Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  The room was small, unfurnished save for the lumpy straw-filled mattress and a small footstool near the unshuttered window. Just enough for men like Ander to do what they came to do.

  Over the past few minutes, ever since she’d stopped crying uncontrollably, a realization slowly seeped into her. Men like Ander were the only kind of men she would know from now on.

  “Pull your dress up around your waist.”

  Esta didn’t comply, instead looking over his shoulder at the open window behind him. A faint breeze stirred the limp linen curtains, revealing the wood shingle rooftop of the next building over, as well the fast-fading twilight. The breeze carried with it the sounds of the city, growing as night began to settle in. Beneath it all was faint ringing of bells. Esta didn’t know what the bells meant, but she focused on them. Better to focus on what happened outside this room than in.

  A sharp pain exploded in her big toe as Ander twisted it. “I said pull up your dress.” His voice was calm, completely devoid of anger. It would’ve been better if there was anger in it. Or any sort of feeling at all.

  Esta complied, and he let go of her toe. The breeze tickled the bare skin of her thighs. Ander grunted in satisfaction, as if he were inspecting breed animals and not a woman. But maybe there was less difference between them than Esta had thought. Tears filled her eyes again.

  Ander pulled off his tunic and tossed it aside before working on the mail shirt beneath. Nighttime revelry was in full swing now. Esta could hear a bottle shatter on the street below, laughter, the constant of susurrus of distant voices. The bells. And was that … shouting?

  “You told me Meedith was going to sell me to a brothel.” Esta’s voice was weak. It was the first time she’d spoken to him since the whore—the other whore—carried Esta up here.

  “She would’ve. It was a good idea.” Ander stood there, fully naked now. Scars crisscrossed his lean, well-muscled body. With his wild beard and all the trappings of civilization discarded on the floor in a heap, he looked more beast than man. His eyes were feral and hungry. The eyes of a hunter. A predator.

  The rooftop. She would look at the rooftop. Much better than meeting those eyes.

  As he clambered onto the bed, she caught a glimpse of something silently moving on the rooftop. Something pale and naked, like Ander, but nearly twice as large. Lank black hair hung around its strange, elongated face as it crouched there, crimson eyes watching her.

  Esta closed her eyes. The rooftop was no better than here. Her ears registered the sounds of night gradually changing; all she could hear now was a chorus of shouts. Or were they screams? They’re not real. That thing on the roof isn’t real. Nothing is.

  Ander was nearly atop her, his breath panting and frantic, when the window exploded.

  Wood and plaster sprayed throughout the room. A massive, snarling weight slammed into Ander’s back, crushing him into Esta, pinning her down. The weight didn’t relent, only getting heavier and heavier, even when Ander began thrashing and roaring. Esta could taste the sour sweat of Ander’s chest as he struggled against her. The scent of him smothered her.

  Esta couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe. She had no idea what was happening. She didn’t want to know. She lay there, the other whore’s words ringing like bells in her head.

  You’ll get used to it eventually.

  The heavy weight shifted and Esta filled her lungs involuntarily. Ander’s roar of rage suddenly sharpened into a hysterical shriek. Warm wetness spilled over Ander’s hips, soaking the bunched-up fabric of Esta’s dress, and down the back of him until it dripped onto her bare thighs. The sound of ripping followed a moment later, but Ander wasn’t wearing any fabric. He screamed even more frantically.

  More sounds. Crunching sounds. Wet sounds. Esta had heard such sounds before, a long time ago. The image of dogs eating filled her head, but she didn’t really know why. Maybe that’s what was making the sounds. A giant dog. Yes, that had to be it.

  Ander stopped screaming. Then he stopped struggling. He even stopped twitching.

  Breathing became easier. For some reason, Ander was a lot lighter now. Esta could still hear the dog eating. She could even feel it tongue through the skin of Ander’s chest. But that didn’t make sense—wouldn’t Ander’s heart and lungs get in the way? Esta didn’t feel like puzzling it out. The world was beyond making sense. She wasn’t even afraid anymore.

  She felt nothing. Nothing at all.

