Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “The Road. It’s just a big dead thing. Like, like, like a carcass slapped across the forest. And everything it touches is dead, too. Why…why would you want that?”

  “It’s the stuff it brings I want, kid. Look. I’m not fit to argue about what you know nothing of. So if you’re happy with your ignorance, then why don’t you just hop on back east and see how long you can stick your head up your crack ‘afore the North comes to you.”

  “I see,” Balduin said slowly, thinking. “You don’t want this anymore than the rest, but you’re scared of what they’ll bring. Scared if you don’t change, they’ll change you. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You could tear up the road just the same as they laid it. You could till up the ground and replant the trees. You could—”

  “Please,” Daryn held up a hand. “You’re embarrassing yourself, kid. No one’s scared.”

  “Then why the gunpowder? The Cay-et told me about this place. They think you’re all traitors to the forest, but you’re not, are you? You’re just…what is it?”

  The knot of curious onlookers began backing away, expressions dark. One balled his fists.

  “Did you hear what he said?” someone hissed.

  An answering growl. A dark nod.

  “He’s one of them,” another muttered.

  Daryn stood up. “Get out.”

  “But I was just…”

  “Now!”

  Balduin found himself running. Running again. He stumbled blindly down the darkened street, past the cold stone, the cold buildings, the cold, dead stillness of the Road. Cast out again. Bewildered and alone. But why? Them…them…he’s one of them.

  The Cay-et. He’d mentioned the Cay-et. Just a word, a name.

  Maker’s breath, they were more scared than they knew.

  Not knowing what else to do, he took his only cue—and went south.

  He avoided the Road. The days folded together. His food ran out. His clothing tore. Every stranger he met, he asked about Alutan Na-es—and they laughed at him and sent him on. Even when he stopped to fish, he was chased away by a hungry bear, forced to abandon his net and catch to escape.

  Balduin didn’t want to go to Calton. If it was anything like Tellern and the Road, better he have nothing to do with it. Yet a pair of weeks later, he found himself staring at a large timber wall as it rose out of the dark.

  Calton.

  He hadn’t wanted to come here. But his feet had dumped him here anyway: the city he’d heard of, the city he’d dreaded, the city he’d have the best chance of finding his father in.

  This was it. No matter his squirming distaste, he felt that this, this was the next step of his journey, Maker knew why. Maybe his father was here, somewhere behind those thick, wooden timbers? Somewhere in that stench and smoke?

  He swallowed. Calton was apparently the largest settlement in north Ellendandur, connected by road and river, a hub of commercial activity. And though Tellern had still been an Imo’ani town, this was Manturian through and through, home to all sorts from across the Land, even Southerners. He’d have a better chance of finding his father here than hiding out alone in the woods. All he needed was a hint, one small hint of Alutan Na-es.

  He considered finding the nearest gate, but that would take him to the Road. He grimaced. He was sure there were roads on the other side of those thick timbers, but something about the Great Manturian Road turned his stomach.

  Balduin breathed slowly, trying to calm himself. Then he pulled off his shoes and stuck them in his pack. He waited, listening. It was dark and quiet, so he slung the pack over the wall and heard it land with a soft thud a moment later. Still nothing. Then he took a running leap.

  Bare feet, long accustomed to climbing, gripped the wood, giving him an extra boost up, just enough to hook his fingers over the top. He used the last of his momentum to shoot up and over the sharpened points, then rolled and landed in a crouch.

  It was like leaping into another world. He stood up slowly, eyes searching the shadows. Great blocky buildings reared over him, shoved against each other as if for support. A narrow alley ran to either side, barely wide enough to walk, and the ground under his feet was a churning mess of mud—and other things, by the stench of it.

  He wrinkled his nose. But he had made his decision. His search had led him here, and here was where he’d look. Scooping up his pack, he picked a direction and began to walk.

  The evening was thick around him. Thick with smoke and the sour scent of refuse. He tried not to think about the squelching around his feet. Occasional voices drifted down from an open window or a narrow alley, but for the most part, it was quiet.

