Haggart's Dawn Read online

  “Thanks, Captain,” said Haggart who was still recovering from the battle. He walked slowly over to Lorrie and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling her body trembling beneath it. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” she replied. “What's he going to do to him?”

  “You probably don't want to know. It's the least he deserves because he won't get to see it coming.”

  Lorrie looked up at him, shocked. “You can't just kill him!” she said.

  “You are too young to remember the last time a Hunter came through here. He was invisible, no one saw him as he sat in that corner over there eating his meal in silence. He was polite to the barmaids, gave coins to them even, and just sat there for the best part of a week. We'd given him lodgings because he claimed he was riding south but the winter had come. One night he's still there after we've closed. He'd been watching me, working out who I was. He launched his attack when he was sure we were alone and the Captain says it lasted till past midnight.”

  “What happened? Did you win?”

  “You can't win, not unless you're better than him and few people are. I knew of only one, my teacher. You see, during the Gorm wars they often showed up at the end of a battle, looking for victims amongst the wounded or dying. From a distance you can't see what he's doing. It's only when you get up close that the air turns icy cold and you can feel the energy passing between the Hunter and his prey. That's what the Captain found when he woke during the night. He'd met them before and he saved me - and just in time too.”

  “What happened to the Hunter?”

  “We let him go. Then we heard that he'd been seen again, though this time his victim hadn't been so lucky.”

  “Oh no.”

  “They're not the kind of loose ends you leave untied, Lorrie. I'm sorry you had to see it, but we're doing the right thing. People will suffer if we don't. The thing is, we're usually good at spotting them but somehow we missed this one.”

  “We're not at war with Gorm so who sent him then?”

  “The Council. We learned that they'd started hiring them a while ago. They want to make sure anyone like us either works for them – or doesn't work at all.”

  Tears began to run down her cheeks. “What have we done wrong?” she asked.

  “We were born.”

  Haggart left her in the care of the Captain and took his horse west into the Rhodan Valley, following the Royal road through the forest for many miles. By mid-afternoon he'd come across no one travelling along the way, which was odd given that it was this road which led directly to the harbour. Not many would take the turning he was about to take unless they were, like Haggart, on drink related business. It was an odd kind of loyalty that Haggart gave to Hector, the man who ran the brewery and whose family had done so for many generations, and he'd resisted the cheaper offers that sometimes came his way from the south in favour of him. It owed itself to Hector's Father who'd served the King during the invasion of the Northern Tribes alongside Haggart and the Captain. He'd died in that battle and it was they who'd brought his body home to Hector who'd only been 10 years old at the time. They owed Hector nothing, yet they felt it was the least they could do for the son of a fallen comrade.

  He watched the birds come and go over his head and listened to the distant sounds of the river as it wormed its way closer to the valley where it would inevitably make its way out towards the sea. It would hammer down the valley walls as it went, driving the big water wheel that provided an old lumber mill with the power that it needed to turn logs into the beginnings of ships that were built in the dry docks of the harbour. It was here that Haggart began his descent and his horse picked its way between the sharp outcrops of stone and began to trot along the riverside. When the workers saw him they waved and one in particular – a large, portly man who was sweating in the sun – began frantically shaking both arms in the air and gesturing Haggart to come over.

  “Haggart, thank the Council you are here,” the man said, mopping his glistening forehead with a rag. His plump and round body sat on two sturdy but squat legs and he wore the faded grey pants and the white shirt of the mill workers, though he was no common worker. The mill and brewery had been in his family for generations and it was his Uncle who had tended to it when his Father had gone off to war. Now Hector ran the business and he was well known in the area as a man who always got his own hands dirty.

  “Haggart, you old dog. How are you?” he said. Haggart climbed down off his horse and a mill worker came and led it away.

  “I'm fine, thank you Hector. How's the family?”

  “Excellent, excellent. We're doing just great down here.” Hector always implied that his mill was 'down there' even though most people knew that you had to ascend many feet before plunging down the valley sides and Haggart was confident that on further inspection the valley floor would probably turn out to be higher than Sander's End. “How is my favourite grumpy old man?”

  “If you wish to take your life into your own hands, I'll go ahead and assume you're referring to the Captain. He is doing well, considering he hasn't killed someone in...” Haggart pulled himself up short, suddenly realising that the Captain had just killed someone and he felt a lump settle in the pit of his stomach. “Well, let's just say he's good,” he finished.

  “Mead?” asked Hector.

  “Please.”

  They walked away from the rest of the workers towards a small white brick building set back into the valley side. It was an ornate, wooden framed house with carved pillars holding up a lavish porch roof which, underneath, had two chairs and a table laid out for dinner. Two glasses of the amber liquid, already warming in the sun, had been the first items put out by a servant and were quickly followed by a small tray of grapes and fresh bread.

  “Have a seat, Haggart,” said Hector looking very relieved to be out of the glare of the sun. Haggart sat and drained half of the glass before letting out a relieved sigh. Then he tore off a piece of the bread and passed it to Hector.

