One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “Have you done? Can we eat?”

  Práta stood and looked at her with eyes full of concern. She placed her hand on Nath’s head and gently pulled the girl back, kneeling before her.

  “Práta and I will dine alone tonight, Nath.”

  “No!” Her scream was shrill, nothing but a tantrum. “No, no, no! I waited so nicely, did I not? I waited here.”

  Socair stood. “I will not treat you as a child, Nath. Práta is very special to me—”

  “And I am not?” Nath teared up. “Is that it?”

  She was so weary, from so many things. But she could not bring herself to be cruel by speaking the whole truth. “You are. But not as Práta is. Not yet.” The last was perhaps too far a thing, but Socair hoped it would at least quiet the girl for the time.

  “Yet…” Nath whispered the word, so quiet that Socair barely heard. “Then… can I at least…”

  “We will send the same food we have to the room for you. It will have to do. But you may sleep with us, as ever.”

  Práta stirred at that, but said nothing. She would not have, not with a battle so close. Socair felt a dull regret. She had said as much knowing there was no place for complaint. It was an advantage she felt sick at taking. Nath nodded, however. She retreated to a chair and began to inspect her fingers. It was a habit Socair had noticed the girl was given to lately and there seemed no reason to question it.

  Downstairs with Práta, the pair were directed to a room away from the rest and sat before a meal of venison and quail and vegetables of every type. They were brought soups and so much that Socair began to wonder if they hadn’t been mistaken for more important folk.

  “I heard from a Company soldier. They will be here tomorrow.” Práta had set her knife and fork on the table. She leaned forward and her voice was slow, careful. “Are you…”

  “I have fought with worse.”

  “For what fighting you will do…”

  Socair’s eyes fell to the table with no focus. “Ah. Right.”

  Práta’s face broke her heart in its sadness. She had not wanted to do such a thing and Socair knew as much. A forced smile would be wasted. Resolve was what Socair needed. Strength. The only thing she’d ever had. The weakness she had let crawl through her mind was pulling at the edges of her. Pulling her away from what she knew and what she loved.

  “I am sorry, Práta.” Socair said the words, looking up. She found her voice slowly as she spoke, wishing to sound as she had not so long ago. “I have treated you poorly. And myself. I have ignored important battles because they did not look as I wished them to. I took them lightly. I took you lightly.”

  “Well. Good. An apology is a start.” Práta smiled, and let out the slightest giggle. She stood and came to Socair, kissing her deeply. “There is time, love. And I am patient. I will have you work for my forgiveness.” She smiled and Socair could not help but do the same. “Now, if you are run through tomorrow, is this what you wish for? Such a somber meal?”

  She was right. It was rare to be otherwise with Práta. Socair had spent so little time in her own mind that such small things had come to subsume her in such a short time. Simple questions which, in years, would be ones she could not remember.

  “What a pitiful corpse I would be. Crying instead of screaming for war.” Socair stood and Práta stumbled back in surprise. She lifted her chair and carried it around to place it next to Práta’s.

  “There is hardly room at this table—”

  Socair sat in spite of the protest. “I know. I mean to eat yours.”

  She picked up the knife and fork and proceeded to do just that. Práta rushed to her seat and scrambled with Socair for the utensils. The fight went poorly for the smaller elf. A sneak attack was the thing. Práta picked her meat up and threw it. A wet slap sounded in the room and quiet after. Práta’s cheeks puffed and a failure to hold the beginnings of a laugh turned to a snort. The meat had stuck to Socair’s face. Práta was beet red from laughter and looked as though she might die, at least until a wet glob of boiled cabbage was placed on her head, and rubbed in vigorously.

  “Oh…” Práta’s jaw fell open and her eyes narrowed mischievously.

  What would have been dessert became a less than polite insistence that they please vacate the room and see themselves to the bath. The stalls had hot showers but no room for two bodies. Two smaller bodies, maybe. Socair cursed her size. She could hear Práta’s muffled laughs in fits. They returned to the room hand in hand.

