Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  Loren saw him at last. Len had spoken truly: this man Rogan felt dangerous, and though he bore no armor he wore his size like protection. His arms were covered, yet under the sleeves his strength was clear. Dark was his face, scarred across both eyes, though he had lost neither.

  Something about him seemed familiar. Loren could not place the reason, and the search through her mind brought terror to her heart. She had seen someone, something like him before. But not in Jordel, nor any of the other Mystics she had met upon the road.

  “Do you see it?” Albern said, giving voice to her thoughts. The beast moves like Trisken.”

  Loren thought her heart might stop. “We must leave. We should have fled Northwood last night.”

  “Albern, what is it?” said Mag.

  “Nothing, or at least no great matter if we leave at once.”

  Albern’s grip on Loren’s arm tightened, and he nearly hauled her off and down the street. Mag sped her pace to match them. Loren glanced back over her shoulder as they fled—and in a frozen, terrible moment, locked eyes with Rogan. Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

  “He saw me,” she said.

  “We were too far away. He could not have remarked upon you, not dressed like this. You are not the only girl in the nine lands with green eyes.”

  Yet Albern sounded as though he did not believe it himself, and he began to move faster. Now they were half running.

  “Is it them?” said Mag. “The ones you fought in the mountains?”

  “Mayhap.”

  “We have no time,” said Loren. “I only hope the others have readied the horses.”

  Albern looked back over his shoulder. “Perhaps I should come with you.”

  Loren wanted to refuse. Albern had sought to part ways and return to Strapa, his home far to the south. But now she welcomed the thought of his company, for Albern was as skilled at using a bow as he was at making one. Indecision kept her silent, and she could not sort her thoughts for the fear that filled her heart.

  She saw Jordel’s broken body on the valley floor.

  And Trisken’s bloodied grin.

  The beast had commanded the fortress in the Greatrocks, the one filled with Shades that had inspired such fear in Jordel. The Mystic, who had always been a solid rock for Loren to lean on. Trisken had fought them in the caves, and there they had cut him down with arrows and swords. Yet he had risen again, his mortal wounds knitting before their terrified eyes.

  And they could only run.

  They had slain him at last but lost Jordel, the greatest among them.

  Mag’s inn loomed above. Loren ignored the back door, burst in through the front, and ran to the table where the others were waiting.

  Gem and Annis looked up in surprise, but in the wizard’s eyes she saw a dark recognition.

  Loren said, “We are leaving. Now. Where is Chet?”

  “With the horses,” said Annis. “What did you see in the—”

  “Now, Annis. Go with Gem, and fetch our things, as quickly as your feet can carry you. Meet at the stables.”

  She and Gem caught Loren’s panic like plague and ran upstairs. Xain tried to rise but stumbled and had to catch himself on the table. On thin and shaking legs, he ran after Loren as she made for the inn’s back door.

  “A man in town searches for us,” she said, before he could ask. “He is one of them, for he holds himself as Trisken did.”

  Already pale, Xain’s skin turned elf-white. “We are too long delayed.”

  “We can be miles away before they learn we were here,” said Loren.

  “True enough,” said Albern. “And unless they are mightier woodsmen than I suppose, I shall see to it that they have trouble following our trail beneath the Birchwood’s eaves.”

  “You will find Chet and me no slouches,” said Loren. “We are children of that forest.”

  They struck the stable doors so hard that the hinges nearly broke.

  Chet’s gaze shot up from where he was inspecting his chestnut’s bridle. “Loren! What is it?”

  “We are leaving. I hope you are ready.”

  “I am,” he said, eyeing Albern and Xain. “But I do not understand what—”

  The sharp blast of a horn cut the air outside.

  Screams tore through the silence, and somewhere far off, a bell began to toll.

  six

  Loren was on the verge of running back to the inn when Gem and Annis finally appeared, bags bulging under their arms, eyes so frightened they looked almost haunted.

  Chet and Albern took the supplies and threw them upon the saddles while Xain slowly mounted his horse.

  “What are these horns?” Gem’s voice trembled. “I heard shouting.”

