Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘Finally, I want you to go to the northern realm of Tantoräc and stay with Uvagar Näw. He runs a pit-fighting academy in Azamüth. He and his men will teach you everything you need to know about armed combat. You will learn how to use different weapons and be proficient in the art of defence. Learn how to fight many enemies at once.’

  Amrodan took out a map and unfolded it. Three locations on the map were circled.

  ‘Deepmarsh, Serrinyth and Azamüth.’ Amrodan pointed to each in turn. ‘Rest here for the night and leave first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How long do I have to spend with these people?’

  ‘One year each.’

  Arpherius rolled his eyes.

  ‘Listen to me, Arpherius,’ Amrodan snarled. ‘These people are sympathetic to our cause. They have agreed to help us at great personal danger and extreme inconvenience. They have each set aside a year of their life to help me fill your empty skull with the information and skills that just might keep you alive long enough to fulfil your destiny. A little bit of appreciation would not go amiss. Do you know the punishment for not reporting someone like us?’

  ‘Of course, sorry,’ Arpherius said.

  Amrodan sighed and then shook his head.

  ‘Arpherius, a lot of people have died so that we could reach this point. We are at a stage where we can make a stand, fight back against these things. Killing one of them will send shockwaves through all the realms in the land. Men will finally realise that these things are nothing more than malicious demons, sent from hell to torture and torment us.’

  ‘Can you tell me about the people who died, who were they?’ Arpherius asked.

  ‘Perhaps another time.’

  Amrodan gazed out the window; the rain was easing. He stood and pulled his hood up over his head.

  ‘I must leave now; I have much to do before returning home. The room that I have paid for is the best this establishment has to offer. Get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow, make for Deepmarsh,’ he said as he walked to the door. As he walked Arpherius noticed that Amrodan had a slight limp.

  ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘I will check in on you every year,’ Amrodan said as he stepped out into the drizzle. ‘In the meantime, do everything that your tutors tell you. Do not be arrogant, keep your head down, do not draw attention to yourself.’

  Arpherius waited while Amrodan readied his horse for the journey ahead. He mounted it and trotted towards the path that led northwards. Arpherius walked at his side, through the rain.

  ‘Earlier you said I was different from everyone, that I had more of a god’s blood in my veins than anyone else. How do you know this?’

  ‘Who was the man you lived with in the tower?’

  ‘Barranos. My mother’s husband. I called him my uncle, even though he was not.’

  ‘Did Barranos ever tell you what he did before you were born?’

  ‘He told me he was a captain in the royal guards,’ Arpherius said. ‘But I later found a blue cloak and uniform hidden in the basement of his tower.’

  ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘That is all.’

  ‘Your uncle was the captain in a unit of Shadow Watchers. He was sent to kill your mother and ended up falling in love with her, killing the other men in his unit instead. You want to know why you are different from the rest of us, Arpherius? You want to know why you have more of a god’s blood coursing through your veins than anyone else?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘You are the only one of us whose mother had no shadow.’

  Chapter XIII

  The Fatal Exchange of Fürisyn Vandinmeíer

  The coal-fire braziers and torches flickered as the cart moved past them through the narrow streets of Thanatüs. In between the sandstone buildings and empty market stalls it trundled, pulled by an ageing donkey and driven by a man whose plight was desperate.

  ‘That’s it, not far to go,’ Corlúka muttered, shaking the reins lightly.

  Coming to a junction Corlúka could see signs hanging above several of the doorways in the adjoining street and steered the cart towards them for a closer look. Finding the one with a pestle and mortar on it, he tugged on the reins to stop the cart.

  The door knocker was cast iron, a hoop grasped in the mouth of a serpent, and Corlúka hit it against the striking pad three times, before waiting.

  A minute later faint shuffling sounds could be heard from within the shop and the door was opened by a tall, thin man with dark hair.

  ‘Sorry to call at your door at such a late hour,’ Corlúka began. ‘It’s my boy, he’s sick. My wife thinks you might be able to help him.’

  The apothecary rubbed the sleep from his eyes and beckoned Corlúka in. He lit a tallow lamp then adjusted his robes, pulling tight the cord around his waist, before walking to a nearby bookcase.

  ‘What ails him?’

  ‘We’re not sure. We only know that he was brought home by a local shopkeeper after he had collapsed while playing with the other children in the street, almost a week ago. He’s had a fever ever since.’

  The apothecary stopped tracing his finger along the books and turned to Corlúka.

  ‘Your son has had a fever for almost a week? Has he had food in this time?’

  ‘No, he’s been slipping in and out of consciousness. He hasn’t eaten anything, merely sipped water from a spoon. There wasn’t much of him there to begin with, he’s only seen six summers, now he’s deathly thin.’

  ‘And you are only coming to me now?’ the apothecary snapped.

  ‘We’re not rich people,’ Corlúka explained. ‘We’ve spent what little money we have on healers, shamans and apothecaries. No one can even tell us what’s afflicting him.’

  The apothecary shook his head. Going to a glass cabinet he took out a small red bottle and gave it to Corlúka.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Corlúka said, taking coins from his pocket. ‘How much do I owe you for this cure?’

