Plague of Shadows

by Michael Wisehart

  His father, who had spent most of his life at sea, was unaccustomed to living alone. Now he spent his days keeping his grandchild entertained with wild stories of the deep.

  The streetlamps on his block had already been lit. Barthol scanned the yards and windows of the adjacent homes, watching for any sign of movement. So far, it didn’t appear that anyone had been keeping watch on the place. He had circled the block twice just to make sure. He wasn’t sure why he was being so cautious. Everyone believed him dead.

  He exhaled slowly, his breath frosting into the evening air, reminding him once again of how inadequate his clothing was. He had traded his armor and uniform to a peddler for a simple tunic, trousers, and an overcoat, along with enough food to last him from Belbridge to Aramoor. The peddler had certainly come out ahead in their deal, but Barthol had hardly been in a position to argue. His need had been greater than the peddler’s.

  Barthol took one last look around before crossing the street. He squeezed his hands to stop them from shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the excitement of seeing his family that had him so nervous, especially knowing they thought him dead and gone. He couldn’t imagine what Kensey must have suffered, believing she would be forced to raise Arina and care for his father on her own.

  His journey home had given him ample time to consider if it was wise to return, or whether it would have been better to let them go on believing he had died. It would probably be safer. He had thought of relocating to one of the other kingdoms and sending for them once he had found stable employment.

  He shook his head. It would be far too cruel to let them continue suffering like this. Besides, he needed to tell someone about what had happened, if only to ensure that even if something were to tragically befall him, Dakaran wouldn’t get away with his treachery.

  Quickly, he made his way across the street to the brick wall that fronted his garden. With the help of a large oak growing just outside the wall, he reached the top and slung himself over, landing in a pile of raked leaves.

  He knelt where he landed, listening for any sounds of alarm. When none came, he moved forward through the small jungle of low-hanging trees his wife had been growing for shade against the afternoon sun. While Arina was at her studies, Kensey enjoyed her quiet time outside, reading her fancy novels.

  It was Kensey who had taught Barthol to read and write. He’d always complained that he had no need for such frivolities. He was a simple man who led a simple life.

  He almost laughed at the thought. His early progression through the ranks had been due, in large part, to the fact that he was one of the few armsmen who could read and write; a necessary skill when sending and receiving orders. He had never thanked his wife for that. He would make sure it was one of the first things he did after all of this was over.

  Testing the latch on the back door, he twisted it to the right. The door opened, and he slid inside. Barthol had barely managed to flip the latch back into place when he heard a high-pitched squeal behind him. Without hesitating, he leaped over the tea table and pressed his big hand over the girl’s mouth to stifle the outburst.

  The small parlor was dimly lit for the evening. The rest of his family were probably making ready for supper. Before he could pull back his hood, his wife and father burst into the room, halting where they stood when they saw the cloaked figure with his arm around the young girl.

  “Now listen here, you ruffian,” his father called out, grabbing the closest thing his hand could reach—his granddaughter’s wooden flute. “I be one of the king’s own, served thirty years as a fleet captain in His Majesty’s navy. Why, I’ve killed more men than you could count on your fingers and toes. If you don’t release my granddaughter this instant, I’m gonna stuff this here flute so far down your windpipe, it’ll give new meaning to the phrase ‘whistlin’ out your stern.’”

  Barthol laughed. “First of all, it was twenty-two years as a ship’s bosun, and the only thing you ever killed were the rats on dry dock that found their way into the galley cheese.”

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  “Barthol?” his father finally asked.

  “Of course,” he said with a smile as he removed his hood. He could feel his throat tighten. “Who else would be foolish enough to break into the house of a crazy man threatening death by flute?”

  “Well, I, uh . . .” His father quickly replaced the instrument on the nearby shelf. “What’s wrong with you, boy? Thought I raised you better than to go sneakin’ around and scarin’ us all half to death!”

