With Footfalls of Shadow

by Donogan Sawyer

Kaila merely sighed in response. Rhemus had assumed the role of a teacher with Kaila, but his student could be stubborn and easily frustrated.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you told us about the meeting last night with Brandi Foster. I wondered if perhaps we should find the two who were travelling with Liam. Perhaps we can find out more about what is happening,” said Rhemus.

  “You mean that man and the witch?” asked Kaila.

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Rhemus. “I am impressed Kaila. I did not know the woman was a witch until you pointed it out. I believe you are correct.”

  “They prefer to be called the Sisters of Æhlman, but that is quite perceptive of you little one. Your skills are improving,” Filos remarked.

  Filos saw her slightly bow her head and shrug her shoulders. Beneath her veil, he could almost see her embarrassed pride at the compliment.

  He turned his attention back to Rhemus. “Yes, finding those two may be worthwhile, but difficult. The King’s men have been searching for them without success. I’m not certain we will do much better.”

  “We may have an advantage over them, Filos,” answered Rhemus. “Kaila seems to have a clear picture of who this woman is. She can help us locate her. I also believe the other gentleman may be helpful. His presence is strong in the æther.”

  “The æther?” Kaila asked.

  “I think I have retrieved the term from Bandalanu’s memory,” he explained to Kaila. “It is a word that describes the full balance of mass and energy in the universe. Perhaps this is what the Æhlman Sisterhood refers to as fate. In any case, this man plays an important role in the future of Jeandania, and he has a great interest in the Mikraino.”

  Kaila now realised Rhemus was correct. “Yes, yes. Our image is with him. What does that mean?”

  “I think it means his thoughts are often on the Mikraino. You sense it too?”

  “I think so. It is like a strand of energy present in you, and in me, and in other Mikraino. All I can see is that there is something similar. Is that what you see?”

  “Yes, but it confuses me. I feel as if he is seeking us, but something doesn’t fit.”

  Filos watched Kaila concentrate, and then shake her head in frustration. “I don’t know,” Kaila grumbled. “Whenever I look for him, I see something else. I’m distracted by this thing.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, little one,” said Filos. “Your senses are very new to you. It will take you some time.”

  “What is it you are distracted by?” asked Rhemus.

  “I don’t know what it is. What difference does it make?” she asked.

  “I, too, am distracted. When I try to focus on this man, my thoughts inevitably drift elsewhere. In fact, my focus always seems to drift north, something about the fire and the stone. I can’t explain it.”

  “Yes, fire and stone! Mine too,” Kaila said.

  “I thought I was merely losing my focus, as you did,” Rhemus explained, “but perhaps I mistook the truth for a distraction.”

  “Perhaps we can use this to our advantage,” Kaila thought aloud.

  “How so?” asked Filos, by now quite impressed with Kaila’s abilities and insight.

  “He is drawn towards this energy, whatever it is, that Rhemus and I can sense there somewhere in the north.”

  “Yes,” Rhemus agreed, apparently anticipating or reading what Kaila was thinking. “Perhaps we can channel this energy here, or emulate it.”

  “Yes, I don’t think I know how to do that yet, but I was thinking that you might be able to,” answered Kaila.

  “Right. Watch me, and perhaps you can learn.”

  “Are we sure this man is not a danger?” asked Filos.

  “I am not worried,” answered Rhemus. “We have you.”

  ~Æ~

  “You screwed up back there, Polly,” said Dilano as they rode through the valley. They had been riding for nearly three days, staying on their mounts for as long as their horses could carry them. Rhoie knew Dilano was upset with him. He knew why. He had given Dilano his time, but was glad that Dilano was finally addressing the problem.

  “I know. It was a mistake. I just couldn’t stand there and watch Blade die,” answered Rhoie.

  “He’s probably dead anyway, and now you’ve got two busted ribs and a gash to match.”

  “How can you talk about him like that?”

  “Like what?”