  The enormous dog—or whatever it was—stopped eating and sniffed the air. Then, with a sudden lurch, the heavy weight leapt off the bed. Its feet thudded onto the floor before it smashed open the door, cracking the frame. The floorboards out in the hall creaked with each step. A succession of screams followed, but some of them cut off quickly while others lingered on.

  Esta lay there a while, hearing them but not really listening, then pushed Ander off her with little effort and stood up next to the bed, the sticky folds of her dress falling back around her legs. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. What remained of Ander was enough for a throw rug. Barefoot, Esta turned and went out into the hall, stepping over the splinters of wood and plaster.

  The bodies in the hall, many of them without clothes, were people she didn’t recognize. Some of them mewed softly; others were silent. The one on the stairs, though, triggered something in her memory—a name? Beth perhaps—but the memory fled as suddenly as it arrived. Esta stepped over the broken form and went outside through the rickety wooden door.

  Absently, she glanced up as she shuffled down the streets, only one thought penetrating the fog of her mind.

  Night had finally fallen.

  Chapter 61: Eye to Eye

  Herrin Fayel, Commander of the Knights of the Eye, had been camped in the heart of the thicket for days, along with the other forty-two Knights of his order that remained. Waiting, for a man whom he was sure would not come. That man had forsaken everything the Knights believed in, and wouldn’t heed his former commander’s call. That man was beyond redemption, yet still, Herrin had to try.

  The familiar sensation tickled his neck as he was kneeling on the wet, loamy bank of a stream that meandered through the woods, washing out the cook pots. He glanced to the north-east, towards the source of the sensation. Herrin had been mistaken. The man was coming after all. Herrin could feel his approach almost as clearly as if a sheggam stalked his camp. And for good reason.

  He stood, drying off the pot with a rag, and turned to the camp. There were only a few torches among the tents; it wasn’t yet full dark, and the Knights of the Eye could see better at night than other people. Some were napping, and some playing dice and drinking strong tea, laughing and speaking quietly. A few stood guard around the camp. One of these, a man named Rigg, walked up to him, staff in hand. Even with his face silhouetted as it was, the camp’s light behind him, the tightness in Rigg’s expression was obvious.

  “I know,” said the Commander as he whipped the rag over his shoulder. He tucked the pot into the crook of his arm and stepped up the steeply inclined slope of the stream’s bank, snapping twigs and rustling ferns. “Dransig comes. Let us gather the men.”

  Preparation took only moments. Torches were doused, cloaks fastened, helmets donned. Herrin ordered everyone to leave their staves behind. Their short swords—only used for dispatching sheggam—stayed at their hips.

  From this deep in the woods, he couldn’t see the lights of Garoshmir in the distance, but Herrin knew it was from that direction that Dransig came. He kept his hands hanging free at his sides, but several others gripped the hilts of their swords. Knights of the Eye feared very few things—the sheggam, and those who danced dangerously close to the line that separated humans from the monsters. After what Dransig had done, it wasn’t clear just how close to the line he was. If he hadn’t crossed it already.

  The thought made Herrin nervous. In spite of himself, he checked to make sure his sword was clear in its scabbard. He hated showing fear to his s
ubordinates, but he hated being unprepared even more.

  As Dransig neared their position, his presence nearly glowed in Herrin’s awareness, almost as strongly as a sheggam would have—and certainly more strongly than those of his loyal Knights. Behind him, Herrin heard the word abomination muttered, but he didn’t turn to address the speaker’s indiscretion. Now was not the time.

  Dransig stepped into view silently, eyeing them warily. The embroidered mark of the Eye had been removed from his tabard, picked clean of every thread. Almost as if the man had declared his unwillingness to see. The sight of it removed infuriated Herrin.

  Dransig’s staff rested on his shoulder, one wrist hooked over it. He was not close, but he didn’t need to be for them to have a conversation. If that was indeed what he had come for.

  Herrin spoke first. “I’m surprised you came.” Indeed, Herrin had been surprised when his messenger came back yesterday, reporting that his message to Dransig had been successfully delivered. Dransig wouldn’t have been found unless he wanted to be.

