The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  “I thought so, too. I could swap them out before dark…” It would be a miserable business, but the job was important to him. Swinging along the lines of the riders was one of the few things he felt he could do well without his foot becoming a hindrance.

  “I appreciate it, lad, but it's no fault of yours. Get yourself back home before the rains hit. If anyone's getting wet to fix this, it'll be Kharl.”

  “Did he tie those knots?” The very thought set Caleb’s gut aflutter.

  “He did. He still giving you trouble?”

  “Trouble’s all he’s good for,” muttered Caleb, rubbing his side. The bruises from their most recent encounter were only now starting to fade. Kharl Doran seemed to find no greater pleasure than the sheer misery of others—and Caleb’s most of all.

  He was about to speak up when something like an explosion cracked in the distance. He jumped and nearly tripped over his own foot. Somehow, he managed to catch himself, but nearly rolled his ankle in the process. Cursing himself, he turned in the direction of the noise. There was an unusual burst of light in the distance.

  “What the hells is that?” asked Arn Ail.

  Caleb squinted as he gazed across the emerald canopy of the Fanmor. The flashing seemed to be coming from the top of a distant cliff. “I think it’s the Coppermound. Almost looks like it’s on fire.”

  “Devil’s magic,” growled the sailmaster.

  Caleb frowned. He’d spent all the nineteen years of his life in Therrin’s Crossing, and he’d never seen the Coppermound behave in such a manner. Once, when he’d been younger and whole, his father had taken him up to those cliffs. It had been one of the last moments they’d ever spent together. Even then, the strange structure had resembled nothing more than a grouping of copper domes glistening among the trees. Caleb pushed the memory from his mind to avoid thinking about the loss.

  An instant later, the domes went as still and quiet as they’d been that day.

  “Strange.” Arn Ail shook his head and traced the Sign of the Guardian. “Lord Laynne ought to blast the damned thing right off those cliffs. Listen, lad, I’ll have words with Kharl.”

  “I appreciate it, sir,” Caleb lied. A tongue-lashing from the sailmaster would only stir Kharl up. He was about as reasonable as a bull in the rut. The best course of action would be for Caleb to avoid going into town for the next several days and hope that Kharl’s anger would blow over.

  He bid Arn Ail a good evening and began limping across the wind yard. There were only two other riders on the field, a small swoop that was being tied down and covered with a tarp, and a beast of a craft that Caleb recognized as Zephyr’s Song. Hewn from southern teak with a carved tarpin as its figurehead, it was the strangest wind rider Caleb had ever seen. In place of the standard mainsail, it had a much larger sail that was designed to balloon and provide additional loft. The undersails were large, tiered and cut at strange angles. It wasn’t part of Lord Laynne’s fleet, but a private vessel, owned and captained by the ever-eccentric Shevik Den.

  “Hai hai!” called a voice as Caleb passed. He looked up to find Den himself gazing down over the railing. “How fare you, boy?”

  “Well enough,” Caleb shouted in response.

  “Still working for old ox-face, Arn Ail?”

  “It’s honest work.”

  Den laughed and threw himself off Zephyr’s Song. Grabbing hold of a loose rope, he slid down to the ground with a grace that Caleb could never have managed, even with two good feet. He pulled Caleb into a firm embrace. His brightly coloured clothes smelled of pungent spice and salt, while the odour of dried kelp clung to his thickly bound locks of long, silvery hair.

  “You’ve grown, my boy.”

  Caleb shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You have, you have! Taller and broader, with the look of your father about you, may the Seas reflect his memory. A good man, Navin Rusk. For a landsman, of course,” he added with a wink and a crooked grin.

  Caleb returned the smile. “It’s good to see you, Shevik, but what are you doing here?”

  Den raised an eyebrow. Looking around, he then leaned in close and spoke very quietly. “Running.”

  “Running? The fearless Shevik Den?”

  “Quietly, boy,” he muttered. “But yes, we’re running. Running from madness. Spent a year working the Easterly Isles. Profitable business that, until recent cycles. But there’s a change in the winds, mark my words. There’s strange happenings amid the isles, and rumours of secret meetings, boy. Meetings with the Kith.”

