Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  She was burning up, her hands clammy and her head pounding. Red sores had already begun to form on her skin.

  What am I to do? she thought. The fever has set in.

  She heard a whistle.

  A figure was stalking through the mist towards her. Tall and thin, it wore black robes with a frayed hem that trailed on the ground, and a hood.

  It looked like a man: but a distorted one. Every part of his body looked as if it had been stretched; his head was elongated and his gaunt limbs gangly.

  The man was muttering words in a language the young woman had never heard. He spoke in a tone that, although low, carried through the empty streets. The crows and rats fled as the man stopped beside the coach.

  The young woman felt a dull burning on her skin and glanced at her arms.

  The sores were growing.

  The man pulled back his hood to reveal a bald head, twice as long as any that she had seen before. He also had grey skin and sunken eyes, and his hands ended in tendril-like fingers.

  ‘My dear, come out from under the carriage, you will catch your death of cold,’ the man said, in a refined and calm voice.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Why, I am Clanitâr Novastus,’ he said, bowing. ‘Please, allow me.’

  Clanitâr extended his hand. The skin was wrinkled, the nails black.

  The girl edged out from under the carriage and stood up, extending her hand slowly, until she touched his. His hand was cold and when she grasped it, spiders crept from under his sleeve, crawling onto her.

  She yelled, dropping the hand and frantically knocking the creatures off her arm. Blisters and boils were forming where Clanitâr had touched her skin.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘Why, my dear, I am the Plague Lord, here to spread malady and disease throughout your town,’ Clanitâr said in soothing tones.

  The woman coughed violently. Putting her hand to her mouth she felt a warm sensation and when she looked down, she found that her hand was covered in blood.

  Staring at her hand, she fell to her knees.

  ‘I am dying,’ she said, her voice having become even feebler.

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. You look the picture of pestilence.’

  Clanitâr put his hand on her head. Insects burrowed out from under his sleeve. Millipedes and centipedes scuttled over her face, cockroaches scurried into her hair and ears, and beetles of all shapes and sizes bit and scratched at whatever flesh they could.

  She tried to scream but her tongue had swollen.

  ‘Your time in this world is almost at an end, you poor wretch.’

  He removed his hand and the girl collapsed.

  Clanitâr walked away, whistling, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter. Rats began to pour from the sewers and the crows descended from the sky, making their way towards the dying woman.

  ‘Who is Clanitâr Novastus?’ Kurt demanded.

  ‘Hush,’ Amrodan snapped, looking around the library. ‘Speak that name quietly within these walls.’

  Amrodan put the book, concerning contagions and curses, back on the shelf and picked up his backpack. He signalled for Kurt to follow him. They made their way down to the storerooms.

  When he was sure that they would not be overheard, Amrodan spoke again.

  ‘Clanitâr was once a monk here. He was one of the first shadowless children to be brought to the monastery, arriving a few years after I did. We were the reason the Shadow Council was formed.’

  ‘Why did he leave? Was he banished?’ Kurt asked.

  ‘No one knows. One day he was here, the next he was gone. That was over four hundred years ago.’

  When they reached the storerooms Kurt began packing Amrodan’s saddlebags with trail-rations, camping equipment and provisions. They then left, walking towards the stables.

  ‘Someone must know something, Amrodan.’

  ‘His room was searched after he went missing; several books pertaining to demonology and the occult were found.’

  ‘Demonology? What do you think he was trying to do, summon something?’

  ‘All I know for sure is that most of our kind hides in the shadows, out of sight and far from view. Clanitâr walks around in the open without a care in the world. He appears once or twice a century in towns and cities across the Northern Realms and, where he arrives, the plague soon follows.’

  ‘How does he not attract the attention of the temples?’

  ‘That is what I aim to find out. At any rate, he must be stopped; the vision I received showed that he was responsible for the deaths of thousands of people in Pinedale.’

  ‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Kurt offered.

  Amrodan reached up and put his hand on Kurt’s shoulder, smiling warmly.

  ‘I wish you could come with me, Kurt, but I fear I must face him alone. He could infect anyone who accompanies me with his pestilence. My power will deal with whatever foulness he has in store.’

  ‘When you say stop, you mean capture, right?’

  ‘Clanitâr cannot be brought back here. He would bring a plague that could kill us all.’

  Kurt helped Amrodan prepare his horse for the journey. When this was done, he walked with him to the pathway that led to Rith.

  ‘How will you stop him?’ Kurt asked.

  ‘Hopefully I will be able to appeal to his better nature,’ Amrodan replied, with a wry smile, before galloping down the path.

  Clanitâr stood in the centre of the barn. Lit candles were set around the floor in a pentagram, and on the far wall he had drawn a chalk circle. At his feet was a bucket of fresh blood.

  Clear your mind, he told himself. Let apprehension seep from your consciousness.

  Breathing deeply, in and out, Clanitâr lifted the bucket. He smeared blood on the wall, taking care to keep it within the chalk circle. Now, he must wait.

