In the Empire of Shadow

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Prossie nodded. She had learned the word “paranoid” from the Earthpeople, and it seemed to fit what Wilkins described; it also matched her own perceptions of Shadow.

  “So maybe it’s not exactly a trap,” Wilkins said. “Maybe it’s not going to kill us; maybe if we turn back we’ll just find a bunch of cops who’ll take us in for questioning, instead of those black animal things. Maybe when we get there it’ll offer us all a chance to join its side, maybe go back to the Empire as traitors, saboteurs—I don’t know. I do know that either it’s tracking us, and knows perfectly well where we are, or else Raven and the wizard have been lying to us and we don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on here.”

  “Makes sense,” Prossie admitted.

  Wilkins studied her, then asked, “So, Thorpe, you can still call Base One, right? You can tell them whether to send reinforcements, or try to pick us up?”

  “I can ask Carrie to pass on a message,” Prossie agreed, “but that’s it. They’ll probably ignore it.”

  “That’s about the only way we’re going to get out of this, though—if they send in someone else. If you tell them that it’s a trap, won’t they listen to you?”

  Prossie hesitated.

  “Listen, Wilkins,” she said. “There’s something I didn’t tell anyone—I don’t know if you know all the rules we telepaths have, some people do and some don’t, but we have rules about what we tell who of what we read, and I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the hell with that.”

  “What?” He eyed her warily.

  “We were set up. I don’t know the details, I didn’t get it all, but Bascombe deliberately screwed up this whole expedition just to get rid of those people.” She waved a hand at the others, sure that Wilkins would understand that she meant the Earthpeople and Faerie folk. “He was listening to Shadow’s spies back there at Base One when he picked Carson for command. And when things started going wrong, he and General Hart decided that they want us all dead, so there won’t be any evidence that they screwed up. That’s why I’ve been so sure we weren’t getting rescued.”

  Wilkins blinked. “Why didn’t you tell the lieutenant, back at the ship?”

  “You think he’d have believed me? A mutant, telling him he can’t trust his own superiors? Lieutenant Dibbs, we’re talking about.”

  “So why are you telling me, then?” Wilkins asked. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because you figured out that we’re being set up again—that Shadow’s watching us. So maybe I think you’re smarter than the lieutenant. And maybe if you know a bit more, you can figure out how we can get out of this.”

  For a moment the two stared silently at each other; then Wilkins said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.” He glanced over at the others. “Problem is, there are a couple of things we don’t know here.”

  “What?”

  “What Shadow wants with us,” Wilkins said, “and which of us it wants.”

  * * * *

  “’I wish the damn clouds would either break up or rain’,” Sawyer said angrily to Pel. “You had to say that.”

  Pel glared back at him; it wasn’t worth trying to talk over the constant patter of the rain, or the splashing as they slogged through the mud. His stolen shirt, taken from a farmer’s hut two days before, clung damply to his back and dripped down his wrists; he almost regretted its acquisition.

  “Think you he tempted the gods, then?” Raven asked, peering out from under the dripping cloak he held over his head.

  “Something like that,” Sawyer agreed. He had stolen another farmer’s cap that morning, but it was clearly not doing him much good in the steady downpour.

  Raven shook his head. “The foolishness of you pagans,” he said. “To think our mere words could thus affect the Goddess’ scheme.”

  “You’re calling me a pagan?” Sawyer exclaimed angrily. He stopped and grabbed Raven by the arm.

  Raven turned and struck at Sawyer without thinking; Pel saw him start to wince, and then suppress it, as his mostly-healed but still tender fingers hit Sawyer’s wrist.

  Sawyer saw it, too, and let go. “Sorry,” he said.

  “’Tis naught,” Raven said. “I spoke ill of your faith; ’twas rude of me.”

  By now the entire party had stopped; Pel and Raven and Sawyer had been at the front, and the others were now gathered about them, sinking into the mud of the road.

