The Shadow King

by Alec Hutson

  “That is not demon,” the priest grated in his stilted Menekarian. “That is servant of the Skin Thief.”

  “One man’s god is another man’s demon,” murmured Cho Lin. The unnatural vividness of her surroundings had begun to fade as her hold on the Nothing faltered. The sword she held to the priest’s neck suddenly seemed to grow heavier.

  “Kill me,” the priest spat out harshly. “I wish to meet my god.”

  “Not yet,” Cho Lin said. “I have questions.”

  “No answers for you,” the priest replied, though Cho Lin thought she heard a tremor in his voice. Perhaps he was afraid of how the Skin Thief would look upon a servant who was present when a girl defeated his chosen warriors.

  “There was another prisoner in my cell. The skald. He arrived in Nes Vaneth before me, and for a time was favored by the king and his thanes.”

  The priest said nothing, so Cho Lin pressed the edge of her blade against his neck. A trickle of blood slid down the furred collar of his robes.

  “South,” the priest said grudgingly. “Hroi take him south when he go to fight the queen.”

  “Queen?”

  “The red queen. She brings her army into the Frostlands.” The pain in his words was now mixed with anger.

  The Crimson Queen of Dymoria had entered the north? And she had come to fight the Skein, who had allied with the Betrayers? Cho Lin’s thoughts wandered to the shattered pieces of her father’s sword. The warlocks believed she was a great sorceress. If she truly opposed the Betrayers, then perhaps she was the one to whom Cho Lin should bring the sword.

  The priest seemed to notice her distraction. “You have no hope, spider-eater. You are doomed.”

  “I had little trouble defeating your Flayed.”

  The priest chuckled, a horrible rasping sound. “You can kill all the Flayed. It does not matter. The Skin Thief walks the land again. His children and servants labor to bring about Gravishna.”

  “What is that?”

  “The end,” the priest gloated. “The end of the world, Shan. The Worm shall rise and swallow the sun, and in the time of decay there will be sweet feasting for those who held fast to the faith.”

  The priest’s words had an unsettling resemblance to the catechism of the Raveling. It was no wonder the Betrayers had found fertile ground in the far north for their breed of madness.

  Cho Lin opened her mouth to demand he explain himself, but paused when he suddenly went rigid, his attention fixed on something behind her.

  “Away!” he cried, his voice raw.

  Cho Lin glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t hold back a startled gasp. The Pale Lady stood in the center of the plaza, watching them with cold blue eyes, her white dress and long golden hair untroubled by the breeze. She was no illusion, though – the silver diadem on her brow gleamed like it had been freshly polished, and as Cho Lin watched, the lady slowly raised her open palm. A vivid scar marred the otherwise unblemished whiteness of her hand, red and festering.

  “Who—” Cho Lin began, but then a sound made her whirl around and she had a momentary glimpse of the priest of the Skin Thief lunging towards her, flensing knife aimed at her throat. Reacting purely on instinct, she slashed sideways with the sword that still rested on the Skein’s shoulder. Her blade bit into his neck – not deep, but hard enough that his strike was unbalanced and his hooked knife only grazed her cheek. The priest recovered quickly; with one hand clapped to his neck, he came at her again, but this time she was ready, and she buried her sword in his belly. He stood there, swaying, the flensing knife tumbling from his hand as he stared down at where she’d stuck him. Cho Lin finished him with a swing from her other sword, the mask of stolen faces fluttering free as his head tumbled to the snow.

  Cho Lin touched her cheek and her fingers came away stained red, though she knew the cut was not serious. Unless he poisoned his knife, but she suspected that the barbarian code of the Skein would consider that dishonorable. Nothing she could do about that now, though. She turned back to where she’d seen the Pale Lady, fully expecting her to have vanished.

  She was still there, regarding Cho Lin with a solemn expression.

  “Who are you?” Cho Lin asked, sheathing her bloodstained swords.

  But the apparition offered only silence.

  “What do you want?”

