Shadow (The Pendulum Trilogy)

by Elliott, Will

  ‘Why was it so important to hide the village?’

  ‘Better if word didn’t spread that the last half-giant in the world lived here.’

  ‘The head of a half-giant will make you rich,’ Siel explained to Eric.

  Gorb nodded. ‘That’s right. But they’re hard to get. Usual way’s to make friends with one till he trusts you. I don’t fall for that, in case you think to try. But this village, good people mostly. I plough fields for em, carry stuff. When all that rumbling started, Hesthan gone south for a look. He come back, told us whatever knocked the Wall down stuffed up the spell. Then they found the tower. It’d stuffed up a hiding spell there too.’

  Said Eric, ‘Can I ask why you’re called half-giants? You look completely giant to me.’

  ‘There was once a race of full-blood giants,’ said Siel. ‘They were much bigger. Then they mixed with us. It was not by our choice. Half-giants resulted.’

  ‘What happened to the giants?’

  ‘We helped humans kill them all,’ said the half-giant. ‘Long, long ago. The full-bloods were a bad breed, bad to both of us. When bounties started, humans weren’t much better.’

  ‘The deeds were done by few, the shame is for us all.’ Siel made a gesture which meant nothing to Eric but made the half-giant’s expression soften. ‘The tower you speak of,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Off just past the woods, where Tunk and Felious do their hunting.’

  ‘Will you take us there?’

  ‘Yes. You’re good people. But you had enough dinner to call it even for breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks, Gorb.’ They stood to leave.

  ‘That’s weird,’ said Gorb in the same slow, ponderous voice. He was staring at the floor near Eric’s feet. ‘You got no shadow.’

  STRANGER

  1

  Through another night the wolf ran with ears pinned back, following instinct more than scent into Outcast country. He felt he had earned those odd scraps of meat he came across, rotten or otherwise, and now without guilt he gobbled down any he found (but not human meat, not yet). He had run almost the full north-south length of the world without rest, through enemy country and through that of ungrateful friends; had battled Tormentors, slain a war mage and fled two others; run from a wind elemental; duelled fiercely with she in the green dress. It was enough to exhaust him even out here in this fertile powerful country, where the air was rife with clean power.

  And it was enough to make him begin to forget that he was a man more than a wolf …

  But the Pilgrim was close, at last he was close, even if the wolf’s mind had begun to forget why this was important.

  Deserted country thundered by beneath his tired paws. The stoneflesh giants made the ground shiver and the sound filled his head. He sniffed and recoiled; a cloud of sickness had descended from where the rest of the foreign magic rode the upper winds. It had since been blown out of these valleys and fields but a trace remained. Surely even the humans could have smelled this alien poison. Was this why they’d fled?

  Here was an abandoned clutch of homes, where the poison mingled in the air’s more common scent of death. Doors had been smashed in, the place had been ransacked. There was days-old blood spilled here and there. Shuffling sounds came from a barn some way away. Something wasn’t right. He growled and went there, hairs standing on end.

  The poison – he sniffed again: yes, it was strong here – matched nothing in the wolf’s vast library. The closest thing to it was … yes, those Tormentors. But the match was far from exact.

  Through the open barn door a wedge of light sliced into the shadows, fell across a scattered pile of hay and a twitching foot. He crept closer. Two bodies, one face down, one face up. Too small to be adult. Not dead, sick and twitching, but—

  Her!

  Stranger looked up at about the same instant the wolf saw her. She crouched by what were, at least in part, two children. Something was wrong with their upper bodies. They were the wrong colour, the wrong shape altogether.

  Far Gaze yowled in alarm, lurched backward and fell. How had he not picked up her scent? He sniffed. How odd. He still didn’t pick up her scent. He smelled part of her but it was almost as though part of her self was absent. He thought of the lagoon, the eyes gazing up through the water …

  And now a new smell from her. Fear! She was afraid of him! He could even hear her heart thudding fast.

  The wolf had been about to turn and run. Now he paused, moved to block off the barn door, ventured a small growl. She had not been afraid of him before, not once.

