One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Méid looked to Olla, who only raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  Rianaire ate more and continued, food still in her mouth. “You are a woman of supreme talent and extraordinary conscience, Méid. I treasure you and what you’ve done for the people of Daingean. I would have you do the same for all the people of our province.”

  “And what of Daingean? What of the horsefolk?”

  “Daingean is thriving. Surely you know who would help it continue to do so. Does she not?” Rianaire pointed her fork at Olla.

  “Aye.”

  Méid slapped his thigh and turned away from him slightly.

  “As for the horsefolk, they are why I need you. Why our people need you. And I would never break your ties with Daingean. Both of you are crucial to what lies beyond this Bais.”

  Méid sat a moment, quiet, but stirring, fidgeting. She shook her head from time to time and mouthed sentences to herself. After a half minute, she sighed.

  “I’ve no taste for city life, Olla.”

  He laughed lightly and looked to Rianaire. “No chance of a garden in the Bastion City?”

  Rianaire took a large swig of wine and slapped the cup down.

  “I have a place. In the Outer Crescent. There was… a fire. Though it’s been rebuilt. And I had it expanded. You would feel very much at home there, I would make sure of it.”

  Méid frowned and placed her hand on Olla’s. He gripped her shoulder and smiled kindly.

  “Very well. For Spéirbaile. And for her people.”

  Rianaire raised her cup. “Then it’s decided!”

  Olla raised his as well. “Aye!” He paused there and lowered his cup. “Now… I remember as a boy… I hear that, eh, the Binse and the Treorai, they…”

  Rianaire laughed. “Worried I’ll please your woman?”

  “Worried you’ll do better,” he laughed.

  “The deep shame that it is in Méid’s case, I have no use for that ritual.”

  He sighed in relief and Méid slapped his thigh again.

  “I apologize for him, Rianaire. He wasn’t raised well.”

  “Hey, now. I was raised… no. No, she’s the right of it. Haha. I’m a brute.”

  “Brutes are worth more to me of late than the sort who roam the Bastion. Complaining and writing papers and making work of simple matters. Bah! I’d burn it all down if stone took to flame.”

  “How long?” Méid asked, suddenly.

  “Hm?”

  “Until I must go. To the Bastion City.”

  “Ah, yes. One week. Two at the most. I would apologize for the short schedule, but the horsefolk will not be so quiet for long and I suspect you have plans in place should Daingean need to go on without you.”

  “I do.” Méid nodded, her mind clearly turning over the work to be done. She poked idly at her food.

  “Wonderful!” Rianaire held her cup aloft and Inney filled it. “Now, if it’s entirely appropriate, I should like to hear more about Olla’s hands.”

  U

  Aile

  It was late afternoon and the sky had not quite begun to change color. Being the cold season, the sun would set soon enough and Aile could earn her pay. She had ridden with Ilkea since morning toward what seemed an endless sea of nothing. It was only in the past bit of an hour that a spec of a building had shown itself at the horizon.

  They were just near enough to cleanly make out the shape of the structure when Ilkea pulled her chariot to a stop. Aile did as well. The satyr dismounted the car and looked silently across the desert before checking over her supplies. It was strange of her to not speak during the lot of it. An hour before, Aile would have been grateful for the silence. Now, it annoyed her. Even in her annoyance, Aile thought better of inviting the grating sound of satyr speak. She’d had enough of it for a lifetime or more. The thought reminded her that she was here to put another satyr within earshot.

  The wind had picked up with the evening slowly setting in around them, and the temperature was dropping swiftly. Ilkea finally spoke after having gone over her cargo twice and seeing to tightening the packs.

  “Shahuor is there.”

  Aile looked out at the building. It was an unimpressive old ruin, though one wall had been shored up and rose above the others, a bit taller than she remembered. The satyr moved to the front of the chariots to inspect the horses and continued explaining.

  “We have counted no more than twelve who guard. Each then never stays more than a season.”

