Knight and Shadow

by Flint Maxwell

  Once the deed was done, he piled rocks on top of the mound of dirt so no animals of the forest could dig up his mother’s corpse.

  He walked back to the ruins of his homestead, smelling the smoldering wood and ash. He looked at the structures that had been there only hours ago and he felt his knees go weak. The exhaustion finally washed over him, weighing atop his shoulders like an avalanche. He dropped to his knees and spoke for the first time since his mother had died in his arms.

  “What am I going to do now?”

  ‘Ansen Kane,’ his mother had said, ‘Take it to him.’

  The box was in the same place he had left it, on a nearby rock. The sight of it brought a queasy feeling into his stomach. He tried his best to ignore this feeling as he got up and went to it. Picking the box up, noting its weight, he opened the lid. The gun, the ancient relic of a time forgotten, sat beneath the curtain of velvet. He shifted it away and stared at the shining metal. He couldn’t believe it.

  He couldn’t believe anything that had happened in the last hours. It was all…surreal.

  Isaac closed the lid again and tucked the box under his arm. The sun was out and it beat down on him, warming his skin. He went to a tree just away from the burnt remains of his house, leaned back, and dozed off.

  When he woke up, the sun was already going down. The box lay to his right. Carmen the cow was grazing near the ruins of the barn. Isaac didn’t feel better.

  In the back of his mind, before he’d fallen asleep, he hoped the smoke wafting into the air would’ve signaled someone, perhaps even the authorities from the city, despite the distance. Mr. Fednir a few miles down the road was too old to see or hear anything, probably. But Isaac doubted he’d have seen it anyway, if he could. The wind had been blowing the opposite direction, and the trees were tall.

  No one had come. He was alone… He thought he would be alone for the rest of his life.

  Standing up was no easy task. His body ached from the awkward way he’d dozed off, not to mention the labor he’d done the day before, digging the grave, carrying his mother all the way to the edge of the forest, sifting through the remains of the house.

  Tears came unbidden down his face. He thought he could hold them back, thought that because he was a man he would be able to deal with this—whatever this was exactly. So many unanswered questions, and developments that only brought on more questions. But he couldn’t hold the tears back. He let them come.

  The truth, the terrible truth, was that he missed his mother more than anything. A hole had formed in his heart, and he knew that that hole would never heal.

  Isaac was only seventeen—he was no man after all.

  Yes I am. I’m strong. Mom taught me to be strong.

  He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, unknowingly smearing soot and dirt and blood across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, like a warrior with paint before a battle.

  I’ll let myself have one good cry, he told himself. I’ll let myself feel bad for a little bit, but that’s it. Life keeps going whether my mother is dead or not.

  He looked at the wooden box again.

  Mom gave me a quest, like the Heroes of Old. Ansen Kane. Low Town, near the Infected Lands.

  That was so far. He’d never gone past Track City, and he’d only been there a handful of times. But Low Town? He’d never even heard of that place. Had there been no Infected Lands nearby, he wouldn’t have had the slightest clue of where it was. And even then, he only had the broadest sense. East. Halfway across the kingdom.

  As the darkness took hold once again, Isaac found enough wood to start a small campfire, and did so. He was hungry—starving, in fact—but the idea of eating brought on a bout of nausea.

  Tomorrow, he told himself as he lay down next to the crackling flames. He wrapped his arms around the box containing the legendary revolver. Somehow, it comforted him.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Soon, he was asleep as the stars whirled overhead and another night passed without his mother.

  * * *

  When he woke up, Carmen was asleep next to him, standing. He looked at the cow and his heart sank.

  They had had Carmen for a long time. She was a good cow, pretty and kind. It said a lot about her, Isaac thought, how she hadn’t left when the fires happened, and how she was sleeping next to him.

  Isaac got up, grabbed the box with the revolver. He knew what he had to do. The grieving period, whether he liked it or not, was over. He was a man, and it was time to act like one.

  He stroked Carmen’s head, down the length of her nose. She opened her eyes sleepily.

