by Jayne Castel
“Thrindul called you Ryana of Ridder Vale—where’s that?”
There were a few moments’ silence before Ryana replied. “It’s a village in the Forest of Were.” Her voice was wistful, as if she rarely thought on her origins.
“When did you last visit?”
“I’ve not been back there since the day I left for the House of Light and Darkness … not since I was thirteen.”
Lilia tried to imagine what it must feel like, to spend so many years apart from your family. Guilt needled her as she realized how rarely she’d thought about her Ma and Da over the past weeks. They would be sick with worry for her. She pushed the remorse aside and focused on Ryana. “And your kin? Do you know how they are? Have you ever sent word?”
Ryana shook her head. “It was too dangerous—I knew the Order would go looking for me at Ridder Vale.” She paused here, considering her next words. “If I manage to survive the coming days, I’ll go back to see them.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Two younger brothers.” Ryana’s voice grew warm with affection. “They were small when I left but they’ll be grown now.”
Lilia reached out, her hand groping in the half-light for Ryana’s, squeezing it gently. “You’ll go back.”
Shortly before dusk, the army reached a fork in the highway. The Great Road now ran along the western shores of Harrowmere. Dark and still, despite the gusting north wind, the lake was a disquieting sight. It was so wide that Dain could not even see its eastern shore from here. Reeds grew at the edge of its pebbly edge, whispering and rippling as the wind breathed through them.
In a daily routine that had been unceasing since leaving the capital, the army set up camp a furlong off the road, clustered together so that Asher and his enchanters could put up the light sphere. True to its name, The Lonely Crossroads was a solitary place. A lone Altar of Umbra marked the intersection between the three roads, thrusting skywards like a fire-blackened blade.
Dain found the monument obscene, a symbol of Valgarth’s power scarring the emptiness. He was pleased to turn his back on it and make his way through the densely packed encampment.
Nearby, he heard the familiar crackle and roar of the light sphere going up, hemming them inside for the night. The sound made the tension in his shoulders ease slightly; the barrier was the only thing protecting them from the creatures that prowled the darkness. Each night he lay awake and listened to their snarling and shrieking. Occasionally, a sharp crackling noise echoed across the encampment, as one of the bolder creatures threw themselves up against the sphere, only to be repelled howling as if they’d fallen face-first into a bed of hot coals.
Despite the jostling crowds of men as they erected tents, lit fires and rubbed down their horses, Dain navigated the encampment with relative ease. It might have appeared like chaos, but there was order to it. They erected the king’s tent in the heart of the camp, surrounded by the lodgings of his high ranking men. The Order of Light and Darkness pitched their tents on the next ring out, and then the troops camped in tightly packed circles beyond that.
Walking over crushed grass, breathing in the odor of sweat, horses and peat smoke, Dain made his way to the supply wagons at the southern end of the camp.
There ahead of him, he spied the battered wagon with the blue tarpaulin, and a smile creased his face.
Lilia would be waiting.
Brand crouched low over the mound of smoldering twigs, and blew gently upon them, coaxing the timid flames to life. This far north, the evenings were chill, and the wind that blew in from the north promised a long, cold night.
Eventually the camp fire, built with dry branches of gorse and briar rose, crackled into life. Brand straightened up, massaging his aching back. He then reached for the rabbit he’d caught earlier and proceeded to skin and gut it.
The beast was scrawny, without much meat on its lean carcass. Yet it would take the edge off his hunger for a few hours at least.
As he worked, Brand cast nervous glances around him. He sat near the shore of Harrowmere, facing out across the rippling water. The light was gradually fading. It would be dark soon but he’d chosen this spot carefully. He sat with his back to a large boulder, and had placed ward stones around him, ready. He’d collected the stones on the journey north—pitted chunks of black rock that absorbed darkness. As soon as the first shadow creatures emerged from the gloaming he would gather the Dark and cast a shadow shroud around him.
It should hold them at bay till daybreak.