  “Oh, come on,” Amy said. “If we keep going maybe we can find somewhere to get out of the rain.” She turned and trudged onward; she limped slightly, thanks to popped blisters, but seemed to be over her illness. Susan followed her lead, tugging at Ted’s wrist to make sure he came, as well.

  Prossie, who had been near the center of the line talking to Valadrakul, turned to look over the party, and Pel saw her frown.

  Sawyer, too, noticed her expression, and looked over the rest of the group.

  “Hey,” he said, “where’s Ron?”

  “Who?” Pel asked.

  “Ronnie Wilkins.”

  Amy and Susan and Ted kept walking, unaware of the consternation as the others all turned and looked around.

  “He’s gone,” Marks said, sounding very surprised. He took off his helmet to look around better, and blinked as the rain drenched him.

  “When did you last see him?” Pel asked.

  The others glanced at one another.

  “At that last village, I guess,” Sawyer said. “Just before it started raining.”

  “He was with us when we left the village,” Singer said unsteadily; he was cradling his swollen left wrist in his right hand. The badger scratches he had received back at Castle Regisvert had become infected, and Valadrakul’s crude attempts at treatment had done little good; Pel had thought it amusing, or ironic, or at any rate worthy of note, that scratches left by an ordinary badger had turned out to be septic, while the various wounds he and Prossie and Amy had gotten from Shadow’s hellbeasts were all healing cleanly.

  Maybe ordinary germs couldn’t live on Shadow’s unnatural creatures.

  “I did a count,” Singer added. “I know he was with us.”

  “He was here,” Marks confirmed.

  “How long after that, though?” Pel asked.

  Singer shrugged. “That was the last time I saw him,” he said. “He was way at the back.” He looked at Marks. “I thought he was talking to you.”

  “He was, for awhile,” Marks agreed. “But then he said he wanted to think, so I left him alone and came up to talk to Sawyer.”

  “I remember that,” Sawyer said. “So no one’s seen him since then?”

  No one had.

  “D’you think the monsters got him?” Sawyer asked. “Shadow’s things? Or maybe something else, some other magic?”

  Singer snorted derisively; Raven smiled.

  Valadrakul shook his head. “I doubt ’twas Shadow.”

  “I think he must’ve just left,” Pel said. “He decided not to come with us, and didn’t bother to argue about it.”

  “He decided not to walk into a trap,” Prossie said quietly. “Not when he isn’t one of the ones it wants.”

  The others stared at her for a moment; then Marks said bitterly, “And the son of a bitch didn’t ask me to come with him, either!”

  “Or any of us,” Sawyer pointed out.

  “Probably figured he had a better shot by himself,” Singer suggested wearily. “Probably right, too.”

  “Well, he’s gone, now,” Pel said. He turned, without another word, and began marching onward, following Amy and Susan and Ted.

  “We aren’t going to try to find him?” Singer asked.

  “Why should we?” Pel called back over his shoulder. “He’s a big boy; he can take care of himself.”

  “And where would you seek him?” Raven asked. “’Tis a broad land, and he’s had time to conceal himself where’er he would.”

  Singer blinked at him, then said, “Yeah, you’re right.” He trudged after Pel.

  Afte
r a moment’s hesitation, the rest came close behind.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to bunk,” Marks whispered.

  Prossie turned, startled.

  “Like Ronnie,” Marks explained. “He was right; why should we all get killed? This Shadow thing probably just wants Raven and his wizard pal, or maybe the Earthpeople.”

  Prossie glanced around. They were in open country now, a low, grassy plain where no trees grew, much of it too sodden to farm; the highway wound its way along the higher, drier portions, past the dreary little farms that mostly seemed to raise various sorts of berries. They hadn’t passed anything resembling a village for several miles, and their last meal had been nothing but stolen raspberries—sweet, but not very satisfying.

  “Where will you go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It all looks pretty much the same, so who cares?”

  Prossie was considering that when Marks asked anxiously, “So, Thorpe, are you with me?”

