The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  Kharl Doran muttered angrily to himself as he stalked along the banks of the Lower Targuine. The rains were growing stronger, stirring up thousands of tiny rings on the surface of the waters as they flowed from the Crush down to the sea. His clothing was soaked through and his hair matted against his face. Kharl hardly noticed. He balled his fists tightly. The rage burned so hotly in his chest that he thought it might tear him apart. He took deep breaths to clear his mind. He even tried focusing on positive thoughts, the way Chaplain Tomin always suggested. It was all so bloody pointless. Every trick he’d ever been taught to soothe his anger failed him. They always did. The more he tried to calm himself, the more the rage swelled up.

  It was a part of him, as surely as an arm or a leg. The only release he knew was violence, and this time, even that had been denied him.

  He screamed in frustration, picking up a nearby stone and hurling into the river. Damn the crippled runt and his bloody arrogant attitude. So what if he'd used some old rope or tied a single trigger to save a bit of time? There were so many damned lines on the Damenson that there was no way a few ropes on the undersail would make a difference. The cripple had just been waiting for a way to make him look like a fool.

  The very thought of it filled Kharl with raw fury. His jaw felt as though it might burst under the pressure of his clenching. Of course, it would not have been all bad. Beating the cripple would have been satisfying. Cutting up his hands would have been so deliciously satisfying.

  But then the Flameborn stranger had messed it all up. Kharl could could still see the bastard in his mind. The arrogant sneer. The greyish, malachite eyes. The massive hand, crushing his wrist.

  Another rock went hurtling into the waters, and Kharl howled into the growing roar of the winds.

  “It's just not fair!” he screamed. He could have been Flameborn, too. He was sure of it. If his bitch of a mother hadn't drunk away all their money, if she had just presented him at the Sacred Hearth when he came of age, he would have been chosen by the Flame. He was certain. The Nine would have blessed him, and he would have been overcome by the Burning Fever. He would have survived it, too. He would have lived through the sickness, and then his Soulblaze would have bloomed.

  Everything would have been different.

  No one would have laughed at him. No one would have called him “hawk face” or “beak boy.” They wouldn't have dared, because he would have killed them. Beaten them to a pulp or burned them to ash. He would have had power. Real, flaming power. He would have been loved and important. Women would have wanted him, even fought over him.

  But that could never be, now. He was too old. His chance had passed. All because of his stupid mother. He decided he would punish her again. She deserved it. The whole world deserved everything he gave it. Caleb deserved every beating. And the Flameborn bastard deserved it, too. Him most of all.

  Kharl hefted yet another stone, bigger and heavier than the others. He set his feet, imagining he was drawing strength from the earth itself, and threw with all the strength he could muster. The stone cut through the driving rains and rushing wind. As it hurtled toward the river, Kharl imagined what it might be like to watch it smashing against the Flameborn's skull. He relished the thought and felt a stab of disappointment that he would have to settle for breaking the surface of the river.

  Except that its waters never broke. There was no splash, no sudden spray. The stone just landed as though on a pile of sand, sinking slowly beneath the surface.

  Kharl screamed.

  Even the bloody river was against him. He threw another stone. This time, it broke the water. So he threw another, and another. He threw stones of all sizes and shapes and weights until, quite unexpectedly, something came hurtling back out of the river. It crashed against the hard banks, bouncing and rolling to stop several feet from where he stood.

  Perplexed, Kharl bent to examine the object. It looked like one of the stones he'd thrown, but covered in a thick, greenish slime. He reached out, recoiling the moment his fingers brushed against the surface. It felt cold—so cold it seemed to burn. He looked down at his fingers and found bright red welts where his skin had touched the slime.

  “What the…” He looked up to see the thing emerging from the river.

  It was like nothing he had ever imagined. Shaped like a hulking beast, the thing appeared to be made entirely of the same slime that covered the rock. Patches of sickly green fur clung to its hide. A long snout gave it a sinister, wolfish appearance. Two black orbs glimmered in place of eyes.

