Shadow Born

by Martin Frowd

  Then the doomhawk dived. Its black, blue-banded wings swept tightly back as it arrowed in as if fired from a vast bow, closing the distance with uncanny speed. Intelligence and malice glinted in its fiery red eyes as they made contact with Glaraz's own. Glaraz incanted his next spell as rapidly as he could, not breaking eye contact with the malicious bird as it approached, testing the speed of his voice against that of its wings. But the doomhawk was the faster of the pair.

  Before Glaraz could complete his next mystical incantation, the bird was upon him. Its beak, nigh as large as his whole head, glinted in the sun as it stabbed down at him, but was turned aside by the earthbone ward protecting him. Its talons could not find purchase on his shoulders, still protected by their shadowstuff coating, but slid down onto his upper arms and seized hold of his biceps. Though the earthbone ward prevented the dread bird from breaking the skin, it did not repel its merest touch in the same way that the shadowstuff had, and the doomhawk's talons flexed and squeezed, consolidating their hold on the necromancer. The bird's wings beat furiously fast as it pulled at Glaraz, shaking and tugging, trying to lever him from his seat. Though the doomhawk surely lacked the strength to carry a full-grown man for any great distance, dislodging him from Furiosa's back to fall to the ground below was another matter.

  Glaraz's concentration faltered as the great bird pulled at him, and the spell he had been forming dissipated uncast, his focus lost. The doomhawk beat its wings rapidly, blue-banded black plumage battering at his face and shoulders. Its beak stabbed at him, again and again, still unable to penetrate his earthbone ward but interrupting him each time he tried to focus sufficiently to cast a spell. Zarynn huddled against his chest, yelping and flinching each time the bird’s beak stabbed down. Glaraz cursed silently. If only the boy could control his shadowfire, and call upon it at need, the doomhawk would be no threat. But while Zarynn’s Gift was yet untrained, the necromancer could not depend upon it – indeed, must be wary to ensure that it was not, inadvertently, roused against him, as it had been against the hookbeaks.

  The hookbeaks. The necromancer nodded as a new tactic suggested itself and grimaced with disgust at himself for not having embraced it sooner. Direct attack is not always the solution. Remove the hookbeaks, and free Furiosa to assist against the doomhawk. Now if he could just focus enough for one spell, before the doomhawk broke his concentration once more.

  Drawing on his training, Glaraz ruthlessly closed himself off to external distractions, finding the quiet calm within him that was the heart of his Gifts, the core of his magic. As the doomhawk, still eerily silent, drew back its feathered head for another stabbing strike with its long sharp beak, Glaraz shaped the magic and spoke the words that actualised it.

  “Buavim’na’graat!”

  The cries of the hookbeaks were cut off abruptly, as his transforming magic washed over them like a wave. A dozen or more – he could not clearly see past the doomhawk to more accurately count their number – turned to stone and plunged to the ground below, to shatter on impact with the hills.

  The doomhawk stabbed its beak at Glaraz again, but his earthbone ward continued to turn it harmlessly aside. The great bird reared back for another stab at him. Its red eyes burned with malice as they glared at the necromancer, even as its talons squeezed his biceps with ferocious strength.

  Furiosa’s long, segmented black tail whipped forward, overhead, and her stinger took the bird in its black-plumaged breast, plunging through it and out the other side. Blood spattered Glaraz’s face, hot and sticky. Where it ran down his face and neck, it evaporated on contact with the collar of his shadowstuff garment. The doomhawk thrashed, impaled on the long, thick, sharp stinger. Its talons clenched one more time, then released. Before it could reacquire its hold on Glaraz’s arms, Furiosa’s tail flicked forward, carrying the dread bird out of reach of the necromancer. Furiosa turned her reptilian head to the side and bit the doomhawk’s head clean off. The head plunged groundward as the body disappeared into Furiosa’s huge ebon jaws. After a few minutes, she spat out a cloud of bones and feathers.

  Zarynn’s yelps gradually subsided as he realised the immediate threat had passed. The hookbeaks were all gone – had he really seen the last of them turned into stone? – and the big black and blue bird had been eaten by the great beast who carried them through the sky. Furiosa, his mind supplied the name once more. He still did not know what manner of monster she – yes, Glaraz had said she was a she – was, but she was clearly fierce and mighty.

