The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  The Redeemer’s eyes snapped open wide as blood spurted from the wound. Rion ripped the blade free, and the Redeemer stumbled backward, pressing his hand against his throat in a vain effort to stop the crimson flood. “Serves you right,” Rion spat, but a quick glance up and his moment of triumph died a quick death.

  The doorway was empty and the Redeemers that had been clogging it were inside. Six of them, spreading around the room. Too many, Rion knew, and he had the sudden urge to flee back into the main room with Darl and Marta but dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. If they did that, they would have enemies at their front and back, would become surrounded in moments, and it didn’t take a tactical genius to know how that would end.

  So instead, as the red-cloaked men spread out around the room, he backed up to stand beside Katherine who held the sword she’d appropriated in a two-handed grip. Rion was no master at arms, no talented swordsman, but a quick look at the awkward way she held the weapon let him know that she wasn’t either. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think I’d maybe like to go to a nice tavern, have a few ales, play some cards and pass out.” Rion muttered.

  “Sounds good,” she said, meeting his eyes. “But we probably ought to finish this first.”

  He saw the fatal resignation in her eyes, her understanding of what was going to happen in her expression. “Well,” he said, nodding sharply, “we’ve got guests. I guess we’d better go ahead and see to them.”

  He drew a second dagger from his tunic then turned to watch the closest man who had been creeping around on his left. “Good luck,” he said to Katherine as she turned to watch another. Then he charged the nearest man.

  The Redeemer let out a shout of surprise, not having expected Rion to come at him, and the truth was Rion was just as shocked as he was, but he ducked the man’s wild swing, burying one of his blades in his side, up under his armor. The man screamed, bringing his sword back around, but Rion was already moving again, stepping to the side. He ripped his blade free and, before the man could turn, plunged it into the back of his neck. The Redeemer stiffened, the sword falling from his hands, and a second later he followed it to the floor.

  One down, Rion thought, but he was already exhausted from the brief scuffle. Still, it was something. He was just turning, preparing to meet the next, when something struck him in the side of the face with the force of a smith’s hammer. Light exploded in his vision, and he wasn’t aware of his feet going out from under him.

  The next thing he knew, hands were on his tunic, jerking him roughly to his feet, and a snarling face was inches away from his own. “You’ll die bad for killin’ Gregor, boy. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Rion was dazed, the room and the man’s face little more than vague blurs, and he opened his mouth, intending to ask the man how someone could die good, but he never got the chance. There was a flash of something at the corner of his vision, and the Redeemer’s eyes went wide, threatening to bulge out of their sockets. Then Rion watched, confused, his scrambled mind not understanding, as the man’s head slid from his shoulders in a crimson fountain.

  But even in death, the man refused to let go of his hold, and Rion was dragged to the ground with him as he fell, grunting as he struck the hardwood of the floor.

  “—you okay?”

  The voice was muffled, unclear, and Rion blinked, staring upward at the figure above him, and dazed or not, a flood of fear filled him. The apparition looming over him was coated in blood as if he’d taken a bath in the stuff. I must be dead, I must be—The thought cut off as he recognized something of the man’s features beneath the crimson mask covering them. “A-Alesh?” he asked.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” the man said, “none of you should have.”

  “You’ll…get no argument out of me,” Rion said, his tongue feeling two sizes too big in his mouth, his words sounding woolly and unclear even to his own ears.

  But if the man had trouble understanding, he gave no sign. Instead, he grabbed one of Rion’s hands and pulled him to his feet. “K-Katherine,” Rion said, “we need to—”

  “It’s okay, Rion. I’m safe.”

  Alesh turned to her and, as he did, Rion saw her standing with her back against the room’s wall. She still held the sword, and it trembled in her hands, but no blood coated the steel. Looking around the rest of the room, Rion saw with surprise that all the Redeemers lay scattered on the office floor, save for one who was sprawled across the desk. None of them moved, and considering that most were missing their heads, Rion decided he would have been pretty upset if they had.

