Beyond the Edge of Dawn

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Banquet?”

  “Yes. The Caliph felt, as did I, that your victory was inevitable and all should know of your courage and dedication to our people. Think of the boost in morale this will inspire among the ranks.”

  Pirneon wasn’t overly concerned about morale. He was more worried about the enemy forces he was certain were gathering nearby like a terrible storm in the restless dune. It was only a matter of time before that storm struck. He doubted he or Barum would live long enough to witness it. Something in the way Bradgen’s narrow eyes stared at him as they wound through the camp unsettled him. Pirneon began searching for evidence of concealed archers strategically placed along their route of march. That Bradgen was armed and more than willing to kill him if the opportunity arose went without saying.

  Pirneon was caught in a dangerous game well beyond his ability to undertake. He cursed his ill fortune. This was the third consecutive job that had ended poorly. He’d narrowly escaped the last job with his hide intact.

  He briefly recalled when Adonmeia’s agents had first approached him in a border town in western Averon. Capture Habrim and end the war. That was his charter. It sounded simple enough, but even then he’d held reservations. Rulers were deceptive by nature, and Adonmeia was a master. It was his way or no way. There was little room for the free will of a Gaimosian in the new desert empire.

  “Adonmeia had no way of knowing I would succeed,” he ventured.

  “Name me one ruler you have come across who plans to fail,” Bradgen countered. “Kingdoms aren’t built on bodies. We need people to serve in our new empire. Habrim’s capture gives us that resource.”

  “Slaves.”

  “What’s in a name?” Bradgen smiled. “The important thing is that you were successful, and our plans can continue from here.”

  Pirneon took ill at the thought of Habrim’s people being reduced to slavery. “What happens to Habrim?”

  “That is for the Caliph to decide. Reinforcements are already pushing forward from the southern tribes. Perhaps you noticed the open areas in camp? The war will soon be over. Habrim is the catalyst.”

  He was bragging now and probably felt there was justification for it. Pirneon knew escaping had just gotten deadlier. He ran over a dozen different scenarios, and none had worthwhile outcomes. His best bet lay in killing Adonmeia and Bradgen at the banquet and escaping in the confusion. However unlikely, it was still possible. He needed to get to Barum at once.

  Hundreds of large canvas tents were being erected on either side of the avenue. They were clearly expecting the arrival of a massive amount of troops. A major offensive was about to begin, not the gentle subjugation Bradgen explained.

  “What of my payment?” Pirneon asked after deciding he wasn’t to glean any more useful information.

  “All monies will be paid as soon as the prisoner has a collar around his neck and is on his knees in front of the Caliph.”

  Deciding there was no harm in risking it, Pirneon admitted, “I gave the Satrap my word he would not be killed.”

  Bradgen paused. “Ah…did you? The ever-famous sense of Gaimosian honor. His fate is no longer in your hands, but rest assured all will be properly taken care of. Don’t trouble yourself over such a trivial matter. Habrim will be dealt with, and you will be on your way.”

  They stopped outside of Pirneon’s tent.

  “The Caliph will expect you at dusk. We have much to celebrate.”

  Pirneon stood a while longer to watch Bradgen and his retinue slink off with Habrim in tow. The Satrap glanced towards Pirneon before they were lost in the crowd. Pirneon understood that no one was going to be killed at least until the banquet—for good or bad, he wasn’t sure. If his fears turned out to be realized, the enemy wasn’t going to wait very long to attack.

  Sighing with frustration, Pirneon went inside. He didn’t like having his hands tied, but there seemed little he could do. This close to Adonmeia’s quarters and already under suspicion, his every action would be watched and closely monitored. No doubt, spies were already assuming their positions around his tent.

  Barum looked up at the sound of his arrival. Young and with almost mousey brown hair, the squire was pleased to see his master return unharmed.

  “We’ve been watched more closely of late,” Barum told him. “I think they are about to make their move.”

  “Tonight,” Pirneon confirmed.

  He was pleased with how quickly Barum had caught on to their situation. He was a good squire and well on the path to becoming a good knight.