  Caleb would have laughed if he’d seen even a twinkle of mirth in the other man’s eyes. There was none. “But the Islanders and the Kith have been enemies for generations.”

  “Longer, even. Like I said—we’re running from madness. The Isles aren’t so hospitable as they were.” Den paused, leaning close and speaking in hushed tones. “You might think of doing the same, my boy. Madness has a way of spreading, and the Isles aren’t so far from the Blasted Coast.”

  “Run? Where would I go?”

  “Could come work for me. A knot's a knot, and the Song could use your touch.”

  Caleb shook his head, hardly believing what he was hearing. “I can’t just leave my mother.”

  “Then bring her along. We’ll make her a home deeper inland.”

  “I've been down that road.” Caleb sighed. “She won't leave, not even to move up to Timberford to live with my sister and her husband. She says her duty's here.” Whatever that means.

  Shevik Den smirked. “Always been the problem with you landsmen. You put down roots. Might want to have a chat with her, my boy. By the time you see black sails on the horizon, could already be too late. Listen, we’re taking the Song up to Antaskotia, but we’ll be battening down here for the night. You change your mind, you come find us. We leave at first light.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” Den glanced eastward, toward the approaching storm. “Now I'd best be helping the crew before the weather turns ill. Hai hai, my boy. I hope to see you soon." With another wink and a two-fingered salute, he scampered back up the rope, barking orders the entire way.

  Caleb watched him tumble over the rail and onto the deck. Then, with one last glance at the approaching clouds, he took the first step of the two-mile walk from the wind yards to the small cottage he shared with his mother, lifting up a prayer for the Nine to hold back the storm until he had a roof over his head.

  If the Nine heard his prayer, they chose to ignore it. The first rains started to fall as Caleb completed the first mile of his walk along the Queensway. It was just a few drops at first, splattering against the back of his neck. Soon it built into a persistent drizzle that left his clothes thoroughly soaked. He'd been meaning to reapply the oils to his boots but hadn't gotten around to it. Now they were waterlogged, and he feared that his feet would be sore by the time he got home. He thought about cutting through the Fanmor, using the forest's canopy to protect him from the rain, but he was already wet, and the thick undergrowth would make walking slower and more treacherous. The last thing he needed was to fall and twist his ankle.

  To distract himself, he considered his conversation with Shevik Den. Trouble from the Easterly Isles was nothing new. The Islanders had been chafing against the control of the Ember Throne for generations. But the idea that they could be meeting with the Kith was unthinkable. The Saltmen were a timeless enemy who burned and pillaged along every exposed coast of the Boundless Sea. Occasionally, they even dared to push as far as the Inner Sea, drawn by the promise of wealthy merchant ships.

  Caleb glanced eastward, across the rolling hills that rested in the shadows of Stormholt’s imposing cliffs, to the steely waters of the sea. He found that he could imagine black sails dotting the horizon, could almost see the hated ships, riding the waves of the storm, bringing salt-crusted weapons and pillaging fire to the Blasted Coast.

  The image was enough to make him consider Den’s offer.

  No. Even if the Islanders ar
e meeting with the Kith, they won't come here. The Blasted Coast was all crag and cliff, and the warriors of Barden were hewn from flint and iron. There was no reason for the Saltmen to come—not with other, more vulnerable targets to pillage. They were safe in the shadow of Stormholt and the protection of Lord Laynne. That was why his mother had decided to remain after his father vanished, and even after Anya and her husband moved north to Timberford.

  Here they were safe.

  “Cripple!” The persistent drizzle muffled the cry.

  Safe from the Saltmen, anyhow. He kept walking. There was no need to turn. Kharl’s voice was all too familiar. Caleb was approaching the last large bend in the Queensway. His cottage was just on the outskirts, tucked in behind a grove of Fanmor’s evergreens. He picked up his pace. If he hurried, he might be able to get close enough to home that Kharl would think twice before accosting him.

  That would mean taking the time to think at all. Azental’s voice echoed in his mind and the brand on his calf tickled with her desire to be set loose.

