Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  The crows were already pecking at the bodies of the dead guards. Arpherius dragged each of them to the edge of the cliff before throwing them into the sea.

  With a glance at Barranos’s grave Arpherius returned to the tower and headed down to the basement.

  The lower floor of the tower was dark and dank. Mould grew on the walls, which were wet all year round. The slow, constant dripping of water could be heard coming through the south wall.

  Arpherius trod carefully down the steps with the lamp in his hand. In all his years living with his uncle in the tower, he could count the number of times he had been in the basement on one hand. Barranos had made it crystal clear on more than one occasion that it was out of bounds.

  The barrel he was after sat in the corner against the west wall, furthest from the stairwell. Its metal bindings were dark orange with rust but it looked normal enough and as he approached it, he noticed a fusty smell.

  Arpherius put down the lamp and rolled the barrel on to its side. Several of the struts gave way as the wood crumbled. A thick black sludge covered the bottom of the barrel and Arpherius heaved at the smell of it.

  What is that? he thought, holding his nose. He kicked aside the parts of the barrel that remained and shone the lamp on the ground. The stones that made up the rest of the floor looked flush, yet the one that the barrel had been on was much bigger and slightly raised. Arpherius scraped away the dirt around the edges of the slab fumbling to get a grip on it before finally managing to prise it up. Underneath was a large round hole dug into the bedrock. Inside were three large sacks. They were heavy and each clanked metallically as it was lifted from the hole.

  The first of the three sacks contained armour and a helmet. The armour consisted of rigid leather breast- and back-plates, complete with arm and leg greaves. Black with silver trim, all the pieces had a flax plait design close to the edges while the breast-plate was embossed with the motif of a silver hawk. He put on the armour. Then, he buckled on the helmet, which covered the top half of his face, coming down as far as his nose, and had a black-and-white horsehair plume running along the crest, from front to back.

  Untying the second sack he took out a large round shield and short-sword. The shield was polished metal with the same hawk motif as the breastplate. The sword was ornate, with gold worked into the pommel and hilt. Its blade glistened in the morning light, shimmering as it was swung. He did not know much about swords, but he guessed that it was of high quality judging by the level of its detail.

  Arpherius’s mouth widened in disbelief as he opened the third sack. Inside was a light-blue cloak. Staring at it, confused, he then pulled out a suit of armour identical to the one that the captain of the guards had been wearing. With it was a bag of gold coins. There was also a note, sealed with wax and with Arpherius’s name written on it.

  What is the meaning of the blue cloak, he thought. Barranos told me he was a captain in the king’s guards. Could he really have been one of them?

  The paper of the note was dry and was cracked at the edges. Breaking the wax seal Arpherius unfolded the note and held it close to the lamp. It had yellowed and the writing had smudged slightly in some places. Arpherius read it carefully.

  Arpherius,

  If you are reading this then I assume the worst has befallen me.

  The items inside these sacks are all that remains of my legacy; what you do with them is up to you. The sword and the armour were made by the greatest armourers and swordsmiths in Narquiss and will either protect you readily or fetch a good price. The money is everything that I managed to amass after selling my farm and belongings.

  I brought you to this tower to escape men like me. I was once the captain of a guard unit responsible for finding and executing people who were born without a shadow; people like you. Spawned by the gods and cursed for eternity, we would track them down and kill them wherever they were found. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Shortly after you were born, your mother, Arianne, passed away. Her last wish was that I take you away and hide you for as long as possible. Hopefully I have succeeded in that. At the time of writing, you have been alive for twelve summer harvests, although you can still barely talk. Even though you are not my son I will treat you as if you are. I will risk my life to protect you and give up all that I have to ensure your safety, thus fulfilling my promise to your mother.

  Barranos

  Arpherius took the bag of gold and put everything else in the third sack back in the hole, replacing the stone slab. Fitting the sword sheath to his back and putting the shield over his shoulder, he left his home for the final time. His last act was to kneel at Barranos’s grave.

  ‘I forgive you, old man,’ he whispered.

  Arpherius had never ridden a horse, although his uncle had told him about them and he himself had read about how they should be handled. Climbing atop he could not help but think that the horse knew where it was going. It trotted down the path away from the tower.

  The sky was darkening as Arpherius rode along the trail. Evening was approaching and as he crested the hills that lay to the east of his uncle’s tower, he realised that he had never been this far from home. He stopped the horse and dismounted to stretch his legs. When he looked back, he saw on the horizon the tower, standing like an arrow pointing to the setting sun.

  Without warning, the horse walked down the hill away from him.

  Great, he thought, taking off after it.

  In the undergrowth at the bottom of the hill, Arpherius caught up with the horse and grabbed the reins. He got the animal under control and glanced to see where it had been trying to get to. There, on the edge of a coppice, was a large wagon with barred windows. It was a sturdy-looking construction with metal-rimmed wheels that had partly sunk into the ground, betraying its weight. The horses that obviously pulled it were tied by their reins to the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree and were being tended to by two men in light-blue cloaks.

