by Sean Russell
The Shadow Roads
( The Swan's war - 3 )
Sean Russell
Sean Russell
The Shadow Roads
Prologue. What Went Before
The children of the sorcerer Wyrr did not die, but dwelt foran age in the river as “nagar”; ghostly spirits. The Knights of the Vow wereformed to stop the children of Wyrr from ever finding their way back to theland of the living, but members of the brotherhood were seduced by promises ofpower and long life, and they hid away “smeagh”-arcane objects that could allowthe children of Wyrr to return one day. By this means Wyrr’s two sons and hisdaughter made bargains with mortals and appeared again among the living.
Wyrr’s children, powerful sorcerers, had fought among themselvesfor a thousand years, and when they reappeared in the land between themountains their hatred was undiminished, and they took up their feud again. Thusit was that Lady Elise Wills and a traveler named Alaan became the enemies of aknight known as Hafydd, who had contrived to start a war among the principalfamilies of the land between the mountains so that he might come to power inthe ensuing turmoil.
Unable to destroy Hafydd, Alaan lured him into the hiddenlands-into the Stillwater-a vast swamp that Alaan believed only he couldescape. But Alaan’s plans went awry when he was wounded by one of Hafydd’sguards, and his wound festered in the foul waters of the swamp. Alaan wouldhave been caught and killed, but he was rescued by a stranger accompanied by anarmy of crows. This man, Rabal Crowheart, showed him a ruin where Alaan found achamber containing a great enchantment-the spell that separated the landbetween the mountains from the hidden lands, and the land of the living fromthe kingdom of the dead. Alaan recognized then that the enchantment had begunto decay.
Learning that Alaan was wounded and pursued by Hafydd, EliseWills found the wanderer who could draw maps into the hidden lands and forcedhim to make her a map leading to the Still-water. She, the Valemen, and Alaan’sfriend Pwyll, set off, hoping to save Alaan. They didn’t know that map maker,Kai, had also sent a legendary warrior into the swamp-a near giant named OrlemSlighthand.
While he lay in delirium from his corrupted wound, Alaan wasapproached by an ancient man-at-arms offering him a gem he claimed had beenleft for a child ofWyrr, by Wyrr’s brother, Aillyn. Fearing it was a smeaghthat would bring Aillyn back into the world, Alaan refused it, but Hafydd wasnot so wary and took the gem, thinking it was a stone of legend that had oncebelonged to the great sorcerer Tusival.
A running battle was fought through the wetlands, both betweenElise and Hafydd, and between strange creatures whom Crowheart claimed were theservants of Death. In the end the companies met at the mouth of a tunnel thatled out of the Stillwater. Here they fought a desperate battle, in which themagic Elise summoned almost destroyed them all-but the survivors found themselvesagain in the land between the mountains, many swept into the River Wyrr, whichseemed to have destinations for them-though they were destinations none wouldhave chosen.
One
The disk of light stretched and wavered, flowing left thenright.
The moon, he thought. That is the moon-Butwho am I?
Dust mote stars spun slowly in the black. Light began togrow, and he slipped down into the cool, dark depths. He could feel the othershere, their numbers beyond counting. Slowly they made their way toward thebreathing sea, some so weak they were barely there, others … Others were asstrong and clear as the risen sun.
But what are their names? Have none of them names?
Once he had been a traveler. Of that he was almost certain.A traveler whose journeys had become legend.
Once he had gone into a great swamp and battled Death himself.
The bright light faded, and he rose again, floating uptoward the waning moon, the faint stars. Something swam by, pale and flowing.
A fish, he thought. But it was not. It was a man,blue-pale, like the belly of a fish, eyes like moon shells. For a moment itpaused and gazed at him, sadly.
Who are you? he tried to say, but no words wouldform.
And then he was alone. He felt himself rising again, thewavering moon growing-so close. His face broke the surface, moonlight clingingto him, running out of his hair, his eyes. He took a breath. And then another.
“But who am I?” he whispered.
“Sainth?”
