by B. V. Larson
Brand snapped out of his reverie when he saw something in the darkness ahead. There—what was that? A reddish, glimmering glow through the twisted, bone-like branches of the swamp trees. He halted his horse, shushed it gently and tied the reins to a twisted tree. He crept up to the fire, approaching with what stealth he could muster.
There it was, a single guttering tongue of flame. Someone was burning peat moss by the smell of it. He stood up and strode into the circle of wan light. He looked around sternly.
“Trev? Are you here, boy? Answer me, I’ve been riding hard to speak with you.”
There was nothing but crickets and the guttural belching of frogs to greet his ears. At length, feeling the fool for calling out in an empty camp in an empty swamp, he growled in frustration and went over the scene carefully.
The fire had not been tended for a least an hour and had nearly run out of fuel. There was no evidence that indicated a fight—but there was something odd about the muck in the area…
After a few minutes spent searching with a hunter’s eye, Brand found a footprint that was unmistakable. It was heavy and inhumanly large.
“Hob,” he said to himself quietly.
He turned then, lifting his eyes for the first time into the night sky. Dawn was less than an hour off. He was tired, but now his face was creased with worry as well as fatigue.
What if he’d read this situation wrongly from the start? What if Trev was fleeing Hob, and Brand had been the dupe all along not to see it? What lie would Old Hob not employ to slow down a man he wanted to bring down like fleeing prey?
Brand threw himself back up into the saddle and set off at a gallop. Black clumps of wet earth shot up from behind churning hooves.
* * *
Trev was farther from the campfire than Brand could have conceived. He had nearly reached his goal: the gates of Snowdon.
He was in the region known as the Starbreak Fells. It was a rocky place built like a giant stairway of cliffs. At the base of each cliff was a broken jamble of sharp stone. The Fells were treacherous by day and deadly by night.
Trev was no stranger to poor footing. He hopped from boulder to ridge as deftly as might a Wee One. He was pleased with his rate of progress and the nearness of dawn in the sky.
Still, he had a feeling of foreboding. Often, when he paused to survey his position and judge what course to take over a particularly bad pile of loose, splintered rock, he thought he might not be alone out here.
There were owls, of course, along other night predators and scurrying prey. He knew their undulating cries and wild scents well—but there was something else. Something that glimmered when his eye was not focused upon it. Something that trailed him steadily.
After topping a rise that would have left a lesser man spent and breathless, he stood with his hands on his hips and gazed downward. A smirk played over his thin lips.
His toe nudged a rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. He dislodged it with a kick and sent it spinning down into the dark. Rattling and cracking as it fell, the sound soon died away to nothing.
There was no reaction. No glimmer. No muttered curses.
Shrugging, Trev turned back to his path and began trotting lightly upslope. In time he came to a wooded area. The trees lined the cliffs here. They clutched to a thin scrim of soil as if aware of the nearness of a deadly slide into certain doom.
There it was again! A glow behind him—it could not be denied. The moon was three-quarters full and half-risen above the land, making him think it perhaps was reflecting from a mountain pool below—but he had not seen any such pools along the way.
An immediate thought came to him: it had to be one of the Fae. Only they glimmered like that, reflecting moonlight. He thought of his own hair, which was still safely tucked away under his hat. He hated his hair, as it had always marked him as different among the river boys of the Haven. But he knew that tonight, if he were to reveal it under the moonlight, it would give off a very faint, wan glow. He was just like all the Fae in that such moments betrayed his true nature.
Trev knew how to handle a stealthy pursuer. He stepped behind a tree trunk and paused there, gathering his breath. Then he took a great bounding leap forward. A dozen sprinting steps later and he was almost through a copse of trees and into the open again.
But he did not go out into the open. There, he’d be more vulnerable to an arrow from behind. Instead, he crouched at the base of a low stone wall and waited.
His breath burned in his lungs, but he tried to make no sound whatsoever. His pursuer came along shortly, rushing after him. His sudden flight had surprised it.
Trev could hear padding steps. He smiled, for he was sure his ruse had worked. Having lost sight of Trev, his shadow had panicked and run after him. Now, from the other’s point of view, Trev had vanished.
He waited until the soft footsteps came racing up to the wall. He could almost feel the other’s presence, and he could hear it’s ragged breathing. A foul smell came to his nose as well, making it twitch. It reminded him of soured milk and last week’s catch in the Berrywine River, gone bad days ago.
Drawing his dagger, Trev stood suddenly, facing back the way he’d come. There, he felt sure, he’d see his pursuer and meet him nose-to-nose.
But there was no one there.
It was Trev’s turn to frown and gape, looking from side to side. He was sure—no, he was certain there’d be a bad-smelling manling of some kind standing on the far side of that wall.
He hopped onto the wall itself and leaned forward over it, checking to see if his shadow had dropped down to hide there.
“Come out and play, why don’t you?” he said.
But again, he saw nothing. He straightened and lowered his weapon, putting his hands on his hips. Pursing his lips, he scanned the dark line of trees, the low wall of fitted stone and the empty night skies.
