The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

by Graeme Bourke

  Yost swallowed, he was nervous. To speak at the Fire and receive the acknowledgment and respect of his peers was something to be achieved. He wondered if he should have just left and said nothing, but it was too late now. He would have to say what he wanted to say. If the village thought it unworthy, then he would be shunned for the rest of his life. It was the risk every speaker at the Fire took.

  At the rear of the crowd he saw his father with several other men of the village; they were all armed. Would his father dare intrude on the sanctity of the Fire, surely not!

  “Today, I arrived here with some strangers,” began Yost, “people from the lowlands, our perceived enemies. Many of you fought against the lowlanders, lost loved ones as did my own father. But we were the lucky ones, we retained our freedom. The people in the lowlands have not known the freedom we have enjoyed. They are continually persecuted and live under the shadow of death.

  “These lowlanders that I brought to our village are not our enemies, but our brothers, persecuted brothers who have fled the tyranny of the king. Tomorrow, I will lead them to Santomine.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, the old man drummed his staff on a log at his side. All went quiet.

  “You might ask why I am taking strangers to that most sacred place. These strangers bring news, news that will affect the future of every man woman and child in this land and in this village. It is news that must reach Santomine,” he paused. “A Shadow Walker has risen and has taken his sword to the Lothians.”

  The murmur this time was louder, the old man’s drumming insistent. It took a long time for the talking to die down.

  “I have no details that I can impart to you, but be assured, it is the truth. Tomorrow I go on to an uncertain future, a dangerous future. I look forward to carrying on the traditions of the Manutes in battle. I thank you for hearing me.”

  Mica felt proud of Yost, the young man had stood up and spoke his mind in front of the village, had said that he would go into battle despite his handicap and he had delivered the news of the Shadow Walker. This would enhance his image in the eyes of the village people. This evening, Yost had become a man.

  The old man, Dugan, rose from his seat, turned and faced the crowd. “You have heard Yost speak in front of the Fire, how do you judge him?”

  “I would like to know more, more of this supposed Shadow Walker?” asked a tall thin man with long grey hair.

  Yost looked to Mica. She stepped forward into the firelight. “I can tell you more. Some of you may know the story of Tursy but for those who don’t, I will enlighten you. Tursy was where your former king, Armond Harland met the Lothians in the final battle for the control of Steppland. He, along with most of his men, was slain. After the battle a flag was found on a broken lance, it was the flag of a Shadow Walker. From that time on Tursy has become sacred ground and each year pilgrims have come to pray, to be blessed by the priests. This year the Lothian king sent his cavalry and they slew the priests and killed many innocent men, women and children.”

  Mica paused for a moment, her eyes searching the crowd, she had their full attention. “I have met the Shadow Walker.”

  There was stunned silence; the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

  “How do you know he was a Shadow Walker,” enquired the thin man.

  Mica told them of her delivering of the flag, the warning and what happened that night.

  The thin man spoke again. “The king will eventually hear of this and will be enraged. He will attack the birthplace of the Shadow Walker. The king will seek to destroy the myth forever by taking the land of the Manutes.”

  “We have beaten them off before,” yelled an angry voice.

  Mica turned to the new voice, it was Yost’s father. He had forced his way through the crowd with several other men; they were all armed. Her hand instinctively moved closer to her own sword. “This time it will be different. The king will have time to gather his forces and plan his approach. I can guarantee he won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “Maybe you are a spy,” said Yost’s father as he came closer to Mica.

  Mica rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  “Show them the pass from the High Priest,” said Yost.

  Mica retrieved the folded parchment from beneath her coat and gave it to Yost. He in turn unfolded it and handed it to Dugan. The old man moved closer to the firelight and read the document. He nodded his head and then gave the parchment back to Mica.

  “You all know the path of a Shadow Walker,” said the old man, with strength and conviction in his words.

  “To become a Shadow Walker you must be of the right birth and the only way that can be known is if you enter the temple of the High Priests and to train there under their watchful eyes. An imposter would not last long, but a true Shadow Walker, those with the gift, would be embraced by the priests and given those secrets only known to them, the secrets of moving in the night like a shadow.”

  He paused for affect. “Why would a High Priest give these strangers, unknown to them and unknown to us, a pass to go to Santomine if they in turn did not know something of the Shadow Walker? The High Priests would have trained this man, would have known of his existence and would have been waiting for him to appear. It is the only conclusion that can be made from all this,” added Dugan.

  Yost’s father glared at Mica, at his son, and knew he had lost the argument. He turned and left the Fire.

  “I ask again, how do you judge Yost?”

  “We judge him in the positive, Dugan, he is a true Manute,” said the thin man who had spoken up. The rest of the people nodded their ascent.

  “So be it,” replied the old man, turning to Yost. “The village gives their endorsement to you, Yost, you are amongst the privileged few who have spoken at the Fire and have received the blessing of the village. May your future be long and hearty.”

  “I thank you all,” replied Yost as the crowd began to disperse.