  For all that Dransig had done to himself, he still very much looked burdened with age. His shoulders were slumped, his eyelids heavy. “And I’m surprised to stand here unmolested. Considering what your men have been trying to do.”

  “You mean, considering what you had done. If you came all this way to protest your innocence, you’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  Dransig shook his head. “My guilt is earned, and felt keenly. But I didn’t come because of that.”

  “Then why?”

  “To see if you had finally come to grips with reality.”

  Herrin smiled, though he didn’t feel a shred of pleasure. His smile was fueled by anger. “Insults are just as welcome as protestations.”

  “I intend no insult. Only to present facts.” Dransig briefly glanced over his shoulder. “The Runeway is keyed to shegasti. For humans—well, humans with no trace of shegasti in their blood—it will do nothing. Except pave a way for monsters to sweep across all the Sutherlands unimpeded. I think you know this now, but you’ve done nothing.”

  “You forget one thing. Andrin’s Wall still stands. Threats to the Sutherlands can only come from within.” He made it clear with his gaze and his tone who among them could count as a threat. He paced, never taking his eyes off Dransig. “You claim to bring facts, yet you forget the facts of our mission. The Knights of the Eye are the protectors of mankind. Not its slayers. We cannot allow an assassination of any human to be performed in our name. No matter the supposed cost. Or have you forgotten the oath you swore on that very staff?”

  Dransig dropped his gaze and seemed to grow even more weary than before. He had likely hoped Herrin Fayel, Commander of the Knights of the Eye himself, had turned traitor to his cause, as Dransig had. The old man proved himself a greater fool than Herrin could ever have imagined.

  Dransig seemed deep in thought for a moment. Then he tossed the staff to the ground halfway between himself and Herrin. “Forgotten? No. But I would gladly forsake it if it would save lives.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Ending lives to save them.” Herrin shook his head. “I hope that’s not all you came here for.”

  He could feel a couple of his men change their stance ever so slightly. It was subtle, but clear even to Dransig, by the way his eyes shifted, that they were assuming a more offensive position. Herrin turned his head a fraction; it was all the signal they needed to drop back to their original positions. By leaving their staves behind, they were granting Dransig sanctuary—insofar as he remained human. If not, well, that was what the swords were for.

  “All? That isn’t the half of it. In fact, that part of it doesn’t even matter anymore.” Dransig took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I’ve become more … sensitive. I can sense things with more precision than the average Knight of the Eye.”

  Herrin cocked his head. “And?”

  “Something’s coming. Something I’ve never felt before.”

  Very little frightened Herrin Fayel, but the tone of Dransig’s voice chilled him to the bone. “You think—”

  “No. I know what it was. If you won’t help me carry out my charge, then at least you should know it’s time to carry out yours.” He turned to leave.

  “Dransig.” Herrin’s voice carried its own warning. “Stay here, stop what you’re going to do. I will grant you sanctuary for as long as you remain. You will be safe. But if you leave these woods, I won’t protect you anymore.”

  Dransig paused. His laugh was as much a cough. “Protect me? I’m doomed in any event, and your chance to protect anyone has long since passed.” He continued to walk, then stopped again. “Unless you finally heed my warnings. I fear this may be the last of them.”

  When it was clear that Herrin wouldn’t respond, Dransig snorted and silently stalked away, leaving his staff behind.

  Once back in camp, Herrin turned to Jerem, his second. “Send out scouts. Have them report back if they sense anything … unusual.”

  Rigg paused. “You trust him?”

  “His words? I’ve never once doubted them. It was his choices and his commitment to our cause that were in doubt.” And the blood in his veins, Herrin thought. My poor, twisted old friend. What have you done to yourself? “Jerem, you’ll have command while I’m away. You know what to do if the scouts find anything worthy of our attention.”

  Jerem picked at the scar under his eye like he always did when he was worried. Doubtless he didn’t relish the prospect of facing a real sheggam, if indeed there was one. “And if I need to send for you?”

