Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘Just tell me why you took all the money,’ Salcroft said.

  ‘I thought I could get something really special.’

  ‘We needed the items Vholmir was sent to get. You knew that. They could have been the difference between surviving the winter and not.’

  ‘The money belonged to all of us,’ Hactes said weakly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Keltarä said. ‘We should all have benefitted from it.’

  There was a silence; then Hactes said: ‘I’d never seen that much money. I wanted to buy something to impress everyone, maybe even something magical. Sounds pathetic now. I’m sorry,’ he said, walking out of the chamber.

  ‘What do we do about him?’ Keltarä asked Salcroft.

  ‘The only thing we can,’ Melastra snapped. ‘He goes. Now.’

  ‘We can’t exile him,’ Salcroft said. ‘Everyone deserves a second chance.’

  ‘He didn’t actually steal the money from us,’ Vholmir added.

  Melastra shook her head.

  ‘I know that you’re angry, Melastra,’ Keltarä stated. ‘What Hactes did was beyond stupid, but we are meant to be looking out for each other. The bond I saw that you all have is the reason I stayed here. We’re a family and if that means forgiving each other’s mistakes then so be it.’

  ‘Keltarä’s right,’ Salcroft said. ‘If we don’t stand together, we’ll fall apart.’

  Melastra folded her arms. ‘What do you say about all this, Jachlôn? He lost medicine that was meant to cure you.’

  ‘The money’s gone. I don’t see the point in arguing about it,’ Jachlôn said wearily.

  Salcroft bent down to Jachlôn and took the girl’s hand. She was shivering and her hand was clammy.

  ‘The next time we get any money at all, it’s being used to buy medicine,’ Salcroft said, standing up and looking at Melastra. ‘We need Hactes to stay and I need everyone to support me on this, and that means you too, Melastra.’

  Melastra let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Vholmir, go to Hactes’ quarters. Tell him he’s forgiven,’ Salcroft said.

  Vholmir left. A few minutes later, he rushed back in. ‘He’s packing his equipment and saying that he’s leaving.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Salcroft said. ‘I’ll talk to him. Prepare supper, Vholmir.’

  ‘He’s only looking for attention. This is all an act,’ Melastra insisted, when Salcroft had left.

  An anguished cry echoed down the corridor. Everyone grabbed their swords. They could hear shouting. Hactes dragged Salcroft into the chamber. A crossbow bolt was buried in his throat.

  ‘What happened?’ Keltarä ran to Salcroft. Blood was oozing from his mouth; he was struggling to breathe.

  ‘They were waiting in the corridor,’ Hactes said.

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘A dozen Shadow Watchers.’

  A chill ran down Keltarä’s spine, and a feeling of nervous sickness formed in the pit of her stomach. Memories of what happened to her mining crew came flooding back. The day she had been dreading for the last two years had arrived.

  Blood from Salcroft’s throat was staining the floor of the cave; Hactes was trying to stem the flow with his hands. Crying and shouting had broken out amongst the gang and from the corridor came the stamping of feet and the metallic clanking of armour.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Vholmir shouted, at no one in particular.

  ‘Think of something,’ Melastra roared. ‘We’re trapped.’

  There was only one way in and out of the mines: nowhere to run. But the other members of the gang were looking to her for an answer and she had to provide one.

  ‘Hactes, pull Salcroft over by the stove,’ Keltarä said shakily. ‘Put pressure on the wound and overturn the table, they will be coming in soon.’

  The sound of armoured footsteps could be heard from just outside the living area.

  ‘We have to deal with them quickly before they overrun us.’

  A guard rushed into the living chamber. Hactes swung his sword but the guard had his shield raised and it clattered against it. Vholmir lunged at the guard with his sword, catching him on the hip and driving the blade through the links of his chainmail. The guard howled and Vholmir pulled out his sword, preparing for another strike.

