The Shadow Watch

by S. A. Klopfenstein

  If Tori had learned anything during her years in the Fringes, it was that death was a part of life, just like betrayal and injustice. Tori had accepted this fact. “I’ll do what I have to, and so will you. But I’m hoping for plenty more years before we have to find out. We won’t be drawn,” she repeated.

  “Hurry up!” bellowed one of the guards monitoring the gallows construction. Thom, a member of their master’s personal guard, stood beside a simmering fire, his musket draped over the crook of his arm. Even amongst servants, there were hierarchies.

  What’s he got to hurry for? thought Tori. With raw fingers, she retrieved the final beam of the gallows. Darien pounded the last of the spikes, and then Thom led Commander Scelero’s servants back through the city.

  The sun dipped below the horizon and the shadows grew. All around, tall spires jutted up into the darkening heavens like bony fingers, and at the center of them all, the White Citadel towered ever higher. A remnant of the Old World, the crystal palace shimmered in the lamplight of the city and disappeared into the looming clouds. The citadel had survived countless wars and even the magical devastation of the age before; it was rumored to have been built by the Watchers of old, forged by magic, like in her mum’s old stories.

  Tori pushed the thought aside. Her mum had done nothing but lie to her. There was no such thing as magic. The citadel was nothing but an old tower, built to last.

  Commander Scelero’s estate sat on the northwestern end of the city, beneath the shadow of the White Citadel. Its grounds stretched several city blocks, and his mansion, located at the center, stood four stories. Of course, it revealed only a fraction of the commander’s wealth. Like all Oshan nobles, he owned land across Greater Osha. Hundreds of servants tended his fields, and dozens of villages paid fealty for using his lands.

  Thom ushered them through the wrought iron gates of the estate, and once the gates were closed, he hurried off to the warmth of the guard tower.

  “You should’ve accepted Scelero’s offer. To make you a guard,” said Tori as they made for the servant quarters. Truth be told, Tori had thought him a fool for declining. She had labored to the bone to gain favor with Scelero with no such fortune. Sure, she had worked her way up from cleaning the privies, but she was still only a kitchen maid.

  “Why?” Darien asked. “So I could sit by a fire and watch everyone else work?”

  “At least, then, one guard in this city wouldn’t be a complete horse’s ass.”

  They laughed, and it made Tori glad to see Darien smile, if only briefly. His moods got so dismal on drafting days.

  They went their separate ways. Tori hurried to change out of her damp breeches and into her serving uniform, a drab blue gown with a white apron. But it was made of wool and kept her warm, and so she did not complain. She tied her dark hair back, the act eased by the thawing of her fingers. She donned her woolen cloak, then returned to work, crossing the courtyard to the kitchens to help prepare supper. And after supper, Scelero would reveal who amongst his servants had been chosen to serve in the Night Legions. Tori tried not to think of it.

  Ol’ Merri, the head of the kitchens, and half a dozen others were already hard at work on the festivities when Tori arrived.

  “You’re late,” said Ol’ Merri, crossing her arms across her substantial bosom. Though only in her thirties, everyone called Merri old. It had begun as a jest long ago, after her auburn hair began specking with premature grey in her youth, and the name stuck. Probably because she had the sass of someone much older.

  “Sorry, Mum,” said Tori. “The gallows went slow today.”

  Merri scowled. “Ah, I forgot they sent you ter prepare the gallows again this year. Well an’ good, dearie, but make yourself useful an’ fetch them loaves out o’ the oven.”

  Tori did. She minced fruits and boiled potatoes and set the tables in the great hall.

  Ol’ Merri flitted around the kitchen, snapping orders in her firm but kind way. There was a razor’s edge to her tone when Piper dropped a whole tray of loaves on her way to set the tables, however.

  “S-sorry! It was an accident,” Piper said, brushing away tears after Merri left the great hall in an angry huff.

  “It’s her last draft,” said Tori, helping Piper gather the ruined loaves. “The last year she’s eligible for conscription. Merri’s nervous and ready to be done with it all, and no one can blame her for that. Got nothing to do with those loaves.”