Brand frowned at the rabbit carcass as he drove a skewer of wood through it lengthwise, before holding it out over the glowing embers of the fire. Despite that each day’s journey brought him closer to his destination, his mood was low this eve.
The journey had been difficult—everything that could go wrong had.
He’d galloped out of the capital on a fast horse, but had lost it the first night out in the wilderness. Brand was still annoyed with himself over that—he’d made a stupid mistake. As night fell, he’d taken refuge up a tree, shrouded by a protection charm, and left his horse tethered below. Halfway through the night, the beast had taken fright at the prowling shadow creatures and had broken free.
Losing his mount had been a blow, slowing him considerably. The blisters he’d gotten on his first day marching on foot had lamed him. Not only that, but the horse had run off with his pack of provisions on its back, leaving him without food. He’d been forced to hunt and forage all the way.
There had been little food to be found on the journey north, especially since leaving the Highlands. He’d been forced to make suppers out of the local marsh toad in the swampland beyond. They’d been bony, slimy creatures yet there had been nothing else. On the fringes of the marshes he’d found brambles filled with unripe blackberries. He’d gorged on them and ended up with stomach pains and diarrhea.
Brand eyed the roasting rabbit. He was careful to rotate it while it cooked, lest it burn.
Two days out from his destination, he was now weak from hunger and exhausted from a succession of restless nights.
He hadn’t been able to sleep deeply, for it took energy and concentration to shroud himself from the shadow creatures at night. They might not have been able to reach him, but they knew he was there. He heard them, padding around the base of the trees he slept up, or outside the holes he’d curled up in. He heard the hiss of their breathing, their swearing when they encountered his wards.
He’d managed to keep them at bay, but his nightly vigils left him drained during the day. And all the while he’d kept looking over his shoulder. He knew Thrindul, and others, would come after him. He just needed to keep ahead of them.
With his free hand, Brand reached up, his fingers clasping over the ice-cold stone he wore around his neck.
I’ll keep you safe.
He’d managed so far, but The King Breaker had come at a price. There had been times over the past days that he’d wished he’d never taken it.
As if reading his thoughts, a familiar, hateful voice whispered in his ear. “Such a lot of trouble,” it crooned. “Do you think this will change anything? You will still remain beneath their notice—beneath his notice.”
Brand jumped—for he would never get used to his shadow talking to him—and cast a wary glance to his right, where his shadow stretched long over the pebbly ground. “Quiet,” he croaked. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I hope you’re not expecting them to fall at your feet in gratitude,” the voice continued, ignoring his plea. “You’re still the orphan—the son of a whore. No one’s ever going to forget where you came from.”
“Silence,” Brand snarled. He knew he shouldn’t rise to its taunts, but his shadow knew exactly where to strike.
Sure, he’d had a difficult upbringing, yet he’d proved his worth. He was proving it now.
His shadow cackled, lengthening across the ground so that it was triple the size it should have been. “So eager to please,” it sniggered. �
��He wanted nothing to do with you before—and as soon as he gets his prize you’ll be disposed with. Mark my words.”
Brand’s fist closed tighter around The King Breaker. “Enough,” he growled. “I’ll not listen to your venom.”
A peal of laughter rose up into the dusk. “Suit yourself.”
Brand resisted the urge to put his hands over his ears. It had been like this for three days now; a slithering voice that insulted him, belittled him, and fed him lies.
It was slowly wearing him down—and he was beginning to regret his decision to wear the stone around his neck. He’d known it bonded to its wearer; he should have carried it in an iron box for precaution as Gael had told him. However, he’d thought it wouldn’t affect him—not like little Lilia. Her shadow had ended up being her ally, yet his seemed intent on pulling him to pieces.
After the first day his shadow came to life, he’d tried to remove The King Breaker from around his neck—but he’d found he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Brand pressed the palm of his hand against the stone and felt it pulse against his skin as if alive. Despite his heckling shadow, he was now glad he wore it. Nothing had ever meant so much to him. He’d protect it with his life.
