The armoured man unfurled his whip. He cracked it at another of the guards, wrapping it around the man’s leg. The whip’s lash was made of metal wire and as soon as it snared its victim, a pulse of blue light surged through it. Another of the guards tried to cut the whip only to be caught in the sparking aura.
‘What are you doing, you idiots?’ the high priest screamed.
The last guard backed off, shouting to the high priest for leadership. ‘What am I supposed to do? I can’t land a blow on him.’
The armoured man stepped over the writhing bodies of the guards, and approached the cart.
‘My quarrel is not with you guards, merely with the high priest accompanying you,’ the armoured man bellowed. ‘Leave now and I will spare your lives.’
The guard and the driver looked at each other nervously.
‘What are you waiting for?’ the high priest squealed. ‘Kill him.’
The armoured man turned to the last guard who began to edge forward, his sword held above his head. Lifting his hand the armoured man held it in front of him. Lightning arced from his gauntlet, striking the guard on the chest and blasting him backwards. Tongues of blue light crackled over his body as the guard hit the ground, shaking violently before coming to rest. Wisps of grey smoke rose from the lifeless man’s mouth.
‘Who’s next?’
The armoured man pointed his hand at the driver of the prison wagon who jumped down and fled into the woods. The high priest then clambered down off the wagon as fast as his bulk would allow him and crawled under it.
‘Do not come near me. You are cursed,’ he shrieked as the armoured man walked towards him.
The man took his whip and began to flick the metal lash under the wagon. It touched the high priest on the leg, crackling and sending shocks through his body. He yelped in pain.
‘Come out here where I can see you,’ the armoured man commanded.
‘Do you promise not to kill me?’ he whimpered.
‘I give you no such assurance.’
The high priest heard footsteps and felt the wagon rocking as someone climbed aboard. A few seconds later it moved forward leaving him lying cowering in the middle of the path.
‘What is to be done with him, Amrodan?’ the armoured man asked.
A man in black robes climbed down off the wagon.
‘Get me the key to the lock, Straticös. Then kill him.’
The high priest’s screams echoed around the forest as Amrodan opened the back door of the prison wagon. A basket lay in the middle of the cell, a blanket draped over it. He slowly lifted it as Straticös came and joined him.
‘This is it,’ Amrodan stated. ‘This is what we came for.’
Yakob and Casurá Fairthrác were settling down for the night, about to get into bed, when a knock came at their door.
‘Who’s that?’ Casurá gasped.
‘I can’t see through the bloody wall, woman,’ Yakob said, jumping to his feet and grabbing his woodman’s axe.
‘Maybe it’s visitors.’
‘It’s late at night and we live in the middle of Shadowroot Forest. We don’t get visitors.’
Yakob moved to the door. Standing to the side of it, with his back to the wall, he held up his axe, ready to strike whoever came through.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
No one answered.
He lifted the latch and eased the door open, glancing through it. The forest was still and quiet.
‘I didn’t hear the goat’s bell ringing, did you?’ Casurá asked.
‘No. No I…’
A faint noise attracted his attention. It sounded like a sneeze.
Yakob looked down to see a basket covered with a blanket. Carefully, he reached over and dragged it in, closing the latch. He put it on the table and held up his axe as Casurá took away the blanket. A baby girl, no more than six months old, with blonde hair and blue eyes, lay in the bottom of the basket.
‘By the gods,’ Casurá exclaimed, picking the child up.
‘Put that down, it’s not ours.’
‘Of course it’s ours. Why else do you think it’s appeared here in the middle of the night?’
The baby, who was wrapped in a light-blue cloak, began to giggle and tried to grab Casurá’s hair.
‘This child can’t stay, Casurá. It doesn’t belong to us.
‘Of course it can. It’s a gift from the gods. They’ve helped us because they know we can’t have children of our own.’
Yakob dropped the axe and stood looking directly at Casurá. The tone in his voice lowered and he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
‘Casurá, this child is not ours to keep. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to scour the woods for its real parents.’
A look of despondency formed on Casurá’s face before quickly dissipating.
‘Now you listen to me, Yakob Fairthrác. You scour those forests until you’re blue in the face. But until you find this child’s real parents, she’s going nowhere. Now warm up some of the goat’s milk, this little one’s bound to be hungry.’
Yakob and Casurá set about feeding the child, unaware of the two men sitting in the bushes, not far away, watching their cabin.
‘Do you think they’ll look after her?’ Straticös asked.
‘I will check in on her from time to time,’ Amrodan remarked. ‘I do not like leaving our kind under the protection of mortals, of whom I do not know, but something tells me she will be well looked after.’
Willow walked purposefully through the carnival crowd. Around her, masked revellers laughed and shouted. Groups of drunken people, dressed in costumes of satin and silk, staggered around, bumping into each other and trading festive greetings or insults.
She made her way along the canal to one of the main promenades. With streamers adorning every tree and the buildings decorated with yellow and green banners and purple and red flags, the city of Ogensdale was awash with colour.
The majority of the people were intoxicated and thus convivial, singing and joking and cheering, oblivious to the fact that a woman without a shadow walked among them.
