Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘I am not so sure. Given your treacherous nature and past indiscretions, Pandimonia, I am inclined to think this is a ploy to gain freedom.’

  Pandimonia’s cheeks flushed and her red eyes narrowed. She put her hands against the cell door, inches from Amrodan’s.

  Amrodan stood his ground.

  ‘Have it your way, old man,’ she said. And she returned to her bed.

  Perhaps she has changed, Amrodan thought. The old Pandimonia would have been more aggressive.

  ‘I may well give you a chance to earn my trust soon, Pandimonia. But believe me when I tell you, if I do it will be your last chance.’

  Pandimonia blew a long strand of hair away from her face before returning to her book.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Amrodan picked up his sack and walked to the next cell.

  The fifth cell was quiet. An oil lamp on a small table at its centre bathed it in yellow light. Amrodan looked through the bars at the stone statue on the heavy wooden bed. The statue was on its back, its hands behind its head. It was missing a lower leg.

  ‘Good evening, Lórkrond.’

  The sound of stone grinding on stone could be heard as the statue opened its eyes, took its hands from behind its head and sat up.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t the righteous monk himself,’ Lórkrond said. ‘Come to pass more judgement on me?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Amrodan replied, taking the keys that Brother Grimslöw had given him from his pocket and opening the cell door.

  Stepping inside, he pulled a stool over to the bed and sat on it. He reached into his sack, hauled out the leg and placed it on his lap.

  Lórkrond’s indigo eyes opened wide. He reached out to touch the leg.

  ‘Ah-ahh, not so fast, this leg comes at a price,’ Amrodan stated firmly.

  Lórkrond raised one stone eyebrow.

  ‘Of course, it always does with you. Let’s hear it, monk.’

  Amrodan took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the stone leg.

  ‘Lórkrond, I need you to do something,’ he began solemnly. ‘The fact that I ask you at all is a sign of how desperate I am.’

  ‘I like where this is going,’ Lórkrond said.

  ‘I need you to retrieve an item. A mask. I believe it is being held in the vaults of Saberwôlf Keep.’

  ‘You believe?’

  ‘I have been told that the Morinthí royal family has come into possession of it, and as they keep their fortune in Saberwôlf Keep, I can only surmise that the mask is there.’

  ‘And what if it’s not?’

  ‘Then all this will have been for nothing.’

  Lórkrond steepled his fingers.

  ‘So you want me to break in to Saberwôlf Keep, a veritable fortress, which has never been sacked or looted in its history, to search for an item that may not be there?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘Your leg,’ Amrodan said, patting it.

  ‘Oh, you’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘My freedom,’ Lórkrond said.

  ‘Lórkrond, I am going to make you a deal,’ Amrodan said. ‘I will return your leg and I am going to guarantee you your freedom. In return, you must find this mask.’

  Lórkrond grinned.

  ‘I also want you to fight against the gods,’ Amrodan said.

  ‘What if I say I’ll do both just to get out of here, and then disappear?’

  ‘The Shadow Council is growing weary of your behaviour, Lórkrond. They are going to initiate a kill-order should you cross them again. One more transgression and they will see to it that you are reduced to rubble and scattered to the four winds.’

  ‘Don’t come down here and threaten me, fool. I’m only here because you got lucky. Had it not been for your dragon showing up, I’d have smashed your head in along with your leg,’ Lórkrond snapped. ‘How is your knee? It must be tricky getting around this place, what with all those stairs.’

  Amrodan frowned and rubbed his beard.

  ‘Time is of the essence, Lórkrond. I need a yes or a no.’

  ‘Tell me this, Amrodan. You claim I’m here because I’ve robbed people and butchered them. What am I to do if I’m discovered in the vaults of Saberwôlf Keep once I find this mask, ask them nicely to let me leave?’

  ‘Fight your way out and bring the mask back at all costs.’

  ‘Rob them and then butcher them, you mean?’

  ‘Only as a last resort.’

  There was the sound of grinding stone again as Lórkrond shook his head. ‘You judge me on acts that you feel are criminal when they are none of your concern. Now that those acts might serve your purpose, you willingly ignore any potential wrongdoing and repercussions, choosing instead to cite beliefs that these deeds will somehow be for the greater good.’

  Amrodan sighed and put the leg back in the sack.

  ‘I have waited a long time to find the right group of people, Lórkrond. People brave enough to take a stand, who have the right attitude and more importantly, who have the right powers. Now that I have found them, you are going to risk it all by not helping me?’

  ‘Spare me the platitudes, monk. I’ve had people like you telling me fairy stories for over seven hundred years. Wake up from whatever dream it is that you’re in. Think you can kill the gods? It’s been tried by others and it’s resulted in nothing but death and destruction – for us, not them,’ Lórkrond seethed.

  ‘This time will be different,’ Amrodan said. ‘In the last few hundred years, developments have occurred. Like ripples in a pond, each event has led to another, culminating in us getting one of their weapons. And we have found the Shadowmancer.’

  ‘You’re a liar. The Shadowmancer’s a myth, nothing more,’ Lórkrond snapped.