  Melastra pulled back the string from her bow, trying to get a clear shot at the next guard. The wounded guard braced his shield and charged forward, pushed on by the others in the tunnel behind them. He slammed into Hactes, who was unable to hold back the wave of attackers.

  Using their companion as a battering ram, the other guards drove forward, barging their way into the room. Jachlôn, breathing heavily, staggered to her feet and swung her sword. The guard she went to attack used his sword to parry the blow and then swung his shield, catching her on the head and knocking her across the room.

  Sensing an opening, Melastra let fly with an arrow: but the missile struck against a shield. The guard then charged at her, his sword high above his head. Melastra tried to reload her bow but fumbled her arrow. The guard brought his sword down, only for it to be ripped from his hand.

  Keltarä stood with her hand outstretched, the sword flying through the air towards her.

  The guard who was attacking Melastra, who had just lost his sword, dropped his shield and punched Melastra in the face.

  Keltarä froze in horror as they were pushed back by the guards. Soon, they were outnumbered. The gang of rogues and vagabonds were no match for the battle-hardened and well-drilled Shadow Watchers they were faced with.

  The one wounded guard wrestled with Vholmir, who stopped him from swinging his sword by using his shield to block him, while another guard ran to the flank and drove his blade into the bandit’s side. Two more guards shoved their way into the room and pounced on Jachlôn. One kicked her in the face while she was on all fours, and there was a crunch as the other brought his sword down on her back. The screams of the dying reverberated through the cave. Every time Keltarä tried to use her power, it was too late.

  Vholmir was heavily wounded; as he staggered to the back of the chamber he was surrounded by three guards who rained blow after blow upon him. Parrying a few initial strikes, the onslaught became too much and the guards cut him to the ground.

  Melastra’s face was covered in blood. Lying dazed on the ground, she begged for mercy. The guard pulled a dagger from his belt and plunged it into her chest.

  Keltarä backed off until she was by the stove, Salcroft lying at her feet. His face was white; his eyes sunken and red. She knelt down and put her arm around him, his blood staining her clothes.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as the guards went about their business of checking the members of the gang for signs of life. A high priest in white robes and another man who, given his gilded armour and ceremonial sword, was presumably the captain of the Shadow Watchers, entered the chamber.

  ‘That one’s alive.’ One of the Shadow Watchers pointed to Salcroft.

  ‘Kill him then,’ the high priest commanded.

  Keltarä whispered the word ‘sorry’ to Salcroft, before the guard pushed her away and put a sword into his chest.

  ‘Keltarä,’ Salcroft cried out, before the life drained from him.

  Only when all the bandits were confirmed dead did the captain and the high priest turn their attention to Keltarä.

  ‘What have we got here?’ the high priest asked, strolling through the carnage. ‘That poor unfortunate soul called you Keltarä. Surely you cannot possibly be Keltarä Brandark? Why, Captain Féhas, all my birthdays have come at once.’

  Keltarä pulled herself to her feet and looked the high priest in the eye.

  ‘My dear, do you not remember me? I found your diary in a caravan two years ago.’

  Keltarä stood in shock, unable to respond.

  ‘Come now
,’ he said, briefly putting an arm round her. ‘Do not upset yourself. Let us get some fresh air.’

  It was late afternoon and the light was beginning to fade as Keltarä left the caves flanked by the guards. The captain and the high priest followed.

  Two of her capturers bound her hands with rope.

  ‘What will it be?’ the captain asked. ‘Hanging or burning?’

  ‘We will burn her,’ the high priest replied. ‘Let the purifying flames consume her cursed shell.’

  ‘You heard the man. Spread out and start looking for wood. Rip down that shack over there for starters.’

  One of the guards walked to the mine-cart shelter that the gang had used as stables.

  ‘You need not worry, my dear,’ the high priest said to Keltarä, patting her shoulder. ‘It will all be over soon.’

  There was a thud, and then a yell. A three-foot-wide boulder, which had not been there a minute ago, was now a few yards from the cave mouth. Under it, a blue cloaked guard was screaming in pain.

