Kale felt his lips snarl at that. “I am not weak. It is I, after all, who defeated Chosen Olliman, who saved the city from the path of doom on which it trod and brought it under the safety of Shira’s protection.”
“Of course, you are right, Chosen,” the shadow said, his voice as smooth as butter and, Kale thought, perhaps as slippery too. “I would never claim otherwise, but these men…these Lightbringers. They are remnants of the old world, worshipers of the false god, Amedan, and they believe that they are better than you, wiser than you. They are accustomed to being treated nearly as kings themselves, have come to expect it. You must teach them differently, you must make them understand that their obedience to you is not a choice.”
“But how?” Kale demanded. “I have already sent them messages—they know of our need. If they don’t want to listen, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“As you say, Chosen,” the other man answered, “they know well of our need, of the suffering they are causing. What they are doing is turning against your kingdom, betraying you. What is one called who betrays?”
“A…traitor.”
“And what does a king do, my lord, when one of his subjects betrays him?”
Kale nodded slowly, realization beginning to dawn. “He punishes them.”
“Yes. An example must be made, Chosen Leandrian, and you are the one who must make it. These men would make you and your people suffer—you must show them what true suffering is.”
Kale glanced at the rash on his arm, the skin there feeling cool and comfortable. “Yes,” he said. “Leave me, shadow man, and when you go, send the commander of my forces to me. I have some things which I would like to discuss with him.”
The man bowed low. “Of course, my lord.”
Kale was still looking at the gray rash on his arm, so he did not see the man leave, but when he finally realized that he had not heard the door shut, he glanced up to see that he was alone. A strange one, this Proof, but one that had the blessings of their goddess—of that there could be no doubt. And for all his strangeness, there was wisdom in his words. The Lightbringers had chosen treachery, had stood against their rightful king. They would be taught a lesson, would be punished. And the best punishments, the best lessons, required blood.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Get off damn you!” Rion shouted, struggling to break free of his attacker’s grasping hands while keeping hold of the reins of the horses as they careened through Strellia’s dusty streets. Finally, he managed to break free, and he gave the man a shove, knocking him off the wagon and sending him tumbling into the crowd of people chasing them. The townspeople were on either side, pressing in from all directions, heedless of their own safety as they tried to jump onto the wagon and use their knives—many still stained with the guardsman’s blood—on Rion and Katherine and the girl, Marta, who huddled in the wagon’s compartment.
Rion had long since lost count of the number of men and women who had been trampled underneath the horses, so caught up in their lust for blood that they either didn’t realize—or didn’t care about—the danger in which they put themselves. So far, they had been lucky in that the wagon hadn’t become bogged down under the mass of bodies, but the repeated impacts as they ran their would-be murderers over had not been kind to it. It felt looser, wobblier, and there was a crooked lean to one of the front wheels that he did not like. It didn’t take much effort to imagine what would happen should the wagon give out in the middle of the street, leaving them stranded, surrounded by the insane townspeople.
Another man jumped up on the side of the wagon as it barreled past, managing to gain purchase on it instead of tumbling underneath the bouncing wheels like so many of his comrades. Rion dodged to the side to avoid the man’s swiping knife, but not enough to avoid a shallow cut across his arm. He tried to push the man away while still focusing enough on the path in front of them to keep the cart from slamming headfirst into the wall of a building, but the man held fast. He was raising the knife he held, about to attack again, when a bounce from the cart—as yet another of the murderous townspeople went underneath the wheels—jolted the blade out of his hands, and it fell away into the milling mass.
Rion’s relief was short-lived, for seconds later the man’s hands were clamped around his throat. His attacker was old—in his sixties, at least—and thin, yet he was possessed of surprising strength and, try as he might, Rion could not break free of his grip. Not, at least, without using his other hand, and as it was holding the reins, the only thing keeping them on their path, that was not an option. He shot a desperate look at Katherine but saw that she was currently using her harp’s case as a bludgeon, striking two people—a fat, gray-haired woman and a middle-aged man—who were clinging to the wagon’s other side.
He spun back, lashing out desperately now as dark spots began to gather at the corners of his vision, but the man would not let go, baring his teeth in a feral snarl, and Rion could force no breath past his constricted throat. Just when he thought he could take no more, the girl, Marta, appeared, apparently having climbed out of the back. “Stop!” she yelled, then, an instant later, her foot struck the old man in his exposed teeth, and blood spattered along the side of Rion’s face as his attacker fell off the wagon.
Wheezing, Rion rubbed his free hand at his sore, abused throat. “T-thanks,” he gasped.
“I asked him to stop,” she said, her face heating as if she was embarrassed. “You heard me, right? Ask him to stop, that is.”
“Sure,” Rion croaked, thinking again that the girl was one of the strangest people he’d ever met.
“You should probably try to go a little faster,” the girl said, climbing back into the back of the wagon and poking her head out. “I think these people want to hurt us. Or, well, you anyway.”
Rion gritted his teeth, giving the reins another snap. “Oh, you think? Faster? What a good damned idea.”