  “You still remember the old ways,” he said, accepting it with a polite nod.

  “Your father always had respect for them even though so many around him didn't.”

  “I can still remember them, they're the only things I still have that are his.”

  Haggart could see that Hector was troubled in some way. His face winced at the taste of his own mead and he ate the bread as if it were poison to him. He had difficulty in looking at him directly and his eyes kept shifting, darting glances at one of the buildings across the way as if watching for something.

  “What troubles you, old friend?” asked Haggart. “You don't seem yourself today.”

  “Ah, don't trouble yourself over me. I'm just a little worn down by it all if I'm honest.” He looked towards the building again and tried to drink a little more but the task seemed beyond him. “Just a little...”

  “A little what?”

  “Haggart,” he said, suddenly turning in his seat. “You have helped me for as long as I can remember. You buy mead from me despite the fact that we both know City booze is cheaper. You honour my Father when you don't have to. If I’ve needed help, you and the Captain are always ready. Would it be too much to presume upon that kindness again?”

  “Hector, you're worrying me. What on earth is the matter?”

  He toyed with his glass and was about to speak when workman came onto the porch. He was a tall, thin man with sinewy arms like old tree roots and a dark skin from working in the sun all day. He ignored Haggart completely and made sure his eyes only addressed Hector.

  “Sir, there's a problem,” he muttered.

  “What kind of problem, Jim?” said Hector and it looked to Haggart like a shadow suddenly passed over his worried features.

  “The... machine, sir. It has stopped.”

  Haggart felt the tension in the air as the colour left Hector's face. He looked at him, then at Jim who was standing there wringing his hands with a visible change in complexion, almost turning white with mounti
ng dread.

  “Okay,” said Hector, his voice broken. “Okay. I'll be right along. I'm sorry, Haggart, please excuse me.”

  Haggart watched them leave, heading towards the same building Hector had been stealing glances at before as workers gathered around the doorway into the shadowy interior. They went inside and nothing stirred for quite some time, nothing but the twittering birds in the trees further up the valley sides and the sound of rushing water off in the distance. The air was getting thick and humid as he sat ther, finishing his drink and wondering what the 'machine' Jim had been referring to was. He hadn't heard of any new pieces of equipment coming Hector's way and he hadn't noticed any price changes to try and pay for it. Hector wasn't that generous to miss passing on his cost to the customer. Whatever it was had begun to press upon him, worry him and he'd been on the verge of telling him until they'd been interrupted.

  Haggart got up decided to investigate it for himself. As he approached the building, several of the workforce saw him and turned to bar his entry into it.

  “I'm sorry sir, you cannot go inside,” they said.

  “I'm a friend of Hector, let me pass, I might be able to help.”

  “The machine is very... delicate. Only he can fix it. Please, return to the big house and we will have more mead brought up to you.” They ushered him away and Haggart couldn't see anything beyond them - the interior of the mill was pitch black on account of the windows having been painted with tar. He allowed them to move him away and watched them turn their backs on him and go inside, closing the door behind them. A bolt was slid across.

  He walked around the site for a minute or two and eventually found a worker trying to repair something on the wheel mechanism near the river and he walked over to him and coughed softly to get his attention.

  “Oh, hello sir,” said the man as he turned to face him, putting down his tools. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hector has just left in a hurry, he said something about a machine?”

  “A machine?” The man's features shifted uneasily. “I don't know anything about a machine,” he replied and hastened back to his work.

  “But you do, don't you?” said Haggart and he raised a hand, palm outwards, towards the man and said again, “A machine?”

  The man's eyes rolled back into his skull and he froze on the spot. Only his mouth made any effort to move as the energy writhed between them.

  “A... machine... to...”

  Haggart pushed deeper into his mind, passing memories and thoughts that bubbled to the forefront of his consciousness like molten metal. He saw the man's wife and three children, one lying dead from the pox, another deformed from birth. He felt the man's shame. He saw him praying to his gods, little stone idols buried under his floor. He saw his wife screaming at him, raging at his failure to provide a better life for them. Berating him. Further shame. I am not a man. I am worthless. He saw Hector offering him work. Time swirled like eddies in the river, childhood memories. Father whipping him with a horse whip. Then, through it all he saw something, a shadow, a spectre, some shapeless mass beneath the mill.

  “A... mach...ine...to...ge...t...”

  The man moaned and slid down to the floor with blood trickling from his nose. Haggart lowered him carefully onto the grass and rolled him onto his side so that his tongue lolled out of his mouth like a dog. He'd wake up once the effects had worn off and he'd have no memory of Haggart's invasion of his mind. The Summoning caused him to stumble a little on his feet until he could shake off the effects, yet this time he'd felt something different as he'd entered the man's mind, some force lurking at the edge of his awareness, some power he hadn't experienced before and he felt it had something to do with whatever was under the mill.

  The valley was deserted now and not a soul could be seen. He could hear something coming from the mill, talking and whispering perhaps, but all work had definitely stopped and he could just begin to hear the gentle thudding of something under his feet. He crossed the open ground, stopped at the nearest tar-coated window and listened intently.

