The Shadow Warrior

by J. E. Klimov

  Hakan snarled as he extended his claws. “One has done nothing but calm the fears of an invisible serial killer that you have failed to find.” When he uttered the last syllable, he fell back into his chair and stared out the lone window to his right.

  “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m your queen!” She strode a few feet forward and pointed at her sternum.

  The wolfish man continued to stare out the window.

  “You may have voted for Victoria to bear the armlet and inherit the throne, but like it or not, it’s me. And besides,” she paused. She tipped her head and stared at her feet, struggling to maintain an authoritative voice. “I thought our relationship changed after the war.”

  Still no movement.

  “Hakan!” Isabel exclaimed.

  He rolled his eyes at her and sighed. He stood, adjusted his black sash and wiped his paws against his slacks. Isabel shrunk back when he came within inches of her. A sour odor oozed from his fur. She swallowed the lump in her throat and pinched her nose, but continued to hold her head high.

  “I don’t see why you’re wasting your time here. Everything is fine. One is here to protect us until someone figures out this mystery. One is a welcome member of the Fotian community!”

  As if he summoned her, a hand knocked on the door. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

  Isabel fumed. “Has she been eavesdropping this whole time?”

  “Whatever you say to me can be said to One,” he rumbled with hooded eyes.

  Slapping a hand to her face, she moaned. “One, you can come in. There’s no point in hiding on the other side of the door.”

  After a click and woosh, One scurried to Hakan’s side. She touched his forehead. “Oh, you’re feeling a bit warm. Please, sit.” Hooking her arm around Hakan’s, One escorted him back to his throne. He closed his eyes.

  One turned to Isabel and smiled. “Hakan has picked up some bug. He needs rest. I assure you, Queen Isabel, I’ll keep him and the rest of Ogonia safe.” Her lips stretched wider.

  Isabel caught her reflection in One’s glassy eyes. It reminded her of doll’s eyes. Shining and unblinking. “Fine. But I’ll make a point to revisit soon.”

  Swiveling on the balls of her feet, she made for the door. One’s shoes clicked behind her. When she mounted her horse, Isabel surveyed the city once more. All was empty except the blacksmith and the fury of the waterfall.

  “Queen Isabel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you found out where that Aeonian is yet?” One’s words tumbled out one by one, as if covered in molasses.

  Isabel’s eye twitched. “No. I haven’t found the person. Aeonian or not.” She turned her horse south and nudged it into a gallop.

  CHAPTER

  20

  “Hey. Are you awake?” A disembodied voice popped into Bence’s mind.

  Even though he willed it, Bence couldn’t move. He was shrouded in darkness. The purple haze was the last thing he recalled. His shoulders started to shake; although he found it odd to be shaking by themselves.

  “Wake up! You must eat!” The plummy voice grew louder.

  Cold water poured over his head. His eyes snapped open as he gasped.

  “Where am I? What’s going on?” Bence swung his arms and knocked over the person leaning over him. He struggled against a mountain of colorful pillows to look around.

  Copper beams framed the rectangular room. Spears, scimitars, and gauntlets decorated shelves while a pair of gold statues guarded the entrance. As Bence shifted his weight, a stabbing pain seared through his injured calf. Every time he inhaled, his ribcage ached.

  “Calm down, Master Bence.”

  A man stood up and forced a glass in his hand. Before Bence took a sip, he studied the liquid.

  “It’s not poisoned.”

  Glancing up, Bence blinked in shock. A man with a shaved head regarded him with amusement. Crescent gold rings covered his earlobes. His eyelids and lips were painted orange. A smattering of white dots replaced shaved eyebrows. Bence rubbed his eyes, but still saw the same thing. “What are you?”

  The man frowned. A gold stud protruded from his lip. “That’s just rude.”

  When Bence finished his glass of water, he shoved it at the bald man. “More.”

  He poured water from a basin and jammed it into Bence’s hands.

  “Where am I? What happened?” Dehydration had sent his sanity to the brink of lunacy, and he hoped the water would kick in soon.

