Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  The cloth quickly seared away. Not even an ash remained to fall on the stool. Still, the nails shone with heat-glow, and the air smelled of burning.

  The Witch cast her small brand aside, and the flame died before it hit the ground. She rose, drawing her dagger from her belt. Standing over her idol, the image of her holy god, she set the razor edge to her wrist. The blade rippled with wild color as lightning lit the darkness. The thunder that followed covered any sound she made as she drew it through the flesh.

  Blood splashed on the idol's head and streamed down among the nails, mingling with the ceaseless rain, staining the wood. Innowen cried out for his Lady, not knowing how deeply she had cut. The free flow of her life-fluid made him cry out again. She said nothing, though, just stared at the heavens and held her arm rigid while the blood pumped.

  Suddenly, Innowen felt the power of her god upon him. The idol's eyeless face regarded him with a cold passion. He stared back, looking for a gaze he could meet, then clapped a hand to his mouth in disbelieving horror. Its chest began to heave as if it drew breath; wooden limbs stirred ever so slightly and seemed to pulse with tension.

  He was only imagining it, he tried to tell himself. The lightning and the thunder, the fire, and the Witch's blood-letting all contrived to play this trick on his mind.

  But no, he knew the truth. The thing exuded a fearsome, unimaginable life, and he was the object of its unnatural attention. He sat up slowly, supporting himself on his hands, unable to look away from the idol.

  With a screeching wail, a new wind ripped through the forest. From deep in the woods came the crashing of huge old trunks as their branches snapped and shattered and they struck the earth. Over it all, Innowen heard a groaning and a wrenching that made him look up. A corner of the cottage roof reared against the night, bucked and writhed like a tortured animal, then blew away with the gale. A section of the west wall sprang outward, and another piece of the roof collapsed.

  Innowen threw himself sideways on his elbows, twisting his body as he screamed. "Drushen!"

  The Witch stood over him. Her hair lashed wildly behind her, and her ruined gown whipped and beat in the wind. Her voice stung. "Rise, Innocent!" she shouted, shaking her fists. "Save your Drushen. Get up and run to him!"

  Innowen dragged himself through the mud, tears streaming, mingling with the rain that rilled down his face. "I can't!" he cried despondently. "Drushen!"

  "Drushen!" she mocked him. Then she kicked him repeatedly until he rolled away from her and found himself again at the wooden feet of her cruel god. She positioned herself between him and the cottage, and Vashni took a position at her back. "Get up, Innocent!" she demanded. "My god has placed his hand upon you. Save your guardian, but I won't let you crawl to him. Get up! Walk!"

  The wind swelled to greater fury. Even the Witch leaned into it to stand at all. Innowen stared at his home as yet another portion of the wall caved outward and another piece of roof tumbled down. He opened his mouth, but no sound came, so great was his horror.

  He stared at the Witch. He loved her! How could she do this, save his Drushen only to let him die? She had been beautiful before when she worked her bedside mercies. But now, muddied and soaking and angry, she seemed hellish, and he knew that the villagers were right in their fears, and that he was a fool to love her.

  "Get up!" It was the very voice of the storm coming from her. She shook her fist at him, and lightning crackled across the sky.

  He looked at the idol with its many copper spikes, sure that it breathed now. It pulsed with horrid vitality, swelled and contracted. The nails stirred like quills. The thing watched him and bent its will upon him with a dreadful force.

  "I can't! I can't!" he answered both the Witch and her god. "Help me!" He rose as high as he could on his hands, but she refused to let him crawl. Her sandaled foot pushed him back. Yet Drushen was still inside, and their home was crashing down. He had to save Drushen!

  He screamed in fear and anger, and as he did, he pulled one knee under himself, the first movement his legs had ever known.

  "Help yourself, Innocent!" the Witch cried with fierce urging. "Help yourself, and help your Drushen. But hurry! How long will the rest of the roof hold? How much time? Get up! Run!"

  Ever so shakily, Innowen rose, barely aware of his miracle. Drushen filled his thoughts. He took his first lurching step, then his second. The Witch stood before him, and he pushed her aside, all his attention on the cottage door and the firelight beyond it. Vashni moved out of his way.

