Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  A woman awaited them, carrying a baby in her arms, swaddled in a blanket. Flaxen haired and pale of complexion, the woman was tall, lithe of figure, generous of bust as was fitting a new mother. She seemed unsurprised by the visitors, but her face was uninviting.

  “Leave your weapons,” Krevan said. He met Rogger’s eyes for a moment longer. “ All your weapons.”

  Corram tugged free his sword belt and rested it atop a boulder. He shook back his cloak’s sleeves and undid a series of wrist sheaths, each housing three daggers, then did the same at each ankle.

  And while this was an impressive array of weaponry, Rogger proved to be a regular armory: short sword, throwing daggers, razored stars, a flail, even a blowgun down one pant leg. It was surprising the thief could even walk upright.

  Delia had only a single dagger, Tylar the one short sword.

  Krevan was the last to disarm, pulling free his diamondpomelled sword and holding it before him, blade resting in his two palms as if offering a gift.

  Tylar stared at the blade, seeing it for the first time. Along its silver length, a winged wyrm had been traced in gold, filigreed and detailed.

  “Serpentfang,” he whispered in awe. He remembered Rogger’s claim that Krevan was actually Raven ser Kay, the Raven Knight of lore. Any attempt to question Krevan earlier had been answered by a cold stare. And Rogger refused to say more after his initial revelation.

  Tylar had assumed Krevan was a descendant of that infamous Shadowknight, a man said to have died three centuries ago. But here was the very blade once said to have been borne by the Raven Knight. Serpentfang had been described in song and fable, depicted in tapestry and in oil.

  While the blade was polished, any Shadowknight could recognize its age, its steel folded a thousand times. This was no replica given to some young lord upon a birthing day.

  Without mistake, here was the very blade that slew the Reaper King.

  And if this was indeed Serpentfang…

  Tylar watched Krevan approach the lone woman by the lake. Halfway to her position, the Raven Knight dropped to one knee, lowered the blade to the chalky soil, and stepped past it, abandoning a prize that could ransom an entire god-realm.

  Only then did the woman stir, stepping into Krevan’s shadow. The knight towered over her, blocking the view but not her words.

  “Raven ser Kay,” she said, her voice sibilant and high, full of malice and amusement. “What brings you into the Lair again? Last we met, you swore to kill me.”

  Krevan kept a wary stance. “Your memory is long, Wyrd Bennifren.”

  “Eighty years is not long to either of us, now, is it?”

  Krevan remained silent.

  “Again, what brings you here?” she asked.

  “We wish to buy passage through the Lair’s burrow.”

  A long silence answered his request. Then slowly she spoke. “For you… and the godslayer.”

  Krevan attempted a lie. “Don’t tell me you believe such nonsense?” He punctuated it with a harsh snort.

  “Perhaps not, but Lord Balger certainly does. We know the Downs are overrun with crawlers, scent hunters, and worse. Two of your knights met their ends among the hollows. The rest are hotly pursued. Yet you bring the true prize to my doorstep.”

  Krevan had not moved, yet a dark cloud of cloak and shadow seemed to swell from his shoulders. “You bear no special love for Lord Balger

  … or Tashijan. To keep this godslayer as a prize would bring the full wrath of both upon the Lair.”

  “No doubt of that, but I would see this godslayer for myself,” the woman finished, “before we settle on a price.”

  Krevan glanced back to Tylar. He was waved forward.

  Rogger hissed at his ear as he stepped away. “Speak with a cautious tongue. Deals among the Wyr are struck upon one’s word.”

  Tylar moved to join Krevan. Stepping around the large knight’s billowing form, he again spotted the woman. She leaned her weight on one leg, throwing out her hip, carrying her swaddled babe there. She wore a bored expression.

  “So this is the godslayer?”

  Tylar’s brow pinched. The woman’s mouth had not moved as she spoke. In fact, her entire manner-from slack lips to glazed eyes-struck Tylar as dull and mindless.

  “Bring him closer.” Pale movement drew his eye. He spotted a tiny white arm beckon to him. It was the baby boy. The infant’s eyes were fixed on his face. “Tylar de Noche,” the babe said, thick with disdain. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Tylar found no words, mouth agape.

