Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  “Loren!” He tried to rise but was still groggy and nearly toppled over. “I fell asleep. Sky above curse me, I am sorry. I hardly thought myself tired, but then a deep weariness overcame me, like . . . what is the matter?”

  She looked at him and only then realized that tears were still leaking from her eyes to leave tracks upon her cheeks. She wiped them with her sleeve.

  “Nothing. Go, sleep in earnest. I shall take the watch.”

  “I have slept enough—too much, it seems.” Still he looked worried and peered at Loren in the night as though trying to read her expression. “I can keep the watch, for a while longer at least.”

  “No. I cannot sleep now. Rest yourself. I . . . I wish to be alone.”

  She could tell he was still worried, for he did not look away from her face for a while. But he did not argue, only turned and went to his bedroll. Soon, he was asleep like the rest, and Loren noted that Gem’s snores had resumed, loud as ever.

  Her hand toyed with the dagger’s hilt. She let it go, then took the remaining half of the magestone. She put it between her lips and bit down, and then swallowed it whole, though her stomach clenched with fear. But the magestone went down, just like the other half given to her by the Elf. Only now, she saw nothing, and the night was dark as ever.

  Brow furrowing, Loren reached into her cloak for the magestone packet. But in reaching for it, her hand brushed the dagger’s hilt.

  The night sprang into daylight, a vision beyond vision where even the horizon seemed near.

  Her hand jerked back in surprise, and the vision vanished. She stared at the dagger a moment, then took it again and could see as bright as day.

  Jordel had told her that her dagger held many magicks, and one day he would teach them to her. He had died before he could teach her this. But had he even known the dagger held this power, or was it some secret of the Elves? Or had Jordel known but withheld it, because of the magestones?

  Would they act on Loren the same way they had acted upon Xain?

  That thought came with its own terrors, and she shoved the magestones deep into her pocket. Then she pulled them out and stood, intending to hurl them into the darkness. But at the last second she stopped. Mayhap she was wrong. Mayhap the magestones would have no ill effects, if she were not a mage. And the dagger itself might protect her.

  She could not know, at least not for a while. And until she did, it seemed foolish to throw away such tremendous wealth—and power.

  Loren returned the magestones to her cloak and leaned back against the rock. She put her hand on the dagger, then removed it, over and over, watching the world turn from night to day each time.

  The vision faded after a while, and Loren saw nothing more with the dagger in hand than she did without. Her thoughts wandered wildly afterward, recalling all she had seen when touched by the Elf, and the words it had slipped inside her mind.

  Nightblade. The one who walks with death.

  Those words stayed with Loren the longest.

  seventeen

  Loren woke Chet an hour before dawn, when the sky was beginning to grey. He roused sleepily and moved to wake the others, but she stopped him.

  “Come with me. I have something to tell you.”

  Chet did as Loren asked, despite the questions in his eyes. She led him up the hill, until they sat on a flat shelf in its northwest side. From there, they could see the camp below and the open plains for many leagues to the north and west. The land was empty, as far as they could see, though Loren wondered if she might spy something different with a magestone in her mouth. But that was something she was not yet ready to test.

  Loren told Chet everything that had happened, as best she could remember—for already the memory had begun to fade, a grey and hazy thing, like a half-remembered dream. But all she had to do was remember the Elves’ black eyes when she had eaten the magestones, and Loren knew that they had been real.

  Chet went white as the Elves themselves at their mention and made the sign of the plow over his heart. Loren doubted that would have helped, for she guessed the Elves cared little for such superstitions.

  She did not tell him of the magestones, for Loren had never confessed that she still had a packet on hand. But she told him the rest and how it had felt when the Elf touched her, which she said was because she had not fetched the dagger quickly enough. By the time she finished her tale, Chet was looking at the ground between his feet in thought. Loren waited a while, but when he still said nothing, she began to feel uncomfortable.

  “You must promise not to tell the others,” she said.

  He looked up in surprise. “Why not?”

  She paused, for in truth she had not considered it—Loren only knew she did not want to tell them. “I am not certain. Only it feels like something that was for me alone.”

  He chuckled. “Why tell me, then?”

  “I had to tell someone,” she sighed. “The memory fades even now, against my wishes. I was terrified for every moment, fearing that we might all of us be killed where we lay. Yet at the same time it was beautiful, like something from one of Bracken’s tales, and I would not be the only one to know it happened.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I hoped you would. Come. We have rested long enough and should put as many leagues behind us as we may.”

  They descended the hill again and woke the others. When Loren went to shake the wizard awake, his eyes snapped open and fixed upon hers.

  “What happened to you?”

  “What?” she said, feeling a chill run down her spine. “Nothing.”

  “Your eyes . . . something is different about them.” He sat up straighter and peered at Loren. “Something I should recognize but cannot.”

  Loren swallowed and thought she could feel Chet’s eyes at her back. “Nothing. Mayhap it is a symptom of the sickness.”

  Xain stared without answering. Then he sighed and turned away. “Perhaps. I am weary, and feel as if I have hardly slept a wink.”

  Loren rose, left the wizard, and saw that indeed Chet was looking at her with worry. She smiled at him, and he turned away. Together, they readied for travel.

