Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘Fast-acting poison and magical crossbow bolts? Anything else?’

  ‘That is everything,’ Rual stated.

  ‘These things won’t be easy to come by. I’ll need to ask my connections in the black market about them. They wouldn’t be cheap, either. I’d want two thousand gold; half before the job and half after, plus my fee.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Trisidulous stared at Rual. Never, in all the years that he had been doing jobs like this, had someone agreed so quickly to part with such a vast sum of money. In Trisidulous’s line of work, bartering was almost mandatory. It made Trisidulous even more suspicious.

  ‘When would we leave?’ he asked.

  ‘A week from now,’ Rual replied.

  Rual and Kotoba left the room. Trisidulous waited until their footsteps were no longer audible and then blew out the candle. A few seconds later, after his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, everything in the room appeared in shades of grey. Sitting there, he thought about the dangers involved in the job.

  He opened the money bag and took out a small handful of gold coins, putting them in his pocket. He tied up the bag again and picked it up before leaving the room. Light from the oil lamps in the corridor spilled in, blinding him briefly.

  At the end of the corridor, he opened the outer door of the tower. Wind came whistling up the stairwell and battered him as he descended the steps. He saw that snow was falling heavily and had already covered Rual and Kotoba’s tracks. Pulling his cloak tighter he reached the bottom and slipped through a side door that led inside the main building.

  The black-and-white floor tiles were covered in small, muddy footprints and he heard children crying.

  He put his foot beside one of the little footprints. Trisidulous’s foot was dark green and scaly, it had three large toes at the front and one at the back, each ending in a sharp, black claw. The toes at the front had webbed flesh and could wrap around objects, like an eagle’s talons.

  ‘Sid?’ a voice said in a surprised tone.

  Trisidulous looked up to see a young woman with a pile of folded blankets in her arms.

  ‘Mother Vanya, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Trisidulous said.

  ‘Are you here for one of your meetings?’ she asked, putting the blankets down on a table by the wall.

  ‘I’ve already had it; the men I was meeting came in and left through the outer stairway. I didn’t want them to frighten the children. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, not at all. Will you be staying? We will be giving the children supper soon.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Trisidulous said. ‘It’s probably best that I go on home. But first, take this.’

  Trisidulous handed the bag of money to Mother Vanya.

  ‘Oh, goodness, thank you.’ Mother Vanya’s eyes opened wide when she felt the weight of the bag. ‘You know, there is really no need to give me so much, half this amount would suffice…’ Mother Vanya began.

  ‘Forget it,’ Trisidulous said as he left through the same door he had entered.

  Trisidulous set out into the night. His clawed feet sank into the snow and his visibility was limited to no more than ten yards. Bracing himself against the cold he made his way across the snow-covered countryside towards the city of Krattaca.

  For hours he walked, avoiding people whenever possible. Not that many people travelled to Krattaca. Once the jewel in the crown of the Realm of Tantoräc, the capital city had been a centre of learning, boasting libraries and universities that were the envy of the other Northern Realms. Its people and its rulers all prospered in safety behind its fifty-foot-high walls. But time had not been kind to Tantoräc; wars and corruption had blighted the realm for centuries, leaving it a shadow of its former self. The city was in decline, and a sinister element had crept into it. In an attempt to counter the criminality, the city guards imposed a curfew and operated a draconian approach to law-breaking – a fact that Trisidulous was acutely aware of.

  The snow stopped falling as Trisidulous reached the deteriorating walls of the city. Sections of them had collapsed under the weight of a brutal siege centuries ago and had never been repaired. Creeping in through one of the gaps, he looked around for any city guard patrols. When he was sure there was no danger of detection, he advanced carefully.

  Krattaca was dark and oppressive, yet there was something calm and serene about its empty streets after curfew. Weaving through the built-up lanes and enclosed alleyways, Trisidulous made his way to the poorer part of the city. Here the ramshackle buildings were made of crumbling cob, painted with tar in an attempt to protect them from the elements.

