Aoife and Scathach, Shadow Twins

by Michael Scott

  Nels glared at Aoife, who smiled slightly, exposing her pointed incisors. The big man turned away quickly and returned to the first wagon. He took his time checking the two lead oxen, running a calloused hand over the large wooden wheels. Only when he was sure that neither Bes nor Aoife could see him did he spit his disgust into the dirt.

  “Something down there troubles me,” Aoife said quietly, leaning forward on the pommel of her saddle. Unconsciously, her fingers traced a trio of scars that began just under her left eye and ran down to her jawline.

  Bes looked into the shadows. “I can see nothing,” he admitted, “but then again, my sight is not as it once was. However, I’ve lived this long because I’ve learned to trust the opinions of those I respect.”

  “I’ve done nothing to earn your respect,” Aoife said, glancing sidelong at him. “I have not worked for you before.”

  “Oh, I have heard of your exploits, Aoife of the Shadows,” Bes said softly. . “And unlike our smelly friend, I know you to be the true Aoife. You are held in high esteem by those I respect…and that is good enough for me,” Bes added, lips moving in what might have passed for a smile.

  “Who recommended me for this job?” Aoife asked.

  “A woman who might not have been entirely human,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

  “And you’ve met nonhumans before,” Aoife said, turning the question into a statement.

  “I was not always as you see me, half blind and neither as fast nor as sharp as I once was. In my youth I was considered handsome. And I had adventures that took me across this world…and others,” he added so quietly that she had to strain to hear him.

  Aoife nodded. “I suspected that you were not from this place.”

  “I was not born on this world, but it is home to me now.”

  “And this woman—the one who might not have been entirely human, who recommended me for this job—did she have a name?” Aoife asked.

  “I’ve heard her called a witch, but when I first encountered her, when we were both a lot younger, I knew her by the name Zephaniah.” He paused and added very softly, “No doubt you know her.”

  Aoife looked back into the valley but did not answer.

  “I will take your silence as a yes,” Bes said. “She was sometimes in the company of a man with one hand,” he added.

  Aoife nodded almost imperceptibly. “Zephaniah is my grandmother.”

  “And the hook-handed man?”

  “He has many names. Now he goes mostly by Marethyu.”

  “Death?”

  She nodded. “Death.”

  “Rather dramatic,” Bes murmured.

  “But also true. You might know him by other names; he has been called the Destroyer of Worlds.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded in recognition. “My people called him Inpu.” From beneath his cloak he produced a small amulet he wore on a leather cord around his neck. A beautifully ornate sickle, shaped from a single piece of amber. “I often wondered why the symbol for death was a curved blade. I always thought it symbolized cutting down or weeding.” He held the amber half circle up to the fading light. “I never thought it simply represented his hook.”

  “My grandmother,” Aoife said, “how did she look?”

  “Unchanged, unaged, beautiful. Exactly as I last saw her one hundred and more years ago.”

  Aoife caught the hint of emotion in his voice, and for an instant, there was the suggestion of moisture in his single eye.

  “I presume my grandmother asked you to hire me for a reason?”

  “She asked me to pass on a message to you,” the Dwarf answered. He sounded almost relieved that they had moved beyond painful memories. “She said the message came from Death himself.”

  “I wonder why he did not deliver it in person,” Aoife pressed.

  “I asked her. She said that an old threat has reappeared, and that he had gone in search of an army.”

  “Usually I—or my sister,” she added reluctantly, “are all the army he needs. What was his message?”

  “She said I was to tell you that your quest nears its end.”

  “That’s it?” she asked, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Did she wonder how I was doing or ask after my health?”

  “She did not. But she was speaking to me through a scrying mirror,” he added quickly. “The connection was not good.”

  “She is obsessed with glass and mirrors,” Aoife muttered.

  “She made me repeat the five words and told me I was to deliver them to you when the time was right: your quest nears its end.”

  Aoife sighed and shook her head. “Your quest nears its end,” she repeated. “And how do you know that this is the right time?”

  “I suppose I could tell you that I am—obviously—not of the humani tribe and that my race have the Sight. But the truth is far more mundane: we’ve been on the road for four days and this is the first time you’ve halted the wagon train. Even when the leshy hunting party were following us two days ago, you simply rode off, took care of the problem, and returned without a word. Yet you did not stop the caravan. You did now, so I knew this must be significant.”

  “You know, I hate all this mystery nonsense!” Aoife snapped in frustration. “Why didn’t she just say ‘Give the message four days into the journey: your quest nears its end.’ ”

  “This means something to you?” Bes asked.

  “Perhaps if I knew what my quest was in the first place,” Aoife answered. “Two hundred years ago, Zephaniah sent me here on a mission for Marethyu. I was to assimilate into the local population and await further instructions.”

  “And there were no instructions?” he guessed.

  Aoife nodded. “Not a word. Worse: the leygate I used to come to this world dissolved into crumbled rocks the moment I stepped through. I’ve been unable to find my way off this world for the past two centuries.” She glanced quickly at Bes. “Do you know of any active leygates?”

