The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  Next, he turned to the wooden chest of drawers that contained his entire life. He rummaged through his small collection of clothing, selecting a range of items. Sturdy shirts and trousers that would serve for travelling. The white linen tunic that he wore during the galia feasts. An extra set of small clothes and stockings. A wide, woollen scarf that he used to protect himself during the frigid months of a Barden winter. He also packed a coil of rope that Arn Ail had given him at one point, and a small knife that was more of a tool than a viable weapon.

  It was the last drawer that brought a tightness to his chest. And the hint of moisture to his eyes.

  Slowly, he drew it open. The first thing he saw was the small wooden soldier that had been his constant companion as a child. It was old and battered, stripped of its paint by years of play so that only the faintest traces of its eyes remained. Beside it was an old leather ball that had been carefully restitched after several accidents. There was a wooden box, carved by his own hands and filled with dried leaves from various autumn adventures, and a pouch full of stones that he had collected for one reason or another. They were all valuable in their way, all rich with the wine of memory.

  But two things meant more than all the world.

  The first was a small coin of battered bronze. It was an Imperial penny, minted more than a century ago in the distant empire of Messinia. It was small and worn, and would not be worth even a single wren, but it had been a gift from his father. The second was a small whalebone statue, carved in the likeness of an owl. It had been a gift from his mother, commissioned from one of the artisans in Stormholt several months after the melding that had saved his life.

  It looks nothing like me, said Azental.

  I don’t think that’s the point, Az.

  He undid the small pouch that held his rock collection. Discarding its contents, he placed the coin and the statue within, retied the drawstring and put the pouch in his pack. On impulse, he added the ball and the toy soldier. They would be gifts for the twins.

  Then, very slowly, he closed the drawer. What’s going to happen to the rest of it? He considered asking someone to watch the house, but that would mean returning to the village. He doubted that Shem would allow it. Besides, I don’t know when we’ll be back. Or if we’ll ever be back. The thought was like a knife in the heart. He’d been born in Stormholt and spent most of his life in Therrin’s Crossing.

  We’ll be back, he told himself. Shem will find a way to kill the creature, and then we can come home. We can’t run forever. He just hoped home would still be here when they returned.

  “Hard, isn’t it?”

  Caleb turned to find his mother standing by the ladder. He'd been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't heard her make the climb. She was smiling, but there was a knowing sadness to her face.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Leaving home. I remember when I did it—after your father and I were married. I was so excited about the wedding that I hadn't even thought about what it all meant. Leaving everything that was comfortable and familiar. Sure, my own father was a drunk and Mother did her best to keep up, but home was home, and it was hard to leave.”

  “Didn’t turn out so well, did it?” asked Caleb.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Losing Father.”

  “It was hard,” she admitted. “But Navin and I had thirteen good years together. Not perfect, by any means. But good. Losing him hurt, but loving him was worth it. And he gave me two beautiful children. I wouldn’t change that for all the riches of the Realm.”

  “I wish he were here.”

  “So do I. Every day. But I keep him alive in my memories. The way his eyes smiled when he laughed, or the feeling of his kiss…”

  “Mother!”

  Tamara smiled. “I forget how much you’re like him.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a few careful steps. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders, she looked up into his eyes.

  When did she get so small?

  “I’m sorry, Caleb. I’m sorry that we lost your father. I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you—the big and small. I don’t know what lies ahead of us, but I do know that I’m still your mother and it’s still my job to look out for you. And to make you smile when I can. What I know is that there are whole-bodied men who don’t have half the heart you do. What I know is that I’m proud of you, my boy. So very proud.”

  “Are we ever coming home?”

  “Maybe one day. Right now, we’ll make for your sister’s, and that will be as close to home as anything. We’ll spend some time together as a family. Then we’ll see where the Nine lead us. Now let me help you finish packing. Shem’s not the sort of man you want to keep waiting.”

  The small company departed the cottage and pushed out into the rain once more. Tamara locked the door in hopes of an eventual return, while Caleb saddled Pacer again, rewarding her patience with a slightly overripe apple. He scratched the loyal animal affectionately behind the ear and climbed onto her back. Tamara had insisted that Caleb be the one to ride. It would take the pressure off his leg and allow them to move faster.

  Catering to the cripple, he thought bitterly.

  Would you rather walk all the way to the wind yards? asked Azental.

  No, he conceded. But that doesn’t take the sting out of it. Come to me.

  The owl appeared in a flash of colour and perched on his shoulder. Her soft feathers nuzzled his face.

  He smiled and patted her gently behind the wing. Fly on ahead and keep watch.

  In this rain? I’ll ruin my plumage.

  You’ll survive, and I’d rather know what’s ahead of us.

  Sensible, I suppose. The owl leaped from his shoulders and spread her wings. With a few mighty flaps, she vanished into the teeming darkness. I hate the rain, she grumbled in his mind.

  Caleb mounted Pacer and rejoined his companions. They set out east toward the wind yards, moving as quickly as was safe in the fullness of the night. Tamara and Caleb led the way. Shem followed several steps behind, still clutching at his side and brandishing his sword. Palawen and Tanner brought up the rear, bow and hammer in hand. They all stuck close to each other to avoid getting separated, shielding their eyes against the flashing storm to maintain as much of their night vision as possible. They spoke only when required, keeping their minds focused on moving forward. The incessant thundering above would have made conversation difficult, in any case.

