The Forging of Dawn

by Jacob Peppers

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Newsletter Signup

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Say hello!

  Newsletter Signup

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Forging of Dawn: A Nightfall Wars novella

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2019 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Visit the author website: http://www.jacobpeppersauthor.com

  To my dad,

  Thanks for listening to all my stories—

  Even the real ones.

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  1

  The town of Entin blazed like a beacon in the night. Torches and lanterns burned at regular intervals along the street while those few who traveled within the city carried their own lights to banish the darkness from their path. Yet despite the burning fires, the nightly travelers cast suspicious glances at the shadows huddled menacingly on the sides of buildings and in the mouths of poorly-lit alleyways.

  Within those gazes, one, if he looked closely enough, might see a range of emotions—fear not least among them. But there were other feelings too, for even as they feared, the town’s citizens laughed inwardly at themselves for their worry, telling themselves they were foolish, that they were not children to be scared of the night. But their self-assurances were largely empty, and their inner laughter never reached the surface, did not sound out into the darkness, for should they let it, that laughter might sound too much like madness, might become, without their meaning it, a scream.

  The traveling merchant standing at his stall did not fault them for their fear, for he knew better than most the dangers the darkness held. The shadows, after all, were not always innocent or empty. Sometimes they had teeth and claws, and their caperings weren’t the product of the shifting light of torches, but were instead the subtle questing of the ever-hungry Dark, looking to sate that hunger within itself which was, in the end, insatiable.

  Torrik knew these things to be true, for long ago he had been one of those entrusted to watch the darkness, one of those chosen to venture into the shadows and reveal the truths hidden there. A dark past, one of blood and danger, and one he had believed behind him. But a man can never leave his past behind, not truly. This was another truth Torrik had recently come to learn.

  A man’s past trailed after him always, waiting, in its own time, to make a lie of the new life he thought to fashion for himself. It was such a past that had brought him here, to this place, that made him cast a suspicious glance at each person as they walked by, waiting for the words he had come to hear, the words he did not want to hear.

  His five-year-old son played on the ground behind the stall. The boy must have felt Torrik’s eyes on him, for he glanced up from his play, smiling before turning back to the figurine he held in a small, pudgy hand, one depicting Chosen Olliman, the High Priest who had led Entarna against the nightwalkers during the Night War.

  It had been a terrible, bloody struggle, but one in which Olliman and all the country’s people had been victorious, defeating the night’s creatures. But, perhaps that wasn’t true. After all, the creatures had appeared again, hadn’t they? The night, it seemed, had not stayed conquered for long. In his darker moments, Torrik doubted it ever would.

  He studied his son, watched him playing contently with the figurine, in his face a child’s happiness, one unmarred by his father’s worries. And why not? He was young, young and innocent and trusting completely in his parents to keep him safe against the world’s dangers.

  I should not have brought him here, Torrik thought, not for the first time. We should not have brought him here.

  At the other end of the stall, his wife, Elayna, spoke with a customer—the night’s second one. The man was tall, with the broad shoulders, calloused hands, and thick muscles that spoke of a life spent in physical labor. Yet for all his size, the stranger cast nervous looks at the shadows pooling along the edges of the town square, as if afraid one might rise up and attack at any moment. In another place, another time, the man might have been mocked for fearing the darkness like a child, but not here, not now. The children, after all, had been right to fear.

  Torrik’s wife said something, too low for him to hear, and the big man’s attention was pulled back to her, an almost guilty expression on his face, one that slowly melted away as she spoke to him in the soft, reassuring way she had. She reached up and removed a lantern—one of their finest, with an added spare reservoir to hold more oil than most—and placed it on the wooden stall in front of the man.

  The big man hunched over it, eyeing it from every angle before finally picking it up reverently, checking the wicking and the reservoir for any fault or flaw. He examined the lantern the way a soldier might see to a new sword before going into battle, one with which he was unfamiliar and that he did not yet trust. And for this, too, Torrik did not blame him, for the simple pottery lantern was indeed a weapon and a shield both, one with which a man might do battle against the darkness or, more likely, only try to survive it.

  Soon, the man left, the light of his newly-purchased lantern shining in the darkness, carrying a basket of hemp and oil and some flint and steel. Torrik watched him go, repressing a sigh. The man had clearly been a laborer of little means, and the lantern had not been cheap, though Torrik and his wife had sold it at a loss. The man and his family might not eat well for the next few days after the purchase, but then, a man could survive for days without food. He could not pass a single night in the darkness.

  “You are growing maudlin again. I can see it in your face.”

