by J. L. Doty
“It’s a deal,” he said flatly. “But remember this, Wylow et Inetka. For the ShadowLord, a bargain made in a dream is still a bargain.”
Wylow’s confidence faltered, and he looked at Morgin with growing fear. “If you break your word,” Morgin said, and for some reason Wylow’s face twisted with terror, “If you’re not there at Sa’umbra, then I will ever haunt the shadows of your dreams.”
Wylow seemed near hysteria, but before he could shout or cry out, his eyes drooped heavily, he lay back and returned to sleep.
~~~
Wylow shot awake and cried out, sat up in bed breathing heavily with his heart racing. It took some seconds to calm himself, and only then did he realize it had all been only a dream. He looked at the foot of the bed for reassurance, was pleased to see that the covers were not mud-stained by the lad’s boots.
He thought carefully about the dream, trying to remember what had terrified him so there at the end, wondering why he had chosen to dream about the Elhiyne lad. Perhaps it was only because the fellow was near the forefront of everyone’s thoughts these days, what with the stories that were filtering down out of the mountains of the man and his shadows.
Wylow was alone in bed; Carmet had already arisen and was about somewhere. Light streaming through a shuttered window told him it was well past dawn. He chided himself for sleeping so late, crawled out of bed, threw on a heavy, old robe, and went seeking a bite to eat.
One of the kitchen maids threw together a hearty breakfast for him. She was a pretty thing, and Wylow watched the back of her skirt closely as she worked, thinking he might bed her some time if Carmet didn’t object. He was tearing into a piece of cold meat, and thanking the gods that his steward hadn’t yet found him to heap the day’s work upon him, when the Elhiyne lad stepped out of a shadow and sat down at the table opposite him.
Wylow growled past a mouth full of food, “What the netherhell are you doing here?”
The lad smiled pleasantly, but his words were ominous, “We have a bargain, Lord Wylow, and a bargain made in a dream is still a bargain.” And then the lad’s smile began to shift and change into a mask of evil, and strange shadowy shapes coalesced out of the shadows of the room, smothering him, pulling at his soul, devouring his spirit . . .
~~~
Wylow shot awake and cried out, sat up in bed breathing heavily with his heart racing. It took some seconds to calm himself, and only then did he realize it had all been only a dream, a dream within a dream. He looked at the foot of the bed for reassurance, was pleased to see that the covers were not mud-stained by the lad’s boots. It was barely dawn, though Carmet was already up and about somewhere.
Wylow could hear a commotion out in the castle yard, and another in the hall outside his bedchamber. There followed a discrete knock at the door. “Enter,” Wylow growled.
The door swung open and his chief steward stepped hastily into the room. He bowed deeply. “My lord.”
“What do you want?”
“Your liegemen, my lord. They began arriving in small groups only moments ago, all mounted and girded for war. And the head of each household bears the same story—that a messenger in the form of a shadow came to him in the night and told him to assemble his armsmen and ride with all haste to Inetka.”
“How many?”
“I can only guess, my lord, but I would estimate somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred.”
Wylow nodded, realizing he had no choice but to accept the situation. “Assemble my gear. Call out all the armsmen in the castle, and tell the Lady Carmet we’re riding to war.”
The steward bowed deeply. “The Lady Carmet has already assembled your gear and called out your armsmen. She says a shadow visited her also.”
~~~
Morgin danced cautiously from one moon-shadow to the next. He moved slowly, with infinite care, sword in hand, ready to be discovered and killed at any moment. As he stepped to the next shadow he stumbled over something, caught the branch of a nearby tree to keep from falling, then froze into stillness like that of the night air.
He waited for an outcry, his heart pounding with fear, knowing that a Decouix sentry must surely have heard his fumbling. But luck was with him, for the silence about him remained unbroken.
He looked down at the crumpled heap he’d stumbled into. It was another dead warrior, though whether Decouix or Elhiyne he could not tell. The man had been partially stripped by camp followers, and what little clothing remained was insufficient to identify his clan. The moonlit ground of Sa’umbra was littered by many such corpses.
