The Shadow's Ward

by Eric Angers

  The end of his pursuit was a large open tomb with an altar at one end and a life sized golden wolf’s head sitting atop it, the symbol of Phelandir. Between himself and it, the Kadori artifact hunter stood, looking up and down the walls, calculating, obviously looking for traps. Vastian crept up carefully and drew three of his best throwing knives, he wouldn’t bother getting close enough for a fight, just close enough for a sure shot. He stopped and readied to throw, taking in a breath and exhaling it slowly before he would throw. A wheeze escaped from his chest, too low for all but the best ears. He threw. The Kadori turned and jumped to the side, the blade struck harmlessly against the wolf’s head. Vastian slipped to the side himself, coming flat against the wall in the corridor, hidden by the doorway into the tomb. The Kadori’s own knives spun past him in the middle of the hall. He cursed himself for his carelessness. It would be a fight then. He moved silently up to the door and reached into a pocket, he chewed on the contents, then reached into another pouch and threw down the ball he found inside. Smoke poured through the tomb and he waited. Knives flew through the doorway. It was time to move, he entered and saw a yellow and orange figure through the thick smoke. The figure moved swiftly in to attack, as if the smoke were no obstacle to him at all. Vastian ducked the first swing and drew two small knives, perfect for the quick pace of the fight. The two danced through the fog blocking and striking; dodging and cutting. They traded slashes in non lethal parts of the body and slammed each other into the stone coffins lining the tomb. The man was trained, he knew the secrets, and Vastian was beginning to wonder just who the hell this artifact hunter was. But Vastian was better, he sheathed one knife and pulled a pinch of a fine powder from one of his pouches in one motion, then inhaled the concoction. His body felt instantly cold, slowing him, but his training allowed him to move away fast enough to not become a pincushion for the other man. The Kadori would now be unable to see him, and only his wheezing lung would give him away.

  He melted away into a corner, slowly, and watched the yellow and orange figure begin a methodical search of the room. Fortunately, his own breathing was slowed by the powder, and the wheezing was less pronounced, Vastian had a slight advantage, but if found, he would be a dead man. He would have to strike, in his weakened state, to end this. He left his corner, slow, like he was wading through quicksand, holding his breath. The Kadori moved about, swinging his knives ahead of him as he approached each wall, then doubling back and searching the other side. This would have to be one strike, a killing blow, or any counter attack would surely be fatal. He approached and estimated the man’s size and imagined the swirling orange and yellow as a solid man, where his back started, where each vertebrae would join. He struck out, he muscled his arm through the muck that surrounded it; the sharpness of his blade easily pierced through the cloak, tunic, skin, muscle, and then directly between two vertebrae, severing the spinal cord. There was no counter attack. There was only a paralyzed man on the floor awaiting his death sentence.

  He found out later that kill was a test. The other man was a Dead Man in training as well, tasked with acquiring that worthless fake wolf’s head. One man passed, the other had not. It was the way of the Dead Men and Vastian accepted that. Now he would have to do it again, this time to an old friend.

  He could see the ending up ahead, what would surely be the secret entrance to the emperor’s chambers, and a large pool of acid between, more than twenty feet. Jaerr would be stuck as well, he would finally close the distance. As he approached, however, he found that Jaerr was already gone, he had found some way to cross. He looked up, all stone ceiling, no way to stick a rope up there. The iron bars between the corridors were slicked, no climbing, and the distance was too great to jump. Dead end.

  He lost, outsmarted, outrun, whatever it was, it would be over in minutes. Jaerr would kill the Emperor and send up the signal for the rest of the brothers to move. Jaerr would install himself as the new Emperor and the guild would be no more, only an all powerful nation led by the best assassins the world had ever seen. It could not be like this, the guild had to be saved. He couldn’t allow this nation to come into being, it would have the ability to silence any opposition without worrying about war or counter assassins. It would have total control, total dictatorial control.

  He paced and looked around his hall, then over at Jaerr’s. He spotted something, sand on the floor by the far wall. There was no way for the Emperor to escape over a pool of acid if they were under attack and he was in danger. There was a way around, a secret door. He turned back and set his eyes to the task of finding the trigger. Wait. He backtracked a hundred feet or so and found a throwing knife on the ground in his own corridor. The bastard already knew. He picked up his rival’s knife and studied the opposite wall until he found what would be a pressure switch brick. Vastian threw it and hit his mark, then raced back to the pool where he found an opening. The new hallway led around the pool and came out on the other side. His corridor ended 50 feet later and he found the clever way they used the passages. Once he opened his secret door to the chamber, the other door closed. All the escaping Emperor would have to do is close the door behind him, leaving the other opened for his pursuers who would attempt to follow down the long trapped passage, while the other passage’s traps could be turned off.

  Inside he found another hidden door that led to the bed chambers of Emperor Mail. Within that, he found a lavishly decorated bedroom, lacquered wooden walls with decorative wall hangings and artwork all around; the finest carved tables and chests, silver and gold lined lamps and mirrors; and in the middle, a bed fit for a king, covered in silk and draped in fine fur blankets. Jaerr stood over the silently sleeping emperor with not even a knife drawn, apparently waiting for Vastian to catch up.