  "That's it!" the Witch shouted gleefully. "Walk! Run! Dance! All you've wanted is yours now. Save Drushen. That's your task tonight!" She laughed, and the sound of it rolled even over the thunder. "But there's another task to come. I've seen your fate!" She laughed again. "Hurry, Innocent! Hurry to your task!"

  He reached the door. One hand grabbed the edge of it, and he jerked away in pain, a gasp on his lips. A huge splinter protruded from his right palm. He wrenched it out, grimacing at the tiny well of blood as he cast the splinter down.

  The foot of Drushen's bed was all he could see from the door, so he focused on that. Every step was a torturous effort. He balanced precariously on one leg, then the other. He had never learned to walk. How he managed it now, he didn't know. Maybe it was the god. But then, the god could have made it easier! Innowen had to think through every movement, and there was little time.

  The wind raged around him, pushing him back, as it blew through the shattered sections. He glanced upward. The remains of the roof hung dangerously over his head.

  Innowen fell suddenly, tripping in the debris that had been his home. Agony shot up his left arm. He raised it before his eyes, terrified at the sight of more of his blood.

  The roof made a menacing noise. A thick beam dipped toward Drushen. Innowen forgot his wound and dragged himself quickly across the ruined floor, using his elbows as he always had. The Witch wasn't there to stop him. But when he reached the bedside, he clutched the rough wooden frame with all his strength and hauled himself once more to his feet.

  He couldn't deny that the Witch had kept her promise—or that her god had kept it for her. He could stand. He could walk. But there was no time to ponder why or how. He pulled his unconscious guardian up and slipped his arms around the old man's chest. He took his first step backward.

  And fell again. He kept his grip on Drushen, though, and they tumbled from the bed to the floor. Once more, Innowen struggled to his feet, bent over uncertainly, and seized his guardian by the wrists.

  The room swam in circles as he straightened and began to drag Drushen through the rubble. Twice more he fell, the simple skill of moving backward eluding him. Each time, though, he rose faster and more surely. Through the door and into the storm he hauled the old man, falling yet again in the slippery mud.

  He screamed in frustration. With a grinding noise, the remains of the roof collapsed. The walls followed, crashing down in a thick cloud of dust that the rain swiftly smothered. The only home he had ever known lay in ruins. A numbness filled him. He stared at the broken pile of timbers that had been a cottage, and at Drushen, who slept the undisturbed sleep of a child.

  He looked for the Witch, but she was gone. So was her servant, Vashni, as was the idol. The little stool stood crookedly, alone in the cold rain, one of its three legs sunk deeper in the mud than the others.

  He looked slowly down at his own legs, so straight and perfect, so strong, and his heart leaped. He could walk! He was whole! Suddenly, the cottage seemed a small price to pay for such a gift.

  The Witch had said there would be a price. He drew a deep breath, unable to resist the grin that turned up the corners of his mouth. What would you give? she had asked him. What would you give? he asked himself.

  He took a few hesitant steps, then flung up his arms and rejoiced. The cottage was, indeed, a small price. Drushen could build a better home, and they could both have beds. This time, Innowen could help!

  The storm grew weaker, and the rain a
lmost stopped. But the wind rose again, strong as ever, and the night wailed with its power. Innowen, still new to the subtleties of balance, turned into it and was blown over into the muck. He rose on his elbows at his guardian's side.

  The wind blew through the forest, and the sound of its rush through the leaves, through the grass, took form in his ears and spoke to him in the Witch's voice. He shot a wild look around, searching for her, but she was not there. Only her words remained on the wind.

  Dance, my Innocent, the wind said to him. To walk, you must dance. Every night you must dance, or never walk again. Dance, dance as no one has ever danced. Dance the world away. Dance, dance, dance....

  The wind laughed and laughed, then fell suddenly and "dissipated. The leaves rustled weakly as it faded away. For a moment, silence ruled. The rain ended. The barest hint of lightning flickered far away in the heavens. In the distance, the thunder gave a last rattle and died.