  Barum nodded. “I figured as much and already packed most of our equipment. The horses are prepared as well. There are enough rations to see us out of the desert.”

  “Leaving might be more difficult than I had anticipated.”

  Barum paused.

  Pirneon continued, “Our beloved Adonmeia has arranged a victory celebration in my honor this evening.”

  “Weapons restricted, no doubt,” Barum added. “I don’t like it. That worm Bradgen has been collecting more power ever since we arrived. He’s got the most loyal men and gold. This is a dangerous game.”

  Pirneon folded his arms across his chest. “Agreed. This certainly gives new thought to the desert tribes being little more than barbarians. I also wouldn’t be surprised to find he has more troops loyal to him than to Adonmeia.”

  “This will get bloody.”

  “If we survive to see it through,” Pirneon agreed. “There’s more, though. My belief is that Habrim wanted to be captured. I have a feeling that, once he’s killed tonight, a vast army will sweep into camp to claim revenge.”

  “But he was promised to be a political prisoner, not executed.”

  Pirneon grinned. “Indeed he was. I hate to admit it, but I think we are in over our heads…again.”

  “Worse than Antheneon?”

  Pirneon laughed. “Much worse, and there’s no innocent princess involved this time. Any suggestions on how we might escape?”

  “Not really. Even if this banquet is going to distract the rest of the camp, I can’t see him letting you just walk out. Adonmeia is a petty man.”

  “Best get out my dagger vest. I’m going to need it.”

  Barum grumbled under his breath but snatched up the vest already laid out on the simple folding wooden chair in the corner. The vest held a dozen three-inch blades, concealed and honed to razor sharpness. They’d saved Pirneon’s life on more than one occasion, and he hoped they would again tonight.

  “The sooner we leave this place, the better,” Barum commented as he handed over the vest. “Can’t we find an easy job in a cooler climate next time?”

  Pirneon stripped off his torn and stained tunic. “You’re forgetting one thing. First, we have to find a way out of this mess.”

  He finished stripping out of his fouled clothes and headed for the private bath chamber he’d insisted on upon accepting this job. As usual, Barum had anticipated his needs. The bath was filled with lukewarm water, the best they could manage given the almost murderous heat in the middle of the desert. Pirneon was tall for a Gaimosian at almost six and a half feet and was forced to scrunch up to fit into the metal tub.

  One of the older knights still alive, he’d been there from the beginning of the war until the Fall. After the breaking, Pirneon and a handful of others had returned to their ruined lands to gather what they could of the codes and traditions before going into hiding. There, they had trained the youth and carried on the old ways. The following years had not been kind.

  Pirneon slid deeper into the water and closed his eyes. His silver hair draped over the edge. As tired and filthy as he was, he wasn’t about to let this simple luxury go to waste. His eyes closed. Barum entered what felt like mere moments later to wake him. Groaning his way out of the fouled water, Pirneon dressed in a clean tunic and pants while concealing his vest. He didn’t want to go through the formality of the banquet but knew his absence would arouse suspicion. The only way to survive was to go through the
motions and kill those responsible before they killed him. A sad song, to be sure, but one he’d grown accustomed to playing.

  He halted at the tent entrance and laid a fatherly hand on Barum’s shoulder. “Have the horses saddled. If I don’t return, you know where to go. Speed and fortune, my friend.”

  Barum nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Pirneon smiled tightly and left.

  The sun was beginning to set and, with it, their futures.

  NINE

  Betrayed

  The main tent set up for the Caliph’s banquet was hundreds of meters long and half that wide. Thousands of soldiers and acolytes filled the tables and chairs. Adonmeia and his closest advisors and generals sat at a long table filled with different meats and vegetables. Pirneon considered asking where they managed to find so much fresh fruit this deep in the desert but found the notion mildly inconvenient. He didn’t care. Well-honed instincts had him already searching for the easiest exit point. Killing Adonmeia meant nothing if he couldn’t escape.

  At the same time, Adonmeia’s narrow eyes were focused directly on Pirneon. The Vengeance Knight knew he was a target, despite Habrim’s chained figure on display. Assassins and second-rate cutthroats lined the crowds waiting for the word. They were poorly disguised and stuck out immediately. Adonmeia watched but didn’t move. Pirneon sighed calmly and marched with all of the poise of a veteran warrior to the head table. He stopped short and bowed.

