In the Empire of Shadow

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

Prossie watched with an odd mix of emotions. She admired the way Dibbs and the soldiers set out efficiently to get the job done, once they accepted an order—she’d seen it before, of course, hundreds of times, but it still amazed her that non-telepaths could work together so well without direct communication.

  And tired as she was, she felt a peculiar sensation of pride and pleasure because the men were obeying her orders—they didn’t know it, they would never have obeyed if they had known, they would kill her for it if they ever found out, but they were obeying her orders.

  This, she realized, was the feeling of power, real power; she had never felt it before.

  And tied to it was a feeling of terror. She had broken the law, the law that was all that kept non-telepaths from murdering every telepath in the galaxy. She was a criminal, an outlaw.

  If Carrie ever found out…

  Would Carrie tell, or would Carrie risk her own death sentence?

  Prossie didn’t want to find out. She had fifteen minutes before Carrie would call to her again; in that fifteen minutes she had to forget what she had done. She could never dare think of it again.

  Not that the Empire could put her to death here in Faerie, of course. Not that Dibbs and the others could ever find out what she had done—she was their only link to the Empire. But if she ever wanted to return home, if she wanted Carrie to be able to live a normal life, she had to never again allow herself to consciously remember her crime.

  * * * *

  At the age of eighteen, Albert Singer had signed up to be a soldier. He had enlisted because he was thoroughly bored with farming, because he liked the way the fancy purple uniforms looked, and most importantly, because he saw how much the girls liked the way the fancy purple uniforms looked. He had signed up for space service because it looked a lot more interesting than hanging around the little garrison at Cochran’s Landing, and he figured it would impress the girls even more.

  It had never once occurred to him that this would one day lead to crawling through the stifling, malodorous darkness underneath a wrecked spaceship and the corpse of a gigantic monster bat, shoving his way through damp earth and brittle dead leaves, trying to rescue a fat little foreigner who was probably already dead.

  He couldn’t see a thing, not really; a little of the afternoon light filtered in around his own boots, but the dust from the leaves was a thin haze everywhere around him, grit had gotten in his eyes, and there wasn’t anything to see, in any case. He sneezed, spraying warm goo on his upper lip and the back of one hand, and could hardly wipe it off. The entire front of his uniform, chest to toe, was becoming coated with dirt—he could feel it, could feel the cool moisture and the grainy texture.

  He belatedly decided that he should have taken off his boots; the shiny finish was going to be ruined, and he thought he’d have been able to crawl better without them.

  He pushed with his toes and elbows, forcing himself deeper into the narrow passage. One shoulder brushed against the steel of the ship’s hull; the opposite knee rubbed against the furry, rubbery flesh of the dead monster.

  Why the hell did the lieutenant have to pick him for this? And why had he not argued when Wilkins had said to go in first? Good old Ronnie Wilkins was squatting back there watching, not doing a damn thing except staring into the dark, where he probably couldn’t even see the bottoms of Singer’s boots any more.

  The first part had been easy, crawling under the ship’s starboard guidance vane, but this part…

  Singer coughed, without meaning to, and hoped very much that he wasn’t going to cough up anything that would wind up smeared on his chin or his uniform. The dust from the leaves was ghastly.

  As much to clear his throat as anything else, he called, “Anyone in here?”

  To his utter astonishment, a voice called back weakly, “Aye, lad.”

  Not only was the bearded foreigner still alive, Singer realized, but he was conscious, and only a few feet away.

  “Hold on, sir, we’ll get you out,” Singer said, trying unsuccessfully to sound reassuring. Then he coughed again. The powdered leaves felt like ground glass scraping the back of his throat.

  He saw something flutter indistinctly in the dimness ahead, and suddenly his throat cleared. He swallowed experimentally, and everything worked.

  Singer remembered that the man ahead was supposed to be a magic-worker of some kind. “Did you do that?” he asked.

  “Aye,” the voice replied. “An it please you.”

  “Thanks.” Singer shoved himself forward again, then stretched out one arm and found he could touch Valadrakul’s embroidered vest.