  The city was like a maze. He squeezed out of one alley and into another, down twisting passages and dark, narrow roads. The whole place felt old and used. The ground was dead under his feet, and dead stone, dead wood rose all around him. No forest, no sky, no life.

  It felt wrong. As wrong as the rotting elk or poor Kota’s blindness.

  He stopped at the thought—a half-remembered dream suddenly hovering at the edge of his mind. Something about Anna…

  Then the view changed. He stepped out of the tight alleys and onto a wide cobbled street lined with buildings and lean-tos. From here, the darkening sky was finally visible, and the light of an early moon skimmed the rooftops. It was still dead, but at least here he could breathe.

  A few figures crept along the road, and one in particular caught his attention. The man was moving with a calm, steady gait, a long, lit pole in his hand that flickered against the growing dark. He approached a rickety lamp, stopped, and reached up with his pole. A moment later, a pool of light sprang out of black metal, joining a line like a string of beads trailing down the road behind him.

  The man was lighting the street: a very odd use of flame, Balduin thought. But that meant he travelled the city, and saw many people, and perhaps…

  He felt a burst of cautious hope.

  Shoving down his fear, Balduin strode up to the man. The lamplighter was humming softly through a bristling dark beard and a craggy face.

  “Efan duk,” he said in Manturian, with barely a glance at him, then switched to an accent-laden Imo’ani. “Lost, I think, eh boy?”

  “I’m looking for—”

  “Eh.” The man scratched at his beard, then stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “Two streets back, take a right at the Gilden, then four more, turn east, two and back north, then double round the bend you’ve got the market, and you’ll find it from there, I don’t doubt.”

  “Find…?” Balduin tried not to panic as the dizzying directions hit him and washed over, gone like a puff of smoke.

  “Your end, ‘course.”

  “But I…”

  “If it’s the main road you want just the same, but turn east, then keep going ‘til you hit it. You can’t miss it.”

  “But I’m not asking for directions. I want…”

  “Come on, now. I’ve not got all night, you know. Where you off to?”

  “Nowhere! I just want to ask about a person. Maybe you’ve heard of—”

  “Cha-no. For one of your own kind, best check your end, same as I said.”

  “But I’m not from this place. I don’t know—”

  “I told you, didn’t I?” The man heaved a sigh. “Alright. Once more, I say. Two streets back east ‘til the Gilden, that’s a wayhouse, then you’ll turn north, walk four, east and two, turn north, round the bend, market, left afore the big sign, painted red, can’t miss it. There’s a shop there, and Yol’s the man you want. He knows everyone between here and Tillex. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got three miles left of stretch to walk, and the night’s getting no younger, seyah? Evening to you, and luck and all.” He gave a brisk nod, and without even waiting for a reply, turned and continued on his way.

  Maker above. Balduin scrunched up his face, furiously trying to collect all the pieces thrown at him. Two streets east, four north, two east…something about a bend and a market…

  Afra
id the details would slip out of his mind, he turned and hurried down the road. The occasional passerby shot him a suspicious look. Was an Imo’ani this end of the city really such a strange sight?

  Four turns later, he found himself staring down a narrow passage to nowhere. Wasn’t this supposed to be the market? He doubled back, took a different road, muttering the lamplighter’s directions over and over again. It was that bit about a bend that threw him. What bend? Where? Had he taken a wrong turn?

  The buildings loomed black in the night, reaching out to crush him. The streets were nearly empty and the remaining characters seemed more and more uninviting. He was tired, hungry, disoriented, and not a little scared. What now?

  He stopped in front of a lit doorway, a single sign creaking in the wind. Talk and clatter drifted out with a haze of smoke. A wayhouse, like the one in Tellern. He swallowed.

  One of them…

  He didn’t go in. Instead, he slunk through the crack between buildings and discovered a little barn door and the thick, earthy smell of an animal. It was a tiny stable, filled up with a single, snoring donkey. Right now, Balduin would take that over mean stares and dead streets.

