Shadow Walker (The Sword Saint Series Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  Damanja had begun to relax when two of her scouts returned from the west with alarmed cries. She reached out with her mind.

  “What is it, my scouts? What did you see?”

  A woman, a man, a child. Dogs.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  Why would they waste their time with that? There must be ten thousand peasants on the move in these parts, fleeing violence.

  Two swords. Magic. Enemies.

  Ah. Now she was intrigued. Yet more cautious than ever.

  She took five crows with her, telling the others to land on a hill above a nearby village, where the villagers were digging a mass grave, bodies stacked in neat, shroud-wrapped rows. Wait for her there, she told them, ready to come to her aid should things go wrong. Meanwhile, it was better if she scouted in small numbers.

  Yet when she arrived at the area—a ruined flour mill on a millrace near the river—she spotted nothing unusual. There was a dead body lying on the path, and evidence of a fight in the torn-up landscape. Perhaps more than one fight. The mill wheel lay on its side in the millrace, with water spilling over it.

  She joined the other crows in wheeling about. They were all confusion now, not so much doubting what they’d spotted earlier, but wondering where and how those they’d spotted had escaped. Could they have been wrong? She didn’t think so.

  Damanja landed on the path next to the dead body. It was the only interesting thing she could see to investigate. Once she’d landed, she called for her human body. An instant later she stood in place, cloaked, armed, and sniffing the air.

  A strange scent lingered about her. First, the dogs, and then . . .was that rats? The blood of rats, at least. She looked at the mill and peered through the mud-and-timber walls, which appeared transparent to her view. There were two more bodies inside, soldiers, but they’d been dead for a week or more.

  The body at her feet was fresher, and by the smell of him, he’d been dead only a day or two. His head and part of an arm were missing, but she could feel the body parts where they’d fallen, submerged in a muddy puddle.

  Demons and demigods, her senses were sharp. She was no longer a mere crowlord, and her power would only continue to grow. Who knew where it would stop? The thought of it thrilled her.

  Damanja was still wearing the big two-handed sword, and even over her back, it got in the way as she bent over the body. She tried to flip the body over, but it had settled too far into the mud to pull free without expending effort and befouling herself.

  There was something else she noticed about the dead man, a lingering residue of power. Even though mud soaked his cloak, she felt the material, and it was no homespun wool, as would be worn by a peasant, but neither did he seem to be a dead soldier from one of the factions fighting over Lord Zoltan’s old fiefdom. So who was he, and what was he doing here?

  She drew her weapon and cut through his clothing, then used the sword tip to peel back the cloth. She’d been hoping for a clue from his skin color, if he were darker from the sun-drenched lands to the south, or if he had the paler skin of a northerner.

  But the man had been dead too long already, soaking in rainwater, and even when the rain washed it clear, there was nothing useful to be seen.

  “He’s a warbrand,” a voice said.

  Damanja looked up in alarm. At first, the voice seemed to be coming from the rain, but then a woman materialized about thirty feet in front of her, almost as if a door had opened in the mist and she’d stepped through. She had pale skin, the dark, straight hair of the mountain people, and chestnut-colored eyes with a hard gaze that seemed to see right through the crowlord.

  Even though the woman had chosen to reveal herself, there was something about her cloak, or maybe the way she held herself, that left much of her obscured. Damanja sensed, rather than saw, the weapons in the woman’s hands.

  “Who are you?” Damanja demanded, “and why do you dare confront me?”

  A slight smile crossed the woman’s face. It was wolfish and predatory. “My name is Narina. I am the sword saint, and I’ve come to take your life.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Narina kept herself shielded as the crowlord sized her up. The other woman carried a two-handed sword, which she’d used to cut through Radolf’s clothes as if looking for a clue to explain the man’s origins. She felt at the woman’s thoughts for confirmation, but knew even without asking that this must be Lady Damanja.