He nearly died twice more before they made it to the edge of town. Only his ability to dodge and sense danger coming—one honed over his time spent in the poor district dealing with criminals and murderers—kept him alive. That and, of course, his luck. The coin in the pocket of his trouser leg felt like a chunk of ice, and the skin it was pressed up against through the fabric had long since gone numb. Luck then, and a lot of it, but even the longest lucky streak in the world ran out sooner or later—a man need only ask a gambler to be told as much. So it was, with these thoughts in his head, that he saw what served as the town gate in the distance and felt a heavy sense of relief. It didn’t last long. A grim certainty suddenly rose in his mind.
They must have closed it, he thought. And if that were true, they were done. The crowd around them had thinned out dramatically and the bobbing, orange light of the lantern showed none ahead of them, but having to stop to open the gate would take more time than they had.
But as they drew closer, Rion was astonished to find that it was open, which was just as well, as the horses—panicked from so much blood and in pain from the wounds they’d suffered along their flanks and sides in the fight—were apparently as eager as he was to be rid of the town and weren’t planning on stopping no matter how many times he pulled on the reins.
They charged out of the town and onto the road leading south, and Rion was shocked to find that he was still alive. Finally, once they were free of the gate, the horses began to slow, and Rion looked back. He felt another surge of eerie terror as he saw the vague, shadowed forms of the townspeople behind them, gathering soundlessly at the gate, watching them leave. “Creepy bastards,” he muttered.
“Maybe you just have to get to know ‘em.”
“What’s that?” Rion said, turning and looking at the wagon opening where the girl had poked her head through again.
“The people. You said they’re creepy. I said, you know, maybe you just ought to get to know ‘em better. Lots of folks aren’t as bad as you think, once you do that.”
“They didn’t seem much interested in having
an ale and a chat,” he said sarcastically, then turned to Katherine. “You alright?”
She was staring at the harp case that now sat in her lap, at the blood and hair matting its surface. “I…I don’t think so.”
“Are you hurt?”
She forced a smile she obviously didn’t feel, turning to him. “I’m fine. Or, at least, as fine as can be expected.”
“Which is to say that you feel like shit,” Rion responded.
Her answering grin was a little more genuine this time. “Something like that. Just tired, I guess, and…”
“Yeah,” Rion said, knowing what she meant. He’d never considered himself a particularly empathetic man, and he hadn’t cared much for the guardsman anyway, nor the driver as far as that went. But nobody deserved to die like that. “I’m…you know, tired too. But I think we’d best keep going, at least for a little while longer. I didn’t get a good look in those stables, but the last thing we need is some of those bastards getting clever and chasing after us. Better to put as much distance between us and that bloody little town as possible. At least, if you’re up for it.”
“I agree,” Katherine said.
“Good, that settles it then.”
“I also agree,” the girl offered, “’case you were wondering.”
“That’s…that’s good,” Rion answered. Away from the town, the scraggly trees of the southern region of Entarna served to block out what little moonlight there was, and the darkness began to feel deeper, almost suffocating. Say this for having a town full of murderous maniacs chasing you, he thought, it keeps you distracted anyway. “Hey, do me a favor…Marta, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” the girl said. “Leastways, it is when it is. When it isn’t, though, well, it’s something else.”
“I’m…sorry?”
“I like to try on new names sometimes, you know. Did you ever wake up one way and just think, you know what? I’d like to be Sharon today.”
“I…I can’t say I have.”
She shrugged. “You should try it. I think you’d make a good Sharon.”
Rion frowned at that, fairly certain he was being mocked, but when he looked at the girl her expression was serious, innocent. “Okay, Sharon, could you hand me one of the lanterns the driver kept back there? It’s getting awful dark up here with only the single lantern, and after the kind of night we’ve had, I’d rather not have to worry about nightlings taking little bites out of us.”
“Who’s Sharon? Anyway, you must not know a lot about nightlings. They don’t take little bites, see, but big ones. Like, real big ones. On account of they have really big teeth. ‘Chomps,’ I think you’d call them. Yeah, I’d probably go with ‘chomps.’”
“Fine,” Rion said through gritted teeth. “Well, in the interest of avoiding chomps, do you mind handing me a lantern, or is it too presumptuous of me to assume that you also would prefer not to be eaten?”
“You use a lot of big words when you’re annoyed, did you know that?”
“Damnit—” Rion began, but Katherine spoke over him.
“Marta, please,” she said in a patient voice. “The lanterns.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Rion turned to look at Katherine who shrugged, grinning. The girl disappeared into the back of the wagon, then her head popped out again a moment later. “Which lanterns are you wantin’?”
“The ones that make light,” Rion said, carefully controlling his temper.
“Aaah,” the girl said, nodding, “right, those ones. Well…they’re gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Rion demanded. “There were plenty of them—shit the bastard had at least a dozen back there he’d bring out every evening.”
“Right,” the girl said with obvious reluctance. “Well, here’s the thing. Remember that time when all those folks in that town tried to kill us, when they were jumpin’ on the wagon and all?”
