Shadow (The Pendulum Trilogy)

by Elliott, Will

  ‘Huh!’ said Sharfy.

  ‘The push,’ said Anfen. He plucked a handful of pebbles and let them slip from his hand to the Road’s pavement, watching the slight southward curve of their fall. They rolled along the Road as though blown by strong wind, though no wind could be felt. ‘I know things I did not know before,’ said Anfen. ‘We must walk into the push for a while. There is work to be done. Sharfy. If I told you the Pendulum swings again. What say you to that?’

  Sharfy rubbed the rain from his face and wished the night were several hours younger again. ‘I’m too drunk to know what you mean. Or maybe you’re too drunk to know what you mean.’

  ‘It means time is short. And the Pendulum must be stopped, though it is probably too late. There’s much to do. Come.’

  To his dismay, Anfen began the journey Sharfy already knew he was bound to, though he did not know why he should be.

  The war’s done, he wanted to yell in protest. Leave me to rest! I done enough fighting! The war’s done!

  3

  For long days they walked, days that blended into one dreamlike stretch, where the world went a strangely purple twilight Sharfy had never seen before. Had he the words to express it, he’d have said it seemed he looked back on old memories even as the minutes and hours passed, all sights taken in through sleep-blurred eyes, all thoughts subdued.

  Sleeping, eating, and other routine things were the least of Anfen’s concerns. Each brief stop for rest had to be argued for against abstract responses Sharfy didn’t understand in the slightest. The land about them was eerily empty of people for most of these dreamy stretches; entire days went by without running into a single traveller in lands that should have been swarming. For that matter, on some days he’d have sworn there was hardly a bird call or the buzz of a fly, and the country seemed unfamiliar to him, missing its various landmarks. Anfen marched tall and proud in those quiet times, his strides full of purpose.

  Then this dreaminess would at times fall away, reality would rear up in all its grim clarity. Anfen again looked starved, his back bowed by unseen weight, looking just as tired as Sharfy felt. On such days people passed them on the road in heavy numbers: refugees in wandering bands going south from Elvury and (soon enough) from Faifen, often as not missing hands, arms, parts of their faces. They said war had come to their cities. War, and even worse things.

  The strangest of it was that news revealed large numbers of castle troops had headed south along this very road, led not by a general but by a first captain. Anfen and he should have walked right into this group, and through others, on one of those days when they had instead come across no one at all.

  Anfen answered few questions and did not say a word about the huge purple scar that ran around his neck. Now and then he said things which Sharfy could not understand and did not wish to hear: ‘There’s a dragon I wish to kill,’ he muttered once. ‘I wish to kill it. Ah, I feel him, foul thing. I sense he is a spy. I do not know if my redeemer wishes him slain. It is a mistake to assume all the brood are of the same purpose.’

  Redeemer. That word again, spoken like someone would speak of their commander, or father, or lover. ‘A dragon, Anfen? Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘I must. It breaks the natural laws, to be out among us at all, Sharfy. But then, we ourselves break the laws. The Wall was not supposed to be broken. We are not meant to be here, in the quiet. And I am not meant to live.’

  Why can’t we exchange the usual stories? Sharfy wondered. He was itching to tell one. ‘Then why’d the Wall break?’ he said. ‘If it wasn’t meant to.’

  ‘The natural laws are changing, Sharfy. Do you know what this process is called?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You do. It’s called war.’

  ‘War, eh? Yeah, I heard of that.’

  ‘War. The gods, the dragons. War.’

  A long silence, filled by their feet beating the road. As happened from time to time, a drop of blood slid from the thick purple scar on Anfen’s neck. He looked directly at Sharfy for the first time in a long while, an excited gleam in his eye that Sharfy decided was worse than the grim silent mask he’d got used to. ‘It isn’t a new war,’ Anfen said. ‘Like our wars it has times of hot and cold, forces arranging themselves before blades are drawn. We are lucky to be alive now, Sharfy. Blades are now drawn. I have come to understand that I am one such blade.’

  What am I, your scabbard? Sharfy almost said, but Anfen did not seem, lately, to appreciate a joke. Yet again, he seemed to expect a response. ‘What about the Pilgrims?’ Sharfy ventured.

