The River of Shadows

by Robert V. S. Redick

  An hour later the whole western range was bathed in sunlight. There were vineyards here, and pear trees, and herds of sheep and goats and birthigs that scattered at their approach. Lamps passed from window to window in the waking farmhouses. Dogs appeared out of nowhere, challenged the hunting dogs briefly, changed their minds. The land was as peaceful as Masalym had been chaotic.

  Suddenly Cayer Vispek cried out a warning: dust clouds behind them, and faintly, the pounding of hooves. Someone was giving chase.

  The soldiers raised spears and halberds. Pazel’s hand went instinctively to the sword at his belt, though he knew nothing about fighting on horseback. Ensyl stood up on her horse and studied the road through the monocular scope that had belonged to her dead mistress. “It is just one rider,” she said. “A dlömu, coming fast.” Then she lowered the scope and looked at them, amazed. “It’s Counselor Vadu,” she said.

  He was dressed in the same fine armor he had worn at the welcome ceremony, the gold breastplate gleaming in the early sun. He rode with a great battle-axe lashed sidelong across his back, and on his belt hung the shattered Plazic Blade. He galloped right up to the travelers, then reined in his horse.

  “If you think to turn us back,” said Hercól by way of greeting, “you have made a worthless trip. Unless it be that the sorcerer is found.”

  Vadu glared at Hercól as he caught his breath. “The mage is not found,” he said at last, “but the city is calming under Olik’s stewardship. And I … I will not sit and wait for death at the hands of the White Raven.”

  “She will forgive nothing short of the Nilstone’s return,” said Bolutu, “and that you cannot provide. We are not setting out to wrest the Stone from one sorcerer only to hand it over to his ally. Go your own way, Vadu. Or ride with us to Garal Crossing, and then turn east on the Coast Road and follow the Issár into exile. But do not seek to thwart our mission.”

  The soldiers began to grumble ominously: whatever the chaos in Masalym, Vadu had been their commander for years, and now this strange dlömu, who had come on the ship with the mutant tol-chenni, was trying to dismiss him like a page.

  “I say he’s more than just welcome,” said one sicuña-rider. “I say that if anyone’s to lead this expedition, it’s Counselor Vadu.”

  The other soldiers shouted, “Hear, hear! Vadu!”

  A sword whistled from its sheath. Hercól raised Ildraquin before him, sidelong, and the men stopped their cheering at the sight of the black blade. “Olik entrusted this mission to me,” said Hercól, “and my oath binds me to the cause as well. I cannot follow this man, who ordered regicide, and helped Arunis gain the Nilstone to begin with.”

  Everyone went sharply rigid. The Turachs nudged their mounts away from the dlömu; the sfvantskors watched the others like wolves tensed to spring. But the dlömic soldiers were all looking at Vadu’s Plazic Knife, still sheathed upon his belt. “You can’t fight him,” muttered one. “Don’t try, if this mission means anything to you at all.”

  “Counselor,” said Hercól, “will you depart in peace?”

  Vadu’s face contorted. His head began to bob, more violently than Pazel had ever seen, and suddenly he realized that it was not a mere habit but an affliction, involuntary, perhaps even painful. The counselor’s eyes filled with rage; his limbs shook, and his hand went slowly to the Plazic Blade. Muscles straining, he drew the blade a fraction of an inch from its sheath. The sicuñas crouched, hissing, and the horses of several warriors bolted in fear, deaf to their riders’ cries. Pazel gasped and clutched at his chest. That poisonous feeling. That black energy that poured like heat from the body of the demonic reptile, the eguar: it was there, alive in Vadu’s blade. He could almost hear the creature’s agonizing language, which his Gift had forced him to learn.

  With a smooth motion Hercól dismounted, never lowering Ildraquin, and walked toward Vadu’s prancing steed. The counselor drew his weapon fully, and Pazel saw that it was no more than a stump upon the hilt. But was there something else there? A pale ghost of a knife, maybe, where the old blade had been?

  “I can kill you with a word,” snarled Vadu, his head bobbing, snapping, his face twitching like an addict deprived of his deathsmoke.

  Hercól stood at his knee. Slowly he lowered Ildraquin toward the man—and then, with blinding speed, turned the blade about and offered its hilt to the counselor.