  Krevan covered for him. “May I introduce Wyrd Bennifren, Lord of the Lair and free leader of the Wyrdling clans.”

  “Be welcome, Godslayer.” The baby smiled up at him, a horrible toothless visage, eyes wizened with age. “Let us strike a bargain for your life.”

  Tylar paced the confines of the small cave. Their accommodations were surprisingly pleasant. Flames crackled in a small hearth carved into the wall, the smoke fluming away through a buried chimney. Underfoot, thick sheepskin rugs warmed the natural stone floor. Torches blazed on all four walls, illuminating the tapestries of Kashmiri silk woven with gold-and-silver thread. He could easily be in the greeting chamber of some lord’s manor house, rather than deep beneath the chalk hills of Kistlery Downs.

  “How much longer must we wait?” Tylar finally blurted.

  “The Wyr will not be rushed,” Krevan said. He sat hunched on a bench. The room had no shadows in which to hide or draw strength, and clearly this made him ill at ease and seemed to age him.

  His fellow knight, Corram, simply leaned against one wall, rubbing a wrist where his sheathed daggers once rested.

  Seated on a chair by the hearth, Rogger chewed a stubby briar pipe, puffing out clouds of redolent smoke through his beard. “Bennifren is actually treating us-or rather should I say you ”-he glanced pointedly at Krevan-“much more courteously than I would have imagined.”

  “What past do you two share?” Delia asked. She also sat by the fire, but in a deep, cushioned chair. She had sunk gratefully into it. Tylar had almost forgotten Delia’s past as a handmaiden to Meeryn, where such luxuries were easily at hand. She had abandoned so much, a life of comfort and grace, to accompany him on this hard road.

  Krevan stared at her, then away. An imperceptible movement of his wrist toward Rogger indicated it was permissible to speak of this matter.

  The thief took up the mantle with aplomb. “Now that’s a tale.” He stood up to warm his backside by the fire. “But before that one could be told, one must tell the story of the Raven Knight. One not sung by minstrels, nor written in the great recountings of history.”

  Tylar stopped his pacing and gave Rogger his full attention. “And we should begin such a story at the beginning-with the death of Raven ser Kay. Some three hundred years now, is it not?” Rogger glanced to Krevan, who only glared back, eyes flashing with Grace.

  “Yes,” Rogger continued. “Raven ser Kay did not die a noble death on some battlefield, but instead met his end in bed, of an affliction of the heart. Or more specifically, a dagger to the heart, wielded by a concubine who shared his sheets. A comely lass of great beauty, I’ve heard, but one whose family ties could be traced to the Reaper King. An unfortunate discovery made after she used that same dagger to slay herself.”

  Delia sat straighter. “Such is the tale sung by balladeers.”

  “A truly tragic end, one embellished with details over the centuries, making it a grand tale of love, revenge, and honor. But where such ballads end, the true story begins.” Rogger paused to puff on his pipe, then continued. “For Raven ser Kay was not like other men

  … There was a reason he survived so many battles. He had a secret he kept from the wardens and castellans of Tashijan. A secret that a comely assassin revealed upon the point of her dagger.”

  “What secret is that?” Tylar asked as Rogger paused again.

  “He has no heart.”

  “What?”

 
“There is a reason he is titled Krevan the Merciless. It comes from his much older but truer name: Krevan the heartless.”

  Tylar shook his head. “What foolishness is this?”

  “He speaks the truth,” Krevan grumbled from his bench. “I was born with no heart.”

  “How…?” Delia asked, growing paler.

  Rogger explained. “Exposed as a babe in the womb to black alchemies, his blood was corrupted. It is a living thing, flowing on its own through his flesh and organs, needing no muscled pump. It is this same corruption that allowed him to survive the assassin’s blow. You can’t stab what isn’t there.”

  Tylar stared at Krevan with new eyes.

  “But such a wound could not be hidden. His secret was laid bare. He was given a choice by the warden at that time. Be stripped and humiliated… or allow the Raven Knight to die.”

  Rogger glanced again to Krevan. “So he walked away, leaving his past to the balladeers and historians to pick and chew over like dogs on bone. He started a new life-not unlike you, Tylar-among the low and forgotten. Out of the seed of his pain grew the Black Flaggers.”