  Nath stood as they entered, a clean plate on the table beside her chair.

  “How was your meal? I enjoyed it very much!”

  She was chipper, staying at the chair with her hands at her back.

  “It was delightful.” Práta offered the answer instead of Socair and went to prepare herself for bed.

  “She has the right of it. Very good indeed.”

  “I’m happy,” Nath said. She sat back in her chair, smiling idly.

  “Should you not prepare for bed?”

  “No.” Nath looked at the window as she spoke. “I am not yet tired. But the both of you should. I will come when I am ready.”

  Socair nodded. She had said she would not treat her as a child and if Nath would take the role of an adult, so much the better.

  The bed was comfortable and saw Socair to sleep quickly. She smiled as she fell away from the waking world. It had been too long since Práta had been the body next to her. There was strength in her heart, more than there had been.

  A scream. Close. High and pained. And then the feel of a body clambering over her own. Socair shot up in the bed when her chest no longer had weight on it. She looked left, to the wall. Práta. She scanned her as her eyes found their way in the dark. Something stuck out from her gut. A dinner knife. Blood poured from the jagged wound.

  Socair spun and came to her knees in the bed, looking for the attacker. A slow mess of tangled hair rose from the floor at the edge of the bed. Nath. Her eyes were wild. She reached out with bloodied fingers, nails missing from half of them. A scratch had pulled blood from three wounds down her cheek.

  “Now… now I will—”

  Socair’s hand came across the girl’s face with as much force as she could manage. Nath’s feet left their place on solid ground and she came down again well away from where she’d stood. She came up slow, holding her cheek, a look of shock across her face.

  “What have you done?!” Socair’s voice cracked with rage, her eyes burned. “Medic!” She screamed the word as loud as she could.

  Nath fumbled with the door, yanking it open and fleeing into the hall.

  Socair screamed again. “Medic!” She could hear her own desperation. She turned to Práta as tears came down.

  Práta’s voice came on labored breath. “I… I will be alright, love. You mustn’t… mustn’t… worry.”

  v

  Óraithe

  The bulk of the camp had risen at morning. Some elderly and children still slept, and some wives and sick who would take care of the others. In all, it was a force just over three hundred that stood before her, staring. They had all gathered at the edge of the camp to see her before they left. Faces she had never seen were mixed in and there seemed to be a hunger in the air. Scaa had nothing to say about the lot of them, only sat in the barouche with a sour look, having had the face since Naí told her she would not be allowed to fight unless her life was endangered in some way. She’d even gone as far as binding Scaa’s arm. The screaming did not last as long as Scaa seemed to want, but she’d let too much blood go from her body to be thoroughly angry. Óraithe teased her about it often, though the teasing was more to keep her mind from the task ahead and the weight of it than anything more.

  She wondered how long they would wait in silence for her to speak. There was murmuring, of course, but only a few and only short pieces that she could not hear w
ell enough to matter. What words was she meant to say to them? If she said nothing, would they still follow? Was that the nature of a leader? The right words for the right moments? She was like to be a poor leader, then.

  “I have nothing to offer you of my own hand.” She paused, swallowing hard. “Nothing of worth. Only my conviction to see the thing that has befouled our home taken from it. And I cannot guarantee it. I cannot give you your homes or your lost. But if I have my say… if I can destroy that evil woman… I will not keep you from them. Not as she has.”

  She stopped there. The quiet moment between her words and the cheers that followed caused her to jump in surprise. The speech had been so paltry in her mind, but they cheered her for it. Óraithe sat in the cart next to Scaa and looked around as they began to move. The excitement was at fever pitch. There were chants, violent and angry and jubilant in turns. For a time, groups of people ran along beside the barouche, bowing when they caught her eye and falling away behind it. Their fervor gave out when the camp had fallen a fair distance behind them. There was no sense in hoping to see whether they had joined this new sort of train she rode with now. The crowd at her back was thick, far less courteous than they had been in their ride north from the bay. They filled the road chanting and singing all the way. It was for the best that they had energy. It would steel them when the swords came. Their numbers would give them confidence as well.

