Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  The next morning, the caravans and wagons began weaving through the Caulderon countryside, making for Arroncöl. It was late autumn and the weather had taken a turn for the worst. Snow lay on the higher ground and a chill wind blew through the valleys, biting into man and beast alike.

  Willow shivered in her wagon, in pain from the night before. Tugging against her restraints, she tried to pull her tunic around her neck for warmth. She then moved her teeth over the cuts on her lip and winced.

  Please let this end, she thought.

  At first, Willow had tried to escape, but the beatings had intensified after each attempt, leaving her with broken bones, and scars. Weeks had passed, then months, until Haralan and his lackeys crushed Willow’s spirit. Now twelve years on she resembled nothing of her former self.

  The rain fell heavily as the caravans and wagons creaked down into the Arroncöl valley. Trudging through the mud, they lurched from one pothole to another, the horses dragging the carnival the final few hundred yards.

  Night was rapidly approaching and dark clouds blanketed the sky when the wheels of one of vehicles got stuck. The path was narrow and the other wagons could not pass and so the workers got out, putting sticks and gravel in the potholes for traction.

  Haralan was overseeing the digging when Klakon tapped him on the shoulder then signed.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Klakon nodded urgently.

  Haralan followed him through the rain and mud until they reached the front of the convoy. Symalter was standing up ahead, beside the signpost giving the name of the town. As they approached, Haralan saw a figure tied to the sign. His face indicated that he was, or rather had been, a man somewhat past his prime. He was naked, and his shoulders and thighs had been bound to the post, the wire biting into the flesh. His hands and feet were missing. Large claw marks were visible all over his body and his throat had been ripped out. There was a look of terror on his face.

  Haralan and Klakon walked over to Symalter, who was gagging and heaving.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Haralan demanded. ‘It’s not like you haven’t seen a dead body before. Even one in as bad a state as this.’

  ‘I know this man.’

  ‘What? Who the hell is he?’

  ‘The man who said we should come here.’

  The rain was still beating down when the carnival finished setting up outside Arroncöl. Inside his caravan, Haralan pressed the glass against his cheek before swirling the wine around and pouring it into his mouth. Swallowing, he put the glass down and scratched his forehead.

  There was a loud rapping on his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted.

  Symalter shook the rain from his clothes. He was trembling.

  ‘What is it now?’ Haralan asked.

  ‘I’ve just come back from the town. I asked the locals about the mines,’ Symalter stuttered.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They said that there’s been no gold found.’

  Haralan sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. He sighed.

  ‘Well, we’re in trouble now,’ he stated.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone’s set us up. We’ve been fucking people over for twenty years. It was going to catch up with us sooner or later.’

  Haralan poured himself another large drink.

  ‘What do they want us for?’

  ‘Judging by the way they left your contact, I’m guessing it’s not to thank us for anything.’

  ‘But getting him to write to us; telling us to come here and then killing him the way they did?’

  ‘They wanted to send a message,’ Haralan said. ‘You have to hand it to them. Whoever they are, they’ve got us right where they want us. Bringing us to a town in the middle of nowhere; half our wagons stuck in the mud; the rain masking their approach and escape. Yeah, they’ve done a real number on us.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Well we’re not sitting here like lame ducks. If there’s no gold then we’re leaving, tonight. Tell everyone to pack up their tents. Bring the weapons and get Klakon to bring his crossbow, quick as you can.’

  As Symalter opened the door, Klakon’s body fell through it. The back of his head seemed to have been chewed open.

  Haralan buried his face in his hands as Symalter dropped to his knees and wailed.

  Three men gathered around the wagon, inspecting the wheel.

  ‘The rim’s buckled and two of the spokes are broken,’ one man pointed out. ‘Get the spare wheel from the clown wagon, and the hammer. We’ll prop the caravan up on boxes while we get the broken one off.’

  ‘Where are the boxes?’

  ‘There’s some in the canvas trailer. But you’ll need to make sure that you…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I saw a pair of green eyes staring at me. Must have imagined it. Josef, get me the wheel and boxes.’

  It was dark and the rain was falling heavily, as it had done all day. Josef stomped through the mud along the side of the convoy. Pulling his collar up against the rain, he squeezed between the caravans to get to the clown wagon.

  There was hot breath on his neck followed by a thump and something tearing through his back. An agonising ripping feeling shot through his stomach as four razor-sharp claws burst through his torso. The pain intensified as he was lifted off the ground and he felt something spill out as he dangled in mid-air.

  ‘Where’s Josef? We don’t have all day,’ Stegan shouted. ‘See where he is, Darljar.’

  Darljar trudged away to look for Josef.

  With his jacket pulled over his head, Stegan looked around for anything that could be used to firm-up the ground for the wheel-change. The light was fading quickly, the heavy rain cutting visibility even further.

  ‘Where the hell are these morons?’ he muttered.

  Something fell from the air, catching his eye and landing in a puddle. He took a few steps towards it to see what it was. Bending, he began to clean the mud off. It was a human head.

