The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  The man knew more about surviving in the darkness than any sane man should, so far as Rion was concerned, but he wasn’t about to complain as that knowledge was what was currently keeping him and the others alive, so he only nodded. “Of course. Smart.”

  “For a dusky-skinned savage?” Darl asked, grinning.

  Rion winced. “For anybody. I really appreciate what you did, Darl. Truly. We thought you died somewhere outside the city. The townspeople…”

  “I know,” the Ferinan said, bending and using the torch he carried to light another of his blazes. “I met one of their hunting parties, in the woods. Three of them. I did not get many questions out before they decided to let their crossbows and their swords do the talking for them. By the time I backtracked to town in search of you and Katherine, you had already gone.”

  “Three of them,” Rion said, impressed, once again, by the Ferinan’s skill. “That what happened to your arm, then?”

  Darl glanced at the wound. “No, that came later.”

  “Sure,” Rion said, thanking the gods that the man was on their side. “Of course it did.”

  Soon, half a dozen campfires were lit in a circle around them, and Rion felt safer than he could remember feeling in a very long time. The girl lay unconscious in the center of the circle, Katherine sitting beside her. She had seen to Marta and Darl’s wounds, bandaging them with the remaining strips of the Ferinan’s shirt which he’d saved in case he needed them and now she was checking on the girl. Rion stood beside Darl, watching them. He had recounted their experience in the town to the Ferinan who had listened as he worked, making no comment.

  “What do we do now?” he said in a whisper.

  The Ferinan smiled. “Perhaps you should get some sleep. I will keep watch for these townfolk of yours, but I do not expect that they will venture this far, not in the darkness. For though they might think it their ally, shadows have a way of turning, of changing when a man least expects it, and only a fool trusts them.”

  Rion frowned doubtfully. “These people didn’t strike me as particularly clever. Insane, sure, but not clever.”

  Darl nodded. “And so I will watch.”

  “But you haven’t had any sleep either,” Rion protested, feeling guilty at the thought of lying down while the Ferinan stood guard over them. “I can take first watch, and—”

  “No,” Darl answered. “You have had a traumatic experience, Rion. There is no shame in being tired—all men grow weary, sooner or later. It is the way of things. Rest, and I will wake you soon—you may take the next watch.”

  Rion grunted. “Fine, but make sure to wake me up.”

  “Of course.”

  Sighing, Rion walked closer to the center of the firelight and lay down, staring up at the starless sky, the moon a pale, almost invisible sliver in that blanket of darkness. He could hear the rustling of the creatures circling around their makeshift sanctuary, the occasional hiss or grunt, angry at being rebuffed when they had been so close to feeding. How could a man sleep with such noises, knowing that, less than a dozen feet away, creatures prowled the darkness, looking for any sign of weakness, any opening they might exploit to come at him and the others? Well, he thought, maybe I won’t get any sleep, but you bastards aren’t getting a meal either.

  But despite this thought, the trials of the day and days before it took their toll and, within seconds of closing his eyes, Rion was fast asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  He stood beside the ocean. He did not know how he had come to be here or why. It was night, and the moon was a sickly orb in the sky. The sand beneath his feet and on the shore around him, was black, as if it had been burned by some great, raging fire. The air was still and there was no sound, only his breaths, pluming in the cool air before him.

  Where am I?

  He knew that he had been walking. To the south. Always, to the south, to the man who had taken Sonya. Blood behind him on the trail and blood ahead, and he…he wanted it. Didn’t he? He felt strange, uneasy, like a man who has woken from some terrible nightmare and found that the ground beneath his feet—the ground on which he has built his entire life—is nowhere near as steady, as sure, as he believed it to be.

  Perhaps, the question was not “Where am I?” but instead, “Where have I gone?” For he did not remember much of the past days and weeks. Nothing but blood and steel and death. Yes, that he remembered all too well. And had that truly been him, cutting those men down, reveling in the feel of them dying beneath his blade, glorying in that violence, in their screams?