  Cho Lin took a step towards the lady, and with exquisite slowness the spirit turned from her and began to walk in stately, measured steps in the direction of one of the small streets that emptied into the plaza.

  Cho Lin quickened her stride, but to her surprise she found that no matter how fast she moved, the lady stayed the same distance ahead of her. When she reached the center of the plaza, where the lady had been standing and watching her, Cho Lin saw that the snow was undisturbed.

  “Wait!” she called out to the spirit, and then quickly dashed to where she’d hidden the Sword of Cho. Frantically, she dug up the bundle from the drifted snow, and though she again feared she would turn and find the ghost gone, the hazy white figure had paused at the edge of the plaza, as if waiting for her.

  She hurried to follow.

  The Pale Lady led Cho Lin deeper and deeper into the dead city, the architecture changing as they moved farther from the Bhalavan: columns and graceful flourishes of white stone gave way to more solid, squat buildings carved from gray rock threaded with veins of black. The doorways that still stood among the devastation here were nothing more than slabs of stone; in contrast, the area of the ruins where she’d recuperated from her wounds had been littered with the remnants of arched entrances. Those had reminded Cho Lin of what she’d seen in Kalyuni ruins back in the Empire of Swords and Flowers – she suspected that she now moved through a much older part of the holdfast, perhaps from before the Min-Ceruthans had established contact with the south.

  Cho Lin stopped trying to catch up with the spirit drifting ahead of her, as every effort to close the distance had failed. Nor did the Pale Lady respond to any of her shouted questions or entreaties.

  There were other wonders here, sights that Cho Lin suspected no living eye had glimpsed for a thousand years. She passed down a narrow avenue flanked by trees wrought from twisting metal, copper and bronze branches twining overhead to form a gleaming bower. Later she had to step over a narrow channel, through which sluggishly flowed what looked to be quicksilver. And the most startling discovery, which drew her gaze from the Pale Lady and made her stare open-mouthed in awe, was the black-bone skull of a dragon lying among the ruins. The beast’s mouth was large enough to swallow a horse whole, and the building behind it had been utterly flattened, as if the creature had come crashing out of the sky. Of the rest of the dragon’s body there was no sign.

  Beyond the fallen dragon was a broad, low structure, its walls great jagged boulders pushed together. All of these rocks were of differing heights and widths, so that the structure almost resembled a mountain range, though the curve of the building and the gap that had been left for an entrance made it clear that the stones had been placed here long ago. Cho Lin felt the age of this place; it was from a time before the skilled masons of Nes Vaneth had hewn the rest of the city from the flesh of the north. She wasn’t even sure that these stones had been placed here by human hands. The lack of symmetry among the boulders – some tall and tapering, some short and rounded – yet all fitted together with an unnatural precision . . . it did not seem like a design that had emerged from the minds of men. And there was an otherness to the place that lay heavy on her soul.

  Within the center of the stone ring gaped a hole. Wide stone steps led down into the darkness. Cho Lin just glimpsed the golden head of the apparition she had followed here before it vanished from sight. Tamping down a little tremor of unease, Cho Lin approached the hole; a film of blackness seemed to cover it, keeping the light from revealing what lay below. She glanced at the towering monoliths rearing up aroun
d her, and she couldn’t help but imagine that they were waiting and watching to see what she would do.

  She put a foot upon the first step – it was slick, and she nearly slipped – then another, and another, until her leg was swallowed by inky darkness. There was a warmth trickling up through the stones, which must be why the steps were clear of snow. Or perhaps some sorcery still lingered here. This had clearly been a sacred place for the Min-Ceruthans, built to shelter whatever had persisted under the earth. Cho Lin descended into the abyss, her hand on the ivory hilt of her sword.

  The blackness was so complete that it seemed to pulse around her, shapes roiling in its depths. Her breathing thundered in her ears – whatever barrier kept out the light also stopped the sounds of Nes Vaneth from penetrating the hole. She’d thought the dead city was absolutely silent, but now, as every scrape of her boots traveled back to her, she realized what true silence was. This would be the perfect place to try and grasp the Nothing, if she could overcome her gnawing fear of what could be lurking down here.

