Beyond the Edge of Dawn

by Christian Warren Freed

  Kavan opened his mouth but paused, unsure of what he should say, for the details still weren’t settled in his mind. The confusion laced his eyes, prompting Dag to nod thoughtfully. Ultimately Kavan decided that such a conversation wasn’t for the open street. The pair headed off to the nearest kitchen where the food was overpriced and under flavored. Just the way a man used to always being on the move appreciated. Only after Kavan’s stomach was full and his taste buds left in utter confusion was he ready to tell his tale.

  Dag sat through it listening intently. His mouth dropped at the details of Kavan’s battle with the werebeast. In so far as he knew there were no more of the dangerous, virtually mythical creatures, left in the world. For the Gaimosian to have stumbled upon them now whispered dark tidings. Much of the tale became more manageable to accept by the time they reached the bottom of their second pitcher of ale.

  “You lead a charmed life,” Dag announced with an exaggerated flourish. Foam peppered his upper lip.

  Kavan grinned sheepishly. “Not by choice. It’s hard when you know nothing else.”

  Yet another sad fact Dag was all too aware of.

  “So you think there’s a connection with the king?”

  Did he? “I…I don’t know. There’s been a few other caravans I’ve come across along my way here. Some didn’t know anything, others pretended to know too much. One or two told it true. Whether the king of Aradain is directly involved with the werebeasts remains to be seen but all information points to his kingdom as the launching point.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was last in Aradain,” Dag said suggestively.

  “No, Dag.”

  “No what?”

  Kavan set his empty mug down. “Stay away. If this turns out to be half as bad as I think it will Aradain will best be avoided.”

  Brows furrowed, eyes drawn together, Dag replied, “I’m a grown man capable of making my own decisions, be they bad or good. Well, more bad than good of late but that’s not the point! You see, I’ve got a good group of people working for me. They watch my back and take care of them. If we want to go to Aradain that’s our business.”

  “So you do want to go?”

  “Who said that foolishness? We haven’t made up our mind is what I’m telling you. Malweir’s a big world. Plenty of places for a man of my quality to get into a little mischief.”

  Indignant, Dag crossed his arms and leaned back into the rickety chair. Rope stretched, threatening to break against his weight. He frowned, silently cursing everything in town for being, well, old.

  “Mischief? I seem to recall a night a few years back when you and I were standing up to our ankles in blood and a stack of corpses,” Kavan reminded.

  Dag beamed. “Damn straight. That was a tough fight but they just wouldn’t stop attacking.” His face darkened slightly. “We made enough to pay the widows of the boys we lost.”

  Kavan caught the attention of a serving maid and signaled for another pitcher. Another drink to honor those who had fallen over the course of his career. The list was long but every name remembered.

  “Look, Kavan, if this Aradain business is as tough as you think I don’t understand why you need to get involved. There’s got to be easier jobs throughout the kingdoms. No sense in risky your neck for a cause not your own, at least my mother used to say.”

  “I didn’t think you had a mother,” Kavan countered.

  “Says the Gaimosian,” Dag glowered. “Why are you really getting involved? This can’t all be from some blind sense of nobility.”

  “It’s not. Dag, thus far I’ve killed two of the werebeasts. The last one nearly got me. I’ve seen what just one can do against unprotected civilians. Can you imagine what several can achieve if unleashed on a village? I won’t allow that to happen, so long as it is within my power to prevent it.”

  “Honor then,” Dag grumbled. “Don’t make any sense dying for nothing I suppose.”

  “No it doesn’t. That’s why I don’t plan on dying.”

  “No sane man plans on it, Kavan.”

  “As you like to point out, we Gaimosians aren’t known for our sanity.”

  Dag nodded sagely in agreement. “Best of luck to you, my friend. Know that if you need me, I’ll be there. Maybe not as fast as I once was, but sooner or later.”

  “Thank you, Dag. Your offer means more than you know.”

  “I know!” he beamed. “S’what makes me special. Where are you heading to now? Aradain’s the other way last I recalled.”

