Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

A crooked finger rose and pointed at her.

  Another servant rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.

  Dart pulled away, knowing she had been found out, her inner fears heard by the blind seer. Weak from dread, she did not fight as her arm was yanked forward.

  The Oracle stepped heavily toward her, stabbing his hand out at her. She stared wide-eyed, taking in every detail: the yellow nails, the parchment-thin skin, the spiderweb of veins. It was more claw than hand.

  A cry built up inside her. All eyes were on her. She would be debased before the entire assembly.

  Then a stone dropped into her palm. Reflexively she caught it, closing her fingers. Her arm was released.

  Murmurs of shock and surprise echoed from the gallery.

  “You are chosen.” The servant at her side spoke solemnly. “Rise and take your place.”

  Dart could not. She simply trembled. “I can’t… mistake…” She tried to push the tile back toward the Oracle.

  The ancient one ignored her and stepped away.

  Laurelle took his place. “Be strong,” she whispered, returning Dart’s words to her. She offered a free hand.

  Slowly, on wobbling legs, Dart stood. She slipped around the stoop and stepped to Laurelle’s side.

  Margarite looked on, her face aghast and drained of all color.

  “What Grace have you won?” Laurelle asked.

  Dart numbly glanced to her closed fist. She opened it and stared down at the painted Littick sigil:

  H

  Her hand trembled, almost dropping the slate.

  Laurelle steadied her with a hand. “Well?”

  Dart could not speak. She showed her tile to Laurelle. The disbelief on the other girl’s face matched her own.

  It was the one Grace above all others.

  Blood.

  5

  BROKEN BONES

  “I…I don’t know anything,” Tylar moaned, hating himself for the sob that racked through him.

  “Again,” commanded the masklin-wrapped Shadowknight.

  Tylar no longer had the strength to tense. He heard the crack of the whip, then felt the lancing sting as a long stripe of flesh was sliced to bone. His body jolted against the whipping post. The flesh on his wrists tore against the unforgiving iron. He hung by his manacles, looped over a hook high on the post, his toes brushing the dirt of the courtyard.

  He was stripped to a loincloth. Blood ran down the back of his thighs and calves, dripped from his toes. Tears trailed through his sweat. He stared up at the full face of the lesser moon shining down on him.

  He had lost count of the strokes. Eighteen lashes? He wasn’t sure. He had slipped away once, the pain driving him into oblivion. But a splash of cold water had mercilessly revived him, along with a crumpled cloth soaked in bitter alchemies shoved under his nose. Apparently it was rude to sleep during one’s own torture.

  Dazed, he slumped against the post, lolling in his manacles. Crowds packed the courtyard stands to watch the spectacle. The trio of adjudicators sat in seats, a silver tray of pomegranates and kettle cakes beside them. The red-robed soothmancer stood at their side, arms crossed. At least he had the decency to look sickened. The group of black-draped Hands clotted in one corner, consoling one another in low whispers, barely noting the festivities.

  And a festival it was. The balconies and parapets were crowded with lords and ladies of the high city, servants of the castillion, even some drabbed underfolk who must have bribed their way to a viewing seat. Laughter and shouts for more blood rang off the walls. Black ale flowed along with spiced wine. Somewhere a minstrel played bright tunes, while hundreds of bells rang from the lower city.

  The Shadowknight, Darjon ser Hightower, leaned closer to his face, one gloved hand resting against the whipping post. “Tell us the truth, and your death will be swift.”

  Tylar tasted blood on his tongue as he attempted to speak. “So you keep promising… but here I keep hanging, though I keep telling you the truth.”

  The eyes of his torturer narrowed. “We’ve barely begun here. I can make this last more than a single night.”

  Tylar closed his eyes. “You want the truth…?” He took a deep breath, though it pained him to do so.

  Darjon bent nearer.

  Tylar opened his eyes and spat with the last of his strength, catching the knight square in the face. “There is your truth!”

  With a roar, the Shadowknight reared back. He waved an arm to the whipmaster.

  The crack of flying leather answered, and Tylar was slammed into the post. His back flashed with fire, his agony darkening the world to a pinpoint. He did not fight it, but instead sank away.

