by Jayne Castel
In a daily routine that had been unceasing since leaving the capital, the army set up camp a furlong off the road, clustered together for protection. True to its name, The Lonely Crossroads was a solitary place. A lone Altar of Umbra marked the intersection between the three roads, thrusting skywards like a fire-blackened blade.
Dain found the monument obscene, a symbol of Valgarth’s power scarring the emptiness. He was pleased to turn his back on it and make his way through the densely packed encampment.
Nearby, he heard the now familiar crackle and roar of the light sphere going up, hemming them inside for the night. The sound made the tension in his shoulders ease slightly; the barrier was the only thing protecting them from the creatures that prowled the darkness. Each night he lay awake and listened to their snarling and shrieking. Occasionally, a sharp crackling noise echoed across the encampment, as one of the bolder creatures threw themselves up against the sphere, only to be repelled howling as if they’d fallen face-first into a bed of hot coals. The shadow net cast by the Enchanters of the Dark was just as effective, although Dain preferred the light sphere—there was something comforting about fire.
Despite the jostling crowds of men as they erected tents, lit fires, and rubbed down their horses, Dain navigated the encampment with relative ease. It might have appeared like chaos, but there was order to it. They erected the king’s tent in the heart of the camp, surrounded by the lodgings of his high ranking men. The Order of Light and Darkness pitched their tents on the next ring out, and then the troops camped in tightly packed circles beyond that.
Walking over crushed grass, breathing in the odor of sweat, horses and peat smoke, Dain made his way to the supply wagons at the southern end of the camp.
There ahead of him, he spied the battered wagon with the blue tarpaulin, and a smile creased his face.
Lilia would be waiting.
Brand crouched low over the mound of smoldering twigs and blew gently upon them, coaxing the timid flames to life. This far north, the evenings were chill, and the wind that blew in from the north promised a long, cold night.
With his free hand, Brand reached up, his fingers clasping over the ice-cold stone he wore around his neck.
I’ll keep you safe.
Brand pressed the palm of his hand against the stone and felt it pulse against his skin as if alive. Nothing had ever meant so much to him. He’d protect it with his life.
Eventually, the camp fire, built with dry branches of gorse and briar rose, crackled into life. Brand straightened up, massaging his aching back. He then reached for the rabbit he’d caught earlier and proceeded to skin and gut it.
The beast was scrawny, without much meat on its lean carcass. Yet it would take the edge off his hunger for a few hours at least.
As he worked, Brand cast nervous glances around him. He sat near the shore of Harrowmere, facing out across the rippling water. The light was gradually fading. It would be dark soon, but he’d chosen this spot carefully. He sat with his back to a large boulder and had placed ward stones around him, ready. He’d collected the stones on the journey north—pitted chunks of black rock that absorbed darkness. As soon as the first shadow creatures emerged from the gloaming, he would gather the Dark and cast a shadow shroud around him.
It should hold them at bay till daybreak.
Brand frowned at the rabbit carcass as he drove a skewer of wood through it lengthwise, before holding it out over the glowing embers of the fire. Despite that each day’s journey brought him closer to his destination, his mood was low this eve.
The journey had been difficult—everything that could go wrong had.
He’d galloped out of the capital on a fast horse, but had lost it the first night out in the wilderness. Brand was still annoyed with himself over that. He’d made a stupid mistake. As night fell, he’d taken refuge up a tree, shrouded by a protection charm, and left his horse tethered below. Halfway through the night, the beast had taken fright at the prowling shadow creatures and had broken free.
Losing his mount had been a blow, slowing him considerably. The blisters he’d gotten on his first day marching on foot had lamed him. Not only that, but the horse had run off with his pack of provisions on its back, leaving him without food. He’d been forced to hunt and forage all the way.