  ‘Hello again, dog,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Have we not settled our disagreement? I have enjoyed our play. But this is not a time for it.’ She gestured down at the twitching bodies. He sensed sadness in her. ‘There’s only one way to help them now. And it’s beyond my power. Not so long ago, I saw a man do a terrible thing which had to be done. Maybe I could kill a man with a sword who means to kill me. But I can’t kill these poor children.’

  Far Gaze stored these words away for the man to understand. He didn’t know what to do. He sensed weakness, still smelled her fear – but was it fear of him, or fear of these sick ones? Fear of the lingering trace of poison, which maybe with a shift of the wind could return at any moment? Instinct said, Run! Fight! He crept a step closer to her, whined.

  ‘Come and see,’ she said, words he understood.

  The two small bodies were still clothed. Their arms and faces weren’t human any more. Hard as bark they were, and a prod with his paw confirmed it. There was no reaction, just the same slow writhing. Stranger said, ‘There was a cloud that came through. Thick with odd colour. I saw it from the road, as the wind blew it through here. By luck it missed me. The people here had been killed by bandits, I think. These two had hidden in this barn. And then the poison wind swept through.’

  She stroked his mane. He jumped, not expecting her touch, rounded on her growling. The scent of her fear spiked strongly despite her assuring smile. ‘Friends,’ she said, glancing at the barn door. It was another word he knew. ‘Friends. We are friends now.’

  He whined in confusion. She didn’t seem dangerous at all.

  ‘Can you do it?’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘I can’t.’ He thought he understood, more from the scents and her tones of voice. She wanted him to kill them. Why? They weren’t a threat. For food? Humans didn’t eat their own, not often anyway. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘It must be done. They suffer. Do you understand me? If you kill them I’ll go with you to find your friend, the Pilgrim. If you help me, I’ll help you.’ She laughed sadly. ‘The man with his sword, Anfen. I thought him such a monster, in the cavern that day. Such a monster.’

  Anfen! The wolf recognised the name. The hairs stood on his back to hear this strange woman speak it here in this place of sickness. He rounded on her growling loud, teeth bared.

  She backed away with wide eyes. Slowly he herded her out the barn door. There was no indication she was about to cast any of the dazzling magic she’d used all through their earlier encounters.

  With a few little nips to her ankles and calves (little nips he’d thought them, but her legs were soon wet with blood) she understood he didn’t mean to kill her, only to herd her somewhere. He didn’t fear bringing her to the Pilgrim now; this woman was no longer a threat.

  ‘Would it not be faster if I rode your back?’ she said after a while, gesturing with her hands to help him understand.

  She was indeed a slow walker despite the occasional encouragement of his teeth. The wolf sighed and lowered himself to accept yet another burden.

  HUNTERS

  1

  The steak sizzled nicely on the pan, its nest of onion and bacon slices filling the inn’s small kitchen with a heavenly scent. Otherworld meat ultimately, Kiown reflected; how strange. Not native here, cows, nor pigs nor indeed most of the animals Levaal’s humanity had found most useful. Goats, sheep, poultry. Bees, even – alien species. Once there’d been no bees, no honey, no
mead. No wool, no silk, leather. He’d hardly have believed it, had thought Otherworld itself was myth and fancy, till he’d been to that strange place, felt its flat grey stone under his boots.

  The inn’s cook was nervous, reasonably enough. A nice sweat, Kiown felt, gazing at the back of the fat man’s neck as the beads dribbled down to wet his collar. One more scrape of his knife on the bench top, why not. Scrape he did, leaving a third jagged line in the wood for the cook to explain to his boss. ‘Garnish with parsley,’ said Kiown, yawning. ‘Utter perfection, remember. Which means perfect. Which means if I decide this is not the finest steak I have ever eaten in my life – I’ve had many, be apprised – then, well I told you what would happen. I might do it even if the steak is perfect. Cut the fat off you like you cut it off meat. It is a hard life. No? Sometimes one finds oneself in … predicaments.’ Kiown pegged a mushroom from the basket at the back of the man’s head. ‘You’re so fat! Why don’t you keep in better shape? Most of the world goes hungry, did you know? Your dog is rather fat too, I noticed. Is your wife fat? Your daughter? Mmm. Maybe I like them that way. A tough job, provide and protect. No?’