  Piper nodded, but nevertheless, Tori handled the remainder of the food, and Piper stuck to setting silverware and tablecloths. She wouldn’t last a day in the Legions, Tori thought darkly.

  Before the draft, Commander Scelero let his servants eat like highborn Oshans. The servants were served a fine meal of baked bread, roasted pork, and potatoes. Always potatoes. They were the staple of the North. But on the night of the draft, Scelero pulled out a delicacy: pies loaded with fruits imported from the Trium’vel—apples and lemons and peaches that melted on the tongue, warm and sweet. The commander drew no attention to his kindness, but the meal occurred every draft like a ritual. A small gesture of gratitude to his servants and a grim farewell to those who would be sent to war.

  The great hall teemed with feasting servants, and despite the coming draft, the mood of the room was generally amiable. They ate warm food at polished oaken tables set with fine silver. Colorful tapestries, normally reserved for honored guests, lined the walls, and a minstrel played humorous songs as he danced around the hall. But like a solemn reminder, at the center of the room hung the Oshan standard—a white tower set against a field of glacier blue. The same tower had been tattooed on Tori’s left shoulder upon her arrival in Maro’El, yet another reminder that Tori was not her own. She belonged to a lord from a foreign power. That was her lot in life, thanks to her mum. Tori had always resented her lot, but she had quickly learned it accomplished little to resent something out of her control.

  Darien arrived late from tending the horses in the stables, and he kept quiet during supper, which made it increasingly difficult for Tori to enjoy the delicious food. The rest of the room was abuzz, servants milling about the hall, slopping loads of food upon their plates, returning for seconds and thirds.

  Commander Scelero sat at the head of the hall, accompanied by Fredrick, his estate manager, and Sergeant Keller, the head of his personal guard. Though young for his rank, Commander Scelero had still not married, and Tori sometimes wondered if that was why he treated his servants so well. They were all the family he had. Though only a few years older, Ol’ Merri often joked that she’d practically weaned him herself, and he always smiled at the jest. Though kind, his smiles were rare. His pale face was shaved smooth, his dark hair trimmed short and neat. His features were rigid and calculated, the demeanor expected of a man who commanded legions, but on the occasions he smiled, the entire wretched world felt like it might one day turn brighter.

  I’m lucky to serve here, Tori thought as she ate her pie. The other servants of Maro’El were likely feasting on stale porridge, not fresh meats and pies.

  Darien stared at his plate, the crisp lemon pie growing cold. Tori touched his arm, and he managed a slight smile. His mood was worse this year.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she assured him.

  Darien pushed away his plate. “You can’t promise something like that, so don’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, holding her gaze. “I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want you to worry. But I overheard Sergeant Keller this morning. The rebellion is getting worse down south. There’s rumors the chancellor is taking double recruits from each Lord House this year.”

  Tori’s stomach knotted up. Every draft, it was always two. That was how Tori and Darien had entered Scelero’s household, chosen out of a long line of Fringe rats to replace a pair of servants who had been drafted.

  After her mother abandoned her, Tori was sold to a spice merchant in the Trium’vel—the trade cities of t
he Far South. She learned the subtleties of a quiet housemaid, but her Trium master was the gambling sort of trader, and Tori and a dozen others were lost in a bad deal. Her new master brought her to the Fringes of Greater Osha, where she served in the textile houses, and where she received the spiraling thorn pattern of tattoos on her left forearm. Tori had survived that hellhole for four years.

  At seventeen, this was her third draft, and one day, she knew Commander Scelero would journey to the Fringes to choose a servant to take her place. When the time came, she would hold her head high, and she would do what it took to survive. But Darien… she hoped his day was far off. “Double recruits?” she managed at last.

  “There’s only forty of us in Scelero’s household. Not very good odds.”

  “I… I’m sure it’s just a rumor.” But Tori lost her appetite as well. The two of them sat quietly through the remainder of supper.