  “Y-you saved us.” Rion asked, bewildered, and part of him felt like laughing. All this way, all those days traveling trying to save him, and instead the man had shown up at the last second and rescued them.

  “Not yet,” Alesh said. “Come on.” He led them back into the common room where the Ferinan was still struggling to hold off the Redeemers trying to force their way inside. One had a hold of Darl’s shoulder and was trying to pull him out, had actually dragged the Ferinan halfway across the toppled bookshelf, yet still Darl’s spear arm flew out, wounding or killing any that came close as he struggled to break free of the man’s grip.

  Alesh didn’t hesitate, charging forward. A flash of steel, and the Redeemer’s arm was severed at the elbow. The man screamed, stumbling back into his comrades, of which, Rion noted, there were still far too many. A dozen? Two? There was no way to tell for sure by the poor view the doorway provided. He turned and scowled at the girl. “You said eight.”

  “Well,” she hissed, “I’m sorry if my counting skills don’t match your expectations. I’m sure my tutor will be disappointed the next time he visits me in the alleyway I live in.”

  Rion blinked at the surprising vehemence in the girl’s tone, but his attention was caught by Alesh who rushed to one of the still-standing shelves and began looking through its contents. He noted Rion watching him. “Make a fire,” he said.

  “A fire?” Rion asked. “Gods, man, why in the world would I do that? We’d burn the whole place dow—” He froze, blinking.

  “Make a fire,” Alesh repeated, then he resumed sorting through the shelf’s contents as if looking for something.

  Fire, Rion thought desperately, make a fire. An idea struck him, and he rushed back into the office where he’d seen parchments lying on the desk. Wincing in disgust, he pushed the body off the wooden surface, his stomach roiling uncomfortably at the still-warm, dead weight of it. Then he grabbed the stack of parchments he’d seen. Damp with blood, but dry enough to burn. He hoped. He realized then that he didn’t have any flint, that it—along with their other belongings—had been stowed on the horses. The dead horses that were currently surrounded by Redeemers.

  “Make a fire,” he muttered. As if Rion hadn’t seen the bastard make fire swirl around his fists, hadn’t seen him control it. Yet somehow this had become his job. Clenching his teeth, he knelt beside the dead Redeemer, searching in his pockets and, to his surprise, came up with a piece of flint. Grinning, he rolled the parchments together as tightly as he could, then struck the flint. Just a spark then nothing. Come on, come on.

  Again and still nothing. He could hear shouts from the other room. Had the Redeemers already made it inside? Were they even now cutting down his friends? “Come on, damn you!” he shouted, then, finally, the parchments caught. Cackling like a madman, he grabbed the flaming papers and rushed into the common room. Darl and Alesh were both at the door now, fighting back the Redeemers who had apparently decided they were tired of being stopped and were pushing their way forward in a hungry tide. “Fire!” Rion yelled. “I made the fire!”

  “Congratulations,” Marta snapped, pausing in throwing decanters full of some known liquids at the Redeemers, “but you didn’t exactly discover how, did you? I mean folks have been doing it for—”

  “Get ready,” Alesh said, stepping past Rion. As Rion watched, the man hurried to the side of the room and threw open
the lid of a small chest sitting at the bottom of the shelves. Then he withdrew a large vial full of some unidentifiable liquid, turning to the door. “Get back!” he yelled, and immediately Darl stepped away. A second later, Alesh hurled the vial at the door and the Redeemers trying to come through it. The vial—and its contents—smashed in a shower of glass, the liquid it had held coating them. “Throw it,” he said to Rion.

  “What?”

  “Throw it!”

  Rion did, tossing the flaming parchments he held at the Redeemers in the doorway and feeling like a fool. But when the flames struck, they erupted into a blaze, and he was forced to back away at the unexpected heat. The flames spread hungrily, and the Redeemers began to scream.

