Beyond the Edge of Dawn (29 page)

The Hunt

Typical of civilians pretending to be soldiers, the campaign base for the hunt was a rowdy mess. Order and discipline were lacking. Already, the smell of urine and excrement was strong enough to suggest latrines hadn’t been dug properly. Horses were everywhere instead of in kraals. Kavan frowned in disgust. He was already planning on disengaging from this rabble.

True to his instincts, the mixed group of Fist and Gaimosians wandered into camp without being questioned. Few, in fact, bothered to look up as they passed. Only Mabane betrayed emotion. The drunk was ill at ease with being this close to the ruins again — so much so that Kavan slipped back to growl his own brand of encouragement.

“If you give us away, I swear I’ll gut you,” he threatened in a low voice.

Mabane’s eyes widened. “We’ll be caught and captured!”

“If you keep acting like a fool, indeed. Calm yourself and relax. After tomorrow, this will all be a bad dream.”

Kavan left him before his natural urges took over and he crushed the fool. He was quickly at wits’ end with the man, a trait he found increasingly common the more companions he was forced to take on. His thoughts naturally turned to Pirneon, wondering if he had suffered similar indignities en route to Aradain. Setting those thoughts aside, Kavan dismounted when he found an unoccupied spot large enough for all five of them.

Aphere turned to the mercenaries. “Set up the tents. I’ll start a fire.”

The Fist nodded and went to work. Mabane fidgeted nearby, the only question she had left. Like Kavan, she grew concerned about his anxious behavior. Worse still, none of them fully understood what was expected of them now that they were here. Frustrations compounded.

“I’m going to scout some. There’s the possibility someone knows what’s really going on,” Kavan told her.

“What about Pirneon?” she asked, regretting it immediately.

“If I happen to run across him,” was his reply.

Clearly, neither was interested in stopping the quest to search for the missing Knight Marshal. Both wanted answers as well as a small measure of retribution, but the mission remained paramount.

She smiled, cruel and wicked. “Try not to run a dagger through him before I do.”

Kavan suddenly felt uneasy. Being abandoned was almost acceptable. After all, it was the Gaimosian way. But to turn traitor and harbor thoughts of harming one of your own blood was inexcusable. He feared the Gaimosians were reaching a new point, unavoidable and forever damning, in the sad tale of their bloodlines. Whatever happened, nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“He was my mentor, Aphere,” he told her in low tones. “I cannot do what you would suggest.”
Not yet, at any rate
.

“Clear your mind. We are alone now. For all we know, he has gone over to the enemy. You saw his thirst for power. The hunger always lurked behind his eyes. He hasn’t been the man you knew, not since we learned of our task from the oracle.”

Kavan turned his back on her, refusing to listen to more slander. Animosity between Aphere and Pirneon had grown since leaving the Kergland Spine, a fact Kavan wasn’t unaware of, though he failed to know the reasoning behind it. Pirneon was the oldest living Gaimosian, standing for all their culture represented. He alone had been the mountain in the wind since the Fall, a beacon for the young to rally behind.

“Listen to me, Kavan,” Aphere pressed. “He is dangerous. You must force yourself to look past old allegiances and see the truth. Either confront him or avoid him for as long as you can. You can’t run from him forever.”

He slowly faced her. “If the gods will it, then so shall it be. Just know this: I cannot and will not be the first to raise arms against my own blood. If Pirneon has changed as you suggest, we shall all find out soon enough.”

He left her standing in a whirlwind of emotions.

“Madness,” Mabane muttered from the burned off tree stump he’d claimed as a stool. “Madness.”

Malweir, though never welcoming or friendly, was not the world it had once been. Shadows had crept in. They drove men to new heights of barbarism and despair. Kavan felt those urges swell at times. They threatened the depths of his soul, seeking the foundations of who he was. Was this what made Pirneon abandon his principles? The question incensed him.

