The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  “My power?” Kale spat in disgust. “And how would I do that?”

  “Blood is the greatest power, Chosen Leandrian. It always has been and always will be. The power of blood—to draw it.”

  Kale turned to the man. “You would have me what, exactly? Kill someone?”

  The shadows that gathered about the man shifted slightly, as if in a shrug. “Sometimes, an example must be made.”

  “And who, exactly, did you have in mind? Who should be made an example of?”

  Another shifting, another shrug. “The who does not matter—it never does. Only the example, only the blood.”

  “You would have me murder my own people,” Kale said flatly.

  “They are only people, Chosen. There are always more of them, spreading like a plague upon the face of the earth, profaning that which was pure and holy, imposing their ‘civilization’ upon the wild places of the world, taming them with their swords and their fire and making of what was once fine a cruel parody.”

  Kale regarded the man in silence for several seconds, feeling that there was something in his words, in the passion—usually nowhere in evidence when the man spoke—that filled them. But he could not seem to focus. “Gods, why is it so cold?” he said, and gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. “It’s always so cold.”

  “Would you like for me to put more wood on the fire, Chosen?”

  Kale was shivering now, and he nodded desperately. “Yes. Gods, yes, please.”

  The man moved toward where the wood was stacked beside the fireplace, seeming to glide, even the motion of his steps hidden within shadow, and soon several more logs fed the blaze. “Is it better, Chosen?” the stranger asked.

  Kale hesitated then, slowly, the chill numbness began to fade from his limbs. “I…yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.”

  “Our goddess cares much for your welfare, Chosen Leandrian, and she has commanded me to do all that is within my power to grant you your wishes. After all, it is the pact you made.”

  “O-of course,” Kale said, too relieved to be free of that creeping, stalking cold to think much about the man’s words. “Of course.”

  “Now, Chosen,” the man said, turning back to him, the shadows around his face seeming to writhe, “about the example…”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I still say it’s a fool’s plan,” Rion muttered from his place inside the wagon’s compartment.

  “I agree with the lad,” the driver said from up front. “There’s better ways to die, I reckon, than walking right into the headman’s axe. I’ve always thought drinkin’ myself to death sounded like a good way to go.”

  “Thank you for your input,” Katherine called back, “but we don’t have any options.”

  “No option save dying,” Rion muttered. “Yeah, well, that sounds about right.”

  “And what would you have us do?” Katherine said. “You heard Darl—the trail has gone cold. It will take him some time to find it again—if he even can—and I, for one, find the idea of a warm bed in an inn preferable to another night spent in the woods with those…those things around.”

  Rion scowled. Not that there’d been many of the things as she called them. Whatever else Alesh was, it seemed that in his bloody march, he was at least thorough. They had heard a few nightlings hissing in the dark as they spent the nights of the last two weeks huddled in the wagon on the side of the road, what must have been a dozen lanterns hung from the outside, but no more than that. Either the nightlings had suddenly decided they cared nothing for the flesh of men anymore—unlikely—or Alesh had been thinning them out as he made his unerring way toward the town of Celadra.

  Not that Rion was complaining. The gods knew they had enough to worry about without some monster taking a bite out of them while they slept. “And if the Ferinan can’t find the trail?”

  “He’ll find it,” Katherine answered quickly. Too quickly to be believed, in truth. Then, “If it’s there…”

  Rion didn’t have to ask what she meant, for he knew well enough, and the worry writ plain on her face was one that he shared. Up to this point, Alesh’s trail had been easy enough to follow—the corpses he left in his wake were better than breadcrumbs, not to mention the trail of blood he left himself. Rion couldn’t imagine how a man could bleed that much and still stay upright. But a day and a half ago, the corpses and the trail of blood had vanished, seeming to disappear into thin air. There were the corpses, the blood on the trail…and then there was nothing, no sign. So they had been forced to make a decision: to break off in search of him through the woods—which would necessitate leaving the wagon behind—or to continue on down the rutted wagon path and hope they picked up his trail further on.