  A slight breeze swirled around her, and Cho Lin shivered. She rubbed at her arms as her flesh goosepimpled. Something felt wrong about the wind – if it was being pushed through a tunnel down here, it should feel like it was all coming from the same way, rushing up to meet her as she followed the steps down. What she felt, though, was more like a thousand ghostly fingers lightly brushing her skin and stirring her hair. It grew stronger as she went deeper, her hair teased in contrary directions, the gentle caresses hardening into actual pressure. Cho Lin yelped as her wrist was pinched, her hand going to her sword as she fought to keep from panicking.

  “Stop it!” she cried, but her words were instantly swallowed. There was no echo down here, even though she must be descending into an underground space. The urge to turn and dash back up the stairs was nearly overwhelming, but the Pale Lady had saved her life and returned a piece of her ancestors’ sword, and she had wanted Cho Lin to follow her into this terrible place. Steeling herself, Cho Lin ignored the spectral fingers tangling in her hair and forced herself onwards.

  A presence waited several steps below her. She wasn’t sure how she could sense it given that the darkness swaddling her was so complete, but even though she tried to convince herself that it was only a phantasm conjured up by her terrified imagination, she knew it was there.

  “Hello?” she ventured, hesitating before taking another step.

  No answer.

  She drew one of her swords. “Speak,” she commanded, but still the presence remained silent.

  Swallowing back her fear, she shuffled forward, easing herself slowly onto the next step.

  Is anything truly there? Perhaps this was all a trick of her mind.

  A smell came to her, something she knew from memory, but so incongruous for this place that she nearly dropped her sword in shock. It was the fragrance of burned herbs and rare wood, the same incense with which servants carrying swinging censers had anointed the robes of the celestial courtiers before they entered the Jade Court. When she was a child, it had clung to her father’s robes, back in the days when he had been at the right hand of the emperor.

  “Father?” she whispered into the darkness.

  No reply, but the smell grew stronger, as if the presence was drawing closer.

  It felt like him. When she was a small girl, she had lain awake in the darkness of her sleeping chamber, her head hidden beneath silken pillows so that the ghosts could not find her. Sometimes during the night she would sense him standing on the threshold of her room, watching her, and her fear would vanish, even though he never said a word or came closer to her. That was how she felt now. Holding back a sob, Cho Lin stretched out a trembling arm, not sure what she expected to feel.

  Her fingers brushed embroidered silk. A wrenching cry shuddered up from deep within her, and her legs went so weak that she nearly stumbled and fell forward.

  Ice-cold fingers closed around her wrist. It took all her willpower not to lash out with the sword she held in her other hand. If the grip had been painful, she probably could not have held back, but the hand was gentle, steadying her.

  “Father, I’m sorry,” she spoke into the darkness. Tears coursed down her cheeks; she wanted to wipe her face, but the cold hand held her fast. “The sword is broken and I cannot stop the Betrayers. Not by myself.”

  The grip on her wrist twisted her arm gently, turning her palms up. Cho Lin let out a little gasp as something sharp pressed into the center of her hand – a fingernail, if she had to guess. Slowly the nail began to move, sketching something, and after a moment Cho Lin realized what it was: a Shan character, written in the classical style. She recognized the word even before it was fully written, and again she felt a great upwelling of emotion.

  Proud.

  The dam within her broke, and she drew in a series of gulping sobs. All she had ever wanted was to be worthy, for her father to know that she could take up the ancient burden of her family.

  The hand touching her vanished.

  “Father?” Cho Lin said, questing out again. But the presence was gone, as if it had never truly been there.

  The character that had been traced into her palm still tingled, though, and she clenched her fist. She would be strong. She had to be strong.

  The darkness was no longer absolute, as in the distance a blue flame coiled and flickered. Nor was it endless: the steps she was descending terminated not far below on a floor of smooth black stone. There were no walls or ceiling that she could see – she stood upon an endless dark plain, with only the distant fire to guide her way.