  Tossing back his cloak, Herrin grabbed his staff and tucked it under his arm. “Follow the scent of treachery. I will be there, with the Eye on my chest watching on in judgment.” Herrin left the camp, heading toward Garoshmir. He knew, from the depths of his soul, that his sword would taste sheggam blood before the night was out. And that blood would belong to a sheggam who once called himself a Knight of the Eye.

  * * *

  Dransig staggered at the edge of the woods, catching a tree to support himself. The trunk of tree, as healthy as any other, splintered under his inhumanly strong grip as easily as if rotted. He fell to his knees. His breathing sounded like choking, but he could barely hear it over the fierce pulsing in his ears.

  And the infernal Song, ever on the distant edges of his consciousness. The Song of Pain, which yearned to be sung aloud in blood and the rending of flesh.

  No no no! I will not turn! The pounding in Dransig’s head was almost too much to take, yet he got to his feet and loped on, out onto the grassy knolls, Garoshmir not far beyond. Joints popped as his limbs began to elongate. Frantic energy surged through him like insects swarming beneath his skin, demanding release.

  Dransig strangled it with all his might. I will not turn!

  At least … at least not yet. He forced down the Song of Pain, and with that, his body slowly, painfully returned to a fully human state. Still, he knew he didn’t have much longer. Perhaps not even the night. He would resist as long as he could, but it was futile to pretend that his resistance could last forever. The shegasti now leaking from his body overwhelmed even his senses; he was sure all the nearby Knights could feel him as clearly as seeing a beacon in the night. No doubt Herrin had sent someone to kill him before he got too close to turning, if the man didn’t follow Dransig himself.

  As well he should, Dransig thought grimly as he limped down the grassy slope, struggling to stay on his feet. I deserve and accept such a fate. Just give me a little more time.

  A little more time to find my daughter. Find her, and kill her.

  Chapter 62: First Taste of Freedom

  Aylia, the red moon, slowly shifted across the sky like a star that had forgotten its place in the firmament. It was much larger than a star, however, if not as big as her grayish-white brother Foth. And though Foth remained the same size no matter when it was spotted, Aylia grew and shrank in cycles. It had long been said that Aylia was a harbinge
r of suffering, especially when it was larger in the sky.

  Tonight, it was the largest Erianna had ever seen it.

  Long ago, she had dismissed such superstitions as a misguided attempt to make sense of the world. Now, crouched amidst a stack of discarded baskets as she listened to a world gone mad, she wondered if perhaps there was some dark purpose to the moon, guiding events to ensure more darkness and pain. Perhaps it was there to punish her, a mere slave daring to live free. Why else would such horrors be unleashed upon them mere hours after declaring her freedom?

  Screams. The night was filled with them. No, what was happening to these people had nothing to do with her. And as frightening as the prospect of freedom was, she refused to believe that seizing it, much less wanting it, could be a crime. She was a slave no more and would no longer think like one.

  The thought, as empowering as it was, did little to keep Erianna’s hands from shaking.

  Slowly, as quietly as she could, she raised herself up out of her crouch until she could see beyond the stack of baskets. The street curved up a slope, turning into wide stone steps. She couldn’t see very far. Behind her were shop fronts surrounding a dead end with no alleys between them. The doors were locked; she had already tested them before hiding among the baskets. She’d considered busting out a window and crawling into one of the shops, but she didn’t want to make any noise and draw the sheggam to her. So she had hidden herself among the baskets left out in front of one of the shops.

  Erianna knew, though, that she couldn’t stay here forever. The sheggam would come. And though running might not help her for very long, she decided that running would be better than simply accepting her fate, the same bloody fate that so many others had found tonight.

  As soon as she stepped out from behind the baskets, the sound of something behind her shattering startled her into a headlong sprint around the curving street and up the steps.

  She didn’t stop until she was three blocks away, panting as her thigh muscles burned with exertion, at the corner of a main intersection. A few of the streetlamps were dark, but the others cast flickering light on the scene. Bodies littered the streets here. At the corner was a shop, where it seemed people had broken through the front door. Those who weren’t fast enough lay dead, crammed between its jambs. More people had died climbing out of the shop’s broken windows, backs ripped to shreds. Apparently, they thought they could escape danger and found out—the hard way—that there was no escape. Not tonight.