A New Dawn Page 2

  Titus lifted a hand to calm him. “They arrived without supplies or cargo. This could mean that they have fled to our lands.”

  “If so, from whom, and where?” asked Ambrose ominously.

  “They might have failed to plan for such a journey and now they want to take what we possess. The people are weary of war. We cannot let them know an army is on our shores,” Adrian’s face drew downward in concern.

  “We are all weary of war, Adrian. Soon enough this rumor will reach even the most remote areas of Islandia. We must act cautiously. We do not know if this is friend or foe,” said Titus.

  “So what do you suggest, High King?” asked Cornelius, making his voice known. His face was creased from age, but Titus knew that those creases had years of wisdom behind them.

  “I will travel to Samudara Port to greet our new arrivals personally. This is the only way I can be certain of their intentions.”

  “My lord, there is no reason to put your life into unnecessary risk,” said Adrian.

  “I will take a small guard with me. Enough to prevent any attempts on my life but not enough to threaten them.”

  “There is no convincing you?” Ambrose asked.

  “There is not. I held this council so you would know why I am departing. If all goes well, I should return within a few days.”

  The council stood as Titus rose to his feet. Each member stepped from the room with a respectful nod to the king. Titus watched each man as he left. Markus came shuffling up to him.

  “You are brave, my King, going by yourself.”

  “We will find out soon enough if it’s bravery or stupidity,” Titus said. He turned to leave.

  As he stepped out of the room an arm reached out and a hand caught hold of him. Titus looked to see the cheerful face of Imari. The Khosi’s hair had grown and was woven into an elaborate set of braids. His attire was a formal dashiki of brown and gold. The sharp features of his face smoothed into a smile.

  “High King, I apologize for taking you by surprise.”

  Titus embraced him. “None needed. I thought you had departed after your meetings with the tradesmen’s guild.”

  “I planned to leave immediately but I thought I should see an old friend before I left.”

  “I’m flattered, but you didn’t need to delay your trip when you had seen me just before your meetings, friend.”

  “I’m sorry High King, I didn’t mean you. I went to visit Geralt,” Imari said in a somber voice.

  Geralt. He had taken the death of Eloy harder than expected. Geralt's sorrow was strange. At times he had been Eloy’s biggest critic but after his death… well, Titus couldn’t blame him. Geralt had lost more than most.

  “How is he?” Titus asked.

  “The usual, in many ways, but something isn’t right with him. He is claiming what cannot be. He claims to have seen… Eloy,” Imari whispered the words, not wanting any listening ears to hear.

  Titus shook his head. “Another drunken hallucination. Listen, we all wish Eloy was alive, but I can’t afford to wallow in all I’ve lost. Too many are counting on us.”

  “I didn’t believe him either. I told him to sober up and get some rest, but he wouldn’t stop. He begged me to listen and, when I turned to leave, he showed me this.” Imari carefully withdrew something wrapped in cloth from his belt. With delicate hands he unfolded it, revealing a pristine white dagger with a golden hilt.

  “A dagger? What does that have to do with Eloy?” Titus asked.

  “This dagger is the gift Eloy gave me on my way back to Khala over a year ago. This saved my life. That night before ‘they’ came… I returned it to Eloy. I made sure it was on his person when we sealed the tomb. A memento of remembrance, I suppose.”

  Titus stiffened. “What are you saying, Imari?”

  “I am saying unless someone broke into the tomb to take this, the last person to possess the dagger was Eloy.”

  Titus’ heart stopped. What Imari was suggesting couldn’t be true. After all this time? No, someone must have raided the tomb and was playing a sinister trick on them. His face flushed with anger. “Come, we will find out soon enough.”

  Without waiting, he strode with firm steps to the royal tombs. Why now, of all times, would someone choose to do this? Why show the dagger to Geralt, and how would the person know that Imari would visit Geralt and come across the dagger? The questions made him quicken his pace, not waiting for the men already following behind Imari. Titus rushed forward, barking at the posted guard.

  “Open the catacombs!”

