The Shadow Watch

by S. A. Klopfenstein

  The girl was ten yards off, trembling silently like a fawn spooked by hunters.

  Without an order, Jujen raised his musket. “You know what we gotta do!” The Faerish boy was grinning.

  “No, it’ll alert the whole—”

  But it was too late.

  Jujen fired.

  The mountains echoed with a strike like thunder, and then a thud resounded across the woods like an axe head against the heart of a rotting tree. Jujen’s aim had not faltered during their long march from Osha—it remained truer than a preying falcon’s. The ball of lead collided with the Klavash girl’s chest, launching her off her feet, no time to make a sound, not even a dying whimper. She fell dead on impact, spilling red upon the snow.

  The shot reverberated off the walls of the peaks, as though a dozen shots had been fired. The noise faded into a moment of heart-wringing silence.

  And then, a shriek.

  At the edge of the clearing, a small boy’s shaggy head stuck up from the ground. Probably the girl’s brother, or village playmate, the boy was no older than four. He scrambled to his feet, tripped, then dashed for the cover of the forest.

  Vaguely, Darien felt his musket being wrenched from his hands. He was helpless to resist, as though he were caught in another world.

  Jujen aimed Darien’s musket, and the boy painted the snow in red as well.

  The peaks rumbled with the last wisps of the boy’s screams, mixed with the sound of thunder. They faded, swallowed up by the falling snow. Darien felt as though his entire body had been left out naked in the cold. He moved his lips, but no sound was emitted. His head told his arms and legs to move, but it was as if the messengers had been taken out by the enemy.

  Darien was in shock.

  Jujen whooped and cried, “Ooh, rah!”

  “Oh gods!” There was a shuffle and someone rushed past. Ol’ Merri knelt beside the young girl. “You bastard!” she hissed at Jujen. “They were only children!”

  “Who fired those shots?” It was the general, shoving his way through the ranks.

  “Jujen, sir,” answered Valeria. Her face bore no expression. Would she have been the next to fire? Or was she scared stiff too?

  The general paused for a moment, staring forward, eyeing Ol’ Merri and the bleeding dead girl in her arms. His expression hardened. He turned on Jujen and punched him in the jaw.

  “Firing a shot in these mountains, you incompetent son of a whore? Their entire village will have heard those shots. You just compromised our entire mission!”

  The general turned to Darien, and he flinched. But the general did not hit him. “Comrade, how far is the next village?”

  “Harrivral, sir. A league, maybe two, due south.”

  “There must be outlying homesteads as well. No children would venture that far on their own.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Thrain cursed under his breath, muttering, “Be swift. No delay. No unnecessary combat. Arayeva!” He swore by the sun goddess of the Yan Avii, an uncharacteristic slip. Thrain addressed the troops. “LEAVE NONE ALIVE, SHADOWS. NO ONE ESCAPES. TAKE NO PRISONERS. OUR MISSION DEPENDS ON THIS. YOU’VE LUSTED FOR BLOOD, WELL... NOW YOU DAMN WELL HAVE IT!”

  Darien helped Jujen to his feet like a good comrade. He jerked him close and hissed in his ear. “Next time, throw a bloody knife!”

  Thrain’s regiment became a perfect machine, cogs and wheels moving in precise order through the woods, and Darien led them, the general at his side. There was a moment—the briefest moment—when Darien considered the possibility he could save the village of Harrivral. Only he knew exactly where it lay, where the small trodden path wended between the meadow of boulders and then snaked between the kissing cliffs. He could lead the regiment to the east, maybe let them stumble upon a smaller settlement. A family or two would be slaughtered, but all of Harrivral—all of Darien’s people—need not die.

  But that would compromise the mission, his purpose, his comrades.

  Darien let the treacherous thought slip away. Forgotten, as though it had never entered his mind. He found the hunter’s path within a few minutes. The first outlying settlement lay past the boulder field, a small mountain farm in a clearing. Thrain sent Jujen and three others to deal with the farmers, and Darien was relieved to be rid of the boy’s idiocy.

