Shadow Walker (The Sword Saint Series Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “These cliffs are the nesting grounds of our flocks,” her father said over the continual moan of the wind as it struck the cliff and broke over the top. “They nest from this spot all the way to Seal Head, three miles south.”

  “Mama said crows come from the mountains.”

  Father shook his head. “They grow up in the mountains, where they listen to the dreams of demigods. Then they fly above the calderas to hear what the demons say. But it’s here that they are hatched. It was into this ocean that the great serpent who created this world descended. The crows return here to watch for its reappearance.”

  Mother also had opinions on that. She wasn’t from Father’s fiefdom, and in her homeland, far to the south, it was said that the serpent god had flown into the sky and vanished among the stars. It would only return at the end of days, when its children had turned the land to fire and ice. It would crack the world in two, and from each shard would come a new creation.

  But Damanja knew that arguing these theological points would only make Father angry. He’d slap her and tell her to stop being impudent. He was explaining her future as crowlord, and she had better pay attention. Damanja didn’t quite understand, but knew his mood well enough to nod and listen.

  “The crows do not serve you,” he continued. “Never forget that. You may think they do, may think they are your spies, to whisper in your ear when the peasants are going to revolt—the ungrateful wretches—or when some treacherous crowlord intends to violate our lands.” He hesitated. “When these warnings come, you do not wait, you attack first, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Never mind, that’s not the point. The point is the crows. You may think they are warriors on the battlefield, to swarm and blind your enemies. You might send them to carry messages, or listen to their thoughts to know when the demons will make the earth shake or when the dragons will send cold rains over the lowlands to destroy the harvest. All these things are possible. But never forget that they serve higher powers.”

  “Demons and demigods, Father?”

  “And when the time comes, they will pluck your eyes out just as quickly as they would pluck out the eyes of an enemy, should they find you a danger. You are their tool, not the other way around, do you understand?”

  Damanja pictured crows tearing at her eyeballs and shuddered. How horrible.

  Her father spotted her reaction and gave her a sharp look. “What is that face you’re making, what is the matter?”

  “Nothing, Father. Only thinking. If I’m their tool, what would they have me do?”

  “Ah, now that is a good question. Nothing. . .for now. And hopefully for the rest of your life. You will fight your enemies, take their lands when you can. Enslave their peasants and squeeze the sweat from their brow to make your bread. You are surrounded by ingrates, traitors, and grasping fools, and it’s your duty to defeat them all and enlarge the power and wealth of your fiefdom. But”—and here he paused significantly—“should the call come, you won’t fight it. That would be pointless. Rise up and become their champion.”

  “The crows’, Father?”

  “No, Daughter. The demons’. They will turn you into a creature of shadow, and you will fall upon your enemies from above.”

  She was more confused than ever, but when she pressed for details, he grew vague, which was strange, considering. One of the first lessons he’d taught her was to know everything. Many a crowlord had fallen because taxes collapsed when peasants claimed drought and famine had left them impoverished. Nine times out of ten, Father claimed, the peasants were hiding their rice and purposefully withholding food from their own children to make them appear starved.

  Other crowlords had learned too late that their stewards were robbing the coffers; all that silver proved irresistible, and one needed servants to watch the servants. Still others had signed peace treaties even while their rivals were massing troops on the border. A well-maintained system of scouts, spies, and border keeps would have warned of the risk.

  On the positive side of the ledger, it was information that told a crowlord where to march troops, when to apply pressure to vassals, and even, on rare occasions, when to spend the coin of the realm improving irrigation dikes or constructing bridges to fatten the peasantry. Fatter peasants produced better harvests and were less likely to fall in among thieves.

  So why wouldn’t Damanja’s father tell her more about these crows and the demons they served? His reticence only made sense if he didn’t know. If he were passing on family lore without any specific knowledge.

