With Footfalls of Shadow

by Donogan Sawyer

  Lucinda reached into the green silk bag she carried and pulled out the five ornately-carved black stones. She placed them on the table next to the tablet.

  The Oracle fussed with the stones as she always did, not seeming to do so with any intent. “Yesterday the sun halted in the sky. Today it is racing to make up time.”

  Lucinda committed to memory everything she heard. That evening, some of the elders of the Sisterhood would try to decipher what, if anything, these words might mean.

  “The witches up the mountain will know what to do with this,” said the Oracle as she handed a beautiful little box to Lucinda. It was an Æhlman Message Box. Like the stones, an Æhlman Message Box was a tool devised by a race long-departed. It was another device which only the Oracle could prepare. This box was the second that Lucinda had ever been given and she grew excited that perhaps this could be an indication that the day of the Calling might be near.

  “Why thank you, dear. I will take this to the Sisterhood immediately,” Lucinda said. Then she sensed something was wrong.

  “Are you all right? You seem upset.” Lucinda reached out to put a hand on her daughter’s cheek. It seemed a vision was upon her. Her eyes were darting from side to side. And then they focused on Lucinda more clearly than they had in a very long time.

  “Oh, mother,” she said and covered her mouth.

  “What is it, dear?” Lucinda asked. “What is it you see?”

  The Oracle answered by showing her mother the tablet. The first stone had been placed.

  “That is wonderful, Annicha. Truly it is wonderful,” Lucinda said. She let the tears flow and rejoiced in the moment. Her daughter, the Oracle, had placed the first stone. “The way has been made clear. The Hundred Years’ King will soon reign.”

  “There is much death coming,” said the Oracle on trembling breath.

  “We will be safe here on the mountain. Don’t worry, child,” replied Lucinda, again placing her hand on her troubled daughter’s cheek.

  ~Æ~

  It was the Oracle’s first impulse to correct Lucinda, but in that moment there was enough of Annicha alert inside her, to spare her mother the truth. Her mother was going to die soon. A cancer was slowly eating at her. She knew that the fates would call young Sinead to take her mother’s place soon after Sinead had completed her journey with the Death Walker.

  II

  It was a dark night, made darker by the black wizard, Nieba.

  As we approached, the beast stirred. With my own eyes, I saw its chest start to heave as it began to draw breath into its lungs.

  Then, with Nieba commanding from astride its neck, Kraal attacked.

  – Excerpt from a soldier’s account of his experience during

  Cryto’s unsuccessful siege of Kraal

  Argus approached the crest of the final hill on his walk to Kraal, about a half league from the southern wall. With every step, a bit more of the city became visible, as if Kraal were rising from the very earth before him, only revealing her full beauty at the road’s final apex. Her sandstone walls traced the route of a natural brook, giving the stone an organic appearance, as if the undulating walls were skin-stretched over the muscles of a great beast. The gates to the city were seamlessly incorporated into an elaborate green marble sculpture depicting the city’s namesake, Kraal, the mythical Lord of the Dragons.

  Kraal’s head stretched over thirty paces from the sandstone wall to the brook, where its forked tongue reached across the water, serving as a collapsible bridge. Its lower jaw appeared to be submerged beneath the crust of the earth, its eyes peering just above the surface, teeth bared and threatening. The longest two teeth supported the structure of the dragon’s muzzle. Large nostrils were carved into the marble above the dragon’s teeth, each stocked with large kettles filled with one of Argus’s own chemical experiments and some kindling, to provide a terrifying and murderous show for an invading army. The dragon’s eyes, the eastern and western doors to the city, which seemed vacant in the day while the doors were open, were closed every evening by round white marble balls inlaid with black marble serpentine pupils. The eyeballs rolled into place within seconds, down carefully tended wooden tracks, but it took a team of eight horses and four men a quarter of an hour each morning to raise the eyes to the top of the tracks.

