Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  The civilian bodies they passed were killed by sword and spear—not the weapons of a looter, but that of a soldier. Several fallen city guards could be seen on the streets as well, their blades drawn and blood-stained lying motionless next to their twisted green cloaks. It was likely that they had killed at least a few of the enemy, but Argos saw no soldiers in Gallan armor. They would’ve been dressed in plain clothes during the initial attack then. Such deception would allow the invaders to blend in, to get right up to where they needed to be until the time was right. The city was already in a panic and Argos couldn’t imagine the citizens’ terror when weapons and soldiers appeared and began killing.

  He wished that Natalia had chosen a better time to drink too much of her sleeping opiate. Four days ago they could have escaped the city with ease alongside the thronging masses of others who had fled. Instead, the surgeon had ordered her not to be moved, as excess circulation of her blood would spread the drug deeper into her body and put her further at risk.

  So he had waited for her to awaken, watching his city burn and listening to the sounds of its final days. He smiled bitterly and shook his head. Women were always complicating things.

  Not that he would ever speak of it. Karin had seen to that. The handmaiden had an acid tongue when she wanted, and Argos was forced to promise never to mention the incident. Not that any of it really mattered. He would’ve stood guard at Natalia’s doorway and murdered a thousand men before letting any harm befall her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her or Kreiden, including waiting calmly in her garden as she slept while his whole world went up in flames around him.

  But what other choices did he have? Abandoning Talia was never a possibility. The two of them would either leave the capital or remain, but whatever path she chose, they would do it together. Always together. He had told Kreiden he’d watch over her and that’s what he intended to do, no matter the cost or conditions.

  Always together.

  They continued to move through the vast network of alleys and smaller streets, past burning buildings and bloated corpses. The city of Corda was large, broken up into eight districts. The Baelik house was located on the outskirts of District Three, nestled within other clustered houses of affluence. It was an area where tall homes of stone boasted enough rooms for servants to live with their families, and the prosperous had their choice of balcony on which to take their supper. The neighborhood around the market they approached now was one such place of wealth, and the rich enjoyed their views enough to have the thirty-foot city walls lowered to a more manageable, single-story height.

  This, Argos hoped, would be low enough for them to climb over and escape. He pictured District Three’s Bronze Square and the large fountain at the center. During the day it was home to a massive market of shop carts and vendors. A fine place to barter for wares or food, one could easily spend an entire afternoon taking in all there was to offer. Argos intended to skirt around this open square and scale the city wall behind the adjacent buildings, disappearing into the forest beyond.

  Simple and easy, the warrior couldn’t wait to see which way of the hundreds his plan would go heinously wrong.

  The trio traveled in silence for a while longer, approaching the market plaza from the south, hugging the walls down a long and narrow alley. The fires of the city were growing, loud enough to fill the air around them with their sinister roar, but for the moment the blazes could not be seen. The heights of the nearby buildings hid the towering flames from their view. The smoke clouding the sky was getting heavier, with white flecks of ash raining down on them from above like the beginnings of an unsettling snowstorm.

  They saw it then at the end of their alley, and its courtyard spread wide before them: the Bronze Square marketplace.

  Tentatively stepping to the corner, Argos had a look around.

  The open plaza appeared to be deserted. Three-story buildings bordered all sides of the square, the most distant from them blazing full and angry in a mountain of fire so bright it lit up the market. The fountain at the center held a tall, white tree, carved from ancient stone. Under normal circumstances water would pour from its many branches to drip down into the fountain pool as if from a rainstorm, but today the tree stood soot-covered and quiet. Market carts lay overturned and broken, their contents strewn over the dusty street. Canvas-covered roofs of various stalls and platforms danced tattered and restless in the wind.

  Argos’s mood turned black as he looked upon dozens of motionless bodies about the square—men, women, even children, their tiny, sandaled feet tangled up beneath piles of the dead. He couldn’t fathom the horror that must have flooded their minds before death, or the unimaginable brutality possessed by those who could commit such atrocities. Never before in all his days had he seen such horrid sights, not even in battle. This was a place of death.

  “How can they do such things?” Natalia asked with whispered shock. “So many people…children… ”

  Argos knew there wasn’t time for such questions. These people were beyond help.

  “We’re going to have to keep moving,” he told them both. “There is an alley on the opposite side of the fountain we must take, near the eastern side of the plaza. It will lead us to a good spot to try and breach the city wall.”

  “What if someone is watching that area when we get there?” Karin asked nervously. Her voice was taut as a bowstring, wavering with each syllable. “You said they’d probably be guarding the gates, so why not this part of the wall?”

  “Let us not get ahead of ourselves. First, we’ll need to reach that alley by cutting across the market--”

  “I don’t think I can do it.” Natalia’s face was a mask of anxiety. Her eyes were alive with the flames’ reflection as she looked across the market she’d been to a hundred times before.

  “It’s going to be fine, Tal,” Argos assured her. “It’s just a few hundred feet out in the open, then one or two more alleys, and we’ll be over the wall and into the forest.”