  The apothecary waved the money away and looked Corlúka in the eye.

  ‘Keep your money. This is not a cure, it is to ensure your son’s passing is pain-free.’

  ‘But why? Can’t you heal him?’ Corlúka pleaded.

  ‘Your boy has not eaten in almost a week. If he has been gripped by a fever all this time then it will not be long before his body gives up. I have nothing that can heal him.’

  Corlúka stood, shocked by what he was hearing. He stared at the bottle.

  ‘You don’t have a cure for my boy?’ he pleaded, his eyes welling up.

  The apothecary put his hand on Corlúka’s shoulder.

  ‘It is not a cure your boy needs, it is a miracle.

  Corlúka sat atop the cart in a daze. His head was spinning and there was a ringing in his ears. Taking deep breaths he placed the bottle in his pocket. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and he dried them on the sleeve of his tunic.

  What am I going to do? he thought. I can’t tell Magdí there’s no hope for our boy. It will crush what little hope she has.

  His mind in turmoil Corlúka shook the reins and the donkey pulled the cart along the street, back the way he came. The streets and avenues of Thanatüs were still and silent.

  As he drove past the Temple of Kröm, Corlúka could hear a faint sound in the distance. It was the din of battle; the metallic ring of blades against armour, the anguished cries of the injured and the shouting of men locked in combat rang out in the night air.

  ‘That sounds like a fight.’

  Corlúka shook the reins again, steering the cart towards the noise. The donkey edged forward, pulling the cart through a market square and down sand-covered streets. As he got closer the noise lessened, until there was silence.

  Stopping outside a memorial garden Corlúka looked inside. The entrance was a narrow archway through which
he could see a courtyard with vines and flowers on trellises, and window-boxes in gaps hewn in the walls. He could see figures lying on the ground.

  Corlúka climbed down from the cart and walked into the courtyard. He stood aghast. Torches mounted on wall-brackets illuminated the bodies and weapons of a dozen Shadow Watchers, their light-blue cloaks spattered with blood.

  The courtyard was silent apart from the sound of water bubbling from a fountain, a marble statue of a horse, water trickling from its mouth into the water. Corlúka crept among the bodies. One was a priest in blue robes. The dead man’s face was contorted in pain and he had several slash-marks on his chest through which blood had stained his robes.

  Corlúka began to tremble. He took one last look at the carnage before turning back. It was then that he heard the low moan from a corner of the courtyard. Peering towards it, he saw a person with a hood partly covering their head and a scarf over their face slumped on the ground, flanked by two dead men.

  ‘Help me,’ they whispered.

  The voice was weak and husky, the words barely audible.

  Corlúka hesitated, torn between fear and the desire to help.

  The figure mumbled something.

  Corlúka edged closer, tip-toeing between the corpses. His heart was racing. If this person was responsible for killing the Shadow Watchers and the priest, and it certainly looked as if they were, then who knew what they were capable of.

  Kneeling beside the figure, Corlúka saw that they were wearing ripped, blood-stained leather armour. A sword lay beside them and they had a satchel on one shoulder.

  Corlúka gently pulled at the person’s scarf. The face that was revealed as it slipped down was that of a woman who looked as if she could be in her early twenties; she was sharp-featured and beautiful. She seemed seriously wounded, but was still breathing.

  I can’t leave her here, Corlúka thought.

  He lifted her up as gently as he could. The woman moaned at being moved. She was slender and light, and as Corlúka carried her through the courtyard, his tunic was soon saturated with blood.

  In the distance, bells rang and shouting could be heard.

  Panting, Corlúka set the woman in the back of the cart. He covered her with a tattered tarpaulin and climbed up on to the driver’s seat. He shook the reins and they trundled along the street and into the night.

  Corlúka untethered the donkey from the cart and led the animal to a small barn at the side of the house, putting fresh hay into a trough for it. Returning, he saw that an arm had flopped out from underneath the tarpaulin.

  I’d better get her moved quickly, he thought.

  Trying to be as gentle as possible, Corlúka lifted the woman from the cart and carried her to the back door. He kicked the door with his heel, until his wife opened it, and then walked past her.

  ‘Who’s she? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Magdí snapped.

  ‘I can explain,’ Corlúka stressed.

  ‘What in the gods’ has happened? Your tunic is covered in blood.’

  Corlúka walked to their son’s bedroom, puffing and panting, and laid the woman on the bed.

  ‘Who is she?’ Magdí said, following him. ‘I sent you for medicine and you bring back some woman?’

  ‘I have the medicine,’ Corlúka said, producing the red bottle. ‘Let me get changed and I’ll tell you everything.’

  Corlúka quickly put on clean clothes and then went to the front room of their single-storey dwelling to see his son, Delân, lying asleep on the small mattress beside the open fire. His mother-in-law, Puthka, sat in a wheelchair, watching him.

  ‘Where were you?’ she said with a scowl on her face.

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Corlúka barked back.

  Puthka narrowed her eyes, one of which was blind, and mouthed obscenities under her breath.

  Corlúka knelt by the mattress and began feeding Delân the medicine with a spoon.

  ‘How long did the apothecary say it would take to work?’ Magdí asked.