  Zarynn winced at his continuing aches and pains as he took inventory of his situation. Yes, he still hurt, but he was not bleeding. Glaraz’s magic ward must still be working. Zarynn struggled to remember the words of the secret prayers his parents had taught him – prayers he must never, ever speak where Druids, or the vast majority of the People, could hear them – but sent a silent, heartfelt thankyou to the Protector that he had survived thus far.

  As far as Zarynn could tell, Glaraz’s state was similar to his own – aching and battered but skin unbroken. Zarynn was sure it must have hurt to have the huge bird gripping his arms as it had done, but when he looked at the outlander he could see no blood. Of course, he realised, the necromancer was warded too, protected against stabbing and slicing just as he was.

  To Zarynn’s sight, Glaraz’s shadowstuff garment still appeared to be gradually evaporating in the sunlight. His arms, hands and legs were naked now, although his feet were still sheathed in solidified shadow. His shadowy hood appeared faded to the colour of a pale mist. His torso seemed to be wrapped in criss-crossing bands of shimmering grey shadow, more akin to a giant spider’s web now than a vest, and the intricate, swirling patterns that had so fascinated Zarynn in the First People lord’s underground lair were gone. Zarynn wondered if the last traces of Glaraz’s shadow garb would last until they found his ship.

  Furiosa’s wings beat swiftly, cleaving the air as she carried them to the shore of the lands of the People, and beyond. The tiny grey-black anthills that were the Hills of Dusk fell away behind and below them, and in minutes they were out over water. Zarynn glanced over his shoulder to see the land rapidly receding behind them. All was shades of blue, above, ahead and below, as they flew over the sea.

  The sea! Zarynn had wondered, ever since Glaraz first spoke of it, how it would look, smell, feel. As no Duskwalker had ever laid eyes on the sea nor even set foot on the shore since time immemorial, and rarely came into contact with clans or tribes who had, he had no accurate picture to guide his imagination, and no real concept of its sheer vastness or uniformity. He noticed that close to land, the waves that broke against the shore were paler, almost white, but the further out they flew, the deeper blue the water became. The salty scent wafting from below grew stronger in his nostrils as their fierce flying beast carried them away from the lands of the People of the Bear – indeed, from the lands of the People of the Twelve Tribes in their entirety – and for a short while Zarynn dared hope that he was truly beyond the reach of the Druids at last.

  Zarynn peered further out to sea, squinting ahead as Furiosa carried them further forward with every wingbeat. The sea ahead of them was an unrelenting mass of dark blue, contrasting with the brighter blue of the summer sky. When he glanced back behind them, he could barely make out the coast and the rise of the Hills of Dusk in the distance. Ahead, he could not see land. How far out could this island truly be, of which Glaraz had spoken, where his ship waited?

  “Six hundred miles it is, from mainland shore to island shore, young Zarynn,” came the reply, and he realised he had once again voiced his thoughts aloud. “The Bay of Dusk is wide indeed. Therein sits the Isle of Crows, where my ship waits for us. A few hours more to fly, over water. Furiosa is swift. Druid birds cannot now catch us, unaided. Only if they have the magic that speeds their wings will they gain on us now.”

  Furiosa flapped her ebon wings as Glaraz responded, each wingbeat carrying them further out over open water, further from the lands of the People. Zar
ynn kept glancing around and behind, and it was not long before he marked that the shoreline was now lost to sight behind them. The Hills of Dusk could no longer be seen to their rear. All was blue, a cornucopia of different shades of sea and sky above, below and to all sides. The white spray against the shore had been entirely replaced now by deeper, darker waters. The scent of salt filled Zarynn’s nostrils with its pungent power. Below, he spotted a flicker of motion as something disturbed the surface of the water. Sunlight glinted off something of a silvery hue, half-seen at best before it submerged once more. Again, to the other side. And again. Squinting, he made out silvery forms – creatures? – leaping up a few feet from the surface of the sea, gleaming in the radiance of the sun, before diving once more beneath the dark water.

