden to me.”

  The eggs were gone and Dagna, noticing, rose from the table. “Let's take a walk, shall we? I have a feeling that it is a marvellous day outside.”

  Outside the sky was bright and clear and the unmistakeable bite of winter was on the easterly breeze. As they left the pub, Haggart realised at once that they were no longer in the City. He turned around and saw that they'd just left the mouth of a cave and not the door of the Sundered Helm.

  “Where are we?” he asked Dagna.

  “I'm going to tell you what the Council knows. Over the last few weeks we've been able to find evidence of DeToro's activities, his movements, his shipments of those machines and a great many other things as well. If we understand all this, combined with the visions, we cannot deny the obvious - a plan has been set in motion by powers currently unknown to us, a plan that will see the Council destroyed and a ruler in its place. The Council is worried to say the least and we feel that in light of the evidence this directly relates to the overthrowing of King Aaron and something else.”

  “We made the connection between Marcus and Aaron ourselves, but are you saying there is more, something behind him?” said Haggart.

  “There has to be, he cannot be working alone, it is much to big for him to manage by himself. Remember how I told you the last time we met that the helmet from your tavern was gone, yes?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, that helmet belonged to a soldier called Jurgenbraw - a name you may or may not recognise.”

  “I believe I don't. When we killed him, or should I say, when the Captain slew him, we didn't know who he was, only that he was a great tribal Chief.”

  “Indeed, he was tribal. Do you know the tribe?”

  “I can't say that I do.”

  “Jurgenbraw is a tribal name, your tribal name.”

  “I don't understand,” said Haggart.

  “Come this way,” he said and began to walk around the face of a steep fell where bare rock had been exposed by persistent rain. There were steps carved into the sides and Dagna began to climb, nimbly leaping from stone to stone like a man half his age. Haggart followed until they reached the peak, at which point Dagna lifted his arm and gestured to the north.

  “Can you see those lands below us?” Haggart looked across the rolling hills, capped with snow, stretching away into the distance.

  “Yes. Of course.” A cold wind was blowing, threatening to send them sprawling down the side of the fell and from instinct, though the fabricated world could never hurt him, he grabbed onto a jutting piece of stone to steady himself.

  “This is the home of the tribe of Jurgenbraw in the Frozen North. Sturgenvad. The home where you came from.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “When Aaron allowed you to join his army he made sure he knew which tribe you were from. He was keen to make alliances with those tribes he thought carried the most influence here.”

  “And did mine?”

  “No. If they had you would have been raised higher than a mere Cavalry man. No offence.”

  “None taken. But you're going to tell me that the owner of that helmet was.”

  “Precisely. But Jurgrenbraw adopted the name of your tribe as his own. He was, in fact, a son of Gurin, the leader of the largest tribe in the north.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when your Father left with you and your family, Jurgenbraw killed every last member of your tribe as a tribute to honour his father. For that reason he named himself by your tribal name to show his claim over it. You are the last of the Jurgenbraw tribe.”

  “Please don't tell me that's special. I’ve never felt any love for children's legends.”

 
“It's not, but it's relevant to the story. Let's climb down and take a look at the camp to the west.”

  They descended the hill side, reaching the plane and crossing through thick layers of crusty snow a week old. Haggart only had a few memories of his home at Sturgenvad and snow featured in them the most. He wasn't even sure if it ever thawed, but he could remember being young, wrapped in furs and playing with his sisters in the forest. Age had a habit of burying the best memories under piles of bad ones.

  “Across the way is a camp made mostly of skin-tents and small ice huts. This is Gurin's home. It took some digging, but after Aaron was overthrown and his castles were seized, we were able to trace the path back here.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “The source of the machines, the builders who put their skills to evil devices.”

  “But didn't you arrest them once the war was over?”

  “We couldn't. Aaron murdered them all when he knew the war was over. Here we are.”

  Haggart found himself at the mouth of a large, man-made cave carved into the ice at the base of another peak. At its entrance stood a young man with long blonde hair and a smooth chin. He couldn't have been much older than 15.