  Scaa had rolled her head back and stared up at the awning that covered them for the half hour since they’d left. She huffed and wriggled against the wraps meant to keep her from doing herself harm.

  “At the least, some of them have fought.” She put the words into the air with a tone that seemed to suggest she did not care if Óraithe answered.

  “I am more worried what the city will think, should we manage to take it. If we do not find ourselves welcome, this may all be for nothing.”

  Scaa shrugged at the wrap again. It went over her shoulder and around her arm entirely. An attempt to move would be fruitless unless she cut the thing. She shifted again, unable to get comfortable and the bother of the wrap tipped past her self-restraint. Scaa moaned like a child and kicked at the flat boards at the head of their barouche and wriggled back and forth. She stopped and slumped for a second before wriggling again.

  “BAH! Cut this damned thing off me, Óraithe. I’ll lose my mind in it.”

  Óraithe laughed. She rolled Scaa to the side and pulled the knife kept at her thigh. It was a thick thing, suited to skinning or chopping but Scaa often picked at her teeth and nails with it. A few cuts to the wrap and the impatient prisoner pulled herself free from the linen. She gathered it with the hand she’d been able to move all the while and threw it from their carriage.

  “You still cannot fight. I won’t have it.” Óraithe closed her eyes and turned them to face the awning above, allowing them rest. The sun was bright against the light sand around them and the break from it was pleasant.

  Scaa, for her part, had stifled a complaint before she bothered making a noise, giving a gruff agreement to keep herself from the conflict. “But if there’s trouble, I will come.” It was the last thing she said before Borr pulled them to a stop at the side of the road. A crest in the earth ahead of them was the last line before they would be visible to those atop the walls.

  “This is it?” Óraithe asked calmly, eying past Borr but seeing nothing except the hill.

  Borr nodded. “Two minutes at full clip, maybe. Ten at our pace.”

  “Gather the ones who will be in our party.” Óraithe brought herself down from the barouche and Scaa leaned after her.

  “I will be watching.”

  “I should hope.” Óraithe went to her tiptoes and kissed Scaa light on the lips. “I’d hate for you to miss it.”

  She moved to a box at the side of the carriage and opened it, pulling a cloak. It was a simple grey thing, but made new. She had never known a cloak without holes and so ran her hands over it near endlessly when it was around her shoulders. Borr lingered behind her a moment before fetching the team that would see them through the tunnels. Only a dozen.

  “You are sure you do not need a weapon? A steel one.”

  Óraithe smiled. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” And she was too small to make good use of one. A short-sword, maybe, wielded with both hands. With the muscle she had put beneath her skin, she could flail it around. Even the thought of it made her hands feel heavy and slow.

  Borr stepped to the street and whistled, circling his hand above his head. Scaa came down and stood to watch as well. A wagon pulled from the line and came forward, two men driving and space between for her. The rest in the rear. There was little mistaking the nature of the men. Grim faces, a patch across an eye, rough beards cut away with knives. They had been kind to her the night before. As a father might. Welcoming. Óraithe put her hand in Scaa’s for what may be the last time. It was something she always waited for, she realized. From the very first moment, Óraithe had been waiting for the end to come. And yet she lived. On and on. She had never grown tired of drawing breath.

  “Come back.” Scaa leaned in and tapped her forehead against Óraithe’s.

  “You have it backwards.” Óraithe gave a half-smile, the nerves in her stomach rising near to the point she felt sick. A parting kiss might have pulled breakfast out, so she turned and climbed the cart, putting herself between the killers. She allowed herself a last look at Scaa. “Go. And be ready. The guard may be in force. We killed one already.”