  “Rise, my friend,” Adonmeia said in a light voice. “It is we who should all bow to you. You’ve brought me my most hated enemy and given us the opportunity to successfully end this war. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  The Caliph was dressed in ornate robes that sparkled and flowed in a hideous array of bright colors and cheap jewels. Adonmeia was the type of man who wanted to be more than what he truly was. Overweight and balding, he portrayed himself as the gracious savior of the kingdom. The reality was anything but. He’d grown up poor and an orphan. As a youth, he had been forced to steal and murder to get by. Now was no different. Some said when he smiled all you could see was daggers.

  Pirneon graciously waved off the false accolades. “I merely did what you commissioned me for. Losses were more than expected. They should be recognized as the true heroes.”

  Adonmeia dismissed his comments with a wave. “Losses that have already been replaced. Come, sit and enjoy this feast in your honor. It is a glorious victory we celebrate.”

  He clapped his hands twice, and a serving girl brought Pirneon a porcelain mug of wine. Bradgen sat Adonmeia’s opposite side and casually watched as the Pirneon claimed his seat. For the slightest moment, Pirneon fear the wine was poisoned. Outright murder wasn’t in Adonmeia’s bag of tricks, however, for the Caliph was of a subtle nature. Killing Pirneon at the beginning of the banquet would plunge his army’s morale. Pirneon figured his death would be rigged to look like a jealous soldier who, in turn, would be killed to remain quiet.

  The charade continued for another hour. Jugglers and acrobats performed, and bards sang tales of the greatness of Adonmeia and his glorious crusade. Pirneon thought it was more a circus than anything important. Anticipation was building despite his years of training and self-control. He almost couldn’t wait for Bradgen to set his plan in motion. He ate sparingly, and his eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. He’d already picked out three of his potential assassins. They seemed nervous and skittish, enough that Pirneon knew they were false attackers. A fourth assassin sat not far from the head table. Pirneon was almost impressed. The man had the eyes of a professional killer and was as composed. That made him the primary target.

  Adonmeia abruptly stood. The tent gradually fell silent as all heads turned towards the Caliph. Pirneon caught the malevolent gleam in his eyes, wild and lusty.

  “Tonight is the dawn of a new era for our kingdom. No longer will the tribes waste their futures trying to kill each other.”

  A cheer erupted. Men hammered their mugs on the table. Adonmeia held his hands out for silence.

  “After so long, our most hated enemy has at last been humbled. The enemy alliance has lost its head thanks to the services of our esteemed Vengeance Knight. Satrap Habrim is now in custody!”

  A pair of burly guards forcibly hauled Habrim to his feet and dragged him before the assembly. Bradgen shifted his gaze to his placed killer and nodded so slight Pirneon almost missed it. How Habrim managed to maintain his dignity was beyond him. A great cheer arose through the crowd.

  “This usurper thought to keep us from our destiny,” Adonmeia roared over the noise. “His ragtag filth of tribes wanted us to rot and suffer in poverty and famine while they grew steadily stronger. Is this fair?”

  “No!” came the rousing shout in reply.

  “And when we were at our weakest, they meant to attack! To crush us under their wicked heel and make slaves of us all!”

  Pirneon listened intently, not for the message but for what wasn’t said. There was a sense of magic in the words, and the lie was presented flawlessly. He’d seen no indications of an invasion of any fashion. His suspicions were that Habrim’s people were the ones in suffering and Adonmeia wanted to crush them a little harder. Politics of the desert were often cruel without discrimination.

  “Destiny is with us. With the usurper on his knees and in our grasp, the enemy will lose heart and flee before the might of our scimitars!”

  Another great cheer arose.

  “Bring me the prisoner!”

  Adonmeia wore a smug look as Habrim was pushed and prodded before him. The air of intensity rose sharply. All within the tent felt electricity charging the atmosphere. This was a moment they’d long been waiting for. Habrim was taken to a small raised platform behind the head table. A guard lashed out when Habrim moved too slow, catching him behind the knee. A sickening crunch was heard as Habrim fell. With a nod from Adonmeia, the executioner stepped from behind a section of paneling.

