The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4)

by Everet Martins

  “That’s a damned shame. The Lair.” Scab scoffed. “What idiot came up with that name? Don’t tell me that’s the name of your home. Sounds like something a kid would make up,” Scab laughed, clapping Walter on the shoulder.

  Walter cleared his throat and nodded. “The biggest idiot you’ve ever met.” He licked his teeth.

  He caught Grimbald’s eye and couldn’t contain himself. Laughter spilled from his lips.

  “No—” Scab tugged on his jet-black gelding’s reigns. “That ridic—” He snapped his mouth closed and tried again. “That brilliant idea was yours? Well, well, well. Why am I not surprised? My esteemed employer’s ingenuity strikes again.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re mocking me?”

  Scab recoiled as if he was assaulted by the gravest of insults. “I’d never.”

  “You’re a man of many talents. Coldblooded killer for hire by day, court jester by night.”

  “It pays to have many skills. A hedge against uncertainty.” Scab twiddled the end of his mustache.

  “Oh, Juzo. Hopefully he didn’t go too far. As much as I don’t like those new Blood Eaters of his, Juzo was right about one thing. If they’re anything like him, they can fight well and we’ll need people like that.” Grimbald snorted then produced a threadbare handkerchief. Scab watched with raised brows. Grimbald blasted a wad of mucus into it, hardly enough thread to contain the greenish bolus. He folded it up and tucked it behind his breastplate.

  Scab’s lip curled and dried skin flaked from a corner of his mouth. “Delightful.”

  “When my dad was teaching me the axe, he’d tell me that if you’re injured, or perhaps vulnerable to attack for some reason, you shouldn’t consider attacking.” Grimbald’s lips held the start of a smile.

  “Your father was a wise man. I can’t wait to meet him. We’re getting closer now, aren’t we?” Scab slipped a map from the wide arm of his coat, how it had stayed in there all this time was a mystery to Walter.

  “About another twenty minutes after the bridge.” Grimbald sighed. “I can’t wait to see my Pa. It’s been so long, there’s so much to tell him. He’ll be so proud.” His fingers rubbed the Captain’s pin on his collar.

  “I’m sure the men will sorely miss Juzo.” Scab waved his fingers. “What sort of aid did you wrangle from our gracious king?”

  Walter and Grimbald both grunted.

  Grimbald cocked his head. “Just a thwarted assassination attempt. A typical day of work for us.”

  Walter groaned at the reminder. Bile crept up his throat. He took a draught from his waterskin to push it back where it belonged.

  “Huh. The king owes you a great debt then,” Scab said.

  “Don’t think he’s the kind of man who repays them,” Grimbald muttered.

  “Can he make us those incredible flour cakes again?” Walter asked. The question made him feel young, when things were a little easier. When he was last in Shipton, the Death Spawn had first emerged from the shadows of the realm. He thought back to when he’d told John, his father’s help, that he craved adventure, something more than being a farmer. If he had known what that would entail, would he have still wished for it? He wasn’t sure anymore. If he had made different choices, would he still have his parents? His arm and eye? He stared down at his stump, the skin bumpy along the contours of his bones. His mind was traversing a dark path, he knew. Would he have been forced to watch his mother defiled by those nightmarish creatures? He wrangled his thoughts in, breathing deep and returning to the moment. Those were useless thoughts. The past was etched in unbreakable Milvorian steel.

  “Walt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you not hear me?” Grimbald squinted at him.

  “Sorry, getting lost in my thoughts again. This place brings back memories.”

  “Ah memory, the great betrayer. Be careful with memory. I’ve learned the hard way we’re really good at only remembering the flowers growing in the shit, forgetting about the shit below the surface, stinking just as bad as before it was unearthed.” Scab beamed. “You might want to write that down, learning from your elders, and all that matter.”

  Walter snickered. Scab was an odd man, but it seemed to have a ring of pained truth to it. “Perhaps you’ll have a future career as a roving philosopher.”

  “Perhaps.” Scab leaned on his pommel, peering out. Walter followed his gaze. They were cresting the apex of the bridge. A blanket of mist crept along the forest floor. It was burned away in the light at the end of the bridge.

  “So, Walt. I’m sure my Pa will make flour cakes for us if I ask.” Grimbald’s enormous torso comfortably swung with the gait of the Blood Donkey.

