Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  There was a time of darkness, shortly after he had fled from the anger and spite of the king, whose relative he had slain in a duel, when he was forced to leave behind the king’s Royal Guard, his family for the previous years, his home. He hated to dwell upon it; memories of those days shamed him, and yet, those reflections constantly seeped into his mind, like a mist drifting through the forest, unstoppable, a constant thing, always all around, yet untouchable. He and Joshan had taken up with a gang of brigands. They were waylaid by them one summer morning as they journeyed through the Great Wood, farther east to the place he now found himself. They were rough and nasty, and robbing travellers was no strange thing to them. Yet, they were no match for an outlawed knight and fighting champion of the Royal Guard. Tomas and Joshan had fought them off easily, but instead of killing them or even leaving them somewhere to be found by the local magistrate’s men, they forced them to take them to their camp, deep into the forest, and they joined them.

  Tomas had been full of anger at the time. He wanted vengeance, he wanted to hurt the king who had robbed him of a life he had fought harder than most for. He had not realised how much he loved being honoured and feted as a part of the Royal Guard, how much the camaraderie of his sworn sword brothers meant to him, until it was snatched from him. They were known as the Shields of the Realm; sworn to defend the king with their lives, honour-bound to each other.

  Well, he was born a commoner, the son of a blacksmith, and when push came to shove, his brothers abandoned him. His king declared him outlaw, because he had fought and killed a member of the aristocracy. The bitterness was a vile-tasting thing in the back of his throat. He knew not how to fight back, but marshalling a gang of cutthroats and rapists seemed like one way to strike a blow at the time. Joshan had argued against it, of course, but Tomas was too hot-headed, too angry, and so they had become part of the folklore of the Great Wood. How life had twisted and turned in on itself for a simple blacksmith’s son.

  By the time he reached the unending line of trees, the sun had broken over the horizon, bathing the valley in a bright golden glow. Tomas knew that even the sun’s brilliant white light, and warmth would find it hard to penetrate to the very depths of the forest, to where he knew he must journey. He freed a small bag of provisions he had tied to the saddle and slung it over his shoulder. Hanging across his back was his sword, cleaned now of the blood of the men he had killed, yet the stain of the deed would linger for much, much longer. Once he had Aliss securely cradled in his arms, he slapped the horse’s rump and let out a sharp cry, trusting the beast would find its own way home. It would be of no use to him deeper into the forest, where the foliage became thick, along with the dank, cool air.

  Aliss had not made a sound since he had fled the monastery. He knew Joshan had put a charm on her, to ease her suffering and put her into a deep sleep. He could not help but wonder if she would ever wake from it. Joshan said she was beyond his help. The old monk had a great gift for healing Tomas knew well—it was a bitter irony that the only other he knew capable of helping Aliss was herself. Magic was a rare thing in the world—if he could not help her, was she beyond all aid? Such thoughts had plagued him the entire journey. He was tired, his body ached, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. Was he just prolonging her agony? He didn’t want to lose her, couldn’t lose her. Was it so selfish to desire to save the woman he loved? Joshan had said he would ease her journey into the afterlife. Was Tomas wrong to deprive her of this? Or should he do all in his power to help her live?

  He warred with himself incessantly as he walked, his burden growing heavier with each step. On more than one occasion he stumbled over an unseen root or trailing vine. The damp, musky odours of the surrounding vegetation and rich earthy smells of the forest floor were like an opiate, seducing him into an overwhelming tiredness. He yearned to stop and rest, to sleep. Perhaps when he woke, he would realise it had all been a dream; a dark, terrible nightmare.

  When he finally did allow himself to rest—either that or he would fall down where he stood—his dreams were dark and terrible. A blood-lusting monster attacked the village in the valley, slaying all in its path. Only, he was the monster.

