The Shadow King

by Alec Hutson

  Sella carried the doll she had found on the island. It was a lumpy bit of cloth with straw for hair and a frilled green dress, button eyes and a line of stitches for its mouth. The sight of it annoyed Keilan – if she had not snuck off and stolen the doll then they’d likely still be on the island. Niara would be alive, instructing Keilan on how to harness his sorcery, and he’d have the time to convince her to join with Cein d’Kara in stopping the demon children. Sella still insisted that the doll had spoken to her and had told her some ridiculous story, yet it hadn’t said anything else since that morning. Clearly, the doll was just a toy, probably once played with by his mother. The thought that his grandmother had died because of Sella’s overactive imagination was galling.

  Nel was speaking with Senacus near the ship’s gangplank. The paladin had donned the bone amulet that hid the light that usually spilled from his eyes, but still he was wearing the white-scale armor and cloak of the Pure, which was drawing some curious stares from the dockworkers. He looked somber, Keilan thought. Like he was sad that this was how their journey together would end. Keilan searched within himself for any sympathy and found maybe the barest trace, but it was greatly overshadowed by his anger. He knew the paladin didn’t feel guilty about Niara’s death – Senacus had devoted his life to killing sorcerers. No, his only regret was that it had driven a wedge between them, and this Keilan could not forgive.

  Finally, Nel held out her arm, and after a moment’s hesitation Senacus clasped it. Keilan was a little surprised, considering where Senacus and Nel had started out only a few months ago. She’d been ready to slip a dagger between his ribs for his role in bringing the shadowblades inside Saltstone, and yet here she was showing Senacus that she considered him to be a friend. Keilan shifted uncomfortably as he considered this. His feelings towards the paladin had also changed considerably, and now he regretted asking him to accompany them. Nel apparently felt the opposite.

  “Where is he going?” Sella asked, tugging on Keilan’s sleeve. She sounded worried.

  “Home, like us.”

  Nel finished saying her goodbye, then turned away, shouldering her heavy pack. Keilan knew she’d stuffed it full of strange artifacts and trinkets she thought might interest Vhelan. Behind her, Senacus scanned the crowded docks until he found Keilan. He didn’t smile, but he raised his hand and inclined his head.

  “Why isn’t the Pure coming with us?” Sella asked Nel when she reached them.

  Nel glanced at Keilan. “He has . . . important things he must do in Menekar. And the Pure aren’t welcome in Dymoria – the Crimson Queen would throw him in the dungeons.”

  Sella scrunched up her face. “But he’s so strong. Who’s going to protect us now?”

  “No one is going to protect you,” Keilan said, trying to sound stern, “because you’re going back to your farm.”

  “Keilan,” Sella pleaded, “let me go with you. Nel can teach me to be your knife. I can learn, I promise.”

  This was only the latest of many such pleas, and Keilan shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. I’ll come back for you in a few years, when you’re older. Right now, you should be with your mother. Pelos will take you home.”

  Tears glimmered in her mismatched eyes. “You’re going to leave me again.”

  “I’ll return, I promise,” he said, but she turned away angrily. He looked at Nel for help, but she only shrugged.

  Sighing, Keilan glanced to where Senacus had been. Sella had always listened to the paladin, for some reason, and he in turn had shown great patience with her. He seemed to find amusement in her fierce spirit and the way in which she saw the world, so full of wide-eyed wonder.

  But the Pure was already gone.

  The day was gray and cold, a light drizzle prickling Keilan’s skin as they walked through the town. The heavy rain the night before had turned the road to mud, and only a few customers were frequenting the vegetable and fish stalls hemming the way. Most of the townsfolk must have been hunkering in their homes, as smoke was trickling from the tops of many of the white stone and clay buildings they passed. The bleakness of the weather mirrored his mood, and he found he couldn’t stop thinking about Senacus and Sella and what had happened on the island. Nel had been right – Sella had betrayed him. All she’d had to do was wait while Niara guided him towards an understanding of sorcery. Instead, she’d snuck away and stolen something of great value to the sorceress. If Sella hadn’t come along – if he hadn’t given in to her pleading to be allowed to come along – then nothing terrible would have happened.