  Pleasing! No reply, but the man’s neck and shoulder tensed. Was there a spine buried among that fat? Time for another scrape across the bench top. Sssssharp, said the knife on the wood. Kiown began cleaning his fingernails with its tip. ‘Did you know that the cow is not native to Levaal? The flenk is, but it’s merely cow-like, don’t you think? Almost a cheap copy. More meat, no milk. Did you know the cow is alien? Did you know most of our useable crops are too? Rice, wheat, barley, maize, corn, so on? All foreign! Even the onion in that pan there. Alien food. Strange, no? Have you ever wondered, fat man, whether you and I are not really native to Levaal? We ourselves may be imposters, aliens. Ancestors of Pilgrims. From Otherworld. I’ve been there.’ Kiown pegged another mushroom at him. ‘But then, how did people get to Otherworld? Hmmm? Where did they first come from? Nothing on the subject in the libraries. Is there an Other-Otherworld? Answer please. But don’t get distracted! I want that steak perfect.’

  ‘I will think about it, sir,’ the cook said brusquely. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  ‘See that you do. I find it all a very strange business. Like finding your house is yours, but most of the furniture isn’t. It’s borrowed, but you may still use it. Makes one … reappraise.’ Kiown yawned again. ‘Sorry I was such a grouse, earlier. When I had you by the throat. Squeezing on that rude little air pipe of yours, so full of smart retorts. The original steak, I suppose it wasn’t too bad. I am used to catching my own game. Food tastes better when one has killed it oneself. Tormenting the cook is the next best thing. Or maybe I’m just not good in the mornings.’ He alone had slept well, he guessed, of his companions, not concerned for murders and intrigues during the night, figuring: if you want me, come get me. This philosophy as usual had kept him safe. Balls out, paint a target on them, dare the world to take a shot. They’d miss. As long as you could hit a pair from long range yourself, now and then.

  ‘Have I mentioned I want the steak perfect?’ said Kiown. ‘Sing a little song too. I’m bored.’

  The inn’s cook, despite his shaking hands, was perhaps not the dimwitted hick Kiown had supposed until now. Whether the man knew since they’d checked in yesterday precisely what Kiown and his party were, or whether he’d just gathered that Kiown wasn’t in charge of the group (and had perhaps just heard footsteps descending the staircase nearby), he began to sing a big booming voice:

  ‘Cloud shades sweep our brows like palms

  These fields are promised rain

  Steel and armour, silver bright …’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Kiown, surprised. The cook sang louder.

  ‘Battle, battle, for our lives

  Rouse your blood, rouse your pride

  To war! To war we ride

  To war! To war we ride…’

  ‘Enough!’

  The cook’s voice rose to a rousing tumult: ‘To warrr—’

  Kiown hopped down from the bench, meaning to add one of the cook’s ears to the frying pan. Then Envidis was in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the song, a call-to-arms anthem of one rebel city or other, Kiown forgot which.

  Envidis gazed serenely in, a faint smile on those fat-woman’s lips of his poking through his black beard. Watching, watching, always watching with dark serene eyes. This game is not allowed, the gaze said without needing words. Not angered, not amused.

  This was the usual rule in enemy country: don’t be noticed or remembered. But the whole world had taken a sudden lurch into no one knew where, and the general rules didn’t apply. Kiown had granted himself some leeway, and resented being schooled on the basics, with Anfen’s blood still dry on his sword.

  At the same time, he knew: he was now in an elevated class of Hunter. Envidis, Thaun and Evelle were elites. And now so was he. He had been with the group of rebels when they brought the Pilgrim in, had got to know the Pilgrim personally. By Vous, he himself had been to Otherworld! He’d have needed ten more years of service for the status he’d now gained by virtue of circumstance.