  Kharl could feel its hatred. All its anger and fury chased away his own, leaving nothing but a void of cold, stark terror.

  “Stay back,” he stammered, throwing another stone.

  It struck the creature on the shoulder and fell harmlessly to the ground.

  “This hungers,” the creature cooed, taking another step forward.

  The words were strange, slurred and almost unintelligible. They reminded Kharl of his grandfather—slow and dimwitted, an idiot in every possible sense of the word. A surge of hope flared in Kharl’s mind.

  He turned and fled.

  He didn't know what to expect. He only knew that he didn't want to die. Behind him, the creature's growl resonated like another clap of thunder.

  Kharl ran faster but slipped on the rain-slick earth. He went down hard. In the next instant, the creature crashed into him. The weight of it pinned him against the ground. He was only dimly aware of the warmth of fresh blood, flowing from where the loose stone had scraped open the skin of his hands and knees. All he could feel was the cold agony on the back of his neck, where the creature's dripping ooze seared his flesh. Kharl screamed and thrashed, struggling to escape.

  “Be still, man-thing,” the creature growled in his ear. “You belong to this. This will use you. This will hunt through you.”

  “No!” Kharl pleaded. “Please. I don’t want to die!”

  The ooze was spreading. Inch by inch, it covered him, pushing under his clothes, burning into his flesh. Soon it was creeping up his neck and along his jaw. By the time it reached his cheek, its putrid stench filled his nose.

  “Please stop,” he wept.

  The ooze touched his lips. Kharl pressed them together as tightly as he could, refusing it entrance into his mouth. His resistance was short-lived. The substance pushed and pushed, filling his nostrils until his own body betrayed him and he was forced to gasp for air. The ooze poured into his mouth. His stomach heaved and emptied. For one brief instant, he managed to clear his throat, but then the creeping slime was back, invading him, pushing down and suffocating the life from him. His thrashing slowed. His screams died to faint whimpers.

  Then even they were silenced.

  The last thing Kharl Doran thought of before he died was the Flameborn stranger. The last thing he felt was the spark of anger being extinguished, and then the vast, empty void that it had struggled so hard to fill.

  For several long minutes, the body lay there, still and unmoving, like a monument to the grim finality of death. Empty brown eyes stared up at the darkening sky, oblivious to the rolling clouds or the flashing lightning. Then one hand twitched. Eyes blinked as their colour drained to a deep black. A foot turned. Every movement was more pronounced than the last until the body that had once belonged to Kharl Doran sprang to its feet.

  The thing examined itself, and though disgusted by the frailty of human flesh, found the body adequate. It returned to the river to wash away the last remnants of its previous host, then looked around. The body’s senses were not as keen as it would have liked, but it had discovered that a human host had other advantages. It could walk among them. It could learn from them.

  It could use them to find its prey—and destroy him.

  Into the Underways

  Dusk was settling over Taralius when Avendor finally tore himself away from the second-floor office that he rented over one of Hammerfall’s numerous shops. His report to the captain was complete. Sherl was already on her
way to deliver it, along with the full roster of the Ember Guard’s Second Company. Avendor was bone weary and in need of sleep. He planned to eat whatever scant dinner Vivian had prepared, retreat to his bed in the loft and sleep until the rooster crowed—longer, if he could manage it.

  As the light of the sun faded into the west, the persistent glow of forges bathed Hammerfall in a reddish glow. The ringing of anvil and iron echoed through the wide streets. Nearly all of the metal workers in Taralius congregated here. It was close enough to the Stilt District that transporting barrels of water and raw ingots was simple enough, and goods could be carried to the Grand Bazaar by cart or barrow. It was a hard part of the city, full of equally hard and rugged people, but Avendor was grateful for the assignment. There was little in the way of crime or begging in Hammerfall. Something about smiths and their hammers tended to keep vagrants and brigands away. In a normal week, the worst he had to deal with was a drunken fistfight.

  This has hardly been a normal week.

