The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

by Graeme Bourke

  As the last of the patrons left the candle-lit room the inn-keeper came over and sat down. He poured Elijah another drink. “Stay all night if you let them.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they would,” uttered Elijah in agreement.

  “Do you really think there was a Shadow Walker on the fields of Tursy?”

  “Who knows, but the sight of the flag was enough to scare the hell out of everyone there,” said Elijah, sipping at his ale and deciding that he would make this his last for the evening.

  He was sure that the inn-keeper wanted to know more, would ply him with more drink in an effort to tweak a bit more information out of him. To seem to know more than the other villagers improved his standing in the community; it didn’t take much here to become a champion of sorts. Then his thoughts turned to the young woman. Here he was sure was another story.

  “The young woman who asked about a Shadow Walker…” Elijah let his voice trail off.

  The inn-keeper grasped the urn with his large hairy hand and poured himself a tankard of ale. He took a huge mouthful and his thick jowls quivered. He sat the tankard back down on the table and wiped his whiskery mouth with the back of his hand.

  “She has the Sight, that one.”

  Now Elijah understood the silent fear that had pervaded the inn when the young woman had walked in. These simple folk, and those not so simple, feared what they did not understand. Visions, or the Sight as it was called, conjured up all sorts of connotations from magic to being the devil’s own work.

  “She’s not of your kind?”

  “No, she came to this village around fifteen years ago with a warrior fleeing the war. He came with his war-horse, spear and sword and a tiny girl clinging to him. We gave him refuge and hid him from the Lothian soldiers. He stayed in the village, became one of us and earned his keep. Of the girl, he told us nothing.”

  “I presume this warrior is still here then?”

  “Yes, although his time is almost up, he has been ill for some time. The girl cares for him, treats him with herbs, but it does no good. He won’t last much longer.”

  Elijah knew what would happen when the warrior passed on, the villagers would cast the young woman out, chase her from the village, see that she never returned.

  “How do you know she has the Sight?”

  “It only happened once about five years ago, but it was enough to put the fear through the village. A small boy, Simon Dart, had a habit of playing near the millpond. Mica, that’s the girl’s name, spoke to his mother and warned of the boy’s peril. The inevitable happened; he fell into the millpond and drowned. His mother wanted to blame someone for what had happened; her grief and anguish too much for her to bear alone.

  “She accused Mica of witchcraft, of all sorts of things. The girl came back at her accusing her of being a selfish, indulgent woman and that she should have never been blessed with a wonderful child like Simon. She and Simon were friends. He was the only friend she had among the village children. The fire, the spirit in that girl’s eyes that day was something to see.”

  Elijah doubted very much that the girl had the Sight, but had simply seen the danger of a small boy playing near the deep water of the mill. You would not have to be a witch or have the Sight to work out what might happen.

  He bid the inn-keeper goodnight as he took a candle and found his way to his pallet in the room at the rear of the inn.

  * * *

  Mica made her way across the darkened courtyard leading away from the inn, the cobblestones firm and hard beneath her leather sandals. The crisp night air felt cool and refreshing through her clothes. The courtyard was the only area that was stoned. It had to bear the weight of the traffic, of horses and carts. The streets leading off the courtyard were at the moment dusty and firm, but in the winter they turned to mud; a thick red ooze that stuck to your shoes like glue.

  Walking through the narrow streets her thoughts returned to that terrifying moment almost fifteen years ago when her parents’ entourage was attacked and all were slain. Their bodies and carts ransacked by Lothian soldiers. Mica had survived because of the bravery of one of the soldiers who had hidden her in some rocks. He had sacrificed his life by attacking the Lothian soldiers and drawing them away from her hiding place.

  For all of that day and night she had crouched in the rocks, crying, whimpering and longing for her parents who lay dead on the valley floor. In the morning, thirst and hunger drove her from the tiny alcove.

  She knelt down in the dust beside each of her parents, closed her eyes and prayed for them. Then she searched for some food and water, all the time keeping an eye on the road. She was scared that the soldiers would come back. Locating some food and water she retreated to her hiding place where she drank and ate her fill. She tried to think what she should do.

  While she was embroiled in her thoughts she heard a sound, a rider was approaching, a big man with long dark hair and beard. Both were streaked with grey. He was dressed for battle with armour, a bow, and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He held a lance in his hand and a sword at his side. He took his time, his eyes searching the surroundings, weighing up the situation. He stopped for a moment and leant forward in the saddle, his eyes squinting through the morning haze. He kicked the sides of the big black horse and rode into the centre of the massacre.

  She watched him alight from his horse, draw his sword and check each of the bodies. He stood silently, closed his eyes and mumbled a few words. She presumed he was praying. He returned to his horse and was about to climb back up into the saddle when Mica stepped out of her hiding place. He saw her and was somewhat surprised to see someone alive.

  “These are your people?” he asked in a voice that echoed compassion.

  Mica just nodded.

  “Your parents are here?”

  She nodded again.

