The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  She kept her expression neutral, just. “He’s farther south than I expected,” she said to Fess. “You will accompany us alone, Captain. I’m sure your men are needed on their assigned patrol.”

  The sun had sunk to two hands above the horizon when they crested a hill and came within sight of Rymark’s encampment. A double palisade of sharpened stakes framed an area large enough to hold several thousand men and hundreds of horses. To the south, outside the camp, dozens of mules had been staked on a picket line near innumerable carts. More tents had been set up outside the walls to the east and west, and men moved between them, their motions brisk, almost urgent. Rymark’s headquarters bustled with the activity of a small city, but there were no cries of hawkers or sellers. Only the occasional bark of an order, given to men training in the center of the yard, broke the silence.

  “It’s quiet,” Fess remarked.

  She nodded. Memories of other silent encampments, all prefacing the clamor of battle and dying cascaded through her, but this would be different. “Night is coming,” she said.

  They proceeded through the gates on the captain’s authority, but when she asked to see King Rymark, a ring of soldiers surrounded them, refusing to let them advance or withdraw while a runner sprinted away toward the center of the camp. Moments later she saw the king’s diminutive figure emerge, flanked by a tall, bulky man on his right with a heavy beard that defied traditional attempts of grooming. On Rymark’s left, but two paces back and outside the ring of guards, a man with the dark olive skin and coloring of Aille strode, leaning forward as if he were walking into a gale.

  “That explains the extra men outside the walls,” she said to Fess. “The man on Rymark’s right is King Ellias of Moorclaire. The other is a surprise. That’s Prince Maenelic. Queen Chora’s son.” She looked down at the sentinel by her side. “Wag, keep close.” His tongue came lolling out of his mouth in a grin.

  Chapter 25

  “Welcome, Lady Deel,” Rymark said. He spared a glance for Fess before his gaze landed on Wag. “You’ve come with an unexpected gift.”

  His command tent, a perfect square, could have held nearly a hundred officers, far more than just the four of them and the sentinel. The abundance of so much covered space after days of riding in the open air made Toria feel oddly confined, as if she should be able to see the sun or trees in the distance, but couldn’t. At her request, the traditional guards had been dismissed. More than one, unaware of her identity or station, had communicated their silent displeasure to her on their way out, with glowers that had intensified when they landed on Fess.

  Rymark and Ellias wielded the gift of kings for their respective kingdoms, Owmead and Moorclaire. Each held the same gift, yet two more different men would have been difficult to find. Short and clean-shaven, Rymark dominated the space within the tent with his intensity. Quick gestures and a darting gaze created the impression of a man whose slight stature barely contained the force of the personality within it.

  While Rymark stalked about the tent as if searching for some hidden enemy or slight, Ellias stood to one side like a plinth of granite, tall and broad-shouldered as a blacksmith. His demeanor and gaze testified to a temperament of thoughtfulness or observation rather than the passion that ruled Rymark. Yet for all their differences, the two kings seemed at ease with each other.

  The third man, Prince Maenelic, stood a space apart, careful to observe a polite distance between himself and the kings, but he watched with the focused attention of a surgeon. Circles of fatigue or grief beneath his eyes testified to his physical state, and Toria flexed her hands, resolved to delve the prince to learn what had happened in Cynestol.

  “You’re farther south than expected, Your Majesty,” Toria said. “We didn’t expect to see you for another day,”

  Rymark nodded, disgust written on his face. “You have King Ellias to thank for that.” He shook his head. “Thankfully, the move was preemptive. If our greater distance from the forest means it takes us longer to fight, then it also provides us with a measure of safety.” Rymark’s jaws clenched over and again, chewing words he didn’t want to say. “The boundaries of the forest have become unpredictable, and the attacks are . . .” He faltered before nodding toward King Ellias. “He’ll have to explain it.”