  Yost had only delivered a message but he knew it was not the message that had swayed them. It was that he would lead the strangers to Santomine, would place himself in danger. Yost Vargan, a cripple, who was looked upon as useless by his father and most of the village people, had finally won the respect he wished for, but he knew he would have to do more, far more to please his father. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder, it was Mica. “I think you have chosen the right path, there is nothing for you here, Yost. It is time for you to make your own way.”

  “I feel better for having made the decision, even though I will miss my family.”

  “At least you have a family to miss, I have no one,” said Mica.

  The next morning there was clinging mist hanging around the hills and mountains that surrounded the village. Gordy was taking a walk, taking a quick look at the lie of the land. On arriving in the village he had noticed a third road heading to the east from the village. He approached an elderly man cutting some wood on the edge of the forest. “This road, where does it go?”

  “Nowhere,” he replied.

  “Was it ever used?”

  “A long time ago, it used to be a shortcut to the lowlands but an avalanche destroyed the road some thirty years ago. It would take an army to clear it now.”

  Gordy turned back toward the barn deep in thought. The king had an army. If the road could be cleared it would give the king access to the very centre of the Manute lands, an unguarded centre.

  He joined the others who had already risen and were preparing to leave. Mica had changed her mind about sleeping in the hut, she didn’t like Yost’s father, didn’t like his angry looks, so she stayed in the barn. Arrangements had been made for Lucy and Stan to stay with Yost’s family. Stan couldn’t travel and Lucy’s condition didn’t help either. Both of them would be better off here. They could decide what they wanted to do later, when Stan was well and Lucy’s child was born. Mica had slipped two gold coins to Thora who tried to refuse them but Mica would not allow it. The gold coins, properly spent, w
ould keep them well for a year or more. It was a small fortune.

  Thora and her two daughters were up early and had joined them in the barn, helping them pack and giving them fresh food. Yost had given them the presents he had brought. Eva and Lola had tears in their eyes.

  “You will have a baby to help look after, Eva, it will help pass the time,” said Yost as he hugged her tightly.

  Lola then held him with tears streaming down her cheeks, but she said nothing. He gave his mother a hug and a kiss. “I will be okay, Mother, I will send you news as soon as I can.”

  Mica and the others were seated on their horses waiting for Yost. He climbed onto his horse; they turned and began to ride north through the village. Mica had said her goodbyes to Lucy the night before, as she knew they would be leaving at first light. As they passed Yost’s house, his father appeared at the doorway and watched them leave.

  Mica suddenly turned her horse and rode back to where Yost’s father was standing. “I was raised in a village much like this. I had no parents, no siblings. The only friend I had was an aging warrior, a man who taught me how to use the sword, how to find my way in the world. It is time for your son to find his own way. He is meant for greater things and for him to stay in this village would be a waste. When we were attacked by the bandits, it was your son who led the charge, it was your son who took out the leading bandit with his knife. He is a brave young man and I am glad he has chosen to take us to Santomine. It will be the making of him. You should be proud of him.”

  The man’s face seemed to be etched in stone, there was no response. His eyes were blank and unmoving. Mica pulled at the reins of her horse and at a slow gallop passed the small group and took the lead.

  For three days, Yost led them through picturesque valleys, craggy peaks and a series of small villages where they were stopped four times by soldiers who demanded to know who they were and where they were going. Once they saw the High Priest’s letter they were satisfied and allowed them to pass.

  The weather had turned chilly and each morning when they woke from their cold slumber and looked to the mountain peaks the snow seemed ever closer. On the fourth day they came to a range of mountains that were covered in grey, swirling cloud.

  “We have to go up there,” said Yost pointing to the mass of cloud. “We’re just in time, it’s snowing but it should be passable. There is a saddle high up between the peaks. That’s where we have to cross, and we have to do it in a day.”

  “Tomorrow then,” said Mica.

  “Yes, to be caught on the mountain in the night is tantamount to suicide. We would become lost and freeze to death,” replied Yost.

  Adar began gathering wood for the fire. There were not many trees here but those that existed seemed stunted and deformed. Many of them were just skeletal white, bony frames that imbued a ghostly appearance. Patches of snow on the rocky ground lay in the shadows where the sun hadn’t reached. Soon a fire was blazing and the heat from it was most welcome.

  “I can’t seem to get warm,” muttered Gabriel.

  “I fear it’s going to be a cold night and an even colder day tomorrow,” said Elijah, rubbing his hands together in front of the flames.

  Mica sat back against a tree her folded blanket beneath her to keep the cold from her buttocks. She watched Yost who was busying himself with the salted pork that they would eat tonight. Adar was making the tea.

  For the first couple of days Yost had hardly spoken but by the third he seemed to perk up a bit. He seemed to be relishing his role as their guide. On that night when the others were asleep in the shelter of the old barn Yost had told her about his father.

  He was a veteran of the war against the Lothians. After they had defeated the king of Steppland at Tursy the Lothians turned their attention to the land of the Manutes. It was a war that could not be won by either side and after two years the Lothian’s retreated with heavy losses. The Manutes were not left unscathed. Their losses were heavy as well. Yost’s uncle had been slain by treachery, that was why his father held nothing but contempt for lowlanders.