  “Good girl,” Isaac said. “Good girl.”

  He found a rope amongst the ruins and looped it over the cow’s neck. By the tree, he found his rifle. There were only a few rounds left, but on the road, the sight of the squirrel shooter would be enough to deter bandits. Hopefully.

  He gathered the rest of his meager belongings into a burlap sack: the revolver, one of his history books, and a picture of his mother from before she’d had him. It was all he had been able to pull from the fire. The picture’s edges were charred and curled, but the subject of the photo was untouched. She was so beautiful. Gone now, yes…

  The tears threatened to spill again, and he had to put the picture back in the bag. He promised himself he would only look at it when he was better, when the wound in his heart had scarred over, but he knew that was a lie. As the days turned to nights and he sat alone by a fire or in some gutter or beneath a beech tree—the kind his mother had loved—he would pull the photo out and tell her he missed her and he would cry.

  With a gentle pull, he guided Carmen from the homestead, the smell of fire still thick in the air.

  Together, man and cow left Bleake Farm, and Isaac didn’t look back.

  There wasn’t much to see.

  * * *

  He traveled the road by day and set up camp by night. The twenty or so miles to Track City wasn’t much; had he been alone, he thought he even could have made the journey in one day, but he had Carmen with him, and he was hungry, so hungry. The last thing he had eaten was the apple pie his mother had baked over two days ago. If the cow hadn’t found a freshwater creek off the road early into their journey, Isaac thought he would most likely be dead of dehydration, and, to some extent, heartbreak.

  In the first half of their journey, they had taken frequent breaks. The road was mostly empty, so in the daylight, he felt safe taking catnaps beneath the shade of a tree or by the creek. In a way, it was oddly relaxing, and he didn’t want to get up. He wanted to keep sleeping, maybe sleep his life away. Never wake up again.

  No, he told himself. I have to keep going. I am a man now.

  Come nightfall, he tied Carmen to a tree. He didn’t think she would actually wander off, but being on the road—a road rumored to be filled with bandits and derelicts—it was better safe than sorry. Then he tried to sleep, but the pain in his stomach was far too great. He needed food, something heavy and sustaining. The few crab apples he’d found on the road were not filling, and he’d had to eat around worms and rotted spots. Carmen didn’t mind; she ate the worms and all.

  Isaac sat up. He decided he would go look for some game. The forest was full of animals; the only problem was he had never hunted before in his life.

  How hard can it be?

  He slung the rifle over his shoulder and left the copse of trees where his campfire burned. A few steps out of the ring, he heard the sound of pitter-pattering feet. Elation and joy filled him to the brim. A rabbit! He had taken only three steps and had already found a rabbit!

  The little creature’s eyes reflected the moonlight above. It looked at him curiously. Surprisingly, it was quite plump, and Isaac’s mouth watered at the idea of roasting it over the fire. He would even give Carmen some; no way he’d be able to eat the thing in one sitting.

  Isaac slowly dropped down to his knees, and took aim. His heart was beating out of his chest, his lips curled in a smile. The rabbi
t hadn’t moved; it continued staring at him. He took a deep breath and put his finger on the trigger.

  The rabbit’s nose twitched violently, sensing danger in the air.

  “No, wait!” Isaac shouted as the little critter took off. “Damn!”

  Isaac bolted after it. Above, the moon shone bright, and Isaac weaved in and out of the trees without problem, never losing sight of the rabbit.

  Before he knew it, he had drifted a quarter mile from his camp.

  Breathing heavily, he slowed as the rabbit stopped in front of a large oak tree. It turned and faced him, looking at him curiously.

  “Oh, stay still,” Isaac whispered. “Don’t move…” He took aim again. “Know I’m sorry, friend. It’s nothing personal. I just need to eat…”

  The rabbit spun and dove beneath the tree’s roots, into its rabbit hole, vanishing.

  “No!”

  Beyond desperate now, Isaac lunged forward, diving. He hit the ground hard, and tried shoving his hand between the roots. No luck. He maybe reached down six inches, feeling nothing but emptiness, before the hole narrowed and he couldn’t reach any farther.