  Rhoie rubbed his side. “It was Blade, for Katchek’s sake. A few days ago you were expressing your undying loyalty to him. I believed you would follow him straight into hell. Now you speak of his death like ...”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he was just some part of a tactical miscalculation. Like I forgot to check my water or something.”

  “A man will die in three days without water, and I have followed Blade into hell and back many times,” Dilano answered, and turned silent.

  Rhoie recognised the hurt he had stirred in Dilano, and his guilt mounted. He followed, scared, in pain, feeling inadequate to the task before him. He gingerly rubbed his side. Dilano had tended to it well. That, in itself, cost them nearly an hour every evening. It would heal in good time, but the pain and fatigue were slowing him down. He was too embarrassed to admit that his saddle sores were as difficult to cope with as his other injuries. He knew Dilano was right. He hated to think about it. They were moving so slowly that they might not make it to the capital in time to help Liam.

  “I thought I could do it all,” Rhoie finally said. “I thought I could get to the horses and help Blade. I screwed up again. Now we may be too late.”

  “Today is the first day of the Carnival. Maurious told us we have until the last day. Let’s pick up the pace.”

  ~Æ~

  “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve eaten this well,” said the old man.

  “I’m glad I could be of some use to you,” Liam replied with a smile.

  “You must be famous.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that.” Liam sipped his soup. It was quite good; full of beef, salted and with fresh herbs. The King was making sure that his prisoner was well-treated before the trial. “How long have you been here, my friend?”

  “Twenty-seven years.”

  Liam shook his head slowly. “Twenty-seven years. You are a strong man. Most men would not last a year in a place like this.”

  “It’s not so bad. I’ve got nothing else to do,” he replied with a shrug. Liam wondered if the man still had full control of his faculties.

  “Why did they put you here?” Liam asked.

  “For something I said a long time ago. It was supposed to be a twenty-year sentence, but I think they forgot about me. Very good soup. You must come here more often.”

  Liam chortled softly. “I’m afraid my stay will be short, and I don’t think I’ll be coming back again. One way or another,” replied Liam.

  “Sounds serious,” said the old man gravely, but it seemed clear to Liam that he was far more interested in his soup than in whatever Liam might have to say.

  Liam smiled. “Would you like some more? I’m not hungry.”

  The old man looked suspiciously at Liam, and then carefully walked over to him. Liam handed him the bowl of soup and the bread. The old man took it and scurried back to his accustomed corner.

  “You have a trial in two days. You will need your strength. You should not give away your food,” the old man finally said, after finishing Liam’s bowl.

  “How did you know about the trial?”

  “Word gets around, even here. You are Liam Foster, no?”

  “I am.”

  “Tell me something, Liam Foster. Do you wish to be King?”

  Liam was amused at the question.

  “No, I do not,” he answered.

  “But you wish to kill the King,” pressed the old man.

  Liam looked sternly at the old man, slightly affronted at the question. Then laughed inwardly at his own sense of discretion. What difference would it mak
e to talk to the old man?

  “If necessary.”

  “If necessary,” the old man repeated, rubbing his chin. “If necessary. Why, Liam Foster, would it be necessary to kill the King?”

  Liam leaned back against the wall and sighed. It was a question he had been wrestling with for weeks. “Justice.”

  “Justice, justice. You would kill the King for justice. Some would say that is a strange concept. Killing a King is a grave matter. Some say that, in itself, is unjust.”

  “Some would say so,” Liam agreed.

  The old man seemed suddenly distracted by an insect moving across the floor. He followed it with his eyes, and only carried on the conversation when it disappeared into a crack in the wall.

  “There are times when I envy those creatures,” he sighed.

  “You’ve been in this cell for twenty-seven years?”

  “It’s not so bad. I have all I need here, and I don’t have anything else to do,” he replied. “Now tell me, Liam Foster, what is it you seek?”

  “I seek only peace,” Liam answered, lying back on the cold floor.

  “Yet you wish to kill the King?”

  “I do not wish it. The King has come after me. His soldiers killed my daughter, and he is responsible for the death of another who was dear to me. It is now time to settle our differences.”

  “He has killed your daughter, yet you claim you do not wish to kill him.”

