Shadow Walker (The Sword Saint Series Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  So. A trap? Would she stumble over the disturbed auras like an insect touching a spider’s web, and thus call the spider out of its lair? If that’s what the warbrand intended, she thought with an inner smile, he was going to be mistaken. She was looking for him, so calling him to her was exactly what she intended.

  Narina reached out with her sowen, took hold of one of the strands that connected the disturbed auras together, and gave it a little shake. It moved and hummed, touching the surrounding auras until they started to vibrate as well.

  She’d jiggled the threads of the spider’s web. Only it wasn’t an insect caught in the web, its wings struggling to free itself as the hungry spider came rushing out of its lair to devour its victim. It was another predator, and in fact, that predator was at the center of the web, not its outskirts. When the spider appeared, she’d be ready with sowen gathered and swords in hand, ready to kill. The only question was how long it would take her enemy to appear.

  Just as she’d expected, the auras continued to vibrate outward from her disturbance. She remained on the bottom of the stone basin and followed the movement through the village and its fields, into the surrounding hill, across the river, and up the path by the ponds she’d crossed earlier that day. She moved back and forth around the edges of this moving, vibrating field, searching.

  Where are you? Show yourself.

  Narina was concentrating so hard on searching the edges of the vibrating web of auras that she didn’t initially look through the village itself. It was only when she came up for air that she noticed something was wrong.

  There was action throughout the village, men and women on the move. A shout. A clanking cowbell that sounded a like a call for help. Barking dogs. Too many of them.

  A quick search of her surroundings showed people stumbling out of their houses. There was agitation in their movement, and auras flashed with fear and anger. Narina forced herself to remain calm as she rose from the water, pulled her wet hair back, and tied it in a bun.

  It was growing dim, truly dusk and not the false nightfall caused by the fog. A light bobbed toward her down the path. Two men, searching by the light of a lamp. She stayed still and cloaked herself with her sowen. They’d stumble past her, blind, and then she could go find Andras and figure out what this was all about. Or so she thought.

  “Look! The intruder!”

  It was the pair who’d been manning the makeshift palisade protecting the village. The son had put on the helmet, and it lay askew on his head. He clenched his spear tightly in hand. The father clenched his scythe in hand and peered through the gloom.

  “Who are you?” the older man demanded. “What are you doing in our baths?” He cursed in alarm. “Look! It’s some kind of monster!”

  Narina had no idea what they were seeing, but it was an annoying distraction. “Go away,” she said in a low voice. She wrapped her words in power. “Turn around and forget you saw me.”

  They flinched. “Go for help,” the older man said. “I’ll hold the beast and keep it from escaping.”

  “Da, no! It will eat you alive.” The son cupped a hand to his mouth. “Over here! We’ve found something. Hurry!”

  Narina was still naked and dripping, and it wasn’t so dark yet that they could possibly peer into the dim light cast by her lamp and think she was some sort of beast. What were they possibly thinking?

  It was jiggling the auras that had done it. What she’d thought was a web to draw in the warbrand had instead alerted the villagers. That was why those lines had gone to every home in the village; Miklos had been readying a trap.

  But why? He couldn’t possibly imagine that a few villagers would stop her, or even delay her hunt for more than a few minutes.

  Still, whatever he’d done had punctured her cloak of secrecy. As much as she tried to push away their attention, the two remained vigilant, staring at her, one holding his spear, the other the scythe. She went back for her clean clothes and began to dress.

  Other villagers piled up behind the first two. Some had lamps. Most carried weapons of a sort: a battered old sword, a kitchen cleaver, hammers and scythes, and old spears that looked like they would shatter at the first contact with enemy armor.

  The first few exclaimed loudly when they looked over the gate and into their communal baths where the bladedancer was getting dressed, but as they grew in number, a heated argument broke out over what to do about the intruder, which everyone seemed to see as some kind of beast. Someone said it was a man-wolf, and someone else thought it was a demon or a giant crow.

