Ascending Shadows

by Everet Martins

  She gritted her teeth and steeled her breath deep in her chest. She thumped her fist against its neck, sliding her blade in and under, dragging it across its throat, whispering “Ssh” as it bleated and gurgled. It felt like stabbing a pillow. She cut deep enough to expose its windpipe and carefully avoided piercing it. Her cut was precise and pure, her blade was so sharp she could sometimes hardly tell the difference between it passing through flesh and air. The edge severed the beast’s carotid arteries and jugular veins. Her knife hand was hot and sticky, the grip slick with bright blood.

  Legs kicked and squirmed as she pressed herself on top of the animal, forcing it to the ground and directing the torrent of blood pumping out from its neck into the floor channels. She sagged against its dying body, mesmerized by the gleaming ruby trail slinking through the channels. She dragged herself up and wiped the blood from her blade before cleaning her hand on a towel pinked with years of work.

  “This is my life,” she said, nodding and stowing her blade in its sheath. She mechanically scrubbed her hand, staring down at a bead of blood on the tip of her boots. She felt as if another small part of her died with the cow.

  She blinked and saw her father’s limp body laying prone on the obsidian floor of the Black Furnaces. It was the place the Scorpions had sworn to protect in the Nether, the trackless desert on the eastern side of the realm. The place where unbreakable weapons and armor were Dragon forged. They had pledged an oath to the Silver Tower, doing their part to keep the Shadow at bay after the seal of the Age of Dawn was erected, encasing Asebor in a Milvorian tomb. They had failed, their oaths shattered, their word made meaningless.

  The air in the chamber of the Black Furnaces was filled with the stench of burning sulfur and eons of choking dust. The domed chamber had exhaust pipes stretching out from each furnace, converging at the apex above, and cloaked in the darkness. The white fire of the furnace’s mouths flickered over his twisted neck, casting swimming shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. There was a gaping hole in her father’s side where Dressna had punched her arm through him as if he were made of paper, as if he were nothing. Four shattered ribs stood out from his wound, endlessly bleeding as the pool of scarlet spread from around his body.

  His flat eyes swiveled up to meet hers, made her breath catch in her throat. His jaw was bent at an unnatural angle, and a black tongue flopped from his lips. “You,” he croaked. “You failed me.” His eyes rolled around in his skull, bulging out, seeming to double in size. “You failed me. Abandoned me. Look at you now… you were never worth fighting for. Not worth the blood. Not worth the water. You have lost the Ways. You failed us.”

  “No,” she whispered. “This isn’t real.” Knowing it was only a vision did nothing to stop the flow of hot tears from streaking down her round cheeks.

  “Run, coward.” His head slowly gazed towards the sound of footfalls. Then came the terrible shrieking and gibbering of Cerumal.

  “Please stop. How do I make it stop?” Her stomach pulsed with wrenching spasms, forcing her down onto a knee.

  Hundreds of Cerumal bounded across the floor, throwing up ash eddies. They fell on her father with a victorious squeal. They tore into him, his blood misting the air. “Coward!” His screams cut through her heart and drove nails into her head.

  A gray hand raked his face, tearing a strip of flesh up from his chin and peeling it up to snap off at his forehead. The Cerumal turned level coal eyes on her. Its nose was hacked off, its teeth gleaming yellow. It dropped the strip of flesh into its yawning mouth and swallowed it with a slurp. Strings of skin, cracking bones, spattering blood, and shredded bits of muscle filled her vision as they ravaged him. It was too real.

  “No!” Senka screamed and screwed her eyes shut, pushing out another flow of tears. She opened her eyes and inhaled sharply. The cow’s fat pink tongue hung out from the side of its mouth. Her knee was wet with its blood. “It wasn’t real. It was just a… just a waking nightmare,” she told herself.

  A penetrating urge she couldn’t resist pierced her chest, infusing her with its desire. Her body started to quake with its incessant need while her head pounded like there were hundreds of hammers beating on it from the inside.

