The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  ***

  Sevrin watched the forms of the men stalk through the dark trees, frowned at their pathetic attempts at silence as they tracked their quarry. He would have laughed at the sight of them, so ungainly in their black armor, their red cloaks catching on thorn bushes and limbs, but the pain of his god’s displeasure still lingered, and so he only watched.

  He had come upon the Redeemers some time ago, speaking to their commander from the shadows. At first, the man had been terrified, stumbling away and calling for reinforcements, mistaking Sevrin for an attacking nightling. Foolish. Sevrin was not a nightling, just as he was not a man. He was something else, now. Something better. As for the nightlings, they would be his to command. So his god had promised him. Not that there were any close just now. They had learned to avoid the bright one, the man who bent fire and light to his will, learned it as he had slain their kin, those long-time hunters becoming the hunted as he tore into their ranks, heedless of their raking claws and snapping fangs.

  Sevrin, too, was wary of the man, his power, and so when his god had determined that it would be better to use more conventional means to deal with him, he had agreed willingly enough, would have even had he not just been taught a lesson in obedience. The man was dangerous, possessed of a power he did not yet fully grasp. But even lights could die—even the greatest flames could be snuffed out.

  And so the red-cloaked men moved through the woods, and Sevrin watched, waiting for what would unfold.

  ***

  Alesh sat silently, a short distance away from the cave mouth where Sonya and Darl slept. His back was up against a thick tree trunk, his dark thoughts a match for his surroundings. He had sat so, thinking of what lay ahead, of what he might lose, for some time, silent save for the slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

  So it was that the sound of a twig snapping resounded in his head like a thundercrack, shattering his silent contemplation, and he was on his feet in an instant, his hand on the borrowed sword sheathed at his side. At first, no more sounds came, and he was beginning to think that he had imagined it when he caught sight of a flutter of red, almost imperceptible in the darkness, somewhere ahead of him, among the trees.

  Not imagined, not that, and he knew that color, that red. Not the color of blood, but not far from it. Redeemers. And they were here.

  There was a click behind him, and guided by instincts honed over years of training with Chosen Olliman, Alesh spun, drawing his sword in the same motion. A blur of something flashing toward him, and Alesh’s sword flew up as if of its own accord. A slight impact, and a clatter as something rebounded off his blade, disappearing into the darkness. Alesh glanced after it, frowning, then a soft, muttered curse drew his attention, and he spun to see a man twenty feet ahead. He wore the black and red of the Redeemers, and he was crouched over something, his arms working. A moment later, Alesh realized what it was—a crossbow.

  A vicious snarl came unbidden to his lips, and he charged at the man. There would be others, he knew, scattered among the trees, somewhere in that darkness, but just then, his thoughts were only on the one. The man looked up, and his eyes widened as he saw Alesh barreling down on him. He shouted in surprise, pulling the crossbow’s lever, and another bolt flew toward Alesh.

  But Alesh had seen the man preparing to shoot, and he was already leaping to the side, rolling away. The bolt hurled harmlessly off into the trees, and a second later he was on his feet again, rushing forward. These men, these men had taken everything from him. Chorin, Abigail, the Chosen. And now they were back to take what little he had left. They had come for his life—but not just his, Sonya’s too, Darl’s, and the others he had come to know.

  “You cannot have them!” he yelled, and the man recoiled at the sound, stumbling back as his fingers quested for the handle of his own blade, sheathed at his side. He was too late. Alesh’s sword cleaved into him, making a red ruin of his face. The man screamed, an inarticulate cry of agony and fear, and fell back against the tree he’d been crouched beside.

  He would have collapsed then, but Alesh grabbed his shoulder, hauled him up, and plunged his blade into the man’s stomach hard enough that it stuck into the tree behind him. Another scream, the man’s terrified eyes studying him, and Alesh felt his mouth twisting into a smile. He was still trying to work the sword free when something struck him in the arm like a hammer blow. He staggered, catching himself on the trunk and turned away from the dying man to glare into the surrounding woods. Another man, another crossbow and, looking down, he saw the bolt sticking through the meat of his arm and out the other side, a stream of blood pouring from the wound.