  Then something else appeared in his line of vision. The first thing he saw was a black cloak, then a pair of thick legs covered in brown fur. His gaze shifted upwards to the creature’s thighs and loincloth.

  A growl. Stegan looked at the creature above him. Through the rain, he saw a muscular figure and a pair of large green eyes. Stegan let out the scream that would be his last.

  Haralan slammed the door of the caravan. He and Symalter pushed as much furniture as they could against it and rushed to the windows, crouching beneath them.

  ‘What can you see? Can you see anything?’ Haralan demanded.

  Symalter stared out of the window, raising his eyes above the level of it for a few seconds at a time before ducking back down.

  A scream rang out. The men’s heads turned towards where it had seemed to come from.

  ‘Who was that?’ Symalter asked, through his tears.

  Seconds later, there was another scream.

  ‘We can’t stay here, we have to get out,’ Symalter said.

  ‘Where the hell to?’

  The caravan rocked as something landed on the roof. The wooden wall supports creaked.

  ‘It’s coming for us. We have to leave,’ Symalter shouted, ripping aside the make-shift barricade by the door.

  ‘What are you doing, you fool? You’re going to get us both killed,’ Haralan screamed. He tried to drag Symalter away. Symalter pushed him off then punched Haralan on the chin, knocking him to the ground. Swinging the door open he ran out. Symalter was grabbed and lifted into the air before he could scream.

  Open-mouthed in terror, Haralan stared as seconds later Symalter’s broken body fell back down to earth.

  Then something else hit the ground with a thud.

  Heavily cloaked and hooded, the eight-foot-tall cre
ature stalked into the caravan. Its shoulders and arms were unnaturally large. It had sharp claws, a pink tail and green eyes. It bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant rat. Its body was covered in what looked like bite scars. Haralan tried to back off.

  ‘Who…what are you?’

  The creature grabbed Haralan by the throat.

  ‘I… am… Utan Ra Bay.’

  Willow heard the footsteps over the noise of the rain. Her power to produce noise had been taken away, but her ability to distinguish sounds was as keen as ever.

  Those footsteps aren’t being made by anyone from the carnival, she thought; judging by the way the ground is shaking they’re being made by something that’s twice as big as a man.

  The wagon rocked and then there was an almighty smash as the wooden panel that hid the bars was ripped off. Willow cowered. A beast stood looking in at her, its hot breath rising through the rain into the cold night air. It was cloaked and its hood pulled up, giving it an even more fearsome aspect.

  It reached towards the metal bars and wrapped its claws around them. It pulled them apart, splintering the wood that held them in place. Willow froze; she was not afraid of dying, in fact she welcomed it. She was, however, concerned with how she would meet her end.

  The beast grasped the chain that bound her.

  This is it, Willow thought; this thing is going to strangle me.

  The beast let out a roar as it pulled on the chain. The links flew apart. It dropped what was left of the restraint and took several breaths. Willow stared in awe at the thing’s strength. The beast put out its clawed hand and growled her name.

  ‘Willow.’

  Walking with a slight limp Amrodan made his way through the dimly lit corridors and vast cloisters until he came to the highest tower in the monastery. The tower that housed the inner sanctum. Climbing the steep granite steps, he slowly made his way upwards to the chamber of the Shadow Council.

  The door was closed. He waited. From inside he could hear voices.

  Still discussing the information that I supplied, he thought. They will not like what I am about to ask of them.

  Made up of the five oldest and wisest monks in the order, the Shadow Council had been in existence for over seven hundred years. They kept records of all the known shadowless individuals in the Northern Realms, tracking down and identifying those who were most at risk or in need of help.

  Dedicated to finding and protecting those who were without shadows, they responded to the visions that were supplied to Amrodan by the pool, and tried to act in the best interests of men, rather than gods.

  Willow had been missing for over ten years. Now she had been found, the Shadow Council demanded answers.

  The winter sun cut through the frost on the stained-glass window of the highest tower in the monastery. The room was draughty and the men’s breath was visible when they exhaled. Five men dressed in black robes sat at one side of the table, all reading a transcript. One by one they finished, sitting back in their seats their expressions thoughtful.

  ‘What do we think?’ the man sitting in the middle, the oldest, asked.

  ‘It seems clear-cut,’ the man on his right said, the others nodded.

  ‘Bring him in,’ the old man said.

  The man nearest to the door rose. He ushered Amrodan in, before returning to his chair.

  ‘Brother Amrodan, we have read your account. Now tell us, in your own words, your findings,’ the old man, Brother Sythâr, said.

  Amrodan stood in the middle of the circular room, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his hood pulled down. ‘Willow Fairthrác has been found alive. She had been held captive by a travelling carnival troupe,’ he said.

  ‘Did the pool send you a vision?’ the old man asked.

  ‘No, Brother Sythâr, I received a letter. In it, I read that Willow had suffered extreme physical and mental abuse at the hands of the men who ran this carnival.’

  ‘Your report says that they prevented Willow using her powers.’

  ‘They cut out her tongue.’

  The five men shook their heads.