  “This is what we believe Gurin's youngest son, Gurden, looks like though we've only seen him once.”

  “When?”

  “During the invasion of 1290 when the tribes came. He's guarding this dwelling, though to look at it it seems pretty insignificant, don't you think?”

  “Yes, which makes me doubt it all the more.”

  “Wise. Very wise. What you are about to see is what I was able to extract from one of our spies we sent here after the overthrow of the King. These were his dying memories so tread softly and with great respect for his sacrifice.”

  Almost forgetting this was an illusion of sorts, Haggart walked past the boy and into the cave. It wasn't as cold inside and it was clear that this was a hallway used by people waiting to go further on. There was a fire burning in a chiselled alcove which formed a wide chimney that dripped with melting snow. There was a table and a stool, mead in a large jug and some meat that had been freshly roasted. On the far side of the chamber there was another door - this one was wooden and hinged by driving long ice spikes into the shimmering blue wall to mount it on. To the amazement of Haggart who leapt back out of instinct, a man came rushing through the door way and said to the space between himself and Dagna,

  “Come quickly, Jurgenbraw needs you,”

  He received the reply he wanted, judging by his expression, but none was heard. Reading his thoughts, Dagna smiled.

  “It's a memory of what happened - our spy must have replied. Let's follow his steps.”

  On the other side of the door, cut into the floor, were steep steps that led deeper into the feet of the mountain and together they followed the stranger into the torch-lit gloom. They descended several floors until they reached another chamber. This one was magnificent in size compared to the other and was decorated with lavish rugs and furniture the colour of ebony to off set the purity of the ice walls and ceiling. Sat near a brazier, wrapped in the skin of a wolf, was Jurgenbraw.

  “You remember his face?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Only too well. It was slightly less recognisable once the Captain had cloven it in two.”

  “But the name of Jurgenbraw means nothing?”

  “No. Most soldiers we fight die without us ever knowing their names. Maybe once it might have been said in passing, but it isn't in my memory. You should know this,” he said, grinning.

  The figure stirred himself from the fire upon the arrival of the man and Dagna's spy.

  “I'm glad you came...” Jurgenbraw said something, a name, but at that precise moment the sound faded and Haggart heard nothing. He shot a quizzical glance at Dagna who didn't answer. The spy, whose name was clearly meant to still be secret, must have spoken at length because Jurgenbraw was silent with an expression of interest across his chiselled features. He was as tall as Haggart remembered, though without the plate armour and the helmet, slightly less intimidating.

  “I understand,” continued Jurgenbraw. “But this will not take up much of your time.” He left the wolf skin on his chair, threw a mantle over his head and belted a sword around his waist. “Follow me,” he said and passed through the doorway at the far end of the chamber.

  “We, too, must follow,” said Dagna. The doorway led to a long, unlit corridor that they walked down for some time before turning left. Jurgenbraw said nothing along the way, perhaps listening to what the spy had said. Either way it was clear that the exchanges were not for Haggart's ears.

  “What don't you want me to know?” he asked Dagna.

  “Some things must come to light in their own way and in their own time. This is neither. Come.”

  The corridor sloped downwards before opening up into an enormous cavern that was clearly not made by the hands of men. The walls were smooth and dripping with melt and the ceiling was bolstered by great pillars of stone, thicker than any tree and banded with steel rings. People, his people, were working here. Benches had been built in alcoves, fires burned in braziers and the din of hammers on steel, saws tearing through wood, echoed eerily around the space like some demonic forge. Haggart barely noticed that Jurgenbraw had resumed talking to the spy.

  “...we should have several ready by spring,” he said. “It will take a week to drive them to the coast. From there you can arrange a ship to meet us and take them to your King.” It was clear from the way he said it that this was no King of Jurgenbraw, thought Haggart.