  “A few,” he said cautiously. “Is that why I was asked to give you the message?” he wondered. “To get you to a leygate?”

  Aoife shook her head. “That would be too easy. No. I was sent here for a reason. I just don’t know what the reason is. Not yet, anyway.” She turned to look back down into the valley again. “I am thinking that the light in the valley may very well be my mission.”

  Bes nodded. “Are we in any danger?”

  “I’m not sure,” Aoife answered. “I feel…uneasy. Like I have an itch that needs to be scratched.”

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “Make a secure camp,” she decided. “Have the wagon drivers stand watch with the mercenary guards, keep the fires burning all night.”

  “I will instruct Nels,” Bes said, “but what about you? You have a look I recognize—or maybe I should say a look I remember having myself. The look of someone about to do something stupid or dangerous.”

  “I’ll investigate.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “It is always wise to know your fears,” Aoife answered.

  “And then face them?” Bes pressed.

  “No, facing them is not always wise,” Aoife said grimly, “but it is often necessary.”

  3

  They made camp for the night in the gutted shell of an ancient stone temple complex.

  At some time in the past, fire had raged through the heart of the structure, blackening the walls, coating the ceiling with a thick covering of soot, obscuring the elaborate and beautiful frescoes and patterns incised into the stone. Scores of statues littered the ruins. Most were humani, but there were also Torc Allta and Torc Madra—wereboar and werewolf—among the rubble, though all of the heads had been chopped off and pounded into fragments, and it was only possible to distinguish the humani and nonhuman by their cloth
es and armor.

  Over time, the forest had crept in and claimed the tumbledown building, body-thick vines snaking through windows and gaping doors, cracking walls, uprooting the intricate tile work, ripping apart the carved wooden beams, and crushing ornate spiraling columns. Then, for some unknown reason, the encroaching forest had died back, withered away in an almost circular pattern around the ruins, leaving dead vines, like skeletal fingers, clutching the walls and splayed across the floors.

  Although Aoife had no time for the arrogant wagon master, she had to admit that he knew his job. Ignoring the larger buildings, which offered shelter of sorts to both men and oxen but which would have been impossible to defend, Nels had brought the wagons into the central courtyard and had them surround a tiny stone hut that housed nothing more than the shattered remains of a well, now filled to overflowing with red sand.

  “You take the well house,” Nels said to Bes.

  The Dwarf looked at Aoife as she dismounted and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

  She nodded. “One entrance, easily defended, no windows and a solid stone roof. I could not have chosen better myself.”

  Nels’s smile was sour. He didn’t need this woman’s approval.

  “Pull the wagon closer,” Bes said. “I will bring my bags inside with me.”

  “They’ll be safe on the wagon,” Nels grunted.

  “I will bring them in,” Bes repeated.

  “Very well,” Nels answered. “I can carry them for you.”

  “It would be better if I carried them myself.” The Dwarf smiled humorlessly. “Trust me: you do not want to put your hands on these bags. Not if you want to keep your hands, that is.” He laboriously clambered into the cart, untied the heavy leather waterproof covering, and flipped it back, revealing the contents.

  Nels looked over the wooded crates stacked high on the oxcart. Each box was wrapped in chains and ribbons, the locks covered with gaudy, brightly colored mud studded with amulets and beads.

  “Do you know what these are?” Bes asked.

  “Cursed locks,” Nels muttered. “Something you don’t want opened.”

  “Something that shouldn’t be opened,” Bes corrected him.

  “None of my men are thieves,” the drover protested. “Everyone knows I’ll carry a load without asking any questions.”

  “No doubt one of the reasons you were recommended to me,” Bes said.

  “Are these…” Nels nodded vaguely toward the boxes. “Are these dangerous?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t ask questions.” Bes smiled.

  “When I see an amulet in the shape of a skull, it makes me worried.”

  “If you don’t open them, then you have nothing to fear.”

  Without a word, Nels turned away.

  Bes looked at Aoife. “You have questions?”

  “None.” She rapped on the nearest box with her knuckles. “Most of these amulets and ribbons are fake, designed to impress and frighten people. But,” she added with a smile, “I notice some that are, most decidedly, not fake.” She pointed to a small, battered casket, which was wrapped with a rusty chain and a soiled red ribbon. The lock was completely encased in what looked like a blob of gray mud. “That is Golem mud.”

  Bes nodded. “I am impressed.”

  “I’ve fought the mud men before. I know what they look like. So what is this: a tiny mud man who springs into action if the lock is opened?”

  Bes made his way through the boxes to find the one Aoife had pointed to. With a grunting effort, he extracted it from the pile. “Nothing so dramatic,” he said, carrying the box to the edge of the cart. “If the lock is disturbed, the mud will turn to liquid and slither up the would-be thief’s arm into their nose and mouth.”

  “Hard to run if you can’t breathe,” she said.

  “I’ve got some wood runes on another lock. Attempt to open it and it will sprout a hundred razor-sharp thorns. Another is washed with phoenix blood.”

  “That’ll leave a nasty burn,” Aoife noted.

  “It will. Left untreated, it will burn right through to the bone.”