A few feet away, Brand saw something scuttle along the edge of the lakeshore. He’d seen one of these before—a small black imp with a long, rat-like tail. An excited jabber echoed out across the water, warning Brand that the creature was calling to its friends, telling them that it had found prey.
He set aside his rabbit for a moment and rose to his feet, wincing as the knotted muscles in his thighs and calves protested. Then, he reached out with his right hand and gathered the Dark, bringing up a veil of shadow around him.
38
In the Shadow of the Shadefells
The cloud hung low over a landscape of bare hills studded with clumps of gorse, as the army moved on once more.
Inside the supply wagon, Lilia spent most of the morning pressed up against the tarpaulin, peering outside. She longed to be out there, walking next to Dain. After days of being cooped up, she wanted to stretch her legs and feel the wind on her face. She and Ryana had run out of conversation. Both of them tried to sleep, but it was near to impossible with the wagon shuddering and jolting every few yards. This section of the Great Road was in a sorry state. Rough, badly rutted and strewn with sharp pieces of shale, it was slow going.
The road hugged the edge of Harrowmere for a long while and it was near noon when Lilia spied a fortress up ahead. It perched upon a rocky hill overlooking the dark, still lake.
“Ryana.” Lilia reached out and plucked at her companion’s sleeve. “Come and look at this.”
Ryana obliged, squeezing in next to Lilia and peering outside. “Shadows, that must be the ruins of Dûn Maras,” she murmured, awed.
High crumbling walls of granite and schist greeted them. An empty causeway curled up the hill, entering the ruins through a great arch. The gates had long disappeared. The keep inside had partially disintegrated; only one lonely tower remained. A large curved window near the top stared down at them like a single blind eye.
“It’s so desolate.” Lilia craned her neck, her gaze taking in the ruins. She was glad they were passing by and not going inside, for the fortress had an ill-favored look. It was a boil on the landscape; a reminder of Serran’s brutal past and the man who had once brought its people low.
“Why does Dûn Maras still stand?” she asked Ryana. “Surely, it should have been destroyed after Valgarth retreated north?”
Ryana sighed. “Scavengers and outlaws looted the castle after it fell,” she replied, “but most folk were too scared to set foot inside Dûn Maras let alone destroy it. The fortress is said to be cursed.”
Lilia frowned, her own gaze flicking back to the dark tower that now rose directly overhead. It was a relief when they left the forbidding shadow of Dûn Maras behind. The horns announcing the noon rest did not blow until the army was much farther north.
Lilia leaned against the wagon, gnawing on a piece of griddle bread and hard cheese. There was an odd atmosphere today, as if passing Dûn Maras had unnerved the troops. This time of day, the rumble of voices and the occasional burst of laughter usually surrounded them, but today the mood was subdued.
Dain stood next to Lilia, his arm casually slung over her shoulders. Over the past few days he’d been the one to bring them food and let them out of the wagon at noon. Asher rode far ahead with the other enchanters at the front of the main army and only joined them in the evenings.
Lilia swallowed a mouthful of bread and gazed north. The outline of the Shadefells, at first little more than a faded purple silhouette, had drawn steadily darker and more defined. The mountains were huge, with sheer sides and knife blade peaks. The ridge stretched as far as the coast to the east, and to the Wild Pass many leagues to the west. However, up ahead Lilia spied a deep cleft in the mountain chain.
For the second time that day, she tugged at Ryana’s sleeve to draw her attention. “What’s that?”
Ryana frowned as she followed Lilia’s gaze. “That’s the Chasm.”
Lilia sucked in her breath. The Chasm was folklore, legend—and part of her found it hard to believe it actually existed.
Dain let out a low, awed whistle. “My Nan used to tell me stories about The Chasm. She said Valgarth used to throw his enemies into it.”
“I’ve heard of folk throwing stones in and never hearing them hit the bottom,” Ryana added. “Some have even tried climbing down into it with ropes, but they gave up when it got too deep.”