Without warning the power of the sword surged within him. He looked at his hands with some idea of what to expect: they glowed softly in the dark. He concentrated on his shadowmagic, trying to obscure the eerie light that emanated from his skin, and as a shadow swirled about his hand the glow there diminished. It was joined by others, and soon he was enveloped in a never-ending dance of ghostly half-images that flittered from head to foot.
The silence of the night was broken suddenly by the sound of many horses. They came as a thunder in the distance, approaching quickly, building to a crescendo as a Decouix patrol neared, then dying slowly as they rode on. The sound took forever to disappear on the night air, but when it was well and gone Morgin moved on, dancing among the shadows that had become so much a part of him, dancing on a landscape of darkness and moonlight and death.
The battle at Sa’umbra had been raging for four days now. Eglahan, with his four hundred men and horses, had arrived two days before. His scouts had found a place to camp hidden well within the forest far down from the gap, and he was waiting now for Morgin and Wylow. Wylow had not shown yet. During the intervening days and nights Morgin had spent his time scouting out the battle, and had chosen to avoid contact with everyone.
It was well past midnight, and Morgin longed for a place to stop and rest, but it was slow work travelling on foot, lurking from shadow to shadow. He was forever in danger of discovery, and now that he knew the lay of the pass and had the information he sought, the danger was even greater, for he had a tendency to move hastily, to rush to be gone from the horror that lay about him. But one poorly chosen step would be enough to cost him his life.
Whenever possible he had stayed within the confines of Eglahan’s camp, hidden within a shadow and unable to show himself, but hungry for human companionship nevertheless. And this night, wrapped within his shadows, he slipped past Eglahan’s sentries easily. There was a commotion at the center of camp, for Wylow and his men had arrived and a large council of war was in progress.
Eglahan sat near a small fire with Annen and his lieutenants at his side. Opposite them sat Wylow, SandoFall, Edtoall, and Wylow’s sons and lieutenants. To one side sat Tulellcoe and France and the Balenda. France, not being a clansman, and also by natural inclination, sat on a rock a short distance back from the rest, so Morgin sat down in a shadow beside him.
France neither looked nor turned Morgin’s way, but he whispered softly, “Beware, lad. There’s bad blood and swollen pride here.”
Morgin nodded, then realized the swordsman could not have seen the gesture. And he wondered how France had known he was there at all.
It was obvious the council of war had been going on for some time now. Annen and Edtoall were hot into an argument. Wylow looked ready to pick a fight with someone, and to that end he stared unhappily at Eglahan. Tulellcoe was silent, apparently unwilling to join in the clash of wills, while the dispute between Annen and Edtoall was growing hot and angry, and as the two men stood facing one another over the fire, they held the joint focus of the council. From what little Morgin had seen of interclan councils, this was typical.
They were arguing over something to do with tactics, and all but Eglahan appeared ready to join the dispute. Morgin watched him hold his silence with a visible effort, obviously frustrated at his inability to control the situation. But as the heat of the argument grew there came a moment when Eglahan could contain himself no longer. He
raised his right hand to demand their attention; it was stiff and flat like the steel blade of a knife. “Enough,” he bellowed. “We should be working together, not fighting among ourselves.”
There was some grumbling, but it stilled as Annen and Edtoall reluctantly sat down, though the look that Wylow gave Eglahan bode ill for any cooperation between the two leaders.
“Where’s the damn Elhiyne?” Wylow growled. “ShadowLord or no, we have a bargain.”
Eglahan shrugged. “I believe he’ll show up.”
“And will he keep his end of the bargain.”
Again Eglahan shrugged. “I hope so. I believe so.”
Wylow spoke loudly. “If he doesn’t, we’re gone from here. But if he does, I still say we wait until the final battle, then hit Illalla from behind and destroy his wagons and supplies. He’ll not be expecting that.”
Annen yelled hotly, “And I say we attack now. We can force him to split his troops and form a battle line at his rear.”