  She held the same sort of aura as Lord Zoltan, whom Narina had killed a few weeks earlier when the man tried to ambush and murder her at the farm compound, and like her fellow crowlord, Damanja carried herself with a confident, arrogant swagger. This was a woman used to giving orders and being obeyed.

  With the way Narina’s sowen had grown since leaving the temple earlier in the summer, it should be a simple matter to leap through the air with her blades flashing and have the crowlord’s head before the woman could so much as flinch. Something made Narina hesitate, however, a warning voice that whispered from just below her conscious thoughts.

  “How many of you are there?” Damanja asked.

  “There is only me. I travel alone.”

  The woman glanced over Narina’s shoulder. “You’re lying. There’s a man, a boy, and some dogs in the mill building. I didn’t see them at first, because you were hiding them.”

  “Impressive mastery of the auras for a crowlord,” Narina said.

  “But that’s not what I mean,” Damanja said. “How many temple warriors are there? Not here, in total.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does, because I’m going to kill them all.”

  Narina laughed. “Is that meant as a threat? I was the one who killed that warbrand you’re straddling. I killed a firewalker, too. And a crowlord, but that hardly counts—it was trivial. As for the other temple warriors, they mean nothing to me. They’ll all die in the end, one way or another.”

  “But there are others.” A smile touched Damanja’s lips. “Perhaps it’s premature to declare yourself the sword saint. There might be other claimants to the title.”

  Narina’s face flushed. “What do you know about that? You petty warlords of the plains are nothing but brigands with castles and armies. You’ll die with the rest when the demons and demigods tear this land apart.”

  “Is that what you think?” Damanja said. The infuriating smile spread wider. “Did you think the other side would be without a champion?”

  Narina was working this through when the crowlord lifted her sword. It turned into shadow in her hand and stabbed outward with incredible speed. The two women must have stood fifteen feet apart, and Narina’s sowen let her slow her surroundings to the point where she could see every beat of a fly’s wings, and yet the shadow was upon her in an instant, moving faster than the swiftest crossbow bolt.

  She ducked to one side, but not quickly enough. The shadow grazed her right shoulder, and a paralyzing weakness seized her arm. She nearly dropped her demon blade. The weakness spread until her whole arm was numb, and she could only cradle it against her body as she ducked another blow.

  Damanja came at her again, sword swinging in a big arc. She shouldn’t have been that agile, and certainly not that fast, and the way her weapon stretched and bent confused Narina. No crowlord had that power.

  She stumbled and fell into the mud, and the crowlord loomed above her with her sword already swinging and a triumphant cry on her lips. Narina reached into the earth beneath them and gave it a push. The ground heaved, and Damanja stumbled. Before she could recover her balance, Narina grabbed at the ground again, but this time pulled in two different directions.

  The soil split open with a crack, and a muddy pit opened at Damanja’s feet. The woman fell in. Narina regained her feet, swords in hand, and was relieved to discover that the numbness was already passing from her right arm. Her first instinct was to throw herself into the pit and cut the woman in two, but she didn’t know the extent of the woman’s powers, or her mastery over
the shadowy sword.

  Instead, she grabbed at the ground again, and commanded it to close itself. It groaned from the creak and movement of boulders beneath the surface, and there was enough of a delay that Narina worried the woman would escape before it shut tight again. The first movement of earth seemed to catch the woman’s feet, however, and soon the whole thing was closing around the crowlord.

  Damanja pushed back. She had a good deal of power—perhaps equal to Narina’s own—yet her strength was clumsy, her mastery lacking, and the hole continued to close, inch by inch, in spite of the woman’s efforts.

  Narina gave another, harder push at the ground. “Now you die,” she said through clenched teeth. Damanja cried out in pain as the earth squeezed her from all sides.

  Raging, screaming crows slammed into her. Narina turned and slashed with her swords. Wings and feathers and bloody, dying bodies fell around her. Another crow attack struck her back, and this time she heaved outward with her sowen and sent them spinning away. Some regained their balance, while others slammed into the mud, broken and dead.

