by J. M. Martin
He jumped up and raced out of the stable, startling the horses. The night air was cool on his face and the dewy grass cold on his feet. Dawn was only a few hours away.
Another sound came through the night. One Pik recognized too well—the sound of an open hand hitting bare flesh. It was followed by a smaller whimper this time, and Pik could tell it came from down by the river.
He hurried through the tall grass, dodging the dark spots in the moonlight, knowing they were the bushes and rocks. A harsh voice carried through the cool air and he slowed, trying to control his breath and move silently. This time of night even the pad-hoppers had stopped croaking.
There was a slight burble from the slow river, but he could make out nothing else until he found the clearing by the riverbank. Three men stood over a limp form.
Poppy.
Pik dropped low and crept close, not knowing what to do.
Two men were looking expectantly at the third. As the third turned and, as the moonlight struck his face, Pik recognized him. Duke Wravery himself.
In Patrol uniform.
The Duke looked up at the moon, as if considering something, then looked back down at Poppy’s limp form. He bent down and, with a quick jerk, tore the silver pendant from her neck. Without looking at it, he tossed it to one of the other men who put it into his coin purse.
Casually, as if wiping mud from his boot, Duke Wravery gave her body a kick, rolling her toward the river.
Pik’s heart froze in his chest, and he bit his tongue in order to keep silent.
Her body stopped short, and Wravery kicked her again. He seemed annoyed when he had to step down into the muddy bank to kick a third time as her arms seemed to cling to the bank.
Poppy’s body slowly began drifting down the calm river, like a cloud reflected from the starry sky above.
Wravery looked out at the drifting body then turned and walked toward the tavern without a word. The other two men followed.
Quick as he could, Pik raced downriver, searching for a place to catch Poppy. The shadows in the brush and under the trees hid rocks and roots that tripped him. Only the slow, gentle current allowed him to catch up with her lazy form.
Without thinking, he dove in after her, grateful for once at how Munch had taught him to swim by throwing him into the river. He reached her body easily, but found her nearly impossible to tow back to the bank as the water incessantly pulled on her.
He cried out in pain as his foot stubbed on an underwater log. Desperately he pulled at her, trying to find the log again with his feet. When he found it, he used it to jump and push them back toward the riverbank.
Pik struggled and slipped in the silty mud, pulling Poppy behind him, trying to get her out of the water. By the time he had all but her legs out, he was panting hard enough to pass out. He dropped and sat in the mud next to her.
One of her eyes was swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner, and her nose was broken and bloody.
But she was breathing.
#
Pik wasn’t sure who to ask for help, all he knew was that he needed some. He had been unable to wake Poppy or move her any more by himself, and even if he did, what would the Duke do when he found out?
He entered the kitchen still dripping wet, knowing what Munch would say about him tracking water, and not caring. He was furious the Duke would do such a thing, but he was not so stupid as to think anyone would do anything about it. He didn’t dare ask the Patrol. They were all the Duke’s men, and as the Duke had been in Patrol uniform, they likely all knew why he had come this night—to use the visiting dignitary’s visit as an excuse to get out to the tavern and kill Poppy.
The dignitary!
Pik’s heart lifted. He might be someone who would help. Not only would he not have the Duke’s best interests at heart, but he may actually want to know something like this about him for future political leverage.
Pik silently scurried to the stairs, skipping the bottom one and walking up the outsides. He froze as he neared the top. Someone was moving.
Silently.
More quietly than even Pik could.
The hallway was dim, but as Pik stared, he made out a man’s form. The same man he had seen in the stables, the one he had come up to find.
The silent figure held a something in one hand. Pik was sure it was the knife the man had retrieved from the stables.
A drip of water from Pik’s clothes patted onto the floor. Pik held his breath and waited.
The man didn’t seem to notice, and Pik prayed no more would fall.
The dignitary moved like a ghost into a room Pik knew was not his. It was being used by the Patrol this evening.