  “And I am guessing only you have the cure.”

  “Your guess would be correct,” Bes said.

  “So you hired six wagons,” Aoife said, looking over the back of the cart. “Five of them are filled with ore from your mines. A small fortune, to be sure. But I am guessing that this wagon—and specifically these few boxes mixed amid the dross—is the real treasure.”

  Bes smiled but said nothing.

  “Do you need help getting them inside?” Aoife asked.

  “I can manage. But you might check to ensure that we’re not being spied upon.”

  “There’s no one around.”

  “Check anyway,” he said.

  Aoife faded back into the gathering darkness, guessing that the Dwarf did not want her to see him unload the boxes. And now she couldn’t help but wonder if the contents of the bags were also part of her mission.

  4

  The two Sister Moons were high and full in the sky, turning the night silver bright while etching sharp black shadows on the ground. There was a bitter wind out of the north, and frost was staring to sparkle across the stones. In the moonlight, the ruined temple took on a different aspect. The night’s shadows hid much of the destruction, while the stark moonlight hinted at its previous grandeur.

  Walking through the devastated buildings, Aoife found herself wondering who—or what—had been worshipped at such an ornate temple in the middle of nowhere. There was also the mystery of the burned circle of earth. As she’d prowled the perimeter, she’d become aware that there were no living creatures, not even a mouse, within the walls of the temple. It was as if something had sucked out every trace of life and then left a stain upon the place to ensure that nothing would ever live there again.

  Her experienced warrior’s eye interpreted some of the clues written into the shattered stones and melted walls. A battle had been fought here in ages past. Humani warriors had stood alongside two of the most fearsome Torc clans—wolf and boar—but had ultimately been defeated. Aoife had no idea who they had been fighting—Earthlords, possibly. Even natural enemies banded together to battle the terrible serpent folk. The humani and their allies had been defeated, and the victors had taken the time to deface the statues; that petty destruction was another sign of the Earthlords.

  However, later—much later, perhaps a thousand years after the battle, long enough for the forest to have eaten into the place—an incredibly powerful magic had rippled through the temple, creating the circle of destruction. Aoife found herself wondering if a grave robber had disturbed an ancient spell or a cache of wildfire explosives had spontaneously erupted. Either could have caused the devastating fire that had marked the place.

  She returned to the center of the complex and was approaching the well house when the small arched door opened and Bes appeared, framed in the doorway. Aoife stopped and allowed herself to be absorbed into the shadows, but the Dwarf turned to look at her, his single white eye ghastly against his dark face, and what passed for a smile twisted his lips. He called her to him with a quick gesture.

  “You have inspected this place. It meets with your approval?” he asked.

  “There is an interesting history written into the stones. It will not withstand a determined assault by a group of armed men, but it will see us safe against wolves or brigands.”

  “More, much more, lives in these forests,” Bes said softly. “I have seen sights that would freeze your blood.” He disappeared into the well house, and Aoife hesitated in the doorway. She waited until the Dwarf turned back and saw her standing on the threshold. “Ah, I forgot, your kind need to be invited. Enter freely and of your own will.”

  Aoife stepped over the threshold into the small circular room, pressed her back against
the wall, and waited, allowing her eyes to adjust. Only a fool rushed from dark to light. “So you know about my kind?” she asked. Bes was moving slowly around the room, lighting fat white candles and setting them into broken stones on the walls, bringing the room to dancing life. The air stank of grease and bubbling fat.

  Bes chuckled. “I know what you are: vampyre, like your sister. But not a blood drinker, like your modern kin. A vegetarian. You take your sustenance from emotions and feed off the fear and joy of others.”

  “I do not deny who I am, or what I am,” the young woman answered. She lowered her voice, which had risen high enough to draw the attention of the guards though the open door. Only a fool trapped themselves in a room they were not familiar with. Turning her head, she glanced through the opening and saw Nels stepping away from behind one of the wagons. He was watching the well house intently, his head tilted to one side, listening with one misshapen ear. When he saw Aoife looking at him, he shuffled away, busying himself with the oxen.

  “It is none of my business who you are, what you are, or what you did.” Bes sank slowly, painfully, to the ground, his back against the chill stone wall, and stretched his legs in front of him. He straightened his stiff left leg with both hands. Aoife noticed that his knee was heavily wrapped. He warmed thick-fingered hands over a candle flame. “The guards do not believe you are the real Aoife of legend,” he said softly. “You heard Nels; they think you are someone using her name.”

  Aoife’s smile was icy. Folding her arms across her chest, she leaned back against the wall. “Though they are not entirely sure,” she noted.

  “No, they are not. And because of that, they will not test you.”

  “It would be their last mistake if they did.”

  “It would,” Bes agreed. “I know that you are the one true Aoife of the Shadows, and I know what you are capable of.”

  The warrior’s head dipped slightly. “And do you know this because the Witch told you, or…?” she asked.

  “Even if she had not told me, I would have known. You are not the only traveler I have encountered who was not born on this Shadowrealm,” Bes said. “We travelers carry a touch of otherworldliness about us—the leygates leave an alien scent on our auras.”