  “Who else are you asking?” Prossie asked.

  “Nobody,” Marks replied hastily. “I mean, I figured you and I, we could make like we’re married, if anyone asks…”

  She knew what he meant. Prossie looked at him more closely, considering.

  Bill Marks was hardly her idea of the perfect mate; he was of medium height, not particularly well built, with a receding chin and a bad complexion—not really ugly, but not anyone’s image of handsome, either. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he wanted to carry the fiction of a marriage a little further than answers to questions from nosy natives. The notion did not particularly appeal to her. With the right person, maybe, but not with Bill Marks.

  Hell, he didn’t even call her by her first name.

  “What about Singer and Sawyer?” she asked.

  “What about them?” Marks asked, flustered.

  Prossie looked him in the eye, then turned and looked at the others, a dozen yards ahead.

  “Well, you know,” Marks said, a little desperately, “Singer’s got that bad arm, and besides, the more of us there are, the more likely we’ll be noticed, you know, by Shadow or someone…”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I think I’ll take my chances with the rest of them, at least for now. You go ahead, and good luck!”

  Marks hesitated. “You sure?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Prossie answered firmly.

  She was sure of her decision—but she wished she was sure she was right.

  * * * *

  Pel turned, startled, at a tap on his shoulder, and found Prossie Thorpe just behind him.

  “Mr. Brown,” she said quietly, without preamble, “I was wondering just what your opinion was on Wilkins.”

  “My opinion?” Pel glanced around; no one else seemed to be paying any attention. He had half expected to see Nancy glaring at him for talking to another woman this way, but Nancy was dead, she wasn’t with them. “My opinion is that he’s gone,” Pel said. “What do you mean, my opinion?”

  “I mean, do you think he got away safely?”

  Pel shrugged. “I don’t know. He probably did, but I don’t know any more than you do. Maybe less, if your telepathy can tell you anything.”

  “Not about that,” Prossie said. “I still hear from Base One sometimes, but they’ve written us all off as lost.”

  Pel nodded. “I’m not surprised,” he said.

  “So do you think Wilkins was right, that he did the right thing by turning back?”

  “Or aside,” Pel said. “We don’t know where he went, remember.”

  “But do you think he was right?” Prossie insisted.

  Pel shrugged again. “Who knows?”

  “He thought we were all walking into a trap, you know,” Prossie said.

  “So he said,” Pel replied.

  Prossie nodded. “He talked to me about it a little; he figured that Shadow might want you, because the warp came out in your house, and Raven because he’s the lord of Stormcrack, and Valadrakul because he’s a wizard, and so on, but that it wouldn’t have any use for a bunch of ordinary Imperial soldiers.”

  Pel thought that over. “He might’ve been right,” he admitted.

  “So what about the others?” Prossie asked. “I mean, I’m a telepath, so maybe I’m one of the special ones, too, but what about Marks and Sawyer and Singer?”

  “What about them?” Pel asked, trying to figure out what Prossie was leading up to.

  “What if they turned back, instead of going on with the rest of us?”

  Pel shrugged; he started to say, “It’s a free country,” then remembered where he was. “They can do what they please,” he said. “I’m not their jailer.”

  “But do you think it would be safe?”

  Pel gave her a startled look.

  “I mean,” Prossie explained, “Wilkins thought that if we turned back, then we’d find Shadow’s monsters waiting for us, that it was only leaving us alone as long as we stayed headed in the right direction. So if someone it wanted turned back, he would be running right into the monsters. So do you think Marks and Sawyer and Singer would be safe?”

  “Why are you asking me?” Pel demanded. “You’re the telepath! And Raven’s the expert on Shadow. I’m just…I’m just me.”

  “Raven lies,” Prossie said. “You know that; he’d tell me whatever he thought would be best for him. I think I can get an honest answer from you.”

  Pel looked at her, puzzled. Her eyes were green, he saw—he had never noticed that before. Her hair was a dull brown, her face ordinary.