  “No!” shouted the youths together. But it was done: Vadu snatched the sword from Hercól with his free hand. And cried aloud.

  It was a different sort of cry: not tortured, but rather the cry of one suddenly released from torture. He sheathed the ghostly knife and took his hand from the hilt. Then he pressed the blade of Ildraquin to his forehead and held it there, eyes closed. Slowly his jerking and twitching ceased. The sword slipped from his grasp, and Hercól caught it as it fell.

  Vadu looked down at him, and his face was serene, almost aglow, like the face of one clinging to a marvelous dream. But even as they watched him the glow faded, and something of his strained, proud look came back to him.

  “Mercy of the stars,” he said. “I was rid of it. For a moment I was free. That is a sword from Kingdom Dafvniana.”

  Hercól polished the blade on his arm. “The smiths who made her named her Ildraquin, ‘Earthblood,’ for it is said that she was forged in a cavern deep in the heart of the world. But King Bectur, delivered from enchantment by her touch, called her Curse-Cleaver, and that name too is well deserved.”

  “My curse is too strong, however,” said Vadu. “The sword cannot free me from the curse of my own Plazic Blade—but time will, if only I can remain alive. Listen to me, before the knife seals my tongue again! The Blades have made monsters of us, and a nightmare of Bali Adro. Through all my life I’ve watched them poison us with power. Olik told you that they are rotting away. Did he tell you that we who carry them rejoice in our hearts? For we are slaves to them, though they make us masters of other men. They whisper to our savage minds, even as they break our bodies. What happens to the Blades, you see, happens also to those who carry them. When they wither, we scream in pain. When they shatter, we die. Many have died this way already: my commander in Orbilesc swept an army of Thüls over a cliff with a sweep of his arm, and we all heard the knife break, and he fell down dead. That is how the knife came to me—a last, loathsome inch. I am a small man to own such a thing, or be owned by it. But I mean to survive it. When only the hilt remains, I shall be able to toss it away. Until then I must resist the urge to use it, for any but the smallest deeds.”

  “Better no deeds at all,” said Cayer Vispek. “That is a devil’s tool.”

  Vadu’s eyes flashed at the elder sfvantskor. But there was struggle in them still, and when they turned to Hercól they were beseeching.

  “Pazel,” said Neda in Mzithrini, “tell the Tholjassan to drive this man away. He will bring us all to grief.”

  “I can see by the woman’s face what she wishes,” said Vadu. “Do not send me off! I tell you I mean to survive, but there is more: I wish to see my people, my country, survive. Do you understand what I have witnessed, what I have done? And in another year or two the horror must end, for all the Blades will have melted. Our insanity will lift, and Bali Adro can start to heal the world it has profaned. I live for that day. I cannot bear to see the harm renewed by something even worse. I rode out to help, not hinder you.”

  Hercól studied him carefully. “Then ride, and be welcome,” he said at last, “but guard your soul, man of Masalym. It is not free yet.”

  As the track moved away from the river it grew into something like a proper road, running between fields neatly laid out, and sturdy brick farmhouses with smoke rising from their chimneys. They rode faster here; the smallest of the hunting dogs had to be picked up and carried. At midday they did not pause for a meal but ate riding; Olik had advised them to cross the open farmland as swiftly as possible, and to rest where the track entered the riverbank forest called the Ragwood, where the trees would hide them
. Pazel found it hard to imagine anyone watching from the Chalice of the Maî. But there were nearer peaks and, for all he knew, villages scattered among them, watching the curious procession along the valley floor.

  In the hottest hour of the day they rode through a plain of tall red grass, dotted by great solitary trees and swarming with a kind of hopping insect that rose in clouds at their approach with a sound like sizzling meat. The horses shied and the sicuñas growled. Pazel did not understand their distress until one of the insects landed on his arm. It jumped away instantly, but as it did so he felt a shock, like the kind the ironwork on the Chathrand could give you during an electrical storm.

  “Chúun-crickets,” said Bolutu. “We have them in Istolym as well. By autumn there will be millions, and they will have sucked all the sap from the chúun-grass, and those little shocks you feel will set it all ablaze.”

  “What happens then?” asked Pazel.