  Walter held up his hand to quiet them. They complied, understanding. He wanted to listen as they approached the guardhouse. There was no accosting by soldiers, gibbering Death Spawn, or snapping bowstrings. A pair of birds sang to one another between the oaks flanking the bridge. Walter stopped and peered through the small window of the guardhouse. Inside was a small table with a handful of dice set like a game had just started. Beside them were two partially drunk mugs of elixir. A spear lay propped against the back of a chair and a bow was slung across the other. A Falcon helmet was upside down in a corner of the cramped room, its red plume bent in half.

  “Strange,” Walter muttered.

  “Very,” Grimbald replied beside him. “I’ve never seen the Falcon leave their posts on this bridge.”

  Scab twisted around on his horse, facing his band trailing behind. He gave three sharp whistles. Walter saw hands twitching to blades, belt buckles tightening, and wineskins corking. “Better to be over prepared, I always say.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Walter nodded at him.

  They rode onward into the shadowy forest for at least another fifteen minutes. The mist curled around the legs of the horses and puffed into the air. The air seemed to grow heavy with humidity trapped by the forest. There was something else wrong about it, something Walter couldn’t pinpoint.

  “We’re almost there. By the Dragon, I can’t wait to see everyone. It’s been oh, so long.” Grimbald grinned and sat rigid on his saddle. He was almost exactly what Walter had imagined a brave warrior returning home would look like. Maybe with a sword and shield instead of a pair of deadly axes.

  Walter forced a grin back at him. He was glad for him. He knew when they stopped in Breden next, there wouldn’t be much in the way of rejoicing. Likely just a lot of digging. Maybe he’d have a future in grave digging. Not the most satisfying work, but it paid well.

  “Strange. We haven’t seen any travelers coming this way. This is usually a big trading day in Shipton’s market.” Grimbald scratched his neck and crinkled his flaring nose.

  Walter was starting to get an inkling why. “Shit,” he whispered.

  “Your friend’s work?” Scab peered at him, his cheeks red with sunburn.

  Grimbald turned to Scab then Walter. “No, no. He wouldn’t. Would he?” His face had grown ashen.

  “Scab, why don’t you and your men wait here? We’ll come back for you. Try not to rob anyone passing through.”

  Scab slumped. “Is that an order?”

  Walter smirked. “That’s an order.” His gut was swimming in possibilities. Did Juzo kill the guards? Why would he? Maybe he and his surrogates just scared them off.

  “A splendid idea. I overheard more than a few of the men discussing what they would do to your friend if they were to get their hands on him. Needless to say, his death wouldn’t be over quickly.”

  “Shit, Scab. Now you tell me?”

  Scab shrugged and turned his mount, walking back to his men. He swayed in his saddle with a tuneless whistling.

  “You don’t think Juzo could’ve… he could’ve…” Grimbald swallowed and his lips pressed into a red line.

  “No,” he lied. He had a feeling what they were going to find wasn’t good.

  “Does he give a shit about anything?” Grimbald watched as Scab rounde
d a bend, fading behind the thicket.

  Walter’s lips twitched. “Doesn’t seem it. Maybe makes the hard things easier.”

  Grimbald grunted. “Maybe his life is as empty as my waterskin.” He tugged on the Blood Donkey’s reigns to get him moving.

  They came upon a simple archway with a sign carved in an elegant script that read “Shipton – Trader’s Haven.” Walter vaguely remembered when they were last here. It felt like someone else’s memories. They were badly fragmented during the time he had worn the Cerumal’s armor. His throat felt dry as sand. He was so close to becoming one of the Death Spawn then. The demons of the Shadow Realm had been waiting to bind to him, to take his body in this world. He uncurled his fingers, seeing them biting ellipses into the reins. He felt his pores prickling open along his neck.

  In a shard of his memory were children chasing each other with wooden swords and struggling to get kites supported by the wind. He remembered the tumult of the square lined with carts for tobacco, elixir beans, goats, sheep, and vendors shouting the prices of rice to passersby. It was a glimpse into a past he wasn’t entirely sure was his.

  The birds twittered and the rustling of leaves carried down from treetops. There were no screaming children now, no men in spirited conversation, no women waving from the gardens. As they made their way further into the village, he kept expecting the din of human life to strike his ears.

