Peter was among the first of the riders to reach the trees. There was a trail leading across a small stream and his thoughts were to ford the stream and keep going as fast as he could, but then he slowed his horse. He needed to think, to keep a clear head, this might not be the best choice. He pulled at the reins stopping the big grey horse at the edge of the water. The others soon caught up and began to gather around him.
“Why have you stopped?” asked one of the men.
“They’ll be expecting us to cross the stream. We will leave a trail clear enough for a child to follow.”
“What do you suggest?’ asked Stafford, who had now joined Peter.
The men seemed to be waiting for him to make a decision; it was as if they were accepting him as their leader.
“Take half the men and cross the stream,” he instructed Stafford, “then have them turn in a circle, go down stream and enter the water, then follow the rest of us upstream. We’ll wait for you somewhere safe.”
There was no hesitation as Stafford beckoned some of the men to follow him; the rest went with Peter. The trees hung over the stream creating an archway, a shield from the rain. It was much darker here and Peter had to proceed slowly, constantly scanning with his eyes and feeling his way through the stream and past the hovering branches. “Keep to the centre of the stream and don’t go near the muddy banks,” he yelled at the men behind him. They obeyed him in silence.
They went on like this for a good hour. It was becoming lighter. It looked like the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Peter could see the twinkling of the odd star between the branches. He began looking for a place to leave the stream, a place where their tracks would not show.
To one side was a flat stony bank where he climbed out of the stream and led them into the forest for about a hundred yards, then stopped.
“I need two volunteers to go back and watch the stream for the others?”
Two men, both significantly large with broad shoulders stepped forward; one held a spear and the other a sword.
“What are your names?”
Alfred and Simon, we’re brothers,” answered Simon.
“Go to the edge of the forest but keep out of sight. Stay there and when Stafford arrives you can point them in our direction. And keep an eye out for the Lothians. I’ll organise someone to relieve you later.”
“Who gave you the right to command?” asked a sullen, demanding voice from amid the crowd of horseman.
Peter moved his horse closer to the riders. Several of the men moved aside leaving a thick-set man with wild woolly black hair and beard in view, obviously he was the one who had spoken. He held a sword in his right hand and was at least twice Peter’s age.
“I have no more right than any man here,” said Peter. “If you think you can escape the Lothians on your own and survive then you’re welcome to leave right now, as a matter of fact all of you can leave,” he said, casting his eyes around the dozen or so riders.
“This is not about escaping,” grunted the man in a deep gravelly voice.
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about fighting those bastards.”
“What’s your name?”
“Edgar Mane from Westland, I lost a good friend at Tursy and I intend to take as many Lothian lives as I can.”
“Then you and I think alike, Edgar, for my father was slain at Tursy.”
This seemed to mellow Edgar somewhat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“The reality is that all of us are now on Thomas Letcher’s hit list, even if we wanted to return to our families we can’t. The Lothians will be waiting for us to appear, they’ll use our families and friends as bait, hoping that we will return. Then they’ll arrest everyone and I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen then!”
“Then what are we to do?” asked one of the men.
“Fight them,” replied Peter.
“How can we fight the Lothians, we are but thirty men when the others join us.”
“We will wait for the rest to arrive, then, I’ll tell you what I plan to do. The matter of leadership can be decided after that.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Edgar, dismounting from his horse.
When Stafford arrived the grey dawn was just beginning to creep through the trees. They all felt the seeping cold in their bones. Peter gathered the wet, miserable looking men around him. “I’m Peter Burrows, I lost my father at Tursy and I intend to revenge his death. None of us can go back home as we are marked men, so I am suggesting that we form a fighting unit against the Lothians.”
“You must be mad,” said one of the men, we don’t have a chance against the Lothians.
“Hear me out and all will become clear. Earlier tonight a soldier came to me and cut my bonds, which enabled us to escape. I believe that soldier was the Shadow Walker.”
All was quiet, no one said a word.
“I know this is hard to believe, hard to imagine that all the old tales are true, that there are Shadow Walkers, and that one of them has returned to show us the way. His tactics of hit and run had the Lothians running around in circles and scared of their own shadows. That’s what we must do; strike them where they are vulnerable until we’re ready to meet them face to face.
“I further propose that we select several among us to carry the news, to raise other bands across the land to harass the Lothians. Our aim is to build an army, an army that will eventually come together to fight the king’s forces. There is no turning back now, it’s all or nothing.”
“It might just work,” said Stafford.
“All of us are fed up with the Lothians, it is time we took the fight to them,” growled an angry young man off to Peter’s right. All the other men nodded or expressed their agreement with added words.
“I’ll go back to my home in Westland and raise a group there,” said Edgar.
“You will lead them?” asked Peter.
“Yes.”