Keep moving, Willow thought, almost there. Don’t draw attention to yourself; you’ll be fine.
Willow paused beside a pillar at the edge of a bridge. She undid the top buttons of her huntsman costume and wafted cold air around her neck. Her metal mask restricted her vision and made her sweat. It trickled down her cheeks and collected in the grooves on the inside of the headpiece.
The sound of heavy drumbeats filled the air as musicians began testing their instruments. Willow scanned the area for anyone in a green-and-black costume, all the time watching and waiting.
A woman began weaving her way through the hordes in the central thoroughfare. Dressed in a black-and-green chequered jester’s costume, complete with hat and mask, she blended in with the rest of the happy throng. Unlike the rest of the crowd, however, she was looking around her frantically, as though trying to identify something or someone. Scanning around her one last time, the woman entered the open-air theatre.
That’s her, Willow thought. At least she wore what I told her to.
Willow moved to intercept the woman. Yet upon stepping inside the theatre, her attention was drawn to the guards in the light-blue cloaks who were moving through the crowd, flitting in and out of sight. Two Shadow Watchers with lanterns. One was shining it at people while the other checked the ground behind them, looking for anyone without a shadow.
A shiver ran down Willow’s spine. Her heart pounding and her mind suddenly blank, she stood motionless.
Don’t just stand there, she thought. They’re not looking for you. They’re only doing random checks. They can’t possibly know you’re here.
Taking a deep breath, and cursing her luck, Willow took a few tentative steps in amongst the two hundred-strong au
dience. Trying to put as many people between her and the Shadow Watchers as possible, she circumnavigated the mass of the crowd, edging her way around the perimeter of the theatre. When Cymbatoriá was within arm’s length, she grabbed her.
‘Don’t talk; just listen. There are Shadow Watchers here. I need you to…’
Behind the women, the musicians began beating their drums. A group of men with headdresses made from eagle feathers, grass skirts and other tribal attire, began dancing in a circle and chanting at the tops of their voices.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Cymbatoriá shouted.
Two more blue-cloaked guards entered the theatre.
Damn, Willow thought, I don’t have time for this.
Willow held Cymbatoriá’s arm and walked closer to the drummers. A series of booms came from above, and the sky glittered gold and red, as fireworks were set off all over the city.
Checking the location of the Shadow Watchers, Willow closed her eyes. She controlled her breathing, slowing it down. Her mind focused on the agglomeration of sounds.
The beat of the drums, the laughter of the crowd, the booming of the fireworks, everything around Willow that made noise was emanating pulses of varying intensities. Willow did not just hear sounds, she felt them and controlled them. The differing amplitudes and frequencies vibrated through her body, amplifying her senses and permeating her mind.
The sound waves ricocheted off people and objects, building up a map of Willow’s surroundings and allowing her to witness the world as a series of beats. When she opened her eyes, she was confronted by a cacophony of waves. They distorted her view of the world, causing it to shimmer and quiver.
Cupping her hands into a ball Willow gathered her thoughts, focusing them on the point between her palms. She felt something move within them, slowly at first, then getting stronger. Pressing her hands together for as long as she could, she contained the force building within them. When the energy built to the point where it began prising her fingers apart, she released it.
The transparent ball of energy hovered in mid-air, expanding and swirling. Willow could distinguish the movements within its fluidic sphere by the way it altered the light behind it.
Invisible to anyone outside it, the sphere grew quickly and soon encompassed them both, blocking out all external sound. Willow used her mind to stop it enlarging. She breathed deeply. Creating the field of silence had weakened her: it always did. Looking about, she saw the waves of sound bounce off the sphere that she and Cymbatoriá were standing in.
‘How did you do that?’ Cymbatoriá asked, incredulous.
‘I’ve no time to explain,’ Willow replied. ‘There are Shadow Watchers nearby. I have a letter here. It gives the details of Pandimonia Toŕl’s next target. I need you to get it to Amrodan as quickly as possible. She’s preparing to strike.’
‘Who gave you the information?’
‘Astrêne Terburess.’
‘I’ve never heard of her. Does she—?’
‘Shush,’ Willow interrupted, nodding in the direction behind Cymbatoriá. ‘They’re coming.’
Cymbatoriá looked over her shoulder to see a middle-aged man in the grey robes of a high priest and a copper skullcap. He was standing beside two of the men in light-blue cloaks and was pointing at Willow and Cymbatoriá.
‘Do you think he’s a high priest?’ Cymbatoriá asked.
‘I doubt it’s a costume. Damn it, they’re coming our way. You need to transform.’
‘What? Here? In front of all these people?’
‘Now.’
‘But I won’t be able to carry you.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Just fly to Rith,’ Willow commanded.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just go, before they capture you.’
‘But… I need a clear run in order to take off. What about my clothes?’
The high priest and the Shadow Watchers were pushing people out of their path, making their way through the crowd towards Willow and Cymbatoriá.
‘Get up on the stage,’ Willow shouted.
She dispelled the sphere that had surrounded them. Noise from the band, the crowd and the fireworks came flooding in.