  Inside, she scoffed. She may be a child—her tutors, sword and bow instructors, and even her parents took every opportunity to point out how naive she was—but she was capable of seeing through superstition. The story of crows and demons made as much sense as the argument between her parents as to what had become of the great serpent god after creating the world, if it had descended into the sea or flown up into the stars.

  And then came the dream that very same night. If it was a dream.

  Damanja’s parents and her younger brothers and sisters slept in cushioned splendor, their rooms warmed with great fireplaces that heated their chambers when a winter chill swept down from the mountains. Damanja, however, slept in a cold, uncomfortable room high in the manor tower.

  It was generally used as a guard room, but with peace having settled unexpectedly over the fiefdom for the past two and a half years, her father had ordered the guards down to the wall walk and the room cleaned and converted into sleeping quarters for his eldest child and heir. No fireplace, no cushions, only blankets and a straw mattress. The shutters rattled whenever the wind shifted, and the drafts always found a way through her blankets.

  “A few years in the tower will prepare you,” her father had said. “The time will come to fight—it always does. A soft crowlord, one raised like a prince, will send captains in his stead. He’ll watch the battle from afar because he can’t leave the comfort of home. You will be different. Your body will remember the hard stones, the cold, the sound of the wind. You’ll know how to sleep on the campaign trail, how to draw rest in the most difficult circumstances.”

  There had been no arguing, and so she’d accepted banishment to the tower. That had been six months ago. During summer, it had been muggy, and mosquitoes had found their way through gaps in the shutters and tormented her all night. Now, with winter settling in, she couldn’t seem to get warm, and it was only going to get worse. Last night, a rime of ice had even formed on top of her water pitcher, and she’d had to break it in the morning to drink.

  And so she was surprised after bundling down to find herself drifting quickly toward sleep. Maybe she was finally growing accustomed to this cursed tower.

  An instant later someone or something scraped inside the room, and she was instantly awake. There was movement all around her in the darkness, the shuffle of feathers and soft scritching sounds as if from dozens of clawed feet. She sat up straight and groped for the lamp, but couldn’t find it. Instead, she stumbled for the shutter of the nearest window. She popped out the bar and pushed it open.

  There was a full moon outside, and as light penetrated the tower, she saw that there were crows everywhere. They flapped up in the rafters, hopped along the floor, and sat perched on the trunk where she kept her clothing. She stared at them, heart pounding, but didn’t have more than an instant to wonder how they’d got inside. As soon as the shutter opened, something moved against the moon, and she looked out to see dozens more black shapes flying through the night sky above the village below.

  Damanja reached for the shutter and yanked it shut, but not before more crows swooped in. The ones left outside battered against the shutters. But silently, with not a caw among them.

  Terrified, the girl went for the trapdoor and heaved at the big iron ring to lift it up. From there she could hurry down the wooden ladder to the next level, and then take the stone staircase that spiraled toward the ground.

  She couldn
’t seem to get a grip on the iron ring. It was because she was wearing shiny black gloves that slipped on the metal. Where had those come from? In fact, she seemed to be dressed entirely in black, glossy, unknown material that was smooth like silk, but clung to her skin. It was nothing like the heavy wool shift she’d worn to bed.

  I’m dreaming. That’s why.

  Damanja knew this on some level, knew that none of this was real, but couldn’t stop herself from batting her hands in terror when the crows enveloped her in a whirlwind. There were beating wings all around her, and while they didn’t attack, there were so many of them that she couldn’t breathe.

  “Leave me alone! Somebody help me!”

  There was no signal to call off the attack, but one moment they were around her, pounding her with their wings, and then they were streaming toward the window, where the shutters had somehow come open again. Damanja fell back against the wall, panting and sobbing, but found her strength as the last of the birds left the room. She flung herself at the shutter to slam it shut and drop the bar.

  And somehow missed.