He looked around, but saw nothing.
“Sainth?” The voice came from a shadow on the water, blackas a starless sky.
“Sainth …?” he said. “Is that who I am?”
“It is who you were,” the voice said.
“And who are you?”
“I am the past. Perhaps not even that, but only a shadow ofthe past.”
“I think you are a dream. This is all a dream.”
“You are on the River Wyrr, where things are not as theyshould be.”
A shard of memory knifed into his thoughts. “Death … Deathpursued me!”
“His servants, perhaps. Death does not venture beyond the gatesof his dark kingdom … yet.”
“But why were his servants abroad in forms that could beseen?”
This brought a moment of silence, and he felt a breeze touchhis face and sigh through the trees along the shore.
“They have not yet appeared so in the land between the mountains,but only in the hidden lands, as they are called: the kingdom of Aillyn,of old. Tusival’s great spell fails, and the wall that surrounds Death’skingdom is falling. His servants clamber through the breach. They are preparingthe way for their master to follow … as was foreseen long ago.”
“But how can this be? Death cannot leave his kingdom.”
“Aillyn … Aillyn meddled with his father’s spell. He usedit to sunder his lands from his brother’s. Fear and jealousy and madness haveled to this.”
The man who had been Sainth felt himself sinking again, sinkingbeneath the weight of these words. He laid his head back in the waters,blinking at the stars. Each breath he drew sounded loud in his ears. The waterswere neither warm nor cool. A soft current spun him slowly.
“Sainth,” he whispered, listening for resonance.
Yes, he had memories of one called Sainth. But there wereother memories, as well.
Death’s servants had stalked him through a drownedforest. Death’s servants!
For a moment, he closed his eyes, blotting out the slowlyspinning stars. A man, almost hidden in a cloud of screeching crows, surfacedfrom memory.
Crowheart!
“Sainth?” came the oddly hissing voice again.
“I am not he.”
“Then who are you?”
A light flickered behind closed eyes. “Alaan-I amAlaan!”
“Perhaps,” the voice said, almost sadly. “Perhapsyou are-in part. But you were Sainth once, and you have Sainth’s dutiesto perform. Do not for get.You cannot shirk them.”
The man who believed he was Alaan opened his eyes. “What?What are you saying? What duties?”
But in answer he heard only the soft murmuring of the river.
He floated on, the currents of memories filling him,spinning him this way, then that. How dreamlike some of them seemed, shroudedin mist, or washed out in the brightest light. Some were lost in darkness.Rabal Crowheart he remembered, and Orlem Slighthand. But surely these memorieswere confused, for Slighthand had served the sorcerer named Sainth, whereas Crowheartwas a memory of this life-of Alaan’s.
But the currents all seemed to flow together, like tworivers joining to form a new waterway. New, but made up of the tributaries.
Perhaps I should have a new name, the man thought-neitherAlaan nor Sainth. But no, Alaan would do. Alaan would do for this life, howeverlong it proved to be.
Waving arms and legs, he turned himself so that his
headlifted clear of the water, and he searched the darkness. The Wynnd was broadhere, but he could make out a line of trees, poplars, swaying gently in a softbreeze, moonlight shimmering off their leaves.
He set out for the shore, his strength seeming to grow witheach stroke. A light, appeared among the trees. It was unlike the cold light ofthe stars, for this was orange-yellow and warm. Fire.
The man who had once been Sainth slowed his pace as heneared the shore. He could see other fires now. It was an encampment, hethought. And then a strand of music wafted out over the water and wove itselfinto the night sounds.
Fael. He had found an encampment of black wanderers.
For a moment he hovered out of sight, silent in the slowlymoving waters. On the embankment some Fael men were watering horses in thedark. They must have just returned from somewhere. He could hear their muffledvoices as they spoke softly. The horses splashed in the shallows beneath thelow embankment, drinking, then lifting their great heads to peer into thenight. Their white faces appeared to glow palely in the moonlight. He wonderedif they sensed him here, in the dark.