  The day’s ride went swiftly. They turned their horses due east around midday, for the land seemed flat and easy, while to the north and south it was harsher with rocks. Three more days they rode this way. Each night, Loren went to sleep thinking of the Elves and woke to memories of their faces in the moonslight. They gave a wide berth to any villages or farms they spied from afar; doubtless someone would mark their passing, and they wanted to leave as little information in their wake as they could.

  But on the fourth day, Loren found Xain studying their saddlebags with worry. Her earlier optimism seemed to have been justified, for the wizard was slowly regaining his strength. Now he was looking at their supplies, and seemed displeased.

  “We do not have enough to reach the coast,” said Xain.

  “We knew we might not.”

  “That worry was far off in the Birchwood. Now it presses close. I would counsel that we should stop at the next village we see, only I fear that if the Shades still follow us, it could freshen our trail.”

  “We have seen neither hide nor hair of them for days now,” said Gem, piping up from behind Annis. “And I would welcome a change from this kingdom’s endless, unbroken brown, and the wilting scrub that covers its landscape.”

  Gem had taken to complaining day and night about Dorsea, never tiring of pointing out its flaws when compared to Selvan’s lush green, until Loren had to grit her teeth to keep from cuffing him.

  “He is right,” said Annis. “And I try not to complain, but I too would welcome a stop. This road is lonely and dirty and boring.”

  “Very well,” said Loren. “We shall rest in the next town. Mayhap we will even spend the night in an inn.”

  “It will seem poor compared to Mag’s,” said Chet quietly. They all rode in silence for some time after that.

  The wait was not long, for later tha
t afternoon they saw a small cluster of brown homes near the horizon. Loren stowed her black cloak in the saddlebag, for she did not wish anyone to remark upon it. But despite her misgivings, Loren found herself eagerly nudging more speed from Midnight, and the mare seemed to catch her mood. The town sat on a small stream running northeast, probably in descent to the ocean many leagues away.

  The sun was nearing the horizon as they reached the place. From a ways off they saw some folk standing at the town’s western end, apparently waiting. But once they got near enough to be seen more clearly, the villagers turned and shuffled back to their homes. As they left, Loren saw weapons in their hands: staves and simple cudgels, no blades or spears. Still it gave her an ominous feeling.

  “Did anyone else find that odd?” Chet said, and she knew he had seen the same thing.

  “Again, you forget that we are in Dorsea now,” said Xain. “Villages and towns cannot afford to be so friendly as in Selvan. And we would not do well to mention it, either, for that and your voices would mark us as foreigners.”

  The village was small, but a road ran through it parallel to the river, and there was an inn at the southwestern end. They caught a few glances as they rode through but nothing untoward, for the eyes seemed filled with curiosity rather than suspicion. The inn was a low, squat place, only a single story high, with the rooms around the building’s outside and all their doors leading straight to the common room at the center. The innkeeper was a fat and bearded man, but he greeted them cordially at the door.

  “Evening, kind folk. Need rooms for the night?”

  “We will,” said Loren. “And stalls for the horses, if you have them.”

  “That we do, though you have a couple of fine steeds among them, probably used to finer quarters than ours.”

  Annis smiled down at him. “We value hospitality more than feather pillows, and yours seems in plentiful supply, good sir.”

  The man grinned and gave Loren a low bow. “Always a kindness to have guests of such fair words under our roof. My boy Ham will take your steeds. Get yourselves inside for a pint.”

  They dismounted, and Loren raised a questioning eye at Annis.

  She said, “Dorseans hold hospitality as a high virtue and disdain finery, which they see as unnecessary luxury. Or so I was taught upon the Seat.”

  “Perhaps you should do all our talking while we are here,” said Chet. He grinned wide enough to split his head open.

  Annis ducked, and Loren saw her cheeks blush with embarrassment. They found a table, and soon the innkeeper came to bring them supper. After they had eaten for a while and drank from his ale, which was fine enough (though nowhere near so good as Mag’s), he asked if he might sit with them for a spell, and they happily obliged. He introduced himself as Crastus and did not ask for their names though they had false ones ready.

  “Where might you be headed? If my asking is no discourtesy, I mean,” he said once he had settled down and taken a swig from his mug.

  “Southeast, for the Seat,” said Loren, for they had discussed this story before entering town. “Bridget here has a cousin in a courtly position who means to take her for a handmaiden. We are friends of her father’s and promised to see her there safely.”

  “I have family north and west of here,” said Crastus. “From where do you hail? Mayhap I know the place.”

  “It is only a tiny village, many leagues north of the King’s road and many north of Feldemar,” said Loren smoothly. “Too small a place to warrant a name.”

  “Aye, like our own village,” said Crastus. “Do you know the family Mennet? ’Tis my kin from about there.”

  “Mennet?” said Loren, Gem, and Chet in unison.

  Annis’s eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. With a quiet look to Loren, she urged them all to silence. “I have met many Mennets through my father, though it pains me to say I cannot remember their names. You must forgive my friends their surprise. They are travelers, as you can plainly hear by their tone, and not from Dorsea by birth.”

