The Darkness of Dawn

by Braden Michael

  The house’s main room had simple furniture made of wood with rudimentary linen cushions. Black Eyes quickly undid the straps on his armor and put each piece carefully on the armor rack in the corner of the room. Then, he only wore his cotton long-sleeve undershirt and wool pants.

  Black Eyes let out a yawn. He was overwhelmed with exhaustion, stumbling into his bedroom. The room was small with a light-brown hardwood floor, and his bed’s frame had a similar color and wood type. He stood over the bed, collapsed onto it, shut his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.

  CH 4 – Alexey II

  Alexey did not sleep particularly well the previous night. He drifted in and out of consciousness too many times to count, and the words kept repeating in his mind. My other choice was worse. My other choice was worse. My other choice was worse. Never ending, the words assaulted his mind like a battering ram.

  Why can’t they understand how great the Winterguard is? Why are they so ungrateful to be allowed the chance to join Her ranks? The words flowed in and out of his barely conscious mind all throughout the night. Alexey struggled and failed to understand why Viktor would curse the Winterguard but still join Her ranks! Why would Anton nonchalantly mention that his cause to join Her ranks was as a cheaply better alternative!? Alexey tried not to focus on such matters during the beginning of the march.

  The Arch-Commander had organized the recruits into the appropriate numbers and divisions, then executed a dramatic exit from the depot. Winterguardsmen on the ramparts sounded horns and bashed the drums to motivate them to leave in a timely manner.

  Alexey was assigned to a formation that included Anton, Viktor, and seven others. In front of their rectangle of men, they were led by Captain Petrenko. The recruits walked on foot while the Captain sat proudly on horseback. The Captain could not have been more than forty years old, with a scruffy brown beard, and the posture of a bull.

  For hours they had marched in near absolute silence. The recruits were denied breakfast, so stomachs rumbled while the officers only had to deal with the cold. It is colder than anything I can remember, Alexey felt as he put one foot forward of the other. His glowered expression had been painted and dried onto his face the entire march.

  Viktor glanced at Alexey multiple times and scoffed each time. Why is he acting like that? Does he enjoy my misery? Alexey thought his thoughts but remained silent as they all marched.

  For weeks, they marched during the day and set up camp at night. They brought carriages full of food along with them, and the officers took shifts guarding the food stores at night. The recruits were given minimal food rations to test their resolve. One evening, two recruits failed this test and were caught trying to steal extra food off the wagon: they were summarily executed in front of the rest. The open throat of a thief was a powerful deterrent to thievery.

  On the seventeenth day of the march, the Winterguard reached a small, but relatively high-traffic farming village. The Arch-Commander ordered the officers and recruits to set up camp nearby. Alexey’s stomach was screaming at him for anything to eat.

  “The village is yours to experience, recruits. Get something to eat and some ale if they have it. It’ll be a while before any of you experience anything remotely comfortable,” said Captain Petrenko.

  Seemingly paying no mind to the ominous warning, Alexey, Viktor, and Anton split off from their squad and headed towards the center of the village. The village had a gray barn, trading shop, and a two-floor inn made of stone. Surrounding the true buildings were several unimpressive huts. Viktor tapped Alexey on the shoulder and pointed towards the trader’s shop.

  “You can sell your book over there and make a small chunk of coin from the leather binding,” Viktor joked. Alexey violently jerked his shoulder, forcing Viktor’s hand off it.

  “Let’s just go to the inn. They’ll have drinks and maybe even a hot meal. Perhaps a brothel?” Anton suggested.

  Viktor let out a boisterous laugh and Alexey managed an ever-so-subtle smirk. They dragged their feet across the stone road, cautiously avoiding slipping on the thin layer of ice coating the ground. They navigated through groups of other recruits while the villagers looked upon all of them with hints of reverie and disdain. However, Alexey paid no mind to the crowds and instead chose to focus on satiating his hunger.

  The three recruits shuffled through the front door of the inn and their exhaustion was immediately noticed by the innkeeper, who was a small and elderly man wearing a gray wool sweater, and who moved around like a hamster. The tables were made of a dark and sturdy wood, with matching benches allowing efficient seating. The only people drinking and eating in the inn were those residing in the village or traders making a stop along their countryside route. Alexey and the other recruits stood out like sore thumbs, but he ignored the glares of the commoners.

  Anton led Viktor and Alexey towards a table near the back corner, isolated from the other patrons. A square hole was carved out nearby as a window. The breeze felt nice on Alexey’s face as he sat down. The three men all groaned and sighed in extreme relief at their first chance to sit.

  Viktor turned to the innkeeper. “One ale please!”

  “Make it two!” Anton smiled.

  “Three.” Alexey sulked.

  The innkeeper hurriedly shuffled across the dirt floor, carrying a rough flagon of ale along with three tin cups. Quickly yet carefully, he placed the items on the table in front of the three young men.

  “Consider this a gift, young men! I am eager to serve the noble Winterguard!” the innkeeper proclaimed, almost shuddering.

  “There’s no need, friend.” Anton reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold piece. “This is for you.”

