Nightlord: Shadows

by Garon Whited

  The second type were the blue-skins. They superficially resembled human beings, but with pale-blue to sky-blue skin, usually tinged with white, and hair that always looked as though it had been washed and left outside overnight in a snowstorm. They stood between two or three times a man’s height and were broader and thicker than a proportional human. They used primitive weapons—clubs and rocks, mostly—and seemed to take great delight in eating warm-bloods. For their purposes, “warm-bloods” included anything with a body temperature above freezing, including all the usual farm animals and humans.

  The viksagi did their best to fight them off with superior weapons—swords, axes, other edged things, as well as flaming arrows; blue-skins hate fire. Dealing with a stocky, eighteen-foot-tall giant wielding a small tree for a club can be problematic, though.

  I began to see why the viksagi raided south over the Averill. The giants ate them out of house and home. And livestock. And sometimes each other. It started to explain the ratio between grown men and women, too. I also started to see why having a few manic killing machines around might be regarded as acceptable. Someone needs to run screaming up to a blueskin and try to hack its kneecap off while archers put flaming arrows into its face.

  In more prosperous times, of course, blood reavers tended to get restless, hence their willingness to head south and find someone to eat. I mean, “kill.” Unlike blueskins, they seldom actually ate anyone, but they had no compunctions about biting a chunk out of an adversary—probably how that rumor got started.

  Has anyone ever actually talked to the viksagi before? Did anyone else south of the Averill know about the ice giants? Under normal circumstances, I’d be considering how to beat the blueskins into submission and convince them to leave these people alone. At the moment, I was trying to be a king, not a Hero. I wanted the viksagi willing to raid south and bother Byrne.

  I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  There was a story I heard when I was teaching on campus—probably not true—about a theology professor. In one class, a student asked her how she could reconcile a benevolent and loving god with the fact of infant mortality, cancer, and just bad things happening to good people. Her answer was along the lines of, “God, in His public capacity, sometimes has to do things which, in His personal and private capacity, He finds deplorable.”

  Kings apparently have the same problem.

  We discussed the idea of a new bridge; I admitted that I could probably put it wherever they wanted, which made Rakhill lean forward.

  “How?”

  “How? I can build a bridge. Someone built the one in front of Crag Keep. Why not build another?”

  “You know how to build a bridge that big?”

  “Sure. It’s just a lot of stones piled on stones.” And some engineering principles you would probably think of as magic. But I didn’t say that.

  “I want to see you build a bridge.”

  “If we get enough people to go south, you will.”

  He didn’t like that. I think he was suspicious of me. I’m going to blame that on Bronze and Firebrand; they aren’t exactly subtle, as far as magical items go. It might have been a case of artifact jealousy.

  In between our discussions, I got invited to play some games. They were, without exception, violent and dangerous.

  One of them involved getting a log, placing it across one’s shoulders, holding it there with both arms, and swinging it at a similarly-equipped opponent. Whoever was knocked down first was the loser. I was good at that one. Superior strength and body mass. Very helpful.

  Another was a game of poles. A dozen logs were placed in holes around the room and stood upright. The objective of the game was to go from one side of the building to the other, jumping from the second-storey level to the top of a pole, then to another pole, and so on until reaching the other side. It was legal, by the way, to make contact with your fellow racers. I wasn’t so good at that one.

  In general, I think I acquitted myself well in their games. They seemed to be more open after each game, more friendly, and maybe a bit more respectful, too. One of them, Provur, kept slapping me on the back like he was trying to knock me down and telling me what a solid little man I was. That seemed fair; he was at least four inches taller than I and half again as wide.

  I wasn’t seriously hurt, just a bit bruised and battered. It would take care of itself after sundown.

  Hargus explained that getting together a serious raiding party was going to require that bridge. The whole purpose of any major trip across the river was to get stuff. While portable wealth was nice—gold jewelry was popular, as were weaponry and tools—there was a major river to consider. The really useful stuff, like sacks of grain, cattle and pigs, or barrels of anything, were high-volume, high-weight loot. You didn’t just grab a cow and stuff it in a sack. You drove it north, across a bridge, or you didn’t bother.

  “We don’t really care about killing you lot,” he told me, grinning through his beard. “We just want the things you have.”

  “Except for blood reavers?”

  “Except for them. They’re born with blood-madness, so they don’t count.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Bronze garnered a fair amount of attention, which was understandable. She didn’t appreciate it, but she took it like a trooper. Or, rather, like a statue. She just stood by the door and waited with all the patience of a giant piece of metal.

  “You rode here on that thing?” one man asked. He didn’t seem belligerent, just curious.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Her name is Bronze.”

  “It doesn’t move.”

  “Bronze,” I called. She lifted her head, looked at me, then walked carefully to me and put her head over my shoulder. I patted her neck. My inquisitor nodded, apparently satisfied. Bronze whuffed hot air in my hair: Are we going to be here much longer?

  “I have no idea.”

  Bronze walked back over to her spot beside the door and held still again.

  Firebrand, on the other hand, grunted.

  What? I asked.

  Someone’s messing with me, Boss. Off to the right.

