A Tide of Shadows

by Tom Bielawski

  At least, there was Cklathball.

  Cklathball was a physically grueling, strategy-oriented game played on a field fifty yards wide and one hundred yards long. The field can be any surface at all; in winter it can even be played on ice. The field usually contains several obstacles such as rock walls, or mounds of dirt that are used by the defending team to prevent scores. At each end of the field is a six-foot hollow stone pillar called the goalpost. The object is for the team commander to move the team, through the use of strategy and force, down the field and place the ball into the opponent’s goalpost while the defending team does anything it can to prevent this.

  Carym and Zach jogged the short distance to the amphitheatre designed by the Arnathians just outside the city limits of Hybrand City. A set of stone bleachers built cleverly into a hillside overlooking the field served as the seating arrangements for the Arnathian fans. There were no bleachers on the Cklathish side of the field and the local fans had to stand at ground level to watch the game. It wasn’t lost on the Hybrandese that the Arnathians designed the field with the intention of raising themselves above the common Hybrandese rabble. Luckily, the pair found a good viewing point from the sideline and watched the game which had apparently been in progress for some time.

  “Hey, isn’t that Rych?”

  Zach squinted for a moment and surveyed the field. Each team had its men in a line facing each other. Behind one line stood a man with a painted leather cap, the “Commander” of his team. “Yes, that’s him.”

  Rych stood behind the members of his team, the Militiamen, who were wearing uniforms of Cklathish green with leather caps on their heads and leather vests. The Militiamen formed a protective line in front of Rych, squaring off against their adversaries, the Imperial Conquerors. With the crest of Hybrand prominently displayed on his leather cap, Rych glanced up and down the line of Imperials, who wore black uniforms bearing the emblem of the Arnathian Crown painted in silver. Each man carried a small wooden buckler style shield and a leather-wrapped wooden cudgel.

  “When did they promote him to Commander?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Zach seemed more interested in observing the fans on the Arnathian side of the field. Carym saw the ill-disguised scorn in his friend’s eyes as he surveyed the opposing bleachers and knew little good would come of it. Everyone knew the Arnathians cared little for any sport where there wasn’t a certain amount of violence. In fact, it was very likely that the only reason Craxis allowed the Cklathball matches to continue was that it was a violent sport; though most injuries were rarely life-threatening. But Carym decided he wasn’t going to let his curmudgeonly friend ruin the fun and he focused on the game. The score was tied at 25 and the point cap was set at 35 points; meaning that the first team to reach 35 points wins the game.

  Carym, along with a large number of his countrymen, shouted encouragement for the Cklathish. He truly loved Cklathball and had played it in the streets with his childhood friends, some of whom were on the field now. Rych shouted a command and his men, called “troopers,” surged forward beating back the opposing team’s troopers. Rych shouted another command as two of his scouts, the men to whom he would throw his ball, broke through the line of opposing troopers, and raced down the side boundaries of the field towards the goalpost. Imperial scouts, whose job was to beat down the Cklathish scouts, trailed close behind them trying to knock the Cklathish scouts off their feet with their clubs and small shields.

  Rych took a solid blow to his upper thigh as he hurled the ball into the air, then fell to the ground in pain. Carym watched as the black and red ball sailed expertly over the heads of the Imperial scouts and into the hands of his own man, Warreth. The two trailing Imperials promptly slammed Warreth in the back with their padded bucklers and knocked him to the ground ten feet from the goal ring. The play was over and both teams faced off again, now only ten feet from the goal. Rych needed help getting to his feet and walked with a limp behind his own line of men. Despite the terrible pain he must be feeling in his leg, he was still in control. Thanks to that successful catch, his team now had another chance to score before they must give control of the ball back to the Imperials.