  Instead of responding directly, Ellias strode to the tent flap and beckoned. A moment later a captain in the red and green of Moorclaire strode through the entrance carrying several rolls of parchment and laid them on the rude trestle table that dominated the tent. But when they were unrolled, only one of them showed a map. The others were filled with the arcane symbols of the mathematicum.

  Fess bent at her side to peer first at the map, then at the other papers. “What is all this?”

  Toria sighed. Members of the Vigil rotated among the kingdoms, changing location every ten years to keep their prolonged lives from being noticed. Twice, she’d served within the demesne of Moorclaire, ranging from the chief city of Loklallin to the eastern border of the Darkwater Forest. The kingdom’s passion for the mathematicum was well known.

  “It’s the national passion of Moorclaire,” she said. “Pellin is more suited to it than I.”

  Ellias chuckled. “The other kingdoms often jest that our pursuit of the arcane beauty of the mathematicum has addled our minds. It’s just possible they might be right.” At Toria’s start, he stroked his chin. “Are you surprised, Toria Deel, to find that I own a sense of humor?”

  Before she could help herself, she nodded, but Ellias only chuckled again.

  “Well, you’re not alone.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rymark cut in. “Monarchs have souls. Any number of my subjects would be surprised as well, but to the point, Ellias?”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “We cannot hold the cordon around the forest.”

  His pronouncement hit her all the harder for the offhand way in which he said it. Rymark grunted at her reaction. “Disturbing, isn’t it, Lady Deel?” he asked. “The way he talks about the end of the northern continent as if he were wondering whether or not to have mutton for supper.”

  “Explain, please,” Toria said.

  Rymark gestured at the map of the forest and its surroundings, one thick finger tracing the edge. “The cordon we’ve set up surrounds the Darkwater on three sides, beginning at the northern end in Frayel and running south through the western edge of Moorclaire, where it turns to run west through the northern tips of Aille and Caisel. From there it turns north through Owmead and Collum before it stops again at the mountains of the northern waste.” He straightened, working to bring his gaze level with hers. “We cannot surround the forest completely, understand. There simply aren’t enough soldiers. Instead we’ve established five central camps.” He glanced around the tent. “You’re in one of them. The others are located in Collum, Owmead, Moorclaire, and Frayel. In between the central camps are operational camps, each a third of the size of this one, where we stage men and supplies. There’s an operational camp every twelve to fifteen miles. Between the operational camps are outposts. Their number and placement vary, but they house enough men to ride patrol on the forest during the day.”

  His description allowed her to ask the question at the forefront of her mind. “Why are you and King Ellias here in the central command in northern Aille?”

  Rymark nodded and the hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “When His Majesty, King Ellias, asked to meet with me, it seemed the logical choice. This command center is centrally located between those of Owmead and Moorclaire.” He might have shrugged. “It has the additional advantage of separating me from my own troops, a fact that seems to bring the other kings and queens a degree of comfort.” He turned to Maenelic. “The prince was kind enough to welcome us to Aille’s command post.”

  Maenelic bowed from the waist. “We are honored to welcome you and your men here,” he said, but he offered nothing further.

  “That you willingly left your troops is impressive for a man of your reputation, Ki
ng Rymark,” she said.

  Rymark’s expression soured. “Meaning it’s a surprise that I haven’t been more opportunistic? Ha, it would be more impressive if we were winning.” He threw up his hands. “Or even if I could tell you how long we could hold. This isn’t warfare I’ve ever seen or even read of, Lady Deel. You have my congratulations. Tell Pellin that the fight against the Darkwater has managed to do what he and his brothers failed to accomplish for decades. I am now a religious man.”

  “We’ve seen little sign of battle or casualties, Your Majesty,” Fess said. “Why can’t you win?”

  Rymark and Ellias turned to regard her apprentice. “So young . . . Is he one of You?” Rymark asked. “I assumed he was your guard.”

  She nodded. “This is Fess. He received Bronwyn’s gift. With the death of my guard, he is temporarily acting in that guise as well. It affords us a measure of security and access we might not otherwise have,” she said, skirting the subject of physical gifts.