  ‘She was rescued, I see,’ Brother Sythâr said, holding up his copy of the parchment and examining it through his spectacles.

  ‘I do not have all the details,’ Amrodan began. ‘It seems she was rescued by someone called Utan Ra Bay. I have yet to meet this individual. The only information I have is that he is very large, has no shadow and his eyes are green, so I believe he was fathered by the god Pimböth.’

  One of the other monks took a sharp intake of breath. Brother Sythâr turned to him.

  ‘You have something you wish to add, Brother Apiol?’

  ‘How big is he? Bigger than Kurt Dorn?’

  ‘Apparently he stands eight foot tall. That makes him the biggest of my kind.’

  Brother Apiol raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You fail to mention where Willow and this Utan Ra Bay are now,’ Brother Sythâr said.

  ‘The letter did not say. If I know Willow, she will go back to Shadowroot Forest. That is where I found her and where she was raised. That is where she will feel most safe.’

  ‘This rescue resulted in several fatalities,’ the youngest of the panel said. He had steely grey hair and a stern look in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, Brother Timalüs. This individual killed everyone in the carnival troupe.’

  Brother Sythâr removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Killing mortals gets your kind a bad name, Brother Amrodan. That is why the masses fear you. That is why they refuse to harbour you and choose to hand you over to the authorities. To be accepted by the ordinary people of the Northern Realms, you must win their hearts as well as their minds. You know this.’

  Brother Amrodan bowed his head. ‘Yes, but these men carried out heinous acts on Willow for over a decade, they deserved—’

  ‘They deserved what, Amrodan?’ Brother Sythâr interrupted. ‘To die? Are we to be these men’s judges, jurors and executioners?’

  ‘No,’ Amrodan snapped. ‘We are to be the only allies that these children of the gods have. The only chance they have of survival, and the only light of salvation they can see in their otherwise dark existence.’

  Amrodan stepped closer to the table. His blue eyes were full of rage.

  ‘I saved Willow’s life long before any of you were born. She helped this council in any way she could and never refused us. She obtained the information that led to the capture of Pandimonia Toŕl before she could kill any more of my kind. Or have you forgotten that?’

  The five men sat in silence. They were all human; it was difficult for them to empathise with those immortal beings who did not have shadows.

  ‘Why have you requested a meeting of the Shadow Council?’ Brother Sythâr asked.

  ‘We need to help Willow. She is vital to the success of any attack.’

  ‘Help her? How exactly are we meant to help her?’ Brother Apiol asked.

  ‘They removed her tongue, not her powers.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘A world of difference. She thinks that most of her abilities are gone because her tongue has been cut out: I’m not so sure. I believe they are still there, and that her tongue was merely a projection device. If we can get something that allows her to aim her voice then in theory, she should still be able use her powers.’

  ‘What do you suggest? I have never heard of a scroll or potion that allows a person to regrow their tongue,’ Brother Dyám said.

  ‘It’s not a scroll nor a potion I speak of, it is a mask.’

  ‘A mask?’ Brother Felikon, who had been unusually silent, asked.

  ‘The Mask of the Spectre?’ Brother Sythâr said.

  ‘Yes,’ Amrodan confirmed. ‘I believe I know where it is and how to get it.’

  ‘Where is
it?’ Brother Dyám asked.

  ‘Saberwôlf Keep.’

  The members of the Shadow Council stared at Amrodan. They waited, to give him time to explain himself. When it was obvious that he was not going to do so, Brother Timalüs broke the silence.

  ‘Is this a joke? Saberwôlf Keep? In Valadöria? Where the Morinthí Royal Family keeps its wealth?’

  ‘Do you know any other Saberwôlf Keeps, Brother Timalüs?’ Amrodan enquired.

  ‘Saberwôlf Keep is the most secure place in the Northern Realms,’ Brother Apiol pointed out. ‘How exactly do you propose to get in, if it is indeed there?’

  ‘And who are you going to send to retrieve it, Brother Amrodan?’ Brother Timalüs asked. ‘Cymbatoriá? Straticös and Hess are missing. Kvältax is dead. Whose life are you going to risk this time?’

  ‘This is madness. An army could not get into Saberwôlf Keep. Its vaults are magically sealed. No one can break into it,’ Brother Dyám stated.

  Brother Felikon had sat with his arms folded, listening intently. Thinking before speaking was something he prided himself on. Now, he leaned forward.

  ‘You will not be breaking into it, though, will you, Brother Amrodan?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Brother Timalüs demanded.

  ‘I believe that he has given this problem more thought than any of you are giving him credit for,’ Brother Felikon said, before turning to Amrodan. ‘Tell us, Brother, the answer to this riddle. How does a person break into the one place in the world that cannot be broken into?’

  ‘One piece at a time,’ Amrodan answered.

  Brother Apiol shook his head. Brother Dyám slumped back in his chair. Brother Timalüs put his head in his hands. Brother Sythâr pursed his lips and Brother Felikon smiled.

  ‘Do you realise the seriousness of what you ask of us?’ Brother Sythâr said.