  There was a sudden roar from the ocean, the waves tall, the water shifting tumultuously as if some great beast lurked just beneath the surface, restless and preparing to break through. The sky overhead was choked with storm clouds, churning black and big and cruel. They flew across the sky, impossibly fast, impossibly dark, as if the storm they would bring was worse than any the world had ever seen, was worse than any the world would see again.

  Rain began to spill from those skies in sheets so thick he could see little of the world around him. Spilling as the blood had from those men who had come against him. No, the question was not where he was, not truly. The question, the only real one, was who he was.

  Visions of the past days and weeks replayed over and over in his mind, one dead man falling beneath his blade, then another and another. So many that their individuality meant nothing, could mean nothing. They were only more, more dead to keep the others company, more sins to stack high against him.

  I am not that man.

  But he was. Denial would not change that, and he could not refute the blood that stained his hands even now.

  “Alesh.”

  The voice was quiet, barely audible over the driving rain, and he frowned, turning to stare down the shore. A robed man walked there. Each step he took appeared to be an incredible struggle, as if some great, invisible weight pressed down on him. His robe was ragged, torn in a dozen places, and he left a trail of blood behind him, blood that shone in the darkness like fire.

  At first, Alesh did not know this suffering stranger, did not recognize him. And then he did. “Priest?” he said. “What are you—” He cut off at the crash of thunder. Lightning lit up the sky, showing that churning maelstrom of ocean and cloud in all its terrible truth. The priest cried out, collapsing to one knee.

  Alesh hesitated. The man was still some distance down the beach, and the storm was only growing worse. How long before those great waves in the distance rose up and swallowed the shore and the sand, swallowed him, too? He should leave. Run while he could, away from here, away from this nightmare place and its storms.

  Torrik. My father’s name is Torrik. The thought came unbidden to his mind, as if spoken by someone else, but the words were enough to galvanize him. He began moving, running toward the fallen man. He was there soon, kneeling beside him. Closer, he saw that the man’s face was bloody and bore several long cuts, as if claws had raked him. Lightning struck again, closer now, the light of it blinding in the near-darkness, and thunder roared as if angry that Alesh should go to this man, should help him.

  Alesh put one hand on the man’s shoulder, gazing up at the sky. “You should not be here, Priest. No one should.”

  “I-I know,” the robed man answered in a gasp. “But I came to retrieve something lost.”

  “Your mind?” Alesh said.

  A small smile from the robed man, and he raised his head with noticeable effort, meeting Alesh’s eyes. “You.”

  Alesh’s mind finally caught up then, and where before a dark fog had settled over his memory, his thoughts, now they shone through clear. Not a priest, not this man, but a god. A wounded one. Maybe a dying one. Another crack of thunder, and a quick glance showed the massive, roiling waves coming closer to the shore now. How long did they have? Minutes? Moments?

  “The storm grows worse.”

  Alesh turned back to the god, Amedan himself, father of all the gods. “Yes.” And again, “You should not be here.�
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  “No one should,” the god answered, repeating Alesh’s own words.

  “Then you’ve doomed yourself,” Alesh said. “There is no escaping this place, I think. And what of your wounds? I see no one but us—how did you come to be so hurt?”

  “The journey into darkness, Alesh, is never without pain, though it might seem so, at first. Look, then, at your own hands.”

  Alesh did, saw the blood staining them. “It’s not mine,” he said in a whisper.

  “You’re wrong,” the god said. “It is yours in truth, now, for you have taken it, and in so doing have made it your own.”

  The words pierced Alesh, more real, more agonizing than any of the blades with which those men had attacked him. For swords, daggers, these could be parried, could be stayed. But there was no staying the truth, no avoiding it. “Do you have a plan, then?” he said, wanting—needing—to change the subject. “To get us out of here?”

  “I cannot get us out of here, Alesh,” the man said. “You brought us here, carried us on a road paved in crimson. Only you can show us the way out.”

