by Colt, K. J.
Lain’s attack flashed in with its usual speed. She shifted her staff and knocked it away. His weight shifted as his weapon returned. A slight re-angling of the wooden blade betrayed his next target. Myranda quickly placed the staff between herself and the strike. His weapon pulled back with incredible speed. It was this third strike, regardless of its origin, that seemed to be far too swift to react to. In her focused state of mind, though, her thoughts could match the speed of the motion, and even get a step ahead. From his position, there was only one way to offer a reasonable offensive. She pulled herself away from the likely target and thrust her weapon toward it with as much speed as she could muster. The staff collided with the blade.
Slowly the blade withdrew and Lain looked upon her with satisfaction. She had succeeded in blocking adequately only once before, and it was clear even to her that it was more through blind luck than skill. This had been different. She had found her way to the block through careful observation. Without another word, Lain attacked again. She blocked the first two blows and reduced the third to a grazing one at best. By the time the session had ended, she had earned no less than a half-dozen questions, sometimes stringing more than six blocks in a row. These new questions, added to the two she’d saved, would put a few of her curiosities well and truly to rest.
“Eight questions. I shall ask them now,” she said, catching her breath.
“As you wish,” he said, gathering the practice weapons and heading to his hut to replace them. “But be warned. Your third level of training will begin with our next session. It will be by far the most difficult for you,” he said.
“I had imagined as much,” she said.
She pondered for a moment over how best to spend the first of her hard-earned questions. One thought pressed its way past all others.
“I have been told that you first came to this place, and spent a number of years here, over seventy years ago. Now I don’t know anything about your kind, but were I to venture a guess, I wouldn’t place you at a day past thirty. What’s more, my grandmother used to tell me tales of the Red Shadow when I was a little girl. As far as I can tell, you have been active for easily one hundred years. How can that be?” she asked.
“I cannot answer that. I truly do not know,” he said.
“Well, if you cannot answer the question, allow me to rephrase it,” she said. “How long have you been alive? How old are you really?”
“I am not certain of that either. The only age I can offer you is that of the Red Shadow legend. His first victim fell just over one hundred-fifteen years ago. I cannot be sure of the number of years that passed between that day and my birth, and I doubt that there exists anyone that can offer any information to that end,” he said.
“You have lived for over a century in prime physical condition, and yet you doubt that there is some higher purpose to your existence,” Myranda said in disbelief.
“There are many races of this world that can claim the same,” he offered, entering his hut. “And, thanks to the efforts of your kind and others, we cannot be sure that my brethren are not similarly blessed. I have never known a malthrope that came to a natural end.”
Myranda silently considered his words before choosing her next question.
“You say that you witnessed my capture by the cloaks. What do you know about them?” she asked.
“They are present in some small way in every town I have visited for as long as I can remember. I was uncertain of their origin or alignment until the day that you were taken. They would appear to be agents of the Alliance Army. They move about at night. It is very difficult to detect them. They have no scent, they make no noise. Be suspicious of any quiet stranger. Particularly at night. Your encounter was the first real action I have ever seen them take. They have benefited from the nearly universal use of gray cloaks even more than I. I suspect that they may be the reason for it,” he answered from within.
“The nearmen . . . the cloaks. What else don’t I know of this world? What else should I know?” she begged.
Lain exited the hut and looked her in the eye, judging whether it was truly intended as a question. When he was satisfied, he answered.
“You grew up in a world very different from mine. You have spent your life in the cities and on the roads between. I have spent mine in the fields, forests, mountains, and plains. I have seen things that you could scarcely imagine. If you intend for me to list all of them, I haven’t the time or patience to do so. However, if it is the nearmen and cloaks that concern you, I can name a few similar oddities to my world that may have spilled into your world, or may soon,” he said.
“Please,” she said.
“An associate of mine has collectively called the cloaks, the nearmen, and the others I may name, the D’karon. They all share a quality of imitation, in the same vein as the cloaks are suits of demon armor. They are rare, and with any luck they will remain so. They are far more hostile. In our first few meetings, I found myself ill-equipped to defeat them. There is simply nothing to attack. Only cold, empty metal,” he said, recalling briefly before continuing.
“Humans and the like are hardly the only creatures imitated. I have seen stony parodies of wolves, worms, and countless others. I believe you may have seen the D’karon version of a dragon. One lay ruined on the ground beside that swordsman,” he said.
“Where have these creatures come from?” she asked.
“Where do any races come from? I have lived for some time and these creatures have been lurking in the background since my earliest days. Perhaps they have been present at least as long as your kind, and have been lucky enough to avoid discovery. The only thing that I know for certain is that they are native to the north. I have spent time south of the battlefront on several occasions and found them to be absent,” he said.
Myranda considered the information as Lain began stretching his legs. He showed little outward sign of the terrible state he’d been in when she found him, but a slight limp still nagged him.
“How many questions have I asked?” she asked.
“Four. Unless you intend this to be the fifth,” he answered.