  It seemed to take quite some time before she managed to reach the flame. No heat emanated from it, nor did it crackle or hiss like a true fire. It filled a wide silver basin embedded in the floor, and there was nothing feeding the flames that she could see. Something about this fire seemed familiar, and after a moment she realized where she had seen its like before: in the throne room of the Min-Ceruthan queen, deep beneath the Bhalavan, she had glimpsed the same blue flames recessed deep within the wall of ice.

  Across from her, through the dancing tongues, she saw the woman she had followed here watching her.

  “What is this place?” she asked the silent ghost, but as she expected the Pale Lady did not reply.

  A shiver of movement came from within the flames. An image was forming within the swirling fire, and as Cho Lin concentrated, sweat beading on her face, it became clearer.

  She saw snow and stone, a few stunted pine trees clustered on the side of a hill. A door was there, sunk into the earth, a vast slab of gray rock. The true immensity of the portal became apparent when she noticed a crescent of tiny figures standing in the snow just outside it. The door must have been a thousand span tall, at least, higher than any city gate she’d ever seen. Slowly, the vague black shapes resolved as the image sharpened, and Cho Lin sucked in her breath. Children dressed in tattered rags, their long, snarled black hair a stark contrast to their corpse-pale flesh.

  One of the Betrayers stepped forward and placed its open palm on the door. The stone seemed to shiver, snow sifting down from higher up the hillside, but the portal remained closed. After a long moment, the Betrayer turned to rejoin his brethren, but then his empty eye sockets jerked upwards, seeming to stare directly at Cho Lin through the flames. She let out a little cry as a blast of cold air struck her in the face, and she struggled to keep watching as the scene began to recede, as if she were a bird soaring upwards, the Betrayers dwindling into tiny black points speckling the snow. As she spiraled higher, she saw for the first time the shape of the hills where the door was set. It was like something she’d seen before, in the memories of the Shan courtesan Jhenna. It reminded her of the way Sleeping Dragon Valley had rippled as if there was something vast slumbering beneath its surface . . .

  Cho Lin stumbled back just as the flames vanished, plunging her into darkness.

 
“No,” she moaned, terror seizing her. How could she ever find her way out of this dark and terrible place? Something like a wave washed over her, knocking her down, and her head struck the stone hard. She squeezed her eyes shut, wincing from the pain. A moment later she was surprised to find that a gray glow had begun to creep around the edges of her closed eyes, and it felt like she was no longer lying on hard ground, but cold snow.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself sprawled in the center of the stone ring, a granite-colored sky above. Beside her was the hole she had descended into and the bundle with the shards of the Sword of Cho.

  She drew in a shuddering breath, shielding her eyes from the day’s wan light. A vision. She had been granted a vision down there. She had learned something very important.

  Whatever creature the Betrayers had summoned long ago – the thing that had become known as the Raveling as it tore apart the ancient land of the Shan – a similar beast was here in the north.

  And they were trying to wake it.

  The good cheer of the gathered magisters had vanished with the arrival of the main Skein host. The few hundred mounted warriors had been joined by thousands more that came trudging over the hills on foot, and they had established a camp close to where the Dymorians crouched behind their entrenchments. It did not appear to Willa like the Skein had put any effort into fortifying their position – almost as if they were daring the Dymorians to attack them. Which, of course, would mean abandoning the rows of sharpened stakes and earthen bulwarks that they had spent days building.

  The queen had so far shown restraint. And it was a wise course of action, Willa decided. She could see no supply wagons with the barbarians. They must be feeding themselves on whatever they had carried in their packs and the game they could find in these harsh lands. General d’Chorn had been right – the Skein could not wait out the Dymorian army. They would have to attack or retreat once their food was exhausted. Yet despite the knowledge that the Skein would have to throw themselves at the Dymorian fortifications, Willa was still nervous about the coming battle, and this sentiment seemed to be shared by the magisters watching from the ridge.