There had been little food to be found on the journey, especially since leaving the Highlands. He’d been forced to make suppers out of the local marsh toad in the swampland beyond. They’d been bony, slimy creatures, yet there had been nothing else. On the fringes of the marshes he’d found brambles filled with unripe blackberries. He’d gorged on them and ended up with stomach pains and diarrhea.
Brand eyed the roasting rabbit. He was careful to rotate it while it cooked, lest it burn.
Two days out from his destination, he was now weak from hunger and exhausted from a succession of restless nights.
He hadn’t been able to sleep deeply, for it took energy and concentration to shroud himself from the shadow creatures at night. They might not have been able to reach him, but they knew he was there. He heard them, padding around the base of the trees he slept up, or outside the holes he’d curled up in. He heard the hiss of their breathing, their swearing when they encountered his wards.
He’d managed to keep them at bay, but his nightly vigils left him drained during the day. And all the while he’d kept looking over his shoulder. He knew Thrindul, and others, would come after him. He just needed to keep ahead of them.
A few feet away, Brand saw something scuttle along the edge of the lakeshore. He’d seen one of these before—a small black imp with a long, rat-like tail. An excited jabber echoed out across the water, warning Brand that the creature was calling to its friends, telling them that it had found prey.
He set aside his rabbit for a moment and rose to his feet, wincing as the knotted muscles in his thighs and calves protested. Then, he reached out with his right hand and gathered the Dark, bringing up a veil of shadow around him.
36
In the Shadow of the Shadefells
The cloud hung low over a landscape of bare hills studded with clumps of gorse, as the army moved on once more.
Inside the supply wagon, Lilia spent most of the morning either practicing summoning anger or pressed up against the tarpaulin, peering outside. She longed to be out there, walking next to Dain. After days of being cooped up, she wanted to stretch her legs and feel the wind on her face.
She and Ryana had run out of conversation. When they weren’t trying to get her to shift, they fell into companionable silence. Both of them tried to sleep, but it was near to impossible with the wagon shuddering and jolting every few yards. This section of the Great Road was in a sorry state. Rough, badly rutted, and strewn with sharp pieces of shale, it was slow going.
The road hugged the edge of Harrowmere for a long while, and it was near noon when Lilia spied a fortress up ahead. It perched upon a rocky hill overlooking the dark, still lake.
“Ryana.” Lilia reached out and plucked at her companion’s sleeve. “Come and look at this.”
Ryana obliged, squeezing in next to Lilia and peering outside. “Shadows, that must be the ruins of Dûn Maras,” she murmured, awed.
High crumbling walls of granite and schist greeted them. An empty causeway curled up the hill, entering the ruins through a great arch. The gates had long disappeared. The keep inside had partially disintegrated; only one lonely tower remained. A large curved window near the top stared down at them like a single blind eye.
“It’s so desolate.” Lilia craned her neck, her gaze taking in the ruins. She was glad they were passing by and not going inside, for the fortress had an ill-favored look. It was a boil on the landscape, a reminder of Serran’s brutal past and the man who had once brought its people low.
“Why does Dûn Maras still stand?” she asked Ryana. “Surely, it should have been destroyed after Valgarth retreated north?”
Ryana sighed. “Scavengers and outlaws looted the cas
tle after it fell,” she replied, “but most folk were too scared to set foot inside Dûn Maras let alone destroy it. The fortress is said to be cursed.”
Lilia frowned, her own gaze flicking back to the dark tower that now rose directly overhead. It was a relief when they left the forbidding shadow of Dûn Maras behind. The horns announcing the noon rest did not blow until the army was much farther north.
Brand arrived at his journey’s end just before nightfall.
He limped up the last stretch: a long slope toward the Vale of Barrows. The vale spread out before the foothills of the Shadefell Mountains. His feet throbbed with every step. The muscles in his back and legs were cramped and knotted. Yet now he’d almost reached his destination, Brand pushed his physical discomfort aside.
He had managed it, although it felt as if he dragged a sack of rocks behind him.