  What are they doing? I asked, looking for the source. Rakhill was looking intently at me while rubbing some bones together in one hand.

  Feels like a close scrutiny. It’s not a problem, but it’s like sticking your nose against someone to look at their eye. I don’t like it.

  I smiled at Rakhill and walked over to him. He put the bones into a pouch immediately and stood up to meet me.

  “Is there a reason you’re casting spells at my sword?” I asked, trying to be pleasant.

  “Yes.” At least he didn’t try to deny it.

  “I’m not sure of the customs here, but where I come from, it’s rude.”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay, let me try this another way,” I said. “I’m offended.”

  “So?”

  I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I worked my way through the place, looking for Hargus. I ran into Cymbell, first, though.

  “Excuse me, please. I need to ask a question about your customs.”

  “Yes?”

  “If the shaman offends me, what’s the proper course of action? Do I backhand him to the floor? Do I challenge him to a duel? Or do I just tell him not to do it again and hope he listens?”

  “Are you a shaman?”

  “Where I come from, it’s called a wizard. Not exactly the same thing, but close.”

  “You are?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can challenge him to a shaman’s duel, if you like.”

  “What does that entail?” I asked, just as Hargus came up to us. “Oh, good. You’re just in time.”

  “I am?”

  “I’m an outsider, so I don’t know many of the customs of your people. Rakhill was casting spells on my sword, which offends me. I’m trying to find out what I can do about it.”

  “I’ll speak to him.”

  “
I’m told I can challenge him to a shaman’s duel.”

  “You can challenge him,” Hargus agreed, “but you’d have to be a shaman. He won’t fight you with a sword.”

  “I’m a wizard. I work magic.”

  “Oh.” Hargus looked confused. “Your spirits let you carry steel?”

  “You could say they insist on it,” I said, thinking of both the warrior-spirits I’ve eaten and the spirit in the metal of Firebrand.

  “I think I like your spirits better. Go ahead.”

  “What’s involved in this? I’d like to know what I’m getting into. Unless you’d rather just tell him not to do it again.”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Shamans just sit and stare at each other until one of them looks away.”

  “Huh. Okay. Well, if you’d tell him not to do it again, I’ll let it go. Next time…”

  “You’re a guest, and a stranger. I will do it, this time.”

  A couple of hours later I sat down in an outbuilding, threw a leather sack over me, and waited for the sunset to pass. I cleaned up and went back inside.

  Rakhill pointed at me as I walked in through the doors. He screamed something I didn’t quite catch, but sounded like arthurgong. I turned to look behind me, but I didn’t see anything. Other people looked outside with me, apparently assuming Rakhill saw something they didn’t.

  Rakhill got himself under control enough to stop screaming and start shouting.

  “Him! Him! The outlander! He’s the ahrtrugaung!”

  I looked at him inquiringly, doing my best impression of a non-threatening guest. The men nearest me looked at me, then at Rakhill, then at me again, obviously puzzled. One of them leaned close to me and sniffed. Then he looked disgusted and spat in Rakhill’s direction, adding an epithet that, loosely translated, meant “stupid.” Other people took it as a fact and ignored Rakhill’s further insistence.

  While he started buttonholing people and pointing at me—they kept shrugging his hand off and telling him to go away—I addressed the guy who sniffed at me.

  “I’m sorry, but what’s an ‘are-true-gong’?”

  “Ahrtrugaung,” he corrected. “It’s a dead man, a rotting corpse. A great warrior who does not die in battle sometimes comes back as one so he can be properly killed.”

  “Oh. So, when you sniffed at me?”

  “You’re not rotting,” he said, simply. I nodded thoughtfully.

  “That makes sense. Thank you.”

  He grunted and I moved through the crowd toward Rakhill. He saw me coming, turned pale, and started casting a spell.

  Normally, I’d just shift to my magical mode of seeing, determine what the spell was, and decide whether to attempt to disrupt it, counter the effect, or just endure it. Rakhill’s magical work, however, wasn’t quite what I was used to.

  Small spirits of various sorts clung to him, or to some of the objects he had on his person. It looked, to me, as though they were bound to the objects—a bone, a feather, some braided leather, whatever—and therefore subject to Rakhill’s will. As a result, he could draw on their power. For a wizard, that would mean that each little spirit would gather and hold magical power for use in spells. For me, it would mean that each little spirit was a potential source of life essence for direct conversion into magical power.

  Rikhall, on the other hand, accessed the various powers the spirits normally possessed. I’m sure he could start fires with the flame-spirit in the reddish-orange rock. The pouch of flower petals and other herbs probably contained a spirit that could perform some sort of healing. And so on.

  He gestured at me with a small, tightly-woven bundle of reeds or willow branches, I’m not sure. The spirit bound in it launched a surge of power at me.

  It wasn’t a spell, as such, but it was a magical attack. My defenses must have blunted it; all I felt was a slight thump, as though a small child had punched me in the stomach.

  I raised an eyebrow at Rakhill and closed the remaining distance while he stared at me.

  “You’re being rude again,” I told him. “I’m going to take offense if you don’t stop.”

