Beyond the Edge of Dawn (4 page)

Pirneon

Night had grown eerily silent. The lack of a moon cast a menacing pall over the still sands. Even at midnight, the air languished from heat. Sweat poured down the soot-blackened faces of the hundred warriors lying in the waist-high patch of desert grass. Ever so slowly, they inched forward. They’d been crawling towards the enemy camp since dusk and were almost in position to attack. Their leader gained the crest of a long dune and fixed his spyglass on the cluster of tents. He sighed as much from frustration as relief.

A quick scan told him everything he needed to know. The oversized tent in the center, ringed with partially attentive guards, meant only one thing. The Satrap was here. His death or capture would signal the end of the war. The task wasn’t going to be easy. Camped below were close to seven hundred of the Satrap’s elite. Seven to one weren’t good odds by any means, but Pirneon had been through much worse. One thing he’d learned from his time among the tribes of the Jebel Desert was that life may be hard, but warriors were often soft.

Having done his share of killing, Pirneon of Gaimos knew hard men. These desert dwellers were soft when it came to open conflict. He didn’t know the reasons behind such behavior, nor did he care. What mattered was getting paid for his services. Even now, Barum, his squire and aspiring Knight, was preparing their departure. Desert life didn’t agree with the aging knight.

Anything besides the task at hand was wasted time. Pirneon cleared his thoughts. First the Satrap, then a new job. He glanced left and then right. With no way of knowing if his forces were all on line, he was mired by constant delay. The desert tribes were professional warriors as he had been for his long life. The once Knight Marshal of Gaimos frowned but could do little about it. He whispered orders to the sergeants on either side. They were supposed to be the pride of the Caliph’s army, but he found them sloppy and woefully underprepared for what needed to be done.

Most were peasants in disguise. His opinion of the Caliph left him with vague doubts. The ruler of the desert was an unremarkable man. Copper skinned and swarthy, he lacked strong moral character despite his quest to unify the desert tribes under his banner. Pirneon had taken an instant dislike to the man. But work was work, and so long as the gems and gold kept coming, the knight planned on fulfilling his part of the contract.

Muttering a prayer under his breath, Pirneon decided it was time. Spring had come and, with it, the desert rains. He’d timed the attack in this camp according to the court magician’s weather predictions. It was now or never as far as Pirneon was concerned. He rose up slightly and signaled the handful of archers directly behind. Theirs was the most critical role in the assault. Satisfied they were preparing, he turned back to the camp. Only four sentries could be seen patrolling the outer perimeter, giving him a false sense of security. Once they were dead, the avenue of approach for his force would be wide open.

He thanked his good fortune for having led the scout the night prior. Having been a soldier for decades, Pirneon preferred to do his own reconnaissance before a major operation. It was paying off now. His own intelligence gave him detailed ingress and egress points along with the meager defensive strong points in the Satrap’s perimeter. Getting in wasn’t going to be much of an issue. Getting out…

His biggest ally in the camp was routine. By now, the sentries were already complacent in their daily activities. Soldiers often have a tendency to relax when duties became routine. Routine kills. That was one of the Gaimosian military academy’s main tenants. Pirneon hoped to use it to his advantage.

He raised his arm enough for the archers to see. Arrows were knocked, bows drawn. The moment was now. He dropped his arm. Six arrows thrummed through the darkness. Pirneon’s heart refused to beat. His entire plan hinged on the sentries being killed without noise. Only seconds went by, but it felt like an eternity. Five of the six shafts were true, and the sentries dropped dead.

Pirneon already had his raiders up and moving before the last body hit the sand. Sword in hand, he charged silently down the dune. The soft sounds of a hundred others accompanied him. Pirneon raced past the feathered corpses. There, half of his force split off to the tents filled with sleeping soldiers. He directed a handful to snatch torches and burn the camp. The confusion alone should prove enough for him to reach the Satrap and do what needed to be done.