“What will that buy us?” Edtoall demanded. “Illalla has enough men to defend his rear and still take the gap.”
“Exactly,” Wylow said flatly. “And that is why my men and I will wait until the main battle. We will attack then, and only then, and destroy Illalla’s supplies.”
Eglahan shook his head sadly. “And by that time the Elhiynes will be exhausted. Most will be dead and the main battle will be a rout.”
“It seems to me,” Annen said to no one in particular, “that the Inetkas seek to save themselves by destroying the Decouix supplies. With that done Illalla cannot carry his campaign to Inetka, though of course it will be too late for Elhiyne.”
Wylow spoke in a snarl. “What are you implying, Elhiyne?”
Annen feigned simple ignorance. “Oh nothing at all, Inetka. Only that you could then hide safely behind your women and your castle walls with no—”
Edtoall leapt up, drew his sword and screamed, “Elhiyne lies!”
Annen jumped to face him. “Inetka coward!” he yelled.
A young Inetka cursed and lunged at Annen, but Annen sidestepped quickly and clubbed him in the face with the hilt of his sword. As the young Inetka went down, Edtoall leapt past him, landed squarely before Annen, struck down hard with his sword. Annen deflected it, but the sound of the two blades crashing together seemed to be a signal to the entire camp, and suddenly hundreds of angry blades leapt clear of their sheaths with an ominous scrape of metal against metal.
Morgin wanted to run, to get out of the way and let the fools kill each other. He wanted to disappear into the forest, to return to his original idea of assassinating Illalla in the night, but his arms and legs were no longer his to command. He remained seated on the ground and reached for his own sword, but he slid it only a few inches from the sheath, far enough for him to touch the steel of the blade with the flesh of his hand. It stung his flesh like a hot brand with a power that was foreign and evil, but he endured the pain and called upon the power of the blade, let that power flood through his soul and used it to form a shadow larger and darker and deeper than any he had ever attempted before. He brought the shadow down over the entire camp, the light of the moon died and the glow of the campfires was quenched, throwing everything into a deep blackness. A cold, deadly wind whistled through the camp; it cut to the marrow and chilled men’s spines to the quick. There were cries of terror and loathing, and all fighting ended in that instant.
Morgin held the shadow in place for a long moment and let the nether wind blow, then released his grip on the blade and the wind died, leaving behind a silent and deadly calm. The enormous shadow cleared from the camp to reveal almost everyone standing with sword in hand, though most were looking over their shoulders and no one seemed inclined to do any fighting.
Eglahan had not drawn his sword, and he shouted angrily, “Stop this. Sheath your weapons now.”
Everyone obeyed slowly, and all but Annen returned to their seats. Annen remained standing near the fire and shouted, “I’ve had enough of this. Where are you ShadowLord? Show yourself, or are you too much of a coward?”
Morgin hesitated, but France whispered, “You’ve got to now, lad. You brought us all here, now you owe it to us to join us . . . openly.”
Morgin stood carefully, still wrapped within a shadow. He picked a shadow that was moving toward Annen, followed it into the light of the fire, but hesitated at the last moment, for the shadows about him whispered to him not to leave the safety of shadow.
“Well, ShadowLord,” Annen demanded. “If you actually exist, and I have yet to see any proof that you’re anything but a myth, show yourself to me now. I’m waiting—”
Morgin, standing only inches from Annen’s face, quenched his shadowmagic without warning. Annen gasped, started, stepped back into the fire, stumbled over the coals and raised a shower of sparks and smoke. He recovered quickly, stood up straight and faced Morgin squarely. Morgin could hear murmurs throughout the camp.
Morgin looked at Eglahan, then Wylow, and hoping to avoid the issue of his end of the bargain, he said simply, “I’ve scouted the gap quite extensively. Is there anything you’d like to know?”
“Yes,” Wylow growled. “What in netherhell am I doing here?”
Someone demanded, “What did you see out there?”