  “An attack,” said Loren. “I knew he saw me.”

  The stable door flew open, and the party whirled toward the sound as one. Loren drew her dagger, and Albern followed with his sword. Loren relaxed at the sight of Mag and Sten until she saw their blades and the shields upon their arms.

  “The city is under siege,” said Mag. “We shall see you safely beyond the walls.”

  “Go back inside,” Loren said. “Wait until we have gone. They will pursue us beyond the city and leave Northwood in peace.”

  “That I doubt,” said Mag. “And you have no time to convince me besides. Mount your horses. Quickly.”

  Albern seized Loren’s arm before she could reply and nearly threw her onto the saddle. “You are nearly a match for Mag in stubbornness, girl, but not quite. Heed her.”

  Loren ground her teeth but stuck her boots through the stirrups. The others were quick to mount.

  With Mag and Sten on either side, Loren led them through the streets, north to where the Birchwood gate waited. From the west rang screams of the dying amid the clashing of steel.

  Annis cried out. “They would kill all these people just to find us? How can they hope to keep themselves a secret after this?”

  “If none live to tell the tale, it will remain hidden,” said Albern with grim finality. “Even if some spare few escape to speak of the attack, most will assume it is an army of Dorsea.”

  “You mean to say it is not?” said Sten.

  Mag had heard their tale, but her husband had not and knew nothing of the Shades. She said, “Time for that explanation later. We must hasten. If I were they, I would move to cut off northern and eastern escape. With luck, we should gain the gate before then.”

  As Mag spoke, they entered an open square to find their luck had emptied. Shades stormed into view, mail and blades gleaming. Folk fled in fear, cut down by the Shades as they ran, so intent in their slaughter that they gave no mind to Loren and her party.

  “This way!” Mag led them aside and down another street, away from the killing. Loren eyed Chet as they rode. His face was sheet white, teeth bared. She gripped his arm, squeezing until he found her eyes.

  “Try not to look. Keep your eyes in front of you and your mind on where you wish to go.”

  He gave her a shaky nod. Beyond him, Loren saw Gem and Annis, their mouths set in grim lines, shoulders set. The rest of them had seen so much death, even this wanton slaughter did not make them despair. Loren was unsure whether that was a good thing or not.

  Mag took them through many twisting alleys, but eventually they emerged into the open and ran into another ugly horde of Shades. Here some citizens had taken up arms, shovels and pitchforks turned to makeshift weapons. But the Shades were disciplined and coordinated in their battle. One or two had fallen, but scores of their victims littered the ground.

  “No use. It will be a fight.” Mag’s voice had turned flat and lifeless—a horrible monotone from the woman who was always so warm, like a mother to the children. Loren found herself shivering despite the heat.

  Albern drew an arrow and turned to the party. “Keep behind Mag and Sten. Stay your blades until you must swing, for they will try to seize them and pull you down. Now, charge!”

  Then, for the first time in her life, Loren
saw death made beautiful.

  Mag struck, filled with battle-lust at the sight of her fellows killed in their homes. She fought, blade blessed with the speed of her rage, her shield like a castle wall in motion as it warded their blows. Not once did her blade strike forth but to draw blood, faster than a serpent striking, fluid as a flowing waterfall.

  Sten stood beside her, using his size and strength to batter his foes, knocking them back until he could find an opening for his sword. Behind her, Albern unleashed a flurry of arrows, each finding its mark, his archery wizardry to Loren’s eyes. But Mag’s blade was coated in death, her battle cry a banshee’s wail. No foe fell under her gaze and survived. In twos and threes they fought her, but they could not pierce her guard, nor stay her blade once it came for them.

  The fight was over almost before Loren knew it had begun. Any Shades who did not fall to their assault turned and fled through the streets, disappearing behind the buildings and into the city’s crooked alleys. Mag turned to them, her face spattered with a mist of red. Flecks speckled her bared teeth.

  “On!” growled Mag. “Do not stop moving.”

