Shadow's Master

by Jon Sprunk

  “No. Let's be on our way. I don't want our army divided.”

  “Very good, Highness.” With a nod, Argentus left them and headed toward the remaining troops.

  Hirsch walked out into the morning light holding a half-eaten yellow apple. “Our general seems like a reliable fellow, though a little dour for my liking.”

  Josey looked at him out of the sides of her eyes. “Yes. I'm hoping his better qualities are contagious.”

  The adept snorted, and a piece of apple flew from his mouth. “Perish the thought.”

  A groom brought Lightning and helped Josey to mount. Hirsch fetched his own steed, and they rode off into the cold, misty morning. Riding at a slow walk, Josey mused that the road to Durenstile was a swamp masquerading as a highway. The army's pace was maddeningly sluggish. Sometimes she longed to gallop ahead. Somewhere over the far horizon, Caim waited. But is he waiting for you? She could admit to herself, when she was alone in her tent, that she was disappointed Caim hadn't sent word. She didn't expect love letters pleading his eternal devotion—not exactly—but an occasional post to let her know he was all right would have gone far to ease her mind.

  Josey tried to stretch in the saddle. Sometimes she imagined she might have been more comfortable in a carriage with thick, padded seats and a blanket to ward off the chill, but riding out in the open air, surrounded by her soldiers, made her feel like she was more a part of this endeavor, and not just a passenger.

  Hirsch came up beside her, guiding his diminutive mare. She'd been surprised to hear he didn't have a name for his white mare and took it upon herself to rectify that.

  “Snowflake looks to be in fine spirits today,” she said, and grinned sideways at him.

  The adept raised an eyebrow under the wrinkled brim of his hat. “She's tired and cold, like her master. And we're both reconsidering our decision to join this ill-conceived venture.”

  “As I recall,” Josey said, “you didn't volunteer. You're here by imperial decree to help secure our northern border.”

  Hirsch settled deeper into his mud-spattered cloak. “In that case, we're honored to accompany Your Majesty across this depressing morass you call a country.”

  “Don't sound so bitter. It's your country, too, Master Hirsch.”

  “Only by adoption.”

  “I didn't know that. Where are you from? Wait, let me guess. Abyssia? You almost look like something that just crawled out of a tomb in that old coat.”

  “Hestria,” he answered, and coughed into his sleeve.

  “Hestria? That's so…” She didn't finish. Hestria was a wild land of roving horsemen, or that's what she'd been taught by her tutors. “Do they have many magicians there?”

  “None that I've ever met. Then again, I didn't know I was a magician when I lived there, either.”

  Josey wasn't sure what to take from that. “Is that where you came by your sobriquet? Hirsch Red-Hand?”

  He looked ahead. “No, I got that name much later, and I'm not sure it's a topic for discussion on such a fine day as this.”

  She heard the distance in his voice, like an old hurt, and would have given him some space, but her thoughts had latched onto another idea. “Hirsch, is your magic able to find things far away? Like a person?”

  He studied her for a long moment, and then shrugged. “There are ways. Some are more difficult than others. It helps to have something bound to the body you're seeking. Blood and hair are the best, especially if the blood is fresh.”

  Josey didn't have either of them, but she thought of the child growing inside her. “And would you be able to see the person you're seeking? See where they are? Who they're with?”

  “You're talking about scrying.”

  Josey pulled tight on the frayed ends of her reins, making Lightning look back at her with reproach. “Is it possible?”

  “I've seen it done,” Hirsch said. “But my talents lay along other paths.”

  She looked down at her gloved hands, her fingers wrapped around the leather cords, and tried not to show her disappointment. “So, what kinds of talents do you have?”

  Hirsch's mouth twisted up in a quirky grin. “Well, lass, let's just say—”

  They were interrupted by a messenger from the forward units, who saluted as he came near. “Your Majesty! Lord General Argentus sends word that the bridge over the river before us is out.”

  “Out?”

  “Yes, Majesty. Collapsed.”

  She looked to Hirsch. “Does the general think it was deliberate?”