  The horses moved and the crest came and went, flowing down to a flat. The red walls were there and bodies across the top. No more than had been the night before. The road wound toward the gates and the ride was quiet but for the knock of wood and the squeak of metal from the wagon. The wind was still. Dead calm. Óraithe felt the world shrink away for a moment and her breathing slowed. The gate was near. There were five. Only five.

  Her men pulled the wagon to a stop and three guards moved to meet them. One at the front and one to either side. A gust of wind came from the flats, rustling the flaps on the bonnet but there was no shout. The men had not been seen or were not suspect enough to warrant it. The guards kept their distance and there was no smile to be seen.

  “Come on down. Orders. Inspections on.” The guard watched them with a face nearing disgust. “And I’ll have no arguments about it.”

  “Right you are, cap’n.”

  Her men moved to the ground, smiling politely and playing their parts. Óraithe stayed where she was, watching the one at the front. A voice came from her side. The other guard at their flank.

  “You too, girlie. No exceptions for children.”

  She did as she was bid and put her feet to the ground. She felt the three near her. The pair by the gate were too far. It would not matter. The guards moved as she’d hoped when she saw their numbers, making for the rear of the cart. As soon as the eyes were off of her she began to walk toward the gate. Calm as she could manage, hate rising inside her as the images of every dark thing raced around in her mind.

  “Girl. Stop there. Hey!”

  She’d heard him. She had passed the horses, veering wide as she did. The guard came behind her, jogging. She could just feel the other two on the sand now. She walked as quickly as she could, knowing there would be a hand at her shoulder soon.

  And so it was.

  “Are you deaf, child? You think you can—”

  The spike of earth went into him silently, at a speed so fast he had time only to jerk before it found his throat. “Grk… gak.” Drops of red shifted the earth beneath him as he pawed at her cloak. She took two steps away, the guards at the gate putting hands to sword, squinting at her.

  She raised her head to them, unbuttoning her cloak. It pulled from her shoulders as the guard fell, still gripping it. A rush pulsed to her every extremity and her eyes opened wide.

  “The girl… IT’S
HER!” He screamed it again before a dozen shards jammed themselves through his legs. There were only screams, the same from his partner, both crumpled at the gate. She felt more boots join the ground behind their wagon.

  She walked to the gate as the men came up behind her. She did not look at them, but at the men on the ground bleeding. They begged, as she had. Please, they said.

  “Mistress?”

  She turned finally. Behind her, the noise of stone piercing flesh and choked cries.

  “The tunnels. They’ll drop the portcullis now. Kill anything wearing Briste’s colors.” She turned to the one-eyed man, nodding at the wagon. “Burn it so they know. We need the rest.”

  He moved quickly to the wagon as they made for the drain tunnels. She could hear lapping flames begin to take the wagon. The boots around her in the tunnel muddied what she could feel. There was noise in her brain from it, too much. When they came to the end, a guard of three stood. It was the same tunnel they had used the night prior. Swords were in them near as quickly as their own were drawn.

  Óraithe took the lead as swords were plunged again and again into the corpses at the end of the tunnel. She was not the only one who had been wronged, she realized. There were steps exposed at the backside of the gatehouse. Seems they would have been guarded, but there were stranger things than that. No alarm had been rung, in spite of the deaths at the front. Whatever the cause, she could count herself thankful for the moment. She was halfway to the top when her men came in behind. She’d nearly forgotten them, uninterested in waiting. There was a flat at the top of the stairs, and another set to the side climbing the other direction, likely leading to the wall’s overwalk.

  “Three,” she said, pointing to the stairs. “If there are too many, wait.” She looked to the door and shifted her foot against the hard rock beneath. She could feel, but it was vague and played tricks in her mind. Óraithe untied the leathers she wore and flung them away, putting her feet firm against the naked rock. A room was beyond the door. Empty, of elves at least.