  The attack caught them all by surprise.

  Something comes! Azental screamed into his mind.

  Before Caleb could give voice to the warning, the demon tore through the darkness, rushing toward Shem. A single flash of lightning was the drifter’s only warning. Somehow, he managed to twist away, narrowly avoiding the creature’s attack. His sword was a dark blur as it cut through the night, catching nothing but shadow. Pacer reared in terror, nearly throwing Caleb from her back. Tamara managed to grab at the reins to keep the pony from bolting.

  “Tanner!” Shem had been driven deeper into the shadows, where his voice echoed from the darkness.

  Somewhere close by, footsteps pounded hard against the uneven stone of the road. There was an explosion of light as waves of golden fire cut through the night. Rain hissed and sizzled. Caleb turned to see Shem standing with one hand extended before him.

  That fire came from Shem!

  The drifter's attack missed the demon, engulfing a tree instead and setting it ablaze with flames that seemed immune to the rain. Orange light illuminated the demon. It still wore Kharl's face, twisted with fury and hatred. The damaged eye was swollen and seeping with green ooze, while the other remained black and glassy. All the skin around its lips was shrivelled and cracked and stained an ugly green. The gap in its chest had been filled with what appeared to be raw meat, turned a sickly shade of grey. Oddly, its legs seemed longer and thicker than Kharl’s had ever been, giving him a strangely unbalanced appearance. Caleb was nearly sick wh
en he recognized Yorst's boots.

  The Faceless lashed out with its gnarled, hooked hands. It hissed and spat, focusing all its fury on Shem. The drifter danced and dodged, lashing out with the edge of his blade, but the demon ignored its wounds.

  “This will have you, manning!” Its voice was thick and throaty.

  Tanner appeared as though from nowhere. His hammer arced through the air like an iron bolt, catching the demon’s arm and shattering it several inches below the elbow.

  The Faceless screamed—an inhuman sound that seemed born more from frustration than pain—and whirled on Tanner. The warrior deflected an attack off the shaft of his hammer, pushing forward with a mighty shove that broke the demon's balance. It dropped to one knee, but launched itself forward, driving its shoulder into Tanner's gut. His armour absorbed the brunt of the blow, but the strength behind it sent him tumbling backward onto the wet road.

  The demon was upon him in a heartbeat. They wrestled furiously, twisting and rolling beyond the light of the still-burning tree.

  When the demon emerged, it was carrying the hammer in one hand. Tanner was nowhere to be seen.

  An arrow pierced its throat. The creature paused long enough to wrench it free and toss the shaft to the ground. It turned back toward Shem, hefting the hammer with a menacing snarl.

  “You need to run,” Tamara said to Caleb. “Get to the wind yards. Find Den and get away.”

  “I can’t leave you!”

  “Pacer can’t carry us both.”

  “But—”

  “Just go!” She slapped the old pony on the rear. Pacer took several quick strides before the howl pierced the roar of the storm.

  A wolf bounded out of the night. It was thick and broad. Snow-white fur bristled along the arc of its back, cast orange by the firelight. Black lips were curled back in a fierce snarl, revealing rows of deadly teeth. Its eyes burned like amber lanterns as it bore down on the demon.

  It was all too much for Pacer. Without Tamara clutching the reins, the pony went mad with fear. She reared like a stallion half her age, whinnying loudly and throwing Caleb from the saddle. The ground came at him too quickly. He landed on his back. The breath rushed from his lungs in one painful burst. By the time he had dragged himself, coughing and spitting, to his knees, the pony had already vanished into the night.

  Azental! Follow her.

  I already am. Be careful! The others are not faring well.

  Caleb looked up to find the truth of the owl’s words. Somehow, Tanner had reappeared. He was battered and bloodied, though his injuries seemed minor. He held his knife in one hand. The wolf was at his side. A totem? Together, the warrior and beast were circling the Faceless, harrying its flanks as it used Tanner's hammer to battle Shem. The demon was severely damaged. One leg was torn open, and a half-dozen arrows seemed to have sprouted like quills from its back. None of the injuries slowed it.

  Shem was in far worse shape. One arm hung limply at his side, and he was bleeding from several fresh wounds. His side was stained scarlet again. While he still moved with Flameborn grace, it was only too evident that he was tiring.

  The demon sensed it, too. For every step that Shem lost, it seemed to push its attack harder and faster. “This will have you, manling! This cannot be destroyed!”

  Another arrow sprouted in the demon’s back.

  “Curses.”

  Caleb turned to find Palawen standing nearby. Her freckled face was grim. Strangely, he found himself thinking she was prettier when she smiled.

  “That was my last arrow. For all the good it’s done.”

  “What about your magic? Can’t you hit it the way you did at the inn?”

  She smirked but shook her head. “It’s sylph wind magic. With this storm raging, it’s too unpredictable. I’d be as likely to hit one of your friends as that thing.”