  “You’re in Irelle, and in the southeastern clan.”

  Bence shook his empty glass for every last drop. “Clan?”

  “Irelle is a large country. Each sector is run by a clan.” The man pulled a satin pink pillow toward him and sat down, cross-legged. “As for you… You were charging at us like a rabid animal. You’ve been asleep for two days, so I had to wake you. If you didn’t drink or eat, you would die,” he added haughtily.

  Scrambling from his bed, Bence flopped onto the floor. He winced as his side throbbed. When he stood, the room spun.

  “You have to take it easy. Your body is still healing.”

  Bence reached for his dagger, but it was missing. His face blanched. “Where is the Dunya that was with me?”

  The man held a hand in the air. “Tulelo is fine. He is kept in separate quarters. Irellians no longer engage with the Dunya.”

  After the man finished speaking, he reached for a gold platter filled with various fruits and cheeses. Bence immediately seized a handful of melon and shoved it in his mouth.

  “Help yourself.” The man curled his upper lip.

  Sweet juice dripped from Bence’s lips. Ignoring the man, he reached for a block of cheese and inhaled it’s sharp, savory aroma. When he bit into its gooey texture, his stomach rumbled for more. He wolfed the block of cheese and snatched an apple. Before he could blink, half of the contents on the platter disappeared.

  As he plucked a grape with his teeth, the man knelt beside him and laid clothing on Bence’s lap.

  “An Irellian outfit. You’ll be prepared in the traditional way, then I will escort you to Maciji per your request.”

  “No way,” Bence said. He shoved the man back. “And don’t get so close to me. You weird me out.”

  The man slapped the bunch of grapes from Bence’s hand.

  “What was that for?”

  Without another word, the man shoved the violet outfit over his head. Bence jostled his arms, resisting the coercion. However, the man proved to be stronger than he anticipated. Once the man forced the golden collar over his head, he wound the flax fabric around his chest and tied a knot by his lower back. He gave a tight tug, aggravating Bence’s bruise. He broke spastic coughs.

  Before Bence could react, the man yanked his trousers off and wrapped the same material around his hips and tied another knot. The fabric split into multiple strips. He pushed multiple gold rings up each leg, one resting at his thigh, above the knee, and his ankle.

  “There,” the man said. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the sweat beading on his head. “You’ll find that it has pockets as well, for convenience.”

  Bence looked down. Fabric hung from his collar and wrapped around his body except his arms. His “pants” were no more than loose fabric tied together by the rings. “Do all Irellians wear the same thing?”

  “The women wear dresses, although they can use ribbons to tie them in place when engaging in battle.”

  “Sounds like the same thing to me,” Bence muttered.

  “Now, you need to stay especially still for this part.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The man yanked Bence’s hair back and dipped his other hand in a bowl the size of an egg. “While I think white would suit you, that’s reserved for merchants. How about black? It would be fitting make-up for a rugged man such as yourself.”

  Before Bence could respond, he smeared ebony ink across his eyelids.

  “Stop it right now!” Bence kicked the bowl off the table and w
restled away from the man’s grasp. “Take me to Maciji now. I’m not your canvass to paint on.”

  Shrugging, the man said, “Suit yourself.” As he gestured toward the exit, his gaze lingered on Bence’s neck.

  Heat erupted from his collar. He commanded his hands not to touch his scar and draw further attention to it. Bence stepped over the fallen bowl as the black ink oozed across the floor. On the round glass table where the bowl fell from sat a palette of colors: maroon, white, green, yellow… and one that matched his skin tone.

  “Why do you have skin-colored paint?”

  “To cover blemishes,” the man replied with an upturned nose.

  Angling his jaw so that his scar hid from the view, he said, “Go ahead, I’ll follow you.”

  As soon as the man turned around, Bence dipped two fingers into the paint. With a sniff, Bence was shocked there was no smell. He spotted a floor length mirror by the exit. Smearing the viscous goo over his scar, Bence counted the scant seconds he had.