  “Of course not. I wish to have my daughter back, and to preserve my life.”

  “You are beginning to interest me.”

  “What is your name?” asked Liam.

  The old man ignored the question. “I understand you are quite a fighter, Liam Foster. It is unusual for one trained so adeptly at killing not to crave conflict. A true fighter will find his place to fight.”

  “Good leads to good, and evil draws evil.”

  “Those words are for children, Liam Foster, not a soldier like you.”

  “You believe those are words for children?” he asked. “Perhaps they are. Perhaps I was wiser as a child than I was as a soldier.”

  “There is a story in your past. Tell me. We have time. Indulge an old man. A sadness smoulders in you, Liam Foster. Tell me how you came upon this sadness that so burdens you. Take a moment to lighten your soul before your trial.”

  Liam smiled at his cellmate’s charm. Perhaps he was right. Why not give the old man his story? He had never told it before. Perhaps it would even do him a little good.

  “I was a soldier, as you said. I was Sha’grath. We considered ourselves elite. At the very least, we were good fighters. We helped bring down King Tobias, who was an evil man. He ruled through fear and intimidation. His soldiers killed my parents. Times then were much like they are now, I suppose. Perhaps this is just the way of things.”

  “Perhaps,” the old man answered.

  “I fought against Tobias, and I fought against his soldiers. One of the principles of our training was to fight without emotion. We never fought scared. None of us feared death. This was a great advantage in battle. Learning to fight without emotion is a high principal for the Sha’grath. In practise, however, it is not the same as it is perceived, even among the most adept. I could kill without remorse. I could fight without fear. But I was far from emotionless. I used to prepare myself for battle by thinking of my dead mother and father, imagining their suffering in the most graphic detail. By the time the battle was waged, I was a seething animal. I learned how to use my anger, to turn my hatred into a weapon. I was possessed by my hate. I was an instrument of evil, though I fought for the right cause. I channelled my hatred through my sword. I could not fight without emotion. I needed my anger. I needed my hate. It kept me alive. In time, it became more than sustenance, it was a nectar. I learned to love my hate, and it killed my wife.”

  “What is it you speak of, Liam Foster?” the old man asked after a long pause.

  “We won. We killed Tobias. Our man, Torvin, took the throne. He was killed a year and six months later by yet another seeking the throne.”

  “I remember. It was a worthy victory, even if it only lasted a short time.”

  “It was, my friend. It was a worthy victory, but I did not prove to be a worthy soldier.”

  The old man sat waiting.

  “My hate consumed me. It was not enough to have our man on the throne. It was not enough for me to kill the King. I had to kill every soldier that ever wore his crest, the crest of the regime that murdered my parents. Had I gone home after the victory, perhaps my wife would still be alive. Had I not targeted the soldiers of Tobias after he was gone, the soldiers never would have targeted me. It was hate and rage that drove me on, emotions of evil. Evil draws evil.

  “I received word that the soldiers were going to my home. I had never ridden faster than I did in those six hours. I killed my poor horse, the horse that had served me so well during the two years of the rebellion. Over the years, she had become a companion and partner. In the end, she sacrificed herself at my command. Still, I was far too late. The soldiers had been there for hours already, assaulting my wife. I broke the door in, and found her tied to a chair in the middle of the room, the bait in the trap. They killed her as I walked in. All that time riding to her rescue, and I did not find her dead. I found her alive. I found her beaten, and bloody, and humiliated, and suffering. A moment later I saw her murdered.

  “The soldiers thought I would come alone, and I did. They thought I would be exhausted from the ride, and I was. They thought my emotions would affect my judgment, and they did. For all these reasons they were certain I could never overpower all six of them, but that was where they were wrong.

  “The battle was short. I killed them all. My hate was sharp, dangerous and efficient, like never before. It took me some years to fully understand the difference, to understand the consequences of living in hatred. But when the carnage was over, I began to understand the evil I had wreaked. I understood the evil I had brought into my own home, the evil that killed my wife. And I understood that the hatred wielding my sword that night was not hatred for those soldiers, or even towards King Tobias. This time it was a hatred of myself.”