  He stared at it in surprise, feeling a strange sort of detachment from the wound, as if it wasn’t his arm that had been pierced by a crossbow bolt, but someone else’s. The scar on his shoulder began to burn, quickly drowning out the pain in his arm, and he bared his teeth at the man, starting forward.

  ***

  Darl was a light sleeper—a necessity in the desert wastes, for though the Palietkun were a peaceful tribe, the wilderness of the desert attracted others. Murderers and thieves, fleeing the accountability of the law, bandits evading those tracking them, and all such ready to take advantage of any foolish enough to allow them to approach without challenge.

  During his training he had also learned to trust his instincts, to understand that sometimes the body knows what it knows, a truth that stood regardless of whether the mind had caught up yet. So when he awoke to a slight rustling sound outside the cave, alarm bells ringing in his head, he did not tell himself it was nothing, or that he was imagining it.

  Instead, he reached for his spear where he’d put it before going to sleep. He glanced at the girl, Sonya, to see that she was still asleep. Then he rose, stalking to the cave mouth with silent footsteps and putting his back up against the wall beside the opening. Lightbringer, guide my hand, he prayed.

  The first man through was little more than a shadow, but the bared steel in his hands was enough to explain why he had come. He took a step toward the sleeping girl. He did not take a second one. Darl struck with the speed of one of the desert vipers of his homeland, the spear’s tip sinking into the man’s neck and through it. The man would have fallen, but Darl reached out and caught him, pulling him to the side and easing him to the ground as he bled out.

  “Well?” someone whispered from outside the cave. “Is it done?”

  The girl stirred at the sound, but she remained asleep. “Damnit, answer you bastard.” Another voice, different from the first. That meant two, at least, probably more. And if they came into the cave, Darl would be left with no room to maneuver, would be overcome by their greater numbers in seconds. So he said another silent prayer to Amedan to watch after the girl, to keep her safe. Then he darted out of the cave mouth. A shout of surprise, then another, and he was among them, his spear doing its bloody work.

  ***

  They were all around him now, a dozen, maybe more, red cloaks appearing in the trees as if out of nowhere, rushing forward like nightlings themselves. Four lay dead at his feet already, their sprawled limbs and spilled blood making footing treacherous as he weaved in and out of the strikes of their comrades.

  He knew that, had it not been for the training he’d received from Olliman, he would have been cut down in seconds. As it was, his mind was still trying to grasp what was happening, how the men had found them, while his muscles did the work. His steel dug a deep chunk out of the space between one of the men’s shoulders and neck, and the Redeemer collapsed to his knees even as Alesh stepped away, pulling his blade free.

  That made five. Seven including the two crossbowmen, the second of which hadn’t managed another shot before Alesh had cut him down. But for all the damage he was doing to their ranks, there seemed to always be more rising to take the place of those that fell beneath his blade. And for all his efforts, for all his training, the greater numbers of his attackers were beginning to tell. His arm throbbed where the crossbow bolt still stuck o
ut of it, part of it broken away at some point during the fighting, but he sported several other shallow cuts along his arms and legs, and there was a painful gash in his side from where he hadn’t quite managed to leap away from one of the men’s blades quickly enough.

  None of them mortal wounds, at least in the immediate sense, but each one stole a little more of his strength. With each fresh wound, he grew a little slower, his movements more sluggish. He remembered, as he fought, the way he had felt when he’d gathered the light of the Redeemers fires around him, the way his sore muscles and weary body had suddenly been full of energy greater than any he had ever known.

  These men had come in the dark of night, creatures of it as much as the nightlings, but they were still men, and a few carried torches, not the first he’d seen, for they had counted on the element of surprise to do their work for them, but amongst the trees he could see the twisting flames. He parried a lunge from his current opponent, and his counter stroke cut across the man’s chest, and he fell away.

