by Jayne Castel
Saul had no time to raise his blade, no time to react. His knife spun from his hand, clattering to the cobbles. He fell on his back, atop the pack he carried, and his attacker landed on top of him. Its hands locked around his throat.
Ryana rushed forward, gathering the Dark as she went. The shadows scuttled toward the enchanter. Ryana’s hands moved furiously as she gathered the shadows to her, whipping them into a chattering twister. A moment later she launched her whirlwind of darkness at where Saul and his attacker wrestled on the ground.
But the column of shadows merely ricocheted off the two struggling figures.
Lilia watched as the twister bounced back and splintered against the walls. The shadows fled, wailing into the dark corners of the street. Ryana cursed.
Lilia staggered and collided with Dain. She felt his hand clamp around her upper arm, drawing her away.
The sound of Saul’s choking drew Lilia’s gaze once more to where he twisted and bucked under his attacker’s iron grip. He was moments away from dying.
Dain released Lilia’s arm.
She watched him step around her, drawing his axe as he went. Dain didn’t hesitate, although his face was drawn and pale in the silvery dawn light. He closed the gap and lifted his axe high above his head before bringing it down on the back of the attacker’s neck.
The meaty thud and crunch of iron slicing through flesh and bone followed.
The attacker grunted and fell, flailing, off its victim. Dain brought the axe down once more—and dark blood splattered over his face.
Saul rolled away, gasping and choking for breath, while the gangly, pale figure slumped to the ground, its head rolling across the cobbles. A lake of blood spread out from its twitching, headless corpse.
Dain stared down at it. Then he reached up and wiped the blood from his face, before lowering his hand to examine it. “It bleeds,” he murmured, surprised.
Lilia approached. Her heart was hammering so loudly she felt as if it would leap from her chest. “Dain,” she rasped. “Are you hurt?”
Dain looked at her, his face all taut angles in the dying lantern light, before he shook his head. His gaze shifted to Ryana. The enchanter’s face was drawn, her eyes dark. “Was that a Nightgenga?”
Ryana nodded, her grey-blue eyes wide with shock. “But it makes no sense.” She bent down and helped Saul to his feet. “They never venture into towns … the lights usually keep them away.”
“Well this one did,” Saul rasped, rubbing his injured neck. His blood-splattered face was ashen, his gaze glassy.
Lilia’s gaze darted around, peering into the deep shadows. “Will there be others?”
“From what I’ve heard, Nightgengas don’t usually hunt in packs,” Ryana answered as she too surveyed their surroundings. “Although I’d rather not wait around to find out.”
They wanted to flee Idriss without a backward glance, but there was a stop they had to make first.
The sun was rising in the east, bleeding over the edge of Mount Velar, when they reached the city’s northern outskirts. The look of Idriss changed here. Gone were the narrow streets and the tall, dark buildings of stone. Instead, timbered buildings lined unpaved streets, and thatched or sod roofs replaced dark tiles.
The horse dealer’s, where Saul and Ryana had done their business the day before, was a low-slung complex of timbered buildings centered around a straw-strewn stableyard.
The proprietor was waiting for them. A heavyset man with a thick red beard and close-cropped hair of the same color, he gave the group a speculative look as they approached. “I thought you’d be here at first light?” he greeted them. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“We were delayed,” Ryana replied.
The horse trader nodded. His gaze swept her companions before resting on Saul, taking in his bruised, swollen neck and subdued expression. The man frowned but refrained from making any comment.
He led them into the stables where four horses were saddled and ready to go. They were all stocky cobs: two bays, a grey, and a chestnut. None of them looked fast; instead, these horses were bred for endurance.
Saul paid the man, while the others led the horses out of their stalls. Lilia took the grey mare, whereas Ryana sprang up onto the back of the chestnut gelding. Dain and Saul rode the two remaining bays.
Bidding the horse trader good day, they set off. On horseback, traveling at a brisk trot, they soon left the outskirts of Idriss behind.