  Rych looked around the stadium. On his right side sat Imperial Army troops, nobles, Arnathian settlers, and other fans of the Imperial Conquerors, while on his left side stood the people of Hybrand. With a shouted command, his troopers surged forward again, pushing the Conquerors’ own troopers backwards and into the goal ring. Rych climbed onto the back of one of his own teammates and was propelled over the mass of heaving and shoving men. With a desperate lunge to avoid half a dozen swinging cudgels, Rych tumbled safely into the goal ring with the ball tucked under his arm. The judge awarded the Cklathish team ten points bringing them to the predetermined point cap of thirty-five points, and victory. The Hybrandese crowd roared at the masterful victory of their Militiamen and rushed out onto the field to congratulate their players.

  Carym was caught up in the moment and went out on the field to heartily congratulate his friends. Zach was wearing a huge grin, no doubt reveling in the shameful blow dealt to the Arnathians by his countrymen. But, the outcome of this game did not change the outcome of their dilemma.

  “Come on Carym!” he shouted over the noise. “We should head back into town work on our ‘problem!’”

  Carym very quickly found his old friend Rych and offered his congratulations before Zach finally pulled him away from the field and towards the road.

  ***

  Carym and Zach followed the celebrating townsfolk back into town where groups of people separated from the crowd and made their way into the various pubs of Hybrand City; Carym and Zach returned to the Silver Star Inn. Choosing a seat just inside the door where they could watch the crowd moving down the street.

  After the elation at their team’s success had worn off, the magnitude of their quandary became apparent. Carym suddenly felt very weary and he couldn’t help but wonder if General Craxis would be planning something decidedly bad with which to congratulate the Cklathish team. He felt as though he had just marched a hundred miles with a heavy weight on his chest. Warily, he watched the crowds moving to and fro on the street outside the inn, expecting Imperial soldiers to charge in and arrest him at any moment. Foolishness, he thought to himself. We haven’t done anything wrong...yet.

  “What are we going to do, Carym? We can’t build a gallows that will be used to hang our own people! I have a good mind to take our money and get out of town,” said Zach as though he had been reading Carym’s very thoughts. “This is madness! Where did they get the idea that we are ‘loyalists?’ I can’t stand the Arnathians; I didn’t choose to join the bloody Fleet, but sure did learn how to scout and fight. And I intend to use those skills to get away from this place!” Zach had a distant look in his eyes.

  The stress of the day’s activities wore on Carym and he decided to risk a shot of whiskey, breaking his vow of sobriety. “We should go north, and join our kin in Brythyn.”

  Carym was afraid his friend’s mouth would get them both in trouble. The Arnathians had not been kind to those who expressed dissenting thoughts. He wondered if there were some Arnathian sympathizers in the crowd nearby, ready and willing to turn them in. Willam Cheval and his sister Rashel were seated a few tables away deeper inside the inn, engrossed in deep conversation. Several members of the Cklathball team were carrying on inside the pub, drinking heavily and singing bawdy songs.

  Seated outside were a few members of the City Council and the mayor, Argus the Strong; folks still called him that. It was said Argus was so strong that he once killed a man by jabbing him in the chest with one meaty finger. Carym nodded in respect to the older man who nodded back. Carym saw something there, in that glance and wondered if word had gotten out about their Arnathian contract already. A pair of Imperial guards stood idly conversing a few buildings away, but it was the Arnathian at the next table he was truly concerned about. The man was dressed in the clothing
of a commoner, yet he the haughty air of a nobleman or someone else of importance.

  “You had better watch your tongue Zach, there are guards on patrol over there,” he pointed to the street corner where two guardsmen stood. When he had Zach’s attention he glanced meaningfully at the man sitting nearby. Years of adventuring had honed Carym’s senses, something wasn’t right and he hoped his friend had picked up on it.

  “I don’t care anymore, Carym!” Zach seemed oblivious to his friend’s silent warning. “I don’t think I can take living in a place where our countrymen become slaves, or they are tortured and murdered because they don’t believe in that Arnathian pig of a god!” he whispered fiercely.

  Carym noticed the stranger stiffening at Zach’s blasphemous remark, and hoped mightily that perhaps the man was suffering from gas.