  His wife stood there, jaw agape. Even with tears rolling down both cheeks and her long black hair covering half her face, Kensey was the most beautiful sight he’d seen in months.

  “Daddy!” Arina spun around and leaped into the air, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. “They said you were dead, but I knew it wasn’t true. No one can kill my daddy!”

  Barthol couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. He buried his face in her hair and sobbed.

  “You’re here!” Kensey cried as she rushed across the room and wedged herself under his arm, squishing Arina in the process. “You’re really here. They said you were dead. Died with the king. They called you a hero—” She stopped talking and began kissing. It felt like she was going to peel the flesh right off his face. It was wonderful!

  “Slow down there, Kensey,” his father said. “Give the man a chance to breathe.” He laid a firm hand on Barthol’s shoulder. “Supper’s on the table, son. Come have a seat, and you can tell us all about it over a bowl of pork and lentils.”

  Barthol turned to follow his father into the dining room. With Arina wrapped hand and foot around him and Kensey smothering him with her lips, only one thought came to mind: I need to die more often.

  Chapter 20 | Ayrion

  AYRION WINCED AS THE old tinker wagon managed to find yet another pothole, sending a blistering ache running along his rather bruised backside. He grunted at the old man sitting next to him.

  Tameel just smiled and shrugged, then gave the reins another whack. “Giddy up there!”

  It had been three days since their encounter with the Black Watch and the disturbing creature Tameel had called a sniffer. Instead of continuing east toward Riverton, as they had planned, they had turned northward, skirting the western edge of the Sidaran Forest. Each day brought them a little closer to the foothills of the Angoran Mountains and the town of Wellhollow.

  “What is Wellhollow like?” Ayrion asked, trying to take his mind off his sore undercarriage by studying the black onyx ring hanging from the chain around his neck. Clearly, it was important to him . . . but why? “Is it a large city?”

  Tameel leaned back against the wagon wall, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “I wouldn’t say it was a city.” He propped his feet on the toe board and relaxed his arms, the reins loosely gripped between his fingers. “More of a village, really. Maybe twice the size of Woodvale.” He tugged gently on the right strap, directing the two horses back to the center of the road. The prairie grass on the left side proved tempting, though, and gradually the horses drifted back toward it. “It’s a rough town, Wellhollow. Full of trappers, loggers, hunters—all sorts of mountain folk who’d much rather spend their days in the quiet of their own company than in the niceties of social life.

  “Up there,” he said, pointing ahead of them where the flat grasslands were eventually devoured by the curve of the horizon, “they have their own set of rules and codes to live by. Most wouldn’t understand, but you spend a winter up in those mountains, and you come to realize that those rules will save your life. They don’t hold much to meddlin’ in each other’s affairs, but if one of them ever finds some trouble, the others are pretty quick to lend a hand.”

  Ayrion liked the way that sounded. Could be a quiet life would suit him. If only he knew whether that was how he had always felt. He tucked the ring back under his shirt. No matter how many times he held it, the memories wouldn’t come.
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br />   Other than finding out his name and that he was Guardian Protector to a now-dead king, Ayrion was still no closer to discovering who he was than the day he’d woken in Tameel and Zynora’s cabin. If he was this Guardian, it might be safer for any of his past relations if he were to remain hidden—at least for the time being. At least until his memory returned.

  So, for now, he was more than happy to relinquish his role as Ayrion, Guardian Protector to the Crown, and take on the role of Ayrion, traveling partner to a pair of crazy old tinkers. Ayrion couldn’t be so uncommon a name that he shouldn’t use it. More importantly, he hoped that in using it, it might spark some more memories.

  Tameel kept the pace slow but steady, not wanting to push the horses. There was no need to rush. The next village wasn’t for another couple of days, and streams were in abundance.

  The enormous stallion that Tameel and Zynora had found on the battlefield whinnied from the back of the wagon where he had been tied. He didn’t seem to like it when Ayrion rode up front with Tameel.