Brand reached the crest of the last hill and stopped for a few moments, swaying, as he gazed on the vale below. Hundreds of stone mounds carpeted the arid soil for a league in every direction on either side of the Great Road. These were the cairns of the slaves that had once labored for Valgarth in the Shadefells, those who had carved out tunnels and chambers for his mountain lair. Centuries later, these barrows still bore silent monument to The Shadow King’s power.
Brand’s gaze slid over the cairns. They were an eerie sight, but he was not here for the dead.
At the other end of the vale, an army gathered.
Relief swamped Brand, and his legs nearly gave under him. They had managed it—everything was going to plan. And he’d done what he’d promised: brought them the missing piece of the puzzle.
He thought then of those he’d left behind at the capital. He’d lived among the order for years and made friends with the other enchanters. But he’d been biding his time. His loyalty had always resided elsewhere.
When Thrindul had announced he was taking Lilia and the stone, he’d had to act.
Brand staggered down the hill, his breathing ragged.
It was deathly still. Low clouds hung overhead, so thick today it was impossible to make out the glow of the setting sun through them. Ahead, he could see the southern flanks of the amassing army. It was huge, stretching from one side of the wide vale to the other.
The odor of hot iron reached him, burning his nostrils. Nervousness rose within Brand when he realized that it was not just the ranks of The Shade Brotherhood that awaited him, but a far more unnatural host.
Brand slowed his gait. Chattering, howling, and shrieking reached him—the feral sounds turning his bowels to ice.
Shadow creatures had hunted him the whole way north, yet he was expected to walk into an army of them now.
The message he’d received days earlier had assured him he would be safe. This close to their master, the servants of the shadows wouldn’t harm those in league with him.
Even so, Brand didn’t want to venture into their midst.
Up ahead, he spied Nightgengas prowling the outer perimeter. From a distance they resembled bent, naked men, their flattened faces covered with lank hair. As he approached, those nearest stopped their patrol and watched him, their predator eyes devouring.
Shadows, they looked like they wanted to rip him to pieces.
Keep walking, he counselled himself. Just one step at a time.
Closer still he encountered the ethereal, ghostly forms of Hiriel, their antlers silhouetted against the gathering dusk, their lacy capes fluttering in the breeze. Nearby, he spotted those tiny, dark imps with long, rat-like tails. There were also tall thin figures shrouded in grey, standing head and shoulders above the rest.
He walked on, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. He’d come too far to falter now.
Gradually, the throng thickened, and the shadow creatures were forced to move aside to let him pass. Hundreds of gazes fixed upon him, none of them friendly. The raucous din they’d been making had quietened, although this change just scared him all the more.
Brand stopped, his courage almost failing him. His guts cramped.
In the distance he could make out the conical shapes of tents in the heart of the encampment—but a horde of shadow creatures separated him from his destination.
Brand squared his shoulders, fixing his gaze on the tips of the tents up ahead, and pressed on.
Halfway through the ranks, he made the mistake of glancing left, meeting the eye of a Nightgenga. It leered, reaching out its strangler’s hands toward him. Brand fought the urge to cringe, sweat now pouring down his back. Behind the Nightgenga one of those tall grey-shrouded figures looked on. Brand peered into its shadowy hood, his pulse accelerating when he saw nothing but a blackness beyond.
They were the longest three furlongs he’d ever walked—worse than the entire journey here. By the time Brand reached the tents he was shaking.
The crowd of shadow creatures closed up behind him, their jabbering, hissing, and intermittent shrieks resuming once more. Brand now walked amongst men—tall, broad soldiers with hard faces, clad in black leather and chain mail. Many of The Shade Brotherhood Brand passed greeted him; some with brusque nods, others with grins. Yet none tried to stop the young man or slow his path through their midst.
They all knew why he was here.
The ring of charcoal-colored tents, a black and gold flag hanging from the top of the largest, loomed before him. A fire pit sat in the clearing before the tents, and men were loading it with chunks of peat. Few trees grew in these parts, and so the men were forced to use other sources of fuel to warm the long, dark nights. Peat stank, but it burned hotter and longer than wood.
