Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  The black-eyed tracker looked around at the sleeping men. A moment of surprise registered as he saw the black puddles of blood spreading from them, seeping into the grass and dirt.

  “I’ve never…killed a man before,” Draz said, looking around at the bodies. “Somehow I thought it’d feel…I don’t know…different. We go out like hogs though, don’t we? Just a little hole in the right place and we’re on our way.”

  The Volrathi watched them both, his hand inching beneath his blanket.

  “Please don’t reach for your weapon.” Draz’s words froze him. “I’d like us to share a few words before you die.”

  The Volrathi rose to his feet, wearing only a thin tunic, boots, and dark pants, his black armor in a pile next to his blankets. The man slid a long broadsword from a scabbard within his bedroll. The blade was smoky steel and caught the light of the fire, reflecting a pale and murky silver.

  Not much older than his brother Kirig, Draz thought to himself. Tall, well-built, he was clean-shaven with pallid yellow skin. But for the eyes, he could have passed unnoticed for any stranger in the forest. Even his accent was normal, though it seemed to carry a smidgen of deep southern lilt.

  The sword fed him strength and his anger rose. “You think to kill me?” he almost laughed.

  Draz continued to poke at the fire, not bothering to even meet the man’s gaze. “We’ve already dug your grave.”

  The words were spoken softly, honestly. The pale tracker faltered briefly before shaking the comment off.

  “Are you insane?” he growled. “I don’t know how you’ve done this, but you‘re finished. You‘re dead. You…are…dead. You will never make it past my sword, either of you.”

  Draz shrugged, unimpressed by the man. “My brother would cut you into pieces,” he said calmly, nodding to Jornan. “But you won’t meet your end in such a manner. That is how warriors fall, individuals of skill and courage, men you could never understand. You are a just a dog, and such a death would be too great a gift for a stray bitch like you. So tonight we have dug a ditch, and before the sun rises you will be buried there. That will be the end of it. Now sit down.”

  “Enough,” the Volrathi fumed. He brought his blade to grip and lurched forward to charge, roaring a battle cry.

  Even before he took his first step, an arrow streaked in from the surrounding darkness, slamming above his right knee to send him crashing to the ground.

  He rolled to his back, crying out in pain.

  “You! I‘ll kill you!” he screamed in anguish. “Do you know who I am? Who will come looking for me? You are dead! Dead!”

  He used his sword to rise up to one knee. Struggling to get back on his feet, another arrow sliced into his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. A third arrow flashed in next, skewering the back of his ankle, the barbed end sticking out of his boot red with blood.

  He fell again, eyes darting left and right, scanning the surrounding shadows, but nothing could be seen.

  “I told you to sit,” Draz said calmly. “You are not a good listener. You will listen now.”

  ***

  “You were tracking us. Why?”

  The Volrathi was lying on his back. Snapping the feathered side of the arrow jutting out from his boot, he gripped the barbed end and pulled the shaft out of his ankle with a cringe.

  “Whatever happens here tonight, you’re dead,” he told them jeeringly, sitting up to toss the broken shaft away. “You know that, don’t you? Dead.”

  “Yes, you’ve already told us that. Now I want you to answer my questions, else there’ll be more arrows for you to play with.”

  “I won’t be telling you anything, child,” he said, shaking his head. He chuckled then as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Children! You’re children! From your boot prints I thought you’d be women, but I was wrong. Women aren’t as careful as you. So what are you then? Trappers? Hunters?”

  “Amorians.”

  The Volrathi snorted a laugh, lying back down. “Do you know what I am, little boy? Do you?”

  Draz watched him closely. “What are you?”

  The tracker leaned up to an elbow. “I am the first.”

  “The first of what?”

  The man smiled then, and Draz saw that the teeth on the edges of his grin were filed to a point, like fangs. “The first of many.”

  He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling forth a wad of some sort of dry, acrid-smelling leaves. Putting a pinch in his mouth, he began to chew.