A wide trackway ran north, hugging the rugged coastline. It would stop at a number of villages and towns on its way north before eventually arriving at the foothills of the Black Mountains and the Kingdom of Rithmar’s most northern outpost: Errad.
The travelers did not take that route. Instead, they took the Eastern Road: a pot-holed, unpaved highway that circled the base of Mount Velar before cutting through farmland. Eventually, the highway would lead them into the Highlands of Rithmar and to the Royal City itself, but the mountains were still some way off.
They rode in silence, the mood among the small party somber. As soon as Idriss lay behind them, they urged the horses into a canter and began eating up the furlongs. Patchworks of kale, carrots, and onions, and rippling golden lakes of barley, spread out either side of the road.
The mist had started to clear, but it was still a grey dawn. Nonetheless, as the day brightened somewhat, Lilia spied men and women scything barley in the fields. The folk here paid travelers no mind. This was a busy road, and they would be used to a steady flow of horses, oxen, and wagons.
On the way east across The Western Cradle, this fertile bowl of arable land bounded by the Rithmar Highlands to the east and the sea to the west, they passed a number of travelers: cottars bringing produce to market; merchants with wagons groaning under loads of wool bales from the capital; and wagons where men, women, and children perched, having bought passage to Idriss.
Lilia rode alongside Dain, while Saul and Ryana cantered along side-by-side up ahead. It had been a while since Lilia had last ridden a horse. Beasts like these were expensive on Orin, although she had gone for rides on her uncle’s pony as a girl. The pony had been a bad-tempered animal that bucked her off at the slightest provocation. This was a different experience. The cob had a long stride and proved to be a comfortable ride.
They stopped for lunch at the edge of a hazel-wood thicket. It was a humid, grey afternoon, with dark clouds rolling in from the north.
Taking a bite of bread and cheese, Lilia frowned up at the darkening sky. She then glanced over at Dain, who sat next to her on a rock. He’d wiped the blood from his face but said little since killing the Nightgenga. The brutality of his act had shocked her, although she was relieved he’d done it. Still, it was an irony that it was Saul’s life he’d saved.
Lilia attempted to catch his eye, and when he failed to look in her direction, she cleared her throat. “Dain, are you well?”
He glanced up, his dark-blue gaze meeting hers. “Aye, why do you ask?”
“This morning … what you did—”
“It had to be done,” he cut her off. “There’s no point dwelling on it.”
“He’s right,” Ryana spoke up. She sat opposite them on a tree stump. She watched Dain steadily. “He may have to use that axe again.”
Dain and Ryana’s gazes held for a moment. “What happened back there?” he asked. “You should have been able to stop the Nightgenga.”
Ryana’s mouth compressed. “I’ve never faced a shadow creature before,” she admitted. “It seems that the Dark responds differently to them. Next time, I’ll be ready.”
He frowned. “Let’s hope so.”
Ryana’s gaze narrowed at the sharp edge to his tone.
“You know how to swing an axe,” Saul rasped from a few feet away, interrupting them. “It almost had me.”
Lilia noted that livid bruises now marked Saul’s neck. They would need to get some salve for it once they reached their day’s destination: Tallow.
> Dain raised an eyebrow. “You’d have done the same for me?”
Saul snorted before wincing as his neck pained him. “Aye … thanks, all the same.”
17
By the Fireside
They reached the market town of Tallow shortly before dusk. Encircled by a high wooden palisade, Tallow sat on the banks of the river by the same name, in the midst of The Western Cradle.
On the way into town, Lilia noted the spreading fields thick with ripening corn and brassicas, the well-tended walled gardens, and the tidy timber thatch-roofed houses. The landscape reminded her of the farmlands around Shingle Ford; this area had the same atmosphere of bucolic prosperity.
It was just starting to rain—large wet splashes that speckled the dry road—and thunder rumbled in the distance. Lilia turned her face up to it and winced when a large drop smacked into her eyeball. Blinking, she looked down and scrubbed at her eye, following her companions across the narrow wooden bridge into town.