  Resentment churned in his stomach. He glanced at Sella, plodding along beside him, seemingly lacking any sense of the tragedy she had caused. Selfish, stupid little girl. He found his hands were balled into fists, and he had to fight back the urge to grab her and shake her and scream in her face.

  The cut on his arm itched, and he scratched at it. His anger was not only intensifying the pain behind his eyes, but also making him feel lightheaded. The little light seeping through the layer of gray clouds hurt his eyes, and he had to raise his hand to try and shield his face.

  The world lurched, a cart passing next to him tilting – though none of the vegetables piled on it shifted – and he stumbled. The ground rushed up, smashing him in the face; cold mud was on his lips, pressing against his cheek, and a tingling numbness was spreading down his limbs . . .

  “Keilan!”

  Nel’s voice, from very far away. Ringing like a distant bell.

  His fingers clutched at the dirt. The throbbing in his head was now a pounding, like something was trying to break out of his skull.

  “Look at his arm!”

  Sella’s voice, floating on a distant wind. She sounded terrified.

  “Help me.”

  Nel, calmer but still shaken. Hands gripped him under his arms and lifted. His head pulled away from the mud.

  “Gods, he’s heavy.”

  “Keilan, you need to walk. We can’t carry you.”

  The edge of urgency in Nel’s words cut through the haze. He found he was standing, and he took a staggering step forward. The world around him was blurry, but he sensed he was stumbling towards a building. Nel was under one of his arms, Sella the other. He heard the girl whimper, and Keilan tried his best to take more of his weight.

  “That’s right, that’s good,” said Nel soothingly. “Just a little farther.”

  Wooden steps. A door swinging open, and the brightness of the day gave way to gloom. The smell of animal dung and roasting corn was replaced by bitter smoke and a simmering stew.

  “He can’t come in here so deep in his cups,” growled a man.

  “He’s not drunk; he’s just not feeling well. We just need to sit for a moment, get something in his stomach.”

  “He got a sickness?” This was a woman’s voice, laced with caution.

  “He’s lightheaded. Too long on a boat. Please, we’ll take a bowl of whatever is cooking. And a flagon of water.”

  Keilan’s knees bumped against something, and then small hands were helping him step over a bench and sit. His elbows rested on wood, and the desire to pillow his head in his arms and let the darkness carry him off was nearly overwhelming.

  “No,” Nel said harshly, pinching his cheek hard. He flinched, the fog that had been settling over him lifting slightly.

  “Stay awake, Keilan.”

  “Do you see his arm?” That was Sella’s voice.

  “I see it,” Nel replied grimly.

  What was wrong? Blinking through the shadows, he focused on his arm. The veins near his wrist were etched black and swollen, like worms burrowed just beneath the surface of his skin.

  Keilan breathed out slowly. The shadows pressing down on him lightened, and the ground beneath his feet – which had been moving up and down like he was still on the boat – finally settled.

  He sat at a trestle table of p
itted wood. A fire burned in a hearth, an iron cookpot suspended over the flames. He weakly turned his head. Nel was beside him, concern in her face. Beyond her were another few tables and a scattering of men with long beards and rumpled work clothes. Bowls of stew steamed in front of them, but most of the men were staring at him instead of eating.

  Keilan swallowed. They were in some kind of tavern. Nel was on his left, Sella his right.

  “Look!” Sella hissed, pointing at his arm. The blackness was fading from his veins, as if being drawn out as they watched. What remained was inflamed and swollen, but only a little darker than usual.

  “I’m . . . I feel better,” Keilan murmured, licking his dry lips.

  “What happened?” Nel asked, clutching at his arm.