Cymbatoriá removed her boots. Pulling her mask and jester’s hat off, she climbed onto the stage. Mistaking her for part of the act, the crowd began to cheer wildly and a few of the drummers glanced up to see what the commotion was.
Putting the letter in her mouth, Cymbatoriá stood up.
With both hands, she grabbed her jester’s costume and ripped it open. It was loosely stitched, as all her clothes were, and fell to the ground easily.
The drumming stopped and the theatre fell silent.
Cymbatoriá began running while imagining herself a hawk. Thoughts of flying flooded her mind, and her body reacted accordingly. Her arms lengthened and feathers sprouted. Her hips sunk and twisted, tail feathers sprouted from her spine. Hard yellow ridges replaced the soft pink skin on her legs and feet, and her toes changed into sharp, curved talons.
By the time she reached the edge of the platform and dived into the air, the transformation was complete. Skimming people’s heads and forcing them to dive for cover, Cymbatoriá beat her large wings frantically, clearing the theatre and soaring into the night sky.
Some of the partygoers at the Summer-Moon festival may not have known what to expect when they heard that the Darnayan Tribe from the Ioleasis Desert were going to be performing a ritualistic war-dance. They may have expected to see many things that they had not seen before. Some may have guessed that there would be Darnayan women beating on large drums with all their might. A few more may have guessed that there would be Darnayan warriors, stomping and chanting in a circle with spears and shields, dressed in grass skirts and wooden masks.
Not many of them expected to see a six-foot-tall woman with long black hair, a letter in her mouth, running across the stage naked then turning into a hawk, as big as a hunting hound, and flying off into the night.
Willow watched as Cymbatoriá disappeared. A feeling of relief washed over her; the information contained in the letter was safe.
She turned to see the high priest and the Shadow Watchers staring at her. They stood open mouthed, amazed by what they had seen. Then their stunned silence was punctuated by the shrill voice of the high priest.
‘Seize her.’
Two Shadow Watchers began running towards her while two more moved to cover the exits.
Willow jumped up onto the stage and ran. Frantically searching for an escape route, she saw two of the musicians’ large drums stacked up against the back wall of the theatre.
Time was now of the essence. Willow ran through the musicians, and pushed past the dancers. Then she stopped. The back wall was ten feet high.
There was a flash of blue in the corner of her eye. A Shadow Watcher was bearing down on her. Sidestepping and then ducking under him, and with a second guard in her sights, it was now or never.
Willow was the daughter of a god, physically fitter than any mortal man alive. She ran to the wall, leapt onto the drums and sprang upwards. Arching her body, she stretched out as far as she could with one arm and reached for the top. Her fingers just curled over the edge. In a second she was up and over.
Her pursuers floundered at the bottom, trying to boost each other up the wall.
‘Round the back,’ the high priest shouted to the Shadow Watchers guarding the exit and they disappeared from sight.
Hearing the high priest shouting at people to get out of his way, Willow began running up the narrow street in which she now found herself, although not knowing her way around Ogensdale, she was unsure where it would lead. Having been born without a shadow, she avoided cities whenever possible, visiting them only them when she had no choice. She disliked crowds. ‘A person is smart but people are stupid,’ she often tho
ught.
Willow bolted out into a main street, with the high priest and Shadow Watchers in hot pursuit. She crashed into a pie-seller, knocking them both over, and scattering his pies to the ground. Clambering to her feet, she ripped off her mask and began running down the street with her pursuers only a few steps behind.
The streets of Ogensdale were a hive of activity. Merchants from the nearby realms stood behind their stalls, shouting that their goods were the best and cheapest around. Street acts were juggling, singing and performing magic tricks for a few coins. And, of course, the pickpockets and thieves were there in force too. But her years spent running through Shadowroot Forest aided her as she ducked under street vendors’ arms and sidestepped minstrels playing lutes, all without breaking her stride.
Through the crowded streets she ran, periodically snatching glances over her shoulder to see where her pursuers were. She could hear them shouting, but they were losing ground on her. Zigzagging through the maze of streets and avenues, she eventually spotted a relatively empty passageway.
This is my chance! she thought.
She sprinted down it and turned right, hoping it would bring her back onto the main avenue. It was a dead-end – she found herself confronted by the large doors of a warehouse. Weeds grew around the outside and the wooden doors looked rotten, as if the place had been abandoned. She could hear footsteps running behind her as she quickly thought of how she could get inside and barricade the door.
She pushed the doors and they opened.
Marvelling at her luck, she ran inside and slammed the doors shut.
The warehouse was small and a musty smell hung in the air. Light spilled in through holes in the roof, illuminating stacks of wooden boxes. A broken ladder hung from the ceiling next to an open trapdoor.
Searching for something to lock the doors with or jam up against them, Willow heard voices. She backed off silently.
‘She’s inside. Don’t just stand there, get in.’
Willow looked up at the broken ladder. She dragged a box over to it, disturbing several nesting birds who flew up through the holes in the roof. She climbed on to the box and jumped to grab the bottom rung of the ladder. Yet even with her power and agility, she still couldn’t reach.
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