  The horse seemed to know him. Whenever Ayrion stepped out from the back, it would snort, shake its mane, and head over to nuzzle him. Ayrion found the bond between them strong, quite possibly the only true link to his past, apart from his blades.

  Even bareback, he had found the black warhorse more comfortable than the hard timber of the front wagon seat. Unlike Tameel, Ayrion’s backside had not quite developed enough calluses to make the time spent up there more bearable.

  “. . . as long as you don’t say anything about that while we’re there, then you’ll be right as rain,” Tameel said. “Yep, nothin’ to worry about.”

  Say anything about what? Ayrion wondered. What was he talking about? Drat! I should’ve been listening.

  Before Ayrion could ask him to repeat it, Zynora stuck her head out of the front opening. “Either of you care for a snack? I just pulled out some salted pork. Tryin’ to make room for these extra supplies.”

  Ayrion looked at Tameel, who was already salivating. “I don’t believe we’re all that hungry up here,” he said with a wink. “Thank you, though.”

  “What?” Tameel bellowed, almost dropping the reins. “Speak for yourself, boy!” His eyes were wide and nostrils flaring when he turned and caught the amused looks on their faces. “Oh, very funny, Ayrion. Very funny.” He held out his hand for a cut of the meat. Tameel stuffed the piece between his teeth and bit down.

  With each new day, Ayrion grew all the fonder of the eccentric couple. The two were like the parents—or grandparents—he couldn’t remember having.

  He smiled as the first hint of afternoon sun peeked through the clouds and warmed his face. With the mist still clinging to his breath, Ayrion opted to leave his colorful tinker jacket on. He tugged the woolen cap lower on his head, flattening his mop of black hair around his face.

  “There should be a creek up ahead for us to water the horses,” Tameel said, somehow still looking comfortable despite the rutted road. The wooden seat had been worn down at the center and its edges rounded from the use the old man had put it through over the years. “Pass through here once or twice a year when making the rounds.” Tameel pulled back his cap and scratched the top of his white head. “Couple years back, we tried crossing with a caravan of wagons during one of the rainy seasons—”

  “Another reason why we stopped coming through this way during the spring,” Zynora said from inside the wagon as she listened through the open hatch.

  “Aye,” Tameel agreed. “One of the wagons overturned—”

  “It was the wagon directly in front of us,” Zynora interjected. She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Could just as likely have been us.”

  Tameel nodded. “Killed a young mother and her child. They drowned right in front of us. Nothing we could do. The river was far deeper than they had expected, and it pulled the wagon downstream. Some of the men tried jumping in, but they couldn’t get to them in time.” He shook his head.

  “Is it safe to cross now?” Ayrion asked, remembering it had rained a few nights back.

  Tameel nodded as he jerked once on the reins to remind the horses he was still there. “After that incident, the townsfolk built a bridge for crossing. It’s not much to look at, but it’ll get the job done in a pinch. Nope, never have had any problems gettin’ Ol’ Lera here across.” He affectionately patted the wagon’s sideboards, which had once been a deep green before the paint had faded and started chipping.

  Zynora stuck her head out. “Wish he’d rub his hands over me the way he does this old heap of wood. Might’ve had a few more children if he had.” She ducked back inside, leaving both men embarrassed and blushing.

  Up ahead, Ayrion spotted a break in the road.

  “What did I tell you?” Tameel said, pointing. The bridge was just coming into view. He was right. It wasn’t much to look at, barely large enough to fit a single wagon. One seemed to be getting ready to cross.

  On further inspection, the wagon didn’t appear to have any horses harnessed. Perhaps the owners were watering them before heading on. A group of men stood off to the right side of the bridge, just in front of the creek bed. Ayrion couldn’t make an exact count, but there looked to be at least five or six, possibly more. Far too many for a single wagon. Their horses were tied to a tree behind them.

