Warrior of the Dawn Read online

  Warrior of the Dawn

  by

  M. S. Brook

  Warrior of the Dawn

  © 2018 M.S. Brook

  Red Arrow Media

  Redding, California

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this manuscript may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover and Map Art: Chris Wormell

  Cover Design: Vision Tank, UK

  Instagram: @redarrowmedia

  Twitter: @RedArrowMedia1

  Facebook: redarrowmedia

  Interior Design: Vision Tank, UK

  ISBN: 978-0-9965695-7-6

  Printed in the United States

  redarrowmedia.com

  Prologue

  To the crowd gathered on the oval green, the ancient castle on the hilltop might have been asleep. The great iron gates were shut, and no royal ensign or colorful banner flew from the high towers. Only a flock of blackbirds perched on the wet, stone walls, feathers ruffled against the misty wind.

  A shout came from inside the walls, and the startled blackbirds lifted as one, swirling into the gray sky. Massive gates creaked open, and a company of Royal Guardians marched through, their leather boots pounding the cobblestone yard. A sergeant sang out again, and the Guardians halted, assuming stations before the open gateway.

  The blackbirds settled back on the walls, and the gathered townsfolk turned their eyes to the valley, scanning the quiet road that led through the town at the foot of the hill.

  A murmur stirred among the watchers as a distant line of scarlet came into view. At length, the line became a company of red-cloaked riders. Passing through the town, the riders crossed the gray stone bridge and proceeded up the hill. On any other day, their showy, well-trained horses might have been the spectacle, but on this day, all eyes were on the flag-draped carriage they escorted.

  Horses and carriage crunched over the wet gravel lane, as the procession drew up to the fortress gates. With a shout, the Royal Guardians came back to life. Moving in formation, they stamped their boots and saluted, hands pressed over hearts.

  All present attended to the slow piping of the colors and the solemn words that followed, but on that grim, gray day, no pageantry or ceremony could bring cheer. For Prince Alestar was fallen, his song cut off in its dawning. Never again would he lift his sword in battle. Never would he wear the crown of his fathers, nor sire an heir to the royal line. The young prince was forever lost to his people, and the gathered mourners tasted the bitterness of his death, as one by one they filed past the casket.

  The steady flow paused for an old woman to take her turn. She reached out a frail hand to touch the golden edge of the casket. “Rest well, my prince,” she whispered. “Return to the Maker of Songs.”

  She threw back her hood and bowed low, her plaited hair shining like strands of woven silver in the feeble light. Her cloak was the color of a summer sky, clashing with the gloomy afternoon, its folds fluttering, wrestling with unseen gusts. The old woman straightened and turned, her watery blue eyes gazing out beyond the hilltop.

  “People of Canwyrrie,” she addressed the crowd in a bold voice, “do not despair. For though this body now sleeps in the silence of death, the dream does not sleep, nor is it silent. Take courage! For even in this darkest hour, the dawn is beginning to sing. Do not fear the night, for the song will overtake it. A scion of the House of Enfys will yet arise, and the bright, new day of the realm will outshine the greatness of ancient times. Even now, a warrior waits in the womb of the dawn. The time of awakening draws near.”

  The old seer bowed once more and slipped away, but the mourners lingered until twilight fell. The blackbirds remained stalwart at their posts, watching as the crowd trickled away. Perched on the high walls, they saw everything, but understood nothing.

  Chapter 1

  Never will I forget that day. The memories are forever graven on my mind, every detail inscribed with the sharp edge of fear. The cold gleam of drawn swords, the harsh, foreign voices, the breathless pounding of my heart…it was my first taste of the long war that shadowed our land, and it will always be with me. But what I remember most about that day is the dream, for it is the dream that changed everything.

  The morning began, freezing cold, with the quietness of newly fallen snow. I stood, shivering, between our two gentle horses while Papa hitched them to the sledge, making the most of their comforting warmth. My stomach was unsettled from getting up early, but I wasn’t tempted to go back to bed. Not when I had the chance to escape a whole day of needlework and tedious duties that a girl of thirteen was expected to do.

