Plague of Shadows

by Michael Wisehart

  “What’s your business here?” came a voice from the back. Lenara turned to see a short, solidly built woman standing in front of a set of swinging doors. A once-white apron covered her blouse and skirt. Her hair wasn’t nearly as vibrant a red as Lenara’s, but that was no doubt due to the grey lightening the natural color. The woman tucked a fallen strand behind one ear as she waited for an answer.

  “Our business is our own,” Sylas said, drawing nasty looks from a few of the local patrons. “We are seeking information.”

  “Information, ya say?” The stout woman took another step into the room. “Hmm? Information isn’t cheap. In fact, pretty much nothin’ around these parts is these days, if ya know what I mean.” The woman wiped her hands down the front of her discolored apron before sliding them inside the front pockets. Lenara spotted a butcher-knife-shaped bulge at the bottom.

  Sylas smiled with Joren’s boyish face. “Yes. Information can be rather costly, indeed. It is a most valuable commodity. I should know,” he said, gesturing to himself. “It is my trade, after all.”

  “And what is it you do, might I ask?”

  “A little of this. A little of that.”

  The woman waited for a straight answer, but when she didn’t get it, she finally asked, “And what kind of information could have possibly sent ya all the way to the butt end of Elondria? Whatever it is, it must be very important.” Lenara could see the wheels in the tavern owner’s head spinning as she tried to determine how much that information might be worth. The poor woman had no idea what was coming her way.

  “We’re looking for a small party of travelers that might have passed this way in the last couple of days.”

  More than one set of eyes showed recognition, but no one spoke, probably waiting to see what the little woman at the back would do first.

  “Travelers, ya say? Hmm, don’t get many of those ’round these parts.” The woman pursed her lips. “What do they look like?”

  “Two men, a woman, and a little girl. One of the men is about this tall,” Sylas said as he gestured a little above his own head, “broad in the shoulders, built like a smith, red hair. The other man’s shorter, brown hair, and has a rather large nose. The woman traveling with them is short, olive-skinned, with cropped hair, and the little girl . . . well, she’s a little girl.”

  The woman pinched her chin. “I must say, that’s a pretty specific picture ya just painted. Sounds a mite personal, if ya ask me. What exactly ya wanting ’em for?”

  “If I thought that was any of your business, I’d have shared it with you.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and some of the locals scooted their seats back. “So, what’s it worth to ya?” She rubbed her fingers together. “How much ya willin’ to pay for this information?”

  “Pay?” Sylas held his smile. “Who said anything about paying?”

  The woman looked confused. “Ya just said that this information was valuable. Ya don’t expect us to make fair trade without being justly compensated, do ya?”

  “Ah, I see you have misunderstood me, madam. I have no intention of paying for this information. I was merely being polite in offering you the opportunity to give us what we’re looking for, before more unpleasant means of acquiring it become necessary.”

  The tavern owner stepped forward and bared her teeth. “You’ve definitely come to the wrong town to start laying down threats, mister.”

  All across the room, men stood, blades of all shapes and sizes appearing in their hands.

  “Here’s some free information for ya,” the woman said with a nasty grin as she pulled the butcher knife from her apron. “Yer gonna wish ya’d never set foot in my establishment.”

  Idiot woman. She was going to force Lenara to get involved, something she had hoped to avoid. Killing townsfolk who didn’t have the brains to keep their mouths shut was not part of her job description, at least not the part she enjoyed.

  “Well?” the short woman said, raising her knife. “What are ya waiting for? Kill ’em both.”

  Lenara reached into her overcoat and pulled out a single steel rod laced in runes. It was a beautiful weapon. A weapon from an ancient time when wizards and sorceresses ruled the world.

  One of the men in front took a step forward and smiled. “Apparently, you’ve come ill prepared,” he said, and lifted his hatchet.

  Lenara raised the silver rod and called its name in the ancient tongue, “Cryora.”

  A single braid of fire shot from the tip of her rod and draped across the floor, smoke rising from where it touched the wood.

  No one moved.

  For a brief moment, a single thought crossed her mind. She hoped Joren couldn’t see what she was about to do.

  She swung the whip overhead and with a loud crack, snapped it down across the man in front, who was already backing away. It entered from the top of his right shoulder and exited at the left hip. The two halves slid apart and landed on the floor between her and the rest of the tavern’s patrons.

  Some of the men near the front heaved at the sight; others froze.

  Lenara shifted her feet, and all darkness broke loose as men scattered like rats for their cubbyholes, climbing over the top of each other as they fought to make for the back exit or side windows before the whip reached them. What they didn’t know was that the rest of the Black Watch had surrounded the place with orders to round them up.

  After the initial upheaval had finally died down and the men were huddling in groups along the back wall, awaiting whatever was coming, Sylas strolled across the room and tossed a few bodies aside that had piled up near the kitchen doors. Reaching underneath, he pulled the small tavern owner free. Her patrons had broken at least one of her legs and probably a few ribs after trampling over her to get out.