  Narina might have been amused, if she hadn’t been annoyed. Once she was dressed, she strapped on her swords and pulled on her soft, slipper-like shoes.

  “What is it doing?” someone cried.

  “It’s eating something.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s digging a hole.”

  “It’s fouled our baths,” another voice said. “Open the gate, let’s drive it out.”

  She had no intention of waiting to see what would happen when the villagers finally agreed on a plan, so she grabbed her dirty clothes and moved around the edge of the bath, thinking to hurdle the stone wall and cross the fields under cover of darkness.

  “It’s getting away. Stop it!”

  Narina took a leap. Her legs felt sluggish, and she swore something was dragging her down, like in a dream where walking felt like moving through mud. She barely cleared the height of the stone wall, though she should have been able to leap something twice as high.

  The air was thick above the wall, almost solid. It gave way slightly, then solidified and rebounded. She flew back into the enclosure and landed on her back with a grunt of surprise. Alarmed, she threw out her sowen.

  Narina had missed it before, but the lines she’d detected earlier created a faint pathway to this very spot. Pushing harder, she felt around the perimeter of the baths and was surprised at how subtle and powerful the barrier was. It was a physical bending of the natural auras rising from the ground and stone, until they’d created a sort of holding pen that had been invisible until she’d triggered it.

  “Miklos, you bastard. You’ll pay for that.”

  The only way out appeared to be the same way she’d come in, through the gate. One of the villagers opened it now, and the first people pushed through with lamps outstretched, giving shouts meant to raise courage. There were more than twenty villagers now, and they all seemed to be pushing through the gate. A spear took aim at her chest.

  It was wielded by the boy from the palisade, and his father was coming in behind him. Their attempt was pathetic, nothing like the trained soldiers she’d fought and killed. It would be a simple matter to disperse them.

  Narina tucked the bundle of dirty clothes into her tunic and drew her swords. She moved forward, thinking only to cut the boy’s spear in half and knock the scythe from his father’s hand, after which she’d lower her shoulder, push her sowen in front of her, and blast through the villagers until she was on the other side.

  The spear made a feeble thrust. Sudden heat flushed through her face, and she darted forward with blades slicing before she could think twice about the consequences. One jab and the boy fell with his mouth agape and her sword through his belly. Other weapons, crude as they were, pressed her, and she whirled to meet them one after another, her demon blade like a shadow, her dragon a blaze of white light. Villagers cried out, fell back or fell forward, depending on their personal bravery, and whether they saw her before she struck. They all died, regardless.

  Moments later, it was done, and carnage surrounded her. Narina looked about her, mouth agape in horror, shuddering as her gaze fell on each villager in turn. She hadn’t smashed weapons and pushed through to freedom. She’d fought to kill.

  And now they lay about her in heaps of the dead and dying. Arms severed, throats cut, bellies opened and guts spilled to the ground. She was straddling one of them, the boy from the palisade. He stared up at the sky with glassy eyes, the lamp still clenched in his h
and. Narina had put her sword straight through his heart. The boy was no older than her student, Gyorgy, and he’d only been trying to protect his village. And she had slaughtered him without pity.

  Reeling and biting her lip to choke back a sob, she pushed through the gate. She staggered down the village path, still clutching her dripping swords. Her stomach churned as if she would be sick.

  The whole thing had been a clever trap. The warbrand had known that a bladedancer on the road would first seek to bathe and meditate. He’d also known that she would send out her sowen as she meditated in the water, and that action had alerted the villagers and brought them to that spot. Finally, he’d left her only one way out of the baths, and that was through the villagers. He must have known, too, that her sowen would betray her, and her father’s swords, once in hand, would demand to be fed.

  Still more villagers found her before she reached the cottage where she’d left Andras, Ruven, and the dogs. The first few challenged her, and these she cut down, unable to control the bloodlust that took her and spit her out again as soon as the killing was done. Gradually, the warbrand’s sowen was weakening, however, dissipating into the night air, and her own power to bend the attention of the villagers reasserted itself.