  His head throbbed from lack of sleep; his traitorous mind sent him thoughts and feelings of doubt and shame. He held his wife close to him. He didn’t want her to die. She had saved him, saved him from himself, and a life of villainy and infamy. He thought he had blocked out much of his past, certainly some of the more heinous deeds he perpetrated, but it was Aliss who had done that. She had given him a chance at a better life. He was once a hero, then branded traitor—unfairly in his eyes—then turned outlaw. He was many things in the eyes of men. She saw past that; she drew out the blacksmith’s son, accepting him, and all his faults, for who he was. To lose her would mean losing himself.

  His attention snapped back to the present at the sound of a footstep on a fallen branch. He remained motionless, head bowed as if still in a slumber. Whispering voices drifted on the wind, making him tense. His instincts urged him to flee, to leap up and run from any approaching danger. He fought that desire with cold determination and waited.

  Like shadows they melted from the darkness of the forest and into his makeshift camp. One by one they edged closer, sensing easy prey. The first approached, dagger in hand, as the others made to surround Tomas and Aliss. Two sleeping travellers, lost in the Great Wood, easy pickings – not so. In a heartbeat Tomas was up, with a twist of his wrist the would-be thief’s dagger dropped to the forest floor and he was launched across the small clearing. The others, all wearing dark, hooded cloaks, stepped in closer. They paused when Tomas unslung the sword from his back.

  “Take me to Haera.”

  The first brigand picked himself up while massaging his jaw. The others shuffled nervously. Two of them carried bows and drew the strings back, both aiming arrows at Tomas. Another was armed with an axe, and the final one carried a stout, wooden staff.

  “And who are you, to know that name?” the injured bandit asked as he cautiously stepped closer.

  “She will know who I am,” he answered.

  The axe-man suddenly lurched forward, aiming a swinging blow at Tomas. If he thought to catch the blacksmith off guard and distracted, he was mistaken. He ran straight into a mail-clad elbow as his axe flew through the air.

  “What’s wrong with the girl?” the first brigand asked.

  “She has suffered severe injuries. If she dies here, she will not journey to the All Father alone.”

  “What sort of injuries,” the bandit ignored the threat, and his unconscious friend. “A witch?” There was no accusation in his question, simply a request for information. Tomas made no answer. The man paused, glancing from Aliss to his companions, until his gaze fell, once again, on Tomas. “Put this on,” he finally said, pulling a long strip of dark cloth from inside his cloak. Tomas studied his partially hidden face and found it unreadable. He shook his head. “I will not lead you to the crone if you do not. I will not take the risk of you using the same path to lead a posse of men the same way.”

  Tomas suddenly crouched down beside the unconscious man, placing his naked blade at the brigand’s throat. “I could kill him now,” he said. “Then you.” He indicated the lead bandit with a hard stare. “Then all of them.”

  “Aye, or perhaps Leon here will stick your lady with an arrow before you do. Then we all lose.” He smiled a humourless smile from beneath the dark hood.

  “Only a fool would turn his back on the bandits of Great Wood and allow them to blindfold him.”

  “Aye,” the bandit responded.

  “I am no fool,” Tomas said. The bandit shrugged, and waited.

  Light had already begun to seep from the overhead sky. Soon it would be dark again, and Aliss would be closer to death. Already, he suspected, the All Father had one hand on her. He could feel the air begin to chill. She would not survive another night.

  “Leon,” the brigand broke the silence. “Pick
up Roree. It is time to go.” He spoke to his companion but his eyes never left Tomas. Two of the bandits picked up the injured man before melting into the darkness of the forest, the second bowman kept his notched arrow trained on the blacksmith. “Leave this place and do not return. The next time you will not see from where your death will come.” Slowly the rest of the band backed away from the night shrouded clearing.

  “Wait!” Tomas barked. The lead bandit halted. “I will wear the blindfold.”

  “Drop the sword and turn around.”

  Tomas did as he was bid. His exposed back tingled and itched, as if a thousand and more white, creeping maggots crawled across his flesh, as the brigand approached. He did not like the feeling of defencelessness one bit. One quick stab and both he and Aliss would die. Only a fool turns his back on the bandits of Great Wood. He could smell the garlic from the bandit’s breath, hear his short, sharp intake of breath as he reached around to cover Tomas’s eyes with the blindfold. “I know you, king’s man. Welcome home.”

