The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

by Graeme Bourke

  They were almost through the square when Brannigan noticed three soldiers eyeing them. The soldiers stepped out in front of them. Two of the men held long spikes. These he knew would be used on the horses if they tried to flee and once unseated they would be killed or taken prisoner. The third soldier, a tall gangly man with a clean-shaven face stepped forward with his hand resting on his sword. “Your names and your business in Darfor?” he demanded with arrogance that reflected his stature as a conquering soldier.

  “My name is Brannigan and my master’s name is Wilber de Grand. We are visiting your fine city on our pilgrimage through all the great cities of Islabad. We have just come from Haslam where we had audience with the king and paid him a princely sum in gratuities.”

  “A likely story,” he grunted.

  “You jest of the king, sir?” said Brannigan with a firm tone to his voice.

  The soldier glared at Brannigan and in that instant probably realised that he had made a cardinal mistake. It was something you never did, say anything against the king, or even make jokes however trivial, especially to strangers. There were too many people willing to make favour by selling information for a few lowly coins. Dissenters were quickly dealt with.

  He switched his gaze to the man on the black stallion with the hood and scarf covering his face. “Why do you cover your face?”

  “My master was burnt in a fire and is horribly disfigured and his speech was affected as well,” said Brannigan.

  Brannigan could see the soldiers’s unease, the indecision he was confronting within himself. Did he want to take this further or was the mention of the king enough to make this man wary and afraid of invoking the wrath of his superiors? He stepped aside and ordered the men to allow them to pass.

  “Mentioning the king, I like that,” said the Shadow Walker as they moved off.

  Turning down the first street to their right, which was rather narrow, they climbed down from their horses. This time the Shadow Walker led the way along the cobblestone road. The houses here were mostly two-storey and were made of a combination of grey stone, aged timber and thatched roofs. Signs of various shapes and sizes hung above the small wooden doorways announcing their vocation. There was a herbalist, a leather maker and Herb’s Inn. Walking past the inn they came to a laneway; just a dirt track.

  “This leads to the stables and the rear entrance.”

  Once through the lane they came to a wide-open area with a string of stables. A small boy, bare foot and wearing brown stained trousers and a checkered shirt jumped up from his wooden seat to greet them. For a brief moment he seemed to be lost for words as he stared at the stranger with the hood and scarf covering his face. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, his voice showing some fear.

  “Yes, we need these horses stabled for a few days,” said the muffled voice from behind the scarf.

  “This is a fine horse, sir,” said the boy as he took the reins of the big stallion.

  “Treat him well and it will be worth some coins in your pocket.”

  Brannigan passed the reins of his horse to the boy as well, then turned and walked through the rear door into the inn while the Shadow Walker stayed outside. It would be better that he was not seen in the inn, someone might ask too many questions, be too inquisitive.

  Brannigan’s boots drummed on the loose boards down the passage, past some stairs on his left, which he presumed led to the first floor and to the rooms. Aromas from the door on his right made his stomach pine. He had had nothing to eat since dawn this morning. He peered through the door and saw the huge fireplace burning fiercely surrounded by blackened pots. There were two young ladies and a middle-aged woman dishing up hot food onto plates.

  He moved on to the low doorway leading to the main room. The first thing he noticed was the warmth of the large low-beamed room. Another fire roared on the far wall. It took his eyes a while to adjust to the dimness of the room. There were at least thirty patrons sitting at the tables, some just sitting, smoking their pipes with a mug of beer in front of them. Others of more stature were drinking wine and eating from fine china plates.

  He made his way to the oak bar stained with beer and spilt wine where he was met by a big round man wearing a leather apron. “What is your pleasure?” he asked.

  “I require a room for three nights.”

  From beneath the counter the fat man retrieved a bound green ledger, somewhat tattered and torn. “Your names, sir, it’s the law. The Lothians check this every now and then.”

  Brannigan filled in their names, paid the bartender in advance for the room and for the stabled horses. He requested that all their meals be served in their room, which was extra. They would keep to themselves as much as possible even though they might arouse some suspicion in doing that, they had little choice. Hopefully, by the time anybody began to get too suspicious their work here would be over.

  “Are you going out tonight, Master?” enquired Brannigan, leaning back on the pallet, which was raised up off the floor and padded with straw beneath a grey, coarse blanket. It was comfortable enough. He couldn’t say the same for his distended stomach that was almost at bursting point. He had taken two helpings of the delicious venison stew.

  “Yes,” replied the Shadow Walker as he turned from the window.

  It felt strange to him to be back in the city where he was raised, where he roamed freely as a youth. There were many good memories, memories that now saddened him. Would it ever return to the way it was? No, he conceded, it could never be the same again, too much had happened. Too many good people had died.

  Maybe he could make it better for those who would follow him. He suddenly thought of Mica. Now there was a woman worth sharing some time with in the future. He wondered how she was faring. Ever since he had first seen her, met her, on that darkened night in Tursy he had found himself unable to get her out of his mind. In another time he might have courted her.