  He looked around. She could see that he was uncomfortable out in the open, was wary of being trapped.

  “I suppose we should bury them, it would be the right thing to do.”

  Mica said nothing. She made her way to her father’s side through the long grass, she saw her father’s sword lying next to him. The soldiers must have missed it. Picking it up, she knelt down beside him and closed her eyes. She held the sword out in the palms of her hands. She vowed revenge, vowed to use this very sword to slay the men responsible for this heinous crime. She removed the scabbard from her father’s body, walked over to her mother and repeated the words. She slid the sword into the scabbard, stood up and turned to face the stranger.

  She continued through the streets to the house where she lived on the outskirts of Cragmoor. It was built of rounded slatted timber daubed with a mixture of mud and straw with a thatched roof. The barn for the animals was made of split palings. They had a herd of goats, which she took out each day to the pasture on the side of the mountain. She loved those spring, summer and autumn days, in the pastures on the mountain. She loved the gentle breeze, the peacefulness and the scent of the wildflowers.

  Attached to the side of the house was a yard. It was walled in by slatted timber. In the yard was a thriving vegetable garden. It was where she had for the last ten-years trained with the sword, never missing a day. She had trained in the pouring rain, in the white numbing frosts and snow-laden ground. Agar had instilled in her the need to be able to do her exercises, to use the sword under all conditions. She had to prepare herself to not be distracted by anything. It was all about the sword, Agar had said, nothing else mattered.

  Mica lifted the latch on the rough-axed wooden door and entered the dimly lit cottage. The only light was from the open fire. Huddled in front in an easy chair was Agar, who was but a mere shadow of his former self. He was very sick, that much Mica knew. He had lost so much weight that his clothes hung off him like a rag doll. His face was thin and pale, his beard and hair, snowy white. The coughing had become worse, and now he was spitting up blood.

  “Where have you been?”

  “To the inn, there’s
a storyteller staying there.”

  “It’s a wonder they let you in,” he said as he leant forward and went into a fit of coughing.

  “I just walked in. They were too scared to say anything.”

  “Mica, you must learn to quell your anger,” he whispered as if out of breath. “Try to be humble, and be a little more discrete so as not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “They hate me; it wouldn’t make any difference what I did.”

  “Well, what do you expect? They think you have the Sight and you go on letting them think so.”

  “Have you had your broth?” she asked, changing the subject as she always did.

  “Yes, for what little good it does.”

  “You should have more before you go to bed; it has some herbs in it that will help you sleep.”

  Agar looked down at Mica. She was sitting in front of the fire with her legs drawn up and her arms curled around them. To him she was still a child, still had a long way to go, but he knew that soon she would have to find her own way in the world. Had he prepared her enough? He had given her the benefit of his wisdom. He had taught her how to read and write. He had trained her with the sword till she was a master. Yes, the sword he thought to himself, there somehow, somewhere, lies her future.

  He still remembered that first day very clearly. He was on the road fleeing from the Lothian soldiers after the battle of Tursy. How he had escaped he was not sure as he fully expected to be slain, but something happened at the end of the battle as the Lothian soldiers began to slay the wounded.

  He had been stunned by a blow to the head and was lying amid the dead and injured. He rose to a sitting position, nausea rippled through his body as he saw the blurred images of retreating Lothian soldiers. He didn’t wait to find out what was going on. He rearmed himself, found a black horse and mounted it, retching as he did. His first thought was to make his way back to the capital but he knew that would be tantamount to suicide. The Lothians would attack the city and it would fall easily as it was undermanned. He also knew that there were traitors within the city of Darfor who would know him, would single him out. Death would be his only reward if he returned. He turned the horse in the opposite direction. Where he was going he wasn’t sure.

  When he came to the slaughter on the road he knew it was the work of the Lothians. They never left anybody alive. They were only ever interested in pillaging, raping and killing. Their success, or what they considered a good day’s hunting, was measured by the amount of booty they were able to secure.

  The carts and coaches were turned over and there was no sign of the horses. The inside of the carts were stripped bare, trunks laid open and smashed, clothing and cooking utensils lay strewn around the bodies. The soldiers would have been looking for gold and silver hidden in trunks and in the lining of clothing.

  He scanned the area around him. Nothing stirred. Not even the birds seemed to favour this place of death. He thought about riding around the scene but he knew he should check the bodies. Someone might be alive, although he doubted it. He dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and moved closer.

  Climbing down from the horse he drew his sword knowing he would still be defenseless against a well-placed arrow. He looked around at the surrounding hills. All was quiet, too bloody quiet.

  He counted three women and ten armed men. Most of the bodies had arrows in them. It looked like they had been ambushed by the archers and then the horsemen had came in and finished them off. One of the men had fought well, there were four Lothian soldiers lying with him. There was nothing he could do, they were all dead.