  “And what then?”

  “I’ll lead us to the Gambit,” Argos said simply.

  “Fine,” she replied with a long breath. “How are we doing this?”

  “String your bow,” Argos told her. “I’m going to head out first and have a look, and then I’ll come back for the both of you. Karin, keep your eyes on the way we came so no one surprises us from behind. Natalia, you watch my back. If anyone you don’t like comes out of one of the buildings, you drop them with your bow.”

  “How will I know if I don’t like them?”

  Argos smiled, using his club to scratch his back. “Use your best judgment. Just don’t shoot me, okay?”

  The princess was already stringing her bow with unsteady hands. “Okay,” she said quickly, her voice nearly cracking.

  “Tal?”

  “What?” she asked, planting the bow to the ground and leaning her weight against it. Her free hand shook with strain as she tried to pull the tight string up into the grooves.

  Argos slid the club under an arm and placed his good hand on top of hers. Finally she stopped what she was doing and looked up at him, eyes glossy with tears.

  “What?” she said again, almost angrily.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. “Everything. I promise. We’ll make it out of here.”

  Her shoulders dropped and she wiped the tears away with a sleeve. “Just don‘t get yourself hurt, all right?”

  Argos took the end of her bow and pressed down on it with his large hand, bending the flexible lewth wood with ease. Talia slipped the bowstring into the grooves and gave it a test pull. The weapon was ready.

  “Thanks,” she said, leaning in and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “And I mean it. Nothing foolish.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a wink.

  Loosening the axe at his back, he gripped his club and took one more look across the market before moving out into the open.

  This would be when things go wrong, his mind spo
ke softly.

  ***

  As soon as Argos stepped out from the alleyway, he sensed it in the air. There were no words to explain what he felt or how he felt it, but danger lurked somewhere in the quiet market. Men who became soldiers learned to trust their feelings, because sometimes that was all you had. The eyes and ears aren’t the only tools that can expose a threat. Other mechanisms are at work in the mind, trying to keep you alive, moving you in the right direction. Argos had learned early on in his career that when your instincts begin to whisper, you’d best listen closely. And out here, in the open, his instincts were screaming.

  He moved to the right, staying close to the building so as to keep at least one wall on his flank. The thick fire burned bright on the far side of the fountain, outlining the carved tree in black shadow. The wind must have shifted, for the flecks of ash came down heavier now, settling on everything like ugly frost.

  Three buildings away from Natalia and Karin, he heard the voices.

  They came from an open doorway directly ahead—low murmurs of men. The gray evening was already shifting to night and he heard someone spark a lantern to life from within the next open building. A dim glow reached out from the entrance, hardly more than the light of a single candle.

  As Argos approached the open doorway he could hear several men laughing from within and woman’s voice softly crying. He inched closer and knelt down, listening to the voices inside, trying to determine how many men there were. It was difficult to tell.

  “Please stop,” the woman moaned. “Please…don’t…”

  “Shut up!” grunted someone. A strike against flesh was dealt within, and after a cry of pain the woman’s pleas subsided to soft whimpers of pain.

  “It’s my turn, Krass,” whined another in the thick eastern accent of Galla. “I haven’t gotten a go yet.”

  “You’ll get your turn,” the man, Krass, said, “when I’m good and finished.”

  Argos heard another laugh from within. He slowly bent down and peeked through the edge of the open doorway. The entrance was covered by a white sheet, but the outside breeze moved it enough for him to piece together a clear view.

  The room the men were in was small, a jewelry shop of some sort. Argos could see a man’s pale buttocks with pants down around his ankles leaning into a woman with her legs spread on a table. Three others were sitting at a second round table further away, playing dice beneath the light of a lantern. The men wore regular clothes and he could see their swords leaning against the far wall to the left.

  Argos’s jaw tightened. He had hoped to run into a few of these soulless, shit-stained excuses for men at one point or another. There was nothing he could’ve done to the large groups that had passed them earlier, but this was different, and not something he would quietly sidestep. Besides, one even had his pants down.

  The dark-haired warrior moved away from the door and waved to Natalia, trying to draw her attention. She nodded in his direction from the edge of the alley, arrow notched.

  Argos pointed to his own eyes, then back at the building with the men. He held up four fingers.

  Talia’s head tilted to the side in confusion. He repeated the signal again, but she shook her head, still not understanding what he was trying to convey.

  Argos let out a thin breath of frustration. Again he pointed to the building, but this time began swinging his club at invisible enemies spaced out before him.

  Talia understood this and nodded vigorously, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Edging further out of their alley, she angled herself to face Argos, spreading her feet apart. When she was settled in position with her bow, Argos silently returned to the building with the men.

  His strong hand curled around the leather-bound grip of his club, muscles tingling and tight with anticipation, mind racing with thoughts.

  What order should he take them in? Nearest first and roll around to the right? The half-naked one wouldn’t likely be moving too quickly.

  His heart was pounding now, temples throbbing with blood.

  Closing his eyes for a brief instant, he forced himself to calm.