  Pirneon felt helpless. His promise to the Satrap was in vain, and there was nothing he could do to stay the moment. He was forced to turn to his own plans. Habrim had made his choice and—if this was, indeed, part of a conspiratorial plan—was prepared for the consequences. Now it was time for Pirneon. He folded his arms inconspicuously across his chest, hands stealthily slipping into his tunic and grasping the hilts of a pair of daggers.

  The head table was curved, with the horns facing row after endless row of diagonally placed tables all filled with now-frenzied savages. Oil lanterns hung high above their heads, giving him enough to see by. Bradgen had no doubt placed him at the end of the table nearest the others on purpose. With no one between the killer and Pirneon, he had a clear avenue of approach. Pirneon knew that he’d strike first as soon as Bradgen gave the signal.

  Adonmeia slowly walked behind Habrim and leaned down.

  “This is your end, my brother,” he said in a voice only they could hear. “Once you’re dead, the desert is mine.”

  Habrim shifted his gaze up to the hate-filled eyes leering down on him. “You were never a brother. Our mother gave birth to us, but any relation ends there. Once I’m dead, you’ll soon follow. You have no idea the wave of violence you’re about to unleash.”

  Adonmeia hissed at the insult. He rose and nodded to the executioner. Sword in hand, the black clad man kicked Habrim in the back and forced him down until he was laying prostrate on the platform. The crowd tensed.

  “Have you any last words, brother?” Adonmeia snarled.

  Habrim placed his forehead on the platform and quietly began to pray. The executioner had a clean blow to the neck. Adonmeia raised his arm high. No one breathed. Pirneon’s fingers twined inside his tunic. The cool leather on the dagger hilts tingled on his fingertips. It felt good to be touching a weapon again. He looked right. Bradgen’s eyes widened with unfettered joy. Time slowed. The moment was now. Adonmeia dropped his arm. The sword came down. Silvered steel gleamed in the lantern light. Blood splashed on golden robes. Bone an
d flesh were torn. Habrim’s head rolled away. Soldiers howled in delight. A lone man slipped out unnoticed through the back. The executioner reached down and snatched Habrim’s head by the beard and handed it to Adonmeia. Triumph etching his face, Adonmeia presented the head to his warriors.

  The world exploded.

  Bradgen spun on the Caliph and plunged a table knife deep into his belly. Adonmeia gasped in shock and pain as Bradgen stabbed repeatedly. The killer behind Pirneon rose swiftly and closed on him. In one fluid motion, Pirneon whirled out of his chair and attacked. His dagger pierced the killer’s throat before twisting sharply and ripping a wide vertical gap. Hot blood sprayed across the floor. Pirneon was already moving as a pair of killers shifted to block his path. Bodies struck the ground. Adonmeia’s head nearly clipped Pirneon’s heel as the Vengeance Knight lunged at the killers. Both fell with daggers in their hearts.

  Soldiers were moving. Many were frozen in shock, but a core group had secretly secured the exits and was striking down those known to be completely loyal to the Caliph. Pirneon tried to use the confusion and make his escape when a bone-jarring blow struck across the back of his head. Darkness took him.

  Pirneon awoke to the sharp sting of being slapped in the face. His head pounded unlike anything he’d experienced before, and it took a concentrated effort just to open his eyes. His vision was blurred, and he saw three of everything. Another slap jarred his senses.

  “Wake up, dog.”

  Much as he tried, Pirneon drifted back into unconsciousness.

  He finally awoke some time later and discovered he was in a dark tent. A single low-burning torch illuminated the far corner by the tent flap. He sensed more than saw the pair of guards watching from the shadows. Every small movement sent shivers of pain through his body. Pirneon tried to place a hand over his eyes, but they were bound by heavy chains. Without any hope of breaking his bonds, he could only wait for one of the guards to make a mistake.

  He felt more than heard the tent flap brush back. There was little doubt as to who had entered.