Morgin thought of the moonlit landscape he’d just crossed, and the human debris that littered it with quiet and untimely death. “Death,” Morgin said. “Death everywhere.”
“How far did you go?” someone else asked.
“How has the battle gone?”
“Where is the battle line now?”
“Silence,” Eglahan bellowed. “One question at a time.” He looked at Morgin anxiously. “Tell us what you can.”
Morgin nodded and spoke slowly. “This side of the gap is narrow, treacherous in spots, and the Elhiynes have used that to advantage. They’ve kept the Decouixs bunched so that Illalla can’t make use of his numerical superiority. It appears to have been a long, drawn out battle of attrition. Illalla is winning, but not with the speed I’m sure he had anticipated.”
Eglahan asked, “How much longer can your father’s men hold?”
Morgin shook his head. “They’re not holding at all. They lose ground with each skirmish and are slowly forced westward. Eventually they’ll have to withdraw onto a wide glen near the summit of Sa’umbra. It’s the only place where the gap isn’t so narrow. The final battle will probably take place there.”
“Did you see this glen?” Wylow asked.
“Yes. From a distance. It was broad daylight and there was fighting at the time. I couldn’t find a way to cross the battle line, but I climbed to a good vantage and was able to see it from this side.”
“Was there an enormous stone, about the size of a large castle or holding, sitting all by itself on the far side of this glen?”
“Yes. A massive black rock. Very impressive.”
Several of the Inetkas nodded their heads knowingly. “Csairne Glen,” Wylow said. “I know it well.”
That name clearly held some significance for just about everyone there, but for Morgin it held no more than a slight ring of familiarity.
“When will your father be pushed out onto the glen?” Eglahan asked.
Morgin shrugged. “Two days hence, perhaps three.”
“What kind of rear guard has Illalla established?”
“Nothing extensive. He must believe that the only enemies he has to his rear are what’s left of my uncle’s men. He’s placed a few sentries here and there, and a guard of about fifty men on the road.”
“And where are your warriors?” Wylow suddenly demanded. “We have a bargain, you and I.”
Morgin looked at the Inetka leader carefully, and he lied without hesitation. “They’ll be here when the time for battle is at hand.”
“And when will that be?”
“When the main battle begins on Csairne Glen.”
Wylow stood angrily. “They’d better be here, Elhiyne.”
Morgin had finally had enough. He slipped into a shadow, appeared to vanish into thin air, reappeared suddenly behind Wylow, though the Inetka was not yet aware he was there. He whispered into Wylow’s ear, “A bargain made in a dream, Lord Wylow, is still a bargain.”
Wylow jumped as if struck, spun about to face Morgin, but Morgin had already vanished.
~~~
Mortiss waited for him just beyond the light of the fire. As usual she seemed to know what would come next. He realized now it was idiotic to have deceived Eglahan and Wylow, and so it was time to get out before it all fell apart. He was checking Mortiss’ saddle harness when France and Tulellcoe and the Balenda approached him. It was the Balenda who voiced the obvious, “You won’t be able to keep Wylow waiting for two days.”
“If he’s still alive in two days,” France said. “If he keeps shootin’ off that big mouth of his, Eglahan’s likely to kill him.”
Morgin turned to face them. Tulellcoe looked at him squarely and demanded, “What bargain do you have with them?”
Morgin carefully explained the bargain he’d struck with both Eglahan and Wylow, and oddly, not one of them questioned his ability to fulfill the terms, nor did they even ask how he would do so, and he realized then that while he could run out on Wylow and Eglahan, he could not run out on his friends.
“Wylow won’t wait two days,” Tulellcoe said. “We’ve got to get Roland to start giving ground now, to retreat as if his forces are already spent. If he withdraws onto Csairne Glen tomorrow, while his men still have strength to fight, and while Wylow is still here to fight with us, then maybe we have a chance. But how do we contact Roland? I can’t reach him, not with Illalla and Valso watching the netherworld so closely.”
Morgin felt sick to his stomach at what he was about to say. “Maybe I can. Shadows are just as effective there as here.”