Cries of alarm went up from around the camp. Flames sprang to life as the dry rotted fabric of the tents burned. Pirneon led the handful of men crowding him. This was the only chance he was going to get.

“Come on,” he snapped. “Kill everyone in the way, and don’t stop until we gain the command tent.”

The soldiers around him slashed their way through the camp with vigor. Pirneon found the indiscriminant slaughter a useless act. It served to slow their advance and inspire thoughts of revenge when the smoke cleared, threatening to provoke a wider war. The Satrap’s tribe was well connected and still had many allies. Any extended violence would keep Pirneon in the desert longer. He despised the desert. Snarling at his lazy thoughts, the Gaimosian hurried.

Slowing to a creep at the edge of the last row of tents, Pirneon got his first good look at the command tent. More than two dozen alert and decidedly dangerous guards were posted by the front. They were heavily armed and expecting trouble. The battle raging throughout the camp scarcely interested them. Their sole purpose was to protect the Satrap. Swords drawn and archers ready, the guards were vigilant. Pirneon scowled.

At least twenty meters of open area separated his raiders from the tent. The swordsmen weren’t an issue. It was the archers who worried Pirneon. Those crossbows were more than a match for even the most heavily armored. Having insisted on stealth over protection, Pirneon’s raiders would be woefully exposed. Their black tunics and pants wouldn’t even slow the bolts. The potential for slaughter was high but worth the risk as far as Pirneon was concerned. He grit his teeth and leaned back as the rest of his forces caught up.

Most were bloodstained, and all were panting heavily. Pirneon found their lack of skill and discipline disturbing. The Satrap should already be in chains. Instead, he was forced to delay because of the sloppy barbarism of his allies. That ignorance was going to cost them dearly. Pirneon had no qualms about sacrificing a few for the greater good. Intensified sounds of battle drifted to him. All elements of surprise were lost. They were going to have to scrape their way out of the camp whether they succeeded or not.

“Now! Rush the guards. Take down the crossbowmen first. I’ll grab the Satrap,” he ordered.

Pirneon saw the fear in their eyes and almost sensed a trap. For the briefest of moments, he felt his soldiers plotting against him. The moment passed, but doubts lingered. The motley group Caliph Adonmeia had given him wasn’t fit to muck out stables, much less win a war. He smiled cruelly.

“Attack!”

The intensity in his voice gave them a start, and they paused for a split second in shock. One by one, they gathered their wits and charged. Howling and bellowing ancient war cries, they rushed towards the guards. Pirneon stood fast and watched the scene play out. The guards remained motionless. The raiders ran in an unorganized mob. He idly wondered how those fools would feel if they realized they were never meant to be more than a diversion. The thought almost made him smile.

At five meters, the guards fired. A dozen crossbow bolts slammed into the massed ranks of enemy warriors and nearly halted the attack. Seven raiders dropped dead or wounded in gargled cries and a spray of hot blood. The front of the mob collided with the consolidated ranks of guards, and even more fell. Swords clashed with wild swings. The guards held. Without armor, Pirneon’s raiders were waiting targets. The ground soon grew slick with blood. Another salvo of arrows sliced into the back of the mob before they recovered enough to counterattack the flanks. With the archers successfully engaged, Pirneon moved.

He was only going to get one chance. The Vengeance Knight danced past the battle, not stopping to fight unless absolutely necessary. Sped, strength, and conditioning brought him past the battle and into the tent. Common sense told him there’d be additional guards and servants inside, and he’d already drawn daggers. The tent flap brushed aside, and Pirneon immediately pitched forward into a somersault.

The move caught the pair of guards unawares, giving him the moment he needed to attack. Pirneon stabbed from his knees. The daggers sunk deep into exposed thighs. Both men cried out. Pirneon rose and savagely slit the throat of the nearest guard. Confusion in his eyes, the guard futilely clutched at his throat as he fell. The second guard recovered better. Firelight reflected off the curve of his blade. Pirneon back-stepped and let him come. The guard drew back to strike. Pirneon darted forward, getting inside the guard’s reach. He slammed his dagger up through the lower jaw and into the brain. The immediate threat neutralized, Pirneon scanned his surroundings.