  The snow had stopped falling, but the growing light of dawn revealed a land cloaked in soft whiteness. Across the green from our little cottage, the massive fortress of Highfield seemed mysterious in the flickering light of torches, the low voices of the night watchmen sounding clear in the cold air. Yawning, I sat down on the empty sledge. Papa covered me with an old woolen lap rug and stood to drive the horses. It was smooth riding down the hill and across the arched stone bridge leading into Highfield Town. The usually busy town was just awakening, tendrils of smoke drifting up from the rows of thatch-roofed cottages as early morning fires were stirred. We passed through the town and left the road at the edge of Silver Forest, bumping our way into the woods, where at length we came upon a fallen tree that Papa was using to make charcoal for the smithy. Papa got busy with his ax, and I collected the split wood, heaving it up onto the sledge and stacking it just right so it would balance. By the time we had a full load tied down, I was ready to head back. We had stopped to eat a noontime meal of bread and cheese, but my stomach had long forgotten it. The wind, too, had sharpened its edge, bringing with it a fresh batch of snowflakes.

  I halfway closed my eyes as we started for home, imagining the warmth and comfort that awaited us, logs burning in the fireplaces of the great hall, the smells of roasted meat and fresh bread. Soon I would hear familiar voices, the stories and ready laughter of our companions. And afterwards, tucked full of supper, I’d find my warm bed in the loft of our little cottage. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  Our horses had to work harder on the way back, pulling the loaded sledge over the uneven ground. To lighten their load, Papa walked beside them, holding the reins, and I followed behind where the runners packed down the snow, my boots making soft, crunching noises as I trudged along, nearly asleep on my feet.

  “You all right, Princess?” Our sledge was piled so high that Papa had to look around the side to see me. “You’ve been pretty quiet back there.”

  “Just tired,” I said, “and cold.”

  “Me too.” He turned again to look at me. “I know it’s been a long day, but if you can walk ’til we reach the road, it’ll save the horses.”

  Papa had to work harder than I did. His boots plunged down into the soft snow with every step. I fancied that we looked like papa bear and baby bear, lumbering through the snow, the furry hoods of our bearskin cloaks fastened tight against the wind so that only eyes and nose showed.

  We pushed on, the afternoon slipping toward an early dusk, fat snowflakes floating down around us. And then, without warning, came the muted sounds of approaching horses, and three riders appeared through the veil of falling snow. Papa took a step forward and disappeared from my view. “Whoa, boys,” he said, and we pulled to a halt.

  I peeked around the side of the sledge. The riders were dressed in dark cloaks, their hoods pulled tight against the cold. Faces were hard to make out in the
dim light, but the riders didn’t look like the friendly folk we usually met in the woods. Their attention was on Papa, and they didn’t notice me. For some reason it seemed like a good idea to keep it that way, so I made myself as small as I could behind the loaded sledge, my fur cloak blending in with the dark stacks of wood.

  “Good afternoon,” Papa said to the riders.

  “Afternoon,” one of them answered. “Looks like you’ve done a hard day’s work today.”

  “I have.”

  “You’re no doubt wondering who we are,” one of the men said after a pause. His voice was rough-sounding and foreign. “We’ve come from the Northlands. Some of our family fled south a few years back when Ashling Keep fell. We’d like to see them again. Make sure they’re all right.” Papa didn’t say anything, and the man went on. “You know how the womenfolk are, always worrying about their cousins and aunts and such. They want to know you’re treating them well here in Canwyrrie.”

  There were chuckles from the men, but Papa still didn’t join the conversation. His silence made my heart beat a little faster. Papa was always friendly with everyone.

  “You know of any Northlanders hereabouts?”

  “I don’t,” Papa said.

  Our horses seemed uneasy. They stamped and rattled their traces, eager to move on.