  Then the roof fell in, or seemed to; the blackness that was the dead monster’s wing suddenly sank in, pressing down on him, and Singer found his face pressed into the dirt beneath. “Hey,” he managed to shout, his voice muffled.

  Wilkins heard him, and called in, “They’re lifting it off the other one, the loony with the head wound. They were picking it up, and everything shifted.”

  “Well, tell them to hurry up, for God’s sake,” Singer called back.

  “Right.” Wilkins turned away and shouted something, but Singer was no longer listening; he was trying to see through the gloom ahead of him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Aye, lad,” the wizard answered.

  “Can you move?”

  “After a fashion, aye,” Valadrakul replied. “My head is free, ’neath the ship’s hull, like your own. And I can move hands, arms, and all, despite the weight of the flesh atop. But alas, one of the beast’s bones lies across the back of my legs, and holds me fast. An that be moved, I’d be free.”

  “You can’t lift it?”

  “Nay.”

  “I saw you doing those fire tricks before; you can’t burn your way out?”

  “Nay, I’d but set myself afire, as well. A blade might serve, but I’ve none, mine was lost long since.”

  “A blade…” Singer mentally cursed himself for not bringing a knife. He had one, of course, a standard military-issue combat knife, but it was in his pack, inside the ship, and the ship was underneath the dead monster.

  Then, abruptly, the thick layer of flesh above him shifted again, this time pulling up and away. Twisting around so that his helmet was out of the way he looked up at it, and realized that the rest of the squad must have heaved the wing out a little.

  He still couldn’t see much, though. His flashlight was in his pack, aboard the ship, as well. Another stupid mistake. At least he wasn’t the only one who had made this particular mistake; as far as he knew, everybody, even Lieutenant Dibbs, had left his pack aboard ship.

  He peered into the darkness. The dust had settled, and his eyes had adapted; he could see the wizard’s face as a pale, colorless blur.

  He had room now to get up on his knees, his back pressing up into the creature’s wing; he did, and leaned forward, groped ahead until he was able to grasp Valadrakul’s hand.

  “Maybe I can pull you free,” he suggested.

  “Mayhap you can,” Valadrakul agreed. “An you haul, I’ll push.”

  Singer grabbed the wizard’s arm in both hands, braced himself, and said, “Ready? Heave!”

  They heaved.

  Nothing happened. There wasn’t enough room for Singer to really dig in his heels, and his grip was on Valadrakul’s sleeve more than on the arm within.

  Someone shouted, back out there in the world of light and air; Singer glanced toward the opening, then decided to ignore it. It couldn’t have anything to do with him or the trapped foreigner.

  “’Tis the ankles that hold me,” Valadrakul said. “And the thing’s wing-bone.”

  “Maybe if I dig down underneath?”

  “’Tis a sound idea, methinks,” Valadrakul agreed.

  Singer took a deep breath, cupped his hands, and started burrowing.

  * * * *

  Pel watched as Ted got unsteadily to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  �
�Guess I got the blanket over my face,” Ted said, looking back at the huge black wing. “Or maybe a pillow. Maybe I pulled it down off the bed—I think I must’ve fallen out long ago.”

  Lieutenant Dibbs snorted with disgust; Pel didn’t blame him. Ted’s persistence in his delusion had long since passed the point of evoking sympathy, concern, or even amusement.

  Pel had long ago run out of ideas for dissuading Ted, though; nothing worked.

  Dibbs and the civilians watched as the soldiers heaved at the wing, trying to pull it out, away from the ship, as much as possible. The soldier who was helping in the attempt to free Valadrakul—Wilkins, was it?—had said that his companion was having problems, being squeezed in there.

  That would not do. They needed Valadrakul, needed him badly.

  So the soldiers were trying to give Valadrakul and his rescuer a little more room. They were too far under to have the wing lifted off them completely, the way it had been lifted off Ted, but it should be possible to stretch it a little tighter, so it didn’t hang down so heavily upon them.

  Pel thought it was a very good idea. “Can I help?” he asked.

  Dibbs looked at him, at the tattered remnants of his shirt and the blood and dirt smeared on his face and body, then turned back to his men. “No, sir,” he said flatly. “We’re doing fine.”