  Still lying on the ground, he rolled over and looked up at the stars above. He took a deep, shaky breath, dejected.

  “I’m going to die out here,” he said.

  He lay there for perhaps fifteen minutes before the exhaustion beat out the hunger. He hadn’t meant to stray so far from his campsite. Thankfully, the rabbit had gone in a more or less straight flight. The darkness was thick around the trees now, too. Black clouds had rolled and covered the moonlight. That was okay. In the dark, he was able to see the low burning embers of his fire, like a weak beacon.

  Lethargically, he advanced through the forest. Had he not been so exhausted, perhaps he would’ve noticed the bandit lurking in the shadows, watching him.

  Alas, he did not. At least not until it was too late, and the bandit was creeping up behind him, his weapon raised.

  Isaac’s head exploded with pain, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

  Chapter 8

  The Bandit

  Isaac awoke no less than two minutes later. The bandit was too skinny to really deliver a killing blow, or, for that matter, one that would have knocked Isaac out for an extended period of time. Though the back of his head throbbed with pain.

  He felt something wet running through his close-cropped hair. Blood, probably.

  Isaac shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Rope bound his wrists. He leaned up against Carmen, who was sleeping lying down, oblivious to the world.

  The bandit was going through his stuff.

  “I don’t have anything,” Isaac said.

  “Oh, it speaks!” the bandit replied.

  He was tall. His face was covered in sores and pockmarks. His clothes were shabby and dirty, torn in places. He wore jeans and a dark jacket made of the same material. Over his shoulder was Isaac’s rifle, and next to him was a knapsack that looked as shabby as he did.

  The damn rabbit, Isaac thought. “Please, just let me go. Take whatever you want,” he said. “But I don’t have much.”

  Which was the truth. Had the two of them been put in a lineup and someone tasked to pick out the bandit, they would most likely choose Isaac. His dirty, singed clothing and disheveled appearance did not do him any favors.

  The bandit looked over his shoulder, baring his teeth. “Quiet!” He reached back and slapped Isaac across the face.

  The pain was immediate and fierce. Isaac’s neck cracked with the force of it, and the back of his head throbbed again. Once his vision refocused, he saw the bandit’s left hand was missing most of its fingers. The bulk of the flesh was scarred, white, and mangled. Isaac had seen such hands in one of his history books. Such a punishment, the removal of fingers, was of the Old Kingdom. Cruel and unusual. The bandit was a thief, and he’d been caught before, yet he hadn’t learned his lesson. Apparently.

  More items flew from Isaac’s bag and landed on the ground. Then the bandit paused and pulled out the picture of Isaac’s mother.

  “Mmm,” he said. “What a pretty gal.” He looked at Isaac. “Is this your girlfriend? No way. A cretin like you.” He barked laughter.

  The bandit then proceeded to rip the picture in half, and let it fall to the ground with the other items. In that moment, what was left of Isaac’s heart ripped in half too.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” Isaac whispered, but the bandit hadn’t heard him. His mind was too occupied by what was in the bag.

  “Ooh, what is this? So pretty-pretty!” the bandit said with glee.

  He pulled the wooden box out and ran his fingers over the ornate carvings on the lid.

  Isaac’s heart sank. In all of his confusion, he had forgotten about the revolver. It still seemed so surreal, like a bad dream. He didn’t know if he would ever get used to the fact that he possessed one of the last ancient revolvers of the disbanded Knights of the Gun—given to him by his now-deceased mother, no less.

  Not even three days, he thought. That’s all it took for you to lose it. Not even twenty miles away from home, and you’ve failed your quest. Mom would be so proud.

  The bandit lifted the lid. He plunged his grimy right hand into the box. The velvet cover floated behind him and drifted into the fire, where it caught and turned to ashes. That same grimy hand pulled the revolver from the box, and the bandit pivoted to face Isaac. His eyes widened nearly as large as his gaunt face.