  Rion swallowed, hard. “What in the name of the gods—”

  “Diluted extract from the fire blossom plant. Garn carried something similar,” Alesh explained.

  “Diluted what from what?” Rion stammered. “And who is Garn?”

  “A Lightbringer who tried to kill m—never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Alesh said. “Come on, we’ve got to move, now. That fire won’t last long.”

  They all followed him to the shop’s back door. As they made their way there, Rion saw that Darl sported several small cuts and scratches, but none, at least, that looked fatal. Alesh though…it was a wonder the man was still standing. He was covered in minor wounds, and there was a bandage wrapped around the arm hanging limply at his side that was coated in blood. “We’ve got to get out of this town,” Alesh said. “Now.”

  “Leave?” Katherine said. “But what about Sonya?”

  “Not here,” Alesh said, opening the back door and peering outside. “Maybe she never was. It was a trap—they’ve taken her further south.”

  “But how do you—”

  “I’ll explain later,” Alesh said, “if we survive.”

  That wasn’t exactly the sort of thing to help a man find his courage, but Rion followed Alesh and the others out into the street. Alesh started down it, but froze as at least two dozen Redeemers piled out of a nearby alleyway, clogging the street in front of them. He hissed a curse. “Come on. This way.” He turned and had taken several steps in the other direction when a man stepped out into the street.

  He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin and trousers, and his messy, shoulder-length hair did little to disguise the looping tattoos covering his face and every part of his skin that showed. The man stood patiently, his expression calm, and in one arm he held what looked like a staff with a nearly foot-long blade one either end. He gripped it almost casually, one of the weapon’s ends planted in the ground at his feet.

  “Shit,” Alesh hissed, seeming more dismayed at this man’s appearance than he did at the army of Redeemers behind them. “Come on, we’ll have to go through an alleyway, try to work our way around.”

  “B-but it’s just one man,” Rion said as he followed the others, “surely we can—”

  “That isn’t a man,” Alesh said. “Not anymore. That bastard nearly killed me when I first got here. Now, save your breath—we’ve got some running ahead of us.”

  And on that, at least, he was proved right.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sevrin glided over the desert sands with ease, the darkness of the night around him lending him strength, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. There had been a few occasions, on the long journey, when he’d thought that his hunter was going to catch him despite the abilities with which his shadow god had gifted him. But he had made it to the desert. As for the man—his hunter—he was wounded, slowing, and those soldiers waiting for him in Celadra would no doubt finish the job. Sevrin was safe, then. Safe to carry the girl’s small form—bundled in his arms, unconscious—further south. And once news of the demise of Amedan’s Chosen reached him, Sevrin would deal with her the same way he intended to deal with Rion. After all, once his hunter was dead, Sevrin’s god would have no use for her.

  He bared his teeth in a grin, thinking of it. First he would deal with the girl, then he would make Rion suffer. For once Amedan’s Chosen was dead, his god had told him he would be able to exact his revenge. Sevrin was so lost in thoughts of his revenge, in the pleasures he would pull from Rion before he finally let the man die, that he didn’t see the giant form standing atop the rise of the dune until he was almost on him. Sevrin came to an abrupt halt, studying the stranger.

  The man was large, at least seven feet, and wore a faded robe that looked stretched over his massive frame. He had long gray hair, and his face possessed wrinkles that told of his age, yet his body was thick with muscle, and he looked as if he’d have no problem at all crushing boulders in his large hands, if he took it in mind to do so. He stood still, without a lantern, staring into the darkness, and had Sevrin not known that one of the powers his god had gifted him was to disappear into the darkness, he would have thought that the man looked directly at him. Which, of course, was impossible.

  A fact that was proved as the giant said nothing, didn’t so much as stir a muscle, remaining incredibly still, as if he were carved from stone. Sevrin bared his teeth, preparing to launch himself at the stranger. He had spent the last days and weeks being hunted like some animal, fleeing as if he were some child running from the bogeyman. He had told himself he was only doing his god’s bidding, that, should he have been allowed, he would have turned and dealt with his hunter easily enough. But he had only partially believed it, for the fear he had felt had been real enough, and the reality of it shamed him, angered him. It would be good, then, to vent his anger on this unfortunate stranger, to expunge any feeling of weakness from himself as he made the giant suffer. He took a silent step forward, the giant still unaware of his presence, then hesitated.

