In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  A column of night stood ahead in the middle of the street.

  Wynn flinched, even though she was prepared for this.

  Appearing solid and real, its cloak corners began to lift on their own around the black robe. Unlike what she’d seen with mantic sight, the hollow of its hood held only darkness. So alien—like spotting a black spider running up her arm. Wynn began to shudder.

  It just waited, not even coming for her. Was it playing with her? Did it want her to smother in her own fear and run?

  “What are you after?” she said, and her voice turned shrill. “What is worth murder?”

  Not even an echoing hiss rose around her in response.

  Where was il’Sänke? He had to see it. It was standing right there in the open.

  The night’s chill deepened around Wynn, biting at her exposed face and hands.

  The wraith slid forward across the cobblestones, its speed increasing. Wynn turned and ran.

  Chane tensed to keep from charging out, his left hand with the ring still resting on Shade’s back.

  Wynn raced down the street, toward his hiding place.

  There was no sign of il’Sänke, and Chane forced himself to wait. But the wraith was closing too fast. He held back until Wynn blurred past him—and still no sign of il’Sänke.

  “Now!” he rasped, and lifted his hand from Shade’s back.

  The dog cut loose a wail as she lunged into the street, and the sound made Chane quiver. He pulled his longsword, counted off two forced breaths, and bolted out after Wynn.

  The blade would not affect the wraith, but his task was to do anything to divert it once it faltered amid too many adversaries appearing. He had to focus on that one purpose alone.

  But it did not falter—not even as Shade charged after it, snapping and snarling. It reached out with its cloth-wrapped hand, until its fingers stretched to within a hand’s length of Wynn’s back.

  And Chane was still too far off. But Shade closed the distance.

  She leaped, arcing straight at the black figure—and it vanished. Shade landed with a frustrated growl and whirled about.

  Chane did the same, quickly searching the street. Like some mockery of light, a black flash caught in the left side of his vision, and he saw Wynn stumble to a halt.

  The wraith stood ahead of her, down the street.

  Chane veered as Wynn backpedaled and began digging into her robe’s outer pocket.

  One thing was clear: This creature didn’t want the majay-hì to touch it. That gave Chane an advantage. As he rushed at it, he shouted, “Shade!”

  The wraith slid sharply to the right, trying to get out of his way as Shade’s howl erupted again.

  Chane thrust out with his empty hand, driving it toward the black figure. Part of him suddenly hoped the wraith would vanish to escape.

  For an instant he thought he saw a darkened shop wall through its form. Momentum speared his hand through the black robe’s chest.

  A shock of cold stiffened his fingers. It shot up his arm as a brief screech surrounded him. Both the sound and the black figure vanished—but not the pain in his arm. Chane slammed into the shop wall beyond.

  His numbed fingers rammed wood planking. He thought he heard one finger crack as his shoulder hit the planks. He rolled along the wall, looking frantically about as a thousand icy needles seemed to slide through his hand, arm, and shoulder.

  Shade raced by, snarling like a rabid dog.

  He never had a chance to look for Wynn. Coiling wisps like soot-laced smoke gathered into a column in the majay-hì’s path.

  But it was slower this time, not like the last. For an instant, the thin transparency Chane had glimpsed remained. Then it grew solid black as a screeching hiss exploded, filling the street along with its returning form.

  The wraith’s ability to vanish and reappear wasn’t as quick as Chane had thought, and now it seemed to struggle even more to become real. And he had hurt it as well. But his fingers barely moved and his arm was nearly limp at his side. He would have to throw aside his sword to try again with his other hand.

  Before Shade could leap, the wraith rushed forward and swiped down with its hand.

  Shade ducked away, but one forepaw slipped. She fell sideways, quickly rolled over, and her rump hit a shop porch before she could scramble up. Chane lurched off the shop wall as the wraith circled wide around Shade.

  Then it jerked to a dead stop.

  The hiss grew again in the street, like water pattering upon a hot stove. It whipped about, facing toward Chane.

  “Throw it . . . now!”

  Chane glanced back.

  There was Wynn, fumbling to pull the arms of the spectacles over her ears.

  The instant the wraith appeared, Ghassan dropped to the street with the staff in hand—but not from where he had whistled to the others.

  While waiting, he had wondered how this thing had learned so much about the folios. If it had skills as a mage of any kind, he did not want it locating him. And when it appeared, he would not have time to obscure his presence from its awareness. If it learned of Chane and Shade’s location, that simply served as a further distraction.

  In the last instant Ghassan slowed his descent and settled silently behind the robed undead. It seemed utterly unaware of him, remaining still and silent, watching Wynn.

  Ghassan fixed upon its exposed back.

  Before he even wiped away the spell’s remains to call another, the wraith rushed forward down the street, and Wynn took off running.