It was on the slopes of Skaag Mountain, their most sacred training grounds, that he had met Pirneon for the first time. Pirneon was already an old man, Kavan a lad of no more than ten. He recalled staring wide-eyed at the venerable legend. Every boy growing up had known of the deeds of Pirneon. He had been a source of wonder and awe for the young. Gaimosians were taught from a young age the glory of his sword.

So it was the day Kavan’s father had taken him to the hallowed grounds to turn his only son over to the Knight Marshal. Pirneon had taken a child made of the softest clay and transformed him into a warrior, a knight, and a man. Years of teachings ingrained in young Kavan what it truly meant to live up to the virtues expected of him. Above all, he now recalled that final lesson. Smiling fondly, he could still hear Pirneon’s voice that day on the slopes of the Skaag.

You have learned your lessons well. Pride was our greatest crime. We let it consume us, sway us just enough to let the dam break. Never give in to pride, for it shall be your undoing.

Kavan frowned. Pride was, indeed, a terrible force. Kavan laughed to himself. “Where is your pride now, Pirneon? Did it finally claim you?”

He stopped in front of a large gathering in the camp center. Two women dressed only in translucent colored scarves danced provocatively against each other. Soft winds whipped their hair, the tails of the scarves chasing. One had skin the color of darkest night while the other was pale and lightly freckled. An old man whose eyes had been cut out beat an entrancing song on a pair of drums. The women danced faster, rubbing their sweat covered bodies against each other as the scarves slipped away. Naked, both leaned forward to kiss deeply. Men hooted and cheered, all the while tossing hard-earned coin at the women.

Wild cheers answered. He watched disinterestedly as the women collapsed in a heap of sweaty flesh, writhing atop each other. Kavan’s thoughts turned from Pirneon to Phirial. Inside, he felt nothing but conflict. She proved an admirable distraction, one he could ill afford.

Kavan didn’t expect to live past the eclipse. None of them did. That was no secret, but he had found reluctance admitting as much to Phirial as they lay trying to catch their breath. He tried putting a positive spin on events lest she break down entirely. The combination of losing her father and her life had almost been too much. She was on the brink of collapse. Her proclaimed love for him was the only thread keeping her together.

And now he was gone from her as well. Kavan let thoughts of what another life might be like creep through the minor cracks in his mental armor. He could leave now and never look back — take Phirial and build a small cabin to the east, raise children. Kavan laughed at the idea. If the gods wanted to make him a farmer, they would have already done so. At best, he could only give back to the fallen sons of Gaimos and move on.

He chastised himself for having such weakness at this late hour. Doubts remained. Phirial was a special woman deserving of more than his sworn life offered. His heart occasionally won through, and he longed to return to her loving embrace, to be the man he’d never known existed. Torn between the demons in his soul and love, Kavan headed back to Aphere.

One of the Fist was already asleep, snoring softly from the depths of his tent. Aphere and the other sat talking quietly on events to come as Kavan walked up.

She glanced at her fellow Gaimosian. “I was explaining the layout of the area around the cavern mouth. They haven’t been this far yet.”

Kavan nodded. “That should prove our easiest task.”

“How do you figure?” asked the Fist, a flaxen haired youth named Tym.

“We are surrounded by hundreds of eager men and women seeking glory. Getting into the ruins won’t be an issue. It’s what’s inside that worries me.”

Tym offered a blank stare. Clearly, the two Fist hadn’t been warned of the nightmares burrowed deep beneath the earth.

Kavan crouched down in from of Tym and gestured towards Gessun Thune. “There are monsters there, lad. Spit from the deepest pits of the underworld.”

Tym blanched.

“Your captain should have told you at least that much.”

“Stop trying to frighten him,” Aphere admonished.

“I merely speak the truth.”

Aphere added, “Tym, when we go inside that cavern, we will be beset by werebeasts, monsters the likes of which you’ve never imagined. You must trust in us. That is the only hope we have for victory. Faith and steel, my friend.”

Tym crawled into his tent, his face a twisted mess of emotions. The knights watched him before continuing.

