Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  With that, the king and Yan Krinkin made their way to the bottom of the steps and started to walk down a winding passageway that led beneath the Fulcrum, flanked by the royal guards and followed by the guild leaders.

  The vault was at the bottom of a spiral tunnel, which had been hollowed out of the limestone by water over the aeons. It descended into the bedrock for some three hundred yards and ended in a large chamber with a narrow opening. Having drilled into the aperture and fitted a thick iron door with runes that neutralised magic, the chamber, whose floor was flattened, smoothed and dried, was now a secure vault in which valuable items and rare treasures were kept. The door itself had been built by an ancient guild of ironmongers who had fitted it with eight locks, the keys of which were held by the king and the leaders of the seven main guilds. Only when all eight keys were brought together could the door be opened.

  As they walked down the torch-lit spiral tunnel, Ermithdin listened to Jorgi giving Yan advice on where to shoot the dragon and asking the other guild leaders who wanted which parts of it. It made him feel sad to hear them talk about the dragons as mere parts, and not for the first time he wished he had not built the weapon at all.

  They stood in front of the door. The armed men protecting the vault stood aside and allowed the King and the guild leaders to insert their keys and turn them one by one until the huge metal door opened. Then, they walked inside and lit the torches sitting in sconces along the walls. The torchflames revealed the treasures of Umberöc in their flickering light; suits of dragon-plate mail stood in the corner, magical weapons of every shape and size imaginable hung on racks, and tomes and grimoires about magical disciplines of every description, from Elementalism and Druidism through to Necromancy and Demonology, sat on shelves.

  In the middle of the room was an empty table.

  The king, Yan Krinkin, the guild leaders and the guards stared at it.

  ‘Where is it?’ the king asked the two men who had been guarding the door.

  The first man frowned at the second. The second protested that he did not know.

  ‘Where is it?’ King Gilrin screamed, pushing over boxes and chests that were piled on top of each other, spilling their contents onto the floor.

  Most of the guild leaders rushed to restrain the king and stop him from damaging their artefacts. Chaos ensued, and all the time Ermithdin stood silently.

  ‘Wait a minute, he did this,’ Jorgi shouted, pointing his finger at Ermithdin.

  ‘How did I steal the crossbow?’

  ‘It’s no secret you never wanted to build it. What have you done with it?’ Jorgi shouted.

  Ermithdin knew that he did not steal the weapon. He was, however, just as confused as everyone else as to what had happened to it.

  ‘Perhaps if you all come out of the room and stop shouting we can think this through logically,’ Ermithdin said.

  Reluctantly, everyone filed out and stood outside, looking at the forge master.

  ‘Do we agree that the door can only be opened by all eight keys?’ Ermithdin asked. ‘And when the weapon was put away last night the door was locked, correct?’

  There were nods.

  ‘Did anyone come down to the vault after that?’ Ermithdin asked the guards.

  ‘No one, no one at all,’ the first guard said.

  ‘So we can all agree that the vault door was not opened after we left?’ he asked again, feeling it necessary to labour the point.

  ‘Yes, we’re agreed, so what did happen to the crossbow?’ Jorgi growled.

  ‘That is what I intend to find out. Everyone stay here,’ Ermithdin said as he entered the room again, scouring every corner of the walls and floor.

  He inspected the table and the surrounding area, getting down on his hands and knees and putting his ear to the ground. He saw small pools of liquid on the floor, already beginning to dry. They led from the base of the table to the wall. Dipping his fingers in the liquid, he brought them up to his nose before dabbing a small amount onto his lips.

  ‘Seawater. Well I’ll be damned,’ he muttered as he left the vault.

  ‘Well?’ the king demanded. His face was red with anger.

  ‘Talk, damn you,’ Jorgi said.

  ‘I am afraid the crossbow has indeed been stolen,’ Ermithdin admitted.

  ‘But you said yourself that the door had not been opened,’ Karneger Vuln, the leader of the Cult of the Elemental Storm, protested.