  “My Lord, that’s too much! You could buy my inn with that coin!”

  “We won’t be needing coins where we’re headed.” Anton chuckled as he glanced over to Viktor’s and Alexey’s unamused faces.

  “My Lord, I don’t know what to say,” the innkeeper fretted.

  Anton laughed. “The Northerners will successfully invade our country before I ever become a Lord.” They exchanged laughs while Alexey and Viktor remained unamused. The innkeeper thanked Anton a final time then went off to the other patrons.

  “The Northerners are too busy killing each other to focus on us,” Viktor pointed out.

  “It was simple humor, Viktor.” Anton playfully tapped his palm on Viktor’s cheek. “Although I should be a fool to expect you to know what that word means.” He grabbed the flagon and filled the three cups. “Perhaps some ale will spur your memory.”

  Alexey grabbed his cup and took a sip. He had not liked ale in the past, but the taste was overwhelmingly good after such a march. He set the cup down and looked up at Anton with absolute seriousness.

  “Tell me Anton, why did you join the Winterguard?”

  Anton’s joyous expression faded slightly as he began to reply. “My options were to be a Winterguardsman or lick the boots of Winterguardsmen.” He looked over to Viktor, who nodded.

  “What the hell are you saying!?” Alexey said.

  Just then, multiple Winterguard officers filed into the building through the main entrance and quickly began filling up the tables in the center of the inn. A trader who occupied a table by himself quickly left his seat to allow the Winterguardsmen to sit when one officer stared him down.

  “You can have my have table, sirs!” the trader announced. His accent was of the North, but the officers did not seem to care.

  “Thank you, now kindly fuck off.” The officers chuckled as the trader scurried out of the inn.

  The innkeeper scampered towards the officers. “Can I offer you a flagon of ale free of charge?”

  “Obviously! Bring it here quickly unless you want one of your fingers broken.” They quickly started to talk to each other while paying little attention to the frazzled innkeeper.

  Alexey dared not look at the officers, instead giving a look of horror to Anton, who simply sipped his ale and did not speak. His eyes sh
outed the phrase I told you so, you little shit.

  Alexey ground his teeth in anger. Have I been lied to my entire life? He remained still in furious contemplation, drowning out the noise of the officers’ boisterous talk with his inner dialogue. He worked over every event that led up to his decision to enlist in the Winterguard, from his father reading The Feats of the Winterguard to him at bedtime, to the moment he enlisted. The only truth he knew was that anything could be a lie.

  The sounds of shouting echoed into the inn from the outside. Alexey could barely make out the words, but he could make out the Arch-Commander’s distinct voice.

  “It is your duty to donate rations to the men that protect you!”

  A second, much frailer voice replied, “my good Sir, we are low on crops! The harvest has not been good this year! We barely have enough to survive!”

  The officers in the inn perked up and quickly left to see the commotion. Alexey went to peek out through the window to make sense of the words he was hearing.

  “If you don’t have enough food for the mouths you must feed, do you need fewer mouths?” The Commander unsheathed his dagger, inching forward menacingly.

  An old man in tattered rags and decrepit loafers struggled to back away, slipping on the ice, and falling onto his back, yelling out in pain and terror.

  “Please sir! Please sir! I would give your men all the food they needed if we had enough!” The old man raised his hands yieldingly as the Arch-Commander crouched over him. He began speaking softly to the old man, and Alexey struggled to make out the words.

  “We need to stop this!” Alexey cried out, turning towards Anton and Viktor in anguish.

  Anton remained still, his eyes pointed downwards in shame. Viktor shook his head angrily yet refused to move. Furious with the two, Alexey tried to rush past them. Before he could make it past the table, Viktor thrust himself to his feet and seized Alexey.

  “What the fuck are you doing? We need to help—” Alexey was restricted from speech by the chokehold Viktor had put him in. He tried to break free, but Viktor’s grasp was too strong. Seconds passed, and his vision began to fade.

  As the fade strengthened and started to bring about the darkness, Viktor muttered directly into Alexey’s right ear. “I’m saving your life.”

  CH 5 – Asher II

  It had been six days since the village massacre, and the images flashed into his mind often: the inhuman faces of the villagers, the murderous intent of his attackers, and the endless sea of corpses that painted the square a scarlet-red made his nights sleepless.

  Garret had been a veteran of multiple battles, remained alive through incredible odds, only to be ripped to pieces by scared villagers. Asher could not shake the thought of Garret’s limbs being ripped from his body or how he must have screamed in agony.

  Danny was still a child in Asher’s eyes. A big-headed sixteen-year-old who only wanted to do right by Asher. Danny had sworn to the Emperor that he himself would protect and shield Asher. Asher lamented over not being able to protect his protectors: Danny’s agony haunted him most.

  Despite Asher’s apparent failure, his father placed upon him the great responsibility of being the Emperor-Regent during the armistice. Asher sat by the window in his quarters, looking down on the town of Steeltower. I am the Protector of this place—he repeated the words in his mind as many times as needed to make him up to the task.