“You undermine our task,” she scolded.

Kavan held up his hands. He hadn’t returned seeking a fight. “I told him the truth, and you know it. They deserve that much.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to change his mind. What’s to keep them from leaving in the middle of the night?”

“Aphere, those men are mercenaries. Their loyalty is to money. Any man with an ounce of sense would leave.”

She took a moment to calm down before responding. “I don’t like this any more than you, but we’ve been given a task.”

“Aye, and I pray we live long enough to come out of it,” he said. “We’re both tired. There’s no point in bickering. Let us sleep and tackle the beast tomorrow.”

Through it all, Mabane watched from his stump.

Corso stalked the empty chamber, lost in thought. Childish giddiness flowed through him. After so long, he was about to be released from his prison. Corso pressed a hand against the cracked granite slab. They were so close. He could feel his wicked masters pulsing from the other side of the veil. One thousand years of exile left them hungry. They thirsted to wreak havoc among the living. Corso delighted in the images of whole continents enslaved under his dark banner.

Very soon, the last hunt would begin, and hundreds of fresh souls would be slaughtered upon this very slab. Their blood would open the keys to the prison. His only hope was that the blood of the Knight Marshal was strong enough to work. Thus far, his experiments had been a source of constant disappointment. Dozens of Gaimosians had died in his quest. His seduction and eventual transformation of Pirneon was his last hope. If that failed…. Corso shuddered. He dared not think of the suffering his masters would visit upon him. The sound of hot spittle striking stone disturbed him from his delusions. Corso slowly turned and faced his newest pet.

“Anxious, aren’t you?”

Evil laced his words.

The Pirneon beast crouched on all fours and snarled. Slender fangs protruded from his elongated snout. Whatever creature was blended with him was lost to the dust-covered tomes of history.

“You’ll get your opportunity soon enough. Please me, and I’ll let you feast upon the flesh of your friends.”

Pirneon salivated hungrily.

Siege

Pharanx Gorg had grown up a gambling man. His entire life was a series of well-gambled chances that had played out perfectly. He’d grown up a pickpocket on the streets of a city long forgotten. Every scrap of food and coin he had was fought for. That’s where Alcha had found him. Tall and immensely powerful, the former master of the Fist had taken Pharanx in and cared for him like no father ever had. It quickly became evident that he was being groomed for command.

Pharanx had reveled in the chance to prove himself against his betters. He’d mastered any craft he could in the constant quest to prove his worth. Others had grown jealous, and more than once, he’d found himself the target of an ill-conceived assassination attempt. All who tried had been put in the ground. Pharanx had learned to become a ruthless killer and keen tactician. When Alcha had fallen in battle, Pharanx had assumed command and never stopped. His first task had been to cull those he couldn’t trust. Some were dismissed, others disappeared. Yes, Pharanx considered himself a lucky man.

This morning, however, he almost believed that luck had run out. A runner came to him in the predawn hours. Out of breath and visibly shaken, the boy explained that Wurz needed him on the wall at once. Pharanx swung out of bed and strapped on his weapons. The pair made their way back to the aged walls in silence. The Fist prepared for battle all around. Pharanx gave them all the look of approval. He was inherently proud.

“What goes?” he asked his lieutenant.

Wurz gestured over his shoulder. His axe was already in hand. “They’re here.”

Pharanx stared into the brightening dawn. Moncrieff’s army had, indeed, arrived. They marched out of the darkness in great waves of crimson and black. The creak and groan of heavy wheels accompanied crisp sounds of thousands of marching boots striking the ground. Siege machines.

“I’d almost hoped they weren’t that smart,” he breathed.

The Dwarf snorted. “They’re not taking chances.”

“I guess we angered the king.”

“If he truly is one. Listening to the Gaimosians leads me to believe he’s just a puppet.”

Pharanx stared sharply at the Dwarf. Through all of their trials, he remained constant, a stalwart companion who never shied from speaking his mind. Pharanx needed that.