  ‘And it was not. There are pools of liquid in the room: seawater. The trail leads from the wall to the table then back. The puddles were left by whoever took the weapon.’

  The faces staring at him wore expressions of confusion or amazement.

  ‘Humour us; who do you think took the crossbow?’ asked Manshu-Döuw at last.

  ‘I would guess that the person who took this has three prominent characteristics,’ Ermithdin responded. ‘They can walk through solid rock, they can breathe underwater and, I suspect, they do not have a shadow.’

  Chapter XI

  The Treacherous Traits of Pandimonia Toŕl

  Pandimonia watched as the boy was pushed up the steps of the gallows. With his hands tied behind his back, he was unsteady and precarious, and his ascension to the top of the platform was laborious. The man walking behind the boy gave him a hard shove, which jolted him forward. Caught off balance, the boy crashed into the gallows’ steps.

  ‘Get up now, or I’ll break your scrawny neck right here,’ the man said.

  Sobbing, the boy wriggled to his side and used the stairs as leverage to get to his feet. He was grabbed by the shoulders and marched up the few remaining steps.

  A heavyset man with chiselled features and tattoos covering his arms stood at the top of the gallows. He loosened the rope and lowered it an extra two foot before tightening it again, widening the noose in the process.

  The boy’s sobbing gave way to wailing as he was pushed towards it.

  Pandimonia looked on, unmoved.

  ‘Killing men and women is one thing,’ a voice behind her said, ‘but executing a ten-year-old boy? This is a new low, Pandimonia, even for you.’

  She turned to see a thin, sharp-featured woman wearing spectacles.

  ‘The next time I want your opinion on something, Drexlyn, I’ll beat it from you.’

  ‘But he’s a child,’ Drexlyn said.

  With lightning speed, Pandimonia grabbed Drexlyn by the throat with one hand and brought her serrated fighting knife up to her face with the other, pressing it against her cheek.

  ‘He has no shadow. If he has no shadow, then he dies. I couldn’t care less about his age.’

  Narrowing her light-red eyes she put her knife away and released her grip on Drexlyn’s throat.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she shouted to the two men on the gallows. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  The boy was manoeuvred onto the trap door.

  ‘Please…’ he muttered, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  The large tattooed man put a cloth sack over the boy’s head. He then took the noose and looped it over the cloth sack, pulling it taut.

  The boy’s crying became hysterical, his muffled pleas for help incomprehensible through the bawling.

  ‘We’re losing light. Brönt, pull the lever,’ Pandimonia snapped.

  The black-haired man who had pushed the boy to the gallows stepped forward and grasped a wooden lever that protruded from the floor of the platform. As he yanked it towards him with both hands, a trap door beneath the boy dropped open and his body fell through it.

  The crying was replaced by a gurgling. Pandimonia could see through the wooden supports that the boy’s body was contorting, his legs thrashing around as he desperately searched for something to brace himself against.

  She looked at Drexlyn out of the corner of her eye. The other woman was standing with her head bowed and her
eyes closed. Pandimonia grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head back.

  ‘Open your eyes now, before I rip them from their sockets,’ she snarled.

  Drexlyn slowly opened her eyes to see the writhing body of the boy, hanging from the rope.

  ‘This is what we do,’ Pandimonia snapped. ‘This is who we are. Now get used to it or fuck off back to the gutter where I found you.’

  The boy’s body stopped convulsing and his legs went limp.

  A smile formed on Pandimonia’s face. She walked closer to the gallows, her red hair blowing gently in the breeze.

  ‘I don’t see any lights,’ the tattooed man stated.

  ‘He’s young, Múrha,’ Pandimonia said. ‘Have patience.’

  The two men jumped off the gallows and together the four of them watched intently. Minutes passed. Then, a faint yellow light began to emanate from the boy’s skin, gradually getting brighter. The light coalesced, forming into three translucent spheres that pushed their way free of the boy’s body. The spheres rose into the air, spiralling upwards and passing through the wooden panels of the gallows, ascending high above the valley. They continued to float upwards until reaching a height of around one hundred yards, at which point they shot off in different directions, disappearing from view.