The four travelers clattered over the bridge and rode through wide gates into a large market square. At one end of the square, Tallow’s Altar of Umbra cast a long shadow, thrusting skyward like a great tar-dipped finger. The sight of the altar made Lilia suppress a shiver—a reminder of last night’s song, and this morning’s encounter—yet the inhabitants of the town walked by without even casting a glance up at the towering obelisk.
Lilia tore her gaze from the monument to The Shadow King and followed her companions across the square, before clip-clopping up a neatly paved thoroughfare. Sturdy dwellings of wood and grey stone overshadowed the street. They rode past colorful window boxes and freshly scrubbed steps; Tallow was a town proud of itself.
They chose a busy inn named The Wheatsheaf, not far from Tallow’s eastern gates—just in case they had to make an escape from the town at short notice. The rain was starting in earnest as they led their horses into the stables out the back of the inn, hammering on the thatched roof above their heads.
Lilia swung down from her horse, hissing between clenched teeth as her thigh muscles protested.
Dain, who had already dismounted, saw her expression and grinned. “It’ll be worse tomorrow.”
Lilia gave him a baleful look. “Come dawn, I doubt you’ll feel any better than me.”
“None of us will,” Ryana commented from behind them. “I’ll be shuffling like a crone tomorrow.”
“The three of you had better toughen up.” Saul rasped from where he was unsaddling his gelding in a stall behind Dain. “We’ve got days of hard travel ahead of us.”
Ryana gave him a dismissive look. “Have you ever traveled to the Royal City of Rithmar?”
He shook his head.
Ryana turned her back on him. “Well I have … the road isn’t so bad.”
“I wasn’t talking about the road,” Saul countered.
Inside The Wheatsheaf Inn, the inn-keeper’s wife started fussing over Saul the moment he set foot through the entrance. A slender woman with a work-worn face and soft blue eyes, she looked to have been a beauty in her youth, but years of hard work had ground her down. Her gaze alighted upon Saul’s ravaged neck. “Shadows, you’ve been in the wars.”
“Set upon by thieves in Idriss,” Saul croaked.
The inn-keeper’s wife looked horrified at this news. She placed a sympathetic hand on Saul’s arm. “Poor thing. I shall bring you up some Weltwort for that bruising.”
Ryana cast Saul an amused look as they followed the woman upstairs to their room. “Seems I’m the only female for leagues immune to your charms,” she murmured.
Saul smirked in response before favoring her with a look of supreme male confidence that promised he’d soon fix that.
Climbing up the stairs, a few feet behind, Lilia swallowed a surge of irritation. Had she too fallen over herself in front of Saul when they’d first met? Had she too been blinded by the fact he was suave and good-looking?
A fire roared in the hearth. The sound was comforting, contrasting with that of the howling wind and the rattling of the shutters as squalls hit the side of the building. Unlike outdoors, it was warm and dry inside the room they had taken for the night.
Lilia picked up the pot of Weltwort, her gaze settling upon Saul. “Do you want me to apply the salve?”
A few feet away, perched upon a stool, Saul nodded. “Thanks, I can barely swallow.”
“It hasn’t stopped you talking,” Dain commented from where he sat at a table, cup of ale in hand. Ryana sat next to him, toying with the remains of her rabbit stew.
Saul ignored Dain, his dark gaze riveted upon Lilia as she approached him and pulled up a stool. Avoiding his penetrating stare, she removed the wooden stopper from the small clay pot the inn-keeper’s wife had brought up. The pale yellow ointment had a sharp odor that made her eyes water. Still, she knew Weltwort worked; it was a remedy her mother had always sworn by for bruising and swellings. Scooping out some salve with her forefinger, she leaned forward and applied it to Saul’s neck.
Sitting this close to him made her uneasy. It reminded her of the kisses they’d shared, of how he’d taken her in. Fortunately, as soon as she started to apply the salve, Saul ceased his melting gaze.
He gave a moan of pain, his body stiffening. She could see the outlines of the Nightgenga’s fingers: long and spidery, blue, purple, and yellow bruises. “It’ll hurt now,” she told him, “but you’ll feel better once the salve sinks in.”