  Innowen rolled over, his face close to Drushen's. The old man looked serene, his eyes gently closed. No trouble or worry creased his brow. He slept as if still in his bed, oblivious to the mud beneath him and to the destruction of his home.

  Innowen planted a small kiss on his guardian's cheek and got to his feet. He had to think about shelter. Drushen couldn't be left in the chill all night. He looked around, wondering what to do.

  Then, the words of the wind echoed in his head. Dance, it said.

  He didn't know how.

  Experimentally, he lifted one foot, pointed the toe, and tapped it on the ground. There should be music, he thought. But there was none. The leaves rasped suddenly as a fresh wind stirred with new gentleness through the branches. That was music of a sort, Innowen reasoned.

  He drew back his foot, threw out his arms, and began a tentative turn, following it with another.

  I can dance, he whispered softly to himself. I can dance!

  The trees swayed with him, keeping time like great metronomes, and the wind rose again, but subtly, and it sounded ever so much like laughter.

  Chapter 2

  Innowen sat with his back against the trunk of an old tree. A thick, broken limb hung down to the earth, providing the only shelter he could find from the misty, intermittent drizzle and the wind that had turned so chilly. Droplets of water from the leaves above fell with annoying regularity in his eyes and on his face. He did his best to ignore them and to forget the cold muddy ground beneath him.

  He gazed down at Drushen and brushed the damp, graying hair back from his guardian's face. The woodcutter stirred ever so slightly; the corner of one lip twitched, and a hand settled on Innowen's knee. Drushen slept in apparent peace, but the Witch had warned he would wake hungry. Innowen thought of the stew Vashni had prepared by the hearth. But the hearth was only a pile of stones now, scattered among the ruins of the cottage.

  A dark blot in the greater darkness of night marked where those ruins were. Innowen had dug among them, hoping to find some bit of fire in the fireplace to carry back to his shelter, just a small flame, a handful of coals even, to warm Drushen in his sleep. But the collapse had smothered the fire and his hope. He had only his body to keep his friend warm, and he wrapped his arms and legs around the older man and hugged him close.

  But slowly, a strange sensation crept into Innowen's legs. Dull needles pricked his flesh, a tingling that began at his ankles and spread upward. No matter how he rubbed and massaged, the sensation worsened until he could stand it no longer. He eased Drushen aside and leaped up, grabbing the tree for balance.

  He took a hesitant step and fell with a sharp cry, fearing the numbness that filled his legs. Cautiously, he rose again, grabbing hold of the broken limb to support himself. If the Witch's magic had worn off, he would be a cripple once more. The thought terrified him. He took a couple tentative steps, never letting go of the branch, begging whatever god had healed him not to turn away from him now. He curled his free hand into a fist and beat it desperately against his thighs, trying to stir up feeling.

  Little by little, the tingling stopped and Innowen's fear subsided. He let go of the limb and walked around the tree until he was sure of his step again. Had the Witch's god heard his prayer? He glanced down at his bare toes and wiggled them in the muddy grass, a marvelous feeling. A slow smile blossomed on his lips; he delighted in the newness of such textures under the soles of his feet.

  The sheepish grin spread over his face, and he chided himself for his own ignorance. Now that his panic had subsided, he recalled how Drushen had occasionally rested from his work, settled back on his haunches to eat a lunch or to talk a bit, and how he would sometimes rise suddenly and complain that his legs had gone to sleep. The expression had never meant anything to Innowen before. The old man would beat and rub his legs until sensation returned, and he would smirk and mumble about getting old. That was all that had happened to Innowen. The Witch's magic had not deserted him. He had only sat too long in an uncomfortable position, and his legs had gone to sleep. There was a sweet pleasure in the discovery that his once-dead limbs could do that. He grabbed the branch again for balance, then lifted his right leg, pointed the toe, flexed the knee and pushed straight out.

  He smiled. Then he let go a gleeful laugh that rolled through the forest. It felt so good to laugh and to move his legs. He sat down, marveling at how his legs folded so naturally beneath him, and cradled Drushen's head in his lap. If only his guardian would wake so Innowen could show him his surprise!