  It would not be easy for her to gain access to the Manute lands but he was confident that she would prevail and eventually arrive at Santomine. She would tell them of his rising, of his appearance at Tursy.

  Brannigan watched his master, studied his face. It was tanned from riding in the hills during the hot summer without his cloak. He was clean-shaven. He looked handsome, virile, and every bit the warrior he was. But there was strain and tension in his bearing, his blue eyes had a look of isolation, of emptiness. Returning to Darfor was an emotional journey for him, as Brannigan knew his story and understood his pain.

  His own journey had not been without pain either. When he was fourteen he left his village with an aging priest who was going to one of the temples in Steppland. He had good reason for leaving; his stepfather continually beat him and verbally abused him, telling him he was useless. It didn’t matter what he did, it was never right. His mother never protected him and took sides with her new partner. His father having been slain by the Lothians when he was twelve and his mother, needing security, had married Ben Dawson, the local merchant. The old priest had encouraged him to build a new life of his own. That was why he had gone to the temple, and there his life had been changed forever.

  “One day I’ll return to my own village, Master, and confront the one who caused me so much pain.”

  The Shadow Walker looked at Brannigan and smiled. “We both have a past to see to Brannigan.”

  * * *

  That evening Governor Simms dined with two of his closest friends and their wives. His edict had gone out and posters signaling the curfew were now being nailed to the boards even though it was dark. Patrols of soldiers had been increased and people were being warned to be off the streets by nine, or else they would be arrested and imprisoned. The soldiers were checking the inns and looking for strangers. The gates to the city would also be closed and the guard at all four gates had been increased as had the guard on the castle itself.

  “You are taking this Shadow Walker rather too seriously, Benjamin.” said Hugo Dorman, sipping at his wine. He was short and dum
py, with a round face. His wife, Christina could have been his sister. She had the same round face although she was taller than her husband.

  Hugo had benefited greatly from the Lothian invasion. It was he who now supplied all the army’s needs in Steppland, from food, to weapons, wagons and horses. He was one of the men who had helped Benjamin open the gates for the Lothians all those years ago. They had been close friends ever since.

  “I’m just taking some precautions,” said Benjamin.

  “A smart move,” said Christina in her high, squeaky, condescending voice.

  Benjamin had never like Christina. Back when they were fighting the war she had never displayed any allegiance to either side, she preferred instead, to play the field in more ways than one. Back then she could not be trusted but once the city had fallen she had come to Hugo’s side and never left it. He still didn’t trust her.

  His other guests were Alvin and Cherie Willard. Alvin was his adviser, confidant and friend. Cherie, his wife, was not particularly pretty but she had a fine figure. Alvin had confided in him that Cherie was trustworthy, totally in love with him and knew how to please him in bed better than any other woman he had ever known. “There are many stories coming out of Tursy,” he said.

  “I like the one about the young woman,” said Cherie, topping up her wine glass from the decanter.

  “A woman?” queried Myra, leaning forward, giving Cherie the signal that she wanted to hear more.

  “Yes, it seems that a young woman of intense beauty rode into Goran’s camp and delivered the flag of the Shadow Walker to him. The general immediately arrested her and burnt the flag. But she made a request of honour to Goran, a request for a duel with one of his men. I believe this aroused his curiosity. She bartered with him for one of the prisoners and her freedom if she won the duel. So Goran summoned the man she wished to fight. It was Penner.”

  “Penner is one of the king’s best fighters and a murderer to boot,” said Hugo.

  “Was,” added Cherie.

  “You mean she beat Penner?” said Myra.

  “She not only beat him but killed him as well. It seems that her path had crossed with Penner’s before and the girl was out for revenge.”

  “Those who saw the fight declare that the young woman is a master swordsman and definitely someone to avoid,” declared Alvin.

  “I find it fascinating,” said Myra. “Where is this woman now?”

  “They say she has fled into the mountains. Goran told her that if ever they were to meet again he would kill her. It seems she drew some of his men into a trap and slew them all.”

  “Goran should have slain her there and then,” said Benjamin.

  “He is a man of his word. He at least maintains some honour among the Lothians,” replied Alvin.

  “Thomas Letcher will not be impressed. It would go better for you if you put out an order for her arrest,” pouted Christina.

  Christina is probably right, thought Benjamin, but he would not take advice from her. “If she turns up I’ll deal with her.”

  “There’s more to hear.”

  Benjamin looked across at Alvin and shook his head slightly. Alvin took the hint. Benjamin didn’t want his wife to hear about the decapitated soldiers, the heads set out in a circle, with one in the centre. He knew what it meant. Just then a servant came in and announced that dinner was being served. “Maybe later, Alvin. It seems dinner’s ready.”

  The curfew had made it easier for him to move around, all he had to do was avoid the soldiers who were loud and clumsy. Years of being the masters over the Steppland people had made them complacent. They were very easy to bypass. Although he did have the advantage of a shadowless and windy night, it served his purpose well as he steeled through the narrow streets towards his objective.