  The king of Owmead nodded in approval. “He’s more plainspoken than the last dandy the Vigil took for an apprentice.”

  She forced a tight smile, but the memory of Peret Volsk stung, a wound Rymark had just poured salt on. “We’ve noticed that as well.”

  Rymark looked to where King Ellias stood regarding the parchments. “I’m going to defer your question to my brother king. I barely understand his answers myself.”

  “The Darkwater Forest covers too much territory to quarantine effectively, Lord Fess,” King Ellias said.

  Her apprentice jerked and his mouth twitched. “Lord Fess?”

  The king of Moorclaire rolled his shoulders. “If that title is insufficient, I will use another.”

  “Title?”

  Confused, Ellias turned toward her.

  “Fess is, as yet, unaccustomed to certain political facets of being in our company,” she said.

  “What Lady Deel means to say,” Fess cut in, “is that I was an urchin.”

  Ellias mouthed the word, testing it.

  “King Ellias . . .” Fess bowed. “Before I joined Toria Deel, I was a beggar and thief living on the streets of Bunard. I spent my days running bluffs to trick merchants and priests out of their coin. I am unused to polite society.”

  Rymark snorted. “That he thinks nobles are polite shows just how little he knows. You’ve been lax in his education, Lady Deel.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment. “No doubt. We’ve been rather busy.”

  “Well,” King Ellias said, “to his question, then. King Rymark’s assertion that this is no ordinary war is the fulcrum of our problem. Given our current positions and tactics, it is mathematically impossible to keep those who desire to enter the Darkwater in check. The traditional mathematicum calculations of warfare don’t apply.”

  Rymark had already turned his attention back to the arcane writing on the parchments. “It took Ellias some time to convince me, but our losses are like a plague.” He shook his head. “Explain, Ellias. I’m more comfortable with tactics and strategy.” He shook his head. “As if we had any.”

  Toria stifled her surprise at Rymark’s rare show of humility. Ellias sorted through the stack of parchments, his expression thoughtful, until he found one more smudged and yellowed than the rest. “I think this would be the best place to start.”

  He pointed to a section of the parchment that contained two horizontal lines with a sinuous curve that joined them at the lower left and ran to the upper right.

  “This is a model of the Darkwater’s contagion, according to the mathematicum,” he said. He put his finger on the curve between the second and third vertical lines. “This is where we’re at now.”

  Toria had undertaken some rudimentary studies of the mathematicum a few decades ago when she was last placed in Moorclaire, but her talents ran toward others rather than logic and space. Even so, she recognized the curve. “I’m familiar with it,” she said. “It’s called the plague curve, though it goes by other names.”

  Fess pointed to the first half of the graph, where the curve grew progressively steeper from left to right. “I’ve heard healers talk about this. They called it the kingdom killer.”

  Ellias nodded his approval. “Perceptive and correct. The left-hand side of the curve describes what happens at the start of a plague, but to grasp the whole it will help to think of a hypothetical kingdom on a remote island. No one comes and no one can leave. Now, introduce a perfectly deadly plague.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter which one.”

  “Everyone would fall ill sooner or later,” Fess said.

  “Exactly.” Ellias nodded. “At first the number of sick would be fairly small, but they would grow quickly. A healer might have two patients the first week and four the week after, but by the third week he would have eight and then sixteen by the fourth week.”

  Ellias caught her eye. She knew what would come next. “The healer, if he’s new to his craft, might not suspect what shape the graph of the contagion must take. He might suppose the rate would continue as before, doubling every week.”

  Fess pointed to the right-hand side of the graph. “Sooner or later, most of the kingdom has already been infected. The rate can’t double because over half the people have already caught the disease.”

  Ellias nodded. “The young healer, seeing the rate of disease start to slow, becomes encouraged. He doesn’t realize his death sentence and that of everyone on the island has already been written.”