  Walking through the woods with only what they could carry with the knowledge that the Redeemers and the nightlings would be only too happy to kill them, hadn’t seemed like much of a plan to Rion and thankfully the others had agreed. So they’d continued on and now planned to enter the town—if a town it can be called, he thought ruefully—and spend the night there, asking around to see if anyone had any information on Alesh while Darl hunted around the town’s outskirts in search of any sign of what direction the man had gone.

  And as far as Rion was concerned, the Ferinan had gotten the better end of that deal. How, exactly, were they supposed to ask about Alesh without drawing attention to themselves? Hey there, fella. How’s the ale? Piss-poor? Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Tell me, since we’re so close now and all, you seen a guy walkin’ through here lately, lookin’ like he’s been dragged through glass, big old mean scowl on his face? Oh, you can’t miss ‘em, he’ll be the one coated in blood—most of it not his own, mind, but not all—the one that, you know, is damned crazy.

  Not a conversation he looked forward to, that much was sure. Still, the woman was right—they had no other options—so he only sighed, shaking his head. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and he’ll have passed out inside the gate. Or, shit, since we’re hoping, maybe he’s just decided to give the whole thing up, maybe take a nap in the nearest inn.”

  “Yeah,” she said, the tone of her voice making it obvious she wasn’t really listening, “maybe.”

  Rion sighed, turning back to where the driver sat up front—the Ferinan having already abandoned the cart to start his search when the town had come into view. “Well, let’s get a move on, huh? No need to make the Keeper of the Dead wait, is there?”

  ***

  The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached what served as the town gate. In truth, it was no more than a single log supported by two stumps, one of which had a notch carved into it where the log lay. A pathetic attempt at defense, and the single guard stationed at the gate was little better. He wore a grease-stained tunic and simple trousers, both appearing in immediate danger of busting from the pressure of his prodigious gut. In place of a sword, he carried a stout length of wood—not that he carried it now. The guard was sitting with his back propped against one of the stumps, his eyes closed, his snores audible even over the steady clop of the horses’ hooves. A line of drool worked its way down his unshaven face.

  The driver called to the horses, and they stopped a few feet away from the guardsman who stirred but did not awaken. The cart driver cleared his throat loudly, but still the guard slept on, and Rion hissed in frustration. If he was going to die, he’d just as soon get it over with instead of spending an hour waiting for the fat man to wake up. “Good evening!” he shouted.

  “Eh?” the guardsman said, snapping awake and looking around himself in confusion. Then he saw the cart and stumbled to his feet, studying them with red-rimmed eyes and wincing in the sunlight as if it was the brightest part of the day instead of no more than an hour away from night. Rion had seen such eyes before, and it was obvious the man had spent the night before drinking. “Who goes there?” he slurred.

  “My name,” the driver called back, shoving Rion into the compartment with a scowl, “is Fentin Arcarest, and I’ve got my mer
chant’s brand there on the front of the cart…if you can see it that is,” he finished, mumbling the last.

  “Ain’t never heard of no Fentin Arcarest, merchant,” the guard said, scowling, his hangover obviously making him irritable.

  “Really?” the driver said. “Surprising then, is it? After all, you seemed to me to be a scholar, one well-informed. So well-informed, in fact, that I would expect you to know every single merchant and tradesman the world over.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to decide whether or not he was being mocked. “You getting smart with me, fella?” he demanded finally.

  “Somebody needs to,” the driver muttered again, before he raised his voice, calling back, “Of course not. I’m sure you have a job to do. I wish only to enter town, stow my cargo, and then find a nice inn and a good night’s sleep. I’ve been on the road for nearly two weeks, guardsmen, and I am tired.”

  “Two weeks, is it?” the man said, a mean smile coming to his face, and Rion realized he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. “Well. Where you from then?”

  “Originally?” the driver asked. “My mother.” Rion could have slapped the man for running his mouth when the last thing they needed to do was piss off the town guard—or whatever served as the guard, at least—and draw attention. The guardsman took several moments, but even a hungover fool couldn’t miss the insult in the driver’s words.