  Clanitâr sat on a haystack and took out some dry, mould-speckled bread from the pocket of his robes. Licking off the mould, he broke the bread and put the pieces on the haystack. Putting one into his mouth, he crunched it.

  Just as he was about to eat another piece he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A black rat was sniffing the air.

  A smile on his face, Clanitâr closed his eyes. He concentrated on the rat, using his mind’s eye. He sensed that the animal was carrying fleas infected with the plague.

  ‘Welcome, my contagion-carrying friend; will you break bread with me?’

  The rat crept closer.

  ‘Come now; do not have me beg.’

  The rat scrambled up the haystack and nibbled a piece of the bread.

  The howl made the rat run. Like the sound of the wind blowing through a canyon, the noise echoed around the building.

  The blood-circle had been replaced by a rippling darkness that gave the circle a marbled appearance.

  Clanitâr dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  ‘Pimböth, God of Plagues and Disease, come to me. Answer my plea.’

  A voice that sounded like the squealing wind filled the barn. ‘Why did you summon me?’

  From the darkness, two green eyes: staring at him. His pulse began to quicken, and he cleared his throat.

  ‘I have done as you asked,’ Clanitâr declared. His normally rich voice shook with nerves. ‘Pinedale is yours, the town’s inhabitants have been infected with your essence and are dead or dying. Your humble servant now requests your guidance.’

  ‘Soldiers approach. They are here to stop the plague spreading. Kill them, my son.’

  Another howl ricocheted around the barn and the darkness within the wall disappeared, replaced by the bloodstained circle.

  Exhaling deeply, he sat back down on the hay bale. Pimböth was fickle, and quick to anger, and Clanitâr was never sure how the god would treat him. Having not incurred his f
ather’s wrath this time, a wave of relief washed his anxiety away, leaving his mind in solace, briefly, before he gathered his thoughts and turned his attention to the task he had been charged with.

  The sun had not yet risen when the two-hundred-strong battalion lit their torches and advanced on Pinedale.

  ‘Let’s get this done quickly,’ their commander shouted.

  They marched forward, ready to set Pinedale ablaze. As they approached the outskirts, they heard a slow haunting melody being whistled from inside the town.

  ‘Halt,’ the commander shouted.

  ‘There’s someone in there, sir,’ the chief lieutenant yelled.

  ‘Impossible. It’s been almost a week from the outbreak.’

  ‘How else could one explain the whistling, sir?’

  The whistling continued from the darkness of the town. The men looked at each other.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re about to get a rude awakening,’ the commander decreed. ‘Burn this accursed hole to the ground.’

  As his men were about to execute the order, a strong wind blew out from the town, battering into the front ranks and extinguishing their torches, forcing them to duck for cover. The wind stopped blowing as suddenly as it had started.

  ‘What in the name of the gods…?’ the commander muttered.

  The soldiers relit the torches. It was then that they noticed that their front ranks, which had borne the main blast of the wind, were covered in a sticky yellow dust.

  ‘What is that?’ the chief lieutenant bellowed.

  The soldiers tried to brush off the dust but it was stuck to them.

  ‘Get it off me,’ one of the soldiers shouted.

  ‘It won’t bloody-well come off,’ another snapped.

  Some of the soldiers began to cough, then others. Before long, half the battalion were bent double, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘What’s going on? What is that dust on them?’ the commander shouted to the chief lieutenant.

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know what it is.’

  One of the soldiers took off his helmet and wiped his mouth. He yelled when he saw blood on his hand. He clawed at his throat. The men standing around their stricken comrade backed off, seeing what had happened. Some them removed their own helmets and checked their mouths for blood.

  The infected soldiers fell, coughing-up blood. They writhed and pulled at their throats, their crying and bawling filling the early-morning air. The remaining troops backed off, as far as they thought was safe, and watched in dread as their comrades died on the ground.

  Within a few minutes, all the infected men were dead.

  ‘What dark sorcery is this?’ the commander screamed.

  ‘Why, my good man, this is not sorcery.’

  The voice was well-spoken and calm. The soldiers turned to its source, but all was dark.

  ‘Show yourself,’ the commander shouted.

  A tall figure walked out of the shadows. The soldiers drew their weapons. Upon seeing this, the man stopped moving.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the commander demanded.

  The man bowed. ‘But how remiss of me. Clanitâr Novastus, at your service.’

  ‘Are you responsible for the wind that has killed my men?’

  ‘Of course, but let us not stand here blathering, there is work to be done.’

  Clanitâr stepped back into the darkness.

  ‘Seize him,’ the commander shouted.

  The soldiers charged forward but by the time they had reached him, Clanitâr had gone.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ the commander said, addressing his chief lieutenant. ‘Take half the remaining men and go after him. I’ll take the other half.’

  ‘We should torch the town and forget about him. With any luck he’ll be burnt to death in the fire,’ the chief lieutenant pointed out.

  ‘He’s killed a hundred of our men,’ the commander shouted. ‘We’re not leaving here until he’s dead too.’

  Taking fifty soldiers each, the commander and his chief lieutenant headed into Pinedale to scour the town for Clanitâr.

