Auguries of Dawn

by Peyton Reynolds

Looking ahead as his horse crested a low rise in the roadway, Baiel Maves spied the great, steadfast walls of Lutarre Keep as they loomed in the distance, shrouded in the mist and shadows of dawn’s pale light. The keep was home to the warlords, men who had been born to War, or to those who had chosen it. A War medallion was all one needed to gain entrance through its walls, and was not granted to any without it; and none carrying this medallion, by either Birth or Choice, was ever turned away. The warlords took care of their own.

  Lutarre Keep was where men—and some women—came to learn how to fight and kill. It was where babies, born to War, were often abandoned, either by parents motivated by their fear of this Patron, or by those choosing to give their children over in an act of the highest honor and sacrifice, a tribute to the warlords’ cause. For many believed that the warlords of Dhanen’Mar, and not the Justice officers, were the true force behind the safety of the realm.

  This belief was not wholly untrue. While law-breaking and crime-punishing was the dominion of Justice, it was the warlords who were called upon to quell any civil unrests that were carried too far, or to deal with any threats forming beyond Dhanen’Mar’s borders. The warlords did not take orders from the king, and they pledged to him no fealty; instead, they considered any matter that requested their interference, and took action only if they determined doing so was in the best interests of the country. Many times throughout history they’d denied the wishes of their reigning king, disagreeing with his aims for one reason or another. Only once had a king been foolish enough to attempt punishing the warlords for their non-compliance, sending his royal army against them in retaliation. The army was annihilated, the king beheaded, and no Dhan’Marian king in the last three hundred years had dared risk such carnage to his forces again.

  In short, no one sought trouble with the warlords. But many sought them for another reason: Acceptance.

  It was not uncommon for those born to Death, ostracized by much of society, to make their way here to pledge War as their Secondary. For within Lutarre Keep they were welcomed and accepted, and brought into the family all residents of the keep were a part of. But War and Death were not the only Birth medallions seen within. There were those of Justice, Destiny, Healing, Commerce, and also Love. But with War as their Choice Patron, all were welcomed, with those not showing a propensity for the sword making themselves useful in a variety of other ways that aided in the daily care-taking of the keep and its inhabitants.

  There were only two Patrons who proved the exception to gaining admission to the keep. Even if War was chosen as a Secondary, none with a medallion of either Chaos or Revenge was permitted to become a part of the keep’s community. The reasons for this were more or less obvious; both were simply too dangerous an influence to have about the warlords. Chaos was an enemy to their strict and disciplined ways, whereas Revenge presented a motive far too petty to serve any of their needs. This exclusivity pained them, but the warlords had learned through experience not to waiver when it came to this most steadfast rule.

  Baiel Maves, who had now called Lutarre Keep his home for nine years, wore a War Birth medallion. Still a season distant from his nineteenth birthing-day, he could have, at any time in the past several years, journeyed to the home city of his choosing to select his Secondary, but this was a decision he still had yet to make. The reason for this was that he remained completely undecided as to which Patron’s blessing he wished to invoke. A large part of this indecision lay in the fact that he was very satisfied with his life as it was, and feared any choice would bring a manifestation of circumstances that would alter it. And this was something that he was unwilling to risk, at least at this time. However, since one could take as long as they wished to choose their Secondary, his current lack of direction rarely plagued his thoughts.

  This subject was on his mind now though, as he watched the form of Lutarre Keep grow ever more defined with his horse’s every step. He had rarely left the keep these past nine years but, upon the encouragement of his captain, he’d recently agreed to take some time away to see and experience some of what the other parts of Dhanen’Mar had to offer. He’d departed the third week of spring, and it was now the second of summer. His absence had lasted a total of nearly six weeks, making him extremely anxious to return home. He kept his eyes ahead, focused upon the great keep before him, as his horse carried him ever nearer.

  He’d been born in northern Dhanen’Mar, in one of the small mountain villages that ringed the country’s inner border. He remembered little of it, however, for not long past his sixth birthing-day Jennite raiders had appeared, from their own country to the north, to attack and plunder the village. He had seen his parents killed by sword point after their futile efforts to protect himself and his sister, and of his sister Reagan, he recalled little. He knew she’d been two years older than he, and that they shared the same deep red hair that was such a rarity here in Dhanen’Mar, but any other details of her eluded him no matter how hard he struggled. All other details but for one, of course. He had no trouble recalling the fact that her Birth Patron had been Rizea, she who presided over the dominion of Revenge.

  He presumed Reagan had been taken and sold into slavery, no different than him. But if so, it was his deepest hope that she’d landed with a master far more generous that he had—a man who’d worked him to the bone night and day in his potato fields and whipped him for any reason that happened to catch his fancy. Knowing he could not possibly survive ten years of such treatment, the length of any acquired slave’s term, Baiel began plotting out his escape. Its execution took him nearly three years. He was nine when he finally managed to vanish from the farm, into the night and with his destination held firmly in his mind.