“Do you mean like less than half an hour ago?” Rion snapped. “Yes. Yes, damnit, I remember.”
“Right, that’s the one,” Marta agreed. “So, anyways, they were tryin’ to climb in the back, and I was reachin’ for stuff, you know, to throw at ‘em. And uh…well. I guess they must have stolen all the lanterns when I wasn’t watchin’. Which would be hard because, of course, I was watching. You know, the lanterns.”
The relief that Rion had felt at making it away from the town relatively unscathed quickly vanished, replaced by that primal fear of the dark that that every mortal seemed to possess. “You were watching,” he said, “yet you mean to tell me that these people—who were doing their level best to kill us, I might add—decided to steal our lanterns instead. Oh, and they must have been invisible since somehow you didn’t see anything. Because you were watching.”
“Well,” she said defensively, “I was. Except, you know, when I was savin’ you. I do seem to recall havin’ to take my eyes off ‘em for a second there, while I kicked that fella had you by the throat.”
Rion stammered then, turning to look at Katherine incredulously.
“Marta,” she said, “do you mean to say they stole the lanterns or you threw the lanterns at them?”
“Uh…yes.”
“We’re screwed,” Rion said flatly.
“Ah, it ain’t so bad,” the girl said. “I like darkness well enough, and the nightlings never do seem to notice me all that well. Least, probably. I don’t know, I couldn’t really say on account of I’ve never actually seen a nightling…or, you know, met one.”
“Well,” Rion said, “let me just tell you, Marta, that they aren’t very friendly. And whether or not your ability to go unnoticed—a blessing for all those around you, so far as I’m concerned—works on nightlings, I can tell you for certain that Katherine and I have no such gift.”
“Oh. Right,” she said. “We’re screwed then.”
The girl tried to say it light-heartedly, but he could see the fear in her eyes, and a quick glance at Katherine showed the woman’s own troubled expression. They had made it away from an entire town bent on their death, but it seemed they would die just the same. Unless…
Rion pulled the horses to a halt, then grabbed the only lantern they still had, pulling open the small door and peering inside at the reservoir of oil within. “Damn.”
“Is there not enough to make it through the night?” Katherine asked.
Rion shook his head. “An hour. Maybe less. I guess the driver didn’t plan on leaving out before he had a chance to refill it. Of course, he didn’t plan on getting his throat slit either.”
“So what do we do?” Marta asked.
Rion had no answers. They were still close to the town—too close. If the townspeople had come after them, they would catch up with them soon enough, even if they were on foot. The alternative, though, was to push through the darkness with a lantern that would soon begin to sputter and eventually go out, hoping that all the nightlings that normally crowded the night had decided to take a day off.
“Damn,” he said again.
He met Katherine’s eyes, saw the understanding in them, the truth of the doom they faced. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t…”
“We go forward,” she said, and Rion was surprised by the strength, the certainty in her voice. “Those townspeople could be right behind us for all we know. We’ll go until we don’t think we can any longer, until the lantern light is too poor, then we’ll stop and make a fire somewhere off the road.”
Simple enough words, Rion knew, but saying them wouldn’t make them any easier. Even if the lantern’s reservoir was full, only the foolish or the desperate would travel the night with a single lantern to protect them and as the oil diminished so too would the lantern’s flame. The nightlings were hurt by such light—could be killed with it—but they had been known to risk the light before, if only for a moment, to get at their quarry. Still, there was little choice, so he rehung the lantern from the front of the wagon and gave the horses’ reins a snap, starting them forward.
&nb
sp; They traveled in silence, the only sound that of the steady clomp of the horses’ hooves on the packed earth of the trail. They did not speak. After all, everything that could be said had been, and words would not stop the fangs of the nightwalkers. Such creatures could not be reasoned with, could not be bribed or cajoled. They would do what they always did—what they were made to do. Just as soon as the light went out.
This far south, away from the main hub of civilization, the roads drew far less traffic, and were much more poorly maintained. In places, the path was grown up with weeds so thick that, in the darkness, the horses lost the trail, and Rion had to stop while they searched for it again. But the overgrown road was not the only problem. Here and there, dead trees lay across the path, knocked down by some passing storm and left to rot. In such instances, Rion was forced to find a way around—not daring to risk one of them getting out to move the debris—and this, too, wasted precious time.
By the time he was forced to navigate around the third fallen tree, they had only put a few miles between them and Strellia, and Rion didn’t think he imagined a brief sputter from the lantern, as if it were giving them warning. But they still weren’t far enough from the town and its deadly inhabitants, so they did the only thing they could do. They pressed on.
They had not spoken for some time, and Rion had been lost in his own dark thoughts, thoughts to match the blanket of night around them. The girl, Marta, had fallen asleep in the back of the wagon, her soft snores melding with the clomp of the horses’ hooves into a lulling sort of melody that had Rion struggling to keep his eyes open. Those noises and only those for nearly an hour, so when Katherine said his name, he jumped, startled.
The Truth of Shadows Page 27