Dain’s gaze remained upon the gap in the mountain chain, his expression thoughtful. “Nan said that The Chasm was formed long ago, when the earth split open and fire, ash and stones spilled forth—that at its very bottom there is a lake of molten fire.”
Ryana cast Dain a surprised look. “Your Nan must have been a learned woman. I’ve never heard that story.”
Dain gave a wistful smile, one that reminded Lilia how much she had to learn about him. “Nan wasn’t like most Orin folk,” he replied. “She’d travelled Serran in her youth … and she used to tell me all sorts of stories.” His smile faded then. “Or she did until Ma told her off for filling my head with nonsense.”
Brand arrived at his journey’s end just before nightfall.
He limped up the last stretch; a long slope toward the Vale of Barrows—the shallow valley that spread out before the foothills of the Shadefell Mountains. His feet throbbed with every step. The muscles in his back and legs were cramped and knotted. Yet now he’d almost reached his destination, Brand pushed his physical discomfort aside.
He had managed it, although it felt as if he dragged a sack of rocks behind him.
Brand reached the crest of the last hill and stopped for a few moments, swaying, as he gazed on the vale below. Hundreds of stone mounds carpeted the arid soil for a league in every direction on either side of the Great Road. These were the cairns of the slaves that had once labored for Valgarth in the Shadefells; those who had carved out tunnels and chambers for his mountain lair. Centuries later, these barrows still bore silent monument to The Shadow King’s power.
Brand’s gaze slid over the cairns. They were an eerie sight, but he was not here for the dead.
At the other end of the vale, an army gathered.
Relief swamped Brand, and his legs nearly gave under him. They had managed it—everything was going to plan. And he’d done what he’d promised: brought them the missing piece of the puzzle.
He thought then of those he’d left behind at the capital. He’d lived among the order for years, and made friends with the other enchanters. But in the end he’d wielded the Dark against the young enchanter, Rina, and snapped her neck. He would never forget the fear in her eyes as she turned to face him in the hallway outside Lilia’s chamber—the surprise.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing had lived in their midst for years, yet none of them had suspected him.
He�
��d been waiting for his moment to attack Lilia, cultivating her trust, but Saul’s move had forced his hand. Thrindul was never going to allow Lilia to keep the stone, so he’d had to take it first.
Brand staggered down the hill, his breathing ragged.
It was deathly still. Low clouds hung overhead, so thick today it was impossible to make out the glow of the setting sun through them. Ahead, he could see the southern flanks of the amassing army. It was huge, stretching from one side of the wide vale to the other.
The odor of hot iron reached him, burning his nostrils. Nervousness rose within Brand when he realized that it was not just the ranks of The Shade Brotherhood that awaited him, but a far more unnatural host.
Brand slowed his gait. Chattering, howling and shrieking reached him, the feral sounds turning his bowels to ice.
Up ahead, he spied Nightgengas prowling the outer perimeter. From a distance they resembled bent, naked men, their flattened faces covered with lank hair. As he approached, those nearest stopped their patrol and watched him, their predator eyes devouring.
Shadows, they looked like they wanted to rip him to pieces.
Keep walking, he counselled himself. Just one step at a time.
Closer still he encountered the ethereal, ghostly forms of Hiriel, their antlers silhouetted against the gathering dusk, their lacy capes fluttering in the breeze. Nearby, he spotted those tiny, dark imps with long, rat-like tails. There were also tall thin figures shrouded in grey, standing head and shoulders above the rest.
He walked on, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. He’d come too far to falter now.
Gradually, the throng thickened and the shadow creatures were forced to move aside to let him pass. Hundreds of gazes fixed upon him, none of them friendly. The raucous din they’d been making had quietened, although this change just scared him all the more.
Brand stopped, his courage almost failing him. His guts cramped, and he wished the others had warned him. He’d been running from these creatures the whole way here—he couldn’t believe he was walking through their midst now.