  Tenic Darlswoo woke abruptly from sleep.

  What was that? he thought. It sounded like someone yelping.

  Looking up, he saw the familiar ceiling of the prison wagon. Dozing in the back was by far the better alternative to sleeping on the ground. The snakes and spiders of the untamed wilderness were not to be trifled with, especially by a middle-aged priest with gout. Stretching his arms and yawning loudly, he got to his feet and put on his yellow robes and golden skullcap. Opening the door, he walked down the wooden steps at the back of the wagon and went round to the front to see what was happening.

  Tenic was a priest from the Helystus. Having trained at the Temple of Tythrin, for most of his adult life, he was overjoyed when asked to accompany a unit of Shadow Watchers in tracking down any of the Shadowless that might be hiding in the kingdom’s outlying lands. It was thanks to him that they had uncovered and executed one outside the remote coastal city of Xatharak. Burning that young girl at the stake was the proudest moment of his career.

  It was approaching dusk and the sun was beginning to dip below the hills to the west. This dazzled him, causing him to squint as he scanned the horizon for any signs of the captain or the other men. They had been gone almost a day now and although it was not uncommon for them to be away from the wagon for extended periods of time, they would normally come back if they found anything untoward.

  There was no sign of them. He sighed and then sauntered to the other side of the wagon to talk to the other two guards who had stayed behind.

  The colour drained from Tenic’s face.

  The guards lay on the ground, decapitated, their heads propped up on top of their lifeless bodies, an expression of horror etched on their faces. Stunned from the macabre scene that he was witnessing, Tenic heard a thump from the impact of something hitting the ground directly behind him. Frozen in terror, he cried out in agony at the excruciating pain shooting up his legs. He collapsed to the gro
und, reaching to see what the cause of the intense pain was.

  Lying on the sand, he moved his hand beneath his mustard-coloured robes, now splattered red, and felt the warm, wet blood steadily flowing from the backs of his legs. It was then he saw the figure standing behind him.

  Dressed in black armour, his face partially covered by a helmet, he stood there, motionless, blood running down the edge of a razor-sharp short-sword on to the sand of the clearing.

  Tenic screamed. He tried to stand but fell back down. The dark figure raised his sword and calmly walked around to the front of him.

  ‘You sent the guards to the tower, west of here. For that you will die.’

  ‘Wait,’ Tenic yelled. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The figure brought his sword down upon Tenic’s head.

  ‘My name is…’

  ‘Arpherius,’ Amrodan shouted.

  The darkness outside the room was punctuated by lightning that cast eerie, elongated shadows across his room. He lay there, body covered in sweat, and stared up at the cobwebs that clung from the rafters. Listening to the rain beating against his bedroom window, he repeated the name over and over to himself. The pool had sent him a vision, the clearest yet. He lit the candle on his small bedside locker and wrote down in his journal everything that he had seen in his dream. Every detail of the people involved and where they lived were quickly recorded, before the memories slipped from his mind.

  Lying back down, Amrodan looked at the stone walls of his small bedchamber and compared it to what he had just seen in his vision; the contrast between the vividness of his dream and the grey reality left him feeling a little bemused. Revelations sent to him by the pool were always so vibrant in colour, so magical, although he often wondered if his mind exaggerated the details of them. Snapping out of his distraction, he rubbed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

  That was it, he thought. That was the premonition we have been waiting for.

  The next morning, Amrodan called a meeting with the Shadow Council. Despite his tiredness, not having slept after receiving his vision, he felt like a child on the eve of his birthday.

  Amrodan stood in front of his superiors with his hands tucked into his sleeves. Four men dressed in black robes sat at one side of a large oak table that had an empty chair at its centre. The rising sun streamed through the stained-glass windows casting colours on the opposite wall. Amrodan and the men were waiting. The door opened and the leader of their order entered and sat in the empty chair. He was the oldest man on the council and had the sternest face.

  ‘Brother Amrodan, you have called a meeting of the Shadow Council at extremely short notice. Do you have something to tell us?’ this man asked.

  ‘I have received a vision, Brother Sythâr. I believe it is the one we have been waiting for.’

  The council members looked stunned.

  ‘The Shadowmancer?’ Brother Sythâr asked.

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Arpherius. He has the look of a twenty-year-old mortal man and the vision showed him discovering his power. If it is him, then he must have come of age.’

  ‘What is his power?’ Brother Timalüs asked.

  ‘I do not pretend to fully understand it; I do not think he does either. The passage of time seems to slow for him,’ Amrodan said, ‘particularly, when his life is in danger.’

  ‘If this young man can control the sands of time then he is indeed the one we seek,’ Brother Felikon mused. ‘What colour were his eyes?’

  ‘Blue,’ Amrodan answered. ‘The same shade as mine.’

  There were gasps among the members of the Shadow Council.

  ‘You and he were both sired by Kröm?’ Brother Felikon asked.

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Did the vision give you any clue to his whereabouts?’ Brother Apiol queried.