  The sound of footsteps pattering behind Asher startled him, making him reach for a dagger that was not there. He stood up and turned to look to the source of the footsteps, but it was only his new personal guardsman and longtime friend, Damon.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, your Majesty.” Damon halted his stride. He was a tall and grizzled man with long jet-black hair and a neatly trimmed jet-black beard. He stood half a head higher than Asher and was bulky as a horse, but his face remained non-threatening.

  “You don’t have to address me as that, Damon,”

  “Well, you are the Emperor-Regent, but as you wish.” Damon walked over to Asher, stopping an arm’s length from him. “Black Eyes wishes to speak with you. Shall I send him in?”

  Asher sighed with discomfort but looked back at Damon with acceptance. “Sure thing. And remain in the room while we speak.”

  Damon nodded and walked towards the large wooden doors on the opposite side of the room. He opened the left-hand door and Black Eyes casually filed through, ignoring Damon and focusing his mutated eyes straight on Asher. Damon remained in place, standing guard by the door.

  “You’re dressed like an Emperor,” Black Eyes observed.

  Asher glanced down at his outfit. He was wearing a tunic like his father’s, but his was ash-colored gray with the Emberland Flame embroidered onto the breast with black cotton.

  “Emperor-Regent.” Asher motioned Black Eyes to sit opposite from his mahogany-colored desk in the matching chair.

  Black Eyes sat down and looked around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. I see you got some paintings of fire to remind you that you are in the Emberlands, in case you ever forget.”

  “What did you want to speak to me about?” Asher asked. He furrowed his brow slightly but remained calm.

  “Wanted to check in on you before your father and I depart for the Headlands. He and I will never return if this goes to shit, so I’m here say a goodbye of sorts.”

  What’s his angle? Asher wondered.

  “I have faith in the Emperor’s diplomatic capabilities.” Asher’s scowl turned into a look of mild whimsy. “He made us, of all people, work together pretty well.”

  “We work together well?” Black Eyes raised his right brow with a mischievous smirk.

  “Poor choice of words.”

  Asher and Black Eyes both chuckled. For Asher, it was the first time he had laughed in months. It released the tension that had been building up in his mind and body, and made him feel lighter and more comfortable, free from the crushing weight of stress and anxiety. Damon remained by the doors with a smile on his face. After a few moments, the laughter faded, and seriousness returned to Asher’s face.

  “Here’s the thing,” Asher started. “I have not forgotten what you did to the man in the square. But I am not going to do anything about that.” Asher leaned in towards Black Eyes. “I only want you to understand you are never to mutilate prisoners, let alone on your own authority. Human dignity, and the chain of command—do not violate either of these under any circumstance. Am I being clear?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I can’t tell if he is lying or not, Asher thought. “That’s good to hear.”

  “I will obey without question and see that any and all enemies are treated with absolute kindness and mercy,” said Black Eyes with a grin plastered across his face.

  Asher glowered. “You are dismissed. Tell the Emperor I wish to speak to him.”

  “I’m afraid he’s indisposed. Planning an armistice between the superpowers of the Dawnlands is a difficult task and requires one’s undivided attention,” Black Eyes said, almost sarcastically. He stood up and walked towards the door. He gave an expecting stare to Damon, who then promptly opened the door, allowing him to leave. Black Eyes made a swift exit. Damon carefully closed the door behind him.

  Beside the door was an unfamiliar painting that captured Asher’s gaze. It was a realistic portrait of a man, woman, and child. Asher stood up and walked over to investigate, and as he approached it, he saw clearly that the painting was of his father. The woman appeared to be Asher’s mother, based on the fierceness of her green eyes, and she had placed her hand on his father’s shoulder. Sitting on his father’s lap was a baby, with the same eyes as his mother and father. Me? Asher realized. How come I have never noticed this painting before? He intently scanned the painting, and by the look of it, it could not have been much younger than Asher himself. His eyes met his mother’s, and for a moment she was in the room with him. He slowly lifted his hand up towards the painting: what would you do with Bl
ack Eyes, mother? Asher slowly stepped back from the painting and walked back towards the window by his desk to look at the view.

  Asher did not know what to make of Black Eyes. For the longest time he thought Black Eyes was a mad dog cut loose from a chain, ready to devour anything he saw fit: that was until he saw the savagery of the villagers at the massacre. Black Eyes never had a feral expression on his face, despite the savagery he was fond of committing. Asher furrowed his brow as he pained to resolve the conflict in his mind. The only certainty he had was that all violence was horrible, regardless of the perpetrator’s demeanor.

  “Asher.” Damon took a few steps towards Asher. “You’ve been on edge since the incident.” Asher remained seated in silence. He wanted to give Damon a proper response, but the words were lost, and nothing came. Damon continued, “Forgive me for assuming anything, but I think you shouldn’t sit in here every day. You ought to work on something or go into the town below the tower. Anything but isolation.”

  Asher opened his mouth to speak but held off for a moment. He knew Damon was right, but the images of death still haunted him. Yet, he did not want to let this one incident hold him back. After all, the Emperor had faced death countless times but remained true and determined. Asher needed to set aside his fears and grief to focus on his responsibilities as the Emperor-Regent.