  Tomas wrenched the blindfold free and started to turn around. Too late. Pain exploded inside his head. In a heartbeat, his legs went numb, his arms dropped limply to his sides. Then he fell, crashing headlong into the darkness. Fool.

  Djangra Roe: Woodvale Monastery

  Djangra Roe stared at the dark, stone building sitting on top of the hill. His horse whinnied and stomped its hoof into the spongy earth of the forest floor as a resonant chime echoed from the monastery. Rain misted in the air around him forcing him to drag the hood of his cloak up over his head. With a gentle kick he urged his horse up the narrow track leading to the stout wooden doors. His three men-at-arms followed in single file.

  He could not put his finger on why he desired to find this witch so much. There was just something about the way she was rescued from the flames by the mysterious blacksmith that appealed to him. Was she less or more likely to accept his proposal because of it? They were both on the run now; they would be hunted by that fool of a magistrate. It was something he could use as a bargaining tool; offer them enough coin to flee and remain hidden in some sanctuary or other, once they had completed the mission he wished to assign to them. Would they be even capable of tracking and killing the High Priestess of Eor? The dream-witch was a powerful practitioner of magic, in her own subtle way. Her ability to enter a man’s dreams and kill him while he slept certainly had Duke Normand on tender hooks, frightened as a small boy of the monsters hiding beneath his bed – sometimes those monsters were real enough.

  Either way, if he was to find them he would need to do it soon, before the trail went cold, or even dead altogether. His tracker, Horace had tracked them to this remote monastery. Djangra could not help but marvel at the man’s skill. His ability must be born of some form of magic. Even so, he had not the time to puzzle out the way of it. He stopped his horse at the end of the narrow path where it led to the wooden doors of the monastery. There were no symbols or markings that would adorn many temples, in other lands, to denote which of the many deities worshipped across the world this one belonged to. In the Duchies they worshipped the All Father above all other gods. With a simple nod he instructed one of his men to rap on the door.

  The door creaked open, pulled back by two grey-robed monks who bowed low, offering respect to an obviously wealthy visitor, to be mounted on such a fine horse and accompanied by three armed men.

  “I would speak with whoever holds the highest office here,” Djangra said.

  “I will fetch the brother abbot immediately, lord,” the monk answered.

  More monks appeared as if from nowhere with gifts of bread and water, meagre fare, but welcome after hard riding on a long road. Others took the horses off to the stables, while Djangra and his men were led inside the main building. The god worshipped here is a poor one, he thought as he was led down a sparsely decorated corridor. He compared it to some of the temples he had been in, nay, all of the temples he had been in across the world, and this one was sorely lacking in any appearance or trappings of wealth normally associated with organised religion. Of course, there were many gods in many lands, even those without an appetite for gold, he supposed.

  “We are searching for a man and a woman, the woman possibly injured, who came here in the past day or two,” he said to the abbot. Again, he could not help but recognise the complete absence of any sign of wealth from the priest. In fact, he could be mistaken for any of his brothers, so similar was the garb he wore to the others. No pomp and ceremony Djangra would normally associate with the head of an order.

  Djangra was nothing if not a good reader of men, and the small, bent man in front of him was nervous of his questioning. He fidgeted uneasily in his chair, his eyes darting between the armed men and the mage. His hands gripped the wooden table between them, as if to reinforce the barrier.

  “There were two people here, answering that description, but they left soon after their arrival, the night before last,” the abbot answered.

  “Why did they leave? Was the girl not hurt? And more importantly, where did they go?”

  “I do not know. I did not speak with them. Brother Josh…” He stopped suddenly, suspicion clouding his eyes. “Why are you so keen to find them?”