  He slunk between buildings, before finally pausing at a corner house, facing a blacksmith’s. He had only walked past it once when it was open, one early morn, but he recalled how it had filled the surrounding streets with the smell of fresh bread. He saw the faded sign hanging above the door, swinging gently in the wind, and half-covered in snow: The Oven Door.

  Trisidulous walked around to the back and checked to see whether anyone was watching him. Content that he was not being followed, he approached the rear door and took a key from his pocket. Some time ago he had shielded the owners of the bakery from a protection racket run by local thugs, and a trust had built up between them ever since.

  The kitchen was still warm with heat from its ovens. Trisidulous shook the snow from his cloak and looked around. Bags with ‘oats’ and ‘flour’ printed on them were stacked in the corner beside a pile of mixing troughs. Blocks of wood for the ovens were stacked at the far side of the room, opposite the water pump. A large oak table sat in the middle of the room; on it had been laid a sack.

  Trisidulous picked up the sack, which was half-full of food, and slung it over his shoulder, replacing it with two gold pieces from his pocket.

  Locking the door behind him, Trisidulous headed back into the snow. As he trudged through the streets, the houses became less and less salubrious. Some were boarded-up, some burnt out. He eventually arrived at a cobblestone street with a row of abandoned houses down one side and a derelict warehouse on the other.

  Trisidulous stepped into the shadow of one of the warehouse doorways and waited until he was sure that he had not been followed. He then edged along the wall to the corner of the building. He took off his glove and scraped the snow from the top of a stone slab. Digging his claws under the slab, he pulled it to the side revealing a tunnel leading downwards.

  The smell of human waste rose up to greet him.

  Ah, the sweet smell of home, he thought.

  Trisidulous climbed into the shaft and pulled the slab back across the opening. He continued down the thirty-foot shaft, digging his claws into the gaps between the stone blocks. At the bottom he hitched the food sack back onto his shoulders and jumped down onto a walkway. The sewer was pitch-black, but his eyes quickly adjusted to it. It was a ten-foot-wide conduit with a two-foot-wide walkway on either side, and contained everything from human waste to animal remains.

  He crossed over the sewage and sludge by means of a rudimentary wooden bridge before coming to a solid oak door. He was home at last.

  Once inside, he lit a storm-lantern in the corner, revealing the full splendour of his dwelling. The room, which was designed to act as an overflow outlet, was a fifteen-foot-square chamber. Several gutters were dug into the floor to carry excess sewage to other parts of the system. A metal slab propped up on stone blocks acted as a bed and the small chassis of a two-wheeled cart served as a table.

  Trisidulous took off his cloak and set his knapsack down on the bed. He then peeled off his scarf, sat down at the table and opened the sack, lining up its contents on the table.

  Stale bread, cold mutton pies and sour milk; delicious, he thought.

  His forked tongue flicked up and down as he smelled his food. Savouring every bite, Trisidulous ate his supper. When he was full he took the remai
ns into the corner and sat on the ground, hand-feeding the rats, which had crawled up from the outlet chutes.

  As he lay down after his meal, Trisidulous thought about being in the orphanage earlier. He reached under his bed for a small metal box. Its hinges creaked as he opened it. Inside were a folded-up letter, a crudely drawn picture and a tiny cloth wristband. Trisidulous gently took the items out. The parchment was yellow with age, the cloth of the wristband frayed and faded. The wristband read ‘Abandoned on doorstep’. Trisidulous stared at it, as he had so many times before, and then put it back in the box. He picked up the picture. It was old, and the paint had cracked in places, but the figures could still be identified. A woman in blue clothes and a nurse’s cap stood beside a small green figure with red eyes and tongue. The small figure looked like a lizard that had found a way of standing on its hind legs. He placed the picture back in the box and then carefully unfolded the letter, reading it aloud.