  Finally, he scowled. “Mmhmm. Well, I’m gonna need you to step on down from the wagon and open it up. Let’s see just what cargo you’re toting.”

  The driver grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to gather his patience. An effort that Rion felt the fool should have made earlier. “Look, guardsman. I don’t want any trouble, and I’m sure you’ve got other…important matters you’d prefer to be about. My insignia is there, plain enough for you to read, if you can, and I really don’t have the time to waste—”

  “My job’s the security of the folks in this here town, merchant,” the guardsman said, his chest puffing up as he tried—and failed miserably—to suck in his prominent gut. “Folks count on me to keep ‘em safe. That don’t seem like a waste of time to me, does it you?”

  “No,” the merchant said, “not a waste of time. The waste of time was making you a guardsman—they might as well have set up a scarecrow in your place. The gods know it would be less of an embarrassment.”

  The guard’s chubby face flushed a deep, angry red at that, and his fingers worked where they gripped the length of wood. “Open the wagon. Now.”

  “No,” the merchant snapped back, “and you’ve no right to ask it of me. Those markings—since apparently you’re unwilling or, more likely, unable to read them—mean that I am a merchant in service of Chosen Tesharna herself, ruler of Valeria and one of the Six. That means that my cargo—such as it is—is none of your concern, and that I must be allowed safe, unhindered passage through Tesharna’s lan—” He cut off with a squawk of surprise and outrage as the guardsman—who’d spent the time during the merchant’s speech moving closer—slapped him hard across the face.

  “This ain’t Valeria, merchant,” the guard said to the outraged driver, “and you’d best remember that. We’re just a little country town full of country folk and, round here, manners go a long way. Now, I won’t ask you again—the next time, Wanda here will do the asking,” he finished, brandishing a stout length of wood. “You follow?”

  “H-how dare you,” the driver sputtered, but the guardsman raised the length of wood, and that got him moving quickly enough. He practically leapt from the wagon, then started toward the back.

  The guardsman followed, talking as he did in a calm, self-satisfied voice. “See, there’s been a lot of strange goings-on lately. What, with those nightlings killin’ Olliman—if the rumors are to be believed—and a group of criminals escapin’ their rightful execution at the hands of Chosen Tesharna, why, a man in my position can’t be too careful, can he? Shit, they even say there’s a Ferinan in the group, one of those dark-skinned savages. You ask me, we’d be better off if we cut down all of their kind and had done with ‘em. They come up here from the south time to time—not often, but far too much for my likin’. They ain’t got no business botherin’ civilized folk with their strange ways.”

  “Civilized, is it?” the driver said, and though Rion had lost sight of them, he could hear them at the back of the wagon, and he shared a worried look with Katherine.

  “Well, sure,” the guardsman answered, “just as civilized as can be. Why, I think if you learn how to hold your tongue, merchant, you’ll enjoy our little town of Strellia just about as much a—” He cut off as the back of the wagon fell open, and his gaze locked on Katherine and Rion. “Well, well. What have we here then?”

  Rion glanced at Katherine, opened his mouth to speak, but the driver beat him to it. “Newlyweds is all. They’re poor—the gods know that’s goin’ around more’n pox in a whorehouse—and paid me to ride with the rest of the cargo to meet their parents.”

  “That right?” the guard said, studying the two of them suspiciously. “And what of it, you two? The fat man here speak true?”

  “Fat?” the merchant said, flabbergasted, “Are you—”

  “He does,” Katherine interrupted. “We…our families do not have a lot of money. We travel south to Perria, my home, to stay with my parents.”

  The guard nodded slowly. “Perria, is it? Well. A bit close to those savages in the south, you ask me. Never could imagine why someone’d live that close to those heathens, given the choice.”