The Satrap sat on a modest throne in the center of the tent. Horror blanched his features. Beady eyes peered out from beneath a gold turban encrusted with emeralds and rubies. He’d clearly not been expecting the amount of raw violence brought against him. His mottled grey beard and moustache concealed his mouth and jaw, hiding his other emotions. Old eyes the color of forged steel settled on Pirneon. He then did something the Vengeance Knight didn’t expect. He nodded his head in respect.

“You are one of them, are you not?” he asked after recovering his senses. “A fabled Vengeance Knight.”

Pirneon sheathed one of his daggers and stepped forward. “Yes.”

The Satrap stood. “It is said among my people that none are your equals in battle. That the very name strikes fear in the hearts of the young and old. That you have come to dispatch me is indeed a sad day for the desert tribes.”

“No,” Pirneon said. “I haven’t come to kill you. Adonmeia needs you alive to end this war. I am to deliver you alive and unharmed.”

A flash of a smile. “Adonmeia wants us all dead. You included. He wants the desert for his own and will not stop until all bend knee to him. Whether by your sword or another’s, I am a dead man.”

“The politics of the situation don’t interest me. I’ve been commissioned on specific purpose. We can do this dignified.”

Outside, the muffled sounds of combat were continuing at a greatly reduced pace.

“There is no dignity in being a hostage.”

Pirneon paused. Something in the Satrap’s words didn’t sit well. That funny feeling of betrayal returned.

The Satrap noticed his hesitation and pressed. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“As we speak Adonmeia sends his army across the desert to kill my people. Our villages are already under siege. He will slaughter every man, woman, and child. Adonmeia is a monster who employs monsters.”

Pirneon stopped. A horn rang out, and the battle quickly faded.

“If that were true, I’d know,” he replied. “I’m one of his generals and on the war council. There has been no talk of such actions.”

The Satrap fixed him with a sorrowful look. “Adonmeia listens to only one man. All others are but expendable pawns. I am already dead, Vengeance Knight, but so are you.”

Pirneon’s thoughts got the better of him. Bradgen. Adonmeia’s right hand and enforcer. Any move would have been filtered through Bradgen. Suddenly nothing made sense. A Gaimosian in name and deed, Pirneon had always held to a strict code of honor. He didn’t kill for sport or pleasure and viewed this act of kidnapping for the purpose of cold-blooded murder beneath him. For Adonmeia to have fooled him so completely left him knotted with grave doubts.

The Satrap nodded. “At last you begin to understand. But it is too late.”

A handful of soldiers burst into the tent. All were covered with blood and belonged to the Satrap. Pirneon knew he’d never be able to fight his way clear. Even so, he drew his sword and prepared. Glory would come.

The Satrap held a staying hand. “My soldiers have not come to kill you.”

“Might as well. I don’t see any alternative. There’s only one way this can end. If what you say is true, my life holds little value,” Pirneon snapped.

“Enough have died already. There is another way. What remains of your assault force is fleeing back into the dunes, but it is not enough. If my people are to live, I must surrender.”

A collective gasp escaped the soldiers. Even Pirneon was at a loss. He slowly lowered his sword. There was no real threat here. The Satrap issued orders in his native tongue. Several soldiers left to relay them throughout the camp. What little remained intact was about to be broken down for movement. Camp was being struck.

“Take me back to Adonmeia. I will not let my people be slaughtered out of false pride. Others have fought, and all have died. Whole tribes no longer exist. That shall not be our fate.”

He removed his turban and walked close enough to Pirneon to lay a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “This is the way of the desert. A hard life, to be sure.”