  Tylar sensed corners of the story left untold, but he did not press.

  “But how did he come to be corrupted in the first place?” Delia asked. “To be born without a heart?”

  The answer came from the doorway. Wyr-lord Bennifren entered, carried by the same woman. “Because he was born here… in the Lair.”

  Delia covered her mouth in shock.

  “This is his true home,” the ancient baby said in that sickly sibilant tone of his. “He is born of the Wyr.”

  Krevan gained his feet. “One does not choose a birthplace, but one can choose a life thereafter. I renounced this place long ago.”

  “Blood is always blood.”

  Krevan spat on the floor. “And shite is forever shite.”

  The knight’s outburst only amused the Wyr-lord. Dark laughter flowed. Krevan seemed to sense he had been drawn deliberately out. He straightened and glared. “What of the bargain? Will it cost me more of my blood?”

  “That bought Allison’s freedom eighty years ago. You struck a hard bargain. I still miss your mother.” He reached up and squeezed the breast of the woman who carried him. There was no reaction. “She had the sweetest milk of all my cows. Whatever did become of her after you left here? Died I heard. Drowned. Was it an accident or did she still have a bit of will left in her? Perhaps she missed her former life.”

  “What you did to her…” Krevan’s reaction was not an outburst, but a coldly spoken promise. “I will still kill you for that.”

  A tiny arm waved away his threat. “She let you flee the Lair. She had to be punished. But I’m surprised it took two centuries for you to finally come looking for her. Who’s to blame for that?”

  Krevan’s eyes narrowed.

  Tylar read the pain there, deep rooted and old. He had to end this. He spoke up, drawing the Wyr-lord’s attention. “Is there a deal to be struck here or not?”

  “To the point,” Bennifren said, ancient eyes staring out of the pudgy, soft face. “Very good. The council has conferred. We will allow you safe passage through our burrows.”

  “And the price?” Tylar asked.

  “One you can live with, I believe… and that is the point of all this, is it not?”

  Tylar smelled sour milk wafting as the Wyr-lord was carried closer.

  “For ages upon end,” he continued, “the Wyr clans have sought divinity in flesh. We have made many strides toward that end. The black knight who led you here was but one success, a mortal man almost unbound by time. But he does age, like myself, only much more slowly. A century or more and he will expire, as will I. That is, if he does not die sooner of severe wounds or sickness like any man. We have some manner to go before we can breed godhood out of mortal flesh-but we grow closer with every passing birth.”

  Tylar had seen the results of such births over the years: children without limbs, creatures of misshapen flesh, Grace-maddened beasts. But the worst were those like the abomination before him. Twisted by alchemies in the womb, yet wise beyond reason. They were dangerous and cunning.

  He would have to tread lightly. He had no misconceptions about the Wyr, and they surely were not blind to his own abilities: from the Grace flowing through his body to the smoky daemon held in check. Yet they allowed him into their Lair without fear. He did not doubt that eyes watched from unseen places, and safeguards were in place to kill them all at the slightest provocation.

  “Then what do you want from us?” Tylar asked again.

  “As payment for saving your flesh, we ask only that you leave a little of it behind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The eyes of the babe flashed brighter. “You have been blasted by Grace, had it infused into your being. One such as yourself could help us achieve our ancient goal in a single generation.

  “We want nothing more-and nothing less-than a single sample of each of your eight humours. Leave that behind and passage will be granted to all of you.”

  Tylar considered this offer. It was plain enough. He began to open his mouth, ready to agree.

  Rogger mumbled around his pipe, the words barely reaching Tylar’s ears, “Bargain, damn you…”

  Tylar realized he had been too ready to seal the deal. “You ask for much,” he stumbled out. “I say my blood alone should buy us passage.”

  “What you offer so freely we could perhaps take by force,” Bennifren countered, eyes squinting with threat.

  “But what will it cost you? You know I am not without weapons.”

  “Your daemon…” the Wyr-lord sneered, a disturbing expression on a babe’s face.

  Tylar nodded. Let them believe he could wield the creature like a sword. “You would never find your way out of our burrows. We have traps that can kill even a daemon-cursed man. And what of your friends? Do you throw their lives away so easily?”