  “I don’t know, it was like—”

  His words trailed away as a dark shape appeared on the other side of the table, blocking the fire-light. He looked up, blinking.

  A woman nearly as wide as she was tall loomed over him, her ruddy face showing both concern and a healthy dash of wariness. She held a bowl in one hand and a dented tin flagon in the other.

  “You all right, lad?” she said, setting down the bowl and flagon with a clatter.

  Keilan nodded, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Aye. I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

  “You won’t find anything more agreeable here!” someone shouted from a nearby table, to loud guffaws. The stout matron scowled and stomped off in the direction the voice had come from.

  “Funny, are ya? How funny are ya gonna be, Terrin, if I throw ya out on your arse and you have to slink home to spend time with yer missus?” Laughter rippled around the room, Keilan’s fainting spell forgotten.

  “Here, eat,” Nel said, pulling the bowl in front of Keilan. He dipped his spoon and brought it to his mouth – the stew inside was a bit watery, and the amount of salt might have been masking some very questionable fish, but it was hot, and as it pooled in his belly he found the weakness that had overcome him fading further. Loud banging from elsewhere was followed by a sullen-sounding apology, and then the stout matron stomped past their table again muttering angrily to herself.

  “Your arm,” Nel said, lightly brushing his inflamed veins with the tip of her finger. “I thought you said the infection had gone away.”

  “It had,” Keilan replied, wincing. The area was tender, even when touched so gently. “I thought I was getting better. I guess I hoped the sickness was breaking.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nel drummed her fingers on the table. “We need to get you to an apothecary. Clearly you need something to cleanse this infection. Pelos will know who to go to in Chale. Do you think you can make it to his house?”

  Keilan nodded, then took another slurp of stew. Nel watched him carefully, chewing on her lip.

  “Well, I don’t think you’re going to die right now. And the food might be doing you some good.” She raised her hand, catching the eye of the still-fuming woman. “Another bowl of this stew!”

  Keilan felt better than he had in many days after finishing a second bowl of the stew while soaking up the fire’s heat. His skin was no longer clammy, and the headache that had been muddling his thoughts had finally vanished. There was still a shadow to his veins, though, and the quickness with which the sickness had overwhelmed him and then receded again was frightening.

  When they had all cleaned their bowls and their clothes were pleasantly dry and warm, Nel paid the woman a couple of Lyrish coppers from the diminished purse given to them by the Lady Numil almost two months before. Then they clattered down the rickety steps spilling onto the town’s main thoroughfare, Keilan waving away Sella as she offered him a shoulder.

  “This way,” Keilan said, remembering that they had once walked along this very road after spending the night at Pelos’s house.

  Sella dashed ahead, pausing here and there to inspect the various stalls that lined the street. The wares of an older man with a drooping mustache in particular caught her interest, and as Keilan drew close he saw painted dolls and various monsters carved from red wood.

  “Look, Kay!” she cried excitedly, pulling out from her pack the doll she had taken from Niara’s island, and then holding it up to compare it with the workmanship of the dolls that were laid out for sale.

  “Come along,” Nel said sternly, dragging Sella away from the toymaker’s stall. She went with the knife reluctantly, still clutching the doll to her chest.

  Keilan’s chest ached watching this. She was still a child in so many ways. And yet she was only a few years younger than him. Was this gulf that had opened between them just from their age difference, or had everything that had happened to him wiped away all that remained of his childhood?

  He was surprised that he remembered the way back to where Pelos lived, as he’d been nursing a terrible hangover the morning they had departed for Ven Ibras. But he recognized an old pear tree that looked to have been scarred by wormrot, and turned onto the side street that passed beneath its branches. Tidy cottages hemmed the way, their doors and shutters painted bright colors. Wisps of smoke curled from chimneys. His heart lightened at the thought of seeing Pelos and Amela again – he desperately needed the fishmonger’s calm wisdom right now. Perhaps Pelos could help quiet whatever demons were loose in his head.