  “Need a taste, just a small taste to take the pain off,” she muttered. “A taste.” She nodded and scanned the room. The beast wasn’t going anywhere and there would always be work. Angel’s Moss, the word beat in her head.

  She felt disgusted at her lack of will, her utter dependence on its need. She shook her head and slipped her apron off, slick with blood trails. She marched through the gate and tossed it on the fence corralling the nine or so other cows she would have to get through before mid-day supper. They were huddled in the opposite corner, a few bells ringing, cowering from her like a mortal enemy. The grounds were churned mud and dung with the occasional sprig of grass fighting for life.

  Two other sheds surrounded the fence adjacent to the slaughtering room, their entrances demarcated by gates. The next was a large shed for skinning and cleaning out their internal organs. The last was for butchering the animals to salable pieces, heavily salting the meat to suck out the blood, then packing it into wooden barrels. Then, well, she didn’t much care. She felt the warmth of the sun crystallizing the tears against her cheeks

  She couldn’t care about anything until she got Angel’s Moss into her blood. She had first used it when fighting Dressna at the Tower, a member of Asebor’s generals who had called themselves The Wretched. She needed it then to numb the pain of her injuries so she could carry on and fight. She knew it could be fatally addictive. She had a chance to avenge her father and her people. If that was the price, it was no choice at all.

  There was, however, a tremendous price to be paid for its strength. She’d tried to ignore its siren call for days. It whispered to her while she slept. It urged her to take it in those quiet moments when she was left alone in the prison of her mind. She resisted for days and then days became weeks and then she broke like glass. She had been using it for over two years now. Use this carefully for its grip is unshakable, her father had once told her. Had he fought the same battle? She remembered him holding a piece of it in his enormous hands, a golden colored moss, glancing at like it was a pit viper. You failed me, her vision echoed in her mind.

  “No,” she hissed. “It’s a lie.”

  She strode past the cows, not sparing them a glance, her eyes set on the street running parallel to the storefront. Her black knee-high leather boots squelched in the mud, avoiding the bigger puddles that had formed from last night’s rain.

  She reached the gate leading to the path that ran alongside the storefront, opened the latch, and stepped through. A cow mooed. She peered back at the cows, unsure of why she did and waved at them. She felt lighter for a second. The ravenous hunger for Angel’s Moss tugged at her gut and raged in her mind like she’d gone days without water. It was a demon that owned her soul, a demon she fought and failed against daily.

  She strode down the dirt path leading up to the main street and came up beside the storefront. It was an open air shop, showing off its salted wares and filling the air with the sweet smell of maple jerky for passersby. Flanks, sausages, ribs, brisket, and tens of other cuts of meat hung from polished hooks. Both sides of the front counter were flanked by scales. Along the counter ran parted bags of spices in shades of orange, red, and grays. It had everything you’d need for a proper meal.

  She started for the cobbled street, and a man’s voice called, “Senka! Where are you going?”

  She stiffened and slowly turned to face her employer, Olin. He stood behind the counter working to secure a flank onto a hook, shifting his gaze between his product and her.

  “I need a break, sir. I assure you I will return shortly.”

  “A break? You only started the day a couple of hours ago.” Olin was narrow-faced, narrow-bodied, and clean-shaven from head to neck, making his bushy dark eyebrows stark against his light skin. He secured the flank and put his
hands on his hips, staring at her with his stupid mouth hanging stupidly open.

  She wanted to smash her fist into it, but instead she politely smiled. “I’ll make haste.” Was he trying to stop her from taking her Angel’s Moss? Did he know? Had he followed her before? She knitted her brows at him. His arms were strong, but his trunk was weak, core unstable. She could leap over the counter, sweep out his legs, finish him by slicing up his femoral artery, across his throat, then down his brachial artery. He’d bleed out quick, not enduring too much pain.

  He flinched, shifted a step back, then continued with a softer tone. “Look, Senka… I need you. You’re my best butcher. The first Festival of Flames of New Breden is tonight, have you already forgotten?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but he plowed on over her.