  Agar was about to climb back onto his horse when out of the corner of his eye he detected movement. He spun around with his sword ready. He lowered the sword when he saw that it was a girl of about six or seven. She was dressed in silks of green and gold, with long black hair hanging down over her shoulders. She was olive skinned, her eyes ebony and there were tears in those frightened eyes. He spoke to her, asked her some questions but received no reply.

  She turned away from him and walked toward the body of a handsome looking man. She stopped some feet from him, bent down and picked up the sword that was lying in the long grass. Then she knelt down beside the body, held the sword in the palms of her hands, closed her eyes and sat silently for at least a minute.

  In that moment Agar had time to study the sword. It wasn’t the sword of a common soldier, or even an officer. On the end of the pommel was a large ruby and in the guard and hilt was inlaid, a ribbon of smaller diamonds. The handle looked to be made of ivory or bone and the finely finished two-edged blade glinted in the sunlight. Near the hilt and on the blade was etched the figure of a wild boar, it meant nothing to him and he had no idea what it signified. But there was one thing of which he was sure, this sword, these people, and this young girl were not paupers. They were well off and belonged in the upper echelon of society.

  The girl opened her eyes and rose to her feet. She took the scabbard off the man’s body and walked over to the woman. She had the same features, the same olive skin and dark hair as the little girl. This would have to be her mother. She knelt down and held the sword again and closed her eyes. At the time Agar had thought that she was just saying a simple prayer, a last goodbye to her parents, but he was wrong as he found out later.

  He buried the two bodies together and covered the shallow graves with a pile of stones. He said a short prayer. He climbed onto his horse and offered the girl his hand. She hesitated, then, with her sword and few meagre belongings she joined him on the horse.

  “What is a Shadow Walker?”

  Agar’s flagging eyes opened as he stared down at Mica still hugging her knees by the fire.

  “Where did you hear of a Shadow Walker?”

  “At the inn, from the storyteller.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Only that there was a Shadow Walker present on the day of the battle at Tursy and that he left a flag on the field.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, laughing to himself. That was why the Lothian soldiers had fled the battlefield thus allowing him to escape.

  “He said that Edmond Harland placed the flag there.”

  “Impossible,” grunted Agar.

  “So it’s not true?”

  Agar had known the young prince. They had met several times during his training at the army camp and were on speaking terms. But why would Edmond place the white flag with the black skull, a sign of a Shadow Walker, on the fields of Tursy? Shadow Walkers were ancient legends of times gone by, of intrigue and of supposed magic. Almost everyone in Islabad knew the stories, knew what the flag meant, although he had never seen one or known of anyone who had seen one. Shadow Walkers were prevalent a hundred years ago and according to stories they would hoist their flag whenever they were in an area where there was killing to be done.

  “Well, someone may have placed the flag there to scare the Lothians, but I doubt it was Prince Edmond,” Agar replied thoughtfully.

  “You knew Prince Edmond?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t the one who put the flag there?

  “I don’t, but tales of old tell us Shadow Walkers were assassins, some saw them as avenging angels and others saw them as murderers. People feared them because they came in the night and whenever their flag was seen someone was always slain, someone always died. Edmond was a fine young man, a fair man, a fighting soldier, he wasn't a ruthless killer. Anyway, they haven’t existed for at least a hundred years.”

  “Do you know what happened to them?”

  “I’m not sure, but I believe, as in the case of all humans that there are good and bad, there were good and bad Shadow Walkers. They supposedly ended up fighting each other, and so began their decline, until they disappeared for ever.”

  “That may be so, but what if this flag was a warning, a sign that Shadow Walkers still exist?”

  “Then why hasn’t, he or she come forward? Why haven’t they allowed
themselves to be seen? They don’t exist, Mica, not now anyway. Someone must have put the flag up knowing the Lothian soldiers would be scared shitless.”

  “Sounds feasible,” said Mica as she stretched her arms and stood up.

  “It’s the only explanation. Storytellers have a way of making tales sound far more mysterious than they really are.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Agar sat quietly watching the passive face of Mica as she stared into the flames of the fire. He knew she had something else on her mind. He waited for her to speak.

  “Agar, why is it that some people have one name and others have two?”

  This question was easy.

  “In years gone by, many years I might add, most of the provinces of Islabad had very little to do with each other. Each province developed its own culture. The poorer, more sparsely populated places only used one name, ancient names to address each other. These were Moorland, Westland, Treeland, and the northern part of Steppland. In Lothia, Gongway, and Moran, the more heavily populated trading provinces; they used two names, most of these names originated from lands across the sea.

  “It also became a sign of status, the richer more affluent people held two names, although times have changed and you now find other people using two names, ordinary people. Using two names has a practical application as well, just imagine if there were a hundred Agars in one village, it would become confusing.”

  “I have a feeling that I have two names, but I can’t remember what the other one is.”

  “Well, it’s likely you have a second name as your parent’s belongings were more than those of simple peasants; they were obviously well-to-do people.”

  “If I could remember my second name it might help me find out who I am.”

  “Yes, it might indeed.”

  Mica leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. “I’m going to bed. What about you?”

  “I think I will sit some more.”