  Ghassan did not know how long Chane and Shade could keep this thing distracted, and Wynn was defenseless. He could not allow it to touch her, or this would all end too quickly with nothing gained.

  As Shade charged out, Ghassan lifted to the rooftops again. Half hopping and half floating over the shakes, he raced along above the street. Before he could halt and focus upon the figure, Chane emerged and the dog leaped at the wraith.

  It vanished.

  In one blink, it materialized beyond Wynn. She skidded to a halt as Chane rushed by her. And Wynn’s pale companion rammed his hand through the black robe. The wraith vanished again as Chane collided into a shop.

  Black wisps swirled in the street ten paces beyond as Shade charged past Chane.

  Ghassan rushed across another two rooftops and dropped to the street behind those swirls.

  He needed only to mask the wraith’s sense of place and bind it in confusion. As it struggled to reappear, he banished the spell that let his will lift him and began building walls in his own thoughts.

  The wraith swung down at the majay-hì as Ghassan closed his eyes.

  The pattern of a new spell appeared behind his eyelids. He began to chant, murmuring audibly, so the sound of his own voice in his ears reinforced his intent. He opened his eyes and reached for the thing’s thoughts—if it had any.

  The wraith swiveled around.

  Ghassan stared into the pitch-black hollow of its cowl—and choked for air.

  Something twisted about in his mind.

  Like worms trying to bore their way out of his head, they ate at his thoughts as they writhed and turned. Pieces of his spell’s shapes and sigils rotted before his sight. The glimmering lines lost all color and decayed to dust.

  Worms of rage and hate ate at him from within.

  He had connected to this thing, found his target with his own thoughts—but he sensed nothing there, only the worms and their bitter hunger.

  The street’s lantern light began to darken before Ghassan’s eyes.

  Somewhere distant from his awareness, he felt the air turn cold. Chill seeped inward until it sank into his mind. Nothing he had ever touched by will or his arts could do this.

  Ghassan retreated deep inside himself, behind the walls made of his own thoughts.

  He let go of any reach for this undead. He used all that was left of his will and shored up the walls in his mind, until the worms’ gnawing grew faint—like scales upon those worms scraping upon stone. />
  A voice cried out, “Throw it . . . now!”

  Ghassan’s sight cleared a little, as if called back, and the wraith slid toward him. Wynn trotted up behind Chane, trying to pull on the spectacles.

  The staff—all he had to do was ignite the crystal. That thought made his will slip.

  The night nearly swallowed him as the scaled worms cracked through stone inside his mind. He found himself staring into the dark space within the black figure’s hood.

  Ghassan hurled the staff—and the wraith froze, raising its cowl as the staff arced overhead.

  “No,” Wynn whispered.

  The staff was coming down short.

  The wraith twisted about, raising its cowl skyward, and it thrust a cloth-wrapped hand into the air.

  Wynn’s fright spiked as Chane threw himself into the wraith—and passed straight through it. His scream came on the tail of a rising screech that filled the street, seeming to come from everywhere around.

  Wynn bolted forward, her eyes locked on the falling staff.

  She couldn’t look for Chane, Shade, or il’Sänke, not even to see if the wraith still stalled. She couldn’t let the crystal hit the street’s stones.

  The spectacles jostled on the bridge of her small nose as the staff landed in her palms. She closed her grip tightly, too frightened to feel relief.

  Then she saw the wraith . . . or through it.

  It wavered, more shadow than illusory solid black. Its enveloping shriek still tore at Wynn’s ears. Beyond it—through it—Chane was trying to rise off the cobblestones. Il’Sänke straightened himself, stumbling as he shifted around the wraith’s left side. He was shaking, his lips parted over clenched teeth. Chane hobbled the other way, until he thumped into a shop’s porch pillar.

  Something had happened to il’Sänke, and Chane was still too close, but if she didn’t ignite the crystal now . . .

  The wraith solidified and fixed upon her—upon the staff’s crystal.

  “Do it!” il’Sänke shouted weakly.

  The screech faded to a hiss, and the black undead lunged at her.

  Wynn dodged away to the street’s center, and Shade charged in, snarling. The wraith faltered and swung at the dog. Shade was too slow in trying to reverse.

  The cloth-wrapped hand didn’t go through this time.

  Shade yelped as the blow struck solidly against her head. She went tumbling across the cobblestones as if she weighed nothing.

  Wynn had no chance even to cry out as the wraith turned on her again. She tried scurrying out of reach to get even one instant to ignite the staff’s crystal.

  The wraith jerked to a halt. The hand that had struck Shade now trailed behind it. Its arm was pulled back taut, as if something unseen had taken hold of its wrist. Wynn heard a thrumming utterance coming from il’Sänke.