  Somewhere far off, he heard a shout. “Keep that up, y’art going to kill him.”

  Tylar recognized Rogger’s voice. The thief, bound in ropes off in one corner, seemed to be his only defender. Of course, his pleas for clemency might be self-serving. Once Tylar confessed and was killed, Rogger was due to be impaled next to him, both destined to be bits of decoration for Meeryn’s tomb. So the longer Tylar held out, the longer the thief drew breath.

  As Tylar drifted farther away, acrid vapors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. He struggled to get away from them, tossing his head. Cold water flooded over him, shivering over his flesh. He gasped as the world shook back into foggy focus.

  He saw the healer’s face hovering at the tip of his nose. “Here he comes,” the man said, pulling away the crumple of stinking cloth. He glanced to Darjon at his shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of vital humour, ser. Next time I might not be able to revive him.”

  Darjon swore. “The whip’s not loosening this one’s tongue anyway. We’ll try other tortures that aren’t so bloody. Cut him down!”

  A guard rushed forward and unhinged the hook. As the manacles slipped free, Tylar’s body felt tenfold heavier. He collapsed, facedown, into the bloody mud under the post.

  The healer dropped to one knee. “I could put some firebalm on his wounds. It stings mightily, but it’ll staunch the bleeding.”

  “Do it! I won’t have him dying on us… at least, not yet.”

  The healer rummaged in a satchel.

  Darjon twisted a fist in Tylar’s hair and pulled his face up. Limned against the full moon, his countenance was entirely shadow. Only his eyes glowed with Grace. “Before this night ends, I will discover what you did to Meeryn.”

  Tylar sensed Darjon’s ferocity. And something darker. There was more to this man’s determination than mere vengeance. While punishments could be cruel, torture was not the way of the Order. But Tylar was too tired to curse the man, so he told him the truth in his heart. “You… You disgrace your cloak.”

  Darjon shoved him away.

  The healer pulled free a tiny clay pot. “This will sting,” he said under his breath.

  Tylar steeled himself, though it had done him little good so far.

  The healer’s shadow fell over him. Fingers touched his shoulder. The spread of balm on his flesh did not burn. Not at all. Instead, it was like the sweetest nectar on the tongue, a soothing caress on a fevered brow.

  Tylar moaned in relief, unable to keep it bottled in his chest. It was as if every scrap of torture-inflicted pain was being repaid in kind by rapturous pleasure. It rippled over his flesh.

  A small surprised gasp escaped the healer. “By all the gods!”

  “What?” Darjon asked, stepping around.

  “He heals with just a touch of the firebalm.” The healer slathered his back with more salve as proof and demonstration. “Look how the lash wounds glow under the balm, and the skin closes over.”

  As Tylar shuddered with the pleasure of the balm, Darjon stumbled back a few steps. “The glow…” He swept out with his shadowcloak to command attention. “It is Grace… the Grace stolen from Meeryn! Here is the proof we’ve sought all night! He heals with Meeryn’s own dying Grace!”

  Despite the soothing touch of the balm, Tylar groaned.

  Figures closed in to wit
ness the miracle. Guards held off all but those who had been in the hall earlier. The adjudicators watched as the healer repeated his demonstration, treating the last of the lash marks. Sounds of amazement rose from those gathered.

  A black-gowned figure fell to her knee beside Tylar. She raised her hands to her face, lifting her veil. She was ashen-skinned, her lips daubed black. “It’s blood Grace!” she gasped. “I would know it anywhere…”

  Another of the entourage spoke, a man dressed also in black. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and explained, “Delia was the maiden who handled Her Brightness’s blood.”

  Tears rose in the young woman’s eyes. “It is indeed Meeryn!”

  “Can there be any doubt of his guilt now?” Darjon said boldly. “I say we put him to more vigorous tests. Grind the truth from his very bones.”

  Fervent agreement met his words. Only the kneeling woman looked confused. “Why does he bear her blood?” But no one heard her.

  She was helped to her feet by the man who had spoken on her behalf. The crowd dispersed, making room.