  The young soldier's eyebrows rose. “Pardon?”

  “The bridge, boy,” Hirsch said. “Was it sabotage?”

  “I don't know, my lord. The lord general did not say. But he is searching for another way across. There may be a ford we can use.”

  “And if not?” Josey asked.

  “The next nearest bridge is at Clavering Cross, Majesty. About twenty leagues southwest.”

  Twenty leagues! The army only managed eight to ten miles on good days, and that was on an established road.

  “Very well,” she said. “Please tell Lord General Argentus we will stop here while he conducts his search. And bid him to be quick!”

  The soldier made a parting salute and galloped away. The order to halt was passed down the line as swift as wildfire on an open plain, and everywhere soldiers fell out of ranks. They laughed as they sat down in the mud, some managing to find a bit of grass to stretch out on. She couldn't appreciate their good humor. It wasn't even midday yet. Half a day wasted.

  She glanced to the north. Something inside told her she needed to get to Caim or she would lose him forever. It was a foolish thought, she knew, but it burrowed into the back of her mind as she climbed down from the saddle.

  The wind's icy fingers infiltrated Caim's jacket as he pulled his mount to a stop, but the shiver perched at the nape of his neck had nothing to do with the cold. The foothills of the Drakstag Mountains rolled out before him, tumbling down onto the hard plains of the northern wastes. It was barely a candlemark past midday, but the sky was a gray-black sheet of iron. Behind him, the mountain peaks glowed fiery orange like the world's last sunset.

  “Un-fucking-natural,” Dray said as he reined up beside him.

  “Is it always like this?” Malig asked, staring out over the dusky plains.

  “Day and night,” Teromich said as his wagon pulled up. A lantern swung on a pole beside his seat, creating an island of light within the gloom. “It's always dark as a witch's twat up here. Been that way for as long as I've been coming over these mountains. My da spoke of it being light at least some of the time, but that was years and years back. Myself, I try not to stay any longer in this country than I need to.”

  The merchant eyed them as if saying they'd do well to do the same. Caim scanned the far horizon, which was vague and nebulous even to his enhanced night vision. His comrades probably couldn't see much at all. To him, the plains were broken and gray with few defining features. No trees, a few scattered stones with bare faces. Even the grass was stunted and colorless, peeking up through the dirt. According to Teromich the wastes extended for hundreds of leagues without break, perhaps all the way to the edge of the world. And there was something else about the landscape that bothered him. The shadows. Without a light in the sky, there shouldn't have been any, but they pooled around every imperfection in the ground as if cast by an invisible sun.

  There were a few buildings situated at the foot of the hills. Points of light shone between them, perhaps torches, but it was hard to say from this distance.

  “Where's Aemon?” he asked.

  As Dray shouted for his brother, Teromich beckoned to Caim. “So you're intent then, I take it?”

  Since the ambush, the merchant had hounded Caim about his plans. Their agreement was to provide protection on the trip to the wastes, but it ended there. Now, with his other guards dead, he wanted Caim and the Eregoths to make the return trip with him, even offering double wages.

  “W
e're moving on,” Caim said.

  He clucked to his mount and preceded the caravan down to the cluster of buildings at the bottom of the pass. The trading center wasn't much of a town, even by northern standards. The outer shacks were little better than hovels. Inside them was a ring of slightly larger, more permanent-looking structures built with a resinous black wood. The shaggy sod roofs made them look like a herd of bison. Wooden beams carved with animal likenesses protruded from the eaves of the larger buildings. The lights he had seen came from flaming lamps suspended on chains from the mouths of these wooden beasts. There were no real streets within the trading post, just snow-packed lanes of varying widths, crisscrossed by wheel ruts and frozen excrement.

  Teromich directed them to a wide paddock on the western edge of the settlement. While the wagons rolled in, Caim spotted a pair of men walking parallel to the fenced enclosure. By their size and pale, milk-white skin, he took them for Northmen, but both wore rust-red robes. Their hair was long and wild, giving them a feral appearance. Black medallions hung on their chests.