  My dearest Sid,

  My time in this world is almost at an end. I have written this letter and asked that it be given to you when I am gone. I feel that I must tell you on paper what I could never convey in person; that is, how happy I am to have met you. From the moment I found you wrapped in a tattered shawl on the steps of the orphanage, I knew you were special.

  You will never know how glad I am that we hid you from the men who were sent to kill you. I want you to know that, although at times I was hard on you, please understand that I only ever acted out of love. I have cherished every minute that you have spent with us and will be heartbroken when you leave.

  I do not know what the future holds for either of us, but in whatever direction life takes you, please be careful. The world is a dangerous place for shadowless ones such as you, and there will always be people who will try to hurt you no matter where you go.

  Farewell and stay safe, my son.

  Mother Byrdell

  Trisidulous was incapable of crying. His eyes were devoid of tear-ducts. But he had feelings, and as he curled up on his metal slab his heart ached that he had not been able to say goodbye properly to the woman who had raised him.

  I’m sorry, for everything, Mother, he thought, as he folded the letter and closed his eyes.

  Lord Lycus Sengart was looking at himself in the full-length mirror, his hands on his hips. Gazing at his reflection, he puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach for a few seconds, before exhaling and letting everything fall back into place. He had a coronet in each hand, trying one on, then the other, fixing each in place, turning his head and admiring himself.

  The gold fits better, but the silver definitely makes me look younger, he thought.

  Lord Sengart was a man in his fifties with steely-grey hair that was receding at the front. He had the will of a much younger man, even if his physique had started to slip a little.

  ‘Silver it is,’ he said.

  The silver coronet on his head, Lord Sengart returned the gold one to a marble bust.

  Lord Sengart strode through the room, which was circular and full of caskets and chests. Weapons and armour had been placed on racks and walls, and magical artefacts of renown were displayed in glass cases, like items on show in a museum. Taking one last look in the mirror, Lord Sengart left and locked the door behind him, pocketing the key.

  He made his way down the spiral stairs and walked through the halls and corridors of the castle before emerging into the courtyard. A heavy shower of rain was falling, making the stones slippery underfoot. Upon seeing him, a royal footman dressed in a waistcoat and knee-breeches put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. A horse-drawn coach, emblazoned with the Sengart crest, a pair of crossed lances, came hurtling round the corner before sliding to a halt. The footman raced to the side of the coach and opened the door.

  ‘The knights are waiting for you, My Lord,’ the footman said.

  Lord Sengart walked from the tower doorway to the coach with the royal footman holding his cloak above him, sheltering him from the rain.

  The coach slowly manoeuvred its way through the courtyard. Four knights in full dress uniform moved into place; two trotted their horses out in front of the coach and two moved in behind.

  The cavalcade went down through the outer curtain of the castle, across the drawbridge and out through the main gates into the open countryside. Lord Sengart watched the peasants toiling in the fields and farming his land in the rain, and allowed himself a wry smile that it was not he who was ankle-deep in mud.

  The coach trundled along its route. Even though it dipped in and out of potholes and had to bypass muddy sections of the road it covered good ground, and by midday they had reached a small wooded area. The rain eased as the escort reached a small ravine.

  Sitting gazing out the window at the local flora, Lord Sengart’s mind drifted to his nephew’s upcoming wedding.

  I do hope Countess Kirsyrth is there, he thought. The countess was renowned for her looks, and the fact she could not hold her wine, becoming lascivious when drunk.

  A swooshing sound, quickly followed by a thunk, broke his concentration.

  The coach stopped. There was shouting from up ahead then someone fell past his window.

  ‘Get Lord Seng—’ The sentence was cut short.

  By sound of the voice, it had come from one of his knights. Lord Sengart saw one figure up on the ridge with a crossbow, and then another. His heart began pounding as he heard the thuds of crossbow bolts hitting steel and the yells of his men followed by silence.

  Panic rising, he peered out of the window of the coach; should he make a run for it?

  He slumped back in horror. All of his men were dead. His coach guards were face down on the ground and his knights had fallen from their horses. All felled by crossbow bolts.