  Tylar turned.

  Darjon led two men. One hulking fellow carried a stump of wood. The other, even larger than the first, carried an immense iron hammer.

  As the stump was dropped in the mud at his feet, Darjon bent closer. “There is more than one way to break a man, Godslayer.”

  In this instance, the knight was speaking literally.

  “Undo his manacles. Drag his right hand onto the wood.”

  Tylar balked, understanding what was intended. They meant to pulp him. He fought the guards as his manacles fell away. Not my sword hand. He had regained his dexterity only days ago. He had not even the chance to hold a hilt again.

  “First the one hand, then the other, then we’ll start with your knees.” Darjon seemed to take particular delight in his prisoner’s thrashing, but Tylar couldn’t stop himself. It was not just the pain he feared.

  “No!” he begged. “I’ve told you the truth.”

  “Your own blood betrays you. What the whippings have hinted, the hammer will reveal.”

  Tylar was too weak to resist. Two guards gripped his arm and thrust his hand atop the stump.

  Darjon leaned closer. “Tell us how you slew her!”

  “I didn’t-”

  Even before he could finish, Darjon signaled the giant with the hammer. Swung from the shoulder, the fist of iron arced high and plunged down toward the stump and its pale target.

  Tylar cried out. He heard Rogger do the same: “Agee wan clyy!”

  The words made no sense.

  Then the hammer struck. Tylar felt the rebound all the way up his arm. It shuddered past his shoulder and into his chest. A wave of agony followed on its heels. Blinding… a thousandfold worse than a single lash.

  He screamed, arching back, his face bared to the moon overhead.

  Then he felt something loosen deep inside. He had already pissed himself, and if he had anything to eliminate, he would have done it long ago. This was something deeper, something beyond bowel and flesh. He could not hold it back, even if he wanted.

  From the black palm print on his chest, something dark wrested out of him and into this world. It gutted him, tearing out of his chest, taking all pleasure from him and leaving only pain.

  The torment in his hand spread throughout his body. Other bones broke and reformed, callused, then broke again.

  He screamed anew, as much in anguish as agony.

  Somewhere far away, Rogger answered him: “Nee wan dred ghawl!”

  In the heart of his torment, Tylar now remembered those words. Agee wan clyy… nee wan dred ghawl. Ancient Littick. Break the bone… and free the dark spirit.

  His vision cleared somewhat. All he saw was the moon. His body was still arched back. Something rose from the center of his chest, a trail of black smoke against the bright moon.

  Screams erupted around him.

  The font of darkness climbed high, taking the last of his strength. Tylar collapsed back into the mud. The cloud took shape, still trailing a dark umbilicus to the black print on his chest, like some newborn babe to its mother.

  The pain in his body ebbed. He tried to move, to crawl from the shadow above. He found his limbs uncooperative. One knee refused to bend, the other was slow to respond. His arms were no better. Tylar realized his state. He had returned to his broken form, unhealed. Even the freshly pulverized hand had returned to a mere claw of old, scarred bone.

  He was back in his same crippled body.

  A cry of despair escaped him.

  He stared up at the apparition still linked to him. What had first appeared to be smoke now seemed more a pool of midnight waters, flowing and taking shape. Wings unfurled and a neck stretched out, bearing a beastly head of a wolf, maned in black flames. Eyes opened, shining like lightning, unquestionably Graced with tremendous power.

  Those eyes glanced to him, narrowing dismissively, then away, out to the screaming folk fleeing in terror. The adjudicators and soothmancer had retreated under a phalanx of guards. Lords and ladies scrabbled with common folk to every doorway and gate. Several were trampled underfoot.

  A squad of castillion guards, led by the same captain who had first named Tylar godslayer, rushed forward with pikes high and swords low.

  “Kill the daemonspawn!” the captain yelled and chopped an arm through the air, a signal.

  Archers let loose from the parapets, while longbowmen in the courtyard fired from bended knee. Bolts sliced through the air, passing into the beast and out the far side, aflame.

  The burning arrows struck into the thatched barrack roofs and set straw to flame. Others shattered brilliantly against stone or hard dirt.