Several more men stepped forward to offer their services in forming more groups. Peter selected one from each of the subdued provinces, five men in total. They would go and form fighting units in all the provinces except Moorland. Peter was the only person from Moorland and he could not go back. “Now, about the leadership question, I’m putting my hand up to lead those here, five others have offered to command the other bands. Does anybody have any problems with this?” No one spoke.
“There are a couple more things I’d like your agreement on. There will be no looting or killing of civilians, but you can rob and kill all the Lothian soldiers you like. If you come across any bandits, of which there are many, you are to offer them the opportunity to join us, if they refuse they’re to be put to the sword. They’ll only hinder us in our quest.”
“That is sound policy,” replied Edgar. “There will need to be some order in this rebellion, for that’s what it is. We will take our lands back and woe-betide anyone that stands in our way.”
There was a chorus of agreement as they mounted their horses and said their farewells.
“How long do you think this’ll take?” asked Edgar.
“I’d like a year or even two but I doubt whether the king will allow us that luxury once he hears about what we are doing. We could have to fight in the spring.”
“I’ll wait for your summons.”
Peter was left with twenty-four men, they would have to find food, shelter, some more weapons and then plan their first attack.
The Shadow Walker stripped himself of the clinging, drenched Lothian uniform. The rain had stopped and it was now icy cold. He stood naked on the ridge overlooking the valley as Brannigan passed him dry clothes.
“What are we going to do now, Master?” enquired Brannigan.
“I think we have bloodied the nose of the Lothians and caused them some distress. We will let them go for now. We have done what we intended to do, they’ll spread the story and create some fear and doubt in the mind of all the Lothian soldiers.”
“There are t
hose who won’t believe, those who’ll try to discredit you in any way they can, especially Thomas Letcher.”
“I would expect nothing more of him,” he said, slipping on his cloak, pleased to feel its warmth. He then strapped on his sword and sheathed his dagger. “We need to keep the pressure up, keep the stories of the Shadow Walker’s return alive.”
“We’re going to Darfor then?”
“Yes, Brannigan, I have to kill an old friend.”
* * *
Benjamin Simms, the Governor of Steppland, paced the floor of his chambers as the fire flickered into a roar of flames. His servant had just put on some more logs. Winter had finally arrived with the first snowfalls. He walked to the window, opened it and peered out across the light snow covered roofs of the houses below. Off in the distance were the mountains of Steppland covered in cloud and not visible, but he knew they would be white with snow. For a decade and a half he had ruled this land, had milked it of its resources; what the king didn’t take he took. He was rich, had a fine wife and a growing family of three boys, two in their late teens and one a young man. Life had been good to him. He had everything a man could want.
This latest news though had him worried. The killings at Tursy could rouse the people and make them angrier than they already were. Then there was the story of some woman warrior appearing and slaying one of the king’s men. And to top it off there was the rumour of a Shadow Walker appearing. This news concerned him the most. Although finding it hard to believe, he knew that the former queen of Steppland was born in Santomine, the supposed birthplace of the Shadow Walkers. That queen had a son who disappeared years ago at the battle of Tursy. His body was never found and nothing had been heard of him since. Many presumed he had been wounded, escaped the field, and died somewhere later.
This was the one thing Benjamin feared, the return of Edmond Harland. For he knew that he would seek revenge, seek his death. He closed the window, shivered slightly, partly from the cold and partly from his own fears. He stepped over to the fire that now gave off plenty of heat. He stared into the flames, remembering the flames that had rocked the city many years ago. Would the flames come again? There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he snarled, not being pleased with this intrusion on his thoughts.
Smythe, his Master at Arms entered the room, keeping his eyes to the floor, not wishing to see the governor’s anger, to feel his wrath. It was he who had brought the news of what had happened at Tursy and it was he who would now have to deliver further news that would not be well received.
“What is it?” snapped the governor.
Smythe lifted his eyes. The governor was a big man, once he had been a warrior, but his body had now turned to fat. His paunch protruded over his trousers, his neck had thickened and his face had become rounded and ruddy with the reflection of too much wine. “Sir, someone has erected a flag at the crossroads on the Tursy Road as it enters the city.”
“Smythe, why do you bother me with these trivialities?”
“It’s no ordinary flag, sir.”
Suddenly, feeling a sense of apprehension, Benjamin Simms instantly shifted his eyes from the fire to his Master at Arms. He noticed his hesitation. “Spit it out man, I haven’t got all day.”
“It’s the flag of the Shadow Walker, sir.”
“Shadow Walkers don’t exist, Smythe, they are legends concocted by an old woman. Have the flag taken down.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, bowing and retreating backwards out the door.
“Smythe, the guards at the castle gates, have them doubled,” he said as an after thought.
“Yes, sir.”
As Smythe left the room he breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad to have that over with, but he had not told Governor Simms everything. The people had heard the stories and his soldiers were reporting verbal attacks and small acts of defiance by the civilian population. The sight of the flag of the Shadow Walker had given them voice, given them courage.