  “Did you know they have begun to torture non-believers for entertainment in Arnathia Capital?”

  The unusual man at the next table leaned ever so slightly in their direction, as though trying to hear them better.

  “I have had it! We cannot stay here,” Zach had partially risen from his seat.

  Carym was worried but tried to keep his face expressionless, he didn’t want the stranger to know he was on to him. Carym knew Zach was right, however. He knew that they could no longer stay in Hybrand; Carym desperately wanted to get away from the Arnathians and away from the memories that haunted him. If they fulfilled their dishonorable contract, their countrymen would likely lynch them. If they turned the job down the Arnathians would lynch them. Despair’s icy hand wrenched his heart; he felt as though his chest was in a vice.

  “Zach,” he warned. “I’ll bet Brother Roderious had someone follow us to make sure we don’t skip town with our advance,” said Carym, nodding slightly toward the stranger, and hoping that Zach would catch the hint. Meanwhile, the two Imperial guards continued their surveillance of the street-goers from their corner, resplendent and intimidating in their brightly polished armor. Their black skin and strong features marked them as the members of the fierce warrior tribes from the province of Western Vola. Carym was relieved the burly men had, for the moment, taken no notice of them.

  Zach took a sudden interest in the bottom of his mug and muttered to Carym, “You are probably right. I don’t trust that toothy smile of his. Likely they know already about the resistance movement, and they know that I have been involved with it for some time.”

  A dark look passed over Carym’s face, he wasn’t fond of the resistance movement and he hadn’t known his close friend was deeply involved with it until recently. Although this group, calling themselves the Spiders, claimed to have only Hybrand’s freedom as its goal, there were rumors about the dark nature of group’s leaders. It was said that most of the outlaw gang were assassins and thieves.

  “We can’t win, no matter what we choose Zach. All because of that damned contract.”

  “To Hades with that ruddy contract!” Zach said suddenly, knocking his empty mug to the floor. Carym glanced at the man at the next table; the man didn’t even flinch when the mug shattered, trying very hard to look disinterested.

  “Mind your tongue, Zach!” Carym said with a warning in his voice, preparing for a fight. Zach was absorbed in his bitterness. “There’s no use complaining, it will only get us killed.”

  “Your right, there is no use complaining. We need to go on the offensive! Those rotten Arnathians have nearly enslaved us! Our countrymen are impoverished and our family members are disappearing! Where are the missing families now? Slaves on some Arnathian noble’s plantation in Far Karbandom, no doubt!”

  “They have forced our women and children into servitude to work off the debts of their masters! Press gangs force our men into military service on the farthest and bloodiest war fronts. Now the Imperials are threatening to use this city as a staging point for a campaign against our own people in Brythyn!” Zach continued his rant. “I’m just glad I finished my contract with the Fleet long ago. I will not fight against my own people! And, I - will - not - fight - in - their - filthy - games!”

  “Zach, you are going to get us arrested if you don’t quiet down!”

  A glance at the man next to them revealed that he was indeed armed, something bulged at his hip through the material of his cloak. Zach did sit back down, but he wasn’t listening to Carym. The wheels were turning in his mind and Carym knew that a scheme, probably a very risky one, was on the tip of his old friend’s tongue.

  “Life in Hybrand was not always bad after the occupation began,” Carym sighed, wistfully. “But it seems everything has changed. We are not free to speak as we please, anymore. It all seems so hopeless now,” Carym shook his head and downed yet another shot of whiskey, uneasy about agreeing with his cantankerous friend and relieved they had not yet been arrested. Another shot. Maybe that man wasn’t interested in them after all. “Perhaps, you’re right,” he admitted gloomily.

  The suspicious man at the next table stood suddenly and walked over to them. He opened his cloak displaying the badge of the Golden Dragon on an inside flap, the seal of Qra’z on his chest, and held out a stilton. Zach had too often felt the crack of that short staff against his shoulders during his service in the fleet; every officer carried one to keep the men in line.