  Tylar sought meager refuge behind the stump.

  To their credit, the guards did not balk, continuing their headlong rush toward the shadowbeast. Swords flashed in the moonlight.

  Black wings folded, and the beast, the size of a horse, settled silently to the yard to meet the attack. Pikes plowed into it first, but they fared no better than the arrows, spiking out the back of the creature, flaming like torches and crumbling to ash.

  The shadow daemon reared up, snarling a spit of bright flame, and slashed out with its forepaws, catching the two nearest pikemen. With its mere touch, the men tumbled back, collapsing in on themselves, boneless yet still alive, mewling like misshapen calves born sickly.

  Other guards fled from the horror.

  Tylar had seen such foul work before… in Punt, upon the Shadowknights guarding Meeryn.

  So had others.

  The captain shouted a retreat. By now, those under the house guards’ protection had fled the courtyard. The captain’s eyes found Tylar, still hiding behind the stump. “Godslayer!” he shouted. “You show your true form at last!”

  Tylar had no words to defend himself, not after what had ripped from his body, not after what now lay dying in the yard.

  The guards retreated to the keep, forming a protective shield for those who had fled inside. In the center of the yard, the shadowbeast stalked before Tylar. Eyes afire with lightning watched all, wary.

  It’s protecting me, Tylar realized. He stared down at the snaking black umbilicus that still trailed from Meeryn’s mark to the beast. I didn’t ask for this.

  He waved a hand, trying to sever the connection, to push it away, but his fingers passed harmlessly through the cord.

  “Tylar!” a new voice shouted, closer at hand. It was Rogger. The thief had freed himself from his ropes with a loose dagger. He pulled a muddy cloak over his bare shoulders while waving his dagger toward the main gates. “Tether your dog, and let’s get our arses out of here!”

  Moving on instinct, Tylar gained his legs, hobbled as they were, and stumbled away from the castillion’s central keep. He headed toward the open gates. The few defenders still at their posts noted his approach and fled wildly, panicked, abandoning the gate. They had no desire to keep the daemon and its supposed master here.

&nb
sp; As Tylar worked across the yard, the shadowbeast kept pace with him, only steps away, tethered in shadow.

  One of the gate’s defectors loosed a lone arrow at Tylar, but the shadowbeast’s wing snapped out and turned the bolt to ash before it could strike.

  Tylar hurried his pace, limping and shuffling across the yard.

  As he neared the gate, a lithe form fled from the shelter of a doorway. A woman, draped in black, one of the Hands. Rather than running away, she fled toward Tylar and his beast, blocking his path.

  “Stand back!” Tylar shouted, fearful of harm coming to the young woman. With her veil missing, Tylar had no difficulty recognizing her. It was the handmaiden who had knelt beside him earlier.

  She came to a stop under the very shadow of the daemon. The beast hunched menacingly. Ignoring this threat, she slipped out a small glass jar, dark ruby in the moonlight and glowing with soft effulgence.

  Tylar knew what she held.

  A sacred repostilary.

  She poured the humour from the jar into one hand and held it out toward the beast.

  The creature reared up, wings sweeping out.

  “Meeryn,” she whispered. “It is you, is it not?”

  With a shudder, the daemon settled back down, stretching its neck toward the woman, seeming to sniff.

  Tylar caught the faint whiff of summer’s bloom and bright sunshine. It was the bouquet of Meeryn, distilled within the repostilary.

  The daemon dropped, kneeling upon its forelimbs, head bowed.

  Delia reached with a hand, bloody and aglow with Grace. As her fingers touched the darkness, light flared out, coursing over the black surface of the beast like fire across an oily sea. The brilliant cascade crested over its body.

  Tylar watched in amazement as the beast’s form lost focus.

  As the scintillating wave finished with the beast, it fed along the only channel left open to it: the snaking umbilicus that led to Tylar.

  It spiraled down the tether toward him. He stumbled away, trying to flee the fiery attack. But he could not escape.

  The Grace-fed flames leaped the distance and struck him square in the chest. It felt like a mule kick. He flew backward, landing arse down on the dirt.