  In times of peace, the gates of Kraal were an interesting curiosity, but in times of war, the dragon came to life to defend the city. Argus himself had stood atop the city gates many times, enhancing the illusion. He had turned legions on their heels at the break of battle, as Kraal’s army charged through the dragon’s terrible maw bearing fire and death. But today Kraal’s problems were not from invading armies.

  The King was cruel and his appetites were vulgar, but for now he served Argus’s purposes and was managing to bring some stability to the country.

  Crowds lined the dragon’s tongue, awaiting entrance to the city. It was always busier on execution days, and today was quite an important one. Wagons entered through the dragon’s mouth and pedestrians entered through the eyes. Argus was entitled to pass through the western door, the dragon’s left eye, reserved for nobles and dignitaries, but he preferred not to draw attention to himself. Instead he chose to wait in the longer queue and go through the right eye of the dragon with the peasants and traders. When it was finally his turn to pass, a bored guard waved him on and Argus started down the road towards the palace. For purposes of defence, the dragon’s head was the only entrance into the city. There was only one long, narrow crooked road that spiralled through the city to the palace with a variety of traps around every bend. Argus had seen armies fight their way down this road for days before finally being defeated halfway to their destination.

  Argus pulled the hood of his threadbare peasant robes a bit tighter and concentrated on his concealment spell. There were times when he found it useful to exploit the tales of his past for one reason or another, but for the time being it served him to slip into relative anonymity. All were familiar with stories of his activities. He had often listened to a stranger retelling some adventure in which he had played a role, and he would always restrain himself from correcting inaccuracies. Most of the other names he had used over the last two thousand years, such as Nieba, Xander, Palmag, referred to different characters. He had chosen the name Argus for himself in the recent upheavals and served as an advisor to King Arconus.

  He had been fairly certain a sign from the Oracle was coming and finally, only a few weeks ago, the first stone had been placed, and the Oracle had sent a message box on its way. He believed the Æhlman Sisterhood greatly overestimated their own importance, but Argus knew to take the Oracle herself quite seriously. The placing of the stone meant that his opportunity was approaching and the message box could be the key to his success, if he could find it. Even if he failed to retrieve the box, he felt certain he was in the right place. There was so much turmoil in Jeandania, so much unrest and uncertainty, that he was sure this was the land from which the Hundred Years’ King would rise. Perhaps it could even be an heir of King Arconus, who had no serious rivals. Riley and Santaque were still dangerous, but he was fairly certain Arconus would contain them. The only other candidate he could see was Liam Foster, who was now a tavern keeper in a small town, but Argus knew Liam had no ambition to rule. Later today he would try to enlist the King’s help in dealing with Foster, without making him aware of the true threat. It was always better to keep all options open and all information close in matters of the throne.

  He walked feebly through the streets, somewhat hunched, in the gait of an old villager. He turned down alleyways, which periodically cut between the shops on the lower floors of the continuous sandstone buildings. Every alley had a heavy metal door at each end; ready to slide down in times of war, but in times of peace they were usually left open. As his journey took him closer to the palace, the homes grew bigger and the shops more exclusive. Kiosks selling boiled pigeons gradually conceded to inns offering steak and potatoes, and then
fine restaurants offering wine and tenderloin. ‘Gate dweller’ and ‘Palace man’ were common expressions for city people, identifying one’s social status by his proximity to the palace. As Argus continued, he gradually walked more upright, altering his appearance constantly to match his surroundings. The dirty brown rags which he had worn as he entered the city, gradually, imperceptibly, transformed into fine linen. By the time he reached the final turn to the palace, he was draped in purple silk.