  Her arms went straight through the open window, and her momentum sent her flying out of the room. Like the other windows in the room, this one wasn’t big, no more than two feet wide and two feet tall, just big enough to stick one’s head out and take a look at the surroundings. It certainly wasn’t big enough to accidentally fall out of, and yet that was what Damanja had managed to do in her haste to get the shutter closed and the birds shut out.

  And now she was falling. The wind caught her terrified scream and dragged it away into something that sounded like a frightened caw. The dark flagstones came rushing up. She flailed her arms wildly.

  Suddenly, she was rising, not falling. She was still flailing her arms, only they were no longer arms, they were wings. Her whole body was no longer covered in glossy black cloth, but with feathers. She turned her head—no, cocked it—as something flew up beside her. It was a crow grown enormous, as big as she was. Or rather, she realized, she had changed to its size, not the other way around.

  The crows surrounded her, cawing, wheeling about, and she somehow understood their voices.

  This way, Crowlord.

  Follow us.

  Do what we say. Obey.

  Damanja knew how to fly. Somehow, she thought she’d always known, and she had no problem keeping pace with the crows as they turned west, toward the mountains. For a moment she rebelled, thinking to turn away from them. Fly out to sea, away from wherever it was they wanted to take her. Let them turn her into a crow if they wanted, they couldn’t force her to obey the will of the flock. But she remembered what her father said, that she was a tool of the crows, and must obey.

  The ground hurtled by impossibly fast, and once again she remembered that she must be dreaming. Even for a crow, the mountains were far away, several hours’ flight, but within minutes they seemed to have reached the foothills. Here, the flock of crows changed directions again and veered north. Their target was an enormous volcano, towering into the sky, that was spitting smoke and fire.

  The hot, poisonous cloud over the volcano looked like death to her, but she followed the crows toward it anyway. There, she found herself over the caldera itself, above the bubbling lava, where a fight was taking place. Large crows the size of ravens fought against a flock of smaller, more agile crows. A third kind of crow darted in for sneak attacks, these ones with gray on the tips of their wing feathers. Another group of crows appeared, this one concentrated into a single, spear-like thrust as they burst into the battle. Already, Damanja’s own flock was joining the fight.

  As she flew after them, she looked into the lava below and expected to see demons cavorting in the caldera, as she’d always been taught. There was nothing there but fire. Instead, the demons were in the sky, fighting. Winged demons, clawing and spitting fire and turning to ash when they were killed. No, they were crows. Wait, demons.

  It all flickered back and forth, and then suddenly she realized that she’d been watching the battle, not paying attention, and had somehow been separated from the ones who’d flown with her from the towers. Enemy crows were all around her, attacking her with their beaks and tearing at her feathers with their claws. She tried to break free, but they took hold of her and she couldn’t escape their grasp.

  Now she was falling, spinning out of control. The caldera of fire was below her, burning hot, so close that she could see individual bubbles forming and popping as they released their vapors. She tried to scream, but she had no voice.

  And then she woke up back in the tower, and apparently she’d spent the whole night dreaming, because it was morning already, and rays of light seeped through the shutters, all of which were closed and barred, of course. She’d never heard crows in the room and had never thrown open one of the windows. Hadn’t fallen out, hadn’t turned into a bird, and hadn’t flown over a volcano to be attacked. A silly nightmare, brought on by her father’s ramblings the previous afternoon, all that business about being a tool of the crows, who in turn served the demons.

  There seemed to be a taste of sulfur in her mouth, but that, too, was imaginary. The dream fell away from her like ash drifting from the sky after an eruption, and she knew that in another moment or two it would be gone and her heart would stop pounding. Soon, she’d barely be able to remember the nightmare in the first place. That was the way of dreams.

  She threw off the blankets and rose unsteadily to her feet. Demons and demigods, she was cold and stiff, and her bladder ached with the need to pee. But first a drink of water, to clear her mouth of this nasty taste. Hopefully, there wasn’t too much ice in the pitcher. But when she stood and moved away from the straw mattress, things fell away from her nightclothes and fluttered to the ground. Black and glossy. Some were bigger than others, and some had gray on their tips. There were as many as a dozen in all.