  ‘The keenest blade. Though too many hands reach to wield him. He would be better destroyed.’

  ‘Which one you mean? Eric or Case?’

  ‘Shadow.’

  4

  Another full day’s marching had passed when with no explanation Anfen veered from the Great Road, cutting across a plain of loose stone and bare grey pillars, lands once blasted by fire from dragons’ throats so that nothing now grew here. It gave way to more liveable country, though it was overgrown and abandoned, replete with ruins both recent and ancient. Their feet scattering pebbles or crunching the bitter, brittle ground were so loud they may as well have shouted out here we are with each step.

  They were now some way north of Elvury if Sharfy judged right, and had to be nearing Invia country. Anfen had never told the Mayors’ Command he was Marked; the rest of them wouldn’t have known either but for his constantly checking the sky for the creatures. But he wasn’t doing that now. ‘Invia, Anfen?’ said Sharfy. ‘You worried? Forgot about em? Huh? You’re Marked, don’t forget. Marked! That sword’s pretty good, but you can’t beat em just with that, can you?’ And don’t look to me for help, he didn’t say. ‘What if a few of em come, like at Faul’s place?’

  He was answered by the sound of trudging boots.

  Sharfy squinted at motion on the horizon. ‘People coming,’ he said. ‘Look! Ahead there. There’s a lot of em. Hard to tell but I think some got weapons. We should hide.’

  Crunch, crunch went Anfen’s boots.

  ‘Look. You can walk headlong into em. But I’m gonna hide.’

  He fancied a faint puff of heat came from the armour beneath Anfen’s shirt. Then they were in the twilight place again, with no past or present sign of humanity at all. In the quiet, they were the only ones who’d ever lived, there were no roads but the Great Dividing Road, no enemies or friends, no homes or houses but the grass, trees, hills and distant mountains.

  And the pretty diamond-like clusters suspended in the air. It was not the first time Sharfy had seen them, though never so many as now. He had less than no idea what they were, only that he wanted to pocket them. In the distance was a huge one, big as a house, way high up.

  ‘What are those?’ he asked, pointing. Anfen didn’t respond. ‘Someone would pay big for those shiny things. Bet you they would. Look like they’re full of magic. Scales, gold we’d get.’ It was a hint but apparently missed. ‘Fuck it, Anfen. I’m not getting paid to follow you. I should get some loot. Look yonder. That outcrop there. If we climb it we can get hold of those small ones. Reckon I’d reach em with a long stick. Knock em out of the air.’

  Anfen paused, turned to face him full of majesty and grace, spoke quietly: ‘If you try to touch them. If you dare go near them. I will slay you.’ He turned away and trudged on.

  Sharfy wished he were angry. It was the first time Anfen had ever threatened him. Ever. But such was the command in his voice Sharfy could not but feel it had for some reason been entirely fair: a simple statement of the law. And like an obedient dog he followed his master, grappling with his pride until the sound of a bird call broke the dreamy silence and the quiet’s mask fell away.

  The village Anfen had led them to was a few years abandoned, Sharfy judged, for the buildings – though neglected – were not in such bad shape, and some could probably be mended in a week fit for living again. In the southern distance Elvury’s ranges stood like a row of huge teeth.
They were further north than Sharfy had guessed, well and truly in Aligned country. Anfen unstrapped the sword from his belt, let it drop to the ground, and walked away from it.

  Sharfy quickly picked it up, surprised at how light it felt. Since his glimpse of it that night with the light flashing down its face, he’d been eager for a close look but afraid to ask. Now he pulled the handle free of its scabbard and was surprised to see there was no blade there at all, just the finely wrought handle. He set the handle back atop the scabbard and put it carefully down.

  Anfen staggered past a small vegetable field overrun with weeds. He looked for something in the tall grass, then fell to his knees. ‘These are mine, Sharfy,’ he said hoarsely.

  Sharfy went to him and waited.