  He crept inside, kicked together a bit of hay, and slept fitfully in the furthest corner he could squeeze into.

  “Menden nay yo? Little bunta filth!”

  The shrill voice snapped Balduin awake, followed by something wet and cold slapping him across the face.

  “Get, get, get! Now, or I’ll crack your head on. Understand?”

  Balduin spluttered and scrambled to his feet, water dripping from the ends of his hair and soaking the front of his shirt. It didn’t smell clean.

  “Sorry!” he cried. “Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. I just—”

  The stout Manturian woman rattled off something else, and though the words were unfamiliar, the message was clear. She was brandishing a shovel in one hand, a bucket in the other, inching towards him with such a mix of fury and disgust you’d think she’d discovered a nest of rats in her stable.

  Balduin grabbed his pack and dashed back out into the street.

  It had been transformed. Buildings that looked flat and cold the night before were flipped open into dozens of little shops: cookware, ceramics, fish, eggs, buckets of grain and barrels of salt. There was a butcher selling cuts of fresh meat, lustily shouting out her prices, once in Manturian, once in Imo’ani, and once in some other language. Another woman’s shop displayed richly coloured cloth and woven rugs.

  And there were people. Dozens of people milled up and down the street, some stopping to browse, others hurrying by on more important business. And the colours! Balduin blinked as he tried to adjust to the bright vests and dresses and pants and hats. How could they even make colours like that? Green like fresh leaves and blue like the sky, red and gold and purple. Balduin stared like the ignorant east Ellendi they called him and felt a sinking despair. Yes, this was the biggest market in a moon of days—which meant even if his father had passed through, who would remember a single bright-haired Southerner?

  Didn’t matter. He was here, and he would try anyway. He wiped the dirty sops off his face, straightened his shoulders, and stepped out into the street.

  “Biak!” A man slammed into him, nearly knocking him down. Balduin scrambled out of the way.

  “Oi!” someone else cried—a man he’d nearly tripped into.

  “Sorry!” he said.

  “Dumb bunta.” The thin man shot him a disapproving look, then stepped around him and kept going.

  Balduin fought the urge to slink back into a corner and stay there. Another passing trio glanced at him, two women with huge skirts that rustled and flounced as they walked and a man in a slim dark suit. They seemed a little more refined than the others, and when they eyed Balduin, he saw a flash of contempt and pity. Like he was a stinking creature, an animal dying and diseased.

  He glanced down at himself. He was certainly unkempt, and maybe not what they were used to, dressed in his Imo’ani skins with his hair wild and dirty, now dripping with sops. But was it so shocking to them? He was Imo’ani, same as others who passed through.

  Imo’ani? Really? You’re not even that. You’re a freak, a good for nothing witch’s bastard.

  He shrank. He felt like a ten-summers boy again, pushed around by the older kids, beaten down, shoved into a crevice while they dropped rats on him.

  He tightened his jaw. That’s why he had to do this. His father was all he had left. He had to find him and get the answers he needed. He had to be strong. It was that or turn around and run back to the village that hated him.

  Impossible.

  He swallowed. Only Anna. Only she had promised to stay with him. To leave everything behind to be with him. And he’d lied to her. Abandoned her.

  A pang dug into his chest. She would’ve discovered he was missing by now. She’d be furious, hurt. She might even threaten to run after him. But Kenan Elduna wouldn’t allow it. And standing here now, Balduin was glad. Better she not get dragged around the Ellendandur on a foolish, hopeless quest, forced to sleep in stables, go long days without food, slinking through this dirty, unkind place. No, he was glad. He was.

  Only, something about Anna felt wrong…

  Hadn’t there been a dream? Something about her in trouble? Something…?

  He pushed down the ache. He was just missing her, that was all. Hyranna was safe back in Elamori.

  He looked up, and spotted the butcher shouting out her meats. Her.

  Being a little more mindful of the flow of people, Balduin slipped into the crowd and followed the stream until it dumped him next to the shop with its fresh carcasses strung up for sale next to a display of smoked meats.