  It had been three years since the loss of his limb, and three years since he saw real combat. Such days can be challenging for a wounded warrior, filled with worry and self-doubt. Sleepless nights would have him questioning his strength, his courage, and confidence in his abilities, even his very identity. Was he still the same man from before? How long does it take to lose the skills that once defined you?

  Longer than three years, he hoped.

  For a fleeting moment Argos wished he still had his other hand.

  Then his eyes snapped open and the thought passed as quickly as it arrived. He wasn’t the same man, of that he was absolutely certain. Each day of the last three years had seen him training harder than ever before, pushing the worry from his mind on daily runs with boulders at his back, forcing the doubt from his soul in the unsanctioned fighting circles of Corda’s more delinquent areas.

  Even the feeling of the axe at his back was reassuring. He loved the weapon, the weight of it, the way it made him feel. The Tesirian steel had cost him a fortune, but the smith he’d found was an artist, and it had been worth every piece of copper paid. Each day he worked with the unwieldy weapon meant for two hands, strengthening the power of his forearm, back, and shoulder far beyond any stage he’d achieved while with the army.

  No, he wasn’t the same man at all, Argos knew. He was stronger.

  Tossing the white sheet to the side, he rushed in.

  His armored forearm came down on the half-naked man from behind, slamming against the side of his neck so forcefully that bones snapped like split beach wood. He collapsed with nothing more than a whispered grunt.

  The three men playing dice merely looked up as he darted forwards. Before any could move, he delivered a thundering blow to a face on the right with his iron-edged club. Dead or dying, the unfortunate dice player dropped to the ground, unmoving. The nauseating skull crack galvanized the other two into motion, and their chairs were sent clattering to the hardwood floor as they rose to meet the threat.

  The one to the left of the table lunged for a nearby sword. Argos’s boot slammed into his side to send him crashing against the wall. The young Amorian turned back to the third just as he leapt off the table towards Argos with a dagger. Argos clubbed the blade out of his hand and followed it with a bone-jarring elbow to the face.

  The knifeman landed on his side before frantically trying to scramble away from his attacker.

  Without a passing thought, Argos clubbed the man to death with one great swing.

  Immediately he moved to the man he kicked, who by now had risen and was fumbling for a sword to defend himself, but again the Amorian was too swift.

  Argos’s club rose and fell three times, the final strike caving in the man’s skull and dashing bits of brain to the floorboard.

  He spun around quickly, club raised, but there was no one left standing. Except for the pounding battle drum of his heart, the room was quiet once more.

  Perhaps it was always quiet though, he thought, looking around at the still bodies. He hadn’t been in there for more than a few seconds.

  Turning, he saw the woman in tattered clothes holding her shirt up to her chest, face a glassy stare of panic. Argos looked from her to the half-naked man lying on the floor. He wasn’t moving and his neck was twisted at an unnatural angle.

  The young warrior stuck the club underneath his arm and raised his hand in an attempt to calm the woman.

  “I’m Amorian,” he said, seeing the rearing head of a scream rise up within her. “I’m here to help. Please don’t--”

  She let out a horrendous shriek and sprinted out of shop.

  Argos followed her into the fire-lit market square. “Wait!” he cried. “We can help you! Please!”

  The woman ran like a demon was chasing her, crying out into the dark plaza. In seconds she was a black shadow against the blazing inferno of buildings. Falling once, she
crawled for a bit before rising back up and disappearing from sight.

  Argos thought about following her and turned to the waiting women a few buildings away. Natalia had her bow in hand and tossed her shoulders. What could any of them do? The woman would have to find her own way now.

  The young warrior turned back to the shop’s doorway, using the hanging sheet to clean the blood from his club while taking a moment to gather himself. His limbs trembled softly as the spike in adrenaline tapered off. The scrap had gone well, all things considered. If the leaping man with the dagger had been a little faster he might’ve pulled a few stitches, but probably nothing serious.

  The falling ash now turned to burning embers that swirled around the open plaza like bright orange fireflies. Argos was more than saddened at the state of his capital. Home was everything to him, to all Amorians, and now the fires were spreading with no one to put them out. They would destroy most of the city, he knew. Corda was overpopulated, and many of the buildings within its business districts had been built right on top of each other.

  “Krass!” a deep voice called out from the dimness beside Argos, giving him such a start that he damn near dropped his club. “What’s all the noise about?”

  Argos slowly turned in the voice’s direction, his mind praying to be untrue what his instincts were already certain of. As the forms approached from the smoky gloom, his soldier’s eye glided over the options, from which there was a piss-poor lot to choose.

  He squared off to face them, watching two men holding swords emerge from an abandoned tavern two buildings down.

  Three more materialized, all armed with blades.

  The five of them were a little over ten paces away before they stopped.

  Argos swore. Assuming the building with the dice players was the only danger was a sheer sweep of brilliance on his part.

  What to do now? What to do, what to do, what to do?

  He tapped his club against the wooden axe haft that rested above his shoulder. The sharp weapon moved slightly within the oiled leather case, still loose and ready to sing.