  She turned around as a shower of rock and dirt rained down on her. It was Damanja breaking free from her imprisonment. She blasted more earth skyward, then regained the higher ground in a greasy, ink-like blur of movement that solidified once more into the crowlord with her sword of shadow.

  Damanja came at Narina a second time, closing the distance between the two women in an instant. Her sword thrust at the bladedancer’s chest. This time, however, Narina was prepared for the way the shadow seemed to leap from the crowlord’s hand, and moved to one side. The shadow followed, and passed so close to her ear that she heard it sizzle.

  Another duck, this time backward, followed by a roll to the side, and then Narina was on her feet and springing at her enemy. Damanja swerved to avoid the first slash, and nearly got clear of Narina’s second, too—this one from the demon blade—but the crowlord wasn’t the only one with such mastery over her weapon that it could move of its own accord. The demon twisted at the last moment and cut through the woman’s sleeve, with the tip touching flesh. It sliced from the woman’s elbow all the way to her hand.

  It hadn’t seemed a serious cut, only a nick, but such was the strength and sharpness of Narina’s demon sword that she caught a glimpse of bone before gushing blood slicked the woman’s forearm. Damanja cried out and staggered backward two steps. Her injured arm fell to her side, and she nearly lost her grip on her sword, only holding tight with her good hand.

  Narina sprang forward to end the fight, but before she could close the gap, the crows mobbed her a second time. They’d been lingering overhead, darting in and out, but this time it was a concerted effort to smother her. They pecked and clawed and screeched, and when they opened their beaks, smoke spewed into Narina’s face. She spun about with her blades whistling through the air, and when she killed them, they fell apart in showers of hot cinders and ash.

  Damanja had moved by the time Narina got free. She’d bent the auras around her—much the way Narina had done—and it was difficult to pick her out of the landscape. It was only by following a second flock of birds that Narina found the woman, surrounded by her own darting, pecking crows.

  At first glance, Narina thought the animals had turned on their master, but when they departed, Damanja’s arm was whole and clean. The cursed things had been healing her. Narina made a move, but had to face yet another crow attack, and by the time she got free, her enemy had vanished again.

  But not for long. A shift in the auras at Narina’s back gave her warning. She whirled about as Damanja came down at her with her sword swinging in a crushing blow. Narina lifted her blades by instinct, crossed to blunt the impact of a single, heavier weapon. She caught the enemy’s falchion between them.

  The demon shrieked when the falchion hit, steel on steel, while the dragon blade flared white. A shocking blast of cold radiated through Narina’s arm and into her shoulder. Shadow bled from the falchion, flowed around the two smaller swords, and dripped onto the sohn’s hand. Her hand turned numb where it struck.

  Narina lowered her shoulder, formed her sowen into a wedge, and drove the other woman backward. She’d almost got on top of Damanja when crows made another appearance. Blast the things; did the crowlord have an endless supply? This time the crow attack continued for several long seconds, and left Narina bleeding, battered, and disoriented when they finally withdrew. Dead crows and glowing cinders lay at her feet. She bent the sowen as she moved off the road and away from the dead firewalker to hide herself.

  Once she was convinced her enemy couldn’t see her, she hazarded a moment of repose to heal her wounds. Her blades were still singing in her hands, anxious to drink the crowlord’s blood, but the battle had shaken her confidence. How Damanja had gained so much power could be contemplated later; for now, Narina had to kill the woman at all costs. It wouldn’t be an easy victory, that much was sure.

  “You can’t defeat me, you know,” said Damanja’s disembodied voice.

  The woman sounded like she was to Narina’s rear, back by the abandoned mill. Narina had left Andras, Ruven, and the dogs in the basement. Hopefully they had enough sense to stay put and keep quiet.

  “Come out where I can see you,” Narina said. “I’ll cut you in two.”

  The crowlord gave a throaty chuckle. “Come out yourself. Why hide if you’re so confident?”

  “The same question goes to you. If I can’t hope to defeat you, why not prove it with an open fight? Leave the hiding, leave the shadows, leave your crows behind. A simple fight, one-on-one.”