  They followed without a word. Loren could see Albern’s dark look from the corner of his eye. Sten eyed his wife sadly as they pressed through the streets. But Mag could only stare at the road before her.

  Twice more they came upon Shades in the streets, and twice more Mag drove them back with a furious charge. Sten could barely keep up—indeed, even Albern’s arrows seemed to strike a moment behind Mag’s lightning blows. Loren and the others tried to stay clear, quaking in their saddles as Mag sliced through her foes like a scythe.

  At last they came within sight of the city’s north wall and paused. More Shades marched through the gate in rank and file. An army, far greater than they had seen even in the Greatrocks.

  “There are so many,” breathed Loren.

  “Surely not even Mag can defeat them all,” said Gem. “Albern . . . what do we do?”

  The bowyer hesitated. Sten had stopped in his tracks, and even Mag was still, as though the sight of so many foes had finally broken through her rage of death.

  Silence grew long. Loren tugged on Midnight’s reins to turn. “Come. Mayhap they have not reached the eastern gate yet. We can try to—”

  “They will have reached it.” Mag spoke in a commander’s bark, but still it held no fire. She turned to them, and Loren saw none of her usual warmth. “Come now, children. Do you fear so few? Follow me, and you shall reach the Birchwood. I swear it.”

  “Mag!” But Albern was too late. She galloped straight into the swarm, blade held aloft, glittering wherever it was not caked in gore. Sten followed two steps behind, trying and failing to match Mag’s furious pace.

  Albern drew another arrow, his quiver half-empty. He turned to Loren and Chet with a snarl. “Make use of those bows on your backs, or give me your arrows, but do not stand idle while she risks her life for yours.”

  Sten kicked his mount’s flanks, and he, too, charged the Shades.

  Gem, sitting behind Annis in their saddle, drew his short sword. It shook in his hand, but his eyes were hard. “Well, then. I had always thought to perish in bed, but death in battle seems a fair enough choice.”

  “Can you help them?” said Loren, turning to Xain.

  His body rattled in the saddle, his hands looking almost too frail for the reins. Loren knew his answer before he spoke. “My flames are nearly guttered. I might conjure enough to stop one, or mayhap two. But even that scant effort would exhaust me.”

  “Loren?” said Annis, eyes wide with fright. “What do we—”

  “Between my horse and Chet’s.” Loren drew forth her bow and nocked an arrow. “Gem, do not dare to strike except to save yourself and Annis. Keep close to the others, but above all, stay alive.”

  They rode after Albern. Loren drew, the fletching all the way back to her ear, and sighted along the shaft. Mag stood against a squadron of foes as more slowly circled around her.

  Loren aimed for a Shade, lowering her aim to strike him in the leg.

  Blood dripping from his thigh, a trail for miles through the woods.

  Loren tensed as the image flashed into her mind. The arrow went wide to strike the dirt.

  Cursing, she drew another. Chet loosed a shaft beside her. It flew true, straight through a soldier’s calf. Albern’s bow was singing. Gem sat shaking in his saddle, holding his blade forth as if to ward the soldiers from coming too close. But they had no eyes for Loren and the others, only for Mag in their center.

  Still she fought on, and her strikes had not slowed. They could not get inside her reach nor approach her from the side, for Sten stayed with her, standing at her back, guarding her rear as she guarded his. If he could not kill as many as she, still he could keep her from being outflanked. Any who threatened to break Sten’s guard soon found themselves with one of Albern’s shafts in their throats.

  So intent were the Shades on felling the warriors that they had drifted to one side of the street, leaving the other open. Beyond them, Loren saw that at last they had stopped pouring through the entrance. The path to the Birchwood was clear, at least for her and Xain and the children. But despite their best efforts, Mag was hemmed in, and the Shades were close to surrounding Albern besides.

  “Albern!” Loren yelled.

  He risked a glance at her, and she pointed at the gate. His gaze followed, and she saw a light in his eyes. Then he turned back to Mag, and the light went dark.

  Sten slipped. A powerful blow to his shield sent his feet sliding in the blood-slicked ground. His knee struck the dirt, and a sword flashed in a wide arc. He jerked his head back, and for a moment Loren thought he had avoided the blow, but then she saw a torrent of crimson gush from his throat.