  “You want an honest answer?” he said. “Fine; I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on; I’m just trying to muddle along. I want to go home. I want my wife and daughter back. Beyond that, I don’t care what happens, to me or anyone else. If those guys want to go back to the ship, or go hide somewhere, it’s fine with me.”

  For only an instant, her eyes met his; then she dropped her gaze to the ground, and he was sure he had offended or frightened or embarrassed her somehow. He started to frame an apology, then stopped; he had nothing to apologize for.

  Maybe she was just shy. Or maybe she was trying to flirt with him.

  He wasn’t interested in flirting; he was a married man—or at least, he still thought of himself as one. It was too soon after Nancy’s loss to look elsewhere—or maybe he was just too tired, or too scared.

  And even if he hadn’t been, Prossie Thorpe wasn’t exactly what he was looking for in a woman. He looked down at his own muddy boots.

  She turned away without saying anything more.

  * * * *

  Raven was satisfied with their progress—or at any rate, with the speed of it; the direction was not that he would have chosen. Marching to Shadow’s fortress still seemed to him the height of folly.

  And now they were but a day away, he thought, as he peered out into the blackness of the surrounding night, and that day, if the tales spoke truth, to be spent all upon the causeway across Shadowmarsh, with nowhere to turn or hide. They had seen the marsh spread before them as the sun sank, and that was why Raven had called the night’s halt where he did.

  Might he not best serve his land and his people and his cause by slipping away, and leaving these foreigners to their own devices? If they were to perish at Shadow’s hands, ’twould be a sad loss, but there had been many such losses over the years.

  And this was the final moment, the time when he must decide. He had debated the matter with Pellinore Brown over their meager supper, and the Brown remained unyielding—he was bound for Shadow’s keep.

  Some might accuse a man in Raven’s place of cowardice, did he now flee—but what of that? Was he not outcast now? He would know it was not fear, but prudence and hope for the future that guided his steps.

  Still, to be marked as coward, even wrongly…

  He had got that far in his thinking when a cry sounded; instantly, Raven was on his feet, once again cursing the fate that had left him without his sword.
>
  “Help!” a man’s voice called, as from a distance. “Oh, my God…”

  Raven snatched up a brand from the dying fire and waved it, that the air might brighten the sparks; it flared briefly, but the flame did not linger, and he saw naught but startled faces and muddy boots.

  “It’s Marks,” said the man Singer; he, too, raised an impromptu torch in his good hand, and headed for the sound.

  The voice cried out again, wordlessly, as Singer and Raven ran up the highway to the east, away from Shadowmarsh. Raven saw that the others, to their shame, stayed behind—even Valadrakul, who, though a wizard, Raven had thought to be a man of honor and some small courage.

  The cries stopped well before Raven and Singer reached their source.

  When they did reach Marks’ body, it was far too late to lend any aid beyond a decent burial; his dead eyes gleamed orange in the feeble torchlight, staring up at the black clouds above, but his face was black with dirt and blood. His throat and chest had been torn open, and Raven knew at a glance that even the finest healer could not have saved him.

  “Damn,” Singer muttered. “What did it?” He raised his torch, brighter than Raven’s own, and waved it about. “Where is it?”

  “Shadow,” Raven told him, lowering his own brand.

  “Are you sure?” a female voice asked.

  Startled, Raven whirled, and found the woman called Susan standing a few paces down the road, her black bag open on her shoulder, her hand within—ready, Raven supposed, to bring out in an instant that magical weapon of hers.

  He smiled slightly. At least one of the foreigners had courage—and the skill to use it, to have followed so silently!

  “What else?” he asked her. “’Tis surely another warning—more bones by the roadside for any who would follow us.”

  “Why just him? Why not all of us?”

  Raven turned back for another look at Marks.

  “See you,” he said, “he sought to flee; we are surely a good quarter-mile from our camp. This man had turned back upon the path.”

  “And Shadow doesn’t want us to do that,” Singer said.