After his Master at Arms had left Benjamin he made his way to his wife’s quarters. The small busty woman greeted him with a kiss and a cuddle. “Myra, I want you and the boys to go to Lothia, to the capital for a while.”
“Why?” she asked, sensing her husband’s concern, his worry.
“It’s warmer there.”
“But my place is here with you, it has always been that way,” she said looking up at him. “What is going on, Benjamin?”
He could never fool his wife. They had been together too long. “Myra, just go and don’t ask any questions.”
“Has this something to do with Tursy and the reports of the return of a Shadow Walker?”
“If you must know, yes,” he paused as he looked into the eyes of his wife and saw her own fear.
“They killed the priests, Myra. That alone will be enough to have the rest of the priests in the land calling for the king’s head. They will incite the people to revolt.”
“And the Shadow Walker?”
“His flag is flying at the crossroads. I’ve ordered it to be taken down. You know the stories as well as anyone. Shadow Walkers always announced their arrival by putting up their flag. He is coming for me, Myra. That I know for sure.”
“How do you know that, he could be coming for anyone?”
“It was I who betrayed Steppland, I who opened the gates to let the Lothians in.”
“You have a garrison of five-thousand men.”
“I fear that may not be enough.”
Myra was suddenly at a loss for what to say to her husband. Had he had some sort of premonition? She had never known him to be so negative.
“Why don’t you step up the patrols, have them question anyone looking suspicious and impose a curfew. Surely we will be safe here in the castle.”
“I don’t need to remind you that Steppland’s former queen thought she was safe here as well.”
“Do you really think it’s that bad?” she said turning from him and sitting down in her chair before the fire, concern on her face.
“I’d like to say no, but all my instincts tell me differently.”
“Then you must take the appropriate precautions, and regardless of what happens, I’m staying here with you.”
“When are the boys due back?”
“It depends how the hunt is going but I’m expecting them tomorrow night.”
“I’d feel better if they were back here in the castle,” said Benjamin.
It was cold out in the open. The day was overcast with a biting wind that seemed to cut right through them, they had passed through the gates of the city without any problems from the guards, they welcomed the shelter and the increased warmth gained from the city walls. Brannigan, with his head exposed, led his master who was concealed by a brown rustic woollen cape with a hood. Brannigan had no fear of being recognised here in Darfor as he was from Moran, a country on the eastern side of Islabad, but for his master it was far different.
The story he told for those who were inquisitive of his master’s reason for keeping his face covered, was that he had been badly scarred in a fire and had almost died. His master had then decided to take a pilgrimage to all the corners of the land, to see, to learn, to somehow try and come to terms with a life that now demanded his isolation.
Brannigan thought back to the time when he had first journeyed to the temples in the mountains looking for spiritual guidance. He was not sure if he found that guidance, but he did befriend a tormented youth who had seemingly lost his will to live, his will to start over after losing all those who were dear to him. The priests managed to convince the youth to embrace learning, to read, to study, to train with the sword so that he could be a better man when the time came for him to leave the temple.
With time the youth grew stronger in himself and became very proficient with the sword and dagger. He began reading the old chronicles, those that pertained to the history, the training and the disciplines required of Shadow Walkers. Here he seemed to find some solace, some connection. He practi
ced movements of stealth using the night and became very good at blending in, at becoming invisible.
In the beginning Brannigan could match him with the sword and dagger but gradually he drew away, becoming stronger, faster and almost impossible to defeat one on one. Even some of the priests, who were reputed to be master swordsmen, were no match for him. It was as if he had attained some divine power, had become a true Shadow Walker.
The priests had made Brannigan Edmond’s servant and over the years they had become close friends, so when he announced that he was leaving the temple there was never any question about them leaving together. And so began a journey of some five years of traversing the continent of Islabad. They stayed true to their origins after leaving the temples; Brannigan the servant, the Shadow Walker, the master.
The dirt of the streets gave way to cobblestones as they neared the city centre and the square. Here the traders were selling their goods. The bustle of the city seemed far from the death and mayhem that had occurred in Tursy.
Beneath his hood the Shadow Walker wore a silken red scarf; there were people here who would recognise him in an instant. Every precaution had to be taken if he was to achieve his goal. It had been over fifteen years since he had last seen Darfor. Physically it hadn’t changed, the wood and stone buildings were much the same, but he was quick to notice the squalor of the people. He saw the ragged woollen clothes where once there had been silk. There were no horses pulling the drays, instead they were pulled by men, thin, wiry and looking exhausted. Armed soldiers were everywhere, eyeing each passing pedestrian. The people shuffled from stall to stall with eyes cast to the ground, it was obvious they feared the soldiers, feared looking at them in case they caused some offence.
“I feel a little exposed here, Master.”
“Stay calm, if we are stopped you will have to appease them, we can ill afford a fight now. We need to find a place to stay. There are inns in the side streets at the end of the square.”
The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Page 25