  “Are those – fish?” Zarynn took a moment to remember the unfamiliar word, recalling one of the older hunters of his former clan speaking of them, only moons ago but it seemed more like years after all that he had recently endured.

  “Fish indeed, young Zarynn,” Glaraz confirmed. Zarynn was becoming gradually more accustomed to the outlander’s odd foreign accent, although the way he emphasised the wrong syllables of certain words was still strange to the ear of one born to the Twelve Tribes of the People. “You have heard of fish, but never seen them, I think? Your people do not go close to the sea.”

  “One of the hunters – I heard one of the hunters talk about fish once,” Zarynn responded, shaking his head. “He said – he said they smell bad, and they taste bad too! A hunter from the People of the Nighthawk gave him some, and he brought them back to camp, but they made him sick.”

  “Fish do not keep long in the sun,” Glaraz chuckled. “Your hunter carried the fish too long, I think. Fresh fish is good indeed. When rightly dried, or smoked, fish is still – acceptable. But keep it too long, or treat it wrongly, and it is otherwise.” He snorted. “You will have the chance to sample fish soon enough, when we reach the ship. And after, many more chances, when we reach the Black Skull. In Maraport, much fish is eaten, young one. You should learn to like it. So once did I, when I first came there.”

  “When first – came there…?”

  “You have much yet to learn, young Zarynn,” Glaraz chuckled again as they continued to fly through the blue sky. “Of the lands beyond yours, yes? Of realms and peoples. We have had little time yet for teaching. Once we reach the ship, there will be time for teaching. Time for many things. For you to learn a more civilised tongue than this wretched one, to start with. For now? Know that Maraport has long since been my home. But it is not the land of my birth. From another land entirely I came. A man already, and necromancer, when I first set foot in Maraport. But for many years now, Maraport has been my home.”

  “Another other land?” Zarynn digested this for a moment, thinking, before posing more questions. “How many-”

  “How many lands are there, young one?” Glaraz snorted as they flew on. “Many, young Zarynn. Too many to speak of now, yes? Until you have learned more – much more – it would only confuse you. On the ship, it will be otherwise. There are maps there. Both mine and the crew’s. You will learn much then of lands and peoples, tongues and magics. With maps it will be far easier.”

  “Maps?”

  “Druids have much to answer for, young one,” growled Glaraz. “It is their doing that keeps your people so primitive. Maps are – hmm. You must know how your hunters will sketch in the dirt, to tell others who come after them how the trails are, where the game can be found, where there are threats and dangers to avoid? Maps are similar, young Zarynn, but they show whole lands, and they can be scribed on hide, or cloth, so that you can keep them with you and take them everywhere you go. This and much more you will learn. Soon.”

  The necromancer fell silent, and Zarynn pondered his words as they flew, thoughts churning as the miles and hours rushed past and the fish cavorted below. He still did not understand, entirely, how something on a piece of cloth or hide could describe an entire land, or many lands, and he wondered still just how many lands there were. The Druids, and those instructed by them, taught simply that all lands beyond the seas, in all directions, were the enemy, filled with murderous hordes and fearsome monsters. As the People were forbidden to travel beyond sight of their own shores, the Druids, and those adults of the People who instructed the young in their name, taught no more detail than that, and so he had learned no more than that openly, among the other children of his clan. The secret teachings of his parents, by contrast, held that the Druids lied, and not all outlanders were wicked or murderous enemies of the People – even if they were enemies of the Druids. But his parents had still known next to nothing of the world beyond their shores, had certainly never said much of foreign lands or their number or names.

  For the first time, it occurred to Zarynn to wonder exactly where and how his murdered parents had come by their own knowledge of things that the Druids and their loyal servants did not teach, or that went directly against those things that the Druids did teach. Never, to his knowledge, had he met anyone else who worshipped the Protector, or indeed anyone else who secretly defied the Druid faith and their Dark King in any other way. Surely his parents must have at some time? Perhaps his father, who as a hunter had had more freedom to leave camp, had encountered men of other clans and learned things from one of them, and brought back that learning to his own yurt. Perhaps his mother had learned all that she knew of the Protector’s faith, and the ways of other people, from his father. Of course, there was no way to know now.