  ‘Is it? I guess you will never know,’ Amrodan said, getting to his feet and walking to the door. ‘What if we succeed, Lórkrond? Have you thought about that? What if we are the first mortals to kill a god?’

  Amrodan left the cell and locked the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Lórkrond shouted.

  Lord Verínton watched as a swan landed on the until-then still waters of his lake. Inhaling, he leaned out of the window and filled his lungs with fresh morning air. On the four-poster bed behind him, he heard the rustle of clothes. He turned to see a naked servant girl reach for her tunic.

  ‘Did I tell you to get dressed?’ he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  The girl dropped her clothes.

  Taking a last look out of the window, Lord Verínton strolled towards the bed, loosening his dressing gown. He placed a hand on the girl’s cheek, moving it over the contours of her face.

  The girl was still and trying to avoid eye contact with him. He could feel her trembling. Glancing down he looked at the bruises on her body and smirked.

  ‘Do not get dressed until I tell you to in future,’ he said.

  The door swung open and a tall woman with long blonde hair, dressed in a green gown, entered.

  ‘When did we stop knocking?’ Lord Verínton said through gritted teeth.

  ‘The same time that we started fucking the chambermaids, it would seem,’ the lady replied, before turning to the girl. ‘Leave us.’

  The girl gathered her clothes and scurried out of the door. Lord Verínton threw himself onto the bed.

  ‘You need to get dressed, your guests will be arriving soon,’ the woman pointed out.

  She walked around the room, inspecting furnishings and running her finger along the top of a chest of drawers, checking for dust.

  Lord Verínton sighed. ‘Tell them to go away, Marälim. Bunch of freeloaders, they are only coming for the wine.’

  ‘Nonsense, they are coming out
of respect. Respect for their lord on this, the first day of his fiftieth year.’

  ‘Do I detect a hint of resentment?’

  ‘From me? No,’ she said. ‘How could I possibly resent you, big brother?’

  ‘Green has never suited you.’

  Leaning against one of the posts, Marälim picked up her brother’s undergarment with her finger and thumb, holding it at arm’s length. With a look of disgust on her face she dropped it.

  ‘A messenger arrived from Mibbleden. Baron Daltish will not be able to make it, his son has been killed in a horse-riding accident. Also no one from the Kürskle royal family will be here, there has been an outbreak of the plague in Pinedale.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, trying to muster the will to get dressed. ‘Tell me, what is it that you have got me for my birthday?’

  ‘The same thing I get you every year – my presence. Now, are you going to get dressed?’

  There was a rapping on the door.

  The pair turned as one to see a male servant in the doorway holding a wooden box. It was around two feet long with a floral pattern carved onto it. Around it was tied a purple ribbon.

  ‘This just came, My Lord,’ the man said.

  Lord Verínton took the box, which was heavy. He tilted it and heard something sliding inside.

  ‘Who brought it?’ he asked the servant.

  ‘It was left at the front gates, My Lord.’

  ‘What is it?’ Marälim asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lord Verínton replied.

  There was a tag attached to the ribbon. Best wishes on your birthday, Count Thryson. Looking up, Verínton mouthed the name.

  ‘I do not believe I know a Count Thryson,’ he mused.

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he certainly knows you,’ Marälim said. ‘Open it.’

  Lord Verínton untied the ribbon and opened the lid. He gazed down into the box.

  ‘It is an arm,’ he said.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It is a stone arm.’

  Marälim peered into the box. Indeed, a carved arm lay on a bed of straw.

  ‘Why would someone send you a stone arm?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said, staring at it.

  ‘A count that you have never heard of sends you a gift, and it is a stone arm?’

  ‘It looks to be of fine quality.’

  Lord Verínton closed the lid of the box before turning to his servant.

  ‘Take it to the store room beside the vaults.’

  The servant snapped into action, carrying the box from the room.

  Lord Verínton dressed then made his way towards the banqueting hall with his sister. They were about to cross the upper level of an atrium when they heard a voice.

  ‘Lord Verínton.’

  A servant was scurrying towards them with a large box in his hands. Panting, he placed it on the ground and stood up, straightening his back.

  ‘Begging your pardon, My Lord. It is heavy.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I do not know, My Lord. It was found outside the gates,’ the servant said.

  ‘The box has the same carvings as the one containing the arm,’ Marälim pointed out.

  ‘What does the tag say?’

  Greetings on your birthday, Lord Mouringrâd.

  ‘I do not think I know a Lord Mouringrâd either,’ Lord Verínton muttered.

  ‘Open it,’ his sister said.

  Lord Verínton opened the lid and inspected the contents before looking up at his sister.

  ‘It’s a stone head.’

  Opening his eyes, Lórkrond could see only darkness. It had been hours since he had heard anything. Judging the passing of time was something he had become expert in.

  He stretched out his hands. One touched what felt like straw, the other felt something unfamiliar, a coarse and flexible material. He knew that straw was being used as a packing material. Something was wrong.

  That’s strange, he thought. One of my arms has been removed from its box.