  Lord Sengart sat frozen in terror.

  A noise behind him caused him to spin around. A figure was tapping the glass window of his coach. All he could see was its bright red eyes.

  The rain fell heavily on Lord Sengart’s naked body as Trisidulous circled him, making mental notes. Little finger on left hand missing; long scar on upper thorax and medium-length scar on right hip; brown birthmark on left shoulder; broken nose bending to the right.

  He studied the fine details of the skin next, paying particular attention to its tone. Looking intently, he recorded which parts of the lord’s body contained hair, and its colour.

  ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’ Lord Sengart asked, his terror apparent in his voice.

  Trisidulous stopped circling.

  ‘Repeat after me, “I have forgotten something. I must go and get it and then I will be leaving again for the wedding”,’ he hissed.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  Trisidulous placed his punch-dagger under Lord Sengart’s jaw.

  ‘Repeat after me, “I have forgotten something. I must go and get it and then I will be leaving again for the wedding”. Or I will cut out your throat,’ Trisidulous snarled.

  Lord Sengart repeated the words in a broken voice.

  ‘Again.’

  Shaking from cold, wet and fear, Lord Sengart repeated the phrase over and over again. Any time he paused, the tip of the blade was pushed against his skin with greater force.

  Trisidulous repeated the words in tandem with Lord Sengart. He only had one go at this. Normally he had more time to imitate his target, learn the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies associated with them. It could sometimes take days, even weeks, of stalking his intended victim in order to impersonate them properly. He studied the way they moved, talked, even slept. Not this time. This was rushed. Time was a luxury he could not afford. The window of opportunity was closing rapidly.

  ‘Give me his clothes,’ Trisidulous said to Rual.

  Rual handed him a cloth sack. Snatching it, Trisidulous walked into the forest.

  Scar on chest; scar on ri
ght hip; little finger missing from left hand; birthmark on left shoulder; broken nose, he repeated like a mantra. He slunk further into the woods, out of sight. Rual and the others had been warned not to come near him while he was changing. The sight of strangers gawking at his body morphing and contorting stung his pride.

  Stripping off, he put his arms out and concentrated. The heavily ridged scales on his head began to soften. The razor-sharp teeth that protruded from his mouth retracted as his snout withdrew into his face. Like wax on a hotplate, his scales began to melt and spread out, coalescing to form a single sheet of skin. His black claws shrank into his fingers and toes, as his reptilian appendages changed into those of a human.

  Lord Sengart stood shivering in the rain. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he rubbed his body to warm it. He watched as his knights and guards were stripped and dumped in a ditch on the edge of the forest. Their armour and uniforms were now being worn by the men who had killed them, with the bloodstains washed out or covered up.

  ‘I do not know who you are; but I guarantee you will not get away with this,’ he said to Rual.

  But Rual was looking into the forest. Sengart followed his gaze and was startled by what he saw.

  A man who looked identical to him was walking out of the trees, dressed in his clothes. Rual stood open-mouthed, and looked around at his men. Their faces let him know that they were equally stunned.

  Trisidulous approached Rual. ‘Hide him in the forest, and give him something to wear before he freezes to death,’ he ordered. The low rasping voice had not changed.

  ‘Do not worry, my men will take care of him,’ Rual replied, with a grin.

  Trisidulous gripped him by the shoulder. ‘If they harm a hair on his head, I’m holding you responsible.’

  ‘What does it matter if he lives or dies, we have you now,’ Rual pointed out.

  ‘He’s our insurance, you idiot.’

  Leaving three of his men to stay with Lord Sengart, Rual climbed on top of the coach with another man dressed as a guard, and turned it around. The four dressed as knights mounted their horses and got into position. Trisidulous stepped inside and slammed the door shut. He sat back and inspected the coach interior; the red, cushioned velvet and the gold-leaf trim made him wonder just how much Lord Sengart was worth. The coach jolted forward as the horses began pulling it along the road.