  “They all die,” said Bolutu, “and the plain burns down to stubble—only those great oaks can live through the blaze. Then there are no more crickets until their eggs hatch underground the next summer. It is the way of things. They flourish, they perish, they return.”

  The company rode on, and the little shocks were many before they left the chúun-grass behind. An hour later they reached Garal Crossing, where the Coast Road bisected their own. The surface of the Coast Road was heavily rutted and dusty, as though some great host had passed over it, but on their own road the signs of passage were few. By the time they reached the Ragwood the horses were winded, and the sicuñas lifted their paws and licked at them unhappily. Pazel saw Jalantri dismount quickly and hurry to Neda’s horse before she could do the same. “Your blisters,” he said, reaching for her boot.

  “They are nothing,” said Neda quickly, drawing her foot away.

  “Not so. I saw them when you dressed. Come, I’ll treat them before you—”

  “Jalantri,” said Vispek softly, “your sister will ask for aid when she requires it.”

  Jalantri looked at the ground, abashed. Then he noticed Pazel watching and swept past him, tugging his horse by the bit.

  “These animals need water,” said Vadu to Hercól. “We will take them down to the Maî and let them wade. Come, my Masalyndar.”

  The dlömic soldiers went eagerly with Vadu. Cayer Vispek watched them carefully, then turned to Hercól. “They think much of him,” he said. “He must have had some merit as a commander, once. But I fear they may scheme in private.”

  Hercól nodded slowly. “That is likely, Cayer. But not, I think, if you go with them.”

  Vispek looked rather amused. “Come, Jalantri,” he said at last. The two men rose and started down to the river’s edge.

  “Are we to warm no food before nightfall?” asked Ibjen.

  “My lad,” said Hercól, smiling in turn, “we may warm no food before we reach the shores of Ilvaspar. Go with the sfvantskors, Ibjen—that will make their errand less obvious to Vadu.”

  A short distance away, Neda sat and pulled off her boots. She gestured at the departing dlömu. “He is just boy,” she said. “Not fighter, no good for anything. Why he coming?”

  “Because Prince Olik wants him to,” said Thasha, bending low to comb the dust from her hair, “and Ibjen’s sworn to do whatever the prince asks, to regain his trust. Everything short of fighting, I mean. Anyway, Ibjen’s not useless. He’s an excellent swimmer.”

  Neda looked at her wryly. “Good. Swimming on mountain-top. Very helpful.”

  “There’s a lake up there,” said Thasha, “and another river beyond it.”

  Neda said nothing. Pazel sat down close to her. So familiar, and so strange: Neda rubbing her sore feet. Huge, hard feet, but still hers, still his sister’s. In their native tongue, Pazel said, “Olik trusts him. That’s the real reason he’s along.”

  Neda answered in Mzithrini. “More than he trusts the soldiers, you mean? Well, that is something. If they desert us, we’ll still need a dlömu to talk to the villagers.”

  “Tell me something,” said Pazel. “Why did you join this hunt? The three of you, I mean?”

  “That should be obvious,” said Neda. “The prince gave us our liberty, and we didn’t want to lose it again. We thought of staying in the Masalym, but it is no place for human beings. And we still could not take the Chathrand.”

  “Is that the only reason? Your only reason?”

  Neda looked at him, and he knew she would admit to nothing more.

  “Why won’t you talk to me in Ormali?” he said.

  Neda’s face was clouded. “The language of Ormael is Arquali, now,” she said. “You know what happens when the Empire takes a prize. It’s been almost six years since the invasion. Give it twelve, and everything will be in Arquali. Laws, trade, school-books. Children will be whipped by their teachers if they speak the old tongue.”

  “It won’t go that far,” said Pazel.

  “Says the boy from the Arquali ship, with the Arquali friends, the Arquali girl he worships, even though her father—” Neda broke off, her eyes blazing at him. “I don’t live in the past,” she said.

  The Ragwood was long and somewhat empty, the underbrush thinned out by grazing animals. They passed through it swiftly, grateful for the shade and the cover. They saw a few dlömu cutting lumber in a clearing, a herd of milk-white buffalo wallowing in a pond. Then Big Skip gave a start that nearly toppled him from his horse. He pointed: naked figures, human figures, were running crouched through the trees. The dogs raced toward them, baying. Wild with terror, the figures made for the deeper woods. A few of the soldiers laughed, but fell silent when they glanced at Vadu.