“Nann is distressed,” one of the Fael said. “I have seen itin her face. And Tuath … Tuath has not been out of her tent in two days. Norhas her needle stopped in all that time. A vision has possessed her, they say.”
Alaan could hear the uneasiness in the men’s voices. Evenamong the Fael the vision weavers-for certainly that is who they were speakingof-were viewed with a mixture of awe and loathing. Too often their visions wereof dark events, calamities pending. Yet such visions had allowed the Fael toescape or at least mitigate such disasters many times. Thus the weavers weretolerated, even treated with some respect, but they were also feared andshunned-outcasts among the outcast.
“The one with no legs … he has unsettled Nann as much asany. As much as that small boy who makes speech with his hands. I don’t likewhat goes on. We should have been gone from this place days ago. Why we remainis a mystery to me. War is gathering, has begun already if the rumors are true.We should flee-west or south-as fast as our horses will bear us.”
“Nann is not foolish. She is wise and cautious, Deeken. Bearwith her yet awhile. There might be more for the Fael to do than simply fly.”
“We’ll not be involving ourselves in the wars of the Renneand the Wills-the wars of men. Our people have taken oaths.”
“Long ago, Deeken. Long ago. Nothing is as it once was. Up,you!” he said, clucking at the horse whose lead he held. The two men turned themassive beasts and led them back up the bank, into the firelit camp.
Alaan gazed into the darkness along the shore. Among theshadows there were bowmen watching the river. He could sense them.
For some time he waited, patient as the river, holding hisposition near to the bank. And then he slipped ashore, silent as a serpent.He was in the central open area before anyone noticed him.
A group seated beneath lanterns stared at him, gape-mouthed.A determined-looking Fael woman rose and was about to sound the alarm whenAlaan noticed a legless man seated in one of the bent-willow chairs. Alaanstopped, as surprised to see this ghost as they were to see him.
“Kilydd?” he said.
The man only stared at him, his mouth opening and closingsoundlessly, like a fish gasping for water.
“Go back,” the man managed finally, his voice a frightenedwhisper. “Go back into the river where you belong.”
Two
The shaft of an arrow, jaggedly broken off, protruded fromthe links of mail, a bit of wine-dark blood drying on the polished wood andstaining the armor. Hafydd cursed. It had been one of those meddlers from thenorth who’d shot him-which he would not forget.
He cleaned the shaft with a fold of his cloak, then tookhold of the wood. Pain coursed through his shoulder, far worse than when thearrow had entered. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the pain washthrough him, like a wave of fire. He focused his mind on the feel of the shaftin his fingers. In a single, slow motion, he drew the arrow out, then doubledover, gasping. He tried to press a fold of his robe against the wound, but thearrowhead was caught up in his mail and stymied his efforts. The world began tospin, and he fought to keep his balance and push back the blackness at the edgeof his vision. Nausea shook him, and he broke out in an unhealthy sweat.
After a moment, the pain subsided enough that he could situp and examine the wound, half-hidden beneath his armor and the padded shirtbeneath.
It appeared worse than he expected-the foul Stillwater corruptedit, no doubt. He would have to bathe it in the River Wyrr. That would healalmost any hurt he might have. He covered the wound, ignoring the ache. Risingto his feet unsteadily, he set out into the wood in search of the river, whichhe sensed was nearby.
Less than an hour later he saw the Wynnd sparkling throughthe trees. He drank from the waters, and sat for a moment on the grass,exhausted-unnaturally exhausted. With great effort and pain he managed to pullhis mail shirt over his head and bathed his wound in river water. Almostimmediately, the pain receded, as though it had been driven deep, almost beyondfeeling-almost.
He set off, again, along the bank, where a narrow footpathhad worn away the covering of green. The breeze was redolent with the scent ofpine trees and the musky river. And then a tang of smoke reached him.
Hafydd was not beyond caution when it was deemed necessary.He was, after all, without his guards and not wearing a shirt of mail. Andthough he could press back an army with his spells, he was ever vulnerable toan arrow, as recent events had shown.