  The nature of the prison seemed clear enough from the details Aile had. It was not a place one was released from. And there were not so many kept there as to be concerned with proper staffing. Or perhaps they were kept in such a way as it did not matter.

  “The large wall. It is where Shahuor is kept.”

  “In a cell?”

  “No cells.”

  A yard, then. A very odd prison for elves. They loved their cells. Dreary little boxes meant to break spirits and foster loneliness. And it held a satyr of some importance at that. The place began to make sense. The elves were poetic to a fault and this was just another picture of that high minded foolishness. A place to send enemies you want to be forgotten. So they taunt them by disallowing any sense of martyrdom. How incredibly dull and poorly considered.

  “After dark then,” Aile said.

  She dismounted the chariot and sat in the sand to attend to her blades and drink some of the wine she’d bought before. Aside from the occasional smell of her travel companion, the time passed pleasantly. Her mind was alight with the hopes of a good fight. Something substantive, perhaps. A fallen champion reassigned to a far off prison. Anything for a break in what seemed like seasons of monotony.

  When the dark had settled in for a few hours, Aile stood. Ilkea came to her.

  “We go?”

  “I go. You will wait at the gates for me.”

  Ilkea nodded and they mounted the chariots. The wind was steady and the Eyes were each slivers in the sky. This would allow them to come closer to the prison without causing alarm.

  Aile left her chariot and continued on foot, half-hoping the satyr would draw attention while she approached. Perhaps Ilkea would even be killed. No such luck.

  While the keep was sturdy enough to repel a proper frontal attack from a small raiding group, the walls surrounding the gates were craggy and poorly kept. There would be no trouble in climbing them. The state of it spoke to a confidence that there would never be an intruder. In fact, there was fire in only one of the gatehouse towers along the forward wall. There was some hope that the count given by Ilkea could be trusted.

  Aile scaled the wall quickly, not wanting to find that there was an unaccounted for outer patrol. When she came to the top, she moved to the unlit side of the gatehouse and listened. A frown came across her face at the sound of light snoring coming from the far side of the walk. So much for champions, she thought.

  She huffed and stood, almost annoyed at having hoped for such fun. The Drow walked plainly toward the lit room, making no attempt to hide herself or the sound of her footsteps. The snoring got louder and her annoyance reached a peak as she turned the corner to find her prey asleep in a leaned back chair, feet on a cheap wooden desk.

  She walked to the sleeping elf and stared at him, letting the anger bubble inside her. She pulled a straight blade from a sheath at her back and held it steady in front of the elf’s open mouth. She leaned in close, putting a hand behind his head. As her hand came to his head, the guard shifted slightly and sniffed. His mouth closed for a moment and then he went back to his snoring. Aile narrowed her eyes and pushed hard at the back of his head. The elf started awake and made the beginnings of a surprised chirp. The knife found the back of his throat, stopping the air and pushed through to his spine where Aile let it sit.

  He first tried to grab her, but Aile stood and backed aw
ay patiently. Then his hands came to his head and groped awkwardly at his chin and cheeks before finding the knife. He was coughing under the blade. It made a sort of “kak” sound. There was not much strength to his grip as he tugged at the blade. The first time, it only shifted and the second it pulled free. There was a gush of blood from the back of his throat with the blade gone and in his haste to breathe, he pulled much of it into his lungs. The cough became wet and splattered the floor in front of Aile. The elf fell to his knees, gargling and sputtering and swiping his hands at her legs. He had dropped the knife and it had luckily fallen away from the blood. Aile grabbed it and considered it. With her foot, she pushed the elf over onto his side. He still clutched at his throat, only weakly now and he could not manage a breath.

  Kneeling, she put the knife into his belly just a pair of inches and he flinched, kicking his legs helplessly beneath. She slid the blade down and opened his stomach. Such a sweet smell. Aile stood and put her boot to his innards. There was a pleasant softness to them. She had missed her work. The chair sat near enough to the desk now that she would not need to move it to continue her work. She placed a hand against it and the wood began to smoke and soon took to flame. It would draw attention. There were eleven left still.