  Argus removed his hood. A feeling of claustrophobia always tugged at him when he turned the last corner and faced the palace wall. There was only a short distance of road left to the palace, where a simple green tile depiction of a dragon offered a weak two-dimensional imitation of the city gates. Reaching this point always made him feel like a mouse who had just reached a dead-end in a maze, as he had observed so many times in his experiments during the Age of Letters. The effect was another of the city’s defence mechanisms, this one devised by his father. The architecture’s natural dead-end effect was enhanced by a spell that left an army dejected at the turning of the corner, rather than heartened at coming so close to their objective. He had asked his father the secret of the spell many times and was only ever answered by his father’s devious, maddening laughter. Thus Argus was forced to suffer the same fate as the enemies of Kraal every time he reached the palace gates.

  There were no queues now. All of the nobles and dignitaries had come hours before, and the public would watch from the grounds on the northern side of the palace. The guard recognised Argus and let him pass into the courtyard, and a new world opened before him. The claustrophobic feelings passed. The congestion in the street, the dreary dirty brown colours and the smell of hard work gave way to the leisurely expanse of the courtyard, vibrant colours lit by an open sun and the scent of lilac.

  Members of important families in Jeandania normally milled about the courtyard and gathered under the shade of the great oaks, or on the steps of the palace. But today everyone was already assembled for the executions.

  Argus walked up the steps, through the great oval doors and into the main hall of the palace. Purple marble beams rose from the white marble floor like frozen geysers, splitting into great arches, which split into smaller ones, and again several times after that. The purple marble seemed to splash across the sandstone ceiling, as if pushing up against it, lightly tossing it aloft, rather than bearing its weight. It was Argus’s father who had taught the builders how to cut the stones and place them together into this design. Argus always thought his father had given too many secrets to the short-lived, and not enough to him.

  He made his way to the northern end of the palace and finally to the doors of the observation balcony, high above the execution grounds. The guards, once again, let him pass without word.

  Throngs of people were squeezed into the forum around the gallows below. There would be no trial today. The condemned, six of the ten most prominent clan leaders and their eldest sons, stood below on the gallows, their necks already in nooses. They were gagged with bags over their heads and their hands tied behind their backs. Argus had skipped the long, tedious ceremony that surrounded an execution for treason. He had always despised ceremony. He understood its usefulness in controlling the masses, but he avoided wasting his own time for such things, unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Unknown to the condemned, Argus’s earlier intervention had saved them from a fate far worse. The King had been set on a creating a long, painful, gruesome spectacle of them in order to deter future uprisings, but Argus had convinced him that the executions would be deterrent enough, and torture might induce sympathy for the condemned or revulsion against the King. Executing the clan leaders was dangerous move. It was better to appear merciful, even reluctant, in carrying this through.

  For the last twenty years, a succession of weak kings afraid of uprisings, like the one that felled the great Tobias, gradually let power fall to the merchant clans, while the kings focussed the entitlements of their position. Arconus’s blood claim to the throne had been distant, and before the last plague five years ago, Arconus’s ambitions were limited to within his clan. But the plague had killed most of the royal family, as well as a third of Jeandania’s population. It had been a grim time and Arconus was willing to take on a role that few envied. He was granted the throne with the blessing of the clans and an understanding that they would maintain relative control of the kingdom. But the plague reduced the country to near anarchy and Arconus used it as an opportunity to consolidate his power. Under the auspices of creating order, he mercilessly stamped out opposition to his authority. A few clan chiefs had questioned Arconus, but were assured that once the country was again under control, return of power to the clans would follow. However, once Jeandania began to recover, Arconus showed no signs of keeping his promise. Argus had learnt that the clans were secretly making designs for a new successor to the throne. When he advised Arconus of this discovery, the King seemed well pleased.

  Argus had penned a list of crimes against the accused. It basically documented the men’s activities, most of them true, which included secret meetings, weapons stashes and more, and then a rather involved plot to usurp the throne in favour of the rogue, General Santaque. The association with Santaque was completely fabricated, but it was important to link the two parties. Santaque was a known traitor, intent on wresting the throne from Arconus. The appearance of collusion gave credibility to the lies and made Santaque all the more threatening.