“Of course I don’t. Four left. I have strayed too far. You need to tell me more about yourself. I want you to retell the story you told me as Leo. Where you grew up, what your life has been like. Only this time I want the truth,” she said.
“I had hoped you wouldn’t realize your carelessness until your stockpile of questions had dwindled. Well, then. Of my earliest years, I know only what I have read. If the record-keepers are to be believed, I was found in the forest. My mother had died giving birth to me. The man who found me handed me over to his brother, a slaver. I was sold with a batch of two dozen slaves while I was still an infant, included free of charge. I was beaten, isolated, and ostracized by all who saw me. The only man who offered any semblance of care was a blind man named Ben. He was not so much fond of me as he was indifferent, but being ignored was as good as being pampered in those days. He and I had something in common. We had three stripes,” he said.
Myranda gave a questioning stare. Lain rolled up his sleeve, revealing a trio of vicious-looking scars, visible even through the fur on his arm. Below it, a similar scar formed a jagged curve.
“A slave is branded once when purchased, and again when they begin to work. The bottom mark is the symbol of the slaveholder I was sold to. The three lines denote my value. One line indicates the highest value, young men mostly. A second line may be added when a slave is less useful. These are given to most women, aging or weak men, and those with permanent injury. A third is added when a slave is considered worthless. The elderly, the infirm, and undesirables such as myself.
“I was treated to the full three on the day I was deemed capable of working. Life was bad until the owner died and left us all to his son. It became much worse very quickly after that. He made a series of bad decisions that drained the coffers in a matter of years. In response, he sold all of the most valuable slaves and switched to m
ore valuable crops. Lower quality workers coupled with crops that left the land nearly barren after only a few seasons worsened matters. Most of the two stripes were sold as well as a fair amount of the land. I was one of the only able-bodied workers left. We were all doing triple the work as in past years. I personally was doing the work of an ox. I had been lashed to a plow.
“One day Ben died at the whips of the drivers and I . . . lost control. When I regained my senses, I was standing over the new owner’s youngest son, scythe in my hand and death all around me. I fled into the woods. Later, I learned he was the only survivor of the staff and family,” he said.
Myranda shifted uncomfortably. She had almost managed to put aside the fact that Lain was an assassin, and had even begun to see hints of the warmth that had made her fond of him in the past. Now he sat, telling this tale of his torturous youth, followed by his unapologetic account of a murderous rampage. He was a monster, a murderer. She’d known it since her first question. Now she knew of the life that made him so. He went on.
“I found myself free for the first time. I had to find a way to support myself, and if possible, get revenge for the years that had been stolen from me. I had only two skills, it would seem. I could work a farm, and I could take lives. I swore never again to do the former, so I chose the latter. After a few years, I developed the Red Shadow legend, as well as one or two others. My travels brought me here, and I took away the knowledge and skill to continue my task with a good deal more success. Since then, life has been an endless hunt for my next target,” he said.
Myranda sat silently. There was a look in Lain’s eyes as though he expected this answer to be the last, at least for today. He knew that what she had learned sickened her. Perhaps it was just to avoid proving him right again, but Myranda decided to continue.
“How many questions left?” she asked.
“Three,” he said.
“Very well, then. I know you are a killer. What sort of people pay you to do so?” she asked, her voice shaking a bit.
“Rich ones. Not only because they have the funds, but they tend to be the only ones arrogant enough to believe they may choose who lives and dies,” he said.
“You’ll have to do better than that. I want names,” she said.
“Over one hundred years have brought me more employers than I can recall. It is safe to say that nearly every powerful family in the north has been on one side of my blade or the other,” he said.
“I am still waiting for names,” she said.
“Then you will have to be more specific. Refine your question,” he said.
“Fine. But this is still the same question. Have you ever worked for anyone I might have known? Someone in Kenvard?” she asked.
There was a reason she had danced around the question. She feared the answer. Kenvard was the former capital of the nation of the same name. Every influential family in the west had a representative there, and her parents had known all of them. What she knew of them told her they were good people who would never make use of a hired blade. What she knew of the world made her fear otherwise.
“My answer remains the same. More than I can name,” he said.
“Choose one,” she demanded.
“Sam Rinthorne,” he said.
“The Lord! You were hired by the Lord of all of Kenvard! For what? Tell me everything, and this is one question,” she said.
“The people of Kenvard, your people, were taking terrible losses, disproportionate to both Ulvard and Vulcrest. Military strikes were hitting their mark with accuracy that could only be the result of a leak in the intelligence chain. I was hired to find and kill the responsible party, or parties,” he said.
“Continue,” she said.
“I followed the flow of the information to a messenger. To keep any more information from escaping, I killed him--and eventually followed the trail to a military headquarters in Terital,” he said.
“Terital? That is the old capital of Ulvard. It’s on the other side of the continent,” Myranda remarked.
“Indeed. In those days, it was home to the five generals. At least, it had been until a few days before I arrived,” he said.