  He made another gesture, this time some sort of warding sign. I stood there and looked at his hand, wondering what significance it held.

  “Is that a religious sign,” I asked, conversationally, “or is it a gesture of agreement? In my own culture, for example, a closed fist with a thumb extended upward means agreement. I’d demonstrate, but in other cultures, it’s considered a rude gesture and I’m trying not to give offense. What does your gesture signify?”

  “Why aren’t you hurt?” he moaned, backing away.

  “Because I’m not a… whatever it is. Arthur-gong thing.”

  “But I can see you dead!”

  “Was I dead earlier?”

  “No.”

  “So, I died in the outhouse, rose again, and came back in? Does that make sense?”

  He paused to think about that. Put that way, it did seem unlikely. On the other hand, he was right; I was definitely dead. I wondered what other weird abilities he might have. Probably as many as there were spirits attached to him, and there were a lot.

  That could be a problem. How do I broach the subject of being a blood-drinking undead with my host? Is there a polite way to tell someone that they’ve invited a vampiric monster into their home?

  This could be a deal-breaker. And things were going so well up until now.

  Still, if I could get away without that discussion, that might be best. I resolved to avoid the topic and succeeded. We had a lot of other things to talk about, after all. There were a number of other manors, some friendly, some not, who might be interested in something more than just a small raid.

  Gradually, the party calmed down, mainly due to the decrease in participants. Sleeping arrangements were wherever you felt like passing out. The best spots were on the third level, it seemed. My guess was that it was warmer up there. It was also the place to be if you were worried about someone being sick above you.

  The ones left were the executive decision makers: Hargus, Jorm, Garrick, and Rakhill. Cymbell either wasn’t part of that group or had decided to call it a night, which was a pity; the rest of them weren’t much fun to look at. Rakhill was especially annoying; he wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t even look at me, even if I asked him a question. Earlier, everyone else managed to hear about the proposal and give an opinion before or during the serious drinking. With public opinion adequately measured, Hargus could now make an informed decision.

  The actual discussion only lasted a little while, not counting the party. They don’t waste a lot of words around here. In short, they agreed that they would, in principle, be in favor of my arrangement. In practice, they couldn’t promise anything for anyone else. There would have to be a great meeting of manors before anybody could make a real agreement. And a bridge.

  “Show me a bridge,” Hargus said, “one without a break in the middle or a castle guarding it. Then you’ll see us in the south, at least for a while.”

  “I can do that. I plan to put it in front of the waterfall. Or,” I added, “I might tunnel back behind the waterfall. I should look at that.”

  “All right. I’ll send word to other manors, and they’ll send word on from there. We’ll have this thing before the moon’s shape comes back again.”

  I jiggled my translation spell a little. I think he meant that it would take half a month. The moon was in half-phase, so by the time it reached half-phase again… Or, he might mean a whole month, until the moon went full cycle.

  “That suits me,” I agreed. “I’ll see about putting the bridge in.” I stood up from the table and everyone looked surprised.

  “It’s dark out,” Jorm observed. “Spend the night. We’ll see you off in the morning.”

  “Love to,” I answered, “but I can’t. Lots to do if I plan to put in a bridge before your meeting.” Jorm nodded. He could understand that I might be a bit rushed to get that done. I thanked Hargus for his hos
pitality and invited him to come visit, someday. That was a mistake; I had to explain how to get to the mountain. Then I had to draw them a map.

  “How did you get past the Wall of the World?” he asked.

  “That mountain range to the east?”

  “Yes.”

  Chalk up another name for the Eastrange.

  “There are two ways. One is a pass, about here,” I drew a line on the map, “but I don’t recommend it. There’s a city blocking it on this side, like so, and it’s full of orku, galgar, and other nastiness. The other way is a road, all the way down here,” I drew another line. “It’s farther to go, but less trouble.”

  Hargus peered at the map. Maybe I should call it a “drawing.” I’m not sure he knew what a map was. People in Rethven don’t. Judging by the awful examples of the cartographer’s art in Karvalen, maybe no one does.

  “You’ve come a long way,” he observed.

  “I have. And I’ll be going this way,” I showed him on the map, tracing the route of the Averill back to the mountains. “I’ll look for a place to put the bridge and see if it’s practical to tunnel around behind the waterfall. When I’m done looking it over, I’ll probably come back here,” I ran my finger downstream to Crag Keep, “and cross over the broken bridge. Then, of course, just head south to the coast and follow it east until I can take the road, here.”

  Hargus nodded, obviously trying to wrap his head around it. It looked as though he was getting it.

  “Where are we?”

  “About here,” I said, and drew a small circle on the map. “More or less.”

  I left them with the map and took my leave. Miles to go before I sleep and all that.

  While Bronze pounded eastward, Firebrand spoke up.

  I don’t like that Rakhill guy, Boss.

  “I don’t much care for him, either.”

  No, I mean… aside from the fact that he’s nosy, I’ve been thinking. He might have been trying to get me out of the sword.

  “What do you mean?”

  You know those spirits he’s got?

  “Yes. I saw quite a few.”

  They’re not bound too tightly. I’m not sure he can. They’re just kind of leashed.