  Darien was tall, and at eighteen, his muscles filled his loose servant’s cloak. The draft was purportedly random among able-bodied servants between the ages of sixteen and thirty-five, but Tori feared for Darien more now than ever. If he had been born Oshan, he would already be training in the academies to be an officer. He was an obvious choice for the Night Legions.

  “Ol’ Merri survived all those drafts,” Tori offered hopefully. “We can too.”

  “Merri’s name is still alongside yours and mine,” said Darien darkly.

  “I hope we get drawn together, then.” Tori whispered it like it was a dark secret, like saying it too loud might make it so. “We wouldn’t let them mold our brains. We’d fight it. We’d survive, like always.”

  Darien shook his head, his golden eyes narrowing. “I hope you end up like Merri.”

  A soldier entered the hall, and the whole room fell silent. The man was bedecked with leathern armor, a red sash draped across his shoulders. Emblazoned on the scarlet field were two intertwining wisps of shadow, like twin black serpents—the emblem of the Night Legions. The man bore four scrolls that would decide their fates. He handed them to Commander Scelero, and just as quickly, he was gone again, off to deliver more conscriptions.

  Scelero rose from his seat, and the servants followed suit. “Servants of House Scelero,” said the commander solemnly, “I am grateful for your honest labor and your resilient spirits. The time has come for some of you to serve a cause greater than my own. Due to the intensifying threat of the Morgathian rebellion in the South, the chancellor’s War Council has decided to double the recruits this year.”

  There were a few gasps. Darien looked at the ground, but Tori stood tall. She grabbed his hand. His fingers felt like the bodies of dead icefish, stiff and cold.

  “Four of you will receive the honor of serving our great empire,” continued Scelero. “Tomorrow, at the chancellor’s ceremony, you four will help form a new legion of Shadows to defend the realm. There is truly no greater honor.”

  The commander was not one for unnecessary words, so he went right into the names.

  “Hollen Byndi.” A member of the commander’s personal guard, the young man rose to his feet. The other guards saluted him, and he joined the commander at his table. “Thank you for your service. May you serve the empire well.”

  “Gordon Duvre.” The stable boy was slapped on the shoulder by the boys sitting near him, but his wide eyes betrayed his fear. “Thank you for your service. May you serve the empire well.”

  Commander Scelero paused at the third name. “Merri Kyrsted.” Ol’ Merri rose to her feet slowly. Her lips trembled. The woman was Morgathian herself; her greying red hair and sun-specked skin gave her heritage away at a glance. She would be fighting her own people in the chancellor’s war. “You’ve served my household longer than any other in this room. Thank you for your service. May you… serve the empire well.”

  The commander straightened himself up for the last name. “Lastly, the Legions summon Darien Redvar.”

  Tori’s body tensed all over. Something surged within her, fury and bitterness and sorrow… and something more. Something strange swelled deep inside her. She felt as though her veins might explode. She wanted to kill the guards, grab Darien, and flee. But Darien let go of her hand, and the feeling subsided.

  Darien stepped forward to face his fate.

  2

  On the day Commander Scelero selected them for servanthood, Tori and Darien stood side by side in a much larger crowd of servants. The slumlands of the Fringes teemed with lowborns from all over the world. Thousands of them gathered in that cesspool seeking the hope of servitude for some noble. Most ended up slaving for the workhouses and salt mines, but on occasion, the nobles came looking for new field hands, and even guards and kitchen maids. So Tori and Darien’s taskmaster cleaned them up and stood them in a great long line. One by one, the nobles passed them by for stronger brutes and prettier maidens.

  But when Commander Scelero strode down the line, Tori could sense something different. The memory was engraved on Tori’s mind. His eyes were green, like a meadow in springtime, like the eyes Tori had inherited from her Oshan mother. His face was hardened by years of war, but his expression softened when he saw her. She couldn’t explain it.

  “You look malnourished,” he said gruffly.

  Fourteen-year-old Tori stood tall. “I can work, milord. I can do anything you like. I learnt to live on little, and that’s made me strong.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Scelero’s face. “Made you stubborn, more like.”