  She stumbled past the last few souls without taking their lives, and reached the cottage where she’d left her companions. It was barred from the interior, and she pounded on the door with the hilt of one of her swords, forgetting for the moment that she had the ability to raise the bar from the outside.

  “Andras! It’s me! Demons and demigods, let me in!”

  The door flew open, and Andras’s eyes ranged over her, widening in revulsion. Narina looked down to see that her clean clothing was drenched with blood. It was on her hands, too, and she could taste it on her lips. She stumbled inside, thinking to strip out of her bloody clothing, pull out the bundle she’d been carrying, and dress in her dirty clothing from yesterday.

  But the inside of the cottage was nearly as big of a mess as what she’d left behind. Pots were overturned, crockery smashed. Ruven hid in one corner, protected by a ring of growling terriers facing outward. Meanwhile, the two lurchers, Stretch and Skinny Lad, had pinned the occupants of the house into the opposite corner. The woman crouched with her infant shielded in her arms, while the man held the broken leg of a stool like a club in an attempt to fend off the dogs.

  “You said they’d sleep through the night,” Andras said. “Well they didn’t!”

  “You!” Narina said to the inhabitants of the cottage. She pointed one of her swords at the door. “Out!”

  The woman screamed, and the man blanched and trembled in fear. It was no good; they must see her as some sort of demon or wolf-creature. Her words must sound like a roar or snarl. Shouts sounded from outside. The commotion had never really died after the slaughter at the village baths, but now it seemed the survivors had discovered the carnage and were regrouping for another attack. Even with command of her sowen, there was a good chance that they’d track the blood here.

  And then there were the owners of the cottage. Narina didn’t dare move them physically. One moment of resistance and she’d murder them and their infant, too. She didn’t have time to negotiate the situation, and she couldn’t go back the way they’d come, either. The only way clear was behind the cottage, where the hill rose up and shielded the village from the river.

  “Get the boy and the dogs,” she told Andras.

  “But the man, he’s armed. He tried to club me once already.”

  “Never mind him, just stay behind me.”

  Narina wiped the swords on her tunic and sheathed them. The weapons fought her, not wanting to return to their sheaths when there was so much killing left to do. It was with effort that she got them put away and dragged her hands from the hilts.

  She pulled in her sowen. It was frayed around the edges, but intact. She shouldn’t be surprised. It hadn’t taken much to massacre innocent peasants, had it?

  When she controlled the sowen as tightly as possible, she lowered her shoulder and charged toward the back wall of the cottage and slammed into it. The wall was three feet thick, made of straw and mud and meant to resist the heat of summer and the chill of winter, but it exploded outward from the force of her blow.

  Dust and bits of straw filled the air, and the entire cottage shuddered, one wall almost completely sheared away and the whole building in danger of collapse. But the way ahead was clear, all the way up the hillside.

  Narina waved her hand for her companions. “Follow me!”

  Chapter Eight

  “Stronghand is coming,” the crow said.

  Lady Damanja looked down at the animal perched on her wrist, with its claws digging through her linen sleeve. It was glossy and black and huge—nearly the size of a raven—but surprisingly light for its size. Intelligence gleamed in its eye, and of course it had spoken. Not a caw and screech, but actual words.

  “Here, now?” she said.

  “Men with horses. Ignore them. Not fight, not horsemen. Stronghand is among them. Find him first.”

  “And does Balint wish me harm?”

  “Wants to talk. Offer truce. Do not believe. He brings the shadow.”

  “What kind of shadow? What are you talking about?”

  “A shadow to take your heart. Do not let near. Your heart is not for Stronghand. Your heart is mine.”

  “Who are you?” Damanja asked.

  Even as she asked this question, Damanja considered the absurdity of the situation. She was standing with a crow on her arm, discussing the arrival of Lord Balint Stronghand. Crows had been her spies, had flown above her, whispering their secrets in her head, since she was a child. But they’d never talked, only sent fleeting images into her thoughts.