  “You don’t have nothing? Liars don’t get far, boy,” the bandit said. “Not with me, at least.”

  “Please. Leave that alone. You don’t understand.”

  “I understand. Oh yes, I do. I understand that I’m a rich man now.” The bandit threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a sickening sound, raspy, like he was suffering from a perpetual sickness—which he probably was. “Maybe I can even get my fingers back.”

  “It’s not real,” Isaac said. “It’s a replica. I’m an actor. It’s just a prop for the stage.”

  “Bullshit. I know the feeling of a real gun. Yes I do. This ain’t a fake.” The Bandit slapped Isaac across the face, sending him back into Carmen. The cow mooed alarmingly, now awake. “Lie to me again, boy, and I’ll use this gun on you. I’ve killed before, I’ll do it again!”

  Isaac shut up. He needed to figure a way out of the ropes. The idea of this grubby man taking his mother’s items filled him with sickness. He didn’t know why, maybe it was because they were his mother’s last words, but his quest felt more important than anything.

  “What a fine, fine weapon. Almost as fine as the woman in that picture.” The bandit pointed to the ripped photograph at his feet.

  He stood up straight, the gun in his good hand. It looked very wrong there. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the cylinder open. It was fully loaded, six gold plated bullets in the cylinder.

  Isaac hadn’t done that yet. In fact, since the first time he’d taken it out of the box, when his mother gave it to him, he hadn’t touched it.

  The truth: the gun frightened him.

  As much as he wanted to be a gun-toting hero, he couldn’t justify wielding such a weapon. He was, after all, just a farm boy who at one time had aspirations much too big for the likes of him. Those aspirations had been shattered the moment he saw the shadow creature in the barn, the fires burning around the monster as it stood over his injured mother. And if those aspirations ever came back, he would only be reminded of his constant failings. This included.

  “What do you say we give it a test run? I like to try before I buy. That’s understandable, isn’t it?” the bandit asked, grinning.

  His teeth, in the low light of the campfire, looked fuzzy with green mold. With another flick of his wrist, he snapped the cylinder closed, then he cocked the hammer back with his thumb. The gun barely made a noise as the cylinder rotated. Either Isaac’s mother had kept it well-oiled, or the legends of the revolver’s makeup were true.

  Isaac didn’t cower. He didn�
��t scream and cry or beg for mercy. Above him, he looked into the barrel of the revolver, unflinching, the bandit a blur in the background.

  “It’s nothing personal, kid,” the bandit said. “Just can’t have you coming after me or nothing like that. I’m wanted all over the realm. Gotta clean up the messes I make. You understand.”

  Still smiling, the bandit pulled the trigger, and the monstrous explosion from the gun made Isaac close his eyes.

  Chapter 9

  The Mess

  No bullet burrowed into Isaac’s head, though the sound from the revolver was enough to make it feel like one had lodged in his brain.

  When he opened his eyes, he stared at the bandit…except the bandit was headless now, with just a ruined, bloody neck jutting from his torso. Blood drenched the man’s front.

  Isaac wanted to scream, but whatever scream he held within himself had frozen.

  Slowly, the dead bandit dropped to the ground and fell to the side. The gun fell too, from his hand, and landed in front of Isaac.

  Isaac looked at it as if it were a live snake, and in that moment, he saw something else, something unexplainable, which shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, especially not after what he’d been through in the last however many days. Shadow creatures, his mother’s death, his once comfortable life seemingly ended, and ancient, mystical weapons—all of that was crazy, but somehow not crazier than what he saw now.

  The revolver seemed alive…as if it was watching him. Staring at it, he saw what had happened to the bandit, despite his eyes being closed, almost as if the revolver had shown him.

  In this glimpse of the very recent past, he saw himself from above, as if he was having an out of body experience, then he saw the gun aimed at his head, he saw the bandit pull the trigger, he saw the explosion of fire from the gun’s muzzle, but at the last possible microsecond, the gun jerked backward. Like it knew not to hit Isaac…