  Unless. Zarynn blinked as something new occurred to him. Glaraz could call back the spirits of the dead! Granted, the only such spirit that Zarynn had seen him call forth was newly dead and had yet his own body to reoccupy. But perhaps the necromancer could call other spirits back too, or at least speak to them? Perhaps, once they were at last safe, Zarynn could ask it of him.

  Or perhaps, one day, I could learn to do it myself. The thought came unbidden from the depths of his mind and made him pause, but he did not immediately dismiss it. Would it be so wrong? The sacred – and secret – teachings of the Protector taught that the spirits of his parents would now be in a place of eternal peace, prosperity and beauty. He could not remember the name of the place right now – for which he hung his head in shame – but surely, they would still be joyful to speak, across the divide of dead from living, to their only son? And if the Druid teachings were right after all, and his parents were in fact in endless torment in Hell for having rejected the wicked Dark King, surely it could not be wrong to call them back to the living world by any means possible.

  The Protector works in mysterious ways. Zarynn remembered his mother saying those words. Perhaps, he dared to hope, there was a divine plan behind his rescue, and no mere stroke of luck? Perhaps the God of his parents had arranged for the man who saved him to be a necromancer, who could teach him to speak with their spirits? It was a lot to consider, and now was scarcely ideal.

  SIXTEEN: THROUGH THE STORM

  Zarynn blinked. When had the sky become so dark? He was sure Glaraz had said they would reach the ship before sundown. Surely, he had not been so distracted by his own thoughts that he had missed the sun setting, day shading into night? The hue of the sky was darker than that of the sea below now, and cloudy, not a clear darkness such as he had often seen above the camps of the People, with every star a brilliant speck of light above. No star shone through this overcast sky, nor, if it were indeed still day, could the sun muster a ray of light to pierce the clouds.

  A rumble of thunder overhead interrupted his surprise. Almost deafening in its intensity, it seemed to make the sky shake in its wake. A fierce and cold wind battered at Furiosa and her riders, first from one side, then another, then from all sides. Even as Zarynn realised this was no natural wind, the clouds burst, and the deluge began. A torrent of icy rain began to fall in great watery sheets from cloudy sky above to thrashing, churning sea below. Zarynn was instantly drenched by the intense downpour and fough
t to keep from slipping as Furiosa’s scaly back was suddenly cold, wet and slippery. Glaraz tightened his grasp on him as best he could, but the necromancer’s hands and arms were just as wet as Zarynn’s own. As the torrential rain continued to fall, Zarynn noticed that what little remained of the outlander’s magical shadowstuff garment – just hood and spiderweb-like vest now, his shadowy foot coverings had evidently evaporated while Zarynn was lost in thought – turned the rain aside without being soaked, affording the necromancer some limited protection from the downpour.

  Dazzling lightning illuminated the darkness for an instant, striking from sky to sea, dangerously close to Furiosa as she flew onward. The air felt charged in its wake. Zarynn’s hair stood on end, despite the pouring rain, and the smell in his nostrils grew sharper. Lightning struck once more, narrowly missing their monstrous flying steed again. In the momentary flash of light, Zarynn spied many silvery forms floating, unmoving, on the surface of the sea. Fish, fried by the lightning strikes, he guessed.

  In between deafening booms of thunder, Zarynn heard Glaraz say something, though the words and even the language were strange to him. He guessed that the necromancer was talking to Furiosa, not to him, as the huge black creature suddenly pulled in her wings and dropped like a stone, plummeting toward the churning sea far below. Zarynn bit down on the scream that threatened to erupt from his throat, and held on for dear life as Furiosa plunged, fully expecting to splash and crash into the storm-maddened waters. But instead, the mighty creature abruptly spread her wings wide again, arresting their fall and banking into a long lateral glide before flapping once more. Glancing down, still holding on as tightly as he could to Furiosa’s neck ridge, he saw that they were now flying much lower than before, no more than thrice a man’s height above the furiously churning surface of the sea.