  “Wait a minute,” Alesh said, “do you mean to tell me that you came here without a plan? That the most powerful god, the father of all the minor gods in the world, can’t do anything?”

  “This is not that world, Alesh,” the man said. “But then, I think you know that. And yes, I had a plan.”

  “Well?” Alesh demanded, glancing at the towering walls of water surging closer and closer to the shore, crashing against each other as if impatient to swallow these two interlopers who had dared venture near. “What is it?”

  The god gave a weak laugh. “Faith, Alesh. That is my plan.”

  He shook his head, staring at Amedan. “Faith. Better if you would have brought an army.” He wiped an arm across his face in a vain effort to clear the rivulets of rain water and ocean spray from his eyes. “Or maybe a tent. Not that it would matter much. There’s no way out of here. Nothing.”

  “There is always a way out, Alesh. A way back.”

  “Then stop being so damned cryptic and tell me already!” Alesh shouted, and it seemed to him that, as if growing from his own anger, the sounds of the storm grew louder.

  “I cannot show you, Alesh,” the god answered weakly. He wavered, and would have fallen if not for Alesh’s hand on his shoulder. “You must find it yourself. As every man must. As every god must.”

  Alesh growled in frustration. They were running out of time and, as always, the god might as well have been speaking a different language for all the use his advice was. He glanced around the shore. Nothing. Nothing but sand and more of it. And the storm, of course. Coming toward them, the air practically sparking with energy from the nearby lightning strikes which grew greater and greater in number by the second.

  “There’s nothing, damnit. Nothi—” He cut off as he noticed an outcrop of rock in the distance. Had that been there before? It didn’t matter. What did was that it was far away, and the storm would be on them in moments. Far, but he could make it, he thought. If he ran. If he left the god behind. He hesitated, thinking.

  Then, he made his choice, rising and draping one of the god’s arms over his shoulder. As he did, he no longer felt the driving rain on his skin. He could see it—still coming down in sheets all around them—but it was as if an invisible roof hovered just above their heads, keeping it away. Even the angry sounds of the thunder sounded distant, muted, as if it had receded. But there was no time to think about it. The god was heavy—heavier than Alesh would have believed possible, and shelter was still far away.

  “It’s…so…far,” he panted.

  The god was wincing in pain, but he managed to speak in gasps. “The further a man journeys down his chosen path, the longer, the more arduous, the return must be.”

  Alesh didn’t bother trying to consider what that meant, only forced one step in front of the other, struggling under the weight of his burden.

  A terrible struggle, each step a trial all its own, a test all its own. The storm around them raged with insane hunger, lightning strikes only feet away but not able, somehow, to penetrate the small, protective bubble in which they found themselves. Alesh was sure they would not make it, that they could not. Such a storm, after all, was meant to consume, to destroy, and whatever kept it at bay could not stand for long.

  Then, suddenly, they were there, and he was lying the god down underneath the shelter of the large slabs of stone.

  His breath heaving in his chest, Alesh leaned against the wall of the small cave. “Good thing you did…whatever you did. It brought us through…the storm.”

  “I did nothing, Alesh,” the god said. “You did.”

  Alesh blinked at that, staring out of the small opening at the storm raging outside, and he realized that such a storm, such a place, could not take a man, not truly. He must give himself to it first. And he had, hadn’t he? With steel and blood he had brought himself here, to this place, to this ever-hungry storm. “They have Sonya,” he said, his voice a quiet whisper, barely audible even to his own ears.

  “I know,” the god said. “But she is not here, in this place, Alesh. She never was. And so you would not find her here. You never could.”

  “And the others? Katherine and Rion…Darl?”

  “They have suffered,” the god said. “But they live yet. They journey, Alesh, but the darkness presses in, always, and without you to light their way, they will fall.”