  It was early morning, and Pinedale was shrouded in thick fog. Decaying bodies littered the streets and pavements, flies gathering around the incisions that the rats and crows had made. Temples and townhouses sat deserted; green and yellow fungi spread throughout as nature began to claim what had once belonged to man.

  The chief lieutenant led his troops slowly through the streets, checking buildings and outhouses for Clanitâr. Each time they encountered a diseased body they covered their mouths and noses.

  ‘He’s here somewhere,’ the chief lieutenant said. ‘Search the houses in pairs.’

  ‘I can’t see a thing in this fog,’ one soldier said.

  They heard a slow whistle.

  ‘That’s him,’ the chief lieutenant said. ‘Get after him.’

  The soldiers rushed up the street towards where the whistling seemed to have come from. They stopped at a crossroads.

  ‘There’s no sign of anyone.’

  ‘He can’t have just vanished,’ the chief lieutenant said.

  There was a sound of metal grinding on stone. The soldiers moved to where the noise had come from and saw a sewer cover slid to the side, and a hole leading downwards into darkness.

  ‘He’s trying to use the sewers to escape,’ the chief lieutenant said.

  The soldiers followed their officer down the ladder into the sewer. As they dropped off the last rung, each soldier landed knee-deep in foul-smelling liquid.

  ‘This smells disgusting, what is it?’

  ‘I think it’s shit, sir,’ one of his men replied.

  ‘Find him, so we can get out of here.’

  When all of the soldiers were in the sewer, they lit their torches and spread out, searching the chamber they had dropped into. They saw that the walls of the sewer had lines of holes from inlet tunnels around six-inches wide, equally spaced throughout the stonework.

  ‘There’s no way that a man could fit through one of them,’ the chief lieutenant said.

  The chamber was filled with the sound they had heard before: metal grinding against stone. When they looked up, they saw that the sewer cover was moving over the opening. Once it was sealed in place a squealing could be heard echoing around the chamber.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ a soldier shouted.

  ‘It’s coming from the walls. There’s something else in here,’ another shouted.

  One of the soldiers held his torch to an inlet hole and saw light reflecting from a pair of eyes.

  Rats began pouring from the holes in the walls. They squealed and screeched. In less than a minute there were thousands, biting and scratching the soldiers.

  The rats attacked with ferocity, their hostility and aggression peaking once they had the taste of blood. Soldiers swung their swords in desperation but where one rat fell, five more took its place. The chief lieutenant looked on in terror as they began feasting on his men.

  Panic gripped the soldiers and there was a stampede to the ladder. Men fell into the water and got trampled on, knocking others out of the way in a bid to escape. The chief lieutenant fought his way into a corner and watched as more rats filled the room. One by one his men fell under the weight of numbers until he alone was left. Shining his torch at the rats he watched as thousands of pairs of eyes began to come towards him.

  The commander and his men marched through the town. He could sense their apprehension after what had happened to the front line of the battalion. The fog, which showed no sign of lifting, only added to their unease.

  ‘Spread out and stay alert, we don’t want to miss him,’ he said.

  ‘Miss me? My dear fellow, how could you possibly miss a man of my magnificent stature and impeccable taste?’

  The commander spun around just as Clan
itâr disappeared into the fog.

  ‘Seize him.’

  Now he had reappeared ten yards further up the street, albeit barely visible. The soldiers chased after him, but each time they felt they were closing in on him he disappeared.

  Panting, the soldiers came to a halt in the town square, beside a fountain. They looked for their target.

  ‘Find him,’ the commander exhorted.

  ‘Will you not join me?’ Clanitâr was in the doorway of the town hall, a large limestone building with marble pillars, waving. He walked through the doors.

  ‘Now we’ve got him,’ the commander said.

  The commander and his men ran up the steps and came to a hallway which lead to a banqueting chamber. The room was large and spacious; now abandoned, there were marks on the wall from where its fixtures and tapestries had been looted. Clanitâr was in the middle of the room, his hood pulled up and a cowl covering his face. He was over a foot taller than the tallest of the soldiers.

  ‘Get him.’

  The soldiers surrounded Clanitâr and drew their swords.

  ‘Is there any need for violence?’ Clanitâr’s voice was lower than it had been and had a menacing tone.

  ‘I don’t know what sort of devil you are, but I intend to send you back to hell.’

  ‘It is not I who will be going to hell this day, Commander.’ Clanitâr raised his arms and bowed his head. He muttered something.

  ‘He’s casting a spell,’ the commander said. ‘Slay him.’

  The soldiers swung their swords. As the first blade landed, Clanitâr’s body burst into a swarm of flies.

  The commander and his men stood, incredulous, as the swarm grew, doubling every few seconds and filling the room.

  The commander slashed at the flies with his sword. Some of his soldiers stayed in the banqueting hall, swatting at the flies; others tried to run. But their attempts to escape were in vain. The flies flew through the visors of their helmets, up their noses and into their mouths. They crawled into eyes and ears, and clogged nostrils and windpipes, choking the soldiers until each man lay dying on the ground.