  “Yes,” said the counselor, “there are still tol-chenni in our Inner Dominion. They raid crops, steal chickens. But they are dying fast.”

  “Your dogs look mighty used to chasing ’em,” said Big Skip.

  Vadu shrugged. “A dog will chase any animal that runs.”

  They did not stop again in the Ragwood, but the sun was setting nonetheless before they reached its far end. Just beyond the last trees a smaller river poured into the Maî, cutting straight across their path. It was spanned by a battered wooden bridge. A stone fortress rose on the near side, and as they drew close, soldiers with torches began to emerge. They were known to their comrades and greeted with some affection. But like all dlömu they could not help but stare at the humans.

  “His Highness sent a scout ahead of you,” said their commanding officer. “We know you ride in haste. We have no sicuñas here, but you’re to leave any horse that’s lagging and take one of ours in its stead.”

  “My own suffers,” said Vadu. “I had ground to make up, and rode him hard. But I count nearly twenty of you—why so many, Captain, here at the Maîbranch? Half should be guarding Thistle Chase.”

  “Counselor, where have you been?” said the other. “Thistle was abandoned before Midwinter’s Day. The farmers had had enough of raids.”

  “Tol-chenni raids?” asked Ibjen.

  The soldiers laughed uneasily. “Tol-chenni!” said their captain. “You think our countrymen would take fright at them? No, boy, I’m speaking of hrathmog warriors. Barrel-chested, long-limbed brutes, sleek-furred, teeth like knives. They’re getting bold, Counselor Vadu. They’ve been seen walking right out in the open, on this plain. They’ve slaughtered animals, poisoned wells. And they killed old Standru and burned his house and holdings, away there across the Maî. His kin had moved closer to Masalym already; they’d heard the night drums and the caterwauling. But Standru wouldn’t go. He said his land was part of the Dominion and he’d been born there, and wouldn’t leave it to hrathmogs.”

  “They put his head on a stake,” said another soldier. “And when they saw it, the last families south of the Maîbranch locked up their homes and fled.”

  Vadu looked from one soldier to the next. “Do you mean that Masalym’s Dominion … ends here?”

  “Unless the city can spare enough men to hold the Chase,” said
the officer, “but even then I doubt the farmers would return.”

  “Captain,” said Hercól, “did no other riders—other human beings—pass over this bridge?”

  The officer looked doubtfully at Hercól.

  “Answer him!” snapped Vadu. “He is a natural being like yourself.”

  “No one has passed this way,” said the captain. “No one crosses the bridge anymore, save the brave few who still ride out hunting, and they do not go far. I do not think the hrathmogs will challenge a group of your size, but you must post watches all the same.”

  They brought Vadu a fresh horse, and the company continued. Vadu was clearly shaken by the news. Pazel wondered if it was the cursed Blade or the countless problems in Masalym itself that had kept him from knowing what had befallen his city’s territories.

  Ensyl, who was riding for a spell with the tarboys, looked up at the mountain ahead. “If they didn’t use the road, how did they get up there?” she asked. “But of course, we don’t even know who is there. If Arunis somehow learned what Ildraquin can do—”

  “Then he’ll have sent Fulbreech alone,” said Pazel, “and we’ll have played right into his hands, and probably won’t ever catch him. But I don’t think that’s what’s happening. If Arunis wanted us to chase after Fulbreech, he wouldn’t have sent him that far away.”

  “Why not?” said Neeps.

  “Because we might not have believed he could have traveled so far,” said Pazel. “Olik himself said it couldn’t be done. No, if Arunis wanted us to chase after Fulbreech, he’d have sent the rotter just far enough away to entice us, and given him a fast horse so he could stay ahead.”

  “Then why in Pitfire are they just sitting up there?” Neeps asked.

  “If luck’s with us?” said Pazel. “Because Arunis thinks he’s safe, and has crept into some shack or cave to keep up his experiments with the Nilstone.”

  Ensyl laughed grimly. “If luck is with us,” she said.

  They rode on. Ensyl wanted to know about their time in the Conservatory, and the tarboys related a version of the tale, interrupting and correcting each other, and succeeded in becoming irritable again. But as they grumbled to a conclusion, a thought struck Pazel with an electric jolt.