  Crastus gave them all sharp looks. “I should say not. Were I a wagering man, I would lay a gold weight that you three come from Selvan. The dark fellow there has hardly said a word, so I make no guess as to him.”

  “From Selvan stock, but born in Feldemar,” said Annis. Loren kicked Gem under the table. “And certainly they hold no truck with that kingdom now, what with the goings-on in Wellmont.”

  Crastus eyed them a moment more. But then he shrugged and went to his mug. “Ah, ’tis no worry to me. As long as the fighting stays far, far away, I care nothing for it. Though you might wish to keep your words to yourselves, for some hold more tightly to their kingly bonds—more tightly, I would say, than seems reasonable.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” said Loren. “Is that why we saw some men waiting for us when we rode in, bearing weapons?”

  “No, that is something else entire,” said Crastus, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Some say there have been Elves sighted west of here.”

  Loren barely held her calm. From the corner of her eye she saw Chet eyeing her.

  “Elves!” said Gem, giddy. “Truly?”

  “I would rid myself of that smile if I were you, boy,” said Crastus. “Elves are no playthings for children such as yourself. Dangerous indeed.”

  “I have heard of their beauty, though, to be certain, few have seen them and lived to describe,” said Gem.

  “Aye, and that is because they will kill you without blinking,” said Crastus. “I pray they stay far, far away from here, that I do.”

  Loren cleared her throat and took another bite of dinner. She had become aware that Xain, too, was looking at her with a furrowed brow.

  The conversation turned to other things, and soon Loren rustled them all from their tables to go into town for supplies. Food they bought, and oats for the horses. From the river they filled their waterskins to bursting. All these they put in their room, ready to be packed and loaded for the morrow.

  Night had fallen, and they met back in the common room for a drink before bed. Crastus joined them again and told them a story of when the King of Dorsea himself had come through town and tried Crastus’s ale and proclaimed it the best he had drunk in years. The innkeeper was a fair tale spinner, better than his ale was to swallow. Loren was leaning back in her chair enjoying the story when a man poked his head through the open door and gave a sharp whistle.

  A handful of men rose from their seats and moved to the door.

  “What is that?” said Xain, his eyes suddenly sharp.

  “Another approaching party spotted,” said Crastus. “Probably more travelers such as yourselves, but half these boys will go and fetch their weapons expecting Elves. As though swords would help if those demons decided to put our town to the torch.”

  The man continued with his story, but Loren gave Chet a worried look. It might be more travelers, or mayhap the Elves. What if Loren had done something wrong since they saw her, something she could not understand? From the look in his eyes, Chet seemed to appreciate her worry.

  “You will forgive me, Crastus, but I think I shall take a stroll for the night air,” Loren said, standing from her chair. “I have had more of your fine wine than is good for my head, and wish for a pleasant ride in the morrow.”

  Crastus looked somewhat miffed that she would miss the end of his story but waved them off, and she and Chet walked into the darkness.

  They made their way west through the city streets and soon came to the edge of town. There stood many villagers, more than had waited for them when they came riding in, all holding their weapons at the ready. Loren’s pulse raced, but she could not yet see beyond them. She grabbed Chet’s sleeve and pulled him to the side, moving around the men so she could see into the west.

  She did not see Elves, or at least not the silvery glow she had seen from them before. At first, she saw only torches, like a dozen orange eyes blazing through the darkness. When the torches neared, she finally saw the figures carryi
ng them—then blanched, for they were men and women on horseback, wearing armor and clothing of blue and grey.

  “Shades,” she whispered.

  “We must go,” said Chet, the panic loud in his quiet voice.

  “This village . . . the people . . ." But Loren knew not what to do. Certainly, they could do nothing from here without their horses and missing the others. “We must tell Xain and the children. Come.”

  They raced through the streets, feet pounding the dirt, cloaks flying behind them in the night. They nearly ran over one or two passersby, who shouted after them, but they never slowed to listen. The inn’s front door slammed into the wall as they threw it open, and everyone in the common room fell silent and turned to stare.

  “Riders,” said Loren. “Dozens, with arms and armor, coming from the west.”

  She found Xain’s gaze, and he knew. The wizard rose from the table, while Crastus stood and began shouting orders at the others. Loren and the others ran to their room for supplies, while outside the Dorsean villagers mustered themselves for a fight.

  “They found us,” said Gem.

  Annis took his trembling hand. “That is unlikely. If they were so close behind, we should have seen them days ago. Likely these riders came from the south, or some other direction entirely. They do not know we are here and will remain ignorant if we leave at once.”

  “That is our course,” said Loren. “Bring your things to the horses as quickly as you can. Gem and Annis, see to mine, and help the wizard with his as well. Mount up quickly, and ride east.”

  Chet gave her a look. “You speak as if you will not be with us.”

  “I will be just behind you. I must find out what the Shades know—if indeed they are aware that we are here already. I will come running out the town’s eastern end once I have found out, and you had best have Midnight ready.”

  “That is too dangerous,” said Annis. “And it is a worthless piece of information next to your life. Whether they know we are here or not, our path seems the same: ride east until our horses drop.”