  Another look at the wagon showed it had been turned sideways, almost as though it were blocking the bridge instead of waiting to move across.

  Tameel pulled up on the reins, slowing the team down as they neared. It was obvious now that the dray was being used to stop passage. The men turned at their approach.

  “What’s going on?” Zynora asked, sticking her head out the front and spotting the gruff-looking men off to the side.

  “Stay in the wagon,” Tameel said.

  “Aye, that be sound advice, husband.” She ducked back inside but left the front hatch open.

  A couple of the men in front stepped forward, revealing a young boy behind them. The boy wore a colorful array of clothing, much in the same style as the tinkers’, with a gold earring dangling from his left ear. His hands were clasped tight, hugging close to his body, and he kept his head lowered, his eyes darting nervously from one man to the next.

  “Looks like trouble,” Ayrion said.

  “Could be right.”

  “What be your business in these parts, tinker?” one of the men in front said, taking another step forward. He kept one hand on his belt and the other on the hilt of his sword. His round face was half hidden beneath a bush of whiskers.

  Ayrion leaned back so Tameel could address the man, who was still ten to fifteen feet from the wagon.

  Tameel put on his friendliest smile, the one he used when dealing with new customers, especially those who didn’t care for his way of pricing. “If you wouldn’t mind movin’ your wagon, gentlemen, we’d like to pass.”

  “Well, now, I guess that all depends.”

  “Oh?”

  The man smiled. He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together. “On the size of your purse.”

  A couple of the men behind him snickered. Ayrion hoped this didn’t turn into another situation like the one they had run into at Woodvale.

  “Ah, I see.” Tameel glanced at the rickety bridge and the road beyond. “I was under the impression that passage was free to all travelers.”

  “I guess you got the wrong impression, then.”

  Tameel fidgeted with the straps. “We’ve been travelin’ this way for years, never had to pay before.”

  “What can I say?” The man shrugged. “Things change. Times are hard for all of us. Man’s gotta earn a livin’.”

  The others chuckled again.

  “What be your price, then?”

  The man thumbed his chin. “Well, let’s see. We normally charge a couple of silvers, but for a pair of fine, upstanding tinkers like yourselves, we’ll make it an even four.”

  “Four silvers?” Tameel nearly came out of his seat. “What ki
nd of robbery is this? I could purchase enough grain to keep my horses fed for weeks with that much coin.”

  Ayrion laid a hand on Tameel’s arm.

  The highwayman smiled, glancing over his shoulder at the bridge. “Well, we got to consider the upkeep, and that ain’t cheap. Then there’s a charge for protection—”

  “Upkeep?” Tameel bellowed. “What upkeep?” He pointed at the dilapidated planks and fallen railings. “This old thing hasn’t had a new board put on it since the day it was built. And what kind of protection could you possibly be charging us for? Is there some kind of rabid overgrown prairie gopher living under this bridge?”

  The other man remained surprisingly calm, considering Tameel’s outrage. “Crossing protection. Like you said, this old thing is mighty unstable. Who knows what might happen if you were to try crossing it without our help?”

  Ayrion figured that must be what had happened with the young boy. Probably hadn’t been able to pay the toll, so they’d planned on taking it out of his hide. Ayrion turned to the hatch and whispered inside. “Get my swords.”

  “No,” Tameel said softly, so as not to be heard by the men. “No violence. We can do this without killing. Besides, they might hurt the boy.”

  “But I can—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Go get the purse.”

  Ayrion exhaled sharply but eventually crawled into the back. Giving in to these highwaymen was a mistake. As much as he hated letting bullies like this take advantage of them, though, Tameel might be right. They had to think about the boy. Ayrion could still hear the conversation going on outside as he made his way toward one of the chests near the back.

  “What about the boy?” Tameel asked.

  “What about ’im? He’s a rover. We don’t want their kind round here, drinkin’ from the same water as us honest folk.”