  Fess looked back at the curve, and Toria saw his face grow pale. “You’re saying the evil of the Darkwater is like that?”

  Ellias nodded. “Exactly. The northern continent is the island. It’s early, very early yet, but we’re locked in a battle that’s going badly.”

  She leaned against the table. “I refuse to accept that defeat is inevitable. It isn’t.”

  Rymark cocked his head at her. “There is a note of confidence in your voice, Lady Deel, in defiance of our explanation.”

  Unwilling to explain or commit to Ealdor’s instruction, she turned away. “The assembled might and gifts of the entire north are bent to this task, Your Majesties. Surely you don’t think victory is impossible.”

  Rymark and Ellias exchanged a glance, and both men sighed. “The issue is still in doubt, Lady Deel,” Rymark said. “We are still in the early part of the curve and have yet to reach the point of no return.”

  Fess pointed to the exact middle of the diagram, where a point on the curve lay halfway between the two horizontal lines. “Is that here?”

  Rymark’s voice rasped within the tent. “I wish it were.”

  Ellias shook his head. “By that time, half our forces are infected and it’s too late. No. To defeat the forest, the poison’s momentum must be halted well before that.” He pulled an artist’s charcoal stick that had been sharpened to a fine point and drew a line that touched the curve near the left end, where it turned up to grow steeper. “If we reach this point, the war is lost. The momentum behind the forest will be too great to stop.”

  “Then we must find a way to stop it,” Toria said.

  Rymark shook his head. “Bravely spoken, but my men can’t see in the dark, Lady Deel, and the enemy can. It’s not just that we can’t fight what we can’t see, we can’t stop it either. At some point our forces will be too thin to reliably quarantine the forest.”

  Fess pointed to the map. “Then have your patrols pull back from the forest.”

  “That means they have to cover more ground,” Rymark said. “Not less.”

  Fess nodded. “If you widen the ring around the forest enough, those who slip by the outer patrols won’t be able to make it to the boundary of the Darkwater before sunrise.”

  “If we maintained an inner cordon as well, we would catch those heading for the forest during the daylight.”

  “Your Majesty,” Maenelic said. “Is it a good idea to split your forces?”

  “Not usually, no, but we’re in a most unusual war.” Rymark pursed his lips before
turning to the king of Moorclaire. “You’re better at the numbers than I am, Ellias. Do we have enough men?”

  He nodded. “For now, but it’s going to mean short rest and no reserves.”

  Rymark turned to Fess. “It’s an unorthodox approach, but I find I’m more inclined to listen to new ideas of late.”

  “‘Nothing gets a man’s attention,’” Fess murmured.

  Rymark laughed, harsh, loud. “‘Like the prospect of death,’” he finished.

  Toria nodded even as she managed to stifle a sigh. “Do those who venture into the forest strike singly, or do they coordinate their attacks?”

  “Their strikes are random, Toria Deel,” Ellias said. “And there are fewer attacks than I would have thought.”

  “Those who do strike are like an alchemist’s experiment gone wrong,” Rymark growled. “They move like gifted, creating explosions of violence and killing a squad or more before they can be put down. Some of the attackers are soldiers, Toria Deel, men or women who’ve gone to the forest. The deaths are bad,” Rymark growled, “but the impact on morale is worse. Soldiers must trust those they fight alongside to be effective. That trust is waning. When it’s gone entirely, we’re going to have mass desertions on our hands.”

  Chapter 26

  Toria leaned over the table, gesturing. “Show me where you’ve had the heaviest fighting.” At her side Wag peered at the map, his ears perked in the canine equivalent of curiosity.

  Rymark started to ask a question, then shook his head. “If you can call it fighting. Our men no longer call the waning of day sunset. They call it the dying time.”

  He bent over the map, pointing to markers in red that had been placed to show the worst confrontations with the forest. By the time he was halfway through, she knew the purpose behind the attacks.

  “Cesla is trying to gain access to the towns beyond,” she said. “He needs tools.”