  Crow feathers.

  Chapter Four

  Katalinka and Kozmer approached Miklos at the bladedancer shrine. The warbrand sohn was sitting cross-legged on a round sheet of hammered iron, which he’d placed on the training ground. His eyes were closed and he held his massive, two-handed falchion on his outstretched palms. Katalinka felt his sowen, strong and tight and powerful, and approached cautiously. Something about the scene grated on her—a warbrand meditating in the bladedancer shrine—but nonetheless, she didn’t want to disturb his calm.

  Kozmer had no such compunctions, apparently. The old man made a loud, exaggerated clearing of the throat. Miklos opened one eye and scowled.

  “You couldn’t find somewhere else?” Kozmer said.

  “This is an excellent place to meditate,” Miklos said. “I can hear the bells ringing up above, the sound of hammers against anvils below. The wind in the trees, and even the sound of water running in the brook. Songbirds, too. But none of it is intrusive—it’s peaceful, conducive to building my sowen.”

  A note of sarcasm entered the old man’s voice. “Oddly enough, that’s the reason we built our shrine here.”

  “And nothing keeps you from using it still.” Miklos shrugged and closed his eyes again, although the hold on his sowen had begun to unravel, and Katalinka doubted he’d be returning to his meditation. “I leave the training ground whenever one of your people needs to spar.”

  The warbrand may have been free of the curse put into him by the crystalline feathers of a dragon demigod, but there was something about him that irritated her, and it wasn’t just his use of the shrine. Maybe it was that he seemed unapologetic for his role in setting off the current struggles. His attacks had turned a pair of firewalkers onto the same murderous path, and they in turn had corrupted Katalinka’s fellow bladedancer sohns, one of whom was now dead, and the other of whom—Katalinka’s sister, Narina—was missing.

  What do you expect him to do, throw himself into a volcano? He didn’t have a choice. Be happy he’s on your side now instead of trying to kill you.

  Fine, so maybe it was that Miklos and his fellow
warbrands had taken over the training ground for their own use. Only two days after the arrival of Sarika and her fellow firewalkers, a handful of warbrands had trickled down from the mountains in a separate migration. Miklos organized them into hammering this iron disk, infusing it with auras, and the warbrands had rolled it down here to use.

  The disk wasn’t large, only big enough for one person to sit cross-legged with a falchion across his lap, and the warbrands always rolled it out after meditating, but Katalinka had found it disturbed the natural auras of their shrine. And, if she were honest, simply walking past and seeing a stranger with his strange sword, strange clothing, and strange sowen meditating at the shrine bothered her on some level.

  Meanwhile, Sarika and the other firewalkers were more numerous than the warbrands, but less intrusive. They’d constructed their own meditation pitch not far from the post road, excavating a trench and laying down hundreds of pounds of charcoal, which they’d lit on fire before burying with sand. Just enough air reached the coals to keep them smoldering and the sands scalding hot. The firewalkers gathered their sohn through the uncomfortable act of walking back and forth across the burning sand.

  Meanwhile, they’d cut down some trees, used the bladedancer mill to cut lumber and the smithy to make nails, and were busy constructing their own, parallel shrine down the hill from their hosts. It looked too permanent for Katalinka’s taste, though Sarika assured her that they had no intention of making their long-term home in the canyon. They were only staying long enough to see the threat defeated.

  Assuming that were possible. Assuming the world hadn’t entered a perpetual state of conflict and chaos.

  “Your sowen infuses the shrine even after you’ve finished meditating,” Kozmer said. He twisted his walking staff in his gnarled hands. “Our fraters and students can rake sand and gather auras all they like, but a hint of it remains, a discordant note. Like the way a single crack can ruin the harmony of a whole row of ringing bells.”