  As for Yost, his father had changed toward him after the accident. To have a cripple in the family was seen as a burden, a stain on the family’s honour. It was common in the villages, as with most villages in Islabad, to cast out those who could not pull their weight, who could not contribute to the well being of the village. So simpletons and cripples were usually driven from the village.

  Mica knew that in Yost there was a real man just bursting to be accepted, just waiting to show that he could be someone if he was allowed free rein and given the opportunity. Because of the fact that he spent most of his time away from the village and in deference to his father, who was a warrior, the villagers had turned a blind eye so to speak. But there would have always been that underlying tension that demons would invade Yost and this in turn would eventually bring bad luck to the village. The old man, Dugan had known what he was doing when he accepted Yost’s request to speak at the Fire. It had been a wise move. It allowed Yost to leave with his pride intact although his heart was heavy.

  She watched Yost limp across to the fire and say something to Adar. They both gave a laugh. There was room in this land for everyone. Adar and Yost had found their place. And if she had anything to do with it she would see that they both continued to enjoy life.

  They ate their meal in silence and then curled up in their blankets as close to the fire as they could. During the night, who ever woke first would put more wood on the fire. It began to snow.

  The next time Mica woke, a light sprinkling of snow had covered the trees, the land and their blankets. The fire was just a smouldering pile of ash. Yost was already up and seeing to the horses. He looked across at Mica who had risen and was stretching her stiff body. “We have no time to linger as we have to cross the saddle in one day. You had better rouse the others from their sleep.”

  “It’s freezing,” shivered Mica.

  “Yes, it will become even colder the higher we go and the snow will be lying deep on the ground. In a couple of days the pass will be blocked.”

  Mica gave the huddled heaps near the fire a kick with her boot. Adar, Gabriel, Gordy and Elijah were reluctant to move from what little warmth their blankets gave them. “Cold meat and water this morning,” she said. “We need all the daylight for travelling.”

  “Adar cold,” he said, pulling his blanket around him as he rose.

  Elijah and Gabriel were both stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together to get their circulation moving. Gordy set about packing up his gear.

  “Did I hear some one say that it is going to get colder?”

  “Yes, Gabriel,” replied Yost. “We need to move as quickly as possible over the mountain, we must be on the other side by nightfall otherwise we will freeze to death.”

  The horse’s breath and their own created clouds of white steam as they rode up the sloping trail. Extra clothes had been put on, hoods tightened around cold faces and the thick fur lined gloves they had purchased pulled on.

  For the first two hours all went well, but when they entered the swirly grey mass of cloud the snow began to fall. The flakes so soft and delicate, brushed the skin of their faces and nestled on their eyelashes. Mica pulled at the drawstring around her hood leaving only a small gap to see out of. She wriggled her toes in her boots trying to instill some warmth into them.

  “Keep together,” yelled Yost. “Keep each other in sight.”

  He led them higher and higher. The snow was deeper here. The wind stronger and the falling snow much heavier. The horses were slowing down in the deep drifts.

  Mica could only see a blur of white ahead of her. Yost, covered in a layer of snow had become part of the landscape. She found it very difficult to see. She hoped Yost knew where he was going. He had told her that he had only traversed this pass twice, once as a small boy with his father and the other time a year ago with some of the other villagers to deliver goods to the market at Santomine. Both times had been i
n fine weather. To become lost here would be the end for them all. She wanted to call out to Yost, to ask how much further it was to the top, but she knew he would not hear her above the roar of the wind. She turned her head to the rear. She could just see Elijah, Gabriel, Gordy and Adar as blurred figures. She turned back, lowering her head and eyes as she rode into the biting wind.

  It was another three hours before Yost stopped and the group gathered together. “We are on the top. Going down in the snow is supposed to be the worst. The snow drifts are deeper and there may be ice, so go carefully.”

  Gabriel couldn’t feel his toes in his boots, or his fingers in his gloves. His buttocks ached from being in the saddle too long and from the cold. He had never known cold like this. He had always had his wagon to sleep in, to protect him from the cold and the rain. If he survived this he would buy himself another wagon and never allow himself to be so cold again.

  Elijah had experienced cold like this before and knew what to expect, although his old bones were calling out to him as he ached all over. Maybe it was time for him to find a better climate, to give up this life on the road. But what would he do? How would he survive? It was something he would have to consider at some time in future.

  Gordy was cursing inwardly to himself, the things he did to earn some money. The king was going pay dearly for his information. That he had to suffer the cold, fight off bandits, and who knew what dangers lay ahead; he might not even survive this journey. Then all the gold in the world would be no good to him. He shivered from the cold and from the thought that he might not even get the chance to spend the money that he had already accumulated.

  Adar followed along at the rear pleased to be with Gabriel, Mica and Elijah, that was all that mattered to him. That he had some genuine friends was all he needed. Yes, it was cold but it was only a temporary affliction. As a young boy Adar had suffered at the hands of bullies and had been eventually driven from his village. He never knew who his parents were. All he had was a foggy memory of many faces, none of them friendly. He had to beg for a living in the streets and on the side of the roads until a kindly old lady let him sleep in her stables, tend to her horses and look after the property. For a short time he had a place he could call home. Now he had no home, but he had friends and that was all that mattered.