  Kiown put the knife away against the impulse to escalate things. He knew little of Envidis, only that he had long survived a profession which swiftly made martyrs of most (and had come within a hair’s breadth of making one of Kiown, many times; how he’d avoided execution at the tower top was a puzzle for finer minds than his). Envidis had given no clue as yet to what charms and wards he wore, what enhancements they’d given him. Nor had he said a word, not one, since joining the rest of them four days prior. He was a blank page. A blank page was a brilliant disguise. Kiown had with his own hand written disquieting things all over it.

  Envidis stepped into the kitchen, tall, thin and graceful as he leaned on the wall, folded arms unnaturally long, and continued to stare. Two minutes from now he would act like this had never happened. Master of the situation, whichever way it went.

  Kiown plucked the steak out of the pan and slapped it onto his plate. The cook quite wisely kept his face neutral. Of course he’d stopped singing.

  2

  Out in the dining room was First Captain Tauvene, beard neatly trimmed, uniform spick and span, mail shirt gleaming where its metal sleeves poked out from beneath the blue-grey of Pyren.

  Tauvene, who by some masterful sleights of hand by the Hunters, still believed himself in charge of things even as they’d steered him further and further south, away from his area, his men, and – though he didn’t yet know it – his allegiances. Over his shoulders were slung medallions of rank. Down over his breast they hung, impossible not to notice, glinting, polished each evening. Rather foolish to wear them openly in disputed country, but no matter.

  Kiown and Envidis took their seats at the table, bowing as though in deference to their unwitting inferior, who nodded curtly in response to the interruption of his breakfast. This was someone who aspired to be a general, Kiown reflected, but who most drunks wouldn’t hesitate to brawl with in a tavern. The other Hunters surrounded his table, watching him efficiently shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth, not getting the faintest trace on his neatly trimmed beard. Envidis still wore that little smile-shaped non-smile of his. Kiown had been trying to work out what wild creature the wiry Thaun reminded him of. With that braided stringy beard hung about his chin, he’d decided it was some kind of venomous goat. A warrior, though. Not as classical a fighter as Anfen had been, but even without charms and wards, at least as dangerous.

  Evelle’s jutting breasts poured out of a dress Kiown did not feel it should be permissible to wear if the men on a mission with her were supposed to keep their wits about them. It was likely, Kiown guessed, that First Captain Tauvene hadn’t even yet worked out Evelle too was a Hunter. When he learned he’d shared his bed with one, and no doubt some of his intimate thoughts, it would turn parts of his neat beard grey.

  It was still almost dark enough to be night. Thaun was explaining (in tones very much feeding the ill
usion that it was First Captain Tauvene rather than Hunter Thaun himself in charge) that they were to go to a more discreet location soon, in fact now, to meet an important contact. His name? A secret. First Captain Tauvene bristled as the very first inkling came that he was not in fact the author of his situation after all.

  What is this situation? Kiown wondered as the group marched swiftly from the inn without talk, Tauvene ‘leading’ the way. What were they now? ‘Defectors’ did not fit, because it seemed to him – to all of them – that they had stayed on the same course, that it was the Arch Mage who had left the path of loyalty.

  Tauvene paused in his stride. ‘Why is she still here?’ he demanded of Evelle.

  ‘She is a loyalist,’ said Thaun, smiling enigmatically. Tauvene bristled, not liking that answer at all. But on they went, marching half a mile till they came to a raised rocky platform with a cleared lookout, wherein sat a stone altar for a long defunct cult. Dragon worshippers, by the nearly eroded hieroglyphs inscribed.

  ‘Why here?’ demanded Tauvene. All four Hunters saw the man’s hand lingering near his sword hilt; each read the thought flash through his mind: assassination…? Kiown was tempted to reassure him that if they’d meant to kill him, three of them would still be relaxing at the inn.

  ‘Our contact wished it,’ said Thaun, shrugging in helplessness.

  ‘He is an important “contact”,’ said the First Captain testily. ‘Can you reveal his name yet?’

  ‘Shut up and wait,’ said Thaun coldly. The First Captain recoiled as if struck.

  At that moment an ancient man hobbled stiffly up the path with the aid of a walking stick. First Captain Tauvene’s face spelled out his chagrin quite clearly as he recognised the newcomer.