  The apathetic guard shot to attention, his eyes wide in surprise. Nervously he fumbled with the handle. “Of course, High King! What is it? What has happened?”

  “I gave a command. Open it.” He knew he shouldn’t speak to the man in such a tone but his panic, fear, rage, and pain were all rising to the surface. Without another word the guard opened the wooden door. Down the damp and cobwebbed steps Titus went. The cool blast of air brought a shiver across his skin. Grabbing a nearby torch from the wall, he descended into the depths below ground. Gray, lifeless stone lined the walls. Each carved stone was decorated with the various symbols and monuments of long dead kings.

  Forgetting any respects that ought to be paid as he passed the tombs, Titus pushed on until he found a small, circular room. All along the walls were shelves occupied with mummified residents. In the center was a circular stone slab. Adorning its top rested a sepulcher. Titus stood still, observing the place. Imari arrived behind him, panting.

  “High King, what are you…”

  “We must open it to find out the truth,” Titus said coolly.

  Imari’s worried expression turned to horror at the king's words. “Titus, that is…”

  “I know what it is, Imari, but I can’t have baseless rumors filling the streets,” Titus said. His eyes held a determined look that would tolerate no disobedience.

  Imari stepped forward with a gulp and touched the cool, dark stone. Titus flexed his hands and placed them on the stone lid.With a push he felt the top begin to give. He looked at Imari and with another expenditure of strength the lid fell heavily to the ground with a dull thud. Dust wafted into the air and temporarily blinded them. Swatting away the particles, Titus moved to the small steps to peer into the grave.

  He could feel Imari’s anxious energy approach behind him. With a final step, Titus steeled his nerves and looked down into Eloy’s resting place. To his utter shock, the tomb was empty.

  2

  Geralt

  The tavern was a dingy place. The odor of stale beer and moldy bread clung to every surface. Or, was that him that he smelled? Barely a soul filled the poorly lit establishment. Not surprising, as it was only a few hours past noon. At night the place was full of merriment, dancing, and the occasional angry drunk.

  “Another,” he grumbled to the barkeeper.

  “I think you’ve had enough. Take a few hours, sober up, and you can get your fill tonight.”

  “I’m fine, old man,” he snarled. He knew that was far from the truth. He wasn’t fine. That’s why he was here. A look of restrained fear filled the barkeeper’s face, as he decided how he should handle this well-armed agitator.

  “Fine. I’ll leave, old man, but you owe me a drink when I come back tonight.”

  Geralt slammed a sack of coins onto the bar and stomped off. Stumbling into the streets, he was greeted by the blinding light of the sun. Around him, people scurried about, busy rebuilding their lives in the city that was being restored day by day. He could see another large building being erected not a stone’s throw away, a public bathhouse by the look of it. At least Titus was rebuilding the essentials. He glanced up at the sign swinging freely in the breeze above him. The Drunken Raven.

  “Soon enough you’ll get some competition around here. Then we’ll see if you kick out your paying customers,” he said grumpily as he spat on the ground. He stumbled his way down the street, paying no
attention to the townspeople around him. He saw a group of small boys kicking a ball in the street, their smiling faces affecting his own. That’s when the vision came: the cold corpse of a child crushed into oozing mud, eyes lifelessly staring up into the overcast sky.

  As quickly as the vision came, the face of the young boy playing in the street reappeared. The child stood cautiously staring at the grizzled old man. Geralt let out a grunt and turned away. He headed down the street, the thought of more ale weighing on his mind. He reached a humble wooden abode. A single, small window was all that adorned the exterior.

  He moved his hand unsteadily to open the door. With a burst of strength it flew open, smacking into the wall and sending the contents from the shelf clanging to the floor. With an annoyed grunt he bent down to pick them up. As he reached for the small dagger the flash of his brother’s dead face appeared before him. Valkin’s cold, unyielding eyes pierced into his own. A stream of blood flowed from the dying man’s mouth.

  “Was it worth it?” the man in his vision moaned.