“But the generals didn’t move north until--“ she began.
“The massacre happened a few days later,” he said. “Since my employer was killed, I had no reason to continue.”
Myranda froze as a thought passed through her mind.
“What information was the spy carrying?” she asked.
“As I recall, he was carrying orders from the general to change the patrol route around Kenvard. He also carried a letter written in Tresson detailing the unique weaknesses that the new patrol offered,” Lain answered.
“What did you do with the information?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Then what--“ she began.
“You have had your questions. If you want to know more, earn it,” he said, turning and entering his hut.
“You had the orders. You knew there was a weakness. You could have done something, and you did nothing!” she cried.
Lain sat on the ground in his hut, eyes closed.
“You are a monster!” she growled.
Lain sat motionless. Myranda picked up the staff. Her hands shook with frustration as she stood helpless. Every hardship in her life was born that day, and he could have stopped it. The thought of it overwhelmed her. Before she knew what she was doing, she had thrust the staff at Lain. An attack with all of the force she could muster. In a blur, Lain’s hand was around the end of the staff. A fast, painful twist wrenched the weapon from her grip and hurled it to the wall. His eyes never opened.
“I am proud to know that I have lit a fire in your soul. I warn you, though: do not let it consume you,” he said.
Myranda stormed out of the hut. Myn, who had watched the display with more than a bit of uneasiness, followed after her. She had watched them trade blows for so long, she had learned that it was a game. There was something different in this last attack. The dragon had detected much anger between them, and it troubled her in the same way that a child might be affected by an argument between parents. She was further troubled when Myranda did not eat afterward, as she commonly did when strong enough. Instead, the human collapsed into her bed and wept.
Myn comforted her as best she could without words until both fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NIGHT WAS RIDDLED WITH nightmares. Myranda saw images of the atrocities Lain had admitted to. She saw the day of the massacre replayed over and over. More than once during the night, she was jarred from sleep, and once gone it was slow to return. After scarcely an hour of real sleep, she was awakened by the last voice she wanted to hear.
“Oh, you and the beast share a bed. How appropriate,” Ayna said.
“Why are you here?” Myranda mumbled.
“Well, the time has come for you to display all that I have taught you. I suggest you eat first,” she said.
Myranda pulled herself out of bed, grabbed her staff, and trudged to the food hut. Ayna fluttered along beside her.
“You don’t seem particularly well-rested. I seem to recall ordering you to have a long and full rest,” Ayna muttered angrily.
“My dreams kept me awake,” Myranda explained, as she tried to eat.
“That is a sign of a very weak mind,” Ayna reprimanded. “And must you eat so slowly?”
Deacon entered and took a seat beside Myranda.
“Lovely, your shadow has arrived,” Ayna sneered.
“Myranda, you do not look very well. Are you sure you are up to this?” Deacon asked.
“She hasn’t got a choice. I will test her today,” Ayna said.
“And what have you got in store for her?” Deacon asked accusingly.
“A suitable test of skill for our little prodigy,” the fairy said.
“And something certain to make you stand out as a teacher,” he offered.
“My mere existence is quite en
ough to make me stand out,” Ayna said, sniffing at the air before remarking, “What is that smell? Your food? How can you eat that?”
“It is the only food available,” she said.
“To you, perhaps,” Ayna said. “Those with more evolved palates have alternatives.”
“What do you eat?” Myranda asked.
“Nectar. It is the only proper food that nature has ever provided,” Ayna said.
“Have you ever tried anything else?” Myranda asked.
“I cannot eat anything else,” she answered. “Quickly--finish. I am eager for you to begin.”
Myranda obeyed and made her way to the tree, which still bore a pair of scars from her last trip there. A reed flute, identical to the one she’d been practicing on, was attached to a pole beneath it.
“Now, the tasks you are to complete are rather simple. First, you will hold a single note on this flute for twenty-four hours, then you will--“ she began.
“A whole day!” Myranda exclaimed.
“To state it another way, yes. And please do not interrupt me again. Following the endurance test, you will play the elegy flawlessly, from beginning to end, while standing no less than ten paces from the instrument,” she continued.
“The most that a Master test has ever required before was three hours,” Deacon offered.
“Congratulations, your knowledge of our history remains unchallenged. I frankly have never been fond of the fact that the test has been so . . . insubstantial in the past. This is far more fitting, I feel,” she said.
“I have trouble remaining awake for more than a day,” Myranda said.
“Well, with a spell to occupy you, you should have no trouble at all avoiding sleep. Now, no more dawdling. Begin,” Ayna ordered.
It was clear that she was serious. Myranda set her mind to the task. Fortunately, it took very little effort to conjure a breeze strong enough to produce a note. Unfortunately, Ayna would not be satisfied until the note was loud enough for all to hear. Her effort had to be more than tripled before the fairy stopped badgering her to bolster her efforts. The sound was enough to gather a crowd. The strain was not terrible, but it was noticeable.