  Pel didn’t argue, but he wondered just how fine Dibbs was actually doing. His commanding officer had been killed—and, Pel realized, Dibbs was now, under orders, trying to rescue the man who had killed Carson. Four of his men had vanished during the panic as the bat-thing approached, and still had not returned. His supplies, other than the useless sidearms, were all aboard the ship, which was inaccessible—and for that matter, the ship had crashed, stranding them all in an alien universe.

  Pel reminded himself that this universe was just as alien to the Imperials as it was to the Earthpeople.

  It would be perfectly reasonable for Lieutenant Dibbs to be feeling some pretty serious strain. Pel decided not to push the man about the rescue efforts, or anything else, just yet.

  As Pel decided this, one of the soldiers happened to look to one side. Startled, he pointed and shouted. Equally startled, Pel turned.

  A rather shamefaced Imperial soldier was stumbling out of the forest, toward the dead monster and the buried ship. His helmet was gone, and his face smeared with something.

  Well, that was one of the four, anyway; Pel glanced surreptitiously at Dibbs’ face, and caught an expression of intense relief.

  Then it vanished.

  “All right, Sawyer,” the lieutenant shouted, “about time you got back! Get over there and give the others a hand!”

  * * * *

  Dirt sprayed into Singer’s face; his eyes had closed immediately, but not fast enough, and now they stung horribly. Dirt was blocking his nose; he huffed most of it out. He could taste the earth in his mouth, on his tongue and lips; he spat out as much as he could.

  “Your pardon, good sir, a thousand times, I beg your pardon!” the wizard said hastily. “I am shamed and dishonored to have discomfited you, who sought to rescue me—and who did so! Look you!” He wiggled his newly freed, booted foot.

  “No problem,” Singer muttered, wiping away dirt. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Aye,” Valadrakul agreed fervently, “with a good will!”

  Chapter Eight

  “You cannot see it,” Valadrakul remarked, gently probing his jaw, “but ’neath this beard, all my chin’s but a single bruise, by the feel.”

  He stood a few feet from the corner of the tail assembly that was the only exposed portion of I.S.S. Christopher; his long black vest and borrowed uniform were smeared with grime. Still, he was smiling.

  Lieutenant Dibbs, a few feet away, was not. “All right, they’re out,” he said. “And Sawyer’s back, so that’s one out of four. Now, can I find the rest of my missing men, Thorpe, or has Base got some other stupid order?”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’ve been out of contact,” Prossie replied, not mentioning that this was deliberate and entirely her own idea. “Should I ask?”

  “Don’t bother,” Dibbs answered. “If they aren’t calling us, then there can’t be anything very urgent, and maybe we’ll do better if we don’t have a bunch of bigwigs watching over our shoulders.”

  “I don’t see how we could do much worse either way,” someone muttered.

  Dibbs whirled to spot the speaker.

  Before he could say anything, someone else interrupted.

  “Whoe’er spoke has the right of it,” Stoddard said, startling everyone. “Scarce in this land a second hour, and we’d seen Elani die, seen your Colonel Carson die, lost three men to the forests, and been found by Shadow. All this, and we’ve yet to say who’s to lead and who’s to follow, yet to say whither we go, yet to step a dozen paces from this sky-ship, save we flee in panic. I’ve my fill of it.”

  Prossie turned, startled; she had never heard Stoddard make so long a speech.

  “Not to mention,” Singer pointed out, “that all our supplies are in the ship, and we can’t get at them with that dead whatever-it-is draped across everything.”

  “Stoddard, hold tongue,” Raven snapped. “We’ve had misfortune, aye, but ’tis no fault of any of us gathered here. That Carson was a fool was none’s fault save his own, and he’s paid the price that folly must bring. All else follows upon Shadow’s magic, that told it of yon sky-portal ere we were well through it, and how to counter that, how to prevent?”

  “I’ll not hold tongue,” Stoddard said, “for I’ve words to say. Ask me not of how to counter Shadow, for I’m but an honest warrior, but ask rather yon corpse that was a wizard, and wise in the ways of magic.” He gestured at Valadrakul. “Ask likewise this, that stands before us, brushing dust from his garb with no thought that Shadow must still seek us.”