  Mag was behind him and could not see it, only that he knelt. She gripped his arm and tried pulling him up. Rather than rising, Sten fell onto his back, lifeblood bubbling forth.

  The scream that poured from Mag’s throat was nothing human. Loren had heard its like before, and knew at once that she would never forget it.

  For a moment the world held its breath. Chet froze with an arrow drawn. Even Gem stopped quaking. Xain had leaned forward in his saddle, one hand outstretched as though to send forth flame or thunder. But nothing came. Only the scream, piercing and terrible and filled with rage.

  Before it finished, Mag was back on her feet, chopping trough the horde. She pressed into their mass, hacking like a woodsman at a cluster of logs. Even with her back unguarded, they could not fell her, but now at last their blades licked her flesh. Deep red rents appeared on Mag’s arms, and yet she fought on.

  Albern looked back at Loren, and then to the open city gate that seemed leagues away. Loren gritted her teeth and spurred her horse forward.

  “No!” he cried, and Loren reined up. “Fly, while you still can!”

  She wanted to ride into them, and damn her vow not to kill.

  A hand gripped her arm. She turned, expecting Chet—but it was the wizard, his eyes grim. “Fly. Remember Jordel.”

  Loren ripped off her quiver and raised it, then tossed it to the bowyer.

  He caught it with a solemn nod. Then he drew his sword and hurled himself into the fight, trying to cut his way through to Mag. But Loren would not watch. Loren would not watch.

  Midnight turned at her touch, and they spurred to a gallop. In seconds, they had passed beyond the city on their way to the Birchwood. Northwood vanished behind the trunks—this time, mercifully.

  seven

  They did not stop upon reaching the trees but were finally forced to slow as the sun fell and the forest around them grew dark. Loren scarcely noticed, and so it was that Xain finally called them to a halt.

  She did not move for a moment, looking at the wizard, confused.

  Chet said, “The moons will not rise for hours, Loren. We can ride by their light if we must, but pressing on now is folly.”

  Loren stared a moment longer before she heard
the words, then nodded and slid from her saddle to let Midnight wander. Soon she was off among the trees, away from the others, eyes catching every mote of starlight to steer clear of a fall. But she failed to see the forest around her, spying only its ghost, just enough for her feet to avoid upturned roots and scattered stones. Instead of the trees and silvery starlight, she saw Albern’s ride into the Shades, Mag’s skin covered in cuts, and Sten’s opened throat.

  It was some time before she could muster her thoughts. When she did, Loren realized she had wandered far from the others. She turned to retrace her steps and found that they had started a small fire beneath a canopy of branches. Part of her wanted to douse it, to keep them hidden in case of pursuit. But she could not muster the strength to care for so small a thing.

  Chet sat alone, outside the fire’s edge. His knees were pulled to his chest, and his arms lay across them. He seemed to be looking at the firelight, but his gaze was far off as though he saw nothing.

  A sharp pang in Loren’s gut reminded her she had not eaten for hours, so she went to fetch some meat and bread.

  Something went clink when she opened her saddlebag. Loren lifted the flap and saw a small coin purse. Her spare, the one she had given to Mag. Slowly, she untied the strings and spilled the contents into her hand. Ten gold weights, gleaming in the firelight. She stared for a while, then returned them to her purse and stowed it in her saddlebag.

  Her appetite was gone, so she closed the bag and went to sit by the fire. But once she reached it, she did not want to rest, so she kept walking past it and over to Chet. He looked up with a weak smile.

  “You should eat,” he said. “I suppose I should, too.”

  “I tried. Will you walk with me?”

  Chet shrugged and stood. Together, they returned to the darkness. To her surprise she found it easier to see, and she realized with a start that the moons had risen. Loren had spent more time alone than she thought.

  Chet stopped and turned away from her, heaving. His shoulders gently shook. She put a hand on his back, using it to turn him around. Once he faced her again, his cheeks were wet with tears.