  “In minutes, this store will be filled to the brim with customers, we have to get our product ready. This is a grand opportunity. I can’t let the Jolly Pig be unprepared for it. Do you understand?” He gestured imploringly and lowered his voice. “You said you had yourself under control. If you leave now, I’ll have no choice but to let you go. This can’t happen on a night like this.”

  She swallowed and looked into his eyes. The need for Angel’s Moss clawed at her brain. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her temples, and her heart thudded against her chest in a strange, uneven cadence. It would have been alarming had she not grown so used to it.

  “Sorry, Olin.”

  She turned away from him. He cursed at her, but his voice was a background note to the beating of her heart. She heard the echo of screeching Cerumal but knew she was the only one who heard it. Its roar dragged on in her mind as if time were stretching out, slowly fading until she only heard her heart again. She peered back at the Jolly Pig, eyed its sign, an oversized pig carved of wood and gently swaying from a pole. It even had a metallic corkscrew for a tail. She knew it would likely be the last time she saw it.

  She faced the sprawling city of New Breden, admiring its growth and trying to ignore her heartbeat. It was only two years ago when this place was a desecrated land, brought to ruin by the Shadow hordes. She remembered what it looked like then, all blackened timbers and crumbled stones. There were so many bodies, charred skeletons, and disfigured limbs. She remembered thinking it was a low-hanging ash cloud when they had marched on the Tower to reclaim it, only to learn it was a razed village when she drew close.

  It was bright with life now, thriving with the energy of men and women who would not cower at life’s barbs. With undaunted courage, they cleaned it up and started anew. The land gradually rose as it approached the bridge leading up to the Silver Tower. Along the rising land were networks of streets laid with perfectly cut interlocking cobbles that would surely surpass the test of time. Each street curved up from the cliff side, and all lead to the Tower’s bridge with cross-streets running between them at every second block. It was well planned. It was how things were with the Arch Wizard.

  The streets bristled with newly constructed homes made of ash and oak timbers brought in from the forests of the west and the Great Retreat, the Tower’s closest allies. The houses were modest but well built with pencil roofs to repel the punishing winds that tore in from the neighboring Far Sea. Doors were inscribed with artwork depicting the Dragon and the Phoenix, pledging their loyalty to their saviors and to the Tower.

  She was on the market street, the only road where merchants could set up shop so that they wouldn’t disrupt the quiet of the residences. She liked it like that.

  It reminded her of the Nether, where once a month the clans would meet to trade at the four corners. It was a pleasant time, a time where you could meet without fear of a warring clansman’s dart in your neck. The four corners were a spot marked by four sandstone pillars, almost too perfectly symmetrical to be anything but magic by her estimation.

  New Breden was the Arch Wizard’s design, disciplined and orderly. The old Mistress’ at least. The last time Senka had seen her was well over a year ago. She had the disheveled look of a vagrant then, and she had almost not believed it was her. The Mistress had done well by her people though, giving them new places where they could rest in the arms of safety.

  The thought made Senka reel, reminding her of how she had failed everyone she loved. Her father had never stopped reminding her of how she lacked, when alive and back with the sands. She thrust her hand into the pocket of her loose trousers, crumbling a square of Angel’s Moss between her calloused fingertips. She made sure all of it was free from her fingers before pulling her hand out, and started east for the cross-street, making her way towards the Far Sea.

  There were ten or so people on the street, making their way to and from the market district for last minute purchases for the celebration tonight. There were wine bottles clutched in eager hands, bags of root vegetables thrown over shoulders, and bread poked out from overfilled satchels.

  She watched a pair of Sand Buckeye’s snapping at flies buzzing around a dirt path leading up to a residence. In the middle of the path was a rotting piece of chicken, drawing the flies, but not so close the plants could snatch it up. Their heads were bright green and bulbous, converging with sharp beaks for tearing flesh at the ends. Whiteskins kept strange pets, she thought. They had no idea how easy their lives were. She wasn’t jealous, but pitied them, for life on the flats and near the forests made men weak. There was an abundance of food and water here. They didn’t know hunger and thirst like she did.