“King or not, Eglios is our enemy now,” he said. “He’s spilled enough of our blood. Vengeance, my friend. When hope fades, we must look to vengeance to keep us warm. Perhaps the Gaimosians have the right of it.”

Hundreds of soldiers marched into place.

“We might not get the chance to find out,” Wurz grumbled.

Pharanx agreed. “All we have to do is hold them long enough for Kavan to get to this Gessun Thune and do what needs doing.”

“I’d rather be here than with Kavan. They’re not going to have an easy time of it.”

“There wouldn’t be much fun otherwise. Moncrieff will spend most of the day getting into position. His soldiers will be tired from marching through the night.”

“It’s not the soldiers that worry me. We have to do something about those engines.”

The bulky shapes of catapults and scaling towers rumbled into view. Pharanx suspected Moncrieff wasn’t willing to waste lives in the assault, making him cautious.

“Let us see if our brother Gaimosian has any ideas for dealing with those machines,” he offered.

Together, they turned their backs on the approaching storm. They found Barum and Geblin at the armory, fletching arrows. Hundreds already filled quivers with many more bundles scattered on the ground.

“They are here,” Barum asked, seeing the two Fist commanders approach.

“Every damned one of them, by the looks of it,” Wurz answered.

Geblin rolled his eyes.

Barum slapped his knuckles against the Gnome’s chest. “How much siege equipment do they have?”

“Enough. About a half dozen catapults, three scaling towers, and hundreds of ladders. They’ll make quick work of our defenses unless we act first.”

Barum set his half-finished arrow down. “How many flying beasts did you say we have?”

“Two dozen.”

“I say we use them while Moncrieff is still marching. Take him off guard and reduce his assault capability.”

Pharanx gestured him to continue. “I’m listening.”

Confidence bolstered, Barum explained, “Circle around behind them and dive. They won’t be expecting an assault from the rear. Fire bomb their machines, and they lose momentum and, hopefully, some of their will to fight.”

“We also lose that singular advantage.”

Pharanx was loath to invest his greatest asset so early in the fight, even if meant being pummeled by the siege engines. Then again, there was the chance, small as it was, that his dactyls would be enough to break the enemy’s will. Cut off the head, and the snake dies. “It might work.”

“We have nothing to lose.”

“It will be light soon,” Wurz said.

Barum looked up. “Do we have enough time?”

“Aye. I’d say yes. Let’s go give these bastards exactly what they want,” Pharanx grinned, broken teeth gleaming in the torchlight.

“What do you say, Geblin?” Barum asked.

“I’ll stand the wall, but you haven’t a prayer of getting me on the back of one of those beasts. Gnomes belong on the ground, not flying like some fancy bird.”

Pharanx barked a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Flying birds is exactly what we shall become, little Gnome. Birds of death and fury.”

Regret. That singular emotion threatened to take control of his thoughts and push him to the point of distraction. Pharanx battled his mind as he clenched his thighs around the slender neck of his pet and companion. The cool predawn air felt good to both. It had been too long since they’d taken to the skies. Up here, lost among the clouds, was the only time he truly felt at peace.

Pharanx’s regrets stemmed from various sources. He regretted taking Corso’s contract, thus jeopardizing the lives of five hundred. He’d no idea how evil Corso was. He regretted wasting lives recklessly hunting the Gaimosians. Too many had died for no reason. The Fist had sorely underestimated their enemies and paid dearly for it. He regretted staying in Aradain after Corso turned on them. How many more need to pay for his arrogance? Too many at the least.

His final regret came from deciding to stand and fight in the abandoned fortress of Kalad Tol. The illusions were gone by now. They were all going to die. There it was, plain and simple. Every last one of his brave warriors was a dead man. Naturally, he hoped one or two might escape in the confusion, but the possibility was unlikely. No, the Fist would make its final stand at Kalad Tol and pray history looked back kindly.

Pharanx Gorg regretted it all.