  They arrived at the main path leading into the square where houses and shops clustered together. A simple woodshed’s door was left open, hinges whining in the breeze. At the back of the shed wood was piled from floor to ceiling. At the sides were sets of farm tools coated in years of rust, handles smooth from hard use. A pitchfork was on the other side of the road, laying on the ground. Walter inhaled sharply at what he saw on its tines. They were brown with dried blood. Beside it was patch of crusted blood, not fully dried yet.

  Grimbald dismounted and stared at the sight. He nodded a few times. His hands brushed the hilts of his axes then fell to his hips. “Well?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. Death Spawn left bodies, mutilated and broken. Men hid bodies to avoid punishment from the law. Blood Eaters rose up and walked away with their own legs. There were footprints here, hardly visible in the dappling light, trailing away from the drying blood pool.

  “Maybe it’s just wine… Juzo,” Grimbald growled. He squatted down and jabbed a finger into the blood. It came out bright red and clung to his fingertip like sap. There was no doubting what it was now. “Do you? Do you think…?”

  Walter averted his eyes, unable to meet them. There was no use denying it. Juzo had been here, used the village to feed his surrogates and likely himself. It was time to assess the damage. A deep exhaustion settled into his bones. He was tired of cleaning up after Juzo. Scab’s man said he was headed west. This would be the most logical place, but he thought Juzo would be better than this. He had to be. Walter’s scalp prickled and he attacked his hair with a clawed hand. It had grown since he’d returned, about half as long as his fingers.

  Grimbald slowly rose up and flinched, eyes snapping wide open. “My Pa!” He vaulted onto his mount with hidden dexterity and gave the donkey a kick. It let out a blubbering bay and charged down the path. Walter followed.

  The air whipped through Walter’s hair. He dropped himself low on his saddle, narrowing his eyes into the dust thrown up by the Blood Donkey’s hooves. Walter wished he could have done something to numb his friend’s pain. He could see in his face, he already knew what they’d find. Walter knew any sort of consoling words wouldn’t do much, but being with him would. He followed Grim to his father’s tavern looming up ahead, the place where he grew up. An oversized lantern the size of a man’s torso hung down from the roof, its wick blackened above a sea of oil.

  Walter slipped into Warrior’s Focus. The shadows grew darker and everything moved a little slower, making it easier to process. He felt the urge to run and never look back. The village had the appearance of being abandoned. He felt his skin tingle as if there were eyes on him from all around. He peered through windows and into empty hallways through doors left open. Not a person in sight. There was an axe on the ground before the tavern, its haft a deep cheery. The earth was scarred if as it had been tossed.

  “No!” Grimbald threw a leg off the Blood Donkey and stumbled from it before it came to a stop. Grimbald bent over the axe for a second and jerked up. He leaped up the steps leading to the front door. The wind sighed, air coursing through the tavern’s crevasses like a death rattle.

  The banded door of the Hissing Gooseberry had a splintered hole through it the size of a melon. It hung from a single hinge at the top, the others torn free from the frame. Glass, nails and strips of wood littered the landing, crunching under Walter’s boots as he followed Grimbald inside.

  “Pa!” Grimbald roared. “Where are you?”

  Walter followed him in and stopped a few feet after the entrance. Grimbald ran behind the bar, and rummaged through a storage closet. The main room was dark, windows still covered with curtains. A log popped in the hearth, smoldering with embers. A pile of beer steins were clustered in the middle of the long bar, beside them a neatly folded towel. The scent of spilled wine and beer clung to the air, an odor not even the cleanest of taverns could remove.

  “Pa!” Grimbald shouted. A tree creaked from outside a window. Walter met his eyes for a moment. They were frantic and wet with tears. “Help me damn it, would you?”

  Walter nodded, eyes involuntarily tracing a path towards the stairs leading to the second floor. He felt numb to the pain. Numb to it all. Numb to the world. What more could it do to him?

  Grimbald’s lips twisted and he pushed past him, stomping up the stairs. Walter’s body felt limp, easily cast aside. There was hardly enough strength in him to keep standing. The wood screamed and dust rained down from between the boards.