  “You!” the man’s deep voice carried over the hubbub, as he pointed his stilton at Zach. “You are under arrest for blasphemy, intent to defraud the crown, and association with the rebel gang known as the Spiders! Stand and relinquish your arms!” he commanded.

  “Qra’zim!” Carym said nervously, fear wrenched his stomach. Qra’zim were known to be skilled fighters and some were able to use magic. The swarthy Arnathian’s golden chain mail was noticeable from underneath his commoner’s button-down tunic and a large mace hung at his side. Carym looked back at his friend, concerned because he saw that gleam in his old friend’s eye. The two had been in many campaigns and adventures together, and each was finely tuned to the other’s senses and actions. He sighed, irritated at himself that he had underestimated his old friend. Zach had known exactly what he was doing. No doubt, his friend wanted to skewer the Qra’zim and start a riot, meanwhile Carym had addled his own wits with whiskey.

  “I will show you the might of a Cklathman, you dog!” Zach stood, drew his sword with one hand and concealed a throwing dagger in the other. The Qra’zim warrior smiled wickedly and lifted his mace. Carym reached for a long dagger that he kept hidden in his cloak; he was ready to fight but he hoped they could still avoid it.

  “You cannot escape the Light of Qra’z,” boasted the Arnathian condescendingly. “Lay down your arms and you will not be harmed,” he smirked as he spoke. Clearly this Qra’zim felt as though these men were no match for him. He could have easily shouted for assistance from the guards who had moved to the opposite street corner, their attention still drawn elsewhere...for the moment.

  Zach lowered his sword as though he were going to comply and Carym tensed, prepared to run. The Arnathian laughed and sidled confidently towards the pair. Carym shook his head and sighed, the foolish man did not realize the fight was not over. Out of his peripheral vision he noticed Zach’s hand made a quick movement. With a short gasp, the Qra’zim’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground in a heap; a dagger protruding from his forehead.

  C H A P T E R

  4

  Fugitives. Friends.

  Spiders.

  Carym glanced at the corpse. He was dimly aware of Zach’s booted foot on the man’s head, leverage to pull his dagger free. The Qra’zim’s eyes were glazed over now, blood oozing from the dagger wound in his forehead. With a loud crunch, Zach pulled the blade loose and wiped it on the dead man’s cloak.

  Then Carym heard a shuffling sound behind him. When he turned to look, he saw Willam Cheval standing casually, and inspecting his cup in the air; his right foot was resting atop the chest of a very still, very Arnathian looking person. Where did that one come from? Carym thought frantically. Were there more Qra
z’im about? Cheval had blocked the view of the guards across the way, for the moment shielding the pair.

  “Come on Carym, it’s time to go! Run!” Zach grabbed Carym by the collar and shoved him onto the street, running as fast as he could. Argus and the councilmen who had shared a table with the mayor had both leaped to their feet and were making haste toward the nearest Arnathian patrol. Carym knew the men were probably going to try to interfere with the guards on behalf of the friends. He only hoped he would live to thank the men.

  The commotion and revelry of faded behind him and were replaced by hard breathing and pounding heart as his feet took him away. He didn’t know where they were going, he only hoped there wouldn’t be any Arnathians waiting for them when they got there. Suddenly Zach ducked into an alley with Carym close behind. Zach reached into a pile of trash and pulled hard on something. Then a wall slid shut behind them, preventing any would-be pursuers from following them into the alley, and they stopped to rest. Carym almost collapsed, his lungs were burning, and he knew he was close to retching. He had been running as fast as he could to keep up with Zach and the effects of the alcohol were making him nauseous.

  Ankle deep in sludge, Carym slumped to the floor. Breathing hard, he cursed at Zach. He was so mad he could not see straight; or was that from the whiskey? Anger began to rip through him giving him strength, his blood rushing; his face became hot. Carym stood and drew his sword. “What have you done?” he shouted at Zach, his sword held level in front of him.