The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  Tiberius sought the truth of those rumours. It was a pursuit that gained few friends among the Devoted. Ferris, however, had proven a staunch ally.

  “I’ve been thinking lately,” said the magus, “of my grandmother.”

  “A kindly sentiment.”

  Again, the magus chuckled. “Perhaps. She was what we like to call a daughter of an axe. Hard and sharp as steel. But that which I remember most about her was her stories. She was the daughter of a smith and used to tell us the tales of Sidal.”

  “The Forge Witch?”

  “Then you’ve heard of her?”

  Tiberius nodded. “I learned of her at the Tower of Knowledge, though much remains shrouded in mystery.”

  “That much is consistent. We know little of her, really. There are many who doubt she exists at all. But what the stories do tell us is that she was a creature of Old Magic.”

  “One of the Aln?”

  “I think not. We believe that Sidal was something older.”

  “Older than the Ancients?”

  “So go the stories. I’ve been rummaging through your libraries—at least those parts they will allow me to visit. I found a few references to Sidal that you might find interesting. I’ve taken the liberty of compiling them so that they can be copied into your finger letters.”

  Tiberius was astonished at the magus’ initiative. “Such a kindness is truly unnecessary, my friend.”

  “By the Stone! Without a project to occupy my mind, I swear I'll go mad of boredom in this place. But here we are.”

  The old hinges creaked as the great doors opened to the evening. A blast of humid air brushed against Tiberius' face, rich with the scents of the city below and the great river beyond. Ferris led him down the three-dozen stone steps to the terrace that fronted the Sanctum.

  “Have a good evening,” said the magus as Tiberius pulled himself up into the waiting carriage. “I’ll send my findings along as soon as I’ve compiled them.”

  “Thank you, my friend. We'll speak again soon.”

  With that, the door was closed. Tiberius heard the driver call out to the horses. The carriage lurched forward, jostling as it rattled across the paved expanse of the open square. It was a familiar rhythm. He drew his thin summer cloak around himself and settled back in his seat to think.

  Sidal. The name tickled at his memory. He remembered learning of her as a young academ in the Tower. There, she’d been a figure of folklore—an interesting story, but little more. He couldn’t recall her name ever arising in any conversation or lecture on the subject of history. It had certainly never been mentioned in the study of theology or philosophy or even arcania. Then why should it strike such a chord in my mind?

  He was still searching for answers through the long corridors of his memory when the carriage turned eastward, rousing him from his thoughts. He kept his private apartment in Taralius’ Lower City, away from the business of the Sanctum. He’d made the journey down into the city so often that the route was as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart—perhaps more so. His heartbeat had become somewhat irregular over the past several years. The sudden change in direction was like a bucket of cold water to the face.

  “What’s happening?” he called to the driver. “Where are we going?”

  There was no response.

  Tiberius felt a sense of dread starting to well within him. The carriage turned again, and there was an abrupt bump as the clacking of paving stone gave way to the grinding scrape of loose dirt. The night air was filled with the scent of sharp spirits, stale beer and cheap perfume, along with other more unpleasant smells that Tiberius preferred not to dwell on.

  “I demand to know where you’re taking me!”

  Minutes passed before the carriage stopped suddenly. One of the horses whinnied. Tiberius sat very still. He barely heard the driver descend from his seat. His footsteps were quiet and hushed. Another man might not have heard them all. The door to the carriage opened, admitting the sharp odour of well-aged iron and the oily smell of freshly dyed cloth. Tiberius could only assume that the driver was wearing armour—lightly enough for it to be concealed beneath a newly purchased uniform. It was hardly a comforting thought.

  “Let’s go,” muttered the driver. He voice was hard and gravelly.

  “Go where?”

  “You’ve been summoned.”

  “Summoned? By whom?” He did his best to steel his voice with an air of indignant authority. His words were hollow and afraid in his ear.

  “Not my place to say.”