  “Brother Josh?” Djangra ignored the monk’s question. “What were you about to say about him?” Djangra leaned forward, across the small wooden desk between them. The abbot was a small man, with ill fitting skin wrapped about a thin frame, folds of it gathered at his throat and beneath sunken eyes. His hair sat in thin strands, barely covering the top of his head. He leaned back from the encroaching mage.

  The door creaked open, causing the men-at-arms to instinctively reach for the swords strapped to their sides. They relaxed when another monk stepped into the room, his sandals making scuffing noises along the well worn wooden floorboards. “He was about to say they saw me briefly before I sent them along their way.”

  “Brother Josh?” Djangra stood to greet the newcomer.

  “Joshan. I am Brother Joshan.” Joshan inclined his head respectfully, even as his eyes took in all four men in a single sweep.

  “Where did they go?” Djangra asked, his voice low but laced with unmistakable steel. Joshan standing before him with his arms tucked into the sleeves of his robe simply shrugged. “Tell me, priest. You would not like to see my anger.”

  “I do not know,” Joshan answered.

  Djangra began rolling his hands one over the other, the air shifting around him as if his actions were manipulating it. All the while, his eyes never left those of the monk. Suddenly he stretched out an arm towards the abbot who began moving, as if he were being pushed by an invisible hand. When his back was up against the wall behind him he started shifting upwards until his feet were dangling off the ground as he struggled against the unseen force. If Djangra expected to see, fear and awe, astonishment, even a touch of surprise, in the eyes of the other priest, he saw only anger and defiance. If anything, this irritated him more. He raised his other hand and the abbot began choking.

  “I can pull his eyes from his head from here,” he said.

  Anger blazed in the eyes of Joshan as his head snapped up, taking Djangra by surprise. The air in the small room began to crackle and swirl around the priest. The three men-at-arms shifted uneasily where they stood. Magic! Djangra realised suddenly. The old priest is conjuring magic.

  “You dare come here with your threats and demonstrations of power!” Joshan roared above a sound of rushing wind. The noise made Djangra’s ears pop, breaking his concentration and the hold he had on the abbot. The old monk slid to the floor, landing in a heap.

  Djangra felt a wave of energy hit him, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing against the wall, to land beside the abbot. The magic-using priest stepped towards him. “I will show you the meaning of power!” he snarled, his eyes blazing. The mage felt the air around begin to heat, becoming uncomfortably hot within a few heartbeats. He tried to summon his own powers. However, magic is often
as difficult to grasp as a silver fish swimming in a stream and can be impossible to catch with a bare hand alone. Panic welled inside him. How could this simple monk possess magic in such strength? The thought slid into his mind even as he attempted to fight the unseen force pinning him to the wall. He heard a scream then, and realised it was his own, as his skin began to burn. The monk’s fingers danced in the air before him as words of power flowed from his mouth. Djangra understood some, but most were incompressible to him. Who in the name of all the gods is this priest?

  The duke’s soldiers circled the priest with swords drawn. The first approached cautiously on the balls of his feet, like a serpent ready to pounce. The monk, who moments before had appeared harmless and frail, snapped around to face the warrior, and with a flick of his wrist hit him with a rippling wave of energy so fierce that the air flashed bright white around him. The warrior slammed against the wall.

  Djangra had once used an overhead storm to summon lightning bolts powerful enough to crack the base of an ancient oak tree. He could turn a man into a quivering heap with a word or a thought. He could command flames to leap from a hearth and lash out like a cat o’ nine tails. But magic is never an exact science, and requires patience and concentration. At least, that was how it was for him. He knew he was no match for the priest. Even so, he struggled, fought to shake off the energy pinning him to the wall, even as the very air around him burned and cracked.

  A second soldier picked up a chair and flung it at the monk, but the missile stopped in mid-air and suddenly burst into flames, before turning and flying back to where it had come from, striking the man-at-arms squarely in the chest. Djangra clawed at the skin on his face as the air around him made him feel as if his eyes were boiling and his flesh were beginning to melt. He screamed, for there was nothing else to do.