Pirneon remained in shock and awe of the man before him. If other leaders held the same quality of character as the Satrap, the world might have been a better place.

Prisoner

It took them more than an hour to reach the pre-designated rendezvous position. The night had grown cold, but they were still covered in sweat. Pirneon was feeling the weight of his advanced age, though not from the battle. The Satrap, Habrim, walked at ease, as if freed from any tension. His words weighed heavily on Pirneon’s conscience. The entire operation had gone sour the moment he’d entered the Satrap’s tent. More than ever, he was thinking his decision to come into the desert was a mistake. He’d taken the job after a period of restlessness resulting from unemployment. Life was hard enough without being paid. When the Caliph’s agents entered his chambers he virtually leapt at the opportunity, though he had little opinion about the desert.

Neither man spoke as they trekked across the dunes. Sand got everywhere, practically coating them, much to Pirneon’s dislike.
Just another reason to never return. Whoever created sand sure didn’t like people
. Pirneon let his guard down for the first time since entering the desert. Habrim’s men posed no threat as far as he could tell. Adonmeia’s men more than likely thought him killed. It was a recurring theme he’d gotten used over the years since he’d fled Gaimos. Not that he minded. Being thought dead was useful. Infinite possibilities opened up when the enemy figured you for dead.

He didn’t bother binding Habrim. That would only slow them down, and the Satrap seemed almost as eager as Pirneon to see this affair through. A dread sense of foreboding pained him. Habrim knew that every delay was potentially fatal to his cause, a fact he went to length to impart to Pirneon as they set out. Visions of massacred bodies now tormented the Gaimosian as he walked. They stopped only long enough to relive themselves and take a bit of water. Even at night, the desert was a formidable opponent. Dehydration was a constant threat.

Pirneon uncharacteristically halted Habrim. Pulling him close, he whispered, “I promise I will not let Adonmeia kill you.”

Habrim said nothing. They continued again, climbing the last dune, and arrived at the edge of the rendezvous point. Pirneon helped him kneel and let out a shrill birdcall. The wind carried it softly. No answer. He frowned. Another call sang out, followed by another. He waited, his battle-hardened mind already racing through potential scenarios. Finally, the call was returned. Relief conspicuously absent, Pirneon took the small piece of rope from his pack and bound Habrim’s wrists loosely.

Faces turned to look up at them as they stalked down the dune. Pirneon felt a growing sense of respect for the Satrap after he offered no resistance to being bound. That respect turned to disgust as he fixed his attention on the remnants of his raiders lounging sloppily at the bottom of the dune. They were not the same men who had set out with him earlier. What he saw was a bunch of frightened men thankful to be alive. Of the hundred raiders he’d been given command of, less than thirty remained. Seven of those would not see the dawn.

The mass carried themselves without poise. Shoulders were slumped. Heads hung low. No Gaimosian worth his salt would ever allow defeat to willow him so. Victory and defeat were mere facets of understanding. Whispers spread as, one by one, heads turned to watch Pirneon march towards them. A corporal, the highest-ranking raider left alive, finally climbed to his feet to confront the pair.

“We thought you were dead.” It was more question than comment.

Pirneon hid his defensiveness. The malevolent gleam lurking just behind the corporal’s eyes was troublesome, further signifying the extent of the danger Pirneon was in. “So did I, but with the guard distracted, I was able to enter the tent and kill the Satrap’s defenders. I made it through the back with him before the enemy came in force.”

The lie flowed smoothly off his tongue. He’d lost all respect for Adonmeia’s forces. They’d shown their true worth, and it was cheap. Pirneon figured his best bet was to keep to his promise. Habrim might very well be the hope for the stable society the desert tribes were searching for. He decided to turn the conversation and force the warriors on the defensive.

“What about you? I thought for sure you had all been slaughtered.”