  ‘What the hell?’ the high priest said.

  There was the sound of running footsteps.

  ‘Who is there?’ the high priest shouted. ‘Show yourself, at once.’

  The footsteps got louder. Leaves on the forest floor were kicked up into the air.

  ‘Look out,’ a guard shouted.

  His throat was sliced open by an invisible assailant. Another guard fell to the ground, clutching his throat. Then another.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the captain shouted. ‘Put your shields up, you idiots.’

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a ‘Keltarä Brandark’,’ the voice came from a ridge fifteen feet above.

  Keltarä looked up and saw two men. One wore black greaves and had a silver hawk motif emblazoned on his breastplate and a helmet with a black-and-white horsehair plume along the crest. The other carried a two-handed battle-axe. Both were heavy set and muscular. They leaped down from the ridge.

  The larger of the men hit the ground, landing beside one of the guards; he brought his battle-axe down on the man with both hands. The guard raised his shield but the force of the impact meant that the blade of the axe smashed through the metal sheeting of the shield, cutting through the forearm and striking the guard on the shoulder, burying itself in it.

  The second man drew his short sword and rushed the guards who had seized Keltarä. He weaved through her captors, flipping and feinting. He spun out of the range of the guards’ weapons before counter-attacking, rapidly closing the distance and driving his sword into the gaps in their armour.

  To Keltarä’s left, someone ran through the foliage.

  The Shadow Watcher captain fell to the ground, blood oozing from his chest. Beside him a masked man dressed in black cloth gradually materialised. Retracting a wrist blade from the captain, the man looked around before selecting his next target.

  The three strangers cut through the blue-cloaked guards in under a minute. The largest of them smashed his way through them with his battle-axe while the one with the silver hawk on his armour moved like an acrobat through the guard’s attacks, somersaulting over swinging swords before landing his attacks. When the final Shadow Watcher had fallen, they cleaned the blood from their blades before making their way to the high priest.

  Keltarä was unsure whether the men were friends or foes. Her fear subsided slightly when she saw that none had shadows, but she had never met others of her kind and did not know if they could be trusted.

  ‘This is a crime against the realm and the gods. Each of you is an aberration of nature and will burn in hell for the immoral violation your existence represents,’ the high priest said, standing his ground.

  ‘Shut up,’ the larger man growled.

  The black-clad man approached Keltarä and took a dagger from his belt. He cut the rope from her wrists and then put the weapon into her hands.

  The high priest was pushed to the fore by the larger man, and presented to Keltarä. The stranger with the black helmet removed it.

  ‘Keltarä, my name is Arpherius, the masked man is Valan, and the other is Kurt. As you see, we are all shadowless. This man is the High Priest of Cravaínius. He tracked you and your group from Oylésoak, using an item called the Eye of Despair, hidden in one of your rucksacks. We tried to reach you earlier but were unable to get here in time to save your friends. Had we got here any later you yourself would be dead. I realise this is lot for you to take in, but there is the pressing matter of this high priest’s life. If you want to avenge your fallen comrades then I suggest you take that dagger and dispatch him now. If not, one of us will. This man is a sworn enemy of our kind, and we are not letting him live.’

  Keltarä glanced down at the dagger. She stared at the high priest. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead and he was muttering something.

  Feelings of rage welled up as she remembered her mining crew and the looks on her friends’ faces as they died.

  She thrust the dagger into the high priest’s stomach. He fell to the ground, his face contorted. He stared at his executioner as he died.

  Keltarä knelt on the ground and put her head in her hands. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  ‘We need your help,’ Arpherius said. ‘Your power is the last piece of a puzzle that has taken five hundred years to solve. Now, if you want us to help bury your friends and burn the bodies of the men who killed them, we will. But after that, we need to leave and you need to come with us.’

  ‘Leave for where? This is my home.’