  Your heart is mine.

  What did it mean by that?

  “Listen, Crowlord,” the crow said. “We fight by your side. Others fight with Stronghand. They are smaller crows, but there are more. We will fight them. You must win this battle with Stronghand alone. If you do not, we join him, and kill you.”

  Damanja glanced over her shoulder. The tent flap hung open, and she could see her cot, where she fully expected to see a lumpy shadow. Her own body, sleeping.

  Because this had to be a dream. She wasn’t talking to a crow, and could not, in fact, remember getting out of bed in the cold hours of the night, throwing open the tent flap, and stepping outside. She was dressed, too—when had that happened?—and there were no signs of her guards.

  Or any troops at all, for that matter. A sea of tents spread below her on the hillside, where she’d stationed her army to get it above the swampy ground, with its biting insects and foul miasmas. Where were the sentinels, the pickets? She couldn’t see a soul, only a strange, swirling mist creeping ghost-like through the encampment. The dark shape of crows flitted through a night sky illuminated by a half-moon. It was all strange and surreal.

  Yes, a dream. It must be. Except there was a cold breeze blowing through the grass and prickling the small hairs on the back of her neck. And she could feel the crow’s claws quite clearly on her arm.

  Nine days had passed since assassins tried to murder her in Belingus. Since then, she’d gathered her two main forces into a single army and come up through the heart of Zoltan’s old fiefdom, where she’d gathered peasants, shoved spears into their hands, and pushed them ahead of her regular forces. These peasants had fallen by the hundreds, impaled on the end of enemy spears, but they’d served their purpose all the same.

  Twice she’d routed small advance forces, until finally Balint had pulled back from his invasion. Her rival remained on the south bank of the Vestanovul, but she had successfully confined him to a strip of land no more than twelve miles wide and six miles deep. Here, she meant to destroy him.

  Assuming her scouts and crows gave an accurate picture, Balint’s forces counted no more than six thousand on this side of the river, against which she’d gathered fourteen thousand, more than e
nough to crush his army. After that decisive victory, the enemy wouldn’t have strength left to contest her crossing into his lands, at which point she’d seize Riverrun and gobble up Balint’s farms, fields, and villages, together with his stone quarries, market towns, and silver mines. By winter, it would all be hers, and she’d have three fiefdoms under command, ready to sweep out and crush all remaining rivals in the spring.

  That had been her plan. Unfortunately, pestilence had struck when Damanja reached the lowlands south of the Vestanovul. This had once been rich farmland, well drained and maintained, but in years past it had returned to swamp thanks to some foolish war or other that left the land depopulated.

  Some troops complained first of a rash around the neck, others of burning feet. Within hours, boils erupted on their bodies, initially in their armpits and groins, and then mouths, nostrils, and even eyes, which swelled shut and oozed pus. Among the hardest hit were her cavalry and the women who made up the bulk of her archery corps, as well as several of her lieutenants and captains. Ironically, the underfed, undertrained peasants were less affected. Perhaps they had some resistance.

  Not everyone suffered the pestilence, of course, and among the afflicted, most didn’t die, but enough had fallen ill that her march had ground to a halt only miles from Balint’s army and a glorious victory. Damanja had no alternative but to lead them to higher ground and wait for the fever to burn itself out.

  “Is your warning real?” she asked the crow perched on her wrist. “Will I remember it when I wake?”

  The crow dipped its head and gave a sharp peck at the back of her hand. Damanja cursed and tried to shake it loose, but it gripped tight and flared its mouth and wings, as if daring her to drive it off. Blood streamed down the back of her hand where it had pecked her.

  “This is not a dream,” the crow said. “Get your sword. Prepare yourself or you will die.”

  With that, the bird lifted off and silently flapped its wings. It soared down the hillside and joined the other dark shapes flying through the mysterious fog, which was growing both thicker and whiter with every passing moment.