The corporal dropped his head from the sting of the words. “We managed to burn half of their camp before the enemy grew organized. We fought hard but were outnumbered. A horn sounded, and we knew more were coming. Those of us still alive…left before they could kill us all.”

Pirneon caught the pause, knowing the corporal struggle not to say they had turned and fled like cowardly dogs. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. Not only had they run without knowing if their mission was a success or not, they had left him to die. Not a one deserved to live, but it wasn’t his decision to make. If they’d been sons of Gaimos, they would have been stripped naked and banished into the mountains for a year. They would be allowed to return if they survived. Before the Fall, not one banished warrior had returned. Pirneon reckoned this lot would fare no better.

He leveled his sternest gaze on the broken men. “Pray we deliver our bounty to Adonmeia alive else your heads will roll. The Caliph does not look kindly on failure.”

“But I….”

Pirneon took a menacing step forward. “But nothing. You left me without securing the Satrap. You turned and fled the field of battle. As the highest ranking left alive, all responsibility now falls on your shoulders. You will answer to the Caliph upon our return. Do not anger me further, or I may just forget we are allies.”

That last took all the wind from the corporal. No man in his right mind dared cross a Vengeance Knight. Pirneon’s harsh reputation among the desert tribes was well deserved and he hoped enough to see him through to the dawn. He was a cruel man to work for and a soldier without remorse. That earned enough respect from Adonmeia, or so he assumed.

“Yes sir,” was all the corporal could reply.

Pirneon didn’t ease up. His life depended on it. “Get this rabble up and moving. We leave in an hour.”

Strapping their gear to their backs, the bedraggled group set out for camp. Dawn was still some time in coming. Pirneon didn’t particularly care. Marching at night was to their benefit. He knew that Habrim’s forces weren’t a threat, but his suspicions had been gnawing at his confidence ever since assaulting the command tent. The Satrap had been expecting him. It was the only way he could have been captured so easily. Pirneon couldn’t keep the now almost permanent frown from marring his features. Questions plagued him. Why would Habrim willingly surrender, knowing that death was an inescapable conclusion?

That ill feeling continued to strengthen the longer they marched. He didn’t know what to make of the current situation, but one thing became abundantly clear: there was more going on in the desert than he’d previously assumed. Pirneon dropped back to pull even with the corporal. It was time for answers.

“How many enemy soldiers did we kill last night?”

Confused, the corporal asked, “Sir?”

“How many do you think we killed?”

He wasn’t sure. “Maybe seventy to one hundred. Most of the men ran through the tents before the heavy fighting began. Every tent I entered was empty.”

Empty tents meant Habrim had been prepared for their arrival, waiting. What was he up to? Pirneon wasn’t sure, but no answer would be one to look forward to. The first rays of sunlight broke across the far horizon. It was going to be hot soon, and they still had more than a league to march. That league was all the time Pirneon had to reassess his situation.

“Thank you. Pass the word along. We stop at dawn for five minutes,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Leaving the corporal about his duties, the knight fought the urge to go and question Habrim. There could be no signs of collusion, or his neck would pay the price. Treason was already a very real fear. That marked him an instant target. With no loyalties to either man, he was a loose end. His best and safest bet was to deliver Habrim alive as promised and slip away before Adonmeia was the wiser.

The reality was far different. His oath to Habrim overrode any monetary commitment to the Caliph, at least as far as Pirneon was concerned. Honor demanded to be upheld. Adonmeia was a brutal man with an almost savage ferocity lurking beneath the surface. He was not one to be crossed, and Pirneon recognized he was putting his life in jeopardy just by conversing with Habrim. Should Adonmeia find out….

Still, Habrim was the more honorable of the two. Personal feelings held little regard when it came down to it, even for a knight of Gaimos, but Pirneon couldn’t help but figure he’d made a massive mistake by signing on with the Caliph. His thoughts were broken as the reduced company of raiders ground to a sudden halt.