  I’m not going to let you scratch his eyes out, replied Caleb.

  Just one eye?

  No.

  I could just peck at his ears.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. All at once, he was spinning. A fist hammered into his gut like a battering ram. His bad foot twisted under him and his legs buckled. All the air rushed from his lungs. For a long, agonizing moment, his breath would not return. When it did, he felt his stomach churn and he gave up his lunch into a puddle between his knees.

  “Flaming little cripple.”

  Caleb looked up into Kharl's crooked snarl. His hatchet of a face was all foul lines and unpleasant angles. Two identically imposing figures loomed behind him. Wat and Grend—brothers with more brawn than brains, who spent most of their time following Kharl, with all the devotion of crag hounds.

  “You'd better learn to watch your flaming tongue, boy! Arn Ail tore into me something fierce because of you. Next time, you just keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

  “Or you could just do your job.” Caleb spat bile.

  A fist lashed out. He tried to recoil, but the blow still caught him firm in the jaw.

  “You’ll do as I say!”

  “Like hells I will. If those lines had snapped, people would have died, Kharl! Died! I’m not going to overlook something like that—”

  Another blow. Caleb’s vision blurred.

  “You like getting your face pounded?”

  Wat laughed. “Maybe he’s a moron.”

  “Says the lummox,” muttered Caleb.

  “Shut up!” Kharl screamed. “If you won't listen, cripple, maybe we'll pay a visit to your mother. Heard she has men passing through all the time. Might be she'd—”

  Caleb burst into action. Without a moment to consider that he might be doing something incredibly stupid, he used his good leg to launch himself forward. He slammed his shoulder into Kharl's gut with enough force to lift him off his feet and send him tumbling to the wet stone. Caleb scampered forward, snarling like a rabid dog. His fist fell once, then twice, bloodying Kharl's nose before Wat and Grend hauled him off.

  “You’re gonna regret that, maggot,” said Kharl, smearing away the blood with his sleeve. He held an ugly, rusted knife in one hand. “Blood for blood,” he said, taking a single step forward. “That’s the way of the world, ain’t it? The Way of Iron?”

  “Chaplain Tomin wouldn’t approve,” Caleb retorted, struggling to free himself. Wat and Grend were too strong to overcome.

  Kharl smiled, eyes flashing with vicious glee. He took another step forward, hefting his knife. “I never much cared for the righteous bugger. I ain’t been to chapel in weeks. I’m sure my conscience’ll survive. Let’s see how useful you are to Arn Ail if I carve up those hands, and make you twice the cripple.”

  Caleb struggled as Grend forced his left hand forward, but the bigger man was just too strong. The knife flashed down. Instinct drove Caleb’s eyes shut as he braced himself for pain. It never came. In its place, he heard a strangled cry.

  His eyes opened to the sight of a single gloved hand clenched like a rockcat’s jaw around Kharl’s wrist.

  “Bad form,” growled the gloved man. He was nearly as tall as Wat or Grend, with broad shoulders and a sturdy build. His tunic was hard-worn and weathered beneath a vest of studded leather. He carried a sword on his back, and his free hand fingered the hilt of the long knife at his hip. He had the look of iron about him, and the streaks of grey in his greasy black hair and scraggly beard only added to the impression of hardness. His narrow eyes fixed on Kharl, grey and angry, but glimmering with veins of unnatural malachite.

  The eyes of the Flameborn.

  When he turned those eyes on Wat and Grend, they each took a step backward.

  “Let him go.” The stranger's voice was quiet and tempered with the flinty tone of command. This was a man used to giving orders—and having them obeyed.

  Grend's hands trembled as the brothers’ grip loosened. Caleb pulled free and stumbled forward.

  “I don’t normally interfere with others’ business,” said the stranger, “but I don’t take well to watching gutless fools carving up others. It’s bad form. Understood?”

  Kharl winced. “You’re going to break my wrist, you bastard!”

  Flameborn eyes flashed with anger. “Understood?” repeated the stranger, with greater force.

  Kharl wailed. “Yes. Yes! Just let go!”