  Tiberius could sense the stranger's impatience in the way he very quietly dug one heel into the dirt. Whatever was happening, the man clearly wanted it completed with all possible haste.

  “This is most unnerving.”

  “Understandably.”

  “I could cry murder.”

  “Wouldn’t do you a lick of good here in Glendon Row.”

  The tickle of fear became a knife of dread in Tiberius’ heart.

  The man went on, “And then I’d be forced to silence you, and believe me when I say that wouldn’t be pleasant. Better for everyone if you just come along quietly. We mean you no harm.”

  “And who are we?”

  "You'll find out soon enough. Now let's move, Your Wisdom. It's just a short walk. Then we'll be on our way down."

  Tiberius’ throat tightened in anticipation. His knees ached with the fear of it. “Down where?” he asked—although he already knew the answer. In Glendon Row, down led to only one place.

  “The Underways. Now, no more questions. You’ll have your answers soon enough.”

  I’m sure I will. The far more pressing concern is will I survive them?

  The Shape of a Shadow

  By the time Caleb helped the man called Shem through the door of the modest cottage, they were so thoroughly soaked that Caleb was sure it would take an entire week for his clothing to dry. At least the rain had done a reasonable job of washing away much of the blood from the stranger's wound. Most of what was dripping across the cottage floor was merely water. Still, Shem clutched at his side and his face was a mask of agony. His skin was pale, and felt terribly cold to the touch.

  “Mother!” Caleb called.

  Tamara Rusk stepped out of the back room, holding a battered iron washing basin in one arm. She was clad in her usual homespun dress, covered in a apron of white cotton. Her blonde hair was tied back with a blue and yellow kerchief. Her gaze fell first on Caleb, but when she noticed his companion, her jade eyes widened in a mix of shock and recognition.

  “By the Nine!” she cried, setting aside the basin and rushing toward them. “What happened?”

  “I was on my way home when he stumbled out of the woods,” explained Caleb. He left out the part about Kharl. “He’s hurt.”

  “Need your… help,” stammered Shem, collapsing into Tamara’s arms.

  She held him tenderly, and with an air of familiarity that made Caleb uncomfortable.

  “I can see that,” she said, supporting the wounded man and helping him further into the cottage. “Caleb, grab some rags and my sewing bag.”

  He rushed to the back room, grateful to escape the image of the tall stranger in his mother’s arms. Still, he couldn’t help wondering how they knew each other. Tamara was still a beautiful woman, and ever since his father’s disappearance—and presumed death—strange men occasionally passed in and out of the house with little explanation. Few of them had stuck around for more than a day or two. Some Caleb never saw at all. He couldn’t remember seeing Shem before, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe that he knew everything about his mother’s relationships.

  She knows him, though. I can see it in her eyes.

  He rummaged through the small store of cloth his mother kept for her work as a seamstress and laundress to the village of Therrin's Crossing. By the time he returned to the living area, Shem had been stripped to the waist and laid out on the small dining table. Tamara had covered it with old linens to protec
t its surface. Shem seemed to have re-aggravated the bleeding. Caleb couldn't understand how the man was still alive.

  He handed his mother her sewing bag and turned his attention to sopping up the fresh blood. There was a sour pungency to it that reminded him of spoiled meat. He turned his nose away from the stench.

  The smell of death, came Azental’s voice.

  Cheery, Caleb responded, stepping back to give his mother space.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” said Tamara, pulling over a chair. She held a needle in one hand, threaded with thin black twine.

  The man gasped as she pressed the needle into his ruined flesh and pulled.

  “Fire!” he moaned.

  “Right,” said Tamara. “I’m not used to that. Caleb, fetch the light and bring it closer.” She gestured to a small lantern hanging from a tarnished copper sconce.

  He removed it from the wall and set it near Shem’s head. The man turned, fixing his gaze upon the open flame. Once again, flecks of malachite bubbled in his eyes, growing until the green dominated the iris. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he clenched his jaw, but an air of calm gradually came over him. When the needle bit again, he didn’t flinch.