Creeping through the underwood, he pulled aside thethin-limbed bushes and peered through the leaves. Flames crackled, and he heardvoices speaking softly. People crouched around a cooking fire-a woman, a man, achild-eating from crude bowls. Beyond them, angled up the bank, an old skifflay burdened with their baggage, oar blades pressing down the summer grasses.
Hafydd watched them warily for a moment. Watched the womanclean their dishes in the river while the man doused the fire and the childpicked a few huckleberries from low bushes bordering the path. As he searchedamong the branches, the child sang quietly to himself, his plain, freckled facebobbing among the summer-green leaves.
To a man who had seen so many conflicts, they looked likerefugees to him-a family displaced by war. By their dress, likely people oflittle or no wealth, no property, certainly. Tenant farmers.
He decided they would likely not want to help him, agrim-looking man-at-arms, obviously wounded, likely on the run.
Hafydd drew his dark blade and stepped out into the open,grabbing the boy child by the scruff of his neck with his bad arm. If the boystruggled, he would easily break free, so weakened was this arm and so painfuleven this small movement.
“I want only passage across the river,” Hafydd said. “Nothingmore. Bear me over, and I will set your child free. Refuse, and I will kill youall and row myself.”
The father had stepped forward, but stopped when he realizedwhat he faced-a trained man-at-arms bearing a blade, his manner deadly.
“Don’t hurt him,” the father pleaded, his voice breaking,hands up in supplication. “Leave him, and I’ll bear you across. You need notfear.”
“He will accompany us,” the knight said. “I’ll release himupon the other shore, and you may go where you will.”
The frightened father nodded. His wife, white-faced and nearto tears, had begun to tremble, so that Hafydd wondered if she would collapse.The knight pushed the boy forward as his father stooped to retrieve his oars.
Caibre’s long life of battle had brought Hafydd memories andskills he had never dreamed of. Almost before the father knew it himself,Hafydd could see that the man intended to strike him with the oar. And when hedid, the knight easily stepped aside, pushing the boy down roughly and puttinga foot on his chest, the point of his blade to the boy’s heart.
“And I had intended you no harm.Yet this is how you repayme!”
The woman did fall on the ground, then, or perhaps threw herselfforward on her knees. She was sobbing u
ncontrollably, her entreaties almostlost beneath the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hair fell out of itsribbon and clung to her wet face.
“Don’t …” she cried. “Don’t hurt him! ’Twas a foolishthing my husband did. Foolish! I’ll row you across myself and offer you noharm.”
Hafydd stopped, his sword poised over the heart of the boy,who was too terrified even to cry. If he’d had both his arms, he would haveconsidered killing them all and rowing himself, but he was one-armed for themoment, and the Wynnd was broad.
Before the father could move, Hafydd struck him across theside of the face with the flat of his sword, a vicious blow that drove the manto his knees. Upon his face two thin, parallel lines of blood appeared, and theman swayed, dazed.
“Get up, boy,” Hafydd said. “You will sit in the stern withme.”
The woman strained to push the boat down the bank, but shemanaged and scrambled into the bow with the oars. Hafydd put the boy before himon the pile of baggage and took the stern seat, sword in hand.
“Row,” he said.
They set out into the river, the slow current taking hold ofthem. The woman put her back into her work, pulling at the sweeps with obviousfamiliarity. She was pale and shaken, her hair breaking loose from a braid andshivering in the wind. The boy sat still as stone, his hands covering his eyes.
“There be patrols upon the eastern shore,” the woman panted.“The river is watched.”
“And why is that?” Hafydd asked. She was obviously trying toingratiate herself with him, fearing for her child.
“The war,” she said, clearly surprised. “The Prince of Innesinvaded the Isle of Battle. That is what put us on the river. But we’ve heardnow that the Renne drove him back over the canal, with the loss of many.”
Hafydd sat back a little in his seat. That fool Innes wouldn’tgo to war without him? Would he?
“Is this a rumor, or do you know it for truth?”