  Lórkrond could move his separated pieces independently and so concentrated on wriggling the arm packed in straw into the corner of the box. Bracing his elbow against the side, he crawled upwards and pushed open the lid with his fingers. He then squeezed his hand out and pulled himself free using the ridges on the outside.

  His arm dropped to the ground and stopped moving. He listened. All was silent. Quickly he used his arm to feel around and locate the other boxes, which seemed to be piled together. He grabbed the lid of the biggest box, the one at the bottom.

  This needs to be well-timed, he thought.

  The monks in the Black Monastery had made sure that the box containing Lórkrond’s body was shallow and cramped. He was wedged inside in such a way that if he curled upwards the lid would open. That was the idea.

  This worked back in the monastery, he thought. There’s no reason why it won’t now.

  Scrunching his torso, Lórkrond’s neck struck the top of the lid, knocking it open. As soon as it opened, he wedged his thumb inside.

  Got it.

  Manoeuvring his other fingers into the gap, Lórkrond’s arm pulled itself inside and lay down next to his body. He rotated his torso to accommodate his arm, which responded by creeping into position. As soon as the surfaces of his torso and arm met, they joined.

  I need to do this quickly, he thought, pushing the lid of the box with his newly attached arm.

  The rest of the boxes were piled on top of the one containing his body, and so when he opened the lid the other boxes crashed to the ground.

  Lórkrond’s head rolled out of its smashed box and across the floor, the room spinning in front of his eyes, before coming to rest in a corner. Now that he could see, the only light in the room came from beneath the door, lighting up crates, sacks and cupboards that were set against the walls.

  This isn’t the vaults, he thought. This is a store room.

  He dragged himself out of the box, picked up his head and fixed it to his neck. Then he looked for his legs. Locating the first, he rolled over to it and pulled it against his pelvis with his one arm. Then he spotted the other, and reaching for it, attached it in the same manner.

  When both were attached, he began searching for his other arm.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ he muttered.

  He opened and closed his fist of the missing arm, listening for the sound of his moving appendage.

  There was a dull pain on his hand.

  ‘What the…?’

  It happened again. He stopped moving his arm.

  He had the sensation of someone grabbing his missing arm and hitting it with a blunt object.

  How can someone be hitting me, all my pieces should be here, he thought. Wait a minute…I don’t believe this; these idiots have lost my arm.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It would seem that we have lost one of Lórkrond’s arms,’ Amrodan said.

  The room they were in, at the top of the tower, was draughty yet he felt warm. Amrodan knew that everyone could see the sweat gathering on his forehead.

  ‘How could you have lost one of his arms?’ Brother Sythâr asked.

  Amrodan tried to avoid eye contact with the five members of the Shadow Council as he spoke. ‘I had him broken up and sent one piece at a time.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Brother Dyám asked.

  ‘If I had not then it would have seemed as though someone were sending a normal statue. I could not run the risk of them putting him in the courtyard or the gardens. By breaking him up, I hoped he would be brought inside the keep; his parts put in the vault. I had hoped to confuse them, make them wonder why they had been sent individual stone body parts.’

  The five men behind the table talked among themselves. Standing in the centre of the room, A
mrodan wiped away the sweat and glanced out one of the stained-glass windows.

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ Brother Felikon said.

  ‘I had six messengers from Rith bring the different parts to Saberwôlf Keep. I sent them out a day apart and told them all to take different routes. The idea was that all the parts would arrive at different times, adding to the confusion.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘One of the messengers got robbed. He was set upon by a gang in the city of Wyndgiríth. They took everything, including Lórkrond’s arm.’

  Brother Dyám shook his head in dismay; Brother Timalüs sighed.

  ‘You have spoken with this messenger, I take it,’ Brother Apiol said.

  ‘Of course. His face is battered and bruised; he was lucky to escape with his life.’

  Brother Dyám put his head in his hands.

  ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ he said.

  ‘This was my fault.’ Amrodan pointed out. ‘I will rectify it.’

  ‘What do you propose to do about this problem, Brother Amrodan?’

  ‘I am going to send someone to find the arm,’ Amrodan stated.

  ‘Who do you have in mind?’ Brother Sythâr queried.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing…’

  Amrodan sat at one of the long tables in the refectory, his fingers interlocked.

  ‘The whole thing is an absolute mess,’ he said forlornly.

  ‘What exactly did the council say?’ Santhom asked in her well-spoken voice.

  ‘They were not pleased. They did not want to release him in the first place. Now he is gone, and we do not even have the mask.’

  Santhom nodded. ‘What are the options?’

  ‘One way or another, we have to find Lórkrond’s arm. He is probably inside the keep wondering about the location of his missing limb.’

  ‘Is there a chance he will try to get into the vaults without it?’

  ‘He was instructed to only attempt the recovery of the mask when he was fully assembled. I told him that if he put himself together and found there was a piece missing to break himself up again and wait.’

  ‘Do you think he listened?’ Santhom asked, sceptically.

  ‘I’m not sure. I do know that if we do not get his arm to him soon, he will reassemble himself and start killing people.’