  Sylas dragged her over to one of the few remaining usable seats and sat her down. She was trembling. Lenara wasn’t sure if it was from the broken bones or what she saw in the inquisitor’s eyes as he removed what looked like an elongated corkscrew from his pocket and held it up for the woman to see. It was an instrument Lenara had seen him use before. “You wanted to know what I do for a living.” He leaned in close. “I’m going to show you.” He slid the instrument down her bruised cheek. “This is going to be fun.”

  Lenara walked outside and shut the door before Sylas began. Hurting people because they deserved it was justifiable. Hurting people because you found it fun, that was something else entirely. She turned and walked down the street, not wanting to listen, hoping all the more that Joren was unaware of what was happening.

  Chapter 57 | Ayrion

  THE STARS WINKED OUT one by one as night released its grip. The sky transformed from the color of pitch to stone grey, waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it a new, more vivid arrangement of colors.

  Ayrion twisted in his saddle to get another look at the long caravan of wagons behind him. It had been a slow march from their encampment to the outskirts of Belvin, but he had pushed as much as he dared to give them time to set up defenses while the vulraaks hid in their dark holes.

  Their group had grown to somewhere around a hundred men and women capable of wielding weapons.

  There were still people arriving at the rover encampment every day, but time was running out. They needed to strike before the creatures had spread far enough that stopping them became impossible. He had given Nell instructions to send their way those who showed up after they left, in case they needed replacements. He hoped they wouldn’t.

  Ayrion rolled his shoulders, the weight of his swords a comforting feeling. He leaned forward in the saddle, the cold leather groaning under him as he stroked Shade’s strong neck. The warhorse raised his head and snorted his appreciation. “Keep your eyes open, old friend. We can use all the help we can get.”

  Ayrion brought the caravan to a stop on the outskirts of the city. The vacant road ahead was littered with debris. Pieces of clothing and parchment scattered with every gust of wind. Two-story homes flanked both sides
of the street, like an honor guard to welcome them in. The lower third of each dwelling was fieldstone, and the upper two-thirds, thick plaster framed with cedar. The windows were dark, shutters swinging back and forth as the wind blew down the street.

  “This road will take us all the way in,” Bek said next to Ayrion. The man was dressed from the top of his head to the bottom of his zabatas in brown leather and furs, making him appear even bigger than he already was. His hatchets swung loosely at his sides. “It winds back around and merges with three others at the center of town.” He pointed to some unseen location ahead. “It’s the largest area of open space in Belvin, and the Justice House sits directly at its center. If I were looking for a place to set camp, that would be it.”

  “Then the Justice House it is. If our attempt at taking their nest fails, we’ll at least have a place to make a stand.”

  “Let’s pray that won’t be necessary,” Tameel said, pulling the tinker wagon up beside him.

  Sitting next to Tameel, Abiah removed his fur-lined cap to scratch the top of his head. “I’m not as familiar with Belvin as I should be. Are there any buildings near the Justice House large enough to stable the horses?”

  “There’s a few,” Bek said, “but the back half of the Justice House should suffice. It’s the largest building in town. It’s also the most securely built.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Abiah said.

  Ayrion glanced over his shoulder to get a look at the small army of shopkeepers and farmers, merchants and vagrants, town officials and scholars, husbands and wives behind them—all there to fight for their homes, their friends, and their families. It was an emotional sight. He just wasn’t sure which emotion to choose from—excitement at the prospect of leading such determined souls, or panic at the thought of going into battle backed by an army of recruits who had never swung a sword in earnest.

  He was leaning toward the latter.

  Bek motioned for those behind to follow as Ayrion nudged Shade, and the stallion started forward. He pulled back on the reins to keep from outpacing Bek as he scanned the surrounding buildings, watching for any sign of life as they entered the city limits.

  There was an eerie sort of calm resting across the city. A window shutter slammed shut from the wind, and Ayrion reached for his sword.

  “What was that?” he heard people behind him asking.

  Each street they passed was devoid of life.

  After a good ten minutes of riding, Bek signaled a stop at the next intersection, spotting a couple of riders on approach.

  “The city’s as quiet as a graveyard,” one of the scouts said as he scratched his beard. “Probably not the most appropriate image, I guess, but pretty flaming accurate. It’s a clear shot from here to the square. Not a living soul to be seen. Not even bodies. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the entire city had packed its bags and left.”

  The other scout bobbed his head in agreement.

  Bek pointed to the adjoining street. “Take Foran and circle north. Meet us at the Justice House. We need to clear as many of the closer sections of the city as we can, to make sure we’re not walking into an ambush.” He looked at Ayrion. “Any thoughts?”

  Ayrion shook his head. “Just keep your eyes open.”

  The two men took a moment to drink some water from their skins before they were off once again. Ayrion took a swallow from his as he watched them disappear around the bend. The sun was just beginning to peek over the rooftops. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Bek nodded and motioned the wagons forward.

  Continuing on, they passed one empty street after the next until finally crossing out of the residential district altogether. They moved off the main road and on to a stone pavilion that encircled a grassy area at the center of town. The emptiness felt even stronger here. The city square, surrounded by merchant shops and city offices with a few eateries interspersed between, should have been full of life, but it was nothing more than empty buildings. A city that seemed completely forgotten.