  Tylar sighed and countered. “Then I’ll offer blood and both biles.”

  “Shite and piss? That’s how you sweeten the deal. I’m not moved.”

  “Then make a counter.”

  “I will leave you tears and sweat, and take all else.”

  Tylar narrowed his eyes. The Wyr birthed abominations in their drive for divinity. They would want his seed more than anything else. He suspected it was this very reason he was still alive. While the Wyr might harvest most humours from his corpse, his seed would die with him.

  Yet now that he considered it, this was the one humour he would keep to himself. He would not have some twisted child born from the seed of his loins. Not among the Wyr. He had only to consider Krevan’s story to know better.

  “You may have all my humours except one,” Tylar said.

  “You wish to restrain your seed from us,” the babe said, as if reading his mind. “Is this not so?”

  Tylar felt a chill despite the hearth. Dark intelligence shone from the little one’s eyes. He sensed a trap being set but had no choice but to step forward. He nodded his agreement.

  “We will allow this.”

  Tylar could not hold back his surprise and spoke too soon. “Then we have a bargain.”

  “Almost… we will allow you to restrain your seed, for now, to keep it safe where it now resides. But we demand a future claim.”

  Tylar frowned at this.

  “Before you die, you must forfeit your seed to the Wyr.”

  He shook his head. “Death can come suddenly, without warning. I cannot promise time to cast my seed.”

  The Wyr-lord nodded. “We accept this risk, but in doing so, we require one last concession to seal the bargain.”

  “And what is that?”

  “One of the Wyr will journey with you from here, to safeguard our claim, to keep its bearer secure.”

  “You wish to send a guard along with us?”

  “That is our last and best offer.”

  Tylar glanced to Rogger. He had remained silent. His only assistan
ce now was a shrug.

  Tylar faced the Wyr-lord. He still felt the presence of the noose, but they had no other option.

  With a deep sigh, he nodded. “We accept your bargain.”

  “So it is spoken, so it is bound,” the lord finished. The woman turned, obeying some unseen signal, driven and ridden like a barebacked horse. “Meet your guardian.”

  Tylar prepared himself to face some heaving monstrosity, some muscled mix of loam-giant and Wyr-blasted corruption.

  The guardian stepped into the doorway.

  Tylar’s eyes widened in shock.

  She was as tall as Krevan, stately of limb, decked in deer-skin from boots to furred collar, cut low between her ample breasts. The curves of her body seemed to ripple as she entered the chamber, moving like some feral black leopard. Her ebony hair fell straight to her shoulders, unbraided, untamed. Her skin was the hue of bitternut: dark, but mixed with cream. Her black eyes bore the slightest narrowed pinch, accentuating her feline grace. Her lips were full, nose narrow.

  Her calm gaze swept the room and settled on Tylar. A perfume of crushed lilies carried in with her… accompanied by a deeper, muskier scent that quickened Tylar’s breath as he attempted to capture it.

  “May I introduce Wyr-mistress Eylan,” the babe-lord said.

  Rogger mumbled behind Tylar, “You’d better keep a close eye on that seed of yours. Something tells me you might be giving it sooner than you expected… and willingly at that.”

  So here was the Wyr-lord’s trap.

  Tylar watched Eylan bow, moving with such unassuming grace.

  A trap baited most beautifully.

  Deep underground, Tylar stepped from the steaming chamber where a hot spring bubbled. Smelling of salt and iron, the air had seared and drawn sweat from all his pores. Wearing only a breechcloth, he shivered as he entered the neighboring cell, ready to let his sweat be harvested by Wyrd Bennifren’s alchemist.

  “Tylar…”

  The new voice startled him, unexpected as it was.

  Delia stood in the chamber.

  He half-covered his nakedness as she crossed toward him.

  Past her shoulder, at the entrance, he spotted the thicklimbed giant with the bony brow-his guard-and the wizened old alchemist who wheezed constantly. In the company of these two Wyr-men, Tylar had already emptied bowel and bladder. He had spat until his mouth was paste and had sniffed ground nettlecorn until his nose dripped heavily. Everything had been collected in crystal receptacles, ready for some dark purpose, the thought of which unnerved Tylar.