  Doubt began to rise in Alesh’s mind, but he forced it back down. Doubt would not help him, not now, just as it would not help his friends. “But how do I get to them?” he asked. “How do I leave—” He cut off as light burgeoned deep in the cave, not the ruddy glow of torchlight, but the bright, soft light of dawn. “Wha…that was not there before,” he said.

  “It was always there, Alesh. You just had to choose to see it.”

  Alesh rose, staring toward the light, somewhere beyond which, he knew, his friends waited for him. But he paused, looking back. “What of you? Will you be okay?”

  “Oh,” the god said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “I think I will be leaving now. After all, I have found what I came for.”

  Alesh grunted, gave a nod. Then he turned and stepped into the light.

  ***

  He was walking. At first, he thought that the storm, the beach, and Amedan had been nothing but a dream, one he’d fallen into without ever slowing his pace, but he dismissed the idea. No, that had been real, the thunder and lightning, the anger he’d felt, it had all been real.

  He had been dreaming, but not then. Instead, he had spent the last several weeks in a dream, a red dream and one from which he had not thought to waken. The truth was that he had hardly thought at all, and what little had passed through his mind had been full of venom and poison. And he realized that in his journey, he had not sought to protect or save Sonya, not really. Instead, it had become a journey of death, one in which he had only wanted to inflict pain on those who had wronged him, to make them hurt as he hurt.

  That anger, that hate, had been enough to keep all thought, all other sensation at bay. But now, free of that maelstrom, feeling came rushing back and, with it, pain. Pain so great that Alesh staggered and fell to one knee. His whole body hurt. A dozen cuts and scrapes, some shallow and some not, muscles sore and weary beyond belief from his journey and, worst of all, the pain in his arm where the arrow had taken him. A terrible, throbbing, sickening pain, and it was all he could do to keep from retching out the contents of his stomach on the forest path. He had no idea what that would be. He didn’t remember when he’d last eaten, but judging by the dull, empty ache in his stomach, it had been some time.

  Even his head felt fuzzy, his thoughts muddled, and there was a dizziness overcoming him that he did not like. Yet he realized that, for the first time since he could remember, the scar on his shoulder did not burn. He looked down at it and felt some relief to see that the black lines that had been spreading from it had shrunken, now only ap
pearing around the scar itself as they had since he’d been a child. His relief, however, was short lived as he noted that a piece of the crossbow bolt still stuck out of his arm, most having been broken off in one of his fights with the Redeemers. The flesh around the wound was an angry, swollen red. Pus leaked from it, and there was a foul smell to it that left no doubt that the wound had become infected.

  Which probably explained some of the dullness to his thoughts and the feverish heat suffusing him. How long had he been traveling? And just how bad was the infection? He had heard of men dying from less, and there was no denying how weak he felt. He had studied some small bit of first aid during his time as Chosen Olliman’s servant. It had been one of the many subjects in which he’d grown interested while spending nearly all his free moments in the castle’s library, but for all his reading, he had nowhere near the necessary knowledge to deal with the infection.

  So do what you can, he thought. Don’t waste time worrying on the things you can’t change. He ripped a piece of his shirt free—it was easy enough, as most of it was in rags anyway—then walked to the nearest tree and sat down. Then, clenching his teeth, he pulled at what remained of the crossbow bolt. Pain, hot and terrible, as the shattered piece of quarrel seemed to fight his efforts. Finally, it came out with a sickening squelching sound, and the dizziness washed over him, threatening unconsciousness.

  Alesh bit his tongue, and the sharp pain brought back some clarity. He shook his head and examined the bolt in his hands. Coated in blood and pus. He grunted in disgust and tossed it away. He cleaned the wound as best he could, then wrapped it in the makeshift bandage he’d fashioned from the fabric of his shirt.

  Once he was finished, he rose unsteadily to his feet, using the tree for support until the worst of the dizziness passed. Then he started forward, continuing down the trail. There was nothing else to be done. He wasn’t sure how far he walked or for how long—in his battered, fevered state, the landscape around him was little more than a blur, and time lost all meaning.