Shadow of Dawn

1. Aevi

The riders spilled forth from the unfinished gates sunk into the unfinished walls of an unfinished city. A city thousands dreamed of, a cluster of cold stone that bore the hope of all that lived in its shadow. Sweat-slicked workers perched atop heaps of enormous rocks hailed the horsemen as they passed beneath the half-built arch. Dozens of men paused for a moment in their labor to watch the company gallop out and listen to the horns echoing against the sheer faces of ice-crowned Aerast.

Beyond the rising walls, makeshift encampments seemed to sprout from the icy plains in dark patches. Women halted, baskets full of cloth, kindling or berries bending their backs. Giggling, though their eyes shone with unforgotten sorrow, children chased the sleek horses as far as they could, until their cheeks were red and the riders were but a smudge in the distance.

Less than forty they were, and yet they were all the mounted might left to An Cylas. Few bore helms, shields or even weapons, as there were none to be found and not many could be made—they had neither smith nor furnace. A handful of grizzled veterans leaned forward over their horses, fortunate enough to wear swords across their broad backs. Here or there, an axe or a stone-tipped spear hung slack at a rider's side. Most had taken up what they could find; sharpened truncheons or blunt masses fashioned from thick branches. They did not ride out to do battle, but too many had perished on outings in the past for them to ride weaponless.

The sun cut a swift arc in the clouded sky, passing in and out of sight at the whim of the winds. These very winds lashed at the riders' furs, streaming out behind them and soon crusted with mud and ice. They kept their heads lowered and their eyes narrowed, peering sharply around them for signs of life or death. With spurts of speed between quiet trots, the company made good time over the swelling and falling country.

By mid-morning, they had covered enough land to come in sight of the Promise, the enormous, grey-stoned hill that thousands of refugees had crested before coming into sight of An Cylas. They wheeled east, coming no closer to the Windrift than was necessary. The Silver Thane's forces, though weakened and beaten back recently, were far greater and better equipped than their own. And the countless other clans of fierce Vauklings who worshipped Kathor never shied away from bloodshed.

'Halt!' Vorral, the captain of the company, cried and raised his fist. His scalp was bare and riddled with scars both young and old. 'We split now, as planned. Make haste, but be prudent and don't engage our foes. Flee if you must. Ride back to the city and wait for orders there. Aevi?'

'Yes, captain,' replied the young woman as she nudged her horse closer.

Though the deep lines on her face etched by time, wind or sorrow made her appear older than she was, Aevi was hardly a woman grown. Yet she had led her company under Vorral's orders for three winters and earned the loyalty of hard-eyed and blooded men. Her hair, shifting from golden to silver as the winter sun flashed over her braids, drew the eye of many a man. No woman in An Cylas—save the crones whose hair faded to whitened wisps—shared the gleam of Aevi's locks. The riders reined in around Vorral, huddling close to drown out the wail of the wind.

'Head south and westward. As near to the Rift as you dare. All of you, keep your eyes open and wits sharp,' Vorral said, voice muffled by the wind.

Aevi nodded, then turned and pulled away, her riders gathering around her. They were about to break into a gallop their separate ways, when he shouted after her.

'Aevi, do not return empty-handed!' was all he cried.

When Vorral and his riders lessened into a cloud of icy dust, Aevi rallied her men—and the three women who had proven their worth in battle—and set off. Eastward they galloped, with the gusts of the Windrift ever on their right and the monumental presence of the mountains at their backs.

Aevi let her mind wander as her horse swallowed the white country, thundering hooves dulling her thoughts. The wolf tooth pendant bounced wildly on her chest. Her eyes remained alert, darting to the southern horizon, peering across the Windrift—the great chasm that separated them from the plains and hills of the Vauk. Were those silhouettes? Or just herds of stampers grazing upon the endless grasses? Her hand fell to the cold comfort of her sword's pommel, but she shook her head. The sun played tricks on her, frightening her when there was nothing to be afraid of.

The wind-thanes and their warriors were loud, their war-cries rhythmic and raucous. Besides, the Rift still stood between her and them for now. It was madness to attempt the crossing here, even for Vauklings. Further to the east, the wind lessened enough to cross, but each time she dreaded those passages down into the canyon.

It was still strange to look over the Rift from this side of it, though she had few memories of life on the other side at all. She strove to push the dark images from her mind, strove to forget her life before she had made her first crossing. As hard as she tried, it clung to her mind like an invisible cobweb wound tightly around her thoughts. She often wished she could just pull the strands of memory away and cast them on the wind, but they slipped between her fingers.

Her first happy memories came after she crossed the Windrift, a mere child. What came before? She remembered only flames and smoke rising high behind her, blackening the sky. The screams of dying men as they were torn apart. A woman's warm, comforting words. Shrieks, whispers and howls all mingling in the murk. Strong arms lifting her on a horse. Her tears as she looked over her shoulders, her shame as she fled for days. The fear, the hunger, the impossible unknown of the world spreading out before her... Then Abbar's clan finding her. As little as she remembered, the cold that had gripped her young limbs still stung her to the marrow.

The rest was a blur.

She first saw the man they called the Wanderer standing alone atop a snow-coated hill, beneath the monumental height of Aerast.

There were others before Abbar and her, many others. Hundreds and hundreds of exiled folk raising tents and fires, felling timber in the great forest or cutting massive bricks from grey stone. The Wanderer welcomed them with open arms, blessing their bravery and kindling their hope. He had given her a new life, He had given her hope, He had saved her, had saved them all. How could she become anything but his most faithful follower?

What if she failed him again?

Do not fret yet, she reassured herself, the skies are yet smokeless and the horizon empty.

'Captain!' someone shattered her daydreaming. It was Angren, nearer to boy than to man, who had fallen into Aevi's good graces early on. A loyal lad and a fine rider. 'We are nearing the crossing. The passage is ahead.'

She raised her eyes and wheeled her horse towards the Rift. Up ahead, she spied the narrow gap in the land that marked the passage. Aevi wheeled her company around as they reached the nearly invisible path that would lead them down into the Rift, then brought them to a halt. She dismounted, handed her reins to Angren, and peered over the sharp ledge overlooking the chasm.

Glacial gusts rose to meet her as soon as she stepped forward, winds as sharp and vicious as any blade that blasted her hair back and forced her to cover her face. Pebbles and grit struck her legs hard enough for her to feel them through her thick furs. It would only be worse once they entered the Rift itself, she knew. Still, she had crossed the Windrift on far colder days, whipped by flurrying pellets of ice and stone that sliced through bare skin. 

They had lost Finhar the last time. One poor knot in the rope they lashed around their waists and he was gone. She remembered his cry resounding for a mere heartbeat before he was lifted from the ground and dashed against the rock. The wind had carried off his battered body before anyone could retrieve him...

'Get a fire going,' she ordered, returning to her grim-faced company. 'We make the crossing at dawn.'