  Darien led the remaining troops down the path between the cliffs and down into Harrivral Valley. The Klavash were a peaceful people. They had been caught in the middle of many wars between Osha and Morgath, as well as the Old World nations that had preceded them. It was raw, hard country that tested the limits of a people. The Klavash lived in the mountains, boldly facing harsh winters and short growing seasons, because they longed for peace and loved nature. They had a respect for the land the greater civilizations had forgotten; they grieved over needless death—they were Darien’s people.

  It was fitting his first mission should be among them.

  His final test.

  Contrary to what Darien expected, the people of Harrivral had mustered no army to face the attacking horde. They were going about their morning as usual when the Shadows arrived. Thrain’s regiment stole silently from the woods, descending upon the village from all sides without warning. The general did not leave Darien’s side. It was Darien, Thrain, Valeria, Hollen, and Uraa. They entered the village from the south in single file, slinking behind thatch-roofed dwellings.

  The first to oppose them was barely a man. His long dark hair was pulled back and tied up in a small bun, and Darien knew the boy had just come of age. Klavash boys left their hair down until the day they turned fifteen and became a man grown. Filled with a thirst for honor, filled with a love for family and loyalty to his kinsmen, the boy was the first to face the invaders, and he would be the first brave one to fall.

  As the boy approached, Thrain stepped back, as though declaring it Darien’s opportunity to prove himself, once and for all.

  The final test.

  Darien lunged forward, unsheathing his saber with a flourish. The Klavash boy was armed only with a crude hunting blade, a jagged work of the mountains. The boy brandished it boldly, crying for his god, Rivka, to curse the Oshan hordes.

  The blade was out of his hand with a pair of thunderous blows, and the boy—the brave defender of his kinsmen, the man grown—fell upon his back, grimacing, his fingers bleeding.

  It was at this moment that Valeria Sardona caught Darien’s eye and nodded, her eyes cold and heartless.

  She was watching all along! Perhaps at Thrain’s command. Of course, Darien had not been trusted. He was the Gallows Boy. But now he would prove himself.

  The final test.

  Darien did not hesitate. He plunged his blade into the boy’s chest. He felt the blow as though his own hand had entered the boy’s flesh, as though his saber were part of his arm, attached by tendons and muscle, the blood pumping from his heart and filling the saber with strength and precision. He sensed the pierce of skin, the crunch of ribs, the tearing of organs, and the grinding thud as his blade struck the ground beneath the boy’s body. He felt the life leave the boy in a shudder of rasping breath.

  Darien would not remember the others so vividly. But this was his first.

  The first kill.

  The final test.

  The Gallows Boy—the boy who had once stood against the cruelty of the Legions, the boy pardoned by the chancellor in spite of his rebellion, the lone Klavash boy spared in the raid that had slaughtered his family—had redeemed himself at last. He’d earned his redemption. Darien had become the chancellor’s hands and feet, his boots on the ground, the blade in his hand.

  A Shadow in his Legions.

  Part IV

  Into The Teeth

  Death is but a crossing between worlds.

  Our world is the first of many,

  And we are destined to explore them all.

  —an ancient saying of the Watcher order

  11

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Murrrderrr
errr...

  The words echoed through the wood, whispers ferried upon the breeze. Branches stretched out like bony fingers and then retreated with the dying of the wind. Everything went still.

  Tori stood alone in a small clearing in the wood. It was twilight. The Sisters bathed the forest in a silver glow, and their thousand daughters began their nightlong dance across the sky. Where did Ren and Kale go? Tori wondered. How did I get to this place?

  She had no memory of the journey. Was she still in the Forest of Ghen? The world was still. Then, a flutter. A leaf trembling. And then, the wind hissed with voices again, rushing through the snowpines with fury.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  More whispers joined, building upon one another, growing louder and louder with each breath of the wind.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Murrderrerr...

  MURDERER!