Pirneon watched with disdain as the men slumped down on their packs to lick their wounds. Most of them were stained with blood or bore injuries themselves. They were worn down and near broken. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. Memories of fleeing Gaimos as it finally fell returned to him. Not even the broken army, what little remained of it, showed such despair. Watching the raiders act as if their world had just ended disturbed him.

Having seen enough, Pirneon decided it was time to speak with his prisoner. He strode purposefully to where a handful of guards loosely observed Habrim, knowing that none would oppose his will in so long as they believed he still held authority under Adonmeia. The majority of raiders refused to make eye contact or walked away as he approached. Pirneon snorted his displeasure.

“I need to speak with the prisoner,” he barked at the nearest of the guards.

The guard looked skeptically at his peers. Pirneon stepped quickly to his face. Sunlight began to glare behind him, adding to the unspoken menace he presented. “Don’t forget your place,” he warned through clenched teeth. “I act in the Caliph’s name. Question me, and you question him.”

The guard blanched and motioned his peers away, leaving Pirneon and Habrim alone.

“Impressive, but it won’t last long,” Habrim said without looking up.

Pirneon crouched down and offered his canteen.

“Thank you.”

He nodded in reply. “You knew we were coming. Didn’t you?”

The elder Satrap smiled thinly. “The desert holds many secrets.”

“As in a line of scouts running the dunes unseen?” Pirneon asked with an arched eyebrow.

“We are at war, Vengeance Knight. Would you leave your camp undefended?”

The question was double edged. Pirneon now had no doubt that Habrim had meant to surrender long before the raiders arrived. But why? He’d seen his share of intrigue and politics getting involved in wars but often managed to avoid them. Generals needed to be on the battlefield, not mired in pointless plots. Here the desert ways were differed. Rulers and military leaders were expected to have their hands in every aspect of war.

“Why would you let us march into your camp and kill your men? You could have had us all before we crested the final dune.”

“Deception is sometimes necessary in the grand scheme of war,” Habrim replied before drinking deeply.

Pirneon felt he was closer to the answer that would unravel the mystery but was still missing the final few pieces. He’d come across others who had thought that, by surrendering, their people would be spared, and they’d all genuinely done so for the good of the people. Habrim was different; that much was obvious. He surely wanted to save his tribe, but some other agenda propelled him forward.

War had been going on for almost a year before Pirneon arrived. Adonmeia threatened to raze the desert with his ambition. The notion sent shock waves across the desert as war spread. War. The word suddenly felt wrong. Pirneon glanced to Habrim with unveiled eyes. The Satrap wasn’t planning on surrendering. He wanted to become a martyr and raise his people.

“This is all part of your plan,” he whispered cautiously.

Habrim remained silent for a moment. “Tell me, knight: what did you think when you first came into the desert? That the war was a simple feud between rival tribes? That Adonmeia wanted to end it and bring about lasting peace? We have been at war for more than ten years, not the one you mistakenly believe.”

“But why? War isn’t good for any culture,” Pirneon argued, not knowing what else to say about the revelation. His words were hollow, for was he not from famed Gaimos? A military society that eventually caused their own downfall? Pirneon suddenly viewed the Jebel Desert as a very dangerous place.

“There comes a point when one no longer questions. Actions are all that remain if the future is to come. The tribes of the desert have been mocked and laughed at by those who dwell beyond our borders for a very long time. You know this, Knight. The stiff wind blows change.”

“How many?” Pirneon asked, his mind racing. A slight breeze wafted through his almost silver hair.

Habrim smiled again. “More than you could guess. Adonmeia is in for quite the surprise.”

He said nothing more. The conversation was finished. Leaving his canteen, Pirneon stormed off. He’d discovered just enough to make the immediate future terrifying. Habrim’s words troubled him to no end. He ignored his raiders as he marched past. They were now more of an enemy than Habrim ever was. Visions of huge armies of men running parallel to his current position were almost enough to make him send out scouts. How much time did he truly have left?