  A sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back and stared at the sky through the leaves of the sheltering branch. Gray clouds raced bleakly across the heavens. The palest crescent moon dared to peep through. A few stars winked briefly and disappeared.

  Beautiful and frightening, he thought, like the Witch. He couldn't stop thinking of her. Her voice whispered to him on the breeze. The moon was her smile, and the stars were her eyes watching him from behind the clouds. The air smelled of her perfume. She had treated Drushen with kindness and mercy, and she had healed Innowen's legs.

  Yet she had also destroyed their home and endangered Drushen's life after she had saved it. He remembered her in the storm and wind, seeming like nothing human, as she'd taunted and laughed at him. She'd seemed so gentle before, when she found him on the road.

  Innowen didn't understand. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fists, wishing that morning would come. Dawn couldn't be far off. He longed suddenly for the warmth of the sun and an end to the cold and rain.

  A sound came abruptly from the path that led to the road. Innowen hesitated uncertainly, then untangled himself from his sleeping guardian and crawled from under his shelter. Five mounted soldiers rode out of the woods.

  He leaped to his feet. "Help!" he called, waving his arms. "Please, help us!"

  The riders halted, and five spears leveled on him as heads jerked his way,

  Innowen stepped forward into plain sight so they could see he was weaponless. "Please help me!" he begged, lifting his empty hands toward them. "My guardian is ill, and the storm has destroyed our home."

  The five riders approached him warily. Innowen could tell very little about them, since they wore cloaks and helms. They were big men, though, and obviously on edge. What were they doing on the road on such a night? And why had they turned off to take the trail that led to his cottage? He looked at the points of their spears and swallowed.

  One soldier nudged his horse ahead of the others and stopped again before Innowen. The man stared downward without speaking. Innowen could barely see the gleam of eyes under the nose guard and the copper rim of the ornately fashioned helm. A crest of horsehair crowned its top and cascaded down the rider's back. Innowen stood before him, suffering the weight of that stare until the rider spoke at last.

  "Where are your clothes, boy?" The voice was deep, yet soft and tinged with weariness.

  Innowen felt the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. Vashni had ruined his only tunic and taken his loin cloth. "I was asleep," he lied shyly, "and naked when th
e cracking of the roof beams wakened us. Drushen took a snake-bite today, not a fatal one, but he was still sick, and I had to drag him out of the cottage. There wasn't time to dress."

  "Drushen?" The stranger's speech was like a rich, warm liquid. The sound of it fascinated Innowen, and he wondered at the face behind the helm. Never in his life had he met so many strangers in one day!

  He pointed back to the broken branch that he'd claimed for shelter. "My guardian," Innowen explained. "He's under there. We took care of his bite in time, and he's breathing, but I can't wake him up."

  The rider crooked a finger. Two of his comrades slid down from their horses in response and crawled under the makeshift shelter. Innowen watched them disappear, then looked up again. The man seated above him unlaced his .cloak and cast it down, to him. He caught it in both hands.

  "Cover yourself before you catch a chill," his benefactor instructed. He glanced toward the remains of the cottage and drew his shoulders back in what might have been a soundless sigh. "We'll take you with us to Whisperstone tonight and try to get you settled in Shandisti tomorrow."

  Innowen took a step back. "Lord Minarik's keep?"

  The rider grinned. "Are you afraid?"

  He stammered. "I—I don't know. I've never seen Minarik."

  The man removed his helm and leaned forward on his horse's withers.

  "Whom did you think you were addressing in this accursed drizzle?"

  Innowen paled, taking sudden note of the man's exquisite garments—the lacquered breastplate and the embroidered sleeves of a linen tunic, the short kilt similarly embroidered, and the sculpted metal greaves that covered his lower legs. Innowen should have noticed as soon as Minarik had removed the cloak, but he'd been too startled to receive it as a gift. He studied the lord as best he could in the darkness. Minarik was younger than Drushen. There was the barest hint of gray in his hair, but none in the close-trimmed beard and mustache. His face was handsome, and his entire bearing conveyed strength and power.