  “...just get it going again,” said Hector.

  “It's not that simple,” said a second voice and this one was higher in pitch and sounded odd, like it was in pain. “The machine must be allowed to...”

  “No no no, I’ve told you before. No more. I can't give it any more,” pleaded Hector.

  “You must if the Council...”

  A hand suddenly fastened onto his shoulder and dragged him away. He stumbled backwards as a fist slammed into his jaw and he felt the world lurch beneath his feet. He was able to block the next attack with his forearm and counter it by grabbing the sinewy arm and twisting it violently down and to the right. The worker, carried by his own momentum, slammed into Haggart's shoulder and continued over it, hitting the ground hard with a grunt. Haggart punched him in the centre of his chest and the air was smashed from his lungs. The worker rolled onto his side gasping like a fish out of water, unable to rise.

  Workers were beginning to appear once again now that the initial excitement was over and Haggart made his way back to the porch before anyone dared question him. Some of them found the worker just managing to get to his feet and they shook their heads, walking back the way they'd come without asking him why he looked so unwell. They were pale and scared, they knew not to ask questions and this only betrayed the fact that there was something going on under the mill.

  “I'm sorry about that,” said Hector when he returned more composed than before but still wearing an anxious look upon his brow.

  “Is something wrong?” replied Haggart.

  “No, nothing really. Just some problems with a worker not doing what he's told with one of the vats. Nothing to worry about.” Hector wiped a film of cold sweat from his brow with a rag from his pocket and emptied his glass in one long gulp.

  “You wanted to tell me something?” asked Haggart.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, before we were interrupted.”

  “Oh, yes, well, it doesn't matter,” he stammered. “Nothing important.”

  “Are you sure? You don't seem yourself, Hector, if you don't mind me saying so.” He mopped his forehead again.

  “Half the barrels at half price,” he replied.

  “Sorry?”

  “The mead you wanted. And the wine.”

  “Of course,” said Haggart. “But no, half price for all of them and that will make use square, I believe.”

  “Yes, yes, okay then. Of course.”

  There was a painful silence that followed from Hector's affirmation and it was filled with his furious glances and glares at the place where all his problems dwelt.

  “Well, I must be off,” said Haggart. “Before you ply me with more drink to get me to pay full price,” said Haggart, rising out of his chair with all the calm and control he could muster to avoid giving him the slightest clue as to his intentions. “Will you ready the cart for me?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” said Hector. Haggart handed him a small purse of coins which he stuffed into his pocket without counting and he was now thoroughly convinced that whatever was in that building was no mere machine. He could never recall a single instance of Hector not counting his payments. He offered a hand to Hector.

  “Goodbye, friend,” said Haggart.

  “Goodbye, Haggart. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  *

  Haggart set off as quickly as possible without alerting them to his reasons and travelled several miles down the road before doubling back and hiding the cart in the woodland where no passer by might see it. Then he walked back to the valley's edge and waited until all of the workers had turned in for the night before climbing down and creeping across the open space between the buildings in search of the machine.

  There was a cool breeze and the sky was cloudless as he crept, moonlight splashing across every sharp angle, every flat surface like it was raining starlight. It made his clandestine movements difficult and he often ch
ecked windows and doorways just in case someone might be watching. The flittering shadows of animals braving the valley floor made him alert and wary by the time he had explored the area immediately around the mill. He found nothing of interest and so he approached the door and tried the handle. It was locked and he wasn't too surprised. He placed his palm over the lock and it obeyed his will, the pins and tumbler being driven home by his power. Then he felt it again, that strange, faceless force lurking nearby and he stopped still before the door, fear coursing through him with almost as much intensity as his own energy had coursed through the locking mechanism. It caused him to wobble on his feet and for a moment he thought he was going to collapse. Then, in an instant, it passed.

  He slipped into the pitch darkness quickly, closing the door behind him and he stood there for a while, letting his eyes adjust to the velvet darkness all around him. Soon windows came into view, thin veins of light piercing the layers of tar that had flaked off forming shapes in the black. He stepped lightly towards the nearest window groping for the chairs and tables all around the floor as he went. Still he managed to catch the leg of a rickety desk and he heard something heavy roll off the top and drop to the floor. The impending thud was softened by the pile of rags it'd landed on and Haggart let out the breath he'd been keeping hold of.

  His heart pounding in his chest now, he reached the other side of the mill and it was here that even in the poor light he could make out a faint emerald glow coming from a hatch in the floor. It was like a jade square had appeared on the ground in front of him and Haggart felt around for a lock or a handle, finding one made of iron, and he opened it. The trapdoor rose silently out of the floor and below, several feet below in fact, the source of the light became clearer.

  He climbed down a wooden ladder and closed the hatch behind him. When he reached the bottom he saw that the sickly-green hue now bathed the walls and the ceiling and the chamber was actually wider than the mill itself - carved into the rocky foundations by hand. There were chisel marks and hammer blows all over the grey stone and the fragments had been used to pave the floor though this was probably to hide the diggings, he thought.