  The nightmare vanished with those haunting words, leaving Geralt alone and trembling as he collapsed to the ground. In fury he tossed the dagger across the room and curled into a ball on the floor. Tears and snot began to drench his face. His mind raced for an answer but found none. Soon his unyielding grief succumbed to sleep. He didn’t know how long he stayed on the cold and dirty floor. Only when he was greeted with a pounding headache did he awake once more. The darkness of night filled his room. Just outside the window he could hear voices full of laughter. With a grunt he lifted himself from the ground. Rubbing his face he moved toward a container sitting on a simple wooden table. Lifting it to his mouth for a drink, he waited for the sweet embrace, but nothing came.

  “Empty. Always empty!” he roared and threw it against the wall, shattering the vessel into a hundred pieces.

  He massaged his shoulder and with resentment on his face he moved to the door. He failed to notice the wondrous majesty that filled the sky as he stepped onto the street. Pockets of shining orbs spread across the dark sky. A spattering of small campfires burned on the ground, keeping the coolness of spring at bay. While such fires had been outlawed, the poorest communities in Kingshelm seemed to get away with these small indulgences. Geralt wondered how the small fires didn’t create dread in the returned inhabitants. He fought back the visions of skulking figures revealed only by the light of fire. Their menacing fangs and murderous eyes peering from the darkness. With a shake of his aching head he banished the memories from his mind.

  He glanced at the families sitting by their fires. The faces revealed by the flickering lights showed expressions of joy and contentment. Something he deeply yearned for himself. He wandered through the night until he reached his home away from home, The Drunken Raven. As he entered, he took note of the plethora of people now gathered inside. The smells were the same, only intensified by the number of warm bodies in the place. The sound of stringed instruments traveled into the night air, the silky voice of a woman singing in unison to the tune. She sat in a revealing red gown, her blonde hair casually draped on one shoulder as she sang a smooth melody. Her eyes stared seductively out into the onlooking crowd. Cheers rang from the opposite side of the room followed by disgruntled complaints at a card table. Geralt brushed past the music and the crowd and made a beeline for the bar.

  He moved to his usual spot where a youthful, skinny man sat. The man took note of Geralt’s hovering presence.

  He raised protest in a nasally voice, “You got a problem? By the smell of it you could use a change of clothes. Heard they got a wash basin for the pigs out back. Maybe you should find yourself there.” The young man jabbed a finger into Geralt’s torso as he said the words.

  Without moving a muscle Geralt glared down at the drunken fool. The young man squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Alright, what you want brute?” he asked after Geralt remained silent.

  “You’re in my seat, lad,” he grumbled.

  The youth’s eyes darted to and fro, but he took the prudent path and rose to his feet. Swallowing his pride he scurried into the crowd. With a tired sigh Geralt collapsed onto the stool. The bartender caught his eye and gave a weary sigh of his own. Slowly the barkeep moved his way, cleaning a mug as he went.

  “Didn’t think I’d be dealing with you again,” the bartender said curtly.

  “After every other night you thought I wouldn’t show? Just give me the usual and shut it.”

  The bartender rolled his eyes as he turned to take another’s order.

  “And don’t forget it’s on the house for earlier!” Geralt barked.

  In return he was given an unsavory gesture. He found himself nursing his fifth drink as he stared out at the blur of faces in the crowd. He wondered where they all had come from? What stories they carried? What pain? He was taken aback suddenly by a face standing out from all the others. The dark olive skin stood out in stark contrast to the pale faces of the River Folk. His deep brown eyes carried a penetrating stare and they were looking directly at him.

  “Eloy…?” mumbled Geralt. A hulking figure came bursting in front of him, blocking the room from his sight. He looked up to see a round-faced man. His body was two sizes too large and his breath sent vomit rising in Geralt’s throat. He heard a nasally voice just behind the hulking man.

  “Yeah… that’s the one, brother! He told me off, treated me like some gutter rat!”

  “That so?” the hulking man asked. “You treat my brother poorly?”

  “Move out of my way you mass of filth,” Geralt snarled as he rose to his feet. He felt the room spin and caught himself on his stool.

  “Seems this one’s had a bit too much to drink,” chuckled the fat man.