  His gaze fixed on Darien then. Even at fifteen, Darien had been strong. He worked to the bone in the salt mines, and despite years of hunger and overwork, the commander saw his potential. “I’ll take the boy,” Scelero said to their taskmaster.

  It took everything inside Tori to let go of Darien’s hand. Her friend stepped forward, but then looked back to her.

  “I-I can’t go, milord,” Darien said.

  “That’s not how it works, boy!” cried the taskmaster, a large grimy man named Kresta, who brandished a thick rod for unruly slaves.

  “Afraid he’s right, son,” said Scelero, waving the taskmaster away. “If I want you, I can take you.”

  “Please, sir. N-not without—”

  “Darien, shut your trap!” Tori cried. “Ignore him, milord. He’s going. He wants to go. Please, don’t change your mind. He’s got to go with you!”

  Warmth spread across the commander’s face. “She your sister, boy?”

  “Close to a sister as you can get, milord. I know she looks scrawny, but she’s strong. Up here.” Darien pointed to his head. “She’ll learn to do anything you ask her, and do it ten times better than anyone else, I swear it.”

  The taskmaster gave the commander a querulous look, his rod resting on his shoulder. The line of nobles was being held up, and they were not pleased.

  “I’ll take them both,” Scelero said.

  Now, Darien had been chosen again, but there was no hope of Tori going with him this time. He made his way to the front of Scelero’s hall. Tori reached for the empty space where his hand had been.

  “Thank you for your service, Darien,” recited the commander. “May you serve the empire well.” Scelero shook the hands of all four of his servants. Then, he addressed the room.

  “Tomorrow morning, we will join all the Lord Houses in Maro Square for the drafting ceremony, where we will say farewell to them for the last time. Until then, enjoy the feast. Good night.”

  The commander left his servants alone in the great hall. There was a rush to greet the chosen four. The guards actually had the audacity to congratulate them, patting the new recruits on the back. The other servants expressed condolences and wishes for safety and victory, all the while inwardly thanking their gods that they had not been the ones chosen. That was how Tori had felt as well at previous drafts. But not this time. I should be going with him.

  Darien pushed his way through the crowd, thanking the well-wishers, but he made for the door as fast as he could manage. Tori intercepted him ac
ross the hall.

  Darien’s face was empty. “Look, I… I don’t want to talk about it, Tori.”

  Tori took his hand. “Then we won’t talk. We’ll drink.”

  She led him away from the hall. The rest of the evening, the servants would be feasting in the great hall. No one would mind them roaming the grounds. “You remember where we stashed it?” she asked when they reached the courtyard. The snow was starting to pile high. By morning, it would be past Tori’s knees.

  “The far stall.” A smile teased at the edge of Darien’s lips.

  The stables were on the opposite end of the estate, and they trudged through the snow, careless of the tracks that marked their way. The far stall was always empty, generally used to store tack and feed. Darien stooped to the floor and pried back a board in the corner, producing a flask half-filled with wine. They had drunk much of it the previous year when their friend Ollie had been drafted.

  Tori popped it open and took a long swig. It tasted a little sour, but it warmed her throat as it went down. She raised the flask. “To Ollie.”

  Darien took it and drank. “To Ollie.”

  For some time, they didn’t talk; they just passed the flask back and forth, drinking it down fast so it would hit them hard. As the wine ran its course, they found words. Happy words. They reminisced about escapades and close calls in the Fringes. Like the time they inadvertently stole from a slumlord and nearly ended up skewered by one of his cronies.

  Darien laughed. “It was your idea to hide in the funeral pyres.”

  “Gods, it smelled like—well, corpses!” The smell was forever imprinted on her memory, and it came rushing back anytime she smelled spoiling meat outside the butcheries.

  “You were brilliant,” Darien said, his shoulder resting against her own. “I’d have been dead a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”

  Tori knew it was true. Darien had been a scared little boy when he first arrived in the Fringes, but that was not what he needed to hear now. “Don’t be an idiot. You were as tough as me. We helped each other. And anyway, you’re not nearly drunk enough to be talking so serious.”