Then an arm snaked its way around his neck by surprise. Trev cried out, and sprang away like a rabbit. So quick was his reaction, he escaped the attempt to grapple him by inches. He felt a long scraping cut appear along his side as he dove away, however. He had not gotten away unscathed.
Spinning around like a startled cat, he landed on his feet and lifted his dagger again. He honestly expected to see nothing and no one. This phantom seemed to only provide glimmers in the dark at a distance—but there was most definitely someone there.
He had assumed up until now it would be a goblin, but this creature was unlike anything Trev had seen before. It was tall, thin and gangly, and almost as big as a man. In fact, Trev noticed it was precisely the same height as he was. Most goblins were no more than three feet tall and as skinny as plucked cats. This creature was no goblin, he decided. Whatever it was, it had ropy muscles along its arms and wore clothing over much of its glimmering skin. A cloak of midnight black fluttered from its back and a cowl enshrouded its face. It held a dagger with a rippled blade in an outstretched hand.
“What are you?” Trev demanded.
The thing made no immediate attempt to answer. Instead it hissed and lunged, slashing with its exotic-looking weapon. Trev danced backward, in alarm. He’d had some training with arms, but he’d never been in a fight with a determined foe before. His heart pounded so that it rattled against his ribs and thudded in his temples.
“You can’t catch me,” Trev said. “We might as well talk.”
The creature chased him over a few rocks, but to no avail. Trev led it in a wide circle until they came back to the low stone wall again. Finally, winded, the thing paused and stared at him with baleful eyes.
“How is it thy eyes can see mine?” it asked Trev in a rasping voice.
“I asked my question first. Who are you?”
“I will answer first, as custom dictates. I’m a simulacrum. Shadgol is my name, and Trev is my match.”
“Your match?” laughed Trev. But his laughter sounded hollow even to his own ears. He felt uneasy talking to this odd creature.
“My kind is bred to kill a s
ingle being—and you are my match.”
Trev frowned, his humor vanishing. He caught the implication, and he didn’t like it. This was some kind of assassin created specifically to slay him.
“Answer my query,” demanded Shadgol. “Why can you see me now, when you could not before?”
“I don’t know,” said Trev honestly.
“That is no answer!”
“But it is the truth.”
Shadgol made a frustrated hissing sound.
“Old Hob sent you, didn’t he?” Trev demanded. “You’re one of his creatures, a beast of the night. Tell me, why would he go to all the trouble of breeding a being such as yourself for the singular purpose of slaying me?”
“My master does not require reasons. Whatever is his will must be. You’re my match, and I will hunt you until the sun goes out.”
Trev grew curious. “And what if you succeed? Will you be rewarded in some way?”
For the first time, the creature’s dark face showed an emotion other than pure hate. This new look was one of lust, or unsated hunger. “Indeed I will be given a great boon. Your blood is the finest wine I could ask for. I will bathe in it and will die while gulping your peeled flesh and shattered bones until my stomach bursts.”
Trev’s face twisted. “Disgusting. Now, tell me why I couldn’t see you before. Why you were only a faint glimmer on my trail?”
“No,” said Shadgol. “I will tell you nothing unless you allow me my blissful ending.”
Trev laughed, shaking his head. This elicited another hopping attack from Shadgol, but now that Trev could see the assassin it was a simple matter to keep beyond the creature’s reach.
“Let’s strike a bargain,” Trev suggested. “What would you like in turn for answering my questions? Something less than a pound of my flesh.”
A cunning look came over the assassin, who Trev thought had been looking a trifle frustrated.
“Come closer to me,” Shadgol said.
Trev took a definite pace forward. The two had stood no more than seven paces apart—now it was only six.
“I do not know why you saw me,” Shadgol said. “The enchantment was broken somehow.”
Trev nodded thoughtfully. “You claim then that Old Hob used Osang to enchant your person, to make you invisible to me?”
“Another step for another answer.”
Trev licked his lips, and stepped closer.
“Yes. My master did precisely that.”
Shadgol was looking eager again—almost greedy. His breath came in shallow gasps and his excitement grew ever stronger as Trev came near.
“One more thing,” said Trev softly.
“Ask, and step.”
“Where is your master now?”
“He watches from above.”
“Flying like an owl in the night sky? Why not come down to witness the glory of the kill?”
Shadgol gestured impatiently. His hook-like fingers scratched at the air. “You owe me twice over. Step and step again, and I will answer.”
Trev did so, taking two swift steps, and they now stood only three short paces apart. At this range, the creature’s foulness filled the air and was unavoidable.
“My master rarely endangers his own person.”
Trev laughed. He had to admit, he could have guessed the answer to that one. He’d been told throughout his youth of the great wars of the recent past, where many folk had cast armies at one another near right here, on the shoulders of Snowdon. Old Hob had never been one to take chances with his own life—not even remote chances. When violence needed to be done, he preferred to observe from a safe distance while sending minions to die for him.
“Ask another question,” said Shadgol, his voice growing gutteral with dark anticipation.
“Why didn’t your master send an army of goblins after me? Why has he gone to such efforts to breed an assassin such as yourself?”