  “Master Bence?”

  “Sorry, it’s my leg. I have to take my time.” Bence smoothed out the edges, pleased with his handiwork. He was grateful he had the same complexion as his mother─the makeup blended in almost perfectly. Wiping the remnants on his so-called slacks, he studied his neck. It wasn’t a permanent answer, but it’d have to do.

  When Bence jogged outside, he caught up with his guide.

  The gold stud on his lip jiggled. “I thought you said your leg bothered you.”

  “It did. Does! But I understand the urgency. Now, let’s go.” Bence rubbed his hands together.

  The man peered at his neck again. Bence’s posture grew rigid. When he resumed walking down the road, Bence released a large breath. He never thought makeup would be a life saver. While he wasn’t sure how suspicious his guide was, Bence took no chances. He had one shot at making a good impression and making a home here, and his adventure saving Tulelo already jeopardized his odds.

  Five to six story buildings crowded the streets, all framed with the same copper beams. Clothing lines strung between windows. Outfits and towels fluttered in the breeze. The sector seemed much like a city, unlike all the villages he encountered on his journey so far. He passed a blacksmith pounding away at a shield and a bakery filling the air with herbs and garlic. It wasn’t what he had imagined, but Bence could still picture living here happily.

  They entered a central square with a fountain in the center. Water spouted into the air, and children ran around it as their parents filled their basins. Everyone’s face was painted. “Make-up,” his guide reiterated. And while everyone wore similar outfits, ornate headpieces uniquely decorated with feathers or crystals sat over all the women’s thick blonde or raven locks.

  Women clung to their husbands, laughing as they carried baskets of goods. Decorated stands filled the cracks between buildings selling stained glass and precious stones.

  “Handsome young man!” crowed an elderly vendor. White paint lined her cheeks like whiskers. “There’s no price to look. Every stone has a healing power!”

  Bence shook his head. He had done his research. Deran was the only country that possessed stones infused with powers.

  “No? Or would you rather buy a straw doll? It may not look like much but you can curse your foes with it. Give them headaches, broken limbs, boils─”

  “Gross. No.” Bence waved her off and padded after his guide whose bald head shined in the thick of the crowd.

  A few parlors ahead had velvet curtains instead of doors. Words were chiseled in limestone signs: “Healing Massage,” “Predict Your Fate,” and “Love Bar.” Squeals of laughter echoed from these entryways. Sucking on his teeth, he tried to process the new, bizarre environment.

  Flames erupted in front of Bence, stalling him in his footsteps. A scrawny male grinned, holding a bottle of liquor in his hand and a box of matches in another. “Wanna see that trick again? Two pieces of copper. Or whatever you have!”

  “No, our guest is busy,” the bald guide scolded.

  After a couple minutes, they arrived at wide marble steps with gilded handrails that seemed to stretch into the heavens. A three-story building with a roof that curved upwards at each corner loomed at the top. The gold shingles reflected the rays of the sun.

  “You guys sure like your gold,” Bence said.

  “Not all of it is made of the precious metal. On the outskirts of our city, there is a forest of trees with gold-colored leaves. We harvest them and plaster them on… well, whatever we like. That roof is plastered with those gold leaves. It has the same sheen as the real thing!”

  “Huh.” Bence huffed as he ascended the stairs, wincing at the periodic jolt of pain through his leg.

  “Hurry now. She is expecting you.”

  Expecting me? I demanded to see her. She has such gall.

  When he finished his last thought, Bence climbed the last step and stood before double doors. The handles resembled lion paws. Bence turned to his guide. He clapped his hands in quick succession, and the doors swung open.

  A lavender carpet stretched through the length of the circular room made of granite. Tall windows expanded toward the ceiling. Shards of stained glass were strung within feet of each other, scattering a myriad of colors. Guards lined the outer rim, still as statues. Bence lifted his hand to block the glare from his eyes. He barely made out a figure sitting in a throne at the far end of the room.

  “Welcome, stranger. Or, should I say, Bence?”

