by Eve Forward
It felt like nothing, and it was nothing. He stepped into one of the solid patches of blackness. At once he noticed a difference, a strange subtle feeling, like the difference between a room with an open window and one with the window closed. The shadows swirled with that same wonderful fluidity about him, but he stepped back out of the patch of darkness.
Sam’s eyes were getting used to the landscape. He found he could distinguish differences in depth between the shadows. Some were a dim, shallow black ... Sam guessed they were too well-lit to be true gateways and were only dimmer possibilities of the deepest shadows.
He also noted several very dark shadows, thick and deep, like those he would have preferred to hide in, in the sunlight world.
No doubt that was the way to leave, if there was one ... just step back into the shadows and will yourself out?
The shadows seemed to be the gateway from the world he had been born into and this strange two-toned twilight world.
Two-toned twilight world ... where had he heard that before? He wondered as he looked down to where the street would be if his theory of the nature of this place was correct. There it was, a grayness where many moving shadows moved back and forth along a flat plane.
Two-toned twilight... Sam’s mind had finally calmed down enough from his near escape and his sudden change of surroundings to remember an old, old song Black Fox had used to sing when he was drunk on red wine...
There is a land on the edge of night A shiver in the shadow’s shade Haunted by the ones who stayed In the realm of two-toned twilight.
Taken out of time and space Lost in a deeper darken, Going to another Place, Sliding as your spirits harken, Shadowslipping, Shadowslipping.
Those of the fire. those of the night Those of the blood who turn from the light Here is your safety, and here is your death, The seduction of Shadow that takes your last breath.
Black Fox had sung it in a cold, slow, eerie voice that had made the young Samalander’s flesh crawl with nameless fear, and the other assassins would throw things at Black Fox and tell him to shut up. Black Fox would laugh and sing something else, and the others would return to their wine with only a faint shiver or two. There were times, long ago, when Sam was learning the trade, that he was reminded of the old song; hiding deeply in shadows, sometimes he’d felt a faint shiver on his skin, as though the shadows were something more than just dark spots in corners ... he’d put it off to superstition. And when he’d asked Miffer once about Black Fox’s song, the master assassin had snorted softly. “Don’t trouble your head with such things, boy. Black Fox doesn’t know what he sings about, and nor does any assassin alive today. It’s an old song left over from the old days, old even before the War.” When Sam had pressed the matter, Miffer had said, “Well, a long time ago, there were certain folks who could sort of walk through the shadows ... like ghosts. But they grew strange, and changed. One by one they’d walk into the shadows and never come out. So they stopped teaching it, and we’re all a lot better off today. Now let’s see that grapple again.” And Sam had forgotten the matter... until now.
On the other side of town, Arcie was plying his dishonest trade. Easy pickings tonight, so he decided not to do anything extensive like burglary, that always made him feel a bit guilty; it seemed to upset people more than just having lost a pouch or a bracelet or two. Now, of course, he
was on an adventure of sorts and was going to have to “rough it” anyway. His father was always very extensive in his reminiscences of “roughing it” on adventures.
“Laddie, when I done explored the icy cold of Huthor’s Ruins in midwinter, I were nay older than ye, and I sleeped out in snow up to my chin and ate lichens fer my meals. Aye, no biscuits nor tea for me, laddie. I was Roughing It.”
What with being chased, drowned, bogged, stabbed, chased some more, and in general kept from creature comforts, Arcie had lost some of the rose-colored haze he’d had over his idea of adventures. But still, it was better than hanging around Bistort and being bored. There was not that much that one could buy out in the wilderness, and he remembered his father’s talk of “traveling light.” So instead of thieving pouches of coins, which were bulky and heavy, he stuck to lighter items of greater value, such as gemstones and rings and suchlike. This was harder, of course, and you ran more risks ... but well, that was the fun part.
Arcie was a master thief, but occasionally, even the greatest find the odds stacked against them. Right outside the inn, Arcie was leaning inconspicuously in the shadows, back against a wall, near a pair of wealthy looking fellows who were chatting up a giggling courtesan.