  Torrik turned to see his wife watching him. He did not lie, for she would know, no matter how hard he might try to hide it. She had always been the one person he could never fool. “Yes. He was a poor man. Now, he is poorer.”

  She gave him a small smile, the one that always seemed to tell him she understood and knew much more than he ever would—a truth
he had long since resigned himself to. “Yes, but his family will be safe, and a night spent with an empty belly is not the worst of the world’s evils. Not now.”

  Torrik grunted, surprised, as always, by her ability to know the direction of his thoughts. “Safe,” he said, testing the word and finding it strange, alien to his tongue. “But for how long?”

  She considered the question then finally shrugged. “It is a good lantern, a good light. With proper care, it will give his family many years of good use. But then, that’s not what you’re asking me. Is it?”

  His eyes drifted back to his son, and a memory, one he had long tried and failed to bury, burgeoned in him. He is no normal boy, Torrik, surely you must—

  He forced the thought down with a will, turning back to his wife. “No. I guess it isn’t.”

  She did not miss the look—in truth, there were few things she ever missed—and she gave a small sigh of her own. “They were just words, Torrik,” she said, again seeming to pull his thoughts out of his head with ease. “Even Ulem can be wrong. He was wrong. He said we would see signs, didn’t he? And there have been none…” She paused, glancing at Alesh to make sure he was still consumed in his play and paying no attention to his parents’ conversation. Then she turned back to Torrik, a worry and a fierce defensiveness on her face. “Not since he was a baby, and those were all explainable.”

  Torrik nodded slowly. In truth, he wasn’t sure they were, but the ground which they covered had been covered many times before, and the impressions they’d left—and would leave, should he pursue it—were well-known and familiar. So, instead, he forced a smile he did not feel. “Of course, you’re right. It’s only…I do not like this.”

  She followed his gaze to their covered wagon on the side street, wherein lay a trunk. And within the trunk, a letter. Such a simple thing—a sheet of parchment, ink scribbled hastily on its surface, as if its author had been in distress or, at the least, in a hurry. Words on a page. Yet the words, the letter, had been enough to jerk Torrik and his wife and son from their life’s path, the one they had worked so hard to forge for themselves. He wanted to tell himself they were only words, but he could not; they were life and death. If they were true, it meant whoever had written them intended Torrik to become the man he had once been, the man he had thought he’d left behind years ago, when Elayna showed the first signs of the child growing within her belly.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Torrik,” Elayna said, but he could hear the worry, mirror to his own, in her whisper. “They know we don’t do that anymore. Not since Amedan blessed us with Alesh.”

  He thought she was trying to convince herself as much as him, but he couldn’t blame her, for she, too, had become someone else. Once, they had been agents of the Light—she the mind, and he the hand it guided. They had accomplished much during their service, but they had sacrificed much as well, and it was a life neither missed. He did not want to become the man he had once been—was not sure he could, even if he wanted to. But the words on the letter, while innocuous enough on the surface, had been a question, and they had given answer, coming to the town of Entin despite their reluctance.

  “We still serve,” Elayna went on, bitterness in her voice, “if not as we once did. Isn’t it enough for them? Will it ever be enough?”

  The question was not to Torrik, not really, but he decided he’d answer it anyway. “If all lights go out—”

  “Then darkness reigns,” she said, finishing the saying. “I know, Torrik. I know,” she repeated, meeting his eyes, and he could see tears gathering in her gaze. “But surely there are others, ones better suited to…” She trailed off, and he didn’t bother answering. They both knew, after all. If there had been others, ones better suited, then the letter would not have come to them. But it had. Amedan protect them, it had.

  He took his wife’s hands then, giving her a smile, one he hoped was reassuring. “It’s okay, El. We’ll figure out who sent the letter, and we’ll just tell them we can’t help them.” The two turned to study their son then. “We’ve got other worries now,” Torrik went on. “It isn’t just about us, not anymore. There’s Alesh to look after.”

  She nodded, running a finger along her eyes. “Do you think they will listen?”

  “We’ll make them listen. We’re merchants now, El. That’s all we are. If they wish for us to continue to carry letters for them, fine, but we’ll do no more than that.”

  She nodded again, slowly, her eyes scanning the town square. Night was on in full—had been for two hours at least—yet the square was lit well enough for them to see that they were alone now, the other merchants and tradesmen having long since packed their goods and left. There were none of the townspeople either, only the empty square and the three of them, as if they were part of their own separate world. Torrik wished they were. Such a thing, though perhaps intimidating to some, would have been a dream come true for him. “How long will we give them?” she asked, studying the empty square.