  General Theron was near the end of his summary, the venom in his voice making good theatre and stirring the crowd to anger. Theron stood by the executioner, who wore black robes. The executioner’s name was Richard Ban’hoen. His identical twin brother, Rhedmond, dressed in the same costume, stood beside the King. This was another of Argus’s ideas, using the twins to foster the illusion that death was not only at the King’s command, but also at his side.

  As the procedure neared its conclusion, Argus could see that, for the majority, their goals had been achieved. Nearly everyone in the crowd was scowling at this point. Most of their angry glares were directed at the condemned, although some were directed towards the King. Argus knew it would be impossible to sway everyone, but the process had begun. Thorough and consistent propaganda over the next months and years would help to sway many more.

  Argus took his seat at the back of the observation area, behind the dozen or so nobles and dignitaries who had managed to fit into the balcony. From here, no one in the crowd below could discern his face. It was a good position from which to preserve his relative anonymity, however, it had the unfortunate consequence of forcing him to sit next to Gastious.

  Gastious was the King’s personal bodyguard and errand boy. He had chosen the title of ‘King’s Prime’ for himself, to which the King acquiesced. He was a huge creature; half-man, half-Bok. The Bok were a race of giant, primitive, manlike creatures who lived deep in the forest. It was said that they occasionally mated with humans and Gastious seemed to be living proof that this was true. Gastious’s head was twice the size of a normal man’s. Rat-grey hair covered his face. He had deep set eyes and a black, animal nose. His mouth stretched nearly ear to ear, and jagged teeth crept from beneath his leathery lips in a few random places, vandalising the flesh on the opposite side. His uniform, at least, was fitted, pressed and polished because the King had forced him to sit long enough for the tailor to obtain his measurements.

  Argus nodded curtly at Gastious in greeting, who grunted in response. Through all of the centuries Argus had been alive, he could never overcome his disdain for poor etiquette, of which Gastious was the embodiment. The creature’s nasal passages were such that his normal breathing always sounded like soft, wet snoring. Gastious further embellished his ungentlemanly presence with occasional grunts, snorts and a perpetual bubbly white slobber that gathered in the corners of his huge mouth. Argus recoiled at the beast’s stench and pulled a perfumed handkerchief from his breast pocket in a vain attempt to stem
the tide of Gastious’s repugnant effluvia.

  Argus turned his attention to Arconus. He had chosen this spot so that he could not only observe the reaction of the crowd, but also the performance of the King, whom he could see in clear profile. The King was dressed in resplendent robes, a large ruby pendant mounted on gold around his neck and rings on every finger. He sat solemnly, rubbing his chin. Arconus was a pleasant-looking fellow. He was somewhat taller than average and much broader in the chest and belly. He had comfortably greying temples and honest eyes. Argus believed Arconus was physically designed for politics, and that this was a major reason that he had gained the support of the clans to take the throne. People wanted to believe in a man who looked kind and trustworthy, even amidst the overwhelming evidence of his capacity for cruelty and deceit.

  He also had a flair for the dramatic.

  Finally it was the King’s turn. He stood solemnly, without speaking, for over a minute, allowing the crowd to hush and to wonder. The executioner awaited his orders, his twin standing ominously by the King’s side. Finally, the King was ready.

  “My good people of Jeandania,” he began, “it is with great sadness that we meet here today to hear the crimes of these men. Men we considered leaders and future leaders among us. They have been businessmen and warriors. And worst of all, from my own heart’s sake, they have been my friends.”

  The King bowed his head to affect sadness. When he lifted it, he spoke with gathering force. “But you have all now heard the evidence, brought plainly before you. You know of the deeds they have done against their country, in league with a known traitor. These men,” he bellowed, in barely contained rage, “these men are no longer my friends. They are no longer friends to you. They have proven, beyond any doubt, that they are friends of dear Jeandania no more. Hangman, perform your duty!”