Saul nodded, although his face had blanched. “Its hands were claws of iron,” he rasped.
“Had you ever seen one before?” she asked.
“From a distance, years ago, when I was out hunting with my brother,” Saul replied, his voice hoarse. “We saw one emerge from a thicket near dusk. There was a group of us, all on horseback, so it didn’t cause us any trouble … just loped off into the trees.”
Shortly after sunrise, the four companions left their room and made their way down to the first floor of The Wheatsheaf Inn, wooden steps creaking underfoot. To their surprise, they found the common room below filled with stern-faced men in damp oilskins.
Lilia tensed at the sight of them. She immediately picked up on the odor of nervous sweat, the knife edge of tension in the room. She halted at the foot of the stairs, her gaze shifting to Dain.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.
Next to them Ryana frowned, while Saul took a long assessing look at the gathered men. “I agree,” he murmured. “But let’s not hang around to find out what.”
Without further delay, they left the inn and crossed a muddy yard dotted with large puddles. The storm had spent itself overnight, and a grey, murky dawn greeted them. The sun was hidden behind a heavy cap of cloud.
Wordlessly, they saddled the horses, their movements deft and swift. Lilia tightened her mare’s girth and tried to still the nervousness in her belly. She didn’t like not knowing what was amiss.
A short while later, the party of four was riding through the deserted streets of Tallow at a brisk trot. Signs of last night’s storm were everywhere: deep puddles, refuse, and a scattering of bright green leaves and broken twigs from the willows growing alongside the river outside town.
By the town gates, a group of leather-clad men—members of the Tallow Guard—had gathered. They were all heavily armed, bearing spears, swords, and axes. Some of the men watched the four horses warily as they clip-clopped across Market Square toward them, the dark outline of the Altar of Umbra rising at their backs.
Ryana drew her gelding up before one of the guards. The man met her eye, frank admiration on his face. Blonde, statuesque, and dressed in hunting leathers and a dark cloak, Ryana cut a striking figure. Like Lilia, she’d changed her clothing in Idriss, discarding her drab scop clothing and fingerless gloves for attire more suited to a huntress. Ignoring the man’s naked interest, she fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Was there trouble last night?”
“Aye … never seen the like before. You hear stories, but you never think you’
ll ever set eyes on them.” The man’s expression clouded. “Dusk Imps and Hiriel scaled the walls.”
“Weren’t the torches lit?” Saul cut in, incredulous.
The guard nodded, his gaze never leaving Ryana’s face. “As well as all the lanterns inside the town … but they paid the lights no mind.”
“Whom did they slay?” Ryana asked, her voice low and urgent.
“Two men who sleep rough in Tallow’s back-alleys were torn to pieces … and a baker who heard a noise outside as he started work in the early hours and went out to investigate met the same end.” The guard paused here, glancing at the other members of the guard milling around him. “That’s what folk are saying. No one who had direct contact with the creatures is alive to speak of it.”
“So no one actually saw the attackers?” Saul pressed, gaze narrowed.
The guard tore his attention from Ryana and frowned at her companion. “There were a few sightings from upstairs windows. They were Dusk Imps and Hiriel all right … brutal too.” The man’s face tightened. “We’ll have a watch patrolling the streets tonight.”
18
Sacrifice to the Shadows
THE PARTY MADE haste along the Eastern Road for the next two days, pushing their horses as hard as they dared. They needed to widen the gap between them and The Brotherhood, should their pursuers have picked up their trail at Idriss.
The highway wound through league upon league of farmland. It grew gradually hillier—tilled fields now interspersed with thickets of ash and beech and shallow valleys.
They stayed at two hamlets along the way. There had been trouble at both villages, and folk were nervous. Locals spoke of outlying cottages being attacked and people being carried off during the night.
They’d arrived at both settlements to find the streets deserted well before dusk. Folk shut themselves away as soon as the light began to fade and didn’t venture out until well after dawn. Meanwhile, the residents had lit up the perimeters of the hamlets like beacons, with burning pitch torches.