  Torrik considered that. “Another hour, no more. Perhaps we owe them that much, at least. But if we hear nothing, that will be the end of it—we’ll leave in the morning.”

  “Mama?” Alesh was frowning at the figure of Olliman he held.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “His sword,” Alesh said. “It broke.”

  Torrik and his wife shared a look at that. It was a day, it seemed, for dark omens. “It’s okay, baby,” she said, turning back to their son. “We’ll fix it.”

  Torrik watched her go, noted the way she hugged Alesh tightly before taking the figure. We’ll fix it, she had said. But could they? Could anyone? It seemed to him that he had spent his life trying to fix things, that Olliman and all the other Chosen of Amedan had dedicated their lives to the same course, yet the darkness still came. The darkness still took.

  The sounds of footsteps in the deserted square pulled him from his thoughts, and he saw a figure wearing the gray robes of a priest making its way across the square toward them. A man, judging by his build, but his hood was drawn, covering his face. Torrik told himself he only imagined the air of menace that lay about the stranger as he drew closer, clearly heading in their direction.

  The man glanced in every direction, as if to assure himself that they were alone in the square, and Torrik frowned, his hand drifting to the dagger—long and well-used—hidden behind his stall. If his experience as an agent had taught him anything, it was that a man could never be too careful; the truth of it was that he could never be careful enough. It was a lesson most men learned too late, to their inevitable grief, but one Torrik never forgot.

  So he waited, watching the figure approach. Torrik had lived his life largely in the shadows, fighting a silent battle against the darkness, uncovering truths the night tried to keep hidden, and exposing the dangers it held. Most often, those dangers were men, much like himself. For not all the night’s creatures had talons and fangs; many, far too many, were only people, men and women who had been seduced by the darkness, by the temptations—power and riches chief among them—that it offered.

  Yet, for all his care, for all his wariness, he could not hide his gasp of surprise as the stranger came to stand in front of his stall, raising his hood and revealing his features. “Ulem?” he asked, incredulous.

  The priest smiled widely. “Ah, Torrik, but it does an old man’s heart good to see you.”

  Torrik grinned despite himself, all his worries and fears eclipsed by the sight of his old friend alive and well. Or, at least, alive. He didn’t miss the dark circles under the older man’s eyes, or the exhaustion and pain in his gaze. Still, his hand shake was as firm, his laugh as hearty, as Torrik remembered. “Amedan be praised, but I never thought I’d see you again,” he said, laughing. “What are you doing here?”

  The priest grinned. “Oh, we’ll come to that soon enough, I imagine. Tell me, how is Elayna?”

  “She’s good,” Torrik said, and then sighed. “At least, she’s as good as anybody can be, in such t
imes.” He turned to where his wife and son were playing on the ground. “Elayna, look who it is.”

  She looked up, pausing in her play with Alesh, and her eyes widened. She rose, hurried forward, and pulled the older man into an embrace. When she released him, his grin was, if anything, wider than it had been before. “Ah, my lady, but you are as beautiful as ever.”

  She rolled her eyes mockingly. “And you are as much a flatterer as ever. An odd talent, for a priest.”

  Ulem brought a hand to his heart, still smiling. “Ah, it seems that you have retained not just your beauty but your wit as well. As for flattering, being a priest does not mean I am blind and I am, after all, compelled to tell the truth.”

  “Mama, can we play some more?” Alesh asked, coming to stand beside his mother.

  Ulem laughed, crouching down before him despite the obvious pain it caused him. “Ah, and this handsome lad here must surely be Alesh. The last time I saw you, you were but a baby, barely bigger than my head.” He winked. “And I have been told, on more than one occasion, that I have a particularly big head—another strange thing for a priest, I suppose, and it is a wonder it will fit under the hood of my robe at all.”

  Alesh laughed at that. The priest leaned forward, studying him, and Torrik felt a twinge of unease as the old man took note of the two figures in his son’s hands. One the same figurine of Olliman as he’d held before, the other a carving of King Argush, the man who had led the nightlings against the people of Entarna in the Night War. Its maker had made of Argush a mockery, crafting his features to appear ridiculous, comical, but that did not stop the dread Torrik felt at seeing it.

  “Ah,” Ulem asked, “and who are these, then?”

  Alesh frowned. “But you’re a priest. Shouldn’t…don’t you know?”

  The old man laughed. “Ah, but it seems you have inherited your mother’s keen mind, gods watch over me. Yes, I suppose I should. Still, might you educate an old man?”