  It took him almost two full seasons—twelve weeks—to make his way from the north, across nearly the entire country, and into the southern lands where the keep of the warlords lay. Caution had him traveling by night and keeping wary of any Justice officers who would have hauled him back to his master or dumped him back in the slave market. And while he did have a few close calls, discovered, pursued, but not caught, he made it into the warmth of the south relatively unscathed.

  He still remembered, with utter clarity, presenting himself at the gates of Lutarre Keep that day. Half-starved and painfully thin, with wooden slats strapped to his feet in place of the shoes that had been stolen while he slept many days past, he’d walked straight up the roadway to the guards manning the gates, his shoulders back and head held high.

  “I am an orphan,” he’d said to them simply, his War Birth medallion hanging upon its silver chain and resting at the base of his throat.

  “Not anymore,” one of the guards had replied, moving to unlatch the gates.

  Before asking so much as his name, he was given food, a warm bed in the bunkhouse, and two sets of clothing, including boots. Laying his head down to rest that first night, the feeling was already as clear as it was unmistakable—he was home.

  A few days later a sword had been put into his hand for the first time. To his surprise, the weapon immediately took on the feel of being an extension of himself. His natural skill impressed the warlords, and he spent the next several years practicing relentlessly under their tutelage. By the time he was thirteen, it was clear to all that Gaiden Rojek, the warlords’ captain, was grooming him to one day take over his own position. At fifteen, Baiel passed all the requisite trials and officially joined the ranks of the warlords.

  Now, three years later, he was indisputably known to have the quickest sword of any man in the keep. There was not a one of them he could not disarm, including Captain Rojek. And many who saw him fight claimed he must have been blessed with the talent of Stahl himself, the very Patron of War.

  Baiel actually spent little time pondering the truth of his prowess; it was simply a part of him, and rarely bore thinking about. But what he was certain to acknowledge and appreciate, each and every day without fail, was the family he’d found her
e and become a part of. The warlords were as brothers to each other, and those they trained regarded much like sons. For those who dwelt in the keep but were not swordsmen, such as the forgers, the smiths, the bakers, and even the scullions, they were as cousins within the large, extended family, with all holding to the common goal of a pleasant life here within the keep’s walls. Those who lived within Lutarre Keep were kind, generous, and endlessly helpful to one another, whether a warlord or a simple gardener. Every life here mattered, had a purpose, and was respected. Baiel could not imagine ever living anywhere else.

  Particularly not now, after spending the past six weeks traveling about Dhanen’Mar.

  He’d initially agreed to the departure for one reason and one reason only; although it had now been more than twelve years, he still harbored the hope of one day finding his sister. If Reagan had indeed been sold into the slave market as he had, her decade of service should have been over two years past, now leaving her a free woman. Unfortunately, he had nothing to give him hint as to where she might have settled since, and had therefore taken to simply passing through as many towns and cities as possible.

  He’d found not a whisper of her presence anywhere he sought it out. No one he questioned found the description of a twenty year old woman with blazing red hair familiar. No one claimed to remember ever hearing the name Reagan Maves.

  Baiel had begun to fear she had not survived the raid that had seen their entire village destroyed. He also had no way of finding out for certain. All he could do was hope, and keep his ears tuned to any words that might hold a clue to her whereabouts. He supposed it was possible she’d even left Dhanen’Mar.

  He also couldn’t easily dismiss the knowledge of her Birth Patron. Born to Revenge, it was more than likely, had she survived, that she would now be seeking vengeance upon the Jennite raiders responsible for the massacre that had killed their parents. This was a thought extremely horrifying to him. For not only would this action likely result in Reagan’s own death, but as a warlord, he had been trained for half of his life to reject any such negative emotion which could possibly corrupt motivation, the very emotions driven by things such as revenge, greed, and self-serving ambition. The fact that Reagan’s sole motivation in this would be revenge was a matter he had much trouble wrapping his disciplined mind around.

  Not that the memory of the Jennite raiders did not bother him, or of what they’d done to not only his parents but to scores of others. But he had seen to this his way.

  Only days after his arrival here nine years past, he’d told the warlords what had occurred to lead him to their keep. Disgusted by the lack of action put forth by King DeSiva to halt this years-long treachery, fifty warlords had ridden out to handle the problem themselves. Many of the Jennite raiders responsible escaped them by crossing the border back into their own country. Many more did not. And although these warlords had questioned their prey as to Reagan’s possible whereabouts, no trace of her had ever been found.

  In his mind, Baiel feared the worst. But in his heart, hope remained.