A small sound came from the room, someone rolling in their sleep perhaps. Then the man was back out, faster than Pik would have imagined, vanishing back into his own room as quietly as a shadow.
Pik stayed where he was, trying to decide what to do. Had the dignitary left because of the light sleeper? What had he intended? Was he a spy?
More importantly, did Pik dare approach the man now? How would the man react to Pik knowing he had been skulking about?
Pik quietly finished climbing the stairs and peeked into the room the man had been in and out of so quickly. There were only three Patrolmen in the room, and Pik recognized them instantly as the Duke and his two cohorts.
As he turned to leave, the sharp smell of blood hit his nose. Pik stopped and looked closer. The Duke was dead. His throat slit wide.
Pik’s stomach knotted. He had to get out of here before someone thought he had killed the Duke.
In his panic, Pik’s hand bumped something on the floor.
A knife.
The kitchen-style knife the emissary had brought in. Why leave a murder weapon behind?
Then Pik noticed a marking on the blade—the smithy’s stamp. It was the same as Poppy’s pendant.
This knife had been forged by Poppy’s dead husband.
Chills ran down Pik’s neck. This was meant to frame Poppy for the Duke’s murder!
But the dignitary couldn’t have known what the Duke had done earlier in the night, could he?
No. The dignitary had taken the knife from the stable beforehand.
The assassin, Pik corrected himself. A no-good assassin who would get away with killing a no-good Duke. While he felt a certain justice in the Duke’s death, the idea of the assassin framing Poppy made Pik even angrier.
He had to do something.
Creeping back into the hallway to think, Pik sat silently. He couldn’t just tell people. Who would believe him? Poppy was the only one who had ever listened to him, but this was made to look like she had done it. And after the Duke had….
No one was going to believe she didn’t do it.
He had to make sure the assassin got caught. He would have to make sure people knew the dignitary had been in the Duke’s room.
Pik went into the assassin’s room, moving more carefully than he ever had before. A man who murdered people in their sleep must surely sleep lightly himself.
Going as slow as he could bear to move, he found one of the assassin’s shoes and took it, slinking back out to the Duke’s room.
In the gloom, the Duke’s blood looked like a pool of black ink. To match his black heart, Pik thought as he examined the mess before deciding exactly how to place the shoe. He put the outside edge of the sole in the blood and then used the shoe to stamp a very light trail back to the assassin’s room, where he replaced the shoe.
As he crept down the stairs he let out his breath, feeling as though he had forgotten to breathe for hours.
#
The sun was not yet up, but the kitchen fire was burning hot when Tragermund arrived. The fire in the main room would be cozy when Munch came out of his room. Pik had finished all of his chores and was retrieving the last eggs from the henhouse when the cry came from within the tavern.
He stifled a smile of relief. The wait had been unbearable. He ran with one hand holding the egg
s down in the basket so they wouldn’t jostle, and burst into the kitchen feigning ignorance.
“What’s wrong?” he asked Tragermund.
“The Duke was here!” she hissed. “And he was murdered in his sleep—by Poppy! Gods help us all!” She grabbed her cane and began hobbling for the door. “I’d hide, if I were you boy! Somewhere deep in the wood.”
“No.” Pik stood tall and firm.
“No? Have you gone daft?”
“Remember yesterday when you told Munch he should listen to me? Well listen to me now. Poppy didn’t kill the Duke. I saw the Duke kill her last night, and throw her into the river. I didn’t tell anyone, because I was afraid he’d kill me, too.”
“No one will believe you boy.”
“There were two men with him. I can prove it.”
“Come on, then.” She grabbed his arm painfully with a gnarled hand and dragged him out into the main room where Patrolmen were shouting at one another.
“Hoi! The boy saw something last night!” Tragermund shouted. Some men quieted and she shouted it again.
One of the men who had been at the river with the Duke stepped forward with a snarl on his face. “You saw who murdered the Duke?”
“Poppy didn’t kill him!” Pik blurted out.