Arcie’s fingers held a light strong silver pick, and he was loosening the gems set in one fellow’s sword pommel and catching them silently as they fell like multicolored drops. All was going well, when suddenly the shadowed wall pushed him.
He fell forward onto his stomach, scattering gems from his hand. One of the men shouted, “Thief!” and grabbed at the Barigan. Arcie promptly fetched him a smart blow on the shin with a booted foot. This was the signal for both of them to go after him with fists and swords.
Valerie was in her room with the lights out, brushing her long black hair. Nightshade sat perched on the bedside table, preening his glossy feathers. Valerie touched her throat where the amulet used to hang, and sighed. Just then she heard a cry of
“Thief!” and sounds of a scuffle. Curious, she opened her window.
In the darkness below she observed a pair of men swat ting ineffectually at a small figure that seemed to be try ing to escape. A henna-haired woman watched from a safe distance. Valerie knew that almost certainly only one figure of that size in this town would qualify for the excla mation she had just heard. Well, we can’t have that, she mused. A quick bit of induced somnolence should do the trick. She raised her hand, called up words of power from her memory ... and faltered. There was no power! The spell she was attempting was very minor and should have been well within her capabilities if her amulet was any where in town. Had that fool assassin destroyed it? She raged in silent fury while the men struggled below her. At last she recovered her thoughts and picked up the water basin from the dressing table.
Arcie started as a sudden crash erupted near him, and one of the men folded slowly onto his knees, surrounded by white china splinters. The second man paused to look to his stricken companion. “Thomas?” he said, giving Arcie just enough time to jump as high as he could with a swing of the morning star, catching the man a nice clip on the back of his head with the ball. The man fell peacefully beside his friend, and the woman gave a squeak and scampered off into the safety of the more open streets.
Arcie mopped his brow with the back of his hand and peered up at the dark open window where Valerie’s pale face was outlined. He tipped his hat.
“Thankee kindly, Valerie.”
“Never mind that, you curlypolled idiot. Where’s that fool assassin?” Valerie’s voice was angry, and her purple eyes burned.
“Sam?” Arcie looked around and secured his morning star with a shrug. “I have not seen yon since he were in his room covering everything with ink. Round sixish.”
“Well, he’s not there now ... or at least my amulet isn’t,” fumed the sorceress. “If you do see him, Arcie ... tell him I’d like a word with him.” Her shark teeth flashed in the darkness, not in a smile, and the window shut. Arcie shook his head and, out of force of habit, looted the unconscious bodies. No sense letting an involuntary mugging go to waste. He started to leave, hesitated a moment, and then went to the wall that had thrust him so rudely from its safety. He reached out, patted the shadowed surface. It was solid brick, cool in the night air, with no moving parts or anything.
“Me foot must’ve slipped,” muttered Arcie, doubtfully.
He paused a moment in thought, then tossed a pebble at Valerie’s window. It rattled off the pane, and a moment later the window opened, and Valerie looked out.
“What is it now, thief?” she asked wearily. Arcie grinned up at her
and tipped his new hat.
“Might I offer to buy you a spot of breakfast, lady Valerie?” he inquired. Valerie hesitated a moment, then raised an eyebrow.
Sam sat back in the dim grayness, a little startled. He’d come close to walking through that shadow just then, but his cautious boot had met with something solid that jerked like a living thing, and he’d retreated back into the safety of this strange world. He was getting more and more accustomed to his surroundings and began to wonder why the place had seemed to have such a fearsome image. It was an assassin’s paradise.
It was wonderful to be able to move so freely through space, completely unseen, not even there. And yet, at almost any point he chose, he could appear again, untrackable, untraceable ... it was the ultimate assassin’s tool.
He wondered why he’d never been able to do it before; it felt like second nature to him now. It must be a combination of his utterly black attire, his solitude as the world’s last assassin ... and probably a bit of the dark cool gem resting on his chest, he admitted to himself. But this was a better use to put the amulet to than Valerie had ever thought of, he’d wager. He would keep it, he decided. He stepped into another patch of shadow and willed himself through it, his mind parting the stuff of darkness like velvet curtain folds. He emerged into an empty storeroom.