  “You ran at first,” he said, his voice dropping deeper, eyes boring into Draz with intensity. “That was wise. You could have survived that way, for a time at least. But this…” He motioned to the arrow still sticking from his wrist and the dead men laying about his camp. “This was the work of a fool. You have brought ruin to yourselves here. Others will come.”

  “They won’t find you,” Draz promised.

  The Volrathi slowly rose to his feet. “They won’t have to,” he said. “We know of your mountain, your refuge. Once I heard the tale, I began to track you. Do you really think that I am your only threat? That I will be the only one they send to look for you?” He laughed bitterly. “You can save all of the people you want, run yourselves ragged up and down these hills, carrying old men and women and children into your little hiding place. It will matter not at all. You are rats trapped in the corner of a basement, with your back to the bricks and no one to come looking for you except us.”

  He was calm, disturbingly so.

  “And now,” he continued. “I‘m going to kill you.” The Volrathi took a step toward them.

  Draz pointed at him. “Get back on the ground!”

  The tracker walked forward, leaving his sword behind. Another arrow cut through the camp, piercing him above the hip. He looked down on it protruding from his body, and laughed. He walked on. Two more arrows struck him, both in the chest this time.

  The man took a stumble but continued to move toward them. Arrows streaked in now, one after another, ripping into his body. Draz couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d ordered Bailen and the others on the bow to drop him if he moved, but the man just wouldn’t stop. The Volrathi struggled forward through the barrage, jerking against the strikes before an arrow tore into his throat. Finally he fell to a knee, rolling to the ground.

  Draz rose and walked over to him, stunned by the spectacle.

  Nine. It took nine arrows to stop him.

  Who were these Volrathi, these killers of the innocent who burn cities and pull fathers apart in front of their families?

  He stood over the man and watched as he slowly died. Blood was pumping from the wound to his throat and scores of other arrows across his body. Air escaped him in gasps and choking coughs that racked his frame.

  No man could survive such wounds, but here they were, staring into each other’s gaze. Surely he was dying, yet Draz saw no fear in the others face, no panic or alarm, no pleas for help or mercy. Draz looked and there was simply nothing. He searched the man’s unnatural eyes of black and saw only emptiness. There was no soul behind his curtain, just a vacant hole where one should be.

  “Not all men are like hogs.” He smiled to Draz as he bled, showing wicked fangs and blood-red teeth. “Some…are monsters.” He coughed up more blood.

  “When we find you…when death…comes…to your mountain…” He struggled with the words. “Remember that it was you…who brought it… you.”

  He felt Jornan and Persus walk up beside him to stare down on the man, blades in hand. Sedrik, Vextis, and Bailen followed, arrows notched. No one spoke.

  Draz drew his sword, holding it up. He’d seen it so many times. Even in his dreams the weapon was belted at his waist. Firm grip, perfect balance, edge so sharp it was almost frightening. But tonight it looked different. He could see the flames of the fire reflected in the blade, distorted and dancing behind him. The wind seemed to pause and the trees fell silent as if the forest held its breath, waiting for what was to come.


  Raising the sword high, he brought it down in a tight arc, slamming the sharp steel through the man’s neck.

  The Volrathi was not a monster, Draz knew. Monsters didn’t exist. He was just a soldier, a tracker.

  And now he was dead.

  ***

  The sun was beginning to rise the following morning by the time they carried the last body to their pit a short hike away. Few words were spoken amongst the boys, and Draz didn’t press any of them. He felt taxed from the night’s action as much as they did. The instructors told them that spikes in adrenaline were often followed by fatigue, but this seemed more like weariness of the spirit than the body. The risky venture had been a success, but Draz still felt uneasy.

  After delivering a slap to each of their flanks, the enemy horses bolted south into the woods. Afterwards Vextis had covered the countless tracks as best he could, but the night’s blood had seeped into the earth where the men had slept, and their camp had been too trampled to hide. Rain would help, but the day looked to be cool and sunny. The grave was well concealed, however. No one would stumble upon it.

