by F. E. Greene
Thaddeus didn’t seem bothered. “Something you’d like to add?” he asked through a grin.
Embarrassed, Paxton shook his head. The children giggled. Only Pearl looked concerned.
As he trailed Calen from the schoolroom, Paxton managed to catch Pearl’s eye. She always stayed behind to tidy up, and when he glanced back, she offered a smile he’d seen before – sweetness mixed with disappointment. Understanding, he returned the same.
In the kitchen he stuffed his mouth with sandwiches until Calen tugged at his collar to leave. Gulping down water, Paxton wiped his hands on his slacks as he followed. Before his first trip into the Gloaming, he hadn’t eaten a thing and still puked out of nervousness. It was a predictable reaction, Varrick had assured him. Anything less showed a lack of respect.
Now Paxton entered that limbo unflinching. He’d also forgotten how frightening the armery could seem. Secreted within the vast and airy castle, its dark walls and miserly light made newcomers skittish. A low doorway forced everyone to duck. Creaky stairs revealed each arrival. Signage was sparse apart from one warning that outriders only should enter.
Most kingsfolk never saw the armery. Those who did remembered its countless weapons and perhaps the grinder, a machine built after Before, although not with Fourtsworn approval. One outrider sat on its narrow bench, pressed his boots to iron plates, and pumped his legs. That forced its stone wheel to spin. When another touched a stife to the wheel’s coarse surface, sparks cascaded and the blade grew sharp.
More than once Varrick hinted that Orldics used grinders, too. Even Bonny claimed to have ridden a similar machine – a trambulator, she called it. Its three wheels carried a player across the stage in a spirit of defiance that was common among the dockland theatres. Some kingsfolk believed her. Others didn’t. Like her former occupation, Bonny was prone to embellish.
Had Paxton been able to speak with Pearl, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. His mind rifled through options while he changed from his casuals into layers of Gloaming armer. First he pulled on quilted leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. Then he wriggled his way into reinforced trousers.
Dressing sluggishly, he thought about asking to be excused. Any of the lads would be glad to replace him. And Carys knew about his sleepless night.
Then he imagined how Varrick, who never slept at night, might react to that request.
Paxton reached for his armer. He met Calen in the room’s middle where they helped each other fasten bracers around arms and legs, lacing the pieces with finger-thick threads. Metal buckles secured the broader ends. Gloaming leathers, dyed oxblood red, were nothing like the pliable, unwaxed calfskins a Rosperian might wear to a maskerade dance.
Next came weapons. Carys kept them organized according to style, and every outrider had his, or her, preference. Always Calen reached for a morster. Its thick dowel masked a sleek steel chain that allowed him to swing its spiked pommel in any direction.
For Paxton, more was more. He opted for two dystives, checking both blades of each with practiced snaps of his wrists. There were flashier weapons in the king’s armery, but none equaled four swords at once.
With the stives holstered to his legs, Pax readied himself for the best part of an outrider charge. Even Calen was grinning as they ducked under the door. Stepping into the noontime brightness, they gave their eyes time to adjust. Neither of them wanted to stumble when they passed through the courtyard, and for one simple reason. Everyone would be watching.
Warmer weather had lured the kingsfolk to eat lunch and play games on the courtyard green, but that activity ground to a halt when Calen and Paxton appeared. Children stopped frolicking. Elders set down their baskets. All checked to see who wore the leathers.
Seated with Thaddeus, the other lads’ faces were solemn. They had been where their friends were headed. Despite that, they still wanted to go.
Paxton’s presence revealed their destination. Only the Gloaming, never the Overland. While he walked, he cast a long glance at Pearl. He hoped she’d smile at him the way Carys smiled at Thadd, but Pearl kept her eyes on the blanket beneath her.
Calen quickened his pace. “Something going on there, Pax?”
“Maybe.” He tried to sound nonchalant as he jogged.
Tackling the oriel steps with one stride, Calen opened the door. “Maybe you wish, or maybe for real?”
“The second, I think.” Taking the lead, Paxton hurried toward the abasement. They were long past needing light to navigate the spiraling stairs although their armer made the climb down more awkward.
“Don’t bet on it.” Calen’s voice echoed in the stairwell. “Bonny told me her story. Pearl got bullied into an entreatment with some lumberson from Castlevale. She no longer trusts our sort.”
Anger flared in Paxton’s gut. “You’re not supposed to tell other people’s stories. The king doesn’t like it.”
“Yes, mother, I know. I’m sure the king forgives me.”
As they entered the cenacle, Pax felt the press of exhaustion return. He was more annoyed by his own short temper than by Calen’s predictable scorn, and again he considered bowing out. It was only a scouting party, something Varrick and Carys could do on their own. They took him along because he never left the castle. They took Calen because outriders braved the Gloaming in pairs.
While Carys was second in the chain of command, she always acknowledged them first. She was dressed in full armer – the female version – with fitted leggings and pliable boots. The sides of her reinforced leather tunic were split so she could move freely. A mid-belt, with quiver, encircled her waist, and a stife holster hugged her right thigh. Archer cuffs completed her gear. Women outriders were rare, as Varrick liked to remark, and outfitting Carys had been difficult.
Inspecting the lads, she smirked. “Did you two enjoy that?”
She meant their lunchtime parade across the courtyard, and sheepishly both admitted they did. Calen even smiled. Carys was trying to keep the mood light, and Paxton already knew why.