  In the brief respite this provided him, Alesh reached his free hand out in the direction of the flames, wincing and trembling with the pain of the crossbow bolt embedded there. He called to the flames as he had before while hanging from the Traitor’s Tree, but this time, they did not answer. Another attacker charged him while he was distracted, knocking him to the side against a tree.

  He ducked, and the sword passed over his head by inches, sticking into the tree. A shout of surprise came from the Redeemer as he realized he’d missed. The man tried to pull his blade free, but he was too slow, and Alesh countered, cleaving a bloody furrow across his throat. He spun, looking for the next attacker but, for the moment, they all just studied him. A dozen men, their features demonic in the wavering, ruddy glow of the torches.

  They had come again. Come to take his friends from him, to leave him with nothing and no one. And now, even the light had abandoned him. “No,” he growled, his voice hoarse and low and sounding as if it belonged to someone else. “No.” He called again for the power, reached for the light. The light, as before, gave no answer. But something else did.

  The scar on his shoulder suddenly blazed with agony, worse pain than any he had ever felt, and he screamed. A strange sensation overcame him then, a pulsing, growing sensation, originating from the black, puckered wound, carried on those black lines, so vein-like, radiating out from it. Liquid darkness, coursing through his muscles, burning and chilling all at once, carrying rage within it.

  That wave of onrushing fury rose in him, rose and rose, rushing forward and sweeping aside the exhaustion that had been stealing into his limbs, pushing away the pain, scouring it from him. And there, in that maelstrom of rage, a weapon was forged. A blade shaped from hate and guided by it, a blade to slay all those who opposed him. A blade to slay the world.

  And as the pain vanished, Alesh opened eyes that had been squeezed tight against it, and that which stared out from his sockets was not using his eyes, but the hate’s, the hand that grasped the handle of his sword in a white-knuckled grip not the weary, struggling grip he’d had a moment before, but one that was ready. Eager.

  The men standing before him had lost all their menace, what threat they had once possessed nowhere in evidence. They were nothing to him now, wheat ready for the scythe, damned sacrifices in a world full of them, men whose blood would attempt to quench a thirst that was, in the end, unquenchable.

  He felt the scar, searing into his flesh, so hot now that it had grown cold, the flesh around it numb, but it was a small, inconsequential thing, just as were those black, throbbing lines, pulsing and stretching, crawling up to his neck, and around his shoulder like some great hand, fashioned by darkness.

  Alesh wasn’t aware he was moving until the first man screamed, a piercing wail of agony that reverberated in the woods as the sword carved a crimson trench across his stomach. Then he spun, smiling, as he moved to the next closest. “The Son of the Morning” they had called him, but as the bloody work began in earnest, it was not the light he carried with him.

  It was something else.

  Chapter Nine

  Rion hissed a curse of frustration, as he helped Odrick to his feet for the fourth time since they’d left Sigan’s place. The blacksmith was big, heavy, and by the time he was finally leaning with his back against the wall, both of them were panting with exhaustion.

  Each second that passed felt like an eternity to Rion, an eternity where his parents stood surrounded by criminals. If they’re still alive at all. He forced the thought down with a will, just as he had the other times he’d had it, but he was also aware that it was getting harder to ignore. “Look, Odrick,” he said, “we need to get you to a healer. Blows to the head are dangerous things.”

  The blacksmith leaned on the wall with his eyes closed, and Rion was starting to think he had fallen unconscious standing when, finally, he opened his eyes, studying Rion with an unfocused, dazed look. “N-no,” he rasped, shaking his head slowly, woodenly, as if scared it might come off. “You might…need help.”

  Rion shook his own head in wonder. The man had nearly gotten himself killed trying to defend Rion’s parents—a thing he should have done himself—and now was stumbling, half-conscious toward a group of thugs with the intention of fighting them, if it came to it. Not that it would be much of a fight. The only question is whether they would cut the man down, or if he would fall unconscious before the violence started. A friend, then. A man who had proven himself true time and again, had risked his life on multiple occasions to help Rion, even when there was nothing to be gained except a painful death. Rion had failed often, and those he cared about had suffered for it—were suffering still. But he did not want to fail this man, this friend. And he would save him. If he could.