  Something wet struck Walter’s nose. He wiped it and swallowed, smearing red on his fingers. He looked up at the swathe of blood welling out over the swollen wood, clinging there like a puddle defying gravity. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  A shriek of pain, agony unlike anything Walter had ever heard came from Grimbald. The floor thumped and rattled. “No! No, why? Why?”

  With each hammer of Grimbald’s fist on the floor above, more blood fell onto Walter’s face. He couldn’t pull himself away from it, couldn’t stop staring at it. His friend’s shrieks became blubbering sobs, echoing down the stairs. That wail was agony in its truest form. This world, the land of the living was just like the Shadow Realm. They were mirror images of each other. The Shadow Realm showed the truth in the hearts of men, didn’t disguise it behind false smiles, nodding heads, and kind eyes.

  He dropped to his knees and dry heaved onto the floor. His abdomen spasmed and wrenched at a stomach without content to expunge. Walter fought for breath and wiped the thick strand of drool swinging from his lip. He staggered up on unsure legs and gripped the handrail leading upstairs. Grimbald needed him. He squeezed its intricate ridges, eyes locked on its smooth curves. One step at a time, he trudged up the stairs, eyed the nooks and dents in the handrail forged in the harrows of time. There was a heavy thump and Grimbald’s sobbing drew out with ragged breaths.

  Walter reached the top of the stairs and turned. Grimbald’s back was against the far wall, protectively clutching something round in his hands. The bed had been made, all the corners firmly tucked in. Walter saw Grimbald’s father’s body sprawled out on a round carpet, flat and incapable of absorbing the all blood oozing from his neck. The body was on its back, half a tattered robe opened on one side. Streaks of blood made a path from his father to Grimbald, his shoulders heaving. One of the curtains had been drawn, casting Grim’s side in a morning ray. The edges of his axes shone with its brilliance.

  Walter took a step.

  “This is a dream. This didn’t happen. Didn’t happen, didn’t happen, didn’t happen.” Grimbald rocked back and forth, arms wrapping t
ighter around his father’s severed head. The metal on his axes banged against the wall with his rocking.

  “Grim.” Walter lifted his right arm, lips forming a line at the stump. He lowered it. He slowly crept his way over to him, doing his best to avoid the blood.

  “He couldn’t have done this, could he? Could he?” He repeated himself at least ten times, rocking and nodding. Rocking and nodding.

  Walter stopped in front of the body, saw where a blade had likely cut through the wood. Juzo usually liked to kill with his hands, he knew. There was no proof of anything here. He walked over to the broken window and pushed aside the other curtain half, its texture rough as a potato sack. The window was broken through the middle, a few remaining shards lanced at the center.

  Walter peered through it, down at the square. Figures shifted in the shadows of doorways. They skirted along houses, trying, but failing to stay in the few remaining shadows. He saw a man’s leg. Caught the reflection of a scarlet eye, gleaming like a ruby into his. A boy peered up at him, one corner of his lip raising into a snarl. His lips were tainted with the far too familiar pink of blood.

  “Grim.” Walter snorted. Men, women and children were converging out of houses and shops, meeting at the well. There were at least fifty of them, all with eyes glowing with the color of a dying sun, skin white as ivory. He swallowed. “Grim.” Walter felt his guts sink to his feet. Juzo was there, beckoning for them to gather round. He was pointing at the tavern in three distinct directions. The mass split off into three groups. “Grimbald!” One group strode down the path leading to the front door. The other two headed for the tavern’s flanks, forming the shape of a trident.

  “Grim, we have to go.” Walter turned to look at him.

  “What! What do you want?” he snapped, recoiling like a scared dog. He wrapped the bloody skull tight in his arms.

  Walter almost choked on the words. “The Blood Eaters. Juzo.” He shook his head. “You were right. They’re coming for us.”

  “What?” He shot up from the ground, his father’s head tumbling unceremoniously from his lap. It hit the floor with a thump and rolled into the leg of a bedframe. One of its eyes stared at Walter, its nose crushed flat; its neck flattened like it was designed for a puppeteer’s hand. Maybe that’s all it would take to bring it back to life. A well-trained hand to go in there; make the mouth work, eyes blink and lips contort into a smile. “I’ll kill them all,” Grimbald said. Walter had no doubt he would, if he could. Grimbald had a savage look in his eyes, axes drawn and already bathed in blood. His polished armor shone like red stained glass.