  “There has to be something we can do! Wait. Where’s my mother?”

  He found Tamara on the ground, dazed and muddied. She must have been knocked over when Pacer bolted. She was only just pushing herself up. A droplet of blood trickled from a cracked lip. Her eyes found Caleb's, and she started to stand.

  Across the Queensway, Shem managed to throw the demon back. One of its boots slipped on the slick paving stones. For a sliver of a moment, the Faceless stumbled. It was enough for Tanner. The big man surged forward, roaring a battle cry that was part scream and part howl. The demon turned to face him, raising the hammer to block the attack.

  It was too slow. Tanner struck hard. His knife cut through the exposed meat and sinew packed into its shattered chest. The blade sank in to the hilt. Blood splattered across Tanner's face—thicker and darker than it should have been.

  The demon barely reacted. It clutched Tanner by the throat and started to squeeze. The mercenary's face quickly turned a sickly shade of purple. The wolf responded by leaping onto the shifter's exposed, arrow-ridden back. Teeth tore and shredded until Tanner slipped from the demon's grip. He fell to the ground, sputtering for breath. The wolf attempted its escape, but in the fury of its attack, it had entangled itself amid Palawen's arrows. Somehow, the demon reached over its shoulder and yanked the massive animal forward, dashing it against the ground. Caleb winced at the loud crack.

  Then everything seemed to blend together in one terrible moment.

  Tanner cried out in pain, confirming his melding to the wolf, while Shem staggered forward with his sword raised. The demon turned, tearing the knife from its chest. A cruel smile spread across its face. Shem cried out in defiance. The demon threw the knife.

  Caleb watched the blade cut through the rain. He could almost trace its path as it flew toward the drifter, carrying the promise of death along its gleaming edge. Shem stumbled.

  The knife passed over his shoulder and buried itself in Tamara's chest.

  Of Fire and Magic

  Avendor was seated in the parlour of the sage’s apartments, listening to Sherl recount everything they’d discovered at Darlan Ramsey’s shop. The chairs they sat in were all of excellent quality. Their mismatched wood and upholstering gave the small room a patchwork feeling that Avendor supposed mattered little to Tiberius. A series of shelves were mounted against one wall, loaded with books and scrolls. How does a blind man read? He supposed there was some trick to it. A tray of tarnished silver held three mugs of steaming chai, sweetened with rich honey.

  “Well,” said Tiberius, “from what you’ve described, there can be little doubt that it was a burnout. All the signs are there. I thank you for your patience. You understand that I had to be certain.”

  “Certainly, Your Wisdom,” said Avendor. “It’s important to have all the facts.”

  “Indeed,” the sage said without expression. “So now we come to the real problem. Why did Ramsey burn out? I’ll state again that the most likely cause is some unhappy accident. Still, by Her Majesty's request, we must give this matter careful thought. There may be other possibilities. It has long been believed that, based on the evocations the Flameborn can achieve, there might be a fundamental difference between the nature of their Soulblazes and those of the Emberborn and Cinderborn.”

  Avendor palmed his mouth and pinched his upper lip as he considered the sage’s words. He thought about his own Soulblaze, about the rush he felt every time he reached into the reserve of power. As an Emberborn, his evocations drew from the Endosphere, allowing him to enhance his strength or endurance or physical senses. The Cinderborn were similar, only their evocations touched the Ectosphere when they performed their soothings and minor healings.

  The Flameborn, however, were different. They could touch all four spheres, including the Parasphere and the Anasphere. It was what set them apart from other Hearthborn, and what allowed them to achieve such remarkable evocations—many of which Avendor could not even begin to understand. He’d once watched a Flameborn woman rush into a burning building and emerge without so much a singed hair; another time, he’d seen a man form a stone shield from nothing but the ground benea
th his feet.

  “This has never been proven in any tangible manner,” Tiberius continued, “but most sages who study the Hearthborn have espoused the position. Many of the Kadir monks agree. But it's not merely a difference of capacity. Yes, the Flameborn must be able to draw more deeply, but they must also be able to flare their power at a greater frequency.

  “You’re Emberborn, are you not, Corporal?”

  “I am,” said Avendor.

  “By way of example: if you were to expend the same amount of power that it takes a galewright, such as the late Miss Kellington, to establish control of the winds, you’d find it an impossible feat. Your Soulblaze simply cannot empty itself quickly enough to maintain such an evocation. In and of itself, this theory has little practical value, but it does suggest one important possibility. With all the power it must contain and channel, the Soulblaze of the Flameborn could well be more volatile.”

  Avendor considered the sage’s words. “Making it more susceptible to manipulation?”

  “Potentially,” said Tiberius, reaching for his chai. He took a long, thoughtful sip, running his hand along the dark, age-spotted slope of his balding scalp. “That the galewright was Flameborn is clear. That’s two of three. So this Fendor Tam fellow—”

  “Wait,” Avendor interrupted. “Darlan Ramsey was Flameborn? How would you know that?”

  Tiberius frowned. “Was that not common knowledge?”

  “No. In fact, many of his neighbours report not even knowing he was Hearthborn at all.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I suppose it’s something that must have come up in one of our conversations.”