  Anfen began pulling grass out with his fists, clawing at the dirt. He moved with feverish speed. Sharfy got down to help but Anfen snarled, ‘Back!’ with such ferocity he thought he was about to be bitten. So he stood away and watched. Half an hour later Anfen’s hands were caked in dirt, his fingernails cracked and split. He panted like a dog. And like a dog he had dug up buried bones. All were clearly human. ‘These are mine,’ he repeated. ‘My bones. I made them.’ Slowly, tenderly his hands wiped every speck of dirt from them.

  Having seen far worse than this in his time, Sharfy was nonetheless troubled. ‘Your bones need a rest. Let’s get under a roof for a while. Those huts will do. No one’s here.’

  Not seeming to hear, Anfen pulled length after length of bone from the unearthed pit. Ribs, vertebrae, fingers and toes. Once he’d got them all out he arranged each with tenderness on the grass nearby. He gently wiped dirt from the skulls, and took a long while making sure each skull sat atop a body which looked to match it. ‘They owe me nothing,’ Anfen said, weeping. ‘Nothing. They have not forgiven me. I’ll ask them for answers all the same.’

  ‘Bones don’t talk.’

  Anfen’s laugh was the cough of someone dying. He arranged it all as nine complete bodies, minus a foot on one and some fingers here or there. Several of the skulls were broken. He sat forlorn among them with his head bowed, not moving, just murmuring and weeping.

  Sharfy was disgusted. He foraged what roots and fruit he could find and spent the night on a bare floor in an abandoned house with his pack for a pillow. From time to time Anfen’s weeping woke him. By morning he was so sick of the whole spectacle he decided he’d chance the long march back, through enemy country or not.

  Anfen was still with the bones at first light, a small skull cradled in his arms. Sharfy took off without saying goodbye and instantly felt better about life. About him were bent, thin trees with pale crescent leaves. The stillness and quiet made his footsteps through brittle undergrowth very loud.

  He had seen people broken in the slave farms by grief or starvation, pain or fear. But he had never seen a man choose to go so far, march so many miles, only to roll around in the shattered pieces of his own ruin. Of course there was only one way Anfen could have known those bones lay where they lay. His very own hands had surely put them there. But what of that? Anfen had killed more of the enemy by now than he ever had of innocents.

  Distracted by all this, Sharfy’s ankle nearly twisted on a fallen branch, which he angrily kicked away. Then anger consumed him for a minute as he stomped the fuck out of that branch and several others, cursing and spitting up several days’ worth of suppressed rage and indignity. Only then did he really look at the ground and see the many spiked holes punched into it.

  He froze, looked through the woods, drew his sword. He spun about twice before catching sight of a dark form up the incline there, maybe a long knife-toss away. It was motionless but for the wriggling spikes along its flanks.

  Visions came to him of tavern talk late at night, telling an improbable tale of battle with a monster; doubters calling names; Sharfy reaching into his kit bag and triumphantly producing the monster’s head. Finally the renown he’d already earned a dozen times pouring down on him; slaps on the back, women offering themselves, free ale for weeks: tell it again, tell the tale of your duel with the beast from beyond …

  They’d believe his other tales too, after he had proof of this one, indeed they would.

  He went nearer to the beast. It still hadn’t moved. One very hard blow and he might just have it. He’d have to swing with all the strength he had; their hides were tough. As long as it was the only one around.

  A rattling sound came from behind him. A sense of inevitability as he turned to find a second Tormentor staring down at him with stony eyes. The bastard thing had been conjured just to thwart his simple wish for a little respect and a free drop of drink. Its arms spread wide as though for an embrace; its huge mane of spiked needles shook.

  He was off and running, hoping blindly that he headed for the place he’d just come from. Two dozen paces later everything slowed down. Sharfy found himself running through water. He heard the beast’s feet approach, the sound of its steps impossibly fast while he was so slowed down.

  Then he was out of the Tormentor’s spell, flung forward and toppling into a tree, adding yet another dent to his face. Blood gushed through his nose. Dazed, he looked back and caught a flash of gleaming metal, the whoosh of a blade slicing air. Anfen struck the creature with cold fury, only in that confused moment it was not a Tormentor he saw …

  The world had shifted so it held again the blurred edges of a dream. They were back in the quiet, and there it indeed was not a Tormentor Anfen struck down, but a man. Or something like a man but stretched and warped as if it was made of rubber being pulled. Its limbs were curved and warped; its face too long, mouth twisted into a long gaping S-shape. It did not fight back, just stiffly turned toward Anfen, movements clumsy, and without resistance it watched him kill it.