  A cart stuffed to the rails with kegs of ale and plum wine rounded the corner, drawn by a team of horses, their hooves clopping against the stone. She stepped aside to let it pass, pressing her back against the shake siding of someone’s home.

  “Happy Festival, dear!” a pale-faced driver said cheerfully as he passed, tipping a broad-brimmed hat. Senka grunted a response and forced an uncomfortable smile. She looked back, watched him take a draught from a shining flask then stowing it in his coat.

  She sniffed, started on, and wondered how Isa was. She hadn’t seen him in years, not since the war ended. She had trouble remembering his face but often thought of it. It seemed to fade like a stone scoured by the desert’s wind. He had to take ownership of the Swiftshades, the assassins of the Silver Tower, being the last who still knew their ways. It was hard on her, but she understood the weight of duty and the binding of oaths. There were new recruits, and he had to spend every waking hour with them, he once told her. She never saw him again. She thought she should have already forgotten him, but she hadn’t.

  She stopped in the middle of the street, staring at her muddy boots. A new tightness formed in her chest like someone was squeezing her heart. She felt her throat narrowing and eyes going thick with tears. “Breathe,” she told herself, exhaling with a long breath. “Just breathe.”

  “Hi, lady, are you well?” An olive-skinned child looked up at her, clinging to her mother’s hand as she was dragged stumbling along.

  Senka cleared her throat and painfully smiled. “Yes, thank you. child.” Now leave me alone before I… she cut off the thought. She had to go. This wasn’t her. She just needed a little bit to feel normal again.

  The mother stopped, looking down at the girl with an admonishing sigh. “Lina, what should you wish the young lady?”

  The girl bit her lip, then regarded her mother with gleaming blue eyes.

  “Happy… look! The sweet shop! Can we go?” the girl cried.

  “Happy Festival. Remember?” the mother said, planting her hands on her hips.

  Senka strode on and gave a limp wave, but they both missed it. Senka felt like that interaction had summed up her past few years.

  “But what about my candy?” the child screamed from twenty paces back. “I! Want! Candy!” She heard her feet stomping and had to suppress a laugh.

  The sun warmed her back, and Senka made herself small, wrapping her arms around her body and avoiding eye contact. She had to get to her spot before she did something she regretted. Just a small taste and the wo
rld would be right again.

  She had no place in this world. Senka let her gaze slip over roof peaks and crawl up to the Silver Tower. It loomed over the village like a protective giant, casting its shadow like a blade across the road. After the war, she thought she had a place at the Arch Wizard’s side, but to her dismay, she learned that hired killers weren’t wanted in the Silver Tower. Everyone had to work for marks, and the Scorpions might not have had the most noble of professions, but they had kept their oaths and fought the Shadow down to their last living member.

  Senka spat a disdainful glob of foamy spit over her shoulder. The Tower’s rejection had surprised her, and it was a painful blow. After all her service and the sacrifices of her clan, to be turned away was something that still jabbed at her. The most painful insult of all was that the Arch Wizard couldn’t deliver the message in person. She sent her lap dog, Claw, the Northern barbarian to do her dirty work.

  “The Tower is not a place for mercenaries,” he told her. “The Arch Wizard appreciates your service, but it is no longer needed.” And with that, the Armsman had escorted her out the Mistress’ spire. The distinctive booming sound of that door closing behind her still made her uneasy when she heard sounds resembling it. She never wanted the Tower’s opulence but never expected such disrespect.

  She was a reed in the wind, bending when it blew too fiercely. She found employment at the Jolly Pig, doing the dark work no one else would. Not much had changed. She bloodied her hands while Olin’s customers purchased her beautiful cuts of meat for glittering marks. And so the years passed. She liked the work, though missed having more contact with people. At times, she even found it peaceful.