  “He sleeps rather soundly, old friend, the door made quite a bit of noise the first time it opened, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” Jaerr commented offhandedly. He finally turned then and began pacing the length of the bed.

  Vastian couldn’t help but admire the surroundings; they were much nicer than those he’d acquired in his travels. He might as well have a look at something few have ever seen before he possibly got himself killed, since he did not take the chance the first time he was in the room. “I used to stay in a castle. My chambers were not quite this lavish, but they were very nice,” he boasted. “I had not a care in the world, I had servants that would go out and find the best wines and bring them to me. All I did was take jobs to keep myself entertained.”

  Jaerr seemed unimpressed, and not at all distracted. “You know, Vastian, you can still help me do this one last job. We could take over the world together. Who could stand against us? We would have Kador in a week, Adahar in a month, and Phelandir in three. You would have servants with servants to bring you whatever you desire. And you would not lack for excitement if that is what you crave, there is always someone.” He continued pacing, not even looking at the Emperor, who hadn’t even stirred with their conversation.

  “That isn’t what the guild is for, that isn’t what the world needs from us. And it doesn’t need another man in total control, making slaves of the people. Let someone else handle the politics, Jaerr, and let the guild get paid to see it through, like it’s always been.” Daggers came into Vastian’s hands from hidden sheaths.

  Firelight glinted off of something in the air and Vastian ducked, avoiding the blade. Jaerr had barely even moved to throw it. They ran at one another, Jaerr still had not bothered to draw another weapon. He caught Vastian’s wrists mid-strike and brought up a knee, catching Vastian’s stomach full force. He coughed but held his knives then spun around, forcing Jaerr and himself back to back. Jaerr held tight then dropped his weight down and forward, throwing Vastian over him, slamming him into the ground. The two knives clinked on the floor and Jaerr kicked them both away allowing Vastian to get to his feet. They came together then, a mass of limbs lashing out and being deflected away just as quickly. From the outside, it was impossible to tell
who had the upper hand, but Vastian could feel it in his weary limbs, bruised ribs, and bleeding nose; Jaerr was younger, stronger, even faster, more practiced. He was landing his own shots, but Jaerr’s counters were harder.

  “I told you, Vas, I’m the best. That’s why you and I were so good together back then, you showed me what I needed to know, and then I surpassed you.” he said, keeping up his onslaught on Vastian’s ribs and kidneys.

  Vastian was mostly defensive now, biding his time, hoping for an opportunity. “And I told you, there’s always someone better. Words I hoped you would have taken to heart.”

  “Oh, I did, old friend. And you should be thanking me. I kept you in the game! I kept you sharp! You would have thrown it all away!”

  Vastian knew he would have to kill him, or the people would be lost to his rule. He let more knives fall into his hands and took up the attack, slashing directly at Jaerr’s hands and arms even as he punched and connected with Vastian’s side and face. The fight took up the appearance of a dance, the swirling of blades, sparkling in the moonlight with blood being slung about the chamber and Jaerr swatting them away, empty handed and backing away inch by inch. “What are you talking about? I did throw it away, I turned down the mantle.”

  One by one, a sick looking black dagger found its way into Jaerr’s hands and the dance was punctuated with the ring of steel on steel. Still the emperor lay quiet. Vastian’s wounds from the trapped passageway burned and his stomach and ribs ached. He was vaguely aware of his nose being broken and his eye swelling. This was the reason he stayed in the shadows, why he avoided fights. He never wanted to let someone ruin his face, the work of art that it was. That face had gotten him out of many troubling situations, and now it would be scarred when Jaerr set his blades to work. “Not the mantle. You really never knew, did you?” Jaerr said and Vastian slowed, a knot forming in his stomach. “I killed her. I killed her to get you back. on. the. Path.”

  The knot turned to a pit, the empty black hole that overtook him on that day. It threatened to destroy him all over again. His vision became blurry. Still, Vastian did not hesitate and pressed the attack furiously, taking cuts on his arms and across the midsection, but delivering a few of his own to the leg and chest. Not deep enough. Not yet. Why? The fight kept on for what seemed like hours, the pain racing back, swallowing him. But it was not from Jaerr’s blades. He was aware that he was screaming. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, mixing with blood, flying from his skin with every clash. She was innocent.

  Somewhere inside his mind told him he was making mistakes, he was fighting with emotion, he would lose, he would die. It did not matter. Without her, it is what he had wanted. Death. He had told himself for years that everyone was replaceable, that lives were worthless, they did not matter. She mattered.

  Then the unthinkable happened; the black steel scored a gash across his cheek, blood dropped into his mouth. The metallic taste was so sweet to him. The shock of it left him off guard, however, and Jaerr quickly disarmed him, slammed him against a wall and put the black dagger against his throat.

  “You got soft! She broke you!” There was elation in Jaerr’s eyes. He was sure he won, and Vastian’s eyes betrayed only acceptance. It was over. Finally.