  When his wagons were parked and unhitched, the merchant came over carrying a lantern. He paid out their wages, even adding a generous bonus before putting away his money purse. When Caim indicated the robed men, Teromich shook his head. “Northern priests. You'll stay clear of them iffen you have any sense. They're worse than the holy men we got down south.”

  He looked long at Caim. “I don't know what you're looking to find in this forsaken land, but I'll be here at least a sennight before I head back.”

  They shook hands. Then the merchant took up his lantern and started off toward the center of town with a few of his drovers, leaving the rest behind to guard his wares.

  Dray leaned backward, stretching his back. “So what's next, Caim? All this time you've been dragging us farther and farther north. Well, this is about as far fucking north as you can get.”

  The men watched him, waiting for answers, but they would have to keep waiting. “We'll find a place to stay for the next couple days,” he said. “And look for a guide to take us upcountry.”

  “Hell's balls, Caim.” Malig waved his hand back and forth. “I can barely see my nose in front of my face! Let's head back south with the caravan. There's got to be a war brewing somewhere in the marches. We could check out Uthenor.”

  Caim urged his tired horse down the dirt street. “You do what you want.”

  Dray and Malig looked at each other, but kept any further demands to themselves as they followed. Heavily bundled men tromped past, their torches throwing shadows against the weather-beaten walls. Teromich had told him about a hostel where he might find what he needed. Caim located the place without much trouble. He hitched his steed to a post in front and went down a short flight of wooden steps to the front door below street level. Pulling on the iron handle, he unleashed a flood of light and noise.

  Square timber pillars supported the low ceiling. The walls were paneled in wooden planks, same as the floor. The wind whistled from around the sheets of rawhide battening the small windows. Men sat shoulder to shoulder around the underground room. About half of them looked to be southerners. Dressed in hides and raw wool, the crowd didn't sport much color save for a group of Illmynish swordsmen in vermilion dueling jackets on the other side of the room. Two women stood behind the long bar, pulling drafts from a row of barrels and shuttling them to a small army of servers.

  As the rest of his crew entered, shaking the cold from their cloaks, and went to find a table, Caim headed to the bar. He held up a silver penny to get the attention of a tap-puller.

  “Enka barush?” she asked as she plucked the coin from his fingers.

  “We need rooms,” Caim said, hoping she spoke Nimean.

  But the woman stared at him with a blank expression. Caim pointed to the ceiling and moved his fingers to mimic walking up stairs. The woman shouted something over her shoulder. A few moments later, an enormous man shambled out of a doorway behind the bar. Red-faced and stomach jiggling, he came over while the barmaid nodded to Caim.

  “What you have?” the fat man said. “Eat? Drink?”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “Yes. What you want?”

  “I need four rooms,” Caim said. “And a hot bath.”

  The owner said something to a passing server, who babbled a response before plunging back into the crowd. While he waited, Caim gestured for a drink. As he was paying, a voice erupted next to him.

  “Slavka!”

  Caim turned to see a man gulping from a large horn. He was short for a Northman, standing almost even with Caim, and rather well-groomed in a brown wool suit under a rabbit-fur coat. He had a broad, fleshy nose and plump cheeks covered with scraggly black hair. He appeared to be alone.

  “I drink to your health,” the Northman said with a brusque accent. “You are Hvek-lund?”

  “No,” Caim answered. “From Eregoth.”

  That's the story they had agreed upon on the road. They were all clansmen from Eregoth. Caim didn't really look the part, but the clans were diverse enough that the story should pass.

  The man smacked his wet lips. “I am Svart.” When Caim gave his name, adding the surname of a minor clan, he asked, “You buy? Sell?”

  “We're looking for a guide.” When Svart frowned as if he didn't understand, Caim added, “To go north.”

  “Ah!” Svart tapped his chest. “Guide. Yes, I can do this.”

  Caim reevaluated the man. Although Svart appeared to be in decent health, he didn't look like an outdoorsman. Caim started to leave the bar, but Svart hurried to step in front of him. “No, no. I introduce guide. For a price. You understand?”