  “Out into the Jebel Desert. I’m going to need help and there are other Knights nearby. Strength in numbers and all that.”

  “Good plan. Well, Kavan, I do believe it’s well past my bedtime. I’ll make sure you don’t run in to any other issues getting out of here,” Dag told him. “Until the next time.”

  They clasped hands and Kavan watched his friend shuffle through the growing crowd. Once again the Gaimosian was alone with naught but a quest and the strong desire for companionship. Whatever may come, the desert awaited. After that, well, that was anyone’s guess.

  SIX

  Pirneon

  Night had grown eerily silent. The lack of a moon cast a menacing pall over the still sands. Even at midnight, the air languished from heat. Sweat poured down the soot-blackened faces of the hundred warriors lying in the waist-high patch of desert grass. Ever so slowly, they inched forward. They’d been crawling towards the enemy camp since dusk and were almost in position to attack. Their leader gained the crest of a long dune and fixed his spyglass on the cluster of tents. He sighed as much from frustration as relief.

  A quick scan told him everything he needed to know. The oversized tent in the center, ringed with partially attentive guards, meant only one thing. The Satrap was here. His death or capture would signal the end of the war. The task wasn’t going to be easy. Camped below were close to seven hundred of the Satrap’s elite. Seven to one weren’t good odds by any means, but Pirneon had been through much worse. One thing he’d learned from his time among the tribes of the Jebel Desert was that life may be hard, but warriors were often soft.

  Having done his share of killing, Pirneon of Gaimos knew hard men. These desert dwellers were soft when it came to open conflict. He didn’t know the reasons behind such behavior, nor did he care. What mattered was getting paid for his services. Even now, Barum, his squire and aspiring Knight, was preparing their departure. Desert life didn’t agree with the aging knight.

  Anything besides the task at hand was wasted time. Pirneon cleared his thoughts. First the Satrap, then a new job. He glanced left and then right. With no way of knowing if his forces were all on line, he was mired by constant delay. The desert tribes were professional warriors as he had been for his long life. The once Knight Marshal of Gaimos frowned but could do little about it. He whispered orders to the sergeants on either side. They were supposed to be the pride of the Caliph’s army, but he found them sloppy and woefully underprepared for what needed to be done.

  Most were peasants in disguise. His opinion of the Caliph left him with vague doubts. The ruler of the desert was an unremarkable man. Copper skinned and swarthy, he lacked strong moral character despite his quest to unify the desert tribes under his banner. Pirneon had taken an instant dislike to the man. But work was work, and so long as the gems and gold kept coming, the knight planned on fulfilling his part of the contract.

  Muttering a prayer under his breath, Pirneon decided it was time. Spring had come and, with it, the desert rains. He’d timed the attack in this camp according to the court magician’s weather predictions. It was now or never as far as Pirneon was concerned. He rose up slightly and signaled the handful of archers directly behind. Theirs was the most critical role in the assault. Satisfied they were preparing, he turned back to the camp. Only four sentries could be seen patrolling the outer perimeter, giving him a false sense of security. Once they were dead, the avenue of approach for his force would be wide open.

  He thanked his good f
ortune for having led the scout the night prior. Having been a soldier for decades, Pirneon preferred to do his own reconnaissance before a major operation. It was paying off now. His own intelligence gave him detailed ingress and egress points along with the meager defensive strong points in the Satrap’s perimeter. Getting in wasn’t going to be much of an issue. Getting out…

  His biggest ally in the camp was routine. By now, the sentries were already complacent in their daily activities. Soldiers often have a tendency to relax when duties became routine. Routine kills. That was one of the Gaimosian military academy’s main tenants. Pirneon hoped to use it to his advantage.

  He raised his arm enough for the archers to see. Arrows were knocked, bows drawn. The moment was now. He dropped his arm. Six arrows thrummed through the darkness. Pirneon’s heart refused to beat. His entire plan hinged on the sentries being killed without noise. Only seconds went by, but it felt like an eternity. Five of the six shafts were true, and the sentries dropped dead.