  Sharfy shut his eyes. When he sat up, they were out of the quiet and the world was harsh and cold again. He wiped blood from his newly broken nose. Anfen sheathed his blade. At his feet was a large Tormentor corpse in many pieces, like slabs of cracked dark stone.

  Sharfy would work out later how to rationalise being rescued, but already he supposed he’d lured the creature quite deliberately into a trap, that he had been on the brink of turning to fight it. Gratitude nonetheless was one of the many things he felt.

  Anfen nodded at the corpse at his feet. ‘They filled the woods with them. They let the foul things loose, by design.’

  ‘The castle?’ Sharfy spat out blood. ‘Why? It’s their land.’

  ‘Think! They now make their last push south. And they will win. They let these things loose near the roads, in the woods, anywhere an army might come.’

  Sharfy nodded understanding. They’d let Inferno cultists loose in some places for the same reason – they made lands dangerous for fleeing refugees, as well as approaching enemies. ‘So they protect the place when their troops are gone,’ said Sharfy. ‘But when the war’s done, what then?’

  Anfen smiled. ‘What do you do with a dangerous tool you no longer have need for, Sharfy?’

  ‘Throw it out.’

  ‘Destroy it. When the Arch wins, his armies are not intended to return. Most people in the world will be killed. Their own people too. A small herd is easy to control.’ The distant form of a lone Tormentor – a small one – could be seen through the trees with its back to them. Anfen gazed at it. ‘My redeemer revealed all this to me,’ he said. ‘My redeemer told me I was cleansed. But also he told me my will was my own.’

  ‘Anfen. The bones. Why?’

  ‘I cleansed them, Sharfy. As best I could. I was gentle. I was loving. They did not forgive me, as I asked. That is their choice. I leave them unburied now. Let all who come by here see the bones, Sharfy. Let them see what I did.’

  Sharfy spat more blood. ‘Look at it this way: the bones are as clean as they’ll ever get. They’re as dead as they’ll get. Can’t hurt em now. Don’t owe em nothing either. Don’t owe em saying sorry or coin or nice words. Or time.’

  Anfen looked at him for a wh
ile in silence. ‘It’s done now. We move.’

  ‘Where we going? I don’t move at all till you tell me.’

  But Anfen walked away without a word. Sharfy lay there less than a minute before cursing and proving himself a liar.

  AN EMPTY BED

  1

  The world fell away again fast, fast. Through layers of rock he went like a shadow pulled, down as far as he could go, to the secret places. Caverns and creatures whizzed by, labyrinths and hollowed caverns now devoid of any living thing, if living things had ever set foot or claw here. Then he found that final deep layer of rock which wasn’t to be penetrated, not by him or anything else. He battered himself against it for a while, each impact provoking his curiosity further till it was a screaming, burning rage. What was beneath the world’s floor?

  No answers. Up then, up to the surface again, pausing briefly where the unco-operative girl still stumbled her way blindly through tunnels. An enjoyable sight, though the feeling grew hollow as he watched her, some inner, nagging, distant sense that it was wrong to leave her here. Strange creature! He was annoyed with her still; after having chased off the dragon, having taken her so far … then to be refused one simple request, a thing so much easier for her to do than what he’d done for her? He did not understand it.

  He would revisit her. She had caught his eye back when the Wall fell, she and the fellow she was with: Eric. Something about them, he knew not what, had marked them as reference points. Maybe his only ones.

  The surface. Night time. He crossed many miles falling down the world’s face, pausing on a whim in a logging cabin. Four men slept and snored. Anything interesting about them? He shadowed them and found only physical strength, aches, anger. Nothing more. The girl, she’d had a little glimmer of something. The dragon, now that was another thing. It had been filled with more power than he’d been able to properly perceive in that brief time.