  “Some say that all hatred is merely an expression of self-hatred,” said the old man.

  “Indeed,” Liam responded. “I was as much to blame as the cowards who killed my wife. I had brought them there with my own dark heart. That night, I put down my sword. My daughter was hiding under the floorboards, placed there by her mother. As directed, she never made a sound. She was a good little soldier.”

  Liam let the tears flow as he continued. “That night, I put down my sword and lifted my daughter from the prison from where she had heard her mother die. I gave up my identity as a soldier, and I became a father.”

  The old man nodded slowly, and after a moment, he asked. “Why did you pick up your sword, again?”

  “At first it was to protect my daughter, then, after I saw her die ...”

  “You hoped the soldiers would help you to follow her.”

  Liam sat in silence, and nodded his head softly.

  “And now you wish to kill the King. For vengeance?”

  “I told you, I do not wish to kill the King.”

  “But you will kill him if necessary.”

  “If necessary.”

  “What drives you to this end now, Liam Foster? What drives you to face the King?”

  “My daughter deserves a father who would do the right thing for his country.”

  ~Æ~

  Darryck was not accustomed to leading, and had no ambition for it, but now Blade was gone, and presumed dead. Dilano, the next in line of command, was leading young Rhoie to Kraal. It was Darryck’s duty to lead now, and that was what he would do. The hike through the forest was difficult, but the trails were prepared much better than on the eastern side. He was proud of his men. They had fought well. They had soundly defeated the Bok. But they had lost nearly a third of those who had begun travelling with them fr
om Snake’s Mouth. They were down to twenty-eight. Five of them were injured.

  Darryck exhaled in a long sigh, and continued his arduous hike. The task before them seemed hopeless. Twenty-eight men, Liam Foster, and two friends, against the army of the King. Blade had believed in this cause, though. He had believed in Maurious and trusted his judgment. When this trial was over, until Dilano returned, Darryck would act as leader. Then he would make his own judgments about what missions they would or would not undertake. But for now he would carry out his sworn duty to find Liam Foster, and aid him in whatever way he could. This was the promise he had made to Blade.

  ~Æ~

  Travis thought he would never get used to this. They walked through the city streets in broad daylight. He knew Lyra had cast some kind of illusion over them, as she had before, but it was disconcerting nonetheless to pass within a few feet of an armed guard standing next to a wanted poster with his face on it. They had already reposted the signs. The King had Liam in custody, now his men were searching only for the two of them. ‘Accessories in the Conspiracy to Commit Sedition against the King of Jeandania’ read the sign.

  “Dress that hogwash up in fancy enough language and it starts to sound kind of serious, doesn’t it?”

  “What? The sign?” Lyra asked. “It is pretty serious. If they catch us, they’ll hang us.”

  “Great. I don’t know what we’re doing out here,” said Travis.

  “It was your idea,” Lyra reminded him.

  Travis closed his eyes for a moment as they walked, trying to think. He knew she was right. It was his idea, and it seemed increasingly stupid to him as he continued through the crowded streets populated by so many of the King’s soldiers. He had just felt compelled to go out. He couldn’t just sit there in his room at the inn talking about what they were going to do anymore. He had to actually do something. He also had an idea in his head that somehow he might just be able to find some clue as to where that cursed box might be.

  He expelled an exasperated breath. Then his thoughts shifted back to Lyra’s disturbing comment. “So why hanging?” he asked.

  “Sometimes they use beheading, but that’s usually for soldiers, it’s a bit more showy,” she answered. “They don’t want to use that kind of approach against a political figure. Getting your head chopped off is kind of a hero’s death, and it tends to incite the supporters of resistance types. If you hang someone, though, they get strangled to death, and it tends to be a long, undignified affair. The victim twists and kicks, and gargles, and usually loses control of his bodily functions. He ends up with a purple face and his tongue sticking out. The point is to humiliate the victim as he dies. It kind of disempowers him.”