  “I’ve never seen wounds like this,” muttered Tamara as she closed off the first laceration. She poured a splash of cloudy rum over the wound. Shem winced at that. “It’s like it doesn’t want to heal. What did this?”

  “A demon,” he hissed from between gritted teeth. “It’s been hunting me for weeks. Maybe longer.”

  “A demon?” asked Caleb. “You mean some sort of Fey?”

  “No, boy,” he said. His eyes remained fixed on the flame. “I’ve seen the Fey. I’ve seen the Shimmering itself. This is something else. Something darker that I’ve come to think of as the Faceless. When I first saw it, it attacked me as some sort of overgrown insect. Later it came hulking as a bear, then a pale-skinned woman with an asp for a tongue. Each time, I managed to kill it or drive it back, but it found me again this morning. When it found me again today, it had taken the shape of a massive, twisted wolf, like something out of the depths of the four hells.”

  “What happened?”

  “Same thing that happens every time it finds me. It tried to kill me.”

  “Stop moving so much,” said Tamara, soaking Shem’s side in another splash of rum. “This one is the worst. It might hurt more.”

  “Just do it.”

  “How’d you get away?” asked Caleb.

  “I managed to fight it off, but it gave me these.” He gestured toward the wounds just as Tamara tied off the twine.

  “One more,” she said. Shem nodded. “So what happened to this demon?”

  “It fell into the Crush.”

  Caleb frowned, thinking back to the moment where the Coppermound had seemed to come alive. He wondered if Shem had been involved in that.

  Before he could voice the question, Tamara snorted. “I’d say the Guardian was with you, drifter.” She finished up with the last of the stitches and set to wrapping Shem’s waist with bandages of fresh linen.

  Caleb was taken aback. “You’re a drifter?”

  Pushing himself up to allow Tamara to do her work, the man called Shem finally tore his eyes from the lantern and turned them on Caleb. “That a problem?”

  “No,” he stammered, “of course not. I’ve just never met a drifter before.”

  Caleb knew the stories, of course. Most characterized drifters as agents of the Fey, men and women who’d betrayed their own people in exchange for magical blessings. Far rarer were the tales that cast them in the opposite light, as heroes and protectors who stalked those creatures that dared to sneak through the Shimmering. All the stories agreed on one thing: the drifters were dangerous.

  “Maybe you have,” said Shem with an expression that was nearly a smile, “and didn’t realize it. We’re not much welcome in most places.”

  “Hold still,” said Tamara, pinning the bandages in place. She stepped back and examined her work. “That should hold.” She levelled her gaze at Shem. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

  “I came seeking your help.”

  “With what?”

  “I need to get to Timberford.”

  Tamara's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Caleb could almost read his mother's thoughts. They matched his own. Timberford was a remote logging community in the hearthdom of Ryden, hundreds of miles to the north. It was also the home of his sister, Anya, her husband, Carvesh, and their twin children. Caleb had been there once. He remembered it as a quiet and sleepy place. What interest could it have to a drifter?

  Shem hesitated before speaking. “I’m afraid there might be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I'm not sure. There's too much I don't know. About the Faceless, or what it wants. But I need to get to Timberford. To see if there's a connection.”

  “Ashes and flaming ashes!” Tamara shouted. “I swear, Ja… If you bring evil down upon them…”

  “You know that’s the exact opposite of what I intend,” Shem snapped. Dark anger flashed across his face. Caleb shivered. “But I’m also worried it might be too late. This thing—this Faceless—it seemed to know too much. Far too much. So I need to get to Timberford, to see for myself.” He turned his gaze on Caleb. The next words raised gooseflesh on Caleb’s arms. “But first, I need him.”

  “No!” Tamara stepped between the drifter and her son, raising one accusing finger. “You’ve already pulled one of my children into your schemes. I won’t let you pull Caleb into them, too. If there’s danger, I don’t want him to have any part of it.”