  “We must assume that he's referring to Aaron who fled once the overthrow had succeeded and is now hidden somewhere from our web of intelligence. Our spy was working in the Royal Court right up until the Council arrived, hence the need for secrecy,” said Dagna.

  “You had spies in the Aaron's court?”

  “Since his reign began in 1268.”

  Haggart was stunned at this revelation. “How long had the Council been plotting his overthrow?”

  “There is a lot you do not know, Haggart. For now, let's keep to the matters at hand.” Dagna began to walk around the workshop and invited him to follow. Haggart was beginning to feel like he'd been blind for the last 25 years; there was so much that he'd been oblivious to, so many clues to what'd really been going on.

  Haggart went from bench to bench, seeing what each worker was doing, how the pieces were going together. Some were carpenters, others were skilled metal workers. Stone masons. Jewellers. All had a part of the machine they were working on and another group gathered around wooden frames putting the whole thing together.

  “This is quite a spectacle, isn't it?” Dagna said, amused by it.

  “I didn't know my people had so many skills,” Haggart replied.

  “They didn't. Jurgenbraw had them trained by men who were shipwrecked at Kurgen bay, 40 miles south of here.”

  “Shipwrecked?”

  “Intentionally. Captains were paid handsomely to run aground their ships if a tradesman was on board. Once used, the man would be taken into the cold and left to die, taking Jurgenbraw's secret with him.”

  “And you're saying that Aaron knew all this?”

  “This and a great many other dark things we have yet to discuss. Sadly, this memory is about to come to an end. Watch.”

  Haggart turned and saw that Jurgenbraw was grinning.

  “Thank you for your efforts … but our relationship is at an end,” he said. A man appeared to Jurgenbraw's right and a hammer was swung and the memory faded. Haggart and Dagna found themselves stood in the 'Sundered Helm' once more.

  “Our spy returned, miraculously, after being saved by a passing wanderer making his way through the valley. He was all but dead before he came here by sea. I was able to extract this memory before he died.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps you do, but there is more to this tale still. Enough for today though. I have some more business to a
ttend to, but I will return. Herbert will have a meal prepared for you.”

  Dagna left through the door, leaving Haggart to his thoughts. With a grin he signalled to Harry, in his usual fashion, to bring him some ale. Harry, smiling, came over with a mug of tepid water.

  The door to the pub opened and he turned, expecting Dagna to appear once more but instead it was Lorrie framed by the daylight behind her.

  “Hello Haggart,” she said. Her face wore a relieved but tearful look and her long hair cascaded down her shoulders like a golden waterfall. Her beauty was amplified in the world of Dagna's creation and Haggart felt a surge of pleasant pride in knowing her.

  “I see Dagna has been giving you lessons,” he said.

  “I'm now an official Summoner of the Council which means I'm entitled to training. Plus I spend most of my days in the library now and I’ve learned so much!” She took in his face, his expression and looked visibly relieved. “It's true - you're okay then?”

  “Yes Lorrie, thanks. Dagna has been 'visiting' so to speak. How are you?”

  She smiled and nodded but there was tension. “Haggart, I'm...”

  He waved away her apology with his hand. “I'm sorry. Sorry that I wasn't honest with you from the start. I think I planned to explain it to you as you got older, but I just kept putting it off until I felt it was too late.”

  She smiled and sat opposite him. “I sometimes wonder if I could make a world like this and just hide in it forever. Never waking up, making my own rules, my own bloody weather... But it wouldn't be real, would it?”

  “It feels pretty real, doesn't it?” he said.

  “Yes, it does. I sometimes create my own before I go to bed. I make the 'Helm and some of our friends and the sun is always shining and warm. Mum is there too, what you showed me of her, and she rides that beautiful horse across the fields at the bottom of our land. But I can only sustain it for a few minutes before I'm exhausted.”

  “Dagna is a very powerful Summoner.”

  “Yes, he is.” She sighed and looked away. “I'm glad you're okay, Haggart. I couldn't have lived with myself if you'd never woken up.”