  As they made their way back to the Gambit, Draz stopped to look back. He could still see the empty campsite and the spot they’d buried the bodies.

  They put eight men in the ground that morning, closed them out like they deserved, but they’d opened a doorway, too. Who knew how many would come looking to walk through it? A hundred? Or more?

  When those men turned up missing, someone would come to find them. Draz was certain of it. He had risked their lives, their position, and the lives of everyone on the Gambit, for the reward of eight bodies. Eight useless, bowel-loosened corpses, and what had they truly accomplished? Nothing had changed, except that now their enemies had a place to start looking for them.

  He realized that having a dozen drunken men stumbling around his forest was far better than a Volrathi army.

  “Draz!” Vextis whispered to him from up ahead on the sloping trail. “Come on! No one is out there.”

  “No,” Draz said to himself, turning back to catch up with his brothers. “Not yet.”

  But soon they‘d be coming, and in greater numbers.

  All they had to do was be patient.

  Chapter 17

  Desik awoke before the dawn. Dressing himself in their dark room, he pulled the collar of his jacket up and made to leave for a brief walk, insisting Tenlon stay behind. The apprentice hadn’t the strength to object or even question the warrior’s intentions; he was simply too comfortable in bed and instead drifted back to sleep. His dreams had been sporadic the last few days, regarding ancient tales from days long past. They were good dreams, mostly. His childhood had been a happy one and memories from those early years were warm and pleasant, certainly a welcome distraction from the perils of his present.

  When next he opened his eyes, it was to the glowing light of morning and Desik’s return. The man had slipped out to purchase a short stabbing sword that looked to be of matching weight and length to his other two. He also carried a freshly oiled scabbard and a burlap sack of oranges, along with a few other supplies.

  He hadn’t even been gone for two hours, but in that time he’d purchased a quality blade and returned to their room at the Crimson Stag through the alley window, ordering clean bed linen at the bar before locking himself back in and replacing a piece of kindling into the door jam.

  After climbing down from the Stag he checked on their mounts at the stable, then quickly walked the streets surrounding their meeting place for noon the following day at the Broken Shield Inn. Once back in the room, he was able to map out the details of the area from memory with a charcoal pencil on several pieces of parchment, labeling streets, buildings, alleys, fountains, and other landmarks, then listing the distances between each. He forced Tenlon to memorize various exit paths and multiple fallback points should they be forced to split up.

  As far as Tenlon could tell, Desik would be doing all the dangerous work. Still, the man insisted he know exactly what the plan was and where to go if things turned sour.

  While Tenlon studied the maps, Desik worked the new sword for a time in their room—stabbing the air, flipping it behind his back, feeling the balance. The edge was dangerously sharp, but the man’s deftness never wavered. Within moments his speed increased to a blur and the weapon became part of him—it became his weapon. After running a whetstone over its edges a number of times, he sheathed the blade and tossed it onto a chair.

  Once fully memorized, each attempt Tenlon made to push the hand-drawn maps away saw Desik only return them to his lap.

  “Again,” he ordered.

  Giving up, Tenlon stretched out on the bed with the maps while Desik made a fire. Soon the warrior began a series of stretches for his arms and legs that had him bending, twisting, and leaping into the air. Tenlon would glance at the maps occasionally, but mostly he dozed, having already retained the information. As the morning lingered on, Gerta paid them a visit, seeing if they were in need of anything.

  For a late breakfast they ordered shredded pork and eggs with spicy gravy. The pork was too salty for Tenlon’s taste, and he chased it down with two goblets of water flavored with lemon. After finishing their meal, Desik once more pointed to the maps to be studied. Tenlon thought it best not to argue.

  Removing his shirt, the warrior proceeded to shadowbox before the heat of the cast-iron stove. Gradually his tempo became a flurry of punches and hooks, all speed. At the end of an hour his tattooed muscles glistened with sweat, but still he fought on, never slowing, hands striking out tight combinations. Another hour passed. His well of strength and energy appeared to be bottomless.