  “Chane, get out of here!” she screamed.

  She didn’t dare look away to see if he’d listened. She kept her eyes on the wraith as she envisioned the circle and nested triangles, all wrapped around a final circle. Wynn thrust the staff’s crystal out to rest it in the pattern centered on the wraith.

  The black figure flickered, briefly transparent.

  The last thing il’Sänke taught her was to speak her focus phrases in Sumanese, hoping a familiar tongue might startle this monster.

  From Spirit to Fire.

  “Mên Rúhk el-När . . .” she whispered.

  Whatever hold il’Sänke had on its arm broke as it thrashed free.

  . . . for its light of . . .

  “. . . mênajil Núr’u . . . mênajil—”

  “No one move!” someone shouted. “Keep your place. All of you!”

  Wynn never finished the last word as a clatter of hooves broke her focus.

  Three horses charged up the street, with Rodian in the lead on his white mare. He rode straight at il’Sänke with his sword drawn.

  The pattern vanished from Wynn’s sight as she shouted, “No, not him!”

  Rodian heard howling from several blocks away and drove Snowbird through the streets until he burst upon a startling scene.

  Il’Sänke stood closest, his back turned. Another man holding a longsword stumbled along the shops at the street’s left side. And Wynn’s wolf righted itself near a porch up the way.

  “No one move!” he ordered, jerking his sword from its sheath. “Keep your place. All of you!”

  Then Rodian spotted Wynn.

  She held out a staff with a long piece of prismatic glass fixed atop it. Strange glasses with large lenses covered her eyes. Her lips stopped moving as her head turned toward him, then her face filled with panic.

  What was she doing here with the Suman and these others?

  Il’Sänke remained where he was. Rodian couldn’t be certain whether the man was looking at Wynn or . . . ?

  Rodian spotted the black-robed figure. He hadn’t seen it at first in the dimly lit street with so many others scattered about. Only the figure’s hood pivoted toward him.

  It was here—but so was il’Sänke. They weren’t the same person, but the Suman still muttered a chant.

  Rodian flipped his sword tip up and nudged with his heels. Snowbird closed on il’Sänke’s back at a fast canter. He would bring an end to this chain of deaths.

  “No, not him!” Wynn shouted.

  Rodian hammered his sword hilt down on il’Sänke’s head, and Snowbird skidded to a halt as the domin crumpled.

  CHAPTER 19

  Chane stumbled into a narrow path between two buildings, fearing the crystal might flash at any moment. But the burning light never came.

  He flattened against one shop’s dingy side as shouts and the sound of pounding horses’ hooves grew in the street. The sting like iced needles still filled his body, but shock overcame suffering when he peered into the street.

  Shade was on her feet, rumbling instead of howling, and she limped sideways toward Wynn.

  Wynn stood in confusion, holding the crystal’s staff out. But she turned her widening eyes, behind the strange spectacles, toward the first horseman.

  The man she called Captain Rodian—the same one who had set the trap at the scriptorium—sat on a fidgeting white mare, his sword in hand. And the Suman lay in a limp mass, clearly unconscious.

  Amid all this, the wraith remained still, turning only its hood toward the captain, as two other city guards kicked their mounts, charging at it.

  Everything had turned to a fool’s chaos. There was nothing left but to get Wynn out of the middle.

  Chane willed down pain, letting hunger rise to eat it, and he ducked out, bolting straight at Wynn.

  Rodian looked up from il’Sänke’s crumpled form as Garrogh charged with Lúcan flanking him. The two raced toward the black-robed man.

  “Hold!” Garrogh shouted. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  “Keep away!” Wynn shouted back.

  Rodian wasn’t certain whom she shouted at. The wolf hobbled quickly in front of her, but the black-robed figure slid straight into the path of Garrogh’s bay gelding.

  Garrogh’s horse reared with a sudden scream, and the figure thrust out his hand.

  His fingers pierced the gelding’s chest, and then he slipped aside. As the gelding’s foreleg came down, the horse collapsed.

  “Garrogh!” Rodian yelled.

  His lieutenant was tossed forward, slamming against the cobble and skidding along the street. Lúcan swerved his mount around the downed horse and charged at the black figure.

  “Lúcan, no!” Rodian called.

  The robed man swung with his hand, striking the head of the guardsman’s horse.

  The animal never made a sound as it skidded on its folded forelegs. Rodian jumped off Snowbird as Lúcan fought to pull his mount up. But the horse collapsed sideways, and the young guard cried out as his left leg was pinned.

  Rodian ran for his men. The black-robed man closed on Lúcan, struggling beneath his mount.

  Lúcan tried to pull his sword. The
dark man slapped his face—and the guardsman screamed. Garrogh rolled over on the street and lunged up, drawing his blade as he turned on the robed one’s back.