  She could not know how many would be drawn by the fire. There could not be so many outdoors on watch this time of night but it was clear they would be ill prepared for her. She fled inside down the gatehouse steps. She did not know the layout of the place but there seemed to be little to the structure. A pair of wings and the yard which held the satyr. Inside, there was a hall which went off in three directions, only one told her much. It smelled of old piss and decay. The elves did love their cells, she almost laughed. She could swear she caught the faint scent of food from her left. The galley, perhaps. Any who were there would be awake. Awake meant noise and she did not wish to be bothered with that just yet.

  The middle, it was. The hall was long enough with scant doorways. She checked the rooms finding only stored armor and other useless things. The end of the hall opened into a wide room, however. The barracks. There were no bunks, only beds laid out around the place. There was no light to speak of but her eyes were well enough adjusted and the sound of breathing told her the rest. Six men sleeping. The day guards, she reasoned.

  She made quick work of the men as they slept, pushing a thin blade down into the tops of their heads. Only two of them spasmed when she did her work, but their seizures were not so loud as to wake the rest. It was a pity that she could not do more, but there were five yet that she might still have a bit of fun with.

  Aile retraced her steps now, making for the galley. She could not be sure, but she doubted she would find all five awaiting her there. There had been no alarm, though, so perhaps there was no one guarding the yard proper.

  The hall was shorter this time, but there was light spilling from an open door midway down and sound to tell her there were elves as well. She heard two voices as she came near the edge of the doorway. A third spoke, but only occasionally and, then, with some authority. Were she forced to guess, she would place them as the seniors among the night guard.

  There was a door just next to the galley. A small larder. She pushed at it but it was locked. An inconvenience to be sure. The elves would be hard-pressed to fight her in the narrow passage.

  She peered around the edge of the doorway. The three around the tables were muscular and generally well-equipped. Moreso than she’d expected. She pulled one of the daggers at her back and crouched near the larder door. Aile took a breath. She tapped the hilt against the door and waited.

  The galley conversation died out instantly. A pair of names were called. When there was no reply, she heard instead the scraping of a chair against the floor and then footsteps. The other two went back to their conversation.

  The guard made the door and took a half-step into the hall. He was dark-haired and tan, well-muscled. It would not matter. He did not look down and so he did not see Aile as she launched herself forward, dragging the dagger along the front of his legs just below the knee. He wore no armor there and the fabric provided no shielding as the blade passed with little effort through the joint. He crumpled behind her and she spun, plunging the dagger into the base of his skull, turning his pained scream into an awkward whine.

  She pulled the blade and made ready for the others, having heard the chairs shift as the dead elf screamed. She waited, but there was no sound. Damn it all, the voice of authority from before was proving smarter than she would appreciate. But she could just hear uneven breathing. The other was not handling things so well.

  “Everyone! Intruder!” The junior guard. His voice cracked. “Come quick! Intruder!”

  The other made no noise. She neither heard him move save for the occasional soft scuff of shoe on stone. He was slowly finding an advantageous position. He would not come. The corpse at the door would prove too awkward to navigate. Aile did not know if the galley had another door and she began to wonder about it. It would do the senior guard little good by himself and the bulk of his retinue was no longer a concern.

  “Maybe it’s gone.” The junior guard spoke again.

  “Neh, no footsteps.”

  “Maybe we just didn’t hear.”

  The senior guard ignored him. Aile was becoming bored of this stalemate. These two would die, that was a necessity, but this was taking longer than she had hoped. If there was no other way free of the galley, the returning guards could prove a bit of a problem.

  Aile stood and moved silently to the center of the doorway.

  “A goddamn Drow. Sisters fuckin’ be.” The senior guard licked his lips.

  “Wha— what d’we do?”

  “We kill it.”

  The senior guard pulled his sword and the junior, watching him intently, did the same and looked at Aile. She slid a hand down her thigh and pulled a thin throwing dagger free.