A rat squealed and skittered away. Sam smiled beneath his scarf and melted back with ease into the twilight world.
He wandered about, appearing in alleys, rooms, cellars, attics, anywhere with deep enough shadows. The night of Outside seemed pale and dry in comparison to the solitary glory of the shadows. Solitary indeed, for though Miffer had implied there were others, perhaps trapped in this world, Sam found himself alone in the shadows here. He peeped in at children sleeping, at a drunk in an alleyway, at an old woman reading by the light of a candle in a dark room. It was a world of infinite possibilities.
But only so long as there were shadows. Sam, musing on his strange discovery, felt that if indeed the world were to be plunged into eternal light, that light would close the borders forever, and this rich and fascinating realm would become nothing more than a dull gray void. Already there were fewer thick shadows than he would have supposed ... shadows that were only dim ... well, shadows of themselves now. But while it lasted, Sam reveled, rejoicing in the return of his earlier euphoria, the bitter pride of a kill, the ego-boost of his superhuman powers with the realm of Shadow at his disposal.
He walked among the shadows of people going up and down the street, and suddenly noticed one in particular.
It was hard to be precise, of course, looking at the rough flickering blobs, but in the silhouette he could easily distinguish long hair blowing in a faint breeze, a long, flapping robe-like garment, and most important, a long object held upright in the hand-a staff. Kaylana, beautiful red-haired Kaylana ... wouldn’t she be surprised to see what he could do! Wouldn’t she be impressed! He glanced around; no other people-shadows were nearby.
He followed the shadow a few paces until it crossed a block of darkness on the gray ground, deepening to passable shadowdepth, and jumped through it. He sprang up into the real world from the floor like a demon through a trap door, with a cheery cry of exuberant glee, arms wide in dramatic entrance ... and found himself face to face with the awesome silver-white figure of the Arch-Mage Mizzamir,
The actual Kaylana, meanwhile, was rapping on the door of one of the rooms at the inn. After a moment, the door opened, and Blackmail peered silently down at her. She grabbed him by the gauntlet. Her khaki robes were smeared with mud and blood.
“Come, silent one. I need your help.” She marched on down the hall, towing the unprotesting knight.
Kaylana led the way down to the stables, to a mare lying down in the straw of a loose box. Robin was huddled nearby. Kaylana explained the situation tersely.
“The mare is foaling, and she is having problems. I need someone strong to help pull the foal’s head around whilst I retract the rest of it. I attempted to get Robin to help, but before I knew what had happened he went thudding down into the straw. That is surely the most squeamish centaur I have ever seen.”
“I don’t know nothing about birthing no foals,” muttered Robin, ashen faced, from his corner. The mare whickered. Kaylana ignored Robin and patted the horse’s neck soothingly, then rolled up her sleeve, looking up at Blackmail.
“I hope you will be able to assist more capably, knight. When I hand you the end of this rope and tell you to pull, I want you to pull, is that understood? Slow, steady, not too hard. We wish to deliver this foal, not whip it across the stable, is that understood?”
The helmet nodded slowly. “Excellent,” said the Druid, splashing home-distilled disinfectant on her arms from a waterproofed pouch. “Let us begin, then.”
“Very gentlemanly of you, Barigan.”
“Well, you as good as saved me hide back yon. The least I can do,” replied Arcie modestly. Valerie raised her glass of red wine to him, and he responded with his tankard of ale. The Silver Leaf Restaurant wasn’t too sure what to make of the odd pair. Certainly the waiter had never heard of a few of the dishes requested, and the cook hadn’t before had the experience of being called out to have his soup recipe corrected. It was a strange night in Martogon.