  “And if I send off my crows, you’ll drop your blades? Is that what you’re offering?”

  Narina shrugged. “Sure, why not? We’ll both drop them. Who needs weapons?”

  Without crows, without swords, without hiding, it would be an easy kill. This woman had power, but her mastery of the sowen was young and immature. And what was her physical training compared to that of a bladedancer? Nothing. Unarmed, Narina would finish her off easily.

  “I don’t think so,” Damanja said.

  Now she sounded like she was in front of Narina again, or maybe slightly to the right. Narina prodded with her sowen to coax out the secrets hidden in the plain light of day, but still couldn’t find her enemy. Nor were the crows giving her any clue, as they had retreated into the sky, where they circled noisily overhead. It began to rain again, and the still smoldering embers of the dead birds hissed as they went dim.

  “Who are you?” Narina asked. “And how did you find these powers?”

  “I’m chosen of the demigods.”

  “Funny, so am I.”

  “So are all who fight in these desperate times. But only one of us will stand in the end, and it won’t be a temple warrior. You know nothing of the plains. Nothing of the real world. There won’t be a sword saint—that’s a fantasy you’ve spun in your mountain lairs. Dreaming like the dragons in their lakes.”

  “Then you mean. . .oh.” It came to Narina. “You serve the demons.”

  “I serve myself, woman. But yes, there will be two champions. One to serve the cold, the killing frost, the famine. The other brings warmth to the land. Rice will grow, and sheep will graze. After the culling, the people who remain will sleep with full bellies. Their harvests will overflow, and the peasants will honor the bounty with gifts to their lord and master.”

  The voice was moving again, and Narina turned and prodded, but couldn’t see anything, only a brief shimmer in the rain as if something had passed through. She kept her sowen close, like a shield, ready to blast apart crows or drive rain and mud into her enemy’s eyes to slow her attack.

  Narina snorted. “You’re a deluded fool. If your demons win, fires will burn across the land. The rivers will boil. Villages will choke on ash.”

  “A shame you’ll never see just how wrong you are.”

  Something pushed against Narina’s sowen, and she turned as Damanja blasted toward her with her shadow sword swinging a
t the bladedancer’s head. At the same moment, dozens of crows dived cawing from the sky. As they dropped, they opened their mouths and spewed smoke and cinders of fire.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Katalinka stared up at the sky, watching crows circling and darting and diving. Kozmer had hidden them with his sowen, and he held up his hand to signal the others to hold still. In front of them lay an abandoned mill, scorched by fire, with its overturned wheel lying in the millrace. It was raining again, and water ran down the mill’s pitched, witch-hat roof and dripped in through holes in the shingles where a fire seemed to have burned through during some earlier conflict.

  “Not yet,” Kozmer murmured.

  Then, when the crows wheeled away and made another of their mysterious dives, he brought his hand down in a chop. The six of them hurried to the mill building and flattened against the outside wall, where the two elders joined forces to hide them. Katalinka felt more secure, and the wall and roof provided some shelter from the rain.

  “What has got into the crows?” Gyorgy said. “Why do they do that?”

  The birds were still carrying on, but farther away now. Something had maddened them, Katalinka thought, assuming they were real crows at all. She’d been growing increasingly uncertain since seeing the cooled, hardened demons dissolve into thousands of tiny black moths, only to take the shape of crows. Whatever the birds were carrying on about, she was glad their attention was turned elsewhere, so they wouldn’t carry word of the sword warriors passing through their land to their master.

  “Never mind the crows,” Kozmer said. “Katalinka, do you still feel your sister?”

  They’d been racing toward Narina these last two days, and had covered incredible distances. Katalinka had grown stronger hour by hour, and felt as if she could have traveled all the way to Riverrun without resting, which had to be fifty miles distant. The firewalkers may have boiled the curse out of her, but she was stronger than she could ever remember. How much stronger still was her sister?