  Pirneon already had his raiders up and moving before the last body hit the sand. Sword in hand, he charged silently down the dune. The soft sounds of a hundred others accompanied him. Pirneon raced past the feathered corpses. There, half of his force split off to the tents filled with sleeping soldiers. He directed a handful to snatch torches and burn the camp. The confusion alone should prove enough for him to reach the Satrap and do what needed to be done.

  Cries of alarm went up from around the camp. Flames sprang to life as the dry rotted fabric of the tents burned. Pirneon led the handful of men crowding him. This was the only chance he was going to get.

  “Come on,” he snapped. “Kill everyone in the way, and don’t stop until we gain the command tent.”

  The soldiers around him slashed their way through the camp with vigor. Pirneon found the indiscriminant slaughter a useless act. It served to slow their advance and inspire thoughts of revenge when the smoke cleared, threatening to provoke a wider war. The Satrap’s tribe was well connected and still had many allies. Any extended violence would keep Pirneon in the desert longer. He despised the desert. Snarling at his lazy thoughts, the Gaimosian hurried.

  Slowing to a creep at the edge of the last row of tents, Pirneon got his first good look at the command tent. More than two dozen alert and decidedly dangerous guards were posted by the front. They were heavily armed and expecting trouble. The battle raging throughout the camp scarcely interested them. Their sole purpose was to protect the Satrap. Swords drawn and archers ready, the guards were vigilant. Pirneon scowled.

  At least twenty meters of open area separated his raiders from the tent. The swordsmen weren’t an issue. It was the archers who worried Pirneon. Those crossbows were more than a match for even the most heavily armored. Having insisted on stealth over protection, Pirneon’s raiders would be woefully exposed. Their black tunics and pants wouldn’t even slow the bolts. The potential for slaughter was high but worth the risk as far as Pirneon was concerned. He grit his teeth and leaned back as the rest of his forces caught up.

  Most were bloodstained, and all were panting heavily. Pirneon found their lack of skill and discipline disturbing. The Satrap should already be in chains. Instead, he was forced to delay because of the sloppy barbarism of his allies. That ignorance was going to cost them dearly. Pirneon had no qualms about sacrificing a few for the greater good. Intensified sounds of battle drifted to him. All elements of surprise were lost. They were going to have to scrape their way out of the camp whether they succeeded or not.

  “Now! Rush the guards. Take down the crossbowmen first. I’ll grab the Satrap,” he ordered.

  Pirneon saw the fear in their eyes and almost sensed a trap. For the briefest of moments, he felt his soldiers plotting against him. The moment passed, but doubts lingered. The motley group Caliph Adonmeia had given him wasn’t fit to muck out stables, much less win a war. He smiled cruelly.

  “Attack!”

  The intensity in his voice gave them a start, and they paused for a split second in shock. One by one, they gathered their wits and charged. Howling and bellowing ancient war cries, they rushed towards the guards. Pirneon stood fast and watched the scene play out. The guards remained motionless. The raiders ran in an unorganized mob. He idly wondered how those fools would feel if they realized they were never meant to be more than a diversion. The thought almost made him smile.

  At five meters, the guards fired. A dozen crossbow bolts slammed into the massed ranks of enemy warriors and nearly halted the attack. Seven raiders dropped dead or wounded in gargled cries and a spray of hot blood. The front of the mob collided with the consolidated ranks of guards, and even more fell. Swords clashed with wild swings. The guards held. Without armor, Pirneon’s raiders were waiting targets. The ground soon grew slick with blood. Another salvo of arrows sliced into the back of the mob before they recovered enough to counterattack the flanks. With the archers successfully engaged, Pirneon moved.

  He was only going to get one chance. The Vengeance Knight danced past the battle, not stopping to fight unless absolutely necessary. Sped, strength, and conditioning brought him past the battle and into the tent. Common sense told him there’d be additional guards and servants inside, and he’d already drawn daggers. The tent flap brushed aside, and Pirneon immediately pitched forward into a somersault.