  The palace itself was made of stone; its greyness had darkened considerably with age. The moss, lichen and ivy that clung to its walls and parapets made it look decrepit and run down. It was square in shape and was three-storey’s high with four turrets, one at each corner which housed a guard house of at least four soldiers. The one entrance gate was strongly guarded and led to a paved stone courtyard.

  It wasn’t the palace he was interested, it was one of the thatched cottages nearby that he sought, the one that had a set of stables to the rear. The stable and the cottage were built of timber and sat on top of a black stone foundation. The foundation rose about a foot above the ground followed by split timber palings running horizontally along the exterior of the walls. Small windows with painted frames reflected what little light there was, like eyes in the night.

  Creeping down between the houses he placed his feet carefully as he heard a dog bark not too far away. He stopped, waited and watched, nothing moved. Then he continued past the cottage and on to the stable. Crouching down he let his fingers trail over the rough stone of the foundation, to a tiny chink in the stone. His fingers dug into the gap, he pulled at the stone. It came away easily. He searched the crevice and found the keys. They were still there after all these years.

  Pushing the stone back into place he stood up and made his way to the side door of the stable, he inserted the key, turned it and heard the click as it unlocked. He pushed the creaking door open. It sounded loud in the night. Closing the door behind him he reached for his steel and flint. He had with him a small candle. He would have to risk using it to find what he was looking for.

  With the candle lit he was able to see his way. There were no horses in the stable, it looked derelict. It hadn’t been used in years. Old furniture and junk were heaped up in the stalls. Fifteen years ago there were always horses here. They were a back up, a means of escape.

  Brushing through a patchwork of cobwebs he made his way to the rear of the stable where the floor was paved. He counted the pavers until he reached the fourth one against the wall. Kneeling down he unsheathed his dagger and prodded the dirt around the square paver, the blade suddenly went in deeper. He put the candle down on the floor and dug out more of the dirt until he could reach into the hole with his fingers. Gripping the edge of the paver he pulled it toward him; it came up easily and beneath it he could see the tunnel, still intact. “Benjamin Simms, I’m coming,” he said softly, lowering the paver back into place.

  Killing Benjamin Simms was the easy part as the tunnel led into the palace and with the keys he now possessed he could move freely about the palace. The big problem was in making their escape from the city now that the gates were being locked at night. A distraction of some sort might be needed. And it might be better if they found somewhere else to stay, the inn was too public. Locking the stable door he looked at the house, it would be the ideal place for them to stay, the horses could be put in the stables and they would have ready access to the tunnel. He wondered who was living in the cottage now.

  Old Jeb, the caretaker of the horses and the tunnel must surely be dead by now. He would send Brannigan along tomorrow to find out who was living there and maybe he could induce the owner to rent them the stable and some accommodation.

  The next morning amid a new flurry of snow, Brannigan with cloak tied tightly about him and thick woollen gloves on his hands followed the directions given to him by his master. Arriving at the aged oak door of the house he removed one of his gloves and rapped on the door. He heard the bolt rattle open. A woman in her early thirties with long brown hair tied back away from her rounded face opened the door, her eyes staring at him, she obviously wasn’t expecting any visitors, especially a stranger. “Madam, my name is Brannigan and my master, Wilber de Grand, has sent me hear to enquire of Jeb Walters. My master knew him when he was but a lad.”

  “Jeb has been dead nigh on seven years now.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, Jeb took me in when my husband died.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It was some time ago.”

  “My master said there were stables here, he thought that if Jeb was still alive he might hire them out.”r />
  “I’m afraid the stables haven’t been used for years and they’re full of rubbish.”

  “Well, we can probably sort that out.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said, showing some anxiety.

  “My master is willing to pay you very well for any inconvenience.”

  Brannigan sensed her hesitation, what person would not want a few more coins in their pocket. She opened the door wider.

  “Why don’t you come in, Mr Brannigan.”

  The cottage was warmer, but not much warmer as he noticed the pitiful fire in the hearth. Coal and firewood was something that had to be paid for in advance. The timber-lined cottage was cosy enough and it expressed a homeliness that he had long forgotten. A boy and a girl sat at the table dipping their wooden spoons into bowls of porridge. They both stared at him as he came into the room. They were young, around ten or eleven and were dressed in grey drab clothes of some age. Their faces were thin and sallow and they wore woollen caps and scarves. This family would struggle to survive the coming winter.

  “My name is Rose and these are my children, Tarran and May.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” replied Brannigan, removing the cape from his head and the other glove.

  “Would you like a cup of hot tea?” asked Rose, reaching for the small, blackened kettle over the tiny flames.

  Brannigan was about to reply in the negative when he looked into Rose’s soft brown eyes, eyes that held his gaze. Rose was rather pretty, petite, and like the cottage, of a homely nature. “Yes, I could do with a hot cup of tea, it is cold outside.” He noticed the faint smile on her dimpled cheeks.

  “Please, take a seat with the children and I will pour the tea for you.”

  “Where are you from?” asked the boy, who had wavy brown hair and brown eyes like his mother. There was something about the boy that immediately caught Brannigan’s attention. He seemed alert and more forthcoming than his sister who kept her eyes low.