  ‘He lived in a tower, by the coast, with an older man.’

  ‘Where is the location of this tower?’ Brother Dyám enquired.

  ‘Judging by the direction of the setting sun, the rugged coastline and the arid landscape, it has to be Narquiss.’

  Brother Sythâr pressed his fingers together and leaned forward. He looked around at the other members of the council.

  ‘I cannot believe that we have finally found he who was foretold by the prophecy. We must send someone to Narquiss to find this individual and explain to him his importance.’

  Amrodan dropped his gaze to the floor.

  ‘You said “lived”,’ Brother Sythâr observed. ‘Have you something else to tell us about your vision?’

  ‘The vision showed him being attacked by Shadow Watchers. He cut them down, but not before they murdered the man who lived with him. The vision ended with him killing the high priest who had sent the guards to his tower.’

  ‘If the vision showed him on the move then we need to act quickly,’ Brother Timalüs said, directing his comment at the head of the council.

  ‘Agreed. How long before the events in your vision take place?’ Brother Sythâr asked.

  ‘The vision showed it to be autumn, which leaves us around four months to find him.’

  ‘You must ride to Narquiss at once. Find him before anyone else does. If he has lived in this tower all his life he may not know what dangers the world holds,’ Brother Sythâr said.

  Amrodan bowed his head in obedience before leaving the room.

  Later that morning, at the stables, Amrodan fixed the saddlebags to his horse with all the food and provisions he would need for his arduous journey. He mounted and rode through the courtyard, under the archway and out to the main gates of the monastery when a voice shouted behind him.

  ‘Brother Amrodan.’

  He turned to see one of the acolytes running down the steps of the outer abbey. Panting and red-faced, the young man skidded up to Amrodan’s horse.

  ‘This arrived for you,’ he said, handing him a sealed letter.

  Amrodan took it and broke the seal.

  Old friend,

  he read.

  There has been an incident in Dragonov. The powers that be have responded by commissioning a weapon. It will take the shape of a crossbow. They are pouring resources into its construction in a bid to get rid of the original inhabitants of the island. This weapon will be the most deadly yet. It will be ready by the time of the next full moon.

  Ermithdin Ulroch

  Amrodan smiled and handed the letter back to the acolyte.

  ‘Show this to the Shadow Council and tell them that I recommend they dispatch Dar immediately,’ he said, spurring his horse towards the gates.

  Amrodan rode through wheat and barley fields into the wild expanse of the Delathorn countryside. This would be a long journey to the realm of Narquiss; it was one that his order had been waiting for someone to make for a millennia.

  Arpherius travelled throughout the realm, not knowing where to go or what to do. It had been over a month since his encounter with the guards and he had been constantly travelling ever since. Having bought a rough map from a group of pedlars he meandered northwards, staying away from towns and cities as Barranos had once told him to do. When he did have to come into contact with people, to buy food or supplies, he did so on cloudy days or during the night.

  Keeping away from the main roads and trade routes, he weaved his way across Narquiss. The open countryside was not a place for the weak or fainthearted, and he was chased several times by rogues and bandits. Arpherius knew that displaying his power in public would only draw unwanted attention to him and so he ran and hid from such trouble, only standing and fighting when he was cornered or left without an option.

  It was late autumn and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Arpherius frequently got soaked and much of his equipment, which was not waterproof, was ruined. One
particular night, it was raining heavier than he had ever seen before. It had caused flooding in the low-lying areas, forcing him to try and make camp on the higher ground. As the cold wind blew through the land it chilled him to the bone. Sodden and unable to light a fire to keep him warm or cook his food, Arpherius decided that he’d had enough.

  He had recently been wandering around an area in the north-west of the region, close to a few farms on the outskirts of a small mining community. While buying food and clothes from the farmers, he had happened across an inn that lay on the crossing of two well-worn tracks. Arpherius had never been to an inn, but he had heard about them. By all accounts they were purveyors of warm food and soft beds and as the chill wind blew the rain down upon him he felt that such a comfort was well worth the risk.

  Arpherius gathered his equipment and mounted his horse. Galloping through the dark he followed the track until he saw the lights in the distance. Approaching the inn cautiously, he slowed down and cantered past the window, looking inside.

  Although not the most luxurious establishment in the region, The Dancing Cripple was a welcome sight to weary travellers and, without another inn for forty miles, an oasis in the sparse Narquien countryside. It was a two-storey wooden structure with verandahs at the front and back, which served as short-term hitching posts for horses. The place was also the local trading centre for everything from goods to gossip.

  The door opened and an old man wearing a straw hat stepped out onto the covered verandah.

  ‘The stables are round the side,’ he yelled over the noise emanating from the inn.

  Arpherius rode his horse to where he was directed. Barranos had once told him that the people who frequent inns and taverns were not always friendly and so he buried his bag of possessions, including his armour, in the hay. With his sword hidden under his cloak, he walked back through the rain to the front of the inn and stood staring at it.