  The bald guide shoved Bence forward, sending him stumbling onto his knees. He swung his head around and glared at him, but the man’s face and hands were planted on the floor. Bence stood and dusted his pants.

  “Mistress Maciji, I presume?”

  The curvaceous figure stepped out from the glare and stopped a few feet from Bence. Shimmering gold chiffon hugged her shoulders, leaving bare skin from her neck and plunging down her chest. The material crossed into an X across her chest. It hugged her taut stomach and disappeared behind her hips. Purple draped on both sides of her legs and in between. A throwing knife was strapped to each thigh. She released a gold pick from her bun and shook her head. Her wavy blonde locks cascaded down her square face. Her jade eyes drilled down at him from her high cheekbones.

  “You’re correct. I hear you’re quite the little trouble maker.”

  Bence sneered. Maciji looked no more than twenty, and he found it ironic she was calling him ‘little.’

  “Where’s my companion? The Dunya named Tulelo?”

  Pursing her maroon-painted lips, she said, “He’s locked away for safe-keeping.”

  “Safe keeping? I demand that you let him go. And you need to explain to him why his mother was ruthlessly slain!”

  “That’s not how you talk to the mistress!” shouted the bald guide from behind.

  Maciji flicked her wrist, releasing a pleasant jingle from her bracelets. “Now, there will be none of this. Bence, my hunters hunt. That’s their job. I could demand the same explanation from you. What right do you have interfering with their business? Such is life. The powerful consume the weak.”

  “He’s just a baby that witnessed the slaughter of his mother.”

  “Why would you care? You’re a nobody, a stranger,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Although you look like you have some Irellian in you.”

  Bence stepped back. His heart ricocheted in his ribcage. This would be his chance to explain everything and be accepted into the community.

  “Your olive skin and green eyes. Irellians traditionally have ebony or blonde hair,” she continued. “And if you are Irellian, you certainly shouldn’t be bothered by a Dunya.”

  Her words affected him like a pebble dropping into a lake, sending emotions rippling through his body. He didn’t realize the relationship between the two species were that strained. Chewing on his tongue, he mulled over a response. Bence glanced at his shoulder as if an invisible being spoke to him. You already saved Tulelo’s life. What does it matter wha
t happens to him now?

  She turned, swaying her hips as she returned to her throne. Reaching for a chalice, she studied her reflection before taking a sip. “Dunyas are a rare commodity nowadays. They used to run the territory west of here, where the main trading post is. I’m sure you’ve been there? We haven’t seen any since their mass migration to some tiny little island in the middle of nowhere.”

  Cracking his neck, Bence laughed bitterly. “They migrated to Deran. And it was all thanks to a man named Damian and his wife, an Irellian, named Echidna.”

  The chalice clattered onto the ground, spraying red wine everywhere. Maciji shot up from her seat and marched up to Bence, shoving her face into his. Bence remained rooted on the spot.

  “You know the Myth of Lady Echidna?” Her breath made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand.

  The word myth hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. While sadistic and manipulative, her name still incited a protective instinct. “Echidna is no myth. She was real.” Images of his mother flashed before his eyes. The memory of her: tall, boney, with ebony hair was clear as day. He could still recall her shrill laughter and mischievous glances. Much like the look Maciji gave him.

  A wave of hair brushed against his cheeks when Maciji flicked it. “Hmph. That was well over a hundred years ago. Maybe two hundred. Who knows. All she’s known for is a symbol of failure.”

  Before she could turn around again, Bence’s arm shot out and grabbed her shoulder. Guards rushed in and surrounded him, spears at the ready.

  “It would be wise that you take your hands off our mistress immediately.”

  Bence dug his nails into her skin before he let go. Maciji dismissed her guards in one fluid motion with her arm; it looked like she was casting a spell.

  “Thank you, but that’ll be enough,” she said. Turning her attention back to Bence, she said, “Why does this myth concern you? I’m actually surprised you know about her. Unless…” A coy smile curled under her plump, bronze cheeks.