  Upon the fifth week of his sojourn, he’d entered into the city of Tyrell, the home city of the Arts. He knew thousands of people traveled there every year to celebrate the festival of Ardin’s Pride, and, with all his other efforts having come up dry, he’d been hoping to catch sight of Reagan there. He’d even, once arrived, attempted to make an appointment with a Savannon diviner, in the hope she could at least give him confirmation on whether or not his sister still lived. Unfortunately, however, the woman had been booked solid for the entire week and unable to see him. Disappointed but not discouraged, he’d spent the remainder of the week searching every female face to cross his path. All to no avail.

  The final night of the festival had brought some unexpected circumstances, namely, a city-wide brawl that had resulted in the looting and destruction of much of Tyrell. He had never before seen—or even heard of—the likes of such a scene. Disgusted, he’d fought his way from the city and never looked back.

  Leaving Tyrell, he’d then decided it was time to start for home, a journey that had now taken him twelve days. For much of this time he’d been pondering all that he’d seen these last weeks, particularly how life all across Dhanen’Mar appeared so different from the environment he was accustomed to within Lutarre Keep. This, in turn, led him to wonder if the keep functioned as well as it did simply because all of its inhabitants had in common the same Patron, whether by Birth or Choice. He eventually concluded that this similarity was indeed the likeliest reason.

  His experiences also left him with many other considerations regarding the fifteen Patrons of the world, and those considerations in turn prompted him to seriously search himself for any inkling that might draw him toward his Secondary. But the truth remained that he could claim no connection at all to any of the fourteen choices before him. The majority of warlords chose Death, most others Justice, but Baiel didn’t feel either of those was the right Secondary for him. Destiny carried a certain allure, but again, did not feel quite right.

  He supposed he would come to no solid conclusions until he was meant to. He would simply have to trust that the matter was in Fate’s hands, and that Fate would not steer him wrong.

  He was now coming upon the gates of Lutarre Keep. Before he could begin to slow his horse, the massive, iron portcullis began to rise, its thick chains rattling to disrupt the quiet of the morning. He rode on through, drinking in the familiar sights and sounds of the community within.

  The keep actually functioned much as a small, self-contained city. Directly ahead, if one were to keep on along the road, rested the castle housing all warlords, and, for those who had them, their wives and children. Wives too were required to carry a War medallion to live within the keep, and most had made this their Secondary, if not born to War, so as not to be separated from their husbands. Children were another matter. Even if not born to War, all were permitted to remain in the keep until their fifteenth birthing-day, the legal age to pledge their Choice Patron. Any then choosing War were free to remain, but others would have to leave the only home they’d ever known behind forever, and make their way elsewhere in Dhanen’Mar. Not surprisingly, more than half made the decision to stay.

  The north end of the keep held the bunkhouses where the warlords-in-training lived. The south held shops, eateries, and a couple of smithies in addition to a small residential neighborhood. The temple of Stahl, presided over by its three resident clergymen, lay directly in the center of the keep. It was here Baiel headed first.

  As he dismounted before the temple, a boy of twelve suddenly appeared to take his reins, and Baiel recognized him as Qyn, a trainee he’d now spent years instructing. Qyn had actually asked to accompany him on his travels to act as his squire, but, not wanting to disrupt the boy’s training for an undetermined length of time, Baiel had denied the request. He was now glad to see him well.

  “I must have been gone much longer than a mere six weeks,” he said, looking down at the boy, “for I daresay you’ve grown at least a half-foot in my absence.”

  Qyn beamed under these words. “Do you truly think so?”

  “No question,” Baiel told him in a tone of utter seriousness. “I had to look twice, uncertain it was even you.”

  “It sure has been dull around here in your absence, Sir Maves,” the boy said, still looking extremely pleased with himself. “Will you be taking up our training classes again soon?” he asked hopefully.

  “I will see you in the practice field at tomorrow’s dawn,” Baiel promised.

  Still wearing a huge smile, Qyn gave him a respectful nod before turning to begin leading his horse away toward the stables.

  Baiel watched him go. Like many others here, Qyn was one who’d been left outside the keep’s gates anonymously when he’d been only days old. Some were left as a gift or tribute to the warlords, and generally, these had their full names imprinted upon their Birth medallions, leaving them
the option of later seeking out their family roots if they so wished to. But others, like Qyn, had nothing upon the backs of their medallions but for their Patron’s name, a clear sign of their families wanting nothing more to do with them. The naming of these babies was generally given over to the wet nurses who cared for them, and all were bestowed the surname of the current warlord captain. Consequently, Qyn Rojek was now the boy’s full name, made official only days after his arrival.