  Rion noticed Katherine’s jaw clench, and she opened her mouth—likely to defend the Ferinan and her friend Darl and, just as likely, get them all killed or thrown in the dungeons—but he beat her to it. “Yes, sir,” he blurted. “I couldn’t agree with you more. Maisel here is a wonderful woman, and I’m lucky to have her, but her family ain’t got a lot…mine neither, far as that goes. That’s actually why we’re goin’, see, to tell her folks that she’ll be movin’ up north with me and mine. To break it to ‘em easy-like, you know? I’m with you—I wouldn’t think of raising a family, not so close to those spear-totin’ bastards. Why, might as well have wolves for neighbors.”

  He could feel Katherine scowling at him, but he was studying the guardsman, watching the man nod, satisfied to see his own foolish prejudice reflected in another the way only foolish, prejudiced men can be. “Well, that’s alright then. You seem smart enough. Still,” he said, glancing at the merchant, “it’s awful suspicious, two folks ridin’ in the back of a wagon like this. And what’s in those boxes there?” he said, nodding his head at the stacked crates that had been the bane of Rion’s existence the last few weeks, making the already cramped compartment nearly impossibly small.

  “Just wheat is all,” the merchant said, scowling at the guard’s back as he leaned into the cabin, peering inside. “Fetches a high price further south, what with them not hardly bein’ able to grow it and all.”

  “Mmhmm,” the guard said, forcing his bulk into the wagon. He leaned over, opening one of the boxes at random, and Rion bit back a curse as he realized it was the same one in which Katherine had stowed her harp case. Damnit, I told her to get rid of it. By now, the Redeemers no doubt knew plenty about Rion and his companions, and it was too much to hope that Alashia hadn’t mentioned Katherine’s musical talents to Tesharna either before the ruler of Valeria betrayed her or, more likely, after, while the torturers did their work. The man pushed the bundles of wheat aside, his eyes going wide as he noticed the case. “Uhuh…so what’s this then?” he asked, glancing at Katherine who sat closest to the box.

  “It’s…it’s my harp.”

  “Harp, huh? Expensive instruments, I’ve heard.” The guard made a thoughtful sound, and Rion knew they were in trouble. Apparently, the man had decided that doing his job instead of being a lazy piece of shit could be fun, after all. “Tell me, how is it, that a poor girl like you—pretty though, I’ll grant ya that—can affo
rd such an instrument? Or is it,” he continued, turning to glance knowingly at the merchant, “that it isn’t her harp at all? Merchant, you wouldn’t be trying to smuggle merchandise into my town, would you?”

  “Smuggle?” the driver said in, as far as Rion was concerned, an impressively incredulous tone considering the fact that he was smuggling, not a harp, maybe, but criminals who the Chosen herself would pay handsomely to see strung up. “Why in the name of the gods would I smuggle a harp?” he demanded.

  The guard shrugged. “I’ve seen folks try to smuggle in all manner of things. Illegal herbs, mostly, ones to make a man see rainbows where there ain’t none, to make pretty things like this one say yes when what they mean is no. Shit, weren’t too long ago I saw a man try to smuggle in a bag of wooden eyes, just as shaved and smoothed as you please. Stolen, of course, and the gods alone know what he meant to do with ‘em, but he had ‘em alright.”

  “We’re not smuggling, harps, sir,” Katherine said. “I swear.”

  “That right?” he asked with a wink. “If I open up the rest of these boxes, I ain’t gonna find no wooden eyes?”

  “No, sir.”

  The man studied her for several seconds, taking the excuse to eye her up and down, as if the veracity of her statement could somehow be found in her neckline, and though the woman drove him crazy, Rion found himself annoyed at the man’s lack of decorum. Not that he had any designs on her himself—better to stick his head in a lion’s mouth and take his chances. Not to mention the fact that Alesh seemed to fancy her, and that was one lion who was all too likely to bite, so far as he was concerned. Instead, he found himself angry at the guardsman’s regard, the way he would be if someone was looking lecherously at his sister. Not that he had a sister, of course, but he imagined it would feel something like this. “Look,” he said, “why don’t you stop wasting our time, eh? If it’ll make it any easier, I can give you a few coins to smooth our passage, make sure that you’ve got plenty of drink when the night comes. Maybe enough to meet a new friend, a lady one, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”