  ‘Your friends are dead,’ Valan pointed out. ‘What are you going to do, rob people on your own? If you stay here you’ll get yourself killed.’

  Keltarä said nothing, but realisation and acceptance flooded her mind in equal measure.

  ‘There’s a long journey ahead; it’s taken us three months to reach you,’ Kurt said. ‘We need to go back now. And we need you with us.’

  ‘What could you possibly need from me?’ she asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Your power.’

  ‘There’s not much to it,’ Keltarä said. ‘I can pull metal things towards me.’

  ‘Just pull them? You can’t push them away?’ Kurt quizzed.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Can you lift things; move them sideways?’ Arpherius asked.

  ‘I said: I can only pull them.’

  ‘Say something was trying to run from you,’ Arpherius said. ‘Could you stop it escaping? Hold it in place?’

  ‘I used to stop mine carts rolling downhill.’

  The men looked at each other.

  ‘What is the biggest thing you have ever tried to stop?’

  It was a crisp winter’s morning, the sun low in the sky. In front of Keltarä was an anvil tethered to three teams of horses by thick iron chains.

  It had been just over four months since Keltarä had left Druid’s Wood, and although she thought daily about her friends with a heavy heart, she did not miss the cold mine and the ever-present fear that had accompanied her life as an outlaw. The monks of the Black Monastery had welcomed her warmly. Hearty meals and a soft bed were just two of the luxuries she never tired of experiencing.

  ‘The horses are ready, Keltarä,’ Cymbatoriá said with a smile.

  She snapped out of her reverie.

  ‘I’ve never tried to stop this many before,’ she stated.

  Cymbatoriá walked over and gave Keltarä a hug.

  ‘You can do this. Remember what we spoke about? Do not think about the horses, concentrate on the anvil,’ Cymbatoriá said. ‘It is your mind that is stopping it moving not your body.’

  Stretching out her hand in front of her, she focused. A whip cracked; the horses charged. The chains tautened and the anvil slid across the ground. Keltarä imagined she was gripping her target, her eyes narrowed and she concentrated on the a
nvil. It stopped.

  The horses strained as their hooves slipped on the cobblestoned courtyard.

  Arpherius and Amrodan stood on the steps to the outer abbey, watching.

  ‘Twelve horses, she stopping twelve horses,’ Arpherius said.

  ‘Quite the feat. What else?’

  ‘She managed to stop Kurt and Utan in their tracks.’

  ‘At the same time?’

  ‘Well, no. It would seem that she is unable to hold onto more than one object at a time.’

  Amrodan stroked his goatee beard.

  ‘Is twelve enough?’ Arpherius asked.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Then that is it. Keltarä was the one we were missing. We are all here.’

  Pulling back his hood, Amrodan filled his lungs with cold air and exhaled slowly. ‘Gather everyone together; tell them it is time. We are going to kill a god.’

  Chapter XX

  The Ascension of Kröm

  Pandimonia made her way through the empty streets of Rith on horseback. The sound of horseshoes on the cobblestones echoed in the darkness. They had returned after travelling for over a month and both she and her horse were sodden and cold.

  A shower of rain had left Rith’s roofs and streets shiny, and Pandimonia could see moonlight reflecting on the ground.

  Moving past the tannery and the inn, they climbed the hill towards the gates of the Black Monastery. It sat like a fortress set against the base of the mountain, and on top of the cliff: the temple stood silhouetted. Pandimonia wondered what arcane lore lay within its walls.

  Gingerly dismounting from her horse, she banged on the gates before stretching her back and legs.

  ‘Ah, Pandimonia. You’re back,’ Brother Virendar said, sliding the bolt from across the gate.

  ‘Stable my horse; I need to speak with Amrodan.’

  Pandimonia handed over the reins.

  ‘I believe he is in the library,’ Brother Virendar called after her.

  Trudging through the silent corridors then up a spiral staircase, Pandimonia arrived at the double doors to the library. She composed herself, tying her hair back and straightening her clothes, before entering.