  Bring the girl south, his god had told him, and do not let yourself become distracted again. Words spoken over and over while Sevrin received his punishment, while he endured pain greater than any he had ever imagined. And was the man before him not exactly that? A distraction?

  No, Sevrin told himself, reasoning it out. After all, does he not stand in your way? Not a distraction then, but a barrier, one keeping you from doing your god’s will. Yes, that was it. The shadow would be pleased to hear of Sevrin dealing with this man, of his commitment to his given task. Grinning, he took another step forward.

  The man finally moved for the first time, heaving a heavy sigh, his massive chest rising and falling with his breath. So unexpected was the movement after the man’s preternatural stillness that Sevrin froze in surprise. The giant glanced up at the sky with a frown, as if seeing something there he did not like, then he gave his head an angry shake and spat before turning to look in Sevrin’s direction once more. “Leave the girl,” he said. His voice was deep and harsh like stone sliding against stone.

  Frowning, Sevrin glanced behind him, but there was no one there, no one the man could be speaking to save Sevrin himself. No. No, that wasn’t possible, for he had called the shadows to himself, and they gathered around him, concealing him. Slowly, he began to step to the side, out of the man’s penetrating stare, but the eyes followed him. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” the man said. His voice was hard, unforgiving, and Sevrin felt a thrill of anxiety run through him despite the fact that his newfound powers meant he could easily defeat any normal man.

  The man grunted, glancing up at the dark sky again as if in reproach. “Look,” he said, his gaze settling once more on Sevrin. “I don’t care what you’re doing. Time was, I’d have destroyed you, if I could, but that time is past now. Besides, any man lives to my age knows the darkness can’t ever be defeated, not really. You’re just another shadow in a world chock full of ‘em. And that’s alright. You can go on about your shadowy way, worshipin’ nightlings, shit, fiddlin’ ‘em in the dark, if you’ve a mind. It’s none of my affair. But you’ll leave the girl.”

  Sevrin bared his teeth. The man saw him alright. Never mind that it wasn’t possible, that his powers should have hidden him. The man saw him. And, e
ven more ridiculous, this old man was threatening him. He carried no weapon, at least as far as Sevrin could see, and even if he had, it would have prevailed him nothing, for Sevrin was greater than any man, far greater. Yet, the words had been spoken so casually, so easily. “And if I don’t leave the girl?” he hissed.

  The man sighed again. “I think you know.”

  Sevrin studied the giant, angry at his arrogance, his false courage and the audacity of him to threaten the dark itself, and angry, too, at the chill of fear he felt. His god would understand, he was sure of it. With a growl, he launched himself at the giant, calling on all his god-blessed speed and swiftness, surging forward, a breath of shadow. Fast, incredibly fast. But not fast enough to cover the distance before the man reached—almost calmly—into his robe with both hands, withdrawing small, cylindrical devices.

  With a shock, Sevrin realized what they were, what they must be, a moment before the man snapped both his wrists and suddenly an explosion of light filled the darkness. It struck Sevrin like a physical blow, and he screamed as he was hurtled back, swept away by a wave of illumination and pain. And, for a time, he forgot about the stranger, forgot, too, about the girl he’d been carrying. There was the pain and the light. And nothing else.

  ***

  The giant watched the shadow flee before the light of the two Evertorches and grunted in satisfaction. Then, he walked to the girl’s unconscious form where the shadow had dropped it and knelt. He held a finger against her neck then nodded, looking up at the sky. “She lives,” he said, “so that’s something. You’re lucky that I came—I told you, I’m done doin’ this sort of thing. Been done with it a long time now.”