  “You’ve a fine pair of horses.” The rough voice was nearer. “Can’t hide the breeding, I always say.”

  “Right,” said another one of the men. “Breeding shows. It’s true of men as well as horses.” The men were laughing again, but the tone had changed. “Not one for a laugh, are you, stranger? Not got much to say either. So, just tell us of any Northlanders you know, and you can be on your way.”

  “I don’t know any Northlanders.”

  “You seem very certain about that. But I hear there’s a Northlander living up on Tower Hill. You don’t know about him?”

  Papa didn’t say anything, and I was sure then that something was terribly wrong. I knew for a fact that Papa knew two Northlanders—I was one of them.

  The rough voice said, “Let’s have a look—see what he’s hiding under that hood.”

  There was a short struggle, followed by surprised exclamations. “Yellow hair! The way he’s acting, I’d have sworn he was a Northlander himself.”

  “Maybe he’s covering for someone. Who do you know, stranger? Tell us, and you can go.”

  “There’s no one! I’ve nothing to do with the tower or with Northlanders.”

  “You’re lying! I see it in your eyes. Tell us what you know!”

  There was a muffled grunt. I drew up the courage to peek around the sledge and almost gave myself away for gasping. The riders had drawn swords, and Papa was lying dead still on the ground. One of the swords was at Papa’s throat.

  “Talk fast,” the man said, “or you’re vithon bait!”

  Papa was silent, and the man lashed out with his boot. The other men kicked Papa too, hard, solid thumps that I could hear. Papa curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his head.

  “What say you now? Still nothing?”

  “Guess he needs a little more encouragement.”

  The thumping started again. I flattened myself against the loaded sledge and pressed my face into the rough, damp wood, struggling to catch my breath. My heart was beating wildly. Should I give myself up? They’d see my dark hair and skin and know that I was a Northlander. Maybe they would stop hurting Papa if they found me. I willed myself to move, but my body felt like it was frozen in place. And then it was too late to act.

  “Give over, fool,” the rough voice said. “You just kicked his lights out. Why didn’t you stay away from his head? We don’t have time for this.”

  “We could take him along.”

  “Leave it. He’s not the kind who talks. Grab the horses, and let’s clear out of here. We’ll be well on our way to the border before the Guardians find him. He’ll be frozen stiff by then.”

  They must have knocked Papa out. If I managed to stay hidden until they left, I still had a chance to help him—a chance to make up for hiding.

  The raiders snapped to their task. I barely breathed as they loosed our horses from the sledge, not bothering to unhitch them. Someone cut through the leather traces and let them drop. At any moment he might have looked behind the sledge, but the man was too hurried to notice me, pressed behind the stacks of wood, aided in my disguise by afternoon shadows and falling snow.

  “Get on now!” There was a sharp crack of leather, and the sledge shuddered. Our poor, gentle horses weren’t used to such treatment and they backed into the shafts. Footsteps crunched nearer. A few more steps and he would see me. I stopped breathing.

  “Hey, you! Get out of there!”

  My racing heart left me weak all over, but it was a good thing I was too terrified to obey. After the longest moment of my life, I realized that the man was shouting at the horses, not at me. He yanked hard on the reins and walked forward, grumbling as he went. “Lousy nags. You’ll be feeding the vithons tonight if you don’t get moving!”

  I sucked in air again, my head swirling. Vithons? What did he mean? I knew about the huge, vicious lizards that could tear apart a horse—or eat a girl my size—but vithons were kept in the land of Domaine. There were none in Canwyrrie.

  The men were mounting up. The clinking of harnesses and the muffled sound of hooves faded away into silence. Were they gone? I peeked out from my hiding place. Papa was lying in the snow, not moving, but just when I thought it was safe to go to him, a deep, bellowing roar shook the forest. The sound went right through me, pushing my heart to a gallop again. Whatever it was, it came from the direction where the three men had gone. The eerie roar sounded again, and another answered it. There were two of them.