  ‘It’s over. We’ve sent his spirit back to the gods. Cut him down,’ Pandimonia commanded.

  ‘What do you want done with the body?’ Múrha asked.

  Pandimonia stared at the corpse of the small figure, hanging in the gallows. She knew the right thing to do would be to return the body to the boy’s family, or at the very least give him a decent burial with a marked grave. But the sudden and uncharacteristic feeling of sympathy quickly dissipated as Pandimonia’s trademark cruel streak fought its way back to the fore.

  ‘Burn him and scatter the ashes to the four winds. And pack your things together, we’re leaving before anyone finds out we were here,’ she shouted, before strutting down the pathway out of the valley.

  Amrodan stood motionless, staring into the dark-red pool. Its dim light lit-up the granite walls of the chamber casting a hue, the colour of blood, on the pillars. The pool was still, as it had been for some time. The torches flickered briefly, causing shadows to dance around the room.

  His arms folded under heavy black robes, he stared at the viscous liquid, wondering why it had been so long since it had sent him any kind of forewarning.

  The visions the pool sent him always came in the form of dreams, sometimes of the future, sometimes of the past. Its messages were mostly cryptic and obscure; it was up to him to uncover their true meaning. Showing him aspects of the lives of other shadowless individuals throughout the Northern Realms and beyond, the pool was leading him down a path. But to what? It had given him information and foretold events that he had eagerly awaited for years; despite this, he had not had a vision in almost a decade.

  ‘Why have you shown nothing to me?’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘Reveal your secrets so that I may carry out your bidding.’

  The pool was still and unreactive, and, try as he might, Amrodan could not invoke the ancient powers within its aqueous mass.

  Is it losing its power? he pondered.

  A door creaked open and he heard footsteps.

  ‘Brother Amrodan, Cymbatoriá has just landed on the upper platform.’

  Amrodan turned to see a similarly dressed man standing by one of the pillars. He glanced into the pool again and then walked towards the door.

  ‘Thank you, Brother Virendar,’ he said as he left the room.

  Amrodan made his way down the twisting stairwell, which led from the temple to the monastery, before heading to one of the larger towers. Climbing the stairs to the very top, he emerged on an exposed stone platform.

  The sun shone brightly and the sea breeze carried the distant calls of flocking seabirds as Amrodan watched two male acolytes put a robe around a naked woman with black hair who was sitting on the middle of the platform.

  ‘Drink this,’ one said as he held a flask of water to her mouth.

  Looking weak and exhausted, the woman sipped on the water as Amrodan approached. He glanced at the shadows cast by the sun; she was devoid of one.

  ‘Cymbatoriá, what are you doing here? I was not expecting to see you again until the autumn. Are you all right?’ Amrodan asked.

  ‘It is a matter of great urgency, Amrodan. I have flown here from Ogensdale without stopping. I have a letter from Willow Fairthrác. She claims to have uncovered the identity of Pandimonia Toŕl’s next target,’ she panted, presenting the letter.

  Amrodan opened it, quickly. He scanned the parchment rapidly before stopping at the bottom, re-reading the last few lines. His mouth dropped open and he looked up in horror.

  ‘I must meet with the Shadow Council at once,’ he said, not addressing anyone in particular. ‘She is going after someone we know.’

  Like a bird of prey, perched high above its quarry, Pandimonia gazed down at the people of Wittinshade looking for targets. The roof of the bell tower was one of the highest points in the city, and gave her the perfect vantage point from which she could see most of the people on the streets. It was midday, and the market was a hub of activity. Customers were haggling with traders and vendors were arguing about the price of goods and the cost of shipping.

  Pandimonia looked out over the marketplace, her view of the bustling streets was exactly what she needed. More people meant more thoughts. The more thoughts there were the more of them she was able to read. That was the key factor to how she uncovered the location of her victims.