  As though rising from cracks in the bramble and snowmelt, the spirits arrived. Tori fell back, cutting her hands on a rock. First, it was the soldiers from the gallows, their translucent bodies riveted with a hundred holes, blood drenching their chests in a hundred splotches, dripping silver splatters upon the earth. Their blood glowed like constellations on the forest floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Tori murmured, scrambling back to her feet. The guards walked slowly. Their feet never quite seemed to touch the ground, as though they were not fully present. They reached out their rotting arms as they neared. The trees reached as well. Tori sprinted away, tripping over an outstretched tree root. There was a rush of the wind, and then the soldiers appeared again, directly in front of her. A chill shot across her skin. There was no escaping them.

  Only doing our duty, hissed the ghosts, drawing near again. Like all the others.

  Tori held still, her fingers grasping at her belt for Ren’s dagger, but it was gone. But what good would a blade be, anyway?

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  “I didn’t mean to!” Tori backed away.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  You enjoyed it! It made you feel powerful. Made you feel complete.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Tori turned again and ran. Another spirit appeared—the vendor from the Fringes, his neck cock-eyed, snapped from when she threw him across the square. Tori screamed. The sound was muffled, as though someone were smothering her voice with a blanket. The vendor hobbled toward her. Tori backed into a dead tree.

  Just trying to make a living. And you stole my wares. What’d I ever do to you?

  “I didn’t mean to, I was only trying...”

  You know how hard life is in the Fringes, you little whore! You stole my wares.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  The wind rushed, and there was a great groaning sound. The dead branches came swinging forward, and Tori leapt away just in time. One of the branches came free and flew over her head. Tori sprinted through the woods, weaving between boulders and snowpines and socha trees.

  A voice resounded through the woods—a voice Tori knew all too well.

  It was her mum. Celene Burodai stepped out from behind a tree, and Tori froze, a sick feeling rising up in her stomach. Her mum’s curly dark hair floated upon the breeze. Her pale skin was glowing. She was beautiful, even in death, until she lifted her head to speak. Tori cried out in shock. Her mum’s neck was split open. Silver blood dripped down her black gown. Her head wagged as she spoke in a cold, even tone that seemed to come from a thousand directions, wailing with the wind.

  It was you the monsters came for…

  “No!” Tori shouted. “I didn’t know what I was!”

  You just couldn’t control your magic. For some stupid little horse boy. The monsters came for YOU, but instead they killed me…

  Her mum disappeared in a wisp of something like fog, joining the other ghosts, their voices building and echoing to a crescendo. Tori felt the coldest touch at her neck. It was like a blade left out in the snow. It passed through her entire body, and she spun around.

  Darien stood before her. His broad chest was bare, glistening in the soft light of the Sisters. His face was shaved smooth, his dark hair neatly trimmed—a proper soldier. Darien wore the dark grey breeches of the Night Legions, a red stripe lining the outer thigh. Tori had forgotten how handsome Darien was. She’d forgotten the look of him, if she was honest. His memory had become more an idea than a person. Darien’s face was etched with sorrow, his gaze never leaving his hands. They were drenched in blood, and this blood was crimson.

  Tori leapt back, felt at her neck. Blood left behind from his touch, still cool on her skin, dripped down her neck, down her back.

  Why couldn’t you let me die? I never wanted this, Tori. Blood. Blood on my hands, because of you.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Darien looked up. His eyes were dark chasms that seemed to suck her in like a whirlpool. Tori could not look away. She felt herself drawing nearer, unable to resist. “No! I wanted to protect you! I wanted to save you!” Tears dripped down Tori’s cheeks, mixing on the ground with the blood from Darien’s hands.

  You call this saving me? Darien turned to reveal his naked back. Tori’s knees went weak. His back was nothing but shreds. Muscle and bone shone through the gashes—a thousand stripes on his back, copper skin hanging in threads.

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  Murrrderrrerrr...

  MURDERER!