  The grip came undone, and Kharl pulled back his hand, rubbing his wrist with a trembling hand.

  “Now piss off.” The man’s hand still lingered dangerously close to his knife. “Before I decide to teach you a harder lesson.”

  Kharl retreated several steps, turning his baleful scowl on Caleb. “This isn’t over, cripple.” Then he turned and fled back down the road toward Therrin’s Crossing. Wat and Grend were only a step behind.

  The stranger watched them go. He stood rigid and unmoving, his face as dark as the gathering storm. It was only when they vanished around the bend that he sagged. Taking several steps toward Fanmor, he nearly collapsed against the trunk of a large elm tree. His hand moved from his knife to his side, and a faint groan of pain escaped his lips. His hand and jerkin were stained with fresh blood.

  Hells, thought Caleb. How did I miss that?

  “You’re hurt!” he said.

  “Badly,” the stranger admitted.

  “But how—”

  “No time for questions.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Caleb. The veins of malachite were receding, leaving them the colour of weathered stone. “You have a familiar look about you, lad.”

  Caleb shifted under the stranger’s scrutinizing gaze. “I’ve been told I have the look of my father. Could be that you knew him.”

  “Or it could be that I know your mother. You’re Tamara Rusk’s boy, aren’t you?”

  Caleb groaned inwardly. Did every man within a dozen miles of Stormholt know his mother? Sometimes it certainly seemed this way. He could only nod in affirmation.

  “I need her help.”

  “You need something sewn or repaired or laundered? She’s pretty busy right now, but I’m sure she could spare some extra time—”

  “I didn’t travel halfway across the Realm to have Tamara Rusk see to my clothes, boy. The only thing I need sewn is my own bloody flesh.”

  “But—”

  “I’m wet and cold, and bleeding half to death. I’m in no mood to chat. So if you’d be so kind as to get me to your mother, I’ll leave it to her to explain anything you might need to know.”

  Caleb hesitated, his mind clouded with uncertainty. He didn’t know this man. That he’d stood up to Kharl suggested there was at least some goodness in him, but it was also clear that he was practised with the sword on his back. Is it wise to bring an armed stranger to see my mother? And Flameborn, besides?

  Probably not, Azental responded. But wisdom and compassion are seldom of the same accord, or so your chapl
ain is fond of saying.

  I didn’t realize you were listening to his sermons.

  I’m always listening. You know that.

  I suppose you’re right, though.

  The stranger was losing a lot of blood. That he was still standing at all was a testament to either his toughness or to the depth of his Flameborn talents. If the bleeding was as severe as it appeared, a normal man would have passed out long ago.

  “Mother should be home,” Caleb said, his decision made. “it’s not much further. Do you need help?”

  “I can make it.”

  “This way,” Caleb said, turning west. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t give it,” the stranger muttered, clutching at his side. The sleeve of his tunic slid up, revealing an bracelet around his wrist. It seemed to gleam with a strange, violet light. The man noted Caleb’s gaze. With a concerted frown, he pulled the sleeve back down. “You can call me Shem.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Shem.”

  “We'll see about that.” He muttered it so quietly that the words were barely audible.

  Caleb had the feeling they weren't meant for him. He held his tongue and hobbled along, fingering his bruised jaw as the drizzle grew into a steady rain and the shadows deepened with the approaching storm.

  A Bloody Mess

  The apothecary's shop smelled of cedar, tarragon and the hint of burnt meat. The first was welcoming and familiar. The second merely tickled at Avendor Tarcoth’s nose. The third was a sickly reminder of the matter at hand. The apothecary himself lay on the floor where he'd fallen, his death stare locked on some point above, where various herbs, plants and flowers were drying amid the rafters. Vials of medicines and tinctures lay scattered across the floor. Many had broken, their contents mixing in strange pools of green and yellow and brown.

  “What a bloody mess,” muttered Avendor. The corporal of the Ember Guard’s Second Company ran his hands through his dark hair as he surveyed the scene.

  “His name’s Darlan Ramsey,” said Sherl Rin Var, setting several unbroken vials back on a table in a neat and orderly row. “He’s run this shop for years.”