  That was it, wasn’t it? The small white house with a roof of red slate, a carved wooden fish hanging down from the eaves. Its door was cracked open – perhaps Amela was letting in some fresh air while she worked. Pelos was likely down at the market selling yesterday’s catch, but Keilan knew the fishmonger’s wife would welcome them warmly.

  “Amela!” he cried, running up the path to the house. He caught a flash of movement from inside and pushed wide the door, a smile already on his face.

  Keilan gasped. Two men sat at the fishmonger’s table, and they returned his surprised look. Both wore armor of the same make: leather cuirasses over red tunics, their arms protected by bronze vambraces. One wore an open-faced helmet, while the other had taken his off and placed it beside a pile of small bones on the table.

  For a moment no one moved. Then the men leaped to their feet, overturning the chairs they’d been sitting in, hands going to the hilts of their short swords.

  “Commander!”

  Soldiers. Keilan stumbled back, nearly falling as he turned to run. There had been a small tattoo beneath their left eyes, like a falling tear, and he knew what it must be even though he was too far away to see it clearly: a sunburst, the mark of the god Ama. These men were from the legions of Menekar.

  “Nel!” he cried, but then skidded to a halt again.

  Three more soldiers had appeared, emerging from hidden places with stubby swords drawn. Nel pushed Sella behind her as the men fanned out to cut off their escape.

  Keilan fumbled with his sword as he rushed over to his friends, the hilt nearly slipping from his fingers when he pulled it awkwardly from its sheath.

  Sella clutched at him, her eyes wide and panicked. “Who are they, Kay?”

  “Menekarians,” Nel answered, her voice cold.

  Keilan tried to adopt the stance Xin had taught him, the second form of the One Who Waits, but it was like he suddenly had two left feet. His heart skittered, and he fought to keep his arm from shaking.

  “If they charge us,” Nel said calmly, “I’ll put my dagger in the one with the scar. You see him, Sella? I want you to run in his direction when he falls and not look back. Keep running until you’re far away and you can’t hear anything anymore. Do you understand?”

  Sella only whimpered, and Nel let out a little hiss of frustration.

  “Do you understand?” she repeated harshly, daggers materializing in her hands.

  “Yes,” Sella whispered.

  But they did not charge. Instead, the soldie
rs stopped their slow advancement and turned towards the fishmonger’s house. Nel tensed, as if readying herself to seize upon their distraction, but then she stiffened.

  “No,” she breathed, and the despair in her voice sent a chill through Keilan.

  He turned slowly, the fighting forms forgotten.

  A paladin of Ama stood framed in the doorway, sunlight burning on his white-scale cuirass. He was as tall as Senacus, but leaner, and though he had a trimmed silver beard his head had been shorn, a spiderweb of copper tattoos covering his gleaming scalp.

  The Pure was staring at Keilan intently, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Tell your men to stand down, Menchai,” he said. “The boy is the sorcerer.”

  The soldiers shifted and muttered, and Keilan thought they might have drawn back a pace, but he couldn’t be sure as he was having trouble tearing his gaze away from the Pure’s burning eyes.

  “Where is Senacus?” asked the paladin.

  Nel answered first. “He’s dead. Swept into the sea during a storm.”

  The Pure’s jaw tightened. “A pity. The High Mendicant demanded the apostate be brought before him. I suppose you three will have to suffice.”

  What were they doing here? “What about Pelos?” Keilan shouted, the sword hilt slick in his grip.

  The paladin frowned. “Who?”

  “The one who lived here with his wife. What have you done with him?”

  “The old man?” The Pure shrugged, as if this were of no importance. “He was taken by the inquisitors for questioning. He’s beneath the temple in Theris by now, I would assume, no doubt praying to whatever heathen gods he worships to let him die.”

  They were torturing Pelos. Anger flared in Keilan, and he took a step towards the paladin.

  “Keilan, wait,” Nel hissed in near panic as the Pure arched a pale brow.