  Shem raised his palms. "You misunderstand. I only need the boy to go into the village. There's a man who might be of some help to me, a veteran named Tanner Hoff. Last I heard, he was spending his days in this region."

  “I know of him.” Tamara frowned. “Rents a room at the Dancing Whale.”

  “All I ask is for the boy to find Tanner and bring him back here.”

  “Fat chance of that. You’ll be lucky if you find him sober enough to walk in a straight line.”

  “Still drinking?”

  “Like a fish.”

  “Well, he might not seem like much when he’s drinking, but he sobers up fast enough when he needs to, and that hammer of his is damned useful to have in a fight. He’s loyal, too, in his way, and knows how to hold his tongue.”

  “Wait,” said Tamara, “you’re not thinking of telling him?” She seemed as genuinely shocked as Caleb was confused at the entire exchange.

  “I’ll do what I must to protect them.” His face was grim.

  “This is bloody madness! You can’t trust a man like that. He’s a bloody mercenary.”

  “He's a Kingsman to the bone!” Shem snapped.

  Caleb couldn't understand why that should matter. The King had been dead for years. The Queen ruled the Realm now.

  Tamara seemed unfazed. She squared her shoulders and met Shem's gaze with flinty resolve. Caleb recognized that look. He'd seen it enough times to know that when she wore it, she refused to be moved.

  Shem seemed to sense it, too. “Fine. I won’t tell him anything unless I think it’s absolutely necessary. But I still need his hammer. That Faceless is still out there, and I’m getting tired of fighting it by myself.”

  “I thought you said it fell into the Crush? Nothing could survive that.”

  “And I thought that nothing could survive a sword through the eye, but it’s managed that trick once already. I’m willing to hope it’s dead, but I’m not fool enough to count on it. I need someone I can rely on.”

  “And you think Tanner Hoff is that man?” asked Tamara.

  “I do.”

  “This is a mistake.”

  “If so, it's mine to make. All I'm asking is that your boy bring him here while you and I talk.”

  “Fine,” said Tamara. “Caleb, take the pony and see if you can find Tanner. You'll probably find him at
the Whale.”

  “But I've never even spoken to him,” responded Caleb. It was the only form of protest that came to mind. He wasn't interested in being sent off like some errand boy, leaving his mother alone with the drifter. They were clearly familiar with each other, but that only made Caleb even more uneasy about leaving them alone. "What if he doesn't want to come?”

  “Just tell him that the midnight lamb bleats,” said Shem.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing to you. He’ll understand it well enough. Take this.” He unbuckled the knife from his belt and extended its finely wrought bone hilt. “In case you run into your friend again.”

  “What’s this?” asked Tamara, looking at Caleb and noticing the swelling along his jaw. “Goodness! What happened?”

  "Kharl," he muttered, fixing his gaze on one of the knots in the floorboards. "Again. He screwed up the rigging on the Damenson. I found it and reported it to Arn Ail. Kharl wasn’t happy and took it out on me. The beating would’ve been worse if Shem hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Blessed Mother! I’m so sorry, Caleb! When you came in with Shem and all the blood, I didn’t notice.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. Here, let me take a look.”

  “It's nothing.” Caleb brushed her away. “Just some bruising. It'll heal. It always does. I'd better hurry and saddle up Pacer, or it'll be dark on the way back.” Moments ago, he'd been hesitant to leave; now he couldn't get away fast enough.

  “Take your rain cloak,” said Tamara. She pulled the garment off the peg near the front door, wrapped it around his shoulders and secured it with a copper clasp. Then, on some uncommon impulse, she pulled him into a tight embrace. He fought the initial urge to squirm away and let himself melt into her arms. “Hurry back,” she said quietly, stepping away. “This storm's only going to get worse.”

  He nodded.

  “And if you see Kharl,” she continued, “try to avoid him. I'd rather you didn't have to use that knife.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” muttered Caleb. He turned and limped out into the rain.