  But his mind raced. He had killed them all, that gang in the warehouse. Their blood was on his hands. Jaerr killed her, not them. Their lives wasted. Her life with him. Never to be. He screamed her name, exploding away from her killer. Two blades flew from his hands which Jaerr deflected easily. “She was innocent!”

  “She was your weakness!”

  “She. Was. Life!” he cried, lunging.

  Jaerr caught his lunge, turning him around to hold a knife at his throat. If he wrenched away now it would ensure his throat was cut. A sound caught their attention and each looked over to see Norgaard stumbling into the bedchamber, dragging one leg, but knives in hand. Jaerr turned to put Vastian between them, digging the blade in to draw blood.

  “Your little apprentice is-”

  A spinning blade passed Vastian’s ear, warm blood spattered across his face and air leaked out from Jaerr’s severed windpipe. The pressure of the knife against Vastian’s throat relaxed, allowing Vastian the chance to escape. Soon after Jaerr collapsed to the ground. Norgaard stood there, two more knives at the ready. Blood bubbled from Jaerr’s open neck, he was still alive and his gaze was on Vastian’s young student who was bloody and beaten, but not broken.

  Vastian knelt down before the man, picking up the black dagger. “-everything you are not,” he finished for him, and turned his eyes to Norgaard. He heard Jaerr exhale deeply through gurgling blood, then thrust the black dagger between his ribs and into his heart.

  “Took you long enough.” he said to his student.

  “I can barely move!” Norgaard said incredulously, dropping to one knee.

  “Yes, but I knew you were strong enough,” Vastian sat and leaned his head back against a bookshelf.

  “Well, is the emperor ok?”

  “Just asleep, probably sleep for days with what I gave him.”

  Epilogue

  Grimy fingers gripped the edge of a south facing ledge on a mountain deep in the Northlands. Here was the pinnacle of a long ascent. A flat outcropping atop a nearly vertical cliff face already thousands of feet above the plains. Vastian hefted himself up and lay on the cold stone, chest heaving. This was deep in the forbidden zone in one of the tallest parts of the range. It is where Dorlanis’ clan was rumored to have lived. And died. But old legends were not his purpose here, nor was the quarantine. No, he was here because he had been pulled to this location. Some unknown force called to him, beckoned him to come ever since he had defeated Jaerr in the city of Weir. It was unavoidable. Even had he wished to, there was no denying the call, lest it drive him mad in his attempts to ignore it. He rose to his feet, examining his surroundings. There appeared to be a path winding around the side of the mountain here and it seemed a logical next step. Perhaps the only step.

  This was the only time of year one might traverse the area. Midsummer being the only time snow and ice were sufficiently melted to provide access. It was wet, with streams still running from snowmelt from the peaks still high above. And while snow would not fall this day, it was by no means warm.

  Rounding the corner he spotted an opening, perhaps a cave, and he marched toward it without hesitation. As he neared the entrance he heard whispers coming from within, though he saw no one. The voices seemed to be calling to him just as the feeling in his gut that had brought him here. Soon enough dark tendrils began to reach out from the cave mouth as if to pull him in. It was much the same as he had seen skulking about during his work. But here they seemed stronger. It was not unusual to him any longer and he let the darkness embrace him as he had so many times before. He came to the edge of a precipice just inside the cave and no sign of the entry was visible behind him. Below, there was nothing but darkness to his eyes and the whispers had become louder, more insistent. They told him to jump.

  He obeyed the whispers, stepping over the side. Wind whistled past his ears and his hair blew upward as he fell. Until at once there was nothing. No wind, no movement. He felt as if he were floating, wrapped in nothing but the void of the darkness. Vastian did not struggle or try to move, he knew the effort would be fruitless. He simply accepted. A voice whispered at him among the chorus of others all repeating what this main voice said.

  “You are Vastian Klensbane. Why are you here?”

  Vastian floated there and responded, “I was drawn here.”

  The whispers responded immediately, even before he had finished. “That is how you found us, why have you come?”

  This time Vastian took the time to think on the question. He had not taken any time to think when he left after saving Mail and ending Jaerr. It called and he followed. After sending Norgaard to see to his ship. He simply knew that he must go and so he did. “I am here for answers. I want to know what you are, why you called, why me?”r />
  “Then you waste your time. You know all of these things,” the voices responded.

  Vastian grew slightly annoyed, snapping back, “I don’t think that I do. Humans require more explanation than you might think. Whatever you are.”

  “You know us yet treat us as a stranger. We invite you to our realm, we share with you our power and you spurn us,” the whispers said.

  The slow realization swept across his face in a wave. “You.. You are the Shadow. You are a thing? An entity. Are you a god?”

  “God. No. Entity. No. Thing? We are a collective. We are the shadow of all men, of all things. We are the power.”

  “So you’re not a god, just some kind of power?”

  “Some humans have called it: magic.”

  Vastian understood, though he had never heard of any other magic pool speaking to its users. “The shadow is a magic pool like the others?”

  “Yes,” the whispers said, “and no. We are magic but not like the others. We are different. Our power exists throughout the world. We called you because the Mantle Bearer is dead. You killed the usurper. You were once selected to bear our weight, you declined. Now we ask you a final time.”