  “Easy prey, brother!” cried the scrawny youth.

  “Still sober enough to take you, fat lacka.” He moved to strike the man, but felt his balance betray him.

  The hulking form gripped Geralt by the shoulders and sent him flying across the room. Cries of panic filled the air as he came crashing to the ground. The music screeched to a halt and all eyes darted to the scene. Geralt moaned as he got to his knees.

  “Good first hit,” he muttered.

  “ENOUGH!” yelled the bartender. “Get him out.He’s been enough trouble.”

  He turned his gaze to Geralt. “I don’t want to see you here again, understand?”

  The bruiser came crashing forward, his stumpy fingers locked around Geralt once more and hoisted him on to his broad shoulders. Geralt found himself being carried outside into the dark of night. With a sudden loss of gravity, the world around him began to spin. It only stopped as he was greeted with the vision of brown muck oozing as if on its own. Before his world went dark he vaguely heard the snorting of pigs.

  “Geralt.”

  “Geralt.”

  There it was again. That familiar voice. His eyes blinked open. Between the clumps of mud distorting his vision he could just make out the form of pigs and a pair of feet.

  “Geralt, I need you to wake up. I have an urgent task for you.”

  He groaned as he rose to his knees. He looked up and his heart stopped. He felt his jaw drop as he stared into the eyes of Eloy. His strong, regal face cracked into a smile from the acknowledgment of his friend. Fear pierced Geralt’s heart and he scrambled backward.

  “Don’t be afraid, friend. I am not a ghost,” Eloy said kindly.

  “You… how drunk am I?” Geralt mumbled in confusion, grabbing his head.

  “Very drunk. I promise this is no hallucination.”

  “Why? How?” Were the only words Geralt could muster.

  Eloy let out a soft chuckle. “Important questions, but not answers I can provide now. I need you to deliver a warning and also spread good news. A grave danger is on the horizon, Geralt.” Eloy paused to let the drunken man absorb the warning. “You must tell the others that I am alive.”

  Geralt found h
imself fumbling for words again. “Do the others know?”

  “Not yet. You haven’t told them,” Eloy said with a wry smile.

  “Me? What do you mean? Are you not going to tell them?” Geralt’s head was swimming and his thoughts were confused.

  “I will, at the proper time, but the task of sharing this news I give to you.”

  “You don’t understand, I haven’t seen them… well it’s been awhile.”

  “That’s exactly why you should tell them,” Eloy said not unkindly.

  “They won’t believe me if I do! They’ll say I was drunk, and making it up or seeing things.”

  “What you say is only partly true,” Eloy said with a chuckle.

  “This isn’t a joke! You have the wrong man,” he protested.

  A flicker of sternness flashed across Eloy's face. “Are you questioning my ability to declare you to be fit for a task?”

  Humility suddenly struck Geralt and he dropped to a knee. “Of course not, my King.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now get yourself cleaned up. You have a message to deliver.”

  Geralt found himself nodding with affirmation, and as he looked up Eloy extended a white bladed dagger toward him. The blade hummed with a faint energy similar to a Dawn Blade.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “You may need help convincing our friends when the time comes. This is to help your case.”

  Geralt took the dagger in hand and looked it over. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. We have a mutual friend who will know what it means.”

  Eloy now extended a hand and lifted Geralt to his feet. His mind whirled at the feeling of Eloy once again in the flesh. The strength of Eloy’s firm grip caused his brain to spin. He mulled over the person before him. The man before him looked like a deeper reality than he had ever experienced standing in the presence of any other person. In a blink, that reality was gone and Geralt was standing alone in the mud.

  He had laid awake all night staring up at the ceiling, mind racing. Could it be true? Had Eloy really returned? He knew the answer, yet he fought to believe it himself. How could he deliver the message to the others? With a groan, he rose from the cold ground. An outline of mud had stuck to the ground where he had laid. He felt a soberness that had been long in visiting him. He drew up water and filled a basin to wash away the filth from the evening before. The long night had ended, and it was time to start living in the day again.