  “Ah, sorry boy. She’s gonna kill ya.” The senior guard stared at Aile intently and she felt a tingle in her groin. He understood well. Perhaps her hopes were not so foolish.

  “What’re you… there’s two of us. We jus’ gotta—”

  Aile flung the knife and it lodged in the space between his eye and nose. As soon as she moved to loose the knife, the senior guard charged around the table. He was smart, kept his sword low. So many pulled them over head, hoping to slash down at her. His sword crossed the dagger and she slipped to the far side of him, slashing at his back, putting a gash in his stiff leather armor. He turned, filling the doorway and slashed at her again. His partner had fallen backward into a shelf making a mess of Aile’s path of retreat, but he had politely knocked some fruits to the floor. Aile took one and heated it, flinging it at the charging guard. The clementine’s flesh split across his forearm, protecting his face for the most part. The liquid inside hissed as it sprayed across him and he screamed. Aile followed the fruit, leaping onto the table. Her dagger bit through the flesh of his wrist, nearly severing it. The elf screamed as he impacted the ground, tearing the rest of his hand from his arm as the instinct to brace his fall made the worst of the wound.

  He scrambled to at least point to face her. Aile stood on the table, another clementine in hand. The skin of the fruit was roiling holding back the scaling liquid inside. She tossed it gently at his legs and the fruit exploded the moment it hit.

  “Fuckin’ bitch! Dirty dirt skin whore!”

  The scream was enough to make Aile shiver, placing a hand on her breast. She sighed heavy. Her work was not done and the elf had become mouthier than she preferred. A boot to his gut quieted him for a moment. As he hacked, she put the dagger to his cheek and sliced. He screamed and so she let the blade carry through to the other side. His jaw fell and slapped wet against his neck but his tongue still flapped about wildly. The sight of it disgusted her. Such an unsightly thing. Aile braced herself and kicked as hard as she could manage. The t
ongue split across the teeth, she could feel as much under her foot. When she pulled her foot away, the mangled jaw fell down to the man’s lap. His eyes had rolled back. He had been insufficient. There were still two, but her spirit for the whole affair had fallen. To get a woman’s hopes up. Elves were such a disappointment.

  It was sullen work, but Aile found the other pair watching the fire with stupid expressions. She put a knife in one and sent the other over the edge. And then there were none. Only a disgusting goat to drag out to add to the smells she’d have to endure. She tried to think of the gold, but it only lifted her mood slightly.

  The main gate had a smaller door to allow for individual entrance. Aile opened the door and it whistled into the night. She heard the distant sound of hoof beats and leaned herself against the gate. She could hear the wheezed breath of the elf she’d sent over the edge of the wall. His lung was punctured or collapsed. Perhaps both. There was no need in wasting energy on him.

  Ilkea rode up, smiling. The look on her face annoyed Aile to no end.

  “It went well?”

  “No.”

  She seemed to ignore Aile’s words and looked next to her with a sort of awe.

  “Oh! A door’s door! Why would they need this?”

  Aile ignored the question and walked through the door. Ilkea ducked beneath the doorway and followed her into the keep through the tower house. The cells were where Aile had guessed, though they were all empty save for the corpses of a few emaciated elves. They were numerous, taking up the bulk of the keep, it seemed. It was ten minutes or so before they came across a larger set of doors. Aile pointed to them and Ilkea saw to the block and pushed them open.

  It was less impressive than Aile had imagined it. A wide yard full of dirt and rocks. It smelled. Ilkea smelled. The cells behind her smelled. Aile tried again to think of the gold.

  Part Five

  W

  Z

  Socair

  It was nearly sunup. Socair’s mind ran in a circuit through the evening. From kidnapping a ward of the court to the insolence of Briste’s Binse and back, with all the concerns that went along with it. Her task had been failed somewhat spectacularly and as much as she tried to justify it or shift the blame she could not bring herself to find fault with anyone but herself.