Most kingsfolk, including those who didn’t listen at weepholes, were aware of the first lamp campaign. Six outriders died trying to retrieve the king’s lamp. Varrick survived because he stayed behind. His gloom had persisted for years, Pax remembered, until the outriders were restored.
Like his second, the retriever wore his customary armer – a pitch-black backplate and armguards covering layers of chainmail. Leather bracers protected his thighs. Metal bands reinforced his boots. With stockstives holstered against both legs, he looked ready to engage the whole of Ungott.
The sight surprised Paxton. Orldic to the core, Varrick tended to wear less armer than he should just to prove he could do without it. His latest injury might have tempered his approach, but that caution never lasted.
Always eager to move things along, Calen joined Varrick at the Gloaming map. The two looked nothing alike, but their demeanors made them seem like father and son. While the retriever kept separate from others, Calen wasn’t so aloof – not in the presence of those he admired, and Varrick, without trying, had gained the lad’s admiration at first glance.
More than anything Cale wanted to be the next retriever. Paxton felt sure his friend would.
The maps, too, were similar in most aspects. Mounted from the ground at an angle, they displayed every detail of the Fourtlands. Each map stood across from its designated door, and like their doors they revealed one difference. The Overland map was rich with color, its terraveill shimmering with snowy light. The Gloaming map was depressingly grey. Its thin places looked like specks of blood.
“What’s our assignment?” Calen asked.
The retriever pointed at a peninsula shaped like a hook. “This is a S.T.A.T. check on the western coast of Ungott. Theatre is Ungus Point. Target is the lamp. We need a strategy to retrieve it without engaging the Shotten clann.”
Paxton leaned over the top of the map. “Why don’t we just walk in and ask for it?”
Varrick looked up. His eyes tightened in ch
allenge. “You first, castle-born.”
Pax mimicked his glare. “Don’t tempt me.”
Few people could get away with teasing the retriever, and Paxton wasn’t really one of them. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Or his need to feel better after Calen’s harsh remarks. Either way, the risk paid off when Varrick almost smiled before continuing his instructions.
“We’ll use this thin place in the forest and move due south to reach the covent.”
His calloused finger rested next to a red fleck on the peninsula. Terraveill was the ancient term for those spots where distances inexplicably blurred. For most kingsfolk, thin places remained a hallowed mystery. For outriders, they were a way not to die.
“The clanns are reportedly at peace, but the Shottens still plant sentries throughout these woods. I want to see if there’s enough cover to avoid notice when we go in. Looks like a mil of strides from the thin place to this promontory.”
“Formation?” Calen asked.
“Tight diamond in the forest.”
Varrick reached for a half-circle of glass that rested atop the castle’s likeness. The keystones, as someone had named them, were cut from the same transparent sphere although the Gloaming stone was tinged with crimson. The keystones did more than magnify the map’s contents. They also engaged the doors. After placing the Gloaming stone over the chosen terraveill, the retriever let go and stepped back.
“Calen takes the helm. I’m at the heel. We’ll reconfigure on the beach.”
All four outriders gathered at the Gloaming door. As its frame brightened like an angry sunrise, Paxton chanced another question. “Do you have a plan for getting the lamp back?”
“Other than your obvious suggestion?” Carys winked to soften the comment. “Not yet.”
Tired as he was, Paxton shuffled with excitement. Any chance to leave the castle, even for the Gloaming, made him feel an exhilaration that nothing else could match. He wasn’t afraid even though he probably should be. The need to be elsewhere always won out.
In the Overland darkgard couldn’t injure what lived, but they did influence and infect. They twisted affections, nurtured lies, and enticed fits of rage from unsuspecting humen. Within their sway people became weapons or targets, predators or prey.
In the Gloaming, however, darkgard could kill. Death was the sole purpose for their solid forms. Varrick had once compared a Gloaming campaign to taunting rabid madcats while standing naked and blindfolded with raw steaks held aloft in both hands. Paxton liked that analogy because it was true.
Carys opened the Gloaming door. Past its threshold there wasn’t much to see. Vines and briars obscured the view, hinting at disuse. Hoary slices of light slithered through rifts in a knotted canopy.
In Ungott some trees grew with roots exposed, and several had woven an alcove around the thin place. Most terraveill were secluded, but this one seemed almost useless, and Pax wondered if they should try another.
Calen swung his stife through the constrictive space. Then he crawled inside. Carys followed on her hands and knees. Paxton stayed close behind her, watching Calen for any signs of attack or distress. The instant Carys squeezed free, she set an arrow to her bowstring while Paxton scanned his portion of the forest. The last to exit, Varrick shut the Gloaming door and emerged with his back to the others.
Everyone froze in place. Weapons ready, they waited.
When nothing came at them, the retriever whistled softly and Calen moved forward. Silent and alert, everyone forced their legs through the undergrowth, striving to be as noiseless as the Gloaming itself. Even so, twigs crackled beneath their boots. They could hear each other breathe.
While they walked, Pax imagined how the forest might look in the Overland – innumerable shades of green gilded by afternoon sunlight. The Fourtland’s western stretches retained their innate splendor in spite of those who lived there. Ungers used trees for protection, not profit, and a Shotten forest was a sharp contrast to Castlevale’s manicured woods.
At the forest’s edge all four outriders halted when Varrick whistled again. Each chose a direction and checked for motion. What seemed completely normal in the Overland – shivering leaves, clacking branches, rustling brush – signified something else in the Gloaming. There, it meant darkgard approached.
“From here we walk without cover,” Varrick whispered.
Crossing onto the beach, they left the shelter of the trees.
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