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Bah,’ Puthka exclaimed. ‘Leeches, milk of the poppy, incense sticks and now medicine? It’s a waste of money. There’s evil in the boy, he needs it cut out of him.’

  Corlúka turned to Puthka, taking in her green teeth, warts and matted hair.

  ‘Why don’t you shut up, you old crone?’

  ‘Don’t speak to my mother that way,’ Magdí said.

  ‘You see,’ Puthka snapped, turning to Magdí. ‘That’s the way he always talks to me when you’re not here.’

  Corlúka fed his son the contents of the bottle until it was all gone. Then he waited, hoping for any sign of improvement in Delân’s condition. Secretly knowing that none would come.

  Come on, he prayed. Give me a sign. The apothecary said this would ease your suffering.

  Delân spluttered and wheezed for a moment, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

  Hope was steadily giving way to despondency as the three sat in silence. Corlúka could feel the air of expectation evaporate, the burden of the truth weighing heavy on his mind.

  Biting his lip, Corlúka got to his feet.

  ‘This may take hours or even days. I’m going to check on our guest.’

  The woman lay unconscious on the bed. When Corlúka lit the oil lamp, he could see that the mattress was already red around her body. He took off her satchel. It was small yet heavy.

  Who are you? he pondered. He quickly opened the satchel in the hope of finding a clue. Inside was a bag which, by the sound of it, contained a large amount of money, and a wax-sealed, cylindrical object. It was blue and green and had the shapes of sea creatures carved into it. He opened the bag and peeked inside, there were hundreds of gold coins. Corlúka placed everything back in the satchel and put it at the bottom of the bed.

  He stood above the woman and regarded her more closely than he had before. She was tall with an athletic-looking body. Her hair was flaxen and braided, and she had a pale complexion. Even though she was bloodied and unconscious, she was beautiful. He ripped open her sleeves and the legs of her trousers and used the cloth as tourniquets, stopping the bleeding on her limbs, before fetching a bowl of water to clean her cuts.

  Next, he examined her body for wounds. There were puncture holes in her tight leather jerkin from which blood was seeping. Slowly he unbuckled her armour and opened it slightly. It was immediately apparent that the woman wore nothing underneath. She stirred, taking a breath and groaning.

  ‘Perhaps you should watch Delân, and I’ll tend to our guest.’

  Corlúka quickly closed the leather jerkin and jumped to his feet.

  Magdí stood in the doorway with her arms folded. Her lips were pursed and a frown etched on her face.

  ‘Of course,’ he stuttered. ‘I was just about to suggest that.’

  Corlúka edged towards the hallway. He smiled to diffuse the tension.

  ‘I’m sure you were,’ his wife said, slamming the door shut.

  Standing in the hallway, Corlúka muttered to himself while looking to the heavens.

  Who is that woman? he thought. And what was that object?

  Making his way to the living room he heard the sound of snoring. Puthka was asleep in her wheelchair, drool trickling from her mouth.

  Delân was still unconscious. His skin was pale and clammy. Sitting beside his son, Corlúka stroked his forehead and held his hand, which felt cold.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why are you like this?’ he muttered. ‘What can I do?’

  Corlúka’s voice cracked. Soon tears were streaming down his cheeks. He lay beside his son and whispered in his ear: ‘The apothecary said there’s nothing that can be done. But one way or another, I’m going to find a way to save you. I promise.’

  ‘She has no shadow,’ Magdí snapped.

  Corlúka rub
bed his temples.

  ‘I don’t need this right now.’

  ‘I don’t care what you need. Our son is dying, and you decide to bring one of these shadowless things into our home?’

  ‘It was dark. I didn’t know she had no shadow.’

  Magdí stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You know now. She’s been here two days. Get rid of her.’

  ‘At least wait until she wakes up. If I leave her out in the city now then who knows what could happen to her.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Come quickly,’ Puthka yelled.

  Running into the living room, the pair saw their son awake and gasping for breath.

  ‘Delân!’ Magdí shouted.

  Delân was shaking and his eyes were rolling in his head. Magdí grabbed him by the shoulders. Corlúka put his hands over his mouth and began to sob.

  ‘He’s dying,’ Puthka shouted.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Magdí screamed.

  ‘Why? She’s right.’ The voice was calm and well-spoken.

  They all turned round.

  The tall, slender blonde woman stood in the doorway. Wincing and holding her side, she moved forward to the mattress where Delân lay. Her eyes were white, giving her a strange, ghostly appearance.

  ‘May I?’ she asked Magdí.

  The boy’s breath rattled, but the convulsions had stopped. Magdí let go of her son and got to her feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Puthka hissed. ‘She’s a witch. She’ll kill him.’

  The blonde woman gingerly knelt down and pressed two fingers to Delân’s throat.

  ‘Time is against us,’ she muttered. ‘There may be just enough of him left to save.’

  She turned to Corlúka.

  ‘I overheard you saying that you had a donkey. Pick up the boy and lay him beside it.’

  ‘What? Why do you…?’

  ‘You have one minute to save his life. Take him to the donkey or the boy dies.’

  ‘Do as she says,’ Magdí commanded.