  She concentrated on a tightly grouped bunch of people and closed her eyes. Pandimonia’s mind began to drift and her psyche broke free of its mortal confines. It floated through the air and settled in the busy street, spreading out its unseen tendrils and touching as many people as it could. Slowly, it moved forward, snaring the unsuspecting crowd and reaching into their minds.

  As soon as it began its intrusion into the thoughts of Wittinshade’s citizens, it relayed them back to Pandimonia.

  ‘…charging me fifty gold to transport the spice to Mournfall, who the fuck does he think he is? He should try dealing with the Merchant’s Guild, they wouldn’t be long…’

  ‘…got the carrots, the cabbage and the turnip. All I need now is the chicken and the beetroot. If they don’t have beetroot then I should be able to use…’

  ‘…really need to go to pee-pee. I wish Mummy would hurry up and pick the ring she wants to buy, I can already feel it starting to come out…’

  ‘…goat meat is on the verge of going off. If I don’t sell it today then I’m going to be stuck with the whole damn lot of it. This bloody heat isn’t helping matters…’

  Pandimonia opened her eyes, grimacing at the lack of useful information.

  Arching her back, Pandimonia leaned against the parapet, settling in for the day. Having done this countless times, in towns and cities throughout the Northern Realms, she knew that there was no guarantee of success. It took time and required patience. All she needed was to stay alert and listen closely to what was being said, ever on the lookout for that one word that would trigger the next hunt: ‘shadowless’.

  The sun arced across the Wittinshade sky. Pandimonia stood on the battlements of the bell tower roof, her legs aching and feet cramping. It was summer in the realm of Landledusk and the heat in the capital was stifling. Her tight leather armour had caused her to sweat profusely all day, chafing her skin and compounding her misery.

  After a while she decided to pace around the narrow walkway of the battlements, just to stretch her limbs. She tied her hair back, before taking off her leather jerkin and grabbing the bottom of her tunic. Shaking it in and out rapidly, she wafted cool air up the front and back of her body, easing the irritation on her skin and drying some of the perspiration. With a deep sigh, she returned t
o her search.

  One more hour and then I’m calling it a day, she thought.

  Closing her eyes, she refocused her mind and concentrated on the thoughts that the spirit on the streets was relaying.

  ‘…can’t tell her that I’ve lost all the money, she’ll leave me and take the children. Think, Tobias. Maybe I can tell her that I got mugged, she might believe…’

  ‘…the rash. Always with the leeches. No matter what ailment I go to this bloody apothecary with, it’s always the same. “Uh, take five leeches and come and see me…”

  ‘…dress does not fit any more. It definitely fitted last summer. Surely I could not have put on that much weight, could I? I don’t feel any fatter, although ever since…’

  ‘… hope Telimar appreciates the trouble I’m going to for him. I don’t see him here, risking his shadowless ass…’

  Pandimonia opened her eyes and sprang forward in excitement, nearly going over the battlements.

  That’s it, she thought. I’ve got one.

  Surgín Farnigin meandered through the crowded streets of Wittinshade. It was the first time he had ever been in a major city and as he passed down the paved avenues and limestone pathways, he marvelled at the townhouses and villas, astonished that they had built them of stone, and so high. A far cry from the wattle and daub structures back home in Vestrowe.

  A simple fisherman, Surgín came from the southernmost commune in Vestrowe, a small island off the south-east coast of the Northern Realms whose only commodity was the fish caught in the crystal-clear blue waters that surrounded it.

  It was late afternoon as he reached the marketplace, and the merchants and traders were packing up their stalls. Surgín slipped his hand into his pocket and discretely took out a note with directions written on it.

  Travel up the avenue until you reach Watertap Fountain. Turn left and go one hundred yards up the street. Turn right at Market Square and keep walking until you see the Black Lion Inn.

  Looking around cautiously, Surgín followed the directions, moving to the main road that led out of the centre of the city.