  A few locals waved as he passed. One or two stopped briefly to chat. More often, he found people casting furtive glances in his direction. Despite the peaceful glow of the forges, there was a general sense of unease to Hammerfall. Word of Ramsey's death had already spread. Avendor was hardly surprised. News travelled quickly in any city—doubly so when the news was dour. He could deal with a bit of unease; it was panic that concerned him. It had come to that. With a little luck, everything would blow over in a few days, and he wouldn't miss the guards Edimus would be commandeering.

  But luck, as they said, was in the hands of the Jackal, and the Jackal hadn’t been kind to Avendor in recent years.

  He passed out of Hammerfall and turned north. In the distance, all the spires and domes of the Sanctum glimmered in the twilight. Above it, at the very peak of Mount Serran, the fires of the Everburning cast their light over the city like a small, unmoving sun. The Sanctum taught that those fires had been gifted to the world by Mischa herself at the end of the Annihilation, as a means of defeating the fabled Fey Queen and her armies. All the power of the Hearthborn was said to originate in the Everburning.

  He was watching those fires and ruminating on all the questions surrounding the recent burnouts when a single shadow detached itself from the growing darkness.

  Old instincts flared to life. Avendor leaped backward, landing in a defensive half-crouch as he opened himself to the flow of his Soulblaze. Tendrils of power coursed through his body, augmenting his strength and enhancing his senses. Steel sang its shrill song as he pulled his sword from its scabbard. He held the blade low and measured the angles of the half-dozen most obvious attacks. The shadowy figure strode forward, moving with uncommon grace. Standing nearly a head shorter than Avendor, the stranger bore no visible weapons, though a short sword or belt of knives could easily have been concealed beneath the strangely colourless cloak that somehow managed to appear less like cloth and more like an insubstantial mist.

  A duskcloak.

  The mysterious garments were worn by the gandjai, the Queen’s living weapons. Avendor was sure he was dead. The stranger stepped into the light. A deep hood shadowed his eyes, but Avendor could see the faint trace of a smile on his lips.

  “Virsha,” came a voice, soft and musical. The man pulled back his hood to reveal a familiar round face with almond eyes and cropped black hair.

  Avendor felt some of the tension ease from his body—though he didn’t release the power of his Soulblaze. It was always wise to be wary in the presence of the gandjai.

  “May your feet always find their way,” said Nix.

  Avendor recognized the ritual greeting, which found its roots in the ancient mysteries of the Qyar. As he understood it, pronouncing such a blessing was tantamount to swearing a binding oath of hospitality. Avendor breathed a sigh of relief. There had been a time when he had managed to survive a confrontation with one of the gandjai. He’d been younger then, and blessed with a share of luck. He was not foolish enough to believe the Jackal would smile on him a second time.

  “And may your shadow never deepen,” he replied. “How can I help you, Nix?”

  “I come seeking you, Virsha.”

  “You know I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

  The gandjai nearly grinned. “And the moon may ask the sun not to rise. It is the way of things. You are marked. You are Virsha.”

  “Well, it seems you've found me.”

  “She summons you.”

  “Now?”

  “Now is when I have found you.”

  “May I ask what she wants?”

  “You may always ask,” said the small man. “It rests with me whether to answer. In this case, I must confess that I do not know. I was merely sent to find you.”

  It seemed an unusual errand for a gandjai—unusual enough that Avendor felt his nerves rising again. “Are you to escort me?”

  Nix nodded.

  “Then we might as well be off, then.”

  “This way,” said the gandjai.

  Strangely, they did not continue along the road, as Avendor would have expected. Instead, Nix turned east, in the opposite direction of the Upper City and Queenshold. They walked along in silence. Shadows grew longer and deeper as the sun sank beneath the horizon. When Nix finally turned down a dusty, narrow street, the last vestiges of the day had already vanished. It was a cloudy night, following on the heels of a dull and sunless day. Only the light of the Everburning illuminated the city.