Two men stood a few feet back from the fire pit, watching its preparation.
The elder of the two was clearly a soldier. He was bald, with a craggy face and a rangy, muscular frame. The man beside him was slightly taller, with dark good looks that marked him a man of Anthor.
The two men had been conversing, but upon spying Brand, they abruptly ceased.
His exhaustion, fear, and desperation forgotten, Brand hobbled across to them, a grin splitting his tired face. “I have it!”
The dark-haired man smiled, his eyes gleaming. “Show us.”
Brand stopped before them and reached under his shirt, pulling the stone free.
The smile froze on the man’s face. When he spoke his tone was low, accusatory. “Why are you wearing it?”
Brand ignored him. Instead, he shifted his attention to the second man—the one he’d done this for.
Trond, Commander of The Shade Brotherhood stepped forward. The soldier’s weather-beaten face was inscrutable, as always, yet his eyes gleamed with pride. “You’ve done well,” he rumbled, his gaze meeting Brand’s. “My son.”
“I can’t do it … we should just give it up.”
“Don’t be a defeatist. You’re almost there.”
“That’s what you said yesterday, and I still can’t do it.”
Across the wagon, Ryana let out a huff of frustration. “I think I know what your problem is … you’re afraid of your anger.”
Lilia snorted. “I am not.”
“You are … it’s not uncommon. Women are brought up to be sweet and obliging. Anger isn’t feminine. You’re afraid to lose control.”
Lilia glared back at her. She wanted to accuse Ryana of talking nonsense, yet she knew it to be true. Her mother was the sweetest, most obliging woman you were ever likely to meet, as had been her grandmother. Ma spoke softly and focused on making other people happy. Lilia had rarely ever seen her ill-tempered.
“Sometimes anger is what’s needed,” Ryana continued, holding her gaze. “Let yourself feel it.”
Lilia closed her eyes, summoning the scene with the youth and the pie cart. His sneering mouth, the old woman’s anguished face, loomed large. Outrage bubbled up within her, yet this time she didn’t throttle it.
The sensation was both frightening and thrilling; it felt as if she stood on the brink of a precipice with a great abyss beneath. Part o
f her wanted to shrink from it, to retreat to safety.
Face it, Lily.
Drawing in a deep breath, Lilia stepped off the edge.
Heat flowered across her chest, and then a heartbeat later her skin started to prickle.
Rage pulsed through Lilia. She let it flow, remembering then how Saul had taunted her in the garden room, belittled her.
Ryana’s sharp intake of breath told Lilia she was beginning to shift. Then her limbs started to pull and stretch.
Opening her eyes, Lilia looked around. She sat upon a pile of clothing, her tail wrapped around her. The interior of the wagon stood out in stark detail, and Ryana sat like a giantess, looming above her.
Lilia sniffed, catching the surrounding odors of horse, and salted pork that sat in the barrels at the back of the wagon. She then directed her attention back to Ryana.
The enchanter’s eyes were huge, and her lips had parted in shock. “Lilia?”
Lilia opened her mouth to answer, yet a high-pitched yipping sound came out.
Ryana inclined her head. “Move your tail if you can understand me?”
Lilia began to beat her bushy tail, its white tip gleaming in the murky light.
A smile spread across Ryana’s face. “There … I knew you could do it.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “Can you shift back?”
The tail thumped twice against the straw-littered floor.
Moments later Lilia sat before her, perched upon her knees on the discarded clothing.
“You didn’t seem to have any problem shifting back,” Ryana observed. “Do you remember how you did it?”
Lilia frowned as she moved off her clothing and reached for it. Ryana was right—shifting into her fox form was hard, but shifting back was easy. She’d never even realized. “I just let my body relax,” she replied, thinking back to how she’d felt before returning to her human state. “I just told it ‘enough’.”