“You helped the woman, you mean,” someone shouted from the back.
“No!” Pik yelled. “I saw the Duke kill her last night and throw her in the river!”
Gasps came up from the men.
The man who had questioned him swung a fist, but Pik dodged it. The man was quick to draw his sword and Pik scurried away.
“And you helped him.” Pik dove under a table pointing at the man with the sword. “And so did you.” Pik pointed at the other man who had been there. “I can prove it! One of them has Poppy’s necklace in their coin purse.”
Pik rolled under another table as more swords were drawn. “Then I saw that man,” he pointed at the dignitary, “sneaking into the Duke’s room with a knife and coming out with blood on his shoes!”
“You little spy!” the assassin hissed. “You planted that blood.”
“You tried to frame Poppy, but you didn’t know she was already dead,” Pik retorted as hands grabbed for him.
The room erupted in chaos as the Duke’s Patrol and the emissary’s own men squared off on each other.
Pik dove between Munch’s legs, ducked a Patrolman’s sword, and ran for the stable.
The sun was barely coming up as Pik vaulted onto the dignitary’s horse. He hoped no one noticed the horse was already saddled, but he hadn’t wanted to take the chance of not having it ready when he needed it. If anyone did notice, he hoped they would forget while they were looking for all the other horses Pik had let go next to the river.
He turned the horse into sunrise and kicked it into a run just as men burst out of the tavern, sword and fists in the air. Munch plowed through them to yell at Pik, but was quickly pulled back by angry Patrolmen.
Pik grinned fiercely and leaned into the horse’s neck, riding for all he was worth.
When he crested the third hill, he slowed and called out.
Poppy came running out from the trees.
“Did it work?” Excitement crept into Poppy’s voice.
“They think you’re dead,” Pik nodded as she climbed up behind him.
“Thank you, Pik.” She hugged him tight.
Pik blushed.
He turned the horse and looked back toward the Tavern, barely visible in the distance. There had been angry fists being shaken at him. Munch had watched on in disbelief.
But there was no Poppy tearing up with disappointment. Instead, she was riding with him, and she thought of him as a hero.
His heart swelled with a feeling he didn’t recognize.
Pride.
Telhinsol’s Shadow
S.M. White
Born and raised in the small town of West Point, Ky, White eventually traveled the handful of miles northeast to reside in Louisville, Ky with his two dogs, Alana and Dio. When not writing, he keeps active by feeding into his competitive nature with basketball, tennis, and FPSs. He doesn’t care much for the winter. After graduating a two-year college, he studied Creative Writing at Spalding University. Now, White spends most of his time cobbling together Dark Fantasy tales. You can learn more about S.M. White and his books at smwhitefiction.com
~
It was no longer a practice of his to suck down ale or spirits before meeting with clients—though he did keep a small flask of Belizine akee tucked away inside his cloak—preferring to keep a wary mindfulness that wasn’t clouded with drink when dealing with men and women willing to pay good money to obtain things that didn’t belong to them. There was something about their kind, something unsettling that made him distrustful of even the most altruistic of folk. But then, there was something more to their coin, something that kept Reyh above Telhinsol’s unkind streets, and he refused to be swayed by principle—or drink—when taking up their tasks. So he sipped carefully at the cold water inside his chipped tankard and patiently waited.
Settling back against the bowed wood of his bench, he turned his eyes about the dimly lit tavern, observing the few occupied driftwood tables. Many foul things were tossed into the Unhil, the dirty river splitting Telhinsol down the middle, and nothing of worth ever emerged from it aside from the odd catch or length of rotted timber that had made way down from the wealthier north. Many of the city’s businesses took advantage of those castoffs, and this tavern was no different with its tables and chairs, crude patchworks of various colored and shaped wood.
The late afternoon found the tavern thinly populated, most faithful patrons preferring to wait until dusk before slithering in after their inebriations. Reyh and four other men currently had the room to themselves. Two Caapi men up from the distant south, their ritualistically blue-dyed hair in long braids around their sallow faces, sat bare-chested together at a high table, each sniffing at a burning black candle set into a silver holder. Reyh didn’t appreciate such men, knowing how the intoxicant in the smoke made them erratic.