  The move caught the pair of guards unawares, giving him the moment he needed to attack. Pirneon stabbed from his knees. The daggers sunk deep into exposed thighs. Both men cried out. Pirneon rose and savagely slit the throat of the nearest guard. Confusion in his eyes, the guard futilely clutched at his throat as he fell. The second guard recovered better. Firelight reflected off the curve of his blade. Pirneon back-stepped and let him come. The guard drew back to strike. Pirneon darted forward, getting inside the guard’s reach. He slammed his dagger up through the lower jaw and into the brain. The immediate threat neutralized, Pirneon scanned his surroundings.

  The Satrap sat on a modest throne in the center of the tent. Horror blanched his features. Beady eyes peered out from beneath a gold turban encrusted with emeralds and rubies. He’d clearly not been expecting the amount of raw violence brought against him. His mottled grey beard and moustache concealed his mouth and jaw, hiding his other emotions. Old eyes the color of forged steel settled on Pirneon. He then did something the Vengeance Knight didn’t expect. He nodded his head in respect.

  “You are one of them, are you not?” he asked after recovering his senses. “A fabled Vengeance Knight.”

  Pirneon sheathed one of his daggers and stepped forward. “Yes.”

  The Satrap stood. “It is said among my people that none are your equals in battle. That the very name strikes fear in the hearts of the young and old. That you have come to dispatch me is indeed a sad day for the desert tribes.”

  “No,” Pirneon said. “I haven’t come to kill you. Adonmeia needs you alive to end this war. I am to deliver you alive and unharmed.”

  A flash of a smile. “Adonmeia wants us all dead. You included. He wants the desert for his own and will not stop until all bend knee to him. Whether by your sword or another’s, I am a dead man.”

  “The politics of the situation don’t interest me. I’ve been commissioned on specific purpose. We can do this dignified.”

  Outside, the muffled sounds of combat were continuing at a greatly reduced pace.

  “There is no dignity in being a hostage.”

  Pirneon paused. Something in the Satrap’s words didn’t sit well. That funny feeling of betrayal returned.

  The Satrap noticed his hesitation and pressed. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “As we speak Adonmeia sends his army across the desert to kill my people. Our villages are already under siege. He will slaughter every man, woman, and child. Adonmeia is a monster who employs monsters.”

  Pirneon stopped. A horn rang out, and the battle quickly faded.

  “If that were true, I’d know,” he replied. �
�I’m one of his generals and on the war council. There has been no talk of such actions.”

  The Satrap fixed him with a sorrowful look. “Adonmeia listens to only one man. All others are but expendable pawns. I am already dead, Vengeance Knight, but so are you.”

  Pirneon’s thoughts got the better of him. Bradgen. Adonmeia’s right hand and enforcer. Any move would have been filtered through Bradgen. Suddenly nothing made sense. A Gaimosian in name and deed, Pirneon had always held to a strict code of honor. He didn’t kill for sport or pleasure and viewed this act of kidnapping for the purpose of cold-blooded murder beneath him. For Adonmeia to have fooled him so completely left him knotted with grave doubts.

  The Satrap nodded. “At last you begin to understand. But it is too late.”

  A handful of soldiers burst into the tent. All were covered with blood and belonged to the Satrap. Pirneon knew he’d never be able to fight his way clear. Even so, he drew his sword and prepared. Glory would come.

  The Satrap held a staying hand. “My soldiers have not come to kill you.”

  “Might as well. I don’t see any alternative. There’s only one way this can end. If what you say is true, my life holds little value,” Pirneon snapped.

  “Enough have died already. There is another way. What remains of your assault force is fleeing back into the dunes, but it is not enough. If my people are to live, I must surrender.”

  A collective gasp escaped the soldiers. Even Pirneon was at a loss. He slowly lowered his sword. There was no real threat here. The Satrap issued orders in his native tongue. Several soldiers left to relay them throughout the camp. What little remained intact was about to be broken down for movement. Camp was being struck.

  “Take me back to Adonmeia. I will not let my people be slaughtered out of false pride. Others have fought, and all have died. Whole tribes no longer exist. That shall not be our fate.”

  He removed his turban and walked close enough to Pirneon to lay a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “This is the way of the desert. A hard life, to be sure.”