  “Odrick, listen—I appreciate everything that you’ve done. Truly. Maybe even enough to let you win at cards the next time we play,”—a small smile from the blacksmith at that, one that quickly turned to a wince of pain—“but you’re done in, can’t you see that? Gods, man, you can barely stand, let alone walk.”

  The blacksmith looked around at their surroundings, as if noting them for the first time, his eyes squinted against his own pain. “Not…far to go…now. I can make it.”

  A friend, but one who seemed to have a death wish, so Rion did the only thing he could think of. “Damnit, Odrick,” he hissed, “don’t you get it? You’re slowing me down. The longer I sit here playing nurse-maid to you, the better the chances are that I find my parents dead.”

  The big man recoiled as if slapped, a stunned look of hurt on his eyes, and in that moment Rion hated himself. “Rion,” the man began, “I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget what you meant,” he interrupted, knowing he had to push further, to make sure. “Do you want my parents to die, Odrick? Is that it?”

  The blacksmith’s mouth worked and, at first, no sounds came. Then, “O…of course not, Rion. I just wanted to help—”

  “And you can help. You can let me take you to a healer while I go and see about my parents. You’re of no use to me like this.”

  The big man studied him for a moment then nodded, slowly, a look of defeat and shame on his face. One Rion had put there. “Okay, Eriondrian. I-I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry. The apology was so ludicrous, given what the man had done for him, that Rion nearly burst out laughing, laughter that, he thought, might well turn to tears. Instead, he only gave an abrupt nod, studying the street. A healer’s sign, in the distance, and that at least was a bit of luck. Now, there was only hoping his luck held a bit longer, and that the shop was still open. “Come on,” he said gruffly, “it’s not far.”

  ***

  Rion watched as the healer—an old man with a hitch in his walk—and his assistant led the blacksmith into their shop. Odrick shot one more worried look over his shoulder, and Rion gave him the most confident smile he could. Given the circumstances, he doubted it was very convincing.

  A moment later, the door clo
sed behind them, and Rion heaved a sigh. Watch over him, Javen. If, indeed, I am your Chosen, please watch over my friend. The god didn’t answer—busy playing cards, maybe—but that was alright. Rion had enough to worry about without risking speaking with the notoriously fickle God of Chance. If many more people—or gods—decided to kill him, they’d have to start drawing lots for the honor.

  One more glance at the shop, and then he was running through the streets, taking back alleys where he could, and ignoring the suspicious looks of those few people he passed. Without the wounded blacksmith to slow him, he made better time, and it wasn’t long before he reached the house Sigan had indicated.

  The shutters were broken and hanging askew. The door looked ready to fall in if someone knocked too hard, and there was a suspicious stain on the stoop, dulled by weather and time but the dark crimson of it still visible underneath the accumulated grime and dust. A place of murder and other unsavory criminal activities, so obvious it looked as if Sigan had paid some artist to come in and set it up just right. Give me the “murder” look. What? The sinister blood stain costs extra? Well, it can’t be helped, can it? Got to do the thing right. So obvious a den of iniquity the city guards tasked with patrolling the district couldn’t miss it. Unless, of course, they were paid to do just that.

  Rion checked his knives in their sheathes, then started toward the house. The street was silent, almost eerily so, no screams issuing from inside the house, no pleas for help. A good thing, at least. Unless, of course, what pleading there had been had happened already, and the screams, such as they were, had long since been silenced.

  A cold feeling in the pocket of his trouser leg. The coin—but what that cold was meant to signify he couldn’t imagine, and now was not the time to ponder it. He reached the door, took a deep breath, and drew his knives. Then, he gave the latch of the door a kick, expecting the flimsy wood to give way with ease. It didn’t. Instead, pain lanced up his foot, his leg, as the latch, at least, was surprisingly solid, and he nearly fell, having to catch himself on the wall for support.