One of the men, a thin black beard racing from ear to chin to other ear, wafting smoke to his face, peered over. A frown pulled at his thin lips. Reyh averted his eyes, watching instead the slender woman delivering drinks to a near table where a short Teti man with knotted black hair was loudly discussing the price of child slaves with an older gentleman.
The serving girl, Aassa, wasn’t usual for a seedy tavern such as this: comely and well-curved, poised with a kind, encouraging smile, and ever patient with the often bellicose and overly friendly men who frequented this particular hovel. Yet, above all others in the room she was perhaps the most competent when it came to violence, as the old scar crossing Reyh’s ribcage could attest. Not that he was a man to assault beautiful women, but when Aassa gets her blood up she doesn’t mind everyone about her, even those coming to her aid.
Honestly, he hated this scene. He despised these crude taverns and their even cruder customers—where else could one encounter Teti scum openly peddling their young slaves? No, he didn’t enjoy sitting in shadowy alcoves, draped in hood and cloak, promoting himself as a man with dishonest intent. But what other choice was there for a man of his unique character? He couldn’t rightly stand out in the daylight hawking his unsavory trade from atop stage or crate. Who would deal with him knowing the repercussions, knowing the law was watchful and eager for men openly volunteering for the gallows? Thievery forced him to work within tighter boundaries. Stealing others’ property paid exceedingly well, and Reyh seemed truly gifted for the sport, so he suffered these low establishments, and he stomached the grimy underside of a city striving for elegance but only reaching as high as sufferable.
The water touched his lips again as he watched the heavy cloth covering of the entrance hall part and a lean figure slide past. He knew instantly that the woman was the one he’d been waiting on. Dressed in an immaculate white cloak that covered richer garments bene
ath, she was obviously out of her element. There was even the hint of something sparkling around her neck. Her shimmering blonde hair was luxuriant as it spilled down around her shoulders, lit by the few low-burning lanterns hanging from the rafters. A noble too infatuated with her station to put it aside for the sake of her life. Reyh was known to work with some right fools but often they had manners enough to hide their imprudence. He glanced around the room, watching to see who else had noticed this innocent target stroll into their midst.
Aassa was giving the girl a disapproving shake of her head but checking her knives all the same. The Teti man smiled, showing yellow-black teeth, and he tapped out a quiet rhythm with his fingers upon the table while watching the woman move beyond the doorway. The two Caapi men fidgeted as though about to stand, their frowns drawing deeper.
“Damn it all again,” Reyh said into his cup. He shifted upon the bench, feeling the comforting press of the dagger at his hip. Although a soft uneasiness swept through him, he didn’t pull out his steel biter to set off a couple of sparks, knowing it wise not to project his feelings.
She paused in the middle of the floor, her pretty little head swiveling as she searched him out, her eyes skipping over the watching blue-hairs. Begrudgingly, Reyh lifted an arm and signaled her over. She very nearly skipped to him.
“You are the one called Shadow?”
“I am,” Reyh answered. “Now sit.”
“I’m Illia. Darrin told you I was coming?” she asked as she smoothed her dress down the backs of her legs and placed her bottom upon the bench across from him. Her eyes were remarkable: blue splashed with shards of gold. They were like something found in a Mezzine palace. She was actually somewhat attractive, and Reyh had to fend off the urge to send her back out onto Telhinsol’s streets. Beauty and a hollowed skull, not Rey’s favorite combination.
“He did.” But he did not say you were a flowery imbecile. “Have you ever hired my kind before?” He didn’t really have to ask. It was more for propriety’s sake. She was about as familiar with thieves and cutthroats as he was with the size of a snake’s testicles.
“No,” she replied. “I’ve been fortunate in not having had the need.” She looked to his bandaged hand. “What happened?”