  Prossie’s mouth opened in astonishment; she had never before heard Stoddard defy Raven in even the slightest degree.

  Valadrakul, too, looked at Stoddard, startled. “I am ever aware of Shadow’s threat, man; what wouldst have me do?”

  Stoddard turned. “Hast no wards, no warnings, naught that might guard us?”

  “Nay, I’ve none,” Valadrakul replied angrily. “Magicks are not all as one, and I’ve no spell that would stand ’gainst Shadow.”

  “Then of what use art thou?” Stoddard demanded.

  “’Gainst Shadow itself, little more than any man,” Valadrakul retorted, “yet I’ve spells that serve us well enow in other regards!” He waved at the gigantic remains that covered the ship.

  Stoddard looked at the dead monstrosity, and seemed to soften and shrink. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, wizard, I’ve wronged thee. Your pardon.”

  “Freely given, Stoddard,” Valadrakul answered.

  “Fine, so that’s settled,” Dibbs said.

  “Nay,” Stoddard said, “’tis not settled; yet do I say, I’ve had my fill. An we do no better, I’ll depart. This is mine own world, not Earth nor Empire, and should I go, who’s to say me nay? Now, you who would lead us, my lord Raven and Messire Dibbs, Mistress Thorpe who speaks for the Empire, what do you propose to do?”

  Prossie decided that this would be a very good time for Carrie to reestablish contact; weren’t the twenty minutes up yet? Surely, they must be! She tried to listen, despite the mental wool that this universe stuffed in her head; she strained, threw her senses open…

  And jumped when Carrie’s greeting came through.

  “Prossie,” she asked, “what’s happening?”

  Prossie quickly ran through the basics: Attack survived, monsters slain, three men deserted, ship at least temporarily inaccessible, Elani dead. Carrie already knew Carson was dead.

  “I’ll take my orders from Base One,” Dibbs was saying, “but personally, I think the whole thing’s a disaster from the start, and once I find my other three men we should just go home. They can try again later, with a better-equipped force—I mean, our guns don’t
work, our ship can’t fly, we’ve got a dozen of us out here fighting with rocks and sticks.”

  “And what if there be no home that one may flee to?” Raven asked angrily. “I’ve no welcome at Stormcrack, much as I might wish it otherwise.”

  “Not my problem,” Dibbs said, shrugging.

  “Flee, then,” Raven said. “Flee, and be damned. I and mine will struggle on.”

  Dibbs glanced meaningfully at Stoddard.

  “In time,” Raven said warningly, “your Emperor and all his empire will come to see the need to destroy Shadow. I pray to the Goddess that that time will not come too late.”

  Prossie listened approvingly.

  She agreed with Raven that Shadow must be destroyed; she had seen enough of Shadow’s horrors, both firsthand and in dozens of memories, to have no doubts of that.

  But she agreed with Dibbs, too; this expedition had been a farce, doomed from the outset, and the best thing to do now would be to call it off before anyone else died, to send the Earth-people home, let Raven and his people rejoin their underground, and then go back to Base One and start over.

  The only question was whether the Empire would agree that there was a need to start over, rather than to abandon the entire thing. Without Raven there at Base One, prodding them, the generals and politicians might decide to wait and see what happened.

  “Listen, Raven,” Dibbs said, “you’re back in your own land, and you can go on with your resistance movement. And if I’m told to, I’ll help out. But do you really think that a dozen strangers are going to make a big difference against something that plays with monsters like that?” He gestured at the gigantic wreckage of the bat-thing.

  “Methinks you’ve changed your position,” Raven remarked, his head cocked as he eyed the lieutenant.

  “I sure have,” Dibbs said. “That thing convinced me. My men are tops, but we’re out of our league with stuff like this.”

  “Then perhaps we’re agreed,” Raven replied.

  “I know we are,” Amy interjected, seizing the opportunity. “We want to go home, Raven—Pel and Susan and I. We’re no use here. Send us back to Earth.”

  Raven turned, startled.