  Caim paused, now understanding. Svart was a sharper, a middleman with connections in this little hamlet. Precisely the sort of man he needed. “You know someone who can take us north?”

  “Of course. I know everyone. I have right men for you.”

  A serving woman came over with a foaming mug of ale. Caim accepted it and paid her. “Not men,” he said. “Just one guide. Someone who knows the land.” He took a sip. The malt ale was red and frothy, but better than he assumed it would be, considering the rustic atmosphere. “And he has to speak Nimean.”

  Svart made a big smile that showed his ivory-yellow teeth and pitted gums. “He speak very good. You give me ten gold.”

  Caim almost spit out his ale. “Did you say ten gold?”

  “Yes! You give me. Guide come to you, take you anywhere.”

  Caim considered punching the man in the face and calling it a day. If they were anyplace else, he might have. But he didn't want to get lynched his first day here. Svart was oblivious, smiling as if he were doing Caim a favor.

  “I'll give you five,” Caim said. And when Svart's smile widened, he added, “In silver.”

  Svart's face collapsed. “No! This will not do. This guide is the best! You won't find a better man in all Scyalla.”

  “Five for you to introduce us. If that's not enough, I'll find someone on my own.”

  Caim made as if to leave with his drink, but Svart's smile returned. “No, five is good. Yes! Five silver is good. You give to me, and I bring guide here to you.”

  “I'll pay you when I meet this guide of yours.”

  Svart gave him a sideways look. “You are very cautious, my friend. For you, I will do this. But don't cheat me, eh? That would be very bad.”

  “When can you have him here? We want to leave as soon as possible.”

  “Early I will bring him.”

  As Svart slipped away through the crowd, Caim wondered how he would know the time when there was no sunrise. The serving man reappeared and beckoned. Caim put down his cup and followed him through the crowd to a decrepit wooden staircase at the back of the room. The man showed Caim a room on the upper floor. It was small and dusty, with the sod roof only inches above his head, but after more than a month on the road, it looked like paradise. It had actual beds with sturdy wooden frames.

  Caim tosse
d his pack in a corner and began peeling off numerous layers of clothing. His cloak and jacket were battered and worn. His shirts were stiff with sweat, food stains, and grime. Two men entered with a large, sloshing tub. Caim found his belt pouch and flipped them each a copper halfpenny before he eased into the steaming water. He sighed as the heat seeped into his bones. The journey had been more arduous than he had expected. Eregoth seemed like years ago.

  Caim closed his eyes and let the tension drift out of his muscles. Now if I just had a thick steak and something cold to wash it down….

  Electric tingles across his left nipple made Caim open his eyes. Kit kissed his nose and sighed. She was straddling him, tracing the tattoo of interlocking circles over his heart with her fingertips. Caim sat up straight as some part of her lower body brushed against his lap. His mouth went dry as he looked her up and down. She wasn't wearing anything.

  “Kit!”

  She planted a kiss on his lips, and the feathery touch shut him up. It was like kissing the breeze, a very amorous breeze, but he couldn't deny that his body was responding. A warm flush flowed through him and pooled between his legs.

  “I've been waiting until we could be alone.” She ran her fingers down his chest. “It's been agony.”

  Caim reached out to stop her, but his hands passed right through her. He opened his mouth, and received a tiny shock as his tongue touched her glowing lips. For a moment, she almost seemed real, like an armful of water before it sluiced out of your grip. His heart beat faster.

  Caim jerked his head back. “Whoa, Kit. Slow down.”

  She kissed his neck and down to his collarbone. Her hands were wandering again. “Can you feel me, Caim? Am I real enough for you?”

  “Kit, I'm not sure this is the best—”

  She chuckled. “I'm sure. I want to.”

  There wasn't much he could do to stop her. He was on the verge of just lying back and seeing where she took things when the door banged open. Candlelight and singing poured into the room ahead of three very drunk Eregoths.

  “Slavka!” Malig shouted.