  When Gerta returned for their dishes, Desik ordered them a lunch of honey-glazed pheasant, soured bread, and a raspberry cheese spread. The warrior stretched slowly until she returned with the food, a basin of clean water, and small stack of towels. Tenlon and Desik pulled their chairs to opposite sides of a low table and ate together in silence.

  The warrior’s stare seemed empty as he slowly chewed his food. Idly Tenlon wondered what he was thinking, if he was nervous about their meeting or if he even became nervous at all. Soon he abandoned the thoughts, having already given up on understanding the man a while back. His attitude fluctuated so easily from one extreme to the next. Dry wit, sharp anger, thoughtful quiet. Perhaps he was a wilder animal than man, like some predatory beast brought in from the cold, forced to walk amongst--

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Desik interrupted his thoughts. “I’m trying to eat and you’re just sitting there, slack-jawed with your eyes fixed on me. It’s unsettling.” Tenlon laughed nervously, averting his stare.

  “I’m sorry, I just…I was wondering what you were thinking.”

  “Damn, but you are a weird one, aren’t you?”

  “I meant about tomorrow, our meeting. I was wondering if you were still worried.”

  Desik tore off a piece of bread and used it to scrape the remaining cheese from a porcelain bowl. “You know we shouldn’t be here, right? In this city?”

  Tenlon considered the question. “No, I guess not.”

  “You guess not?” he laughed cynically. “Well, the answer to that question is no, we should not be here. And most certainly not for this length of time.”

  “Do you think we shouldn’t go to the inn tomorrow?”

  Desik spread his hands, leaning back into his chair. “This would all seem rather pointless if we didn’t attend the meeting. And how bad could it go?”

  Tenlon fell quiet. He didn’t want to think about the multitude of possibilities that could see them both captured or killed. Tomorrow was going to be a pivotal moment for them. They needed help from people they could trust. If anything went wrong and they were forced out onto their own, Tenlon had no idea where they’d go. As of now, this was their only option.

  Moving behind his chair, Desik stripped and began washing himself with a cloth and water from the basin.

  Pushing his finished plate
away, Tenlon settled back into his own chair. “What should we do now?”

  “I don’t know about you,” Desik told him with a smile. “But I plan on drinking too much. The brown ale here is some of the best I’ve ever had. And like we discussed…Tomorrow could end in a few different ways. Best we drink tonight, yeah?”

  Tenlon chuckled. It was clear Desik would face whatever future would open up before them, be it violence or certain death, though Tenlon hoped neither of those cards would be in the hand they would be dealt tomorrow.

  Rising, he lifted the bag with the egg onto his bed and removed a coin purse from one of its side pockets. A soft rattle escaped as he tossed it up in the air and caught it again.

  He would buy the warrior’s drinks tonight. The man had certainly earned it.

  ***

  All things had a rhythm. Everything that exists flows according to its own current, its own pulse. Sipping his ale, Tenlon looked around the tavern area of the Lonely Fox. Even buildings and shops could come alive, he thought, watching Gerta grip three large mugs in one hand with a tray of sliced steak and vegetables balanced on the other. Though the city was emptying fast, the Fox was alive tonight. There was warmth and music and light. It lived, it breathed. People drank and laughed.

  But at the same time, it was strange to know that what separated one place of terrible violence from another of safety was now only distance. Time and distance. Western Endura had no more armies between the Volrathi and its free cities, no more dragons. There was only space, and as each hour passed, that space was disappearing. The dark army had reached Amoria’s capital and was now on its way to Korondo.

  He and Desik were perched on the same stools as before, elbows on the bar’s edge to face the wide mirror with a view of the entrance and tables at their back in its reflection.

  The sun had set, and Lanard played his flute before a lit fireplace. There were other patrons within the tavern as well—three traveling companions with burdensome packs and an older couple holding a babe. A handful of loners lingered at open tables, and even Hagart, the silver-haired sailor they’d met the day before, again held his spot at the end of the bar, weathered hand clenched to his mug.