  All the spirits were there now. They fell upon Tori, whispering their mantra, clawing at her, hands passing through her body like icy vapor, clutching, grasping, pleading. Darien’s fingers clamped round her throat, constricting and constricting, until no breath entered her lungs and no breath escaped. They were going to kill her, and Tori knew she deserved it.

  A shrill scream pierced the night, rushing across the treetops, spreading like wildfire…

  Tori shot up from her bedroll back in the Forest of Ghen. She brushed frantically at her neck, the chill of the spirits’ hands still cool upon her skin. Sweat drenched her face, but the spirits were gone. She sat still, her whole body trembling.

  The sun had begun to set. Tori had slept through the day. Five settings of the sun they’d spent in the woods, and each one had followed the same routine: travel by night, so they’d be unseen from the sky, and sleep by day. Ren Andovier slept soundly beside her, his chest rising and falling with serene constancy.

  Tori breathed. It had only been a dream. Every slumber in these woods, she had been tormented by nightmares, all of them playing upon her darkest fears and regrets. Tori’s fingers were clammy. She couldn’t shake the dark feeling that she had no business wielding magic. She was a murderer. Everything I’ve done with magic has only caused pain and suffering for the ones I love.

  “You are haunted by many spirits, for one so young.”

  Tori started at the voice. Kale Andovier stood watch at the edge of camp, all eyes for Morphs. But the enemy was not out there, Tori knew. It was in her dreams. Tori walked over to join Kale. “How did you know?”

  “Don’t worry, you will learn to discern their lies. In time.”

  “The ghosts… they’re real?”

  Kale nodded. “Though the form they reveal may not be. Spirits play by no rules. They feed on your guilt and your fear. Bits of truth shrouding lies. Nevertheless, I, too, sleep little in the Forest of Ghen.” Kale glanced down at Ren, still dozing in peace. “Not all sleep as easy as my brother.”

  “I saw a ghost in my dream… but he’s still alive. At least, I hope he still is…” Tori trembled at the memory of Darien’s shredded back, of the blood dripping from his hands. She felt at her neck again, but it was clean. What is the truth and what is the lie? The blood on his hands… is it real?

  “Who was this ghost?” said Kale.

  “The boy… from the gallows. It’s been a year since he was sent to the Shadow Camps…” Surely if he were dead, the chancellor would have told her so. He had so liked to update her on Darien’s progress in the Le
gions. Unless all that was a lie as well.

  “If your friend is alive, pray he remains so. Do not listen to ghosts.”

  “How much farther do we have in this gods-forsaken place?”

  “If we move quick, we may reach the edge of the forest by daybreak.”

  “What are we waiting for, then?”

  Kale shoved his sleeping brother. “The sun has fallen. We should go.”

  Ren stirred. “Gods, I was in the middle of a glorious dream. I was king of a dozen kingdoms. Beautiful lords and ladies were at my sides. And I wake to this damned forest, and you, brother. Dressed like some common hunter.”

  “Reality is a wench, isn’t she?”

  Tori smiled in spite of herself. For a moment, she tried to forget the phantoms and the guilt and the blood on her hands.

  Kale led them at a fast clip, but Tori did not mind. She had recovered remarkably since her time in the citadel. Each morning, she felt stronger. The forest was silent but for the soft crunch of their footsteps on the melting snow. The memories of Tori’s dreams kept sifting back to her mind. Was I truly responsible for Mum’s death?

  Ren’s chatter was a welcome distraction. “You will love the Watchtower. The chancellor has no sway in the Teeth. You’ll be able to develop your magic gifts in safety, with dozens of others like you.”

  “There are that many Watchers still alive?” said Tori. It was incredible enough there were two walking with her right now.

  Ren smiled. “There may be hundreds more hiding throughout the New World. We just need to find them.”

  “I thought the First Chancellor killed them all.”

  “Yet here we are,” said Kale drily.

  “Even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter,” said Ren. “Magic does not pass on solely by heredity. It is in everything. It is the fabric of life. All the Watchers in the world could be hunted down, but more would keep turning up.”