  Balduin’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten more than a handful of nuts two nights back.

  “Can I be of assistance?” the butcher asked in Imo’ani. She was a short, round woman with hair cut like a bowl on her head. “Fine cut of pork, only three halfs for a pound.” An expectant brow shot up.

  “Uh, sorry. I don’t have anything.”

  The woman frowned. “Well, I don’t do handouts, kid, especially not to fit young ‘uns like yourself. So if you don’t—”

  “Sorry, I’m just looking for someone. I thought maybe you could help?”

  “Look, I’ve got customers, kid, and—”

  “Not right now, you don’t. Just a moment. Please. I’m looking for a…a southern man. Tall, bright hair. His name’s Alutan, and he might be known as a…healer.”

  “Healer? Well, if it’s an apothecary you’re after, this ain’t the right end. You got to go back down—”

  “No!” Balduin said, a little more forcefully than he meant. The butcher raised another eyebrow at him, and he winced. “No, sorry. I don’t need an…apothecary. I want to find this particular man. Can you help?”

  The woman grunted. “This particular man, you say? Well, not that I know of, and that’s a great deal more to ask. Mountain folk come and go on occasion, with plenty ‘a tall and bright-haired to speak of, so that won’t much help on your part. Name’s I normally don’t be asking, nor trade neither, so seems you’ve got your pigs on the run. Look here, kid. You want to find a person with that scant bit of description, you best just look, see what I’m saying? Now move on.”

  Balduin moved on, a frown starting to work itself permanently between his eyes. He could try asking someone else. He could keep asking all day. But would it do any good? Maybe the butcher was right. This wasn’t getting him anywhere and his description was laughably general.

  I’m a fool, he thought, not for the first time. But for the first time, it was starting to creep up inside of him and send down roots. A fool. A fool on a hopeless quest.

  He trudged down the street, and when he got a few more angry words thrown at him by those pushing past, he drifted to the side into a little street with less shops and people. He stood there, feeling directionless. Now what?

  “I care not about troubl
e on the Road. There is always trouble on the Road. I want word of that shipment, like you promised.”

  The Imo’ani words caught Balduin’s ear amidst the confusion of sound, and he found himself turning his head, searching.

  A sign, a big red one, was hanging off the side of a building, and the lamplighter’s words shot back to him: a big sign, painted red, can’t miss it. Yol’s the man you want. He knows everyone between here and Tillex.

  Balduin hesitated only a moment, then edged towards the door. It was propped open, and a few steps led up into the dark, then nothing. Except he could hear voices. Two of them. One Imo’ani, and the other…something else. Abruptly, the door banged shut. Balduin gave a start. Maybe he was supposed to use a different door? He tried the handle just in case—locked.

  “There’s always east savages and south brigands.” The Imo’ani’s voice was muffled through the door, yet still audible. “I’ll give you that. But this is different, what with the witchings…”

  The other man laughed. “This is northern superstition.” His speech was careful and precise, carrying the hint of an accent.

  “Oh, aye? That’s what I thought. But I tell you, this is something new. Something real. I know for myself it’s a fact.”

  “Is it?”

  Balduin pricked up. More strange happenings? Even here? He pressed his ear to the crack of the door.

  “As I swear it. See, about three nights back, some gunners show up, asking after a pair of traders—an old Manturian woman and some West Isles kid. Northmen troubles, so who gives a donkey’s rear? Only there haven’t been traders, not for a long while, as you can see. I tell ‘em so and one starts getting touchy. This man, Terryn piece of shit, I tell him to move on or I’ll show him how.”

  “Ah.”

  “My thoughts exactly. After a bit of talk, they do—not before promising to be back when the rest o’ their gang show up. I ain’t scared of them Terryn filth, and I say so. But just so I’m sure, I send Malan to keep an eye on them. What happens is this: the gunners hit back on the Road, out of town, back to some camp o’ theirs, and Malan follows like he should—no one sees that boy when he don’t mean to be. Then dead of night, it happens.”