  The warlords received anywhere from fifty to a hundred abandoned babies every year. Roughly half were left without names, as Qyn had been, but these were not the truly unlucky ones. Like many children born to Death and Thieves, it was not an uncommon practice to leave babies born to War in fields or forests to die. Occasionally, these abandoned souls would be found by citizens and brought to Lutarre Keep, but all warlords were pained at knowing how many more must surely die, undiscovered. Captain Rojek had not long ago put before the council the idea of paying a small fee for any War-born child brought to the keep. All had agreed that while this would undoubtedly sway many into selling their babies to the warlords rather than just abandoning them to death, it would also present the threat of babies being snatched by kidnappers and passed off as their own upon delivery to the warlords. No conclusion to the proposal had been reached before Baiel had left the keep six weeks ago, and he would be curious to see if any decision had yet been made.

  Turning back, he now moved up the steps leading into the temple, pulling open the door to step inside.

  The color of War was red. As such, the entire interior of the temple was painted this color. Wooden pews lined either side of the aisle that led down to the great stone effigy of Stahl, holding aloft his sword and shield as he rode his stone horse into battle. After glancing about quickly to ensure that the temple was otherwise deserted and he wouldn’t be disrupting anyone’s worship, Baiel approached the effigy and knelt before it.

  He offered his thanks for being born and blessed in the dominion of War. He asked also for the blessing of wisdom, so that he might serve his fellow warlords as well as his country to the best of his abilities. And he asked Stahl to grant his protection over all the children born to War, that they may either appear to families who would love and keep them, or to those who would deliver them safely to the warlords here at Lutarre Keep.

  Ending his prayer, Baiel rose back to his feet, and noticed that the clergyman Brother Jord had now appeared, standing at the east wall and watching him silently. He was but one of three such Brothers presiding over the temple, men who took pains to ensure that at least one of them was available at all times to discuss any matter one wearing a War medallion might bring to them. Baiel knew Brother Jord well, and liked him very much. They had shared many a discussion over the years.

  “I am much pleased to welcome you safely home, Baiel,” the clergyman said now, beginning to step nearer.

  “I am much glad to be here,” he replied. “Not a day went by that I did not long for the keep, and those within it.”

  Brother Jord was a tall, extremely thin man of approximately fifty years, with a face that only a mother could truly love—or perhaps not, depending upon his history. Baiel had never had the nerve to ask if he’d willingly come to Lutarre Keep, or if he’d simply been abandoned here. Not that it mattered. Jord’s mind was incredibly sharp when it came to the matter of discerning the troubles of others, always providing wise and generous council. He loved all those born to War as well as all those who’d chosen it, and he strove to aid them all in whatever ways he was capable. While the warlords no doubt proved the strength of the keep, it was Brother Jord who was its heart.

  He was now looking to Baiel’s neck curiously.

  “I was rather expecting you to return with a Secondary,” he said.

  Baiel withheld a sigh. “Yes. No doubt the captain is expecting the same. But it did not yet feel like the right time to make this choice.”

  The clergyman simply nodded. “This is Dhanen’Mar, son; if we know anything, it is to always follow our instincts. It is of no question that you made the right decision. Worry not over it.”

  Although he’d already reached a similar conclusion, having Brother Jord reinforce it proved comforting. He smiled in response.

  “If it was not for your skill with a blade,” the clergyman then went on with a sudden grin, “I would perhaps hope this meant you were destined to join our ranks here in the temple.”

  Baiel glanced quickly down to Brother Jord’s War Birth medallion, which rested alone at the base of his throat. For a clergyman or clergywoman, however, this was typical. Generally, they were the only persons to never choose a Secondary, not wanting to muddy their devotion to their Birth Patron. Occasionally one would choose to double-up, making their Birth and Choice Patrons the same, but as this risked madness it was an unpopular decision that was rarely ever made.

  “But no doubt your destiny lies elsewhere,” Brother Jord went on, still smiling faintly.

  Baiel paused briefly, carefully considering his words. Finally, “But you have received no insights of it?”

  It was not completely uncommon for the clergymen—of any and all Patrons—to at times receive what they referred to as “insights” regarding those they counseled. Often these insights were bequeathed so that the Brother or Sister who received them could help their subject realize their path and purpose. Brother Jord had been the recipient of many of these over the years he’d spent as a clergyman here in Lutarre Keep.

  But now, he was gently shaking his head. “I have not, but again, do not let this disturb you. One’s path is always revealed, in time. Some simply have to wait longer than others to have it realized.”

  Baiel nodded. “I am in no hurry, Brother. And I trust fully in Stahl’s plan, should he have one for me.”

  “Of that there is little question, Baiel,” Brother Jord said. “Now, come take refreshment with me and tell me of your travels. It has been many years since I’ve left the keep, and I do enjoy hearing of the world beyond.”

  Baiel grinned. “I believe you will feel justified in remaining here once I tell you what occurred in Tyrell at the conclusion of the Ardin’s Pride festival. The country outside our walls is a strange place, Brother.”

  The clergyman chuckled softly as he turned to lead the way past the heavy red drapes and into the inner chamber. “Of that, Baiel,” he replied with amusement, “I have no doubt.”

  Chapter 14