  The Justice House stood near the center of the square. It was the only building Ayrion could see that had been constructed entirely from stone block.

  “Let’s get these wagons in place over there,” Ayrion said, pointing to the front of the three-story building.

  With Tameel leading the way, the other drivers pulled their teams around to line the wagons in a semicircle in front of the Justice House.

  “Abiah, I’m putting you in charge of unloading the equipment and supplies. Place food stores near the back, weapons at the front.”

  “You can count on me, General,” the stout man replied as he climbed down off the green-and-gold tinker wagon. Ayrion wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of being labeled a general, but having been called far worse over the last several weeks, he let it slide.

  “Willem! Where you at, boy?”

  Willem stuck his head out of the back of the wagon. “Here, Pa!”

  Abiah waved at him. “Hop down. We’ve got work to do.”

  The lanky boy leaped from the back and followed his father to the nearest wagon. Ayrion could hear the man barking orders and assigning duties as he marched down the row. He would have made a fair sergeant.

  The Justice House suddenly disappeared, and Ayrion found himself standing in the front line of a group of soldiers, watching a short, stocky man with thick cheeks, an eye patch, and a ducktail beard march down the row, shouting orders to draw swords. Ayrion reached for his blade, and then, just as suddenly, he was back in front of the Justice House.

  “You all right?” Zynora asked, her head sticking out of the back of the wagon.

  Ayrion nodded. “Another memory.”

  “The battle again?”

  Ayrion nodded once more. But he didn’t believe it was the same battle. This one was different. He hadn’t been wearing the black uniform but what looked like typical lancer garb, and instead of his twin blades, he’d been carrying a single sword at the waist. He shook his head. As much as he appreciated the possible return of his memories, having them appear at random was disorienting.

  Ayrion dismounted and left Shade with Tameel’s team. The stallion seemed to have bonded with the other two horses over the last few weeks of their journey.

  He found Bek waiting for him on the stairs. “Let’s take a look around while they set up the barricade.”

  The steps, like the rest of the building, were stone, and the doors at the top were tall and thick. “This was a good choice,” Ayrion said. He didn’t relish the idea of making a stand, but if it came to it, he much preferred this stone monstrosity to the tinderbox of a cabin they had fought from the last time.

  Ayrion tried the door, but it was stuck. He put his shoulder to it and pushed. The door opened, and the overwhelming stench that greeted them had him gagging. Stepping inside, they stopped and let Bek’s eyes adjust to the dim light. The building felt as cold and lonely as the streets outside. They tried forcing the door open farther, but it was blocked by broken pieces of furniture.

  Bek tripped on a rolled-back rug and went down, catching himself on one knee. “I can’t see a flaming thing in here,” he growled.

  Ayrion scanned the room, his Upakan eyes allowing him to see the wreckage that had been left. What light was available emanated from a couple of stained-glass windows above and behind them. The windows started on the second floor and worked their way up alongside an arcing staircase toward the third. “No windows on the first floor. Smart.”

  “I agree,” Bek said, fumbling about looking for a torch. “But it doesn’t help keep me from stubbing my toes.”

  Ayrion chuckled. This was one time Bek’s zabatas hadn’t been the best choice.

  Bek pulled out a small tinderbox and lit one of the torches still sitting in its bracket on the wall. The light quickly scattered some of the shadows, revealing even more the state of disarray the room was in. It appeared all the wall hangings and furniture had been demolished and flung haphazardly across the floor. Chair
legs and cabinet drawers, soft cushions, books, chandeliers, vases, portraits, and a few long draperies were strewn like carpet across the stone.

  “I guess the vulraaks aren’t all that big on embellishment,” Bek said with a grunt as he handed Ayrion a second torch.

  Ayrion held out the light, and they both started forward. “Embellishment? That’s a big word for a trapper.”

  “Nell’s the one who fancies all the book learning,” Bek said, keeping his voice low. “Don’t really have much call for it myself, but now that I know my letters, she enjoys it when I read a page or two to her in the evenings.”

  Ayrion smiled. “What we put ourselves through for the ones we love.” Not that he could speak from firsthand knowledge.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Bek raised his torch to spread the light a little farther. “I think we found the source of the smell.”

  Ayrion maneuvered around an upturned table to get a better look. There was a pile of bones heaped together amidst all the clutter, meat still clinging to some. “Too little time for decay.”

  “No,” Bek agreed. “Whoever they were, they were eaten. Maybe they don’t turn everyone.”

  “Which means they need food to live.” He stared at the bones, trying to determine by their sizes who it might have been. “I wonder how they choose who to turn and who to eat. Maybe they eat each other.”

  Bek shrugged. “Like any other rabid pack, I guess. Those too weak or too feeble get culled.”

  Ayrion shivered and raised his torch to take another look around the room, following the curve of the stairs up to the second and third balconies, searching for anything that might be watching. Not seeing anything, he pointed toward the back. “Any idea where those hallways lead to?”

  Bek shook his head. “This is my first time inside the Justice House. Never had a reason to come in here before. It’s a bit larger than I would have thought, judging from the outside.”