“I know not.”
“That’s no answer.”
“And yet it is the truth. Step forward, or be known forever as a cheat without honor.”
All beings of Fae blood, from the simple wisps to the dancing elves themselves understood the meaning of dishonor. They would rather wager their own heads and lose them than to live and be known as an honorless cur.
Trev lifted his foot. The simulacrum coiled itself. There was no doubt as to its intentions. Once within two paces, Trev would be in range for a lethal thrust. Not even he could reverse himself and bound away in time to escape the other’s motion. Both beings knew it, and Shadgol drooled with anticipation.
But before he took the last fateful step, Trev hurled his dagger at the other. The blade flipped once, and caught the assassin by surprise. It sunk fully into an eye socket, stabbing into the brain beyond.
Trev stepped closer then, as he had promised. He looked down at the scrabbling monster, feeling slightly bad for it. That was his human side, he knew. A true elf would have felt nothing resembling mercy or kinship for such a foul beast.
But Trev had never before killed a creature that could speak. He’d hunted rabbits and deer for his mother’s table, but that was a far cry from this experience. Equally disturbing was his impression that the beastly thing was still alive, and attempting to speak.
“Foul play,” it said from the ground at his feet.
“Never! I played you fair. I said I would step forward, and here I stand. Your safety was never guaranteed in the bargain, and neither was mine.”
A charcoal-colored hooked finger beckoned him closer, and odd gurgles emanated from the monster’s throat.
Trev was curious, having never heard the dying words of a thinking being before. He inched closer.
Claw-like, the midnight-black hand shot out and gripped his ankle. Trev instantly attempted to bound away. He leapt into the air like a rabbit with its foot caught in a snare, but the simulacrum held fast with its dying strength, and Trev was brought down to earth again.
The assassin had lost his blade when he fell and was not in any condition to seek it, so Shadgol did the only thing he could—he pulled Trev’s dagger from his own eye socket and stabbed at the scrambling half-elf.
Trev had never been so close to death as he was now, with the exception of the moments he’d faced King Arawn of the Dead. He knew this, and he knew he’d played the fool in this exchange from the beginning. He could have simply run away, but he had not done so. Like all his kind, his weakness was his curiosity. It hadn’t been good enough to escape death—he’d given in to the urge to toy with his attacker.
Telling himself to forget about such recriminations until later—if there was a later—Trev did what was necessary. He knelt and gripped the hand that held his dagger, pinning it to the dirt and stones. It was like grappling with a snake. When at last he had his dagger free from the charcoal fingers, he reversed it and plunged the point into the body of his foe again and again.
Gore as black as oil showered him, but still the thing kept fighting with a horrible vigor. When as last Shadgoal relaxed in death, Trev had no idea how many times he’d driven the knife deep, feeling it scrape on bone as often as not.
Sides heaving, he stood at last and escaped a grasping web of fingers which had grown rubbery in death. He staggered away, sickened and unable to think of anything other than flight.
He ran then, into the pink light of dawn. He ran all the way to the great stone gates of Snowdon.
There, he waited on the doorstep of the Kindred. When the sun finally rose into the sky, the stone gates opened and he was admitted into the Earthlight.
Chapter Five
The Troll
After the disaster years back when Morcant Drake had herded the Dead of Riverton down from Cemetery Hill, there had been a lull in burials up there. Burning the dead rather than burying them was even considered by the town council seriously. But old traditions die hard, and it was always difficult to deny a grieving family their solace when they were in an emotional state. They did not want to speak of bur
ning their loved ones, it was not their way.
Some clans, such as the Rabing Clan itself, often buried people by dumping them into the Berrywine River. Most clans preferred internment. After a year or so of haggling about the subject, the burials continued. In time, they came to use the cemetery again, believing it safe to do so.
Since the original grave tenders had been among the first victims of the Storm of the Dead, respectable people applicants for the newly reopened job were few and hard to come by. When the subject of graveyard digging arose, even the bravest men looked at their feet. Thus it was months before a new grave digger was hired, during which the Riverton Constabulary filled the role as part of an emergency effort.
The new man was far from the best of his kind. Rather than a gentle soul who cared for and respected his tenants, Slet of the Silure clan was a man who couldn’t get a job doing anything else. He was not a drunkard, but little else could be said for him in a positive vein.
Before the Storm of the Dead, he’d been a mean, petty little man who’d helped his grandfather old Tad Silure by gathering and creating fake wards from the shores of the Berrywine. They’d made a modest income preying upon the fears of local folk who were trying to protect their families from the depredations of the Fae—but who lacked the money to do it rightly.
That lucrative little racket had soon run dry when people had determined the wards were worthless. Bitter, Slet had taken his share of the loot and turned to whoring down around the docks, working odd jobs for whoever could stand him—souls who were few and far between.
When Brand had come to the townsfolk with an offer of an elven bride for any unattached man of Riverton, Slet had felt revitalized. He’d been certain that a new beautiful woman could uncover his inner, true self and reveal it to everyone else who sneered at him in the streets.