  As the sounds died away, I jumped to my feet and ran to Papa. His eyes were closed, his cloak torn open, leaving his head exposed in the snow.

  “Papa,” I said. “Wake up!”

  Papa’s eyelids twitched open. “Aidriana!” He struggled to raise himself, groaned and slumped back into the snow. “Wait,” I said, “don’t move.” I knelt down beside him and slipped my gloved hand under his head. He looked up at me, bleary-eyed. Sticky blood from a gash on his forehead stained his tangled hair. I gently pulled the hood up and refastened his cloak to keep him warm.

  “You’re all right.” His eyes drifted, and his voice was thick.

  “Yes, Papa. They never saw me.”

  “Good girl.” His eyelids fluttered closed again and jumbled thoughts rushed through my head.

  I had to get him home. He would freeze to death in the cold. And whatever beasts had made those terrible sounds were lurking about too. But how to do it? I wasn’t strong enough to carry him, and he wasn’t fit to walk. Kneeling in the snow beside him, I tried to think of a plan. Twilight was approaching, and the moon was on the rise. The surrounding trees seemed to close in on me, leafless branches rattling against each other like dry bones. I was used to feeling safe in the woods, but now I sensed a terror behind every spreading fir tree.

  As I knelt there, trembling, I heard a quiet voice whisper, as if in my ear. The sound was almost familiar, like the soughing of wind in the treetops on a summer day. “Warrior!” the voice said.

  I whipped around to peer at the snow-covered trees behind me. Mostly leafless with a scattering of silver fir, the trees seemed restless, their boughs shivering in the cold wind. A clump of ice fell to the ground with a muffled thud.

  Was it the wind I’d heard? Before I could think it through, Papa opened his eyes again and grabbed my hand. He seemed a little clearer.

  “Aidriana, listen to me. You must run back to Highfield and get help. Alert the tower watch—they’ll come for me. You can find your way back to the road, can’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Here.” He struggled to pull
his knife from its sheath. “Take this. Mark the trees like I taught you so you can find your way back.”

  My gut twisted. How could I ever leave him here alone? “We can wait a bit, ’til you’re stronger.” I said. “Mama will tell Uncle Fergal we’re late. Maybe they’ve already started looking for us.”

  “No one knows exactly where we are. The fresh snow will cover our tracks.” He pressed the grip of the knife into my gloved hand. “You must go.”

  He was right. They could search for hours before they found us, and by then it might be too late…

  “Look,” he said. “I can make a bed here by the sledge.” He half smiled. “And there’s plenty of firewood.”

  “You can’t light a fire here—there are raiders about!” Then I understood his wry smile. “Don’t you ever get serious?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  He chuckled, and I smiled too. Somehow it helped. I was calm enough to hear the quiet voice again.

  “You know what to do,” came the whisper.

  The voice was at least partly right. I knew what I would not do. “I won’t go without you, Papa,” I said. “We go together or not at all.” I heard the change in my own voice, and to my surprise he gave in.

  “All right then,” he said, “but I’ll need your help.”

  I put the knife in the pocket of my cloak, grabbed his hands, and pulled him to his feet. Papa limped over to the sledge and leaned against it, his breath coming in frosty gasps. “You can go much faster without me.” He reached a trembling hand to adjust his hood, and his glove came away bloody.

  I shook my head. “You’re still bleeding.” I pulled off my gloves and used Papa’s knife to cut the hem of my wool tunic to make a bandage for his head. My fingers were numb with cold, but I managed to tie the bandage on and secure his hood. “Now we’re ready.”

  I put my arm around his left side, where he was favoring his leg, and he put his arm over my shoulder. He leaned on me, heavier than I expected. Slow and limping, we started off through the snow. It was a good thing I was tall and strong for my age, because Papa had all the balance of a newborn colt. I heard him gasp with pain from time to time, but somehow we kept going. I shut out every thought that was not about getting him home and put one foot in front of the other.