He glanced about, ensuring the rest of his squadrons were in sleek V formations of six each. Each rider was grim faced with determination. Sacks of explosive powders some claimed were created by ancient sorcerers in the dark corners of the world draped from the dactyls. Pharanx wasn’t interested in where they were discovered. All he needed to know was that they were highly potent and effective with devastating results. Moncrieff’s army had no idea the nightmares it was about to undergo.

Pharanx tossed his head back and bellowed. His long black top knot trailed behind. Dawn was breaking, the red sun crisp against the dark horizon. The enemy army was fixed on the fortress, ignoring their rear and the sky. The Fist was about to make them pay for that error. Spying the massive scaling towers, Pharanx signaled for the attack. The army of Aradain was little more than one massive shadow in the fading night. Campfires illuminated the area enough to give the dactyls a target. Pharanx cracked a shallow smile. Corso and Moncrieff had played their hand too early.

The Fist dove.

Wings tucked back, the dactyls screamed down on the unsuspecting army. There was no air power in Malweir, giving the army no cause to look up before the explosive sacks rained down on the engineer site. A catapult burst into flames. Wood and metal shattered through tents and flesh. Men screamed. The ground trembled. Soldiers raced to extinguish the flames, but it was for naught. Two dozen more explosions ripped through the camp. Bodies and engines were torn apart without ceremony.

The sickly sweet smell of freshly spilled blood traced the air. Soldiers abandoned their posts in order to find cover, any cover. There was none. After the first pass, all of the scaling towers were in flames and half of the catapults. By the time the Fist were out of ammunition, only a single catapult remained. Acrid smoke poured into the sky in great funnels, blocking the withdrawing dactyls.

Moncrieff stalked through the wreckage of his army. His face burned the deepest crimson. Never before had he been embarrassed so on the battlefield. The sheer weight of destruction here was unheard of. He knew of two things capable of doing this: dragons and elder sorcery. He carefully stepped over body parts and impact craters. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Couldn’t wrap his mind around the facts.

“General,” his adjutant saluted. The man was out of breath and in disarray.

Moncrieff took the man in. Blood splattered the front of his tunic, though he appeared unharmed. “What?”

“I have initial casualty reports.”

Some of his anger faded. “Give them to me.”

The adjutant cleared his throat. He was more nervous now than during the attack. “More than four hundred are believed dead. Eight hundred more were wounded. The surgeons believe another hundred in that figure won’t last the day. Most of the siege engines are inoperable. Our engineers are trying to piece together what they can but aren’t having much luck.”

Moncrieff held up a hand. “How soon will we be ready to lay siege to those scum in the fortress?”

“With minimal casualties to the infantry? No sooner than a day.”

“Captain, this day has barely begun, and we’ve already lost almost a third of our combat power. You dare tell me all we can do is build campfires and stare at the enemy? Unacceptable.”

The adjutant stammered, “B…but sir, we’re in no position to lay siege!”

Moncrieff raged, “Damn the siege! I want every last man inside that fortress dead! Do you hear me? No one walks out of there alive.”

“Sir, there might be unarmed combatants inside.”

The general paused as brief conflict trembled his face. He swallowed hard, and it was with great personal regret that he replied, “Not anymore there aren’t.”

He resumed his march through the carnage. Every corpse was personal. A friend. Son. Father. Those godless mercenaries had casually ended their lives without honor. A sick feeling spread through his stomach. Moncrieff wasn’t prone to thoughts of vengeance, but today was different. He cursed the king for being so weak and Corso for being greedy. Whoever won this battle, the day would end badly for both sides. He knew what he had to do but was reluctant.

“Your orders, sir?”

Moncrieff almost smiled. His adjutant had been around him long enough to recognize his moods. “Summon Jestis. I have a mission for his commando squads.”

“Yes, General.”

Moncrieff stood alone again on the crowded battlefield. Surrounded by frantic men and havoc, he’d never felt this isolated in his life. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.