  They were well beyond Hammerfall now, skirting through the alleys that twisted behind the inns, taverns and pleasure houses that comprised Glendon Row. Avendor frowned. The twisting network streets hadn't changed much in the years since he'd last walked them. Nix appeared familiar with the area, snaking his way through the maze without hesitation.

  Eventually, they came to a door much like many of the others they'd passed. Nix knocked twice, then whistled three clear notes. A few heartbeats later, there was the sound of a latch being unfastened. The door swung open, and the gandjai beckoned Avendor to enter a corridor that smelled of jasmine and dark cinnamon. Thick slats of solid, reliable fir likely formed its frame, while the interior walls appeared to be plain birch panelling, greyed with age. The floor was tiled with polished stone, though Avendor expected that the upper levels would use wooden planking. There was a chair in one corner, occupied by the silent porter who’d opened the door to them. Beside him, a single tapestry hung on the wall, depicting a mysterious woman with the sun over her left shoulder and the moon over her right.

  Retrieving a lantern from the wall, Nix led him to another door, beyond which were a set of wooden stairs that creaked with every step. Their descent down several flights made it clear they were not entering some cellar or basement, but venturing deeper, into the depths of the Underways.

  The labyrinth of chambers and corridors that ran deep beneath Taralius was older than the city itself. Some said it was a remnant of some ancient ruin, built by the Aln in the days before human memory. Most avoided it entirely. There was always something vaguely unsettling about the ancient corridors, like watching the world through a pane of aged, sagging glass. Still, there were always those with a more clandestine agenda, for whom the Underways provided an ideal location for secret meetings. Avendor frowned at the thought.

  The stairs gave way to a sloping ramp, which in turn levelled out into a wide, open corridor. They walked along in silence, boots echoing off the stone. Avendor had lost nearly all sense of time when they came to a vaulted, six-sided chamber. A large round slab filled the heart of the room, surrounded by a dozen high-backed seats. Only two were currently occupied. In one sat a whip of a man, clad in a rich green doublet. His greying beard was trimmed to a sharp point and a small silver ring adorned each ear. Avendor recognized the man as Navarius Tarovar, the Lord Questor and superior of the Grand Inquest.

  In the second seat was Alleriana Rayderon herself.

  The Ember Queen was clad in a simple black dress and a scarlet shawl. H
er raven hair was piled on her head and held in place with a golden circlet. As always, the Seal of Yaren was fastened at her throat, a small disc of white moonstone and the symbol of her authority. Her face was painted to accent the prominence of her cheekbones while minimizing the appearance of lines around her eyes and lips. Although her youth had long since been lost to the passage of years, there was no denying that Alleriana Rayderon was still a beautiful woman.

  Nix moved to take his place at her left shoulder. Opposite him stood a fierce-looking woman who radiated strength and fury. The sides of her head were freshly shaved. An ordinary black vest accented her broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms, which were cross-hatched with pale scars. Like Nix, she appeared entirely unarmed. Though they had never met, Avendor recognized her by reputation. Here was Hallow, another of the Queen's gandjai.

  “Greetings, Corporal,” said the Queen. She smiled, but her dark eyes remained shrewd and calculating. “Thank you for coming. I trust that married life is treating you well?”

  “It’s not for me, I think,” replied Avendor, lowering himself into one of the chairs across from the Queen. It was cold, hard and unforgiving. “But I’m making the most of it.” By sleeping in the loft instead of facing Vivian’s daily scorn.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  Avendor wasn’t convinced. Not for the first time, he wondered if the Queen was keeping watch on the marriage she had arranged for him as part of the deal he’d made to save his own life. If so, she could hardly be pleased with how matters had progressed. The Nine know it’s not like I haven’t tried to be a good husband. But when a woman has bile in her veins and ice in her heart, there’s only so much a man can do.

  “Are you acquainted with the Lord Questor?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure of a formal introduction, Your Majesty.”

  “Consider that rectified.”

  “Well met, Corporal,” said Navarius.