If Sam were a hero, tracking down a villain, he would, at this point, have said a few choice dramatic words along the lines of Mizzamir being his now, or perhaps a suggestion for the mage to make preparations to meet whatever deities he favored. But as it was, Sam was a villain and didn’t mess about with such things. He stared into the mage’s handsome yet terrible face for an instant, found his stare returned. The fire flared with the sighting of the target, and Sam lost himself in an instant as the channeled darkness in his soul turned him into a singleminded killer. A flip of his arm caused a dagger to fall into his hand, and he attacked.
But Mizzamir was a hero, and not just any normal hero; he was a Hero. And your average backwater assassin cannot kill a Hero as easily as he might kill a lesser man. An Elf of Mizzamir’s age and experience has quite a bit of raw survival power. Mizzamir twisted and took the dagger in his shoulder instead of through his ribs where it was headed, and came back instantly with a spell drawn from the power of his staff.
Sam heard a word of magic and leaped like a hare to one side. A shower of golden arrow-like missiles rained around and past him, a handful striking him with flashes of searing pain and vanishing. He landed on his feet, another dagger already in his hand. With this one he took a split second to slide it through the seal on a vial of poison, giving the mage time to ready another spell. Dagger and spell then hurtled through the space between the two combatants simultaneously.
The dagger hit home with a soft thunk, biting deep into the mage’s gut. Mizzamir winced in pain and gripped at the hilt as blood stained his white robes.
Hopefully the preventative antidotes and magic he’d taken would last long enough ...
Sam felt a cloud of magic envelop him. It wrenched through his body, and the air smelled of lightning and orange blossoms. His eyes squeezed closed, his skin prickling, limbs heavy, slowing ..’. his dulling ears heard the mage’s gasping voice, “Don’t worry ... I’ll come back for you.”
Then all was silence. The white-robed hunched figure vanished in a flash of gold light, leaving the street empty, deserted but for a man-sized figure in the dim moonlight.
At the far end of the street, a door opened in a well-lit restaurant, spilling a shaft of light and noise and smells of food into the late night air. From this portal stepped a pair of figures, one quite small and stout, another taller and willowy. They passed out into the street, conversing in contented voices.
“I recall, back in Bistort,” said Arcie, settling his hat on his head, “there were a wee shop as made the finest meat pies I think I ever did come across. Light, flaky, lots o’ gravy...”
“Ah,” replied Valerie, nodding. “Yes... we had something similar in the Underrealms as a tradition o
n holidays; slices of venison and ... other meats, in a pastry crust decorated with little cut-out mushrooms... Great caverns! What is that?”
Arcie looked up to where Valerie indicated a large stone object in the middle of the road. The moonlight made things a little hazy, but it was fairly clear what the object was.
“ ‘Tis a statue of somebody. See, yon’s a arm, and there’s a hand, and that must be the head there, though it look like it’s all wrapped up in bandages of some such.”
He was suddenly struck by realization. “Here! It’s a statue of Sam! See, them are Sam’s clothes as he was fixin’, you can almost make out the lines o’ the patches.”
Valerie walked around the statue. “He doesn’t look very happy,” she commented. Indeed, the figure had one knee buckled, one arm extended as if hurling something away, and the other pressed against his brow. His body was twisted awkwardly to the side as though in the middle of a dodge.
“ ‘Tis no’ a very good likeness,” mused Arcie. “Who might have carved it? And why? And what are it doing out in the middle of the road like this? It weren’t here when we come by before.”
Valerie’s brow furrowed. She reached out with her black fingernails and lightly touched the statue. Pale green sparks crawled around her fingers as she concentrated.
Then she stepped back, dusting off her hands.
“Well, Arcie, that explains that. This is Sam. He’s been turned to stone.”
“But how?” gaped Arcie, rapping his knuckles on the rocky form. “Who?”
“My guess would be some white magician,” replied Valerie. “Typical. Puts your enemies in cold storage, keeps them safe and unaware until you figure out what you want to do with them ... very humane. Myself, I’ve always preferred a good disintegration or ball of fire, or if one needs to keep them around, there’s always the convenient option of transformation into frogs or slugs ... much more easily portable than massive blocks of granite.”
She frowned at the stony figure of the assassin.