Knight and Shadow

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by Flint Maxwell


  The wagon in front of him was waved forward. The man in the driver’s seat spoke in an exotic tongue Isaac didn’t recognize. This man was golden skinned with dark hair. A long mustachio hung around his mouth and quivered with each accentuated syllable. He had probably come from the Southern Lands, across the sea. Isaac did not know much about them besides rumors and preconceived notions. Rumors that there were great reptilian beasts roaming the countryside, that people there dined on human flesh and married within their own bloodlines.

  One of the knights pointed to the ground, wriggling his armored fingers. “Down!” he shouted to the mustachioed man.

  The driver came reluctantly. Three more knights set to investigating the man’s cargo, prodding with their great swords at the brass drums, removing lids and peering inside. This process went on for quite a while, and Carmen began to grow restless, trying to pull out of line.

  A woman somewhere sighed loudly.

  Then one of the knights shouted, “Here!”

  The two others formed a barrier, driving Isaac and the cow back from the wagon. Isaac bumped into the woman behind him, but she hardly seemed to notice. Suddenly, Isaac’s fingers started to tingle. He found himself wanting to reach into the burlap sack and pull the revolver free.

  But what good would that do? And why?

  Because I sense danger, he told himself. So does Carmen.

  With an armored fist, the knight thumped on the wagon’s floor. The sound that echoed was hollow—it was a storage compartment. He patted the wood until he found the hidden handle, which popped out with a spray of dirt and a puff of dust. Slowly, he opened it.

  Isaac stood on his tiptoes, trying to see inside. He had no luck. The knights were too big, especially in their silver-plated armor with animal head helms. So Isaac bent low and tried seeing around them.

  “No!” the mustachioed man yelled in his thick accent. “Stay away! No!”

  But it was too late. The secret compartment opened, and the knight who had opened it stood frozen, his hand still grasping the handle.

  A curious sound escaped from within. It was a sound of hissing air, which only confused Isaac all the more. His tired mind couldn’t comprehend such a sound or what might have caused it. Had he been rested and fed and of an emotionally whole state, he would’ve undoubtedly recognized it. He couldn’t count how many times he had dealt with snakes on the farm, getting into the barn, burrowing into the cellar during a rainstorm.

  “Snakes?” the knight said and laughed, amused by his original reaction.

  He was a handsome man, Isaac noticed, as the knight lifted his visor. The fear that inhabited his eyes was slowly waning.

  Isaac looked to the mustachioed man, currently held at the arms by two larger knights, one with a lion’s head helmet and the other with an eagle. The foreign man hadn’t visibly relaxed. If anything, he looked worse off than before, his skin blanched, his brow slick with sweat.

  The knight near the wagon shouted out in pain.

  Isaac turned his head, no longer having to try to see around the other knights, because they had broken rank, leaving an open spot for all to see what was happening.

  A snake that Isaac had never laid eyes on before had bitten the knight’s face. It was certainly no garden-variety snake, the kind he constantly weeded out from the farm. This was an evil thing—a serpent. It rivaled the knight in length; its girth was easily a foot; its skin was obsidian black, like the darkest of nights. Worst of all, its fangs were so long that more than half their length was still visible, jutting from the handsome knight’s cheek.

  This knight would be handsome no more. Blood poured from the wounds, but so did something else, something black as ichor—the snake’s venom. It sizzled on the knight’s flesh like cold water on a hot skillet. The knight clapped both hands to his face, pulling at the snake, but it wasn’t budging.

  Most of the line had dispersed. Isaac, however, couldn’t move. He was frozen with fear and curiosity. Of course, he had seen stranger things as of late, but this…this made him feel nearly as bad as looking upon the evil face of the shadow creature in the barn.

  One of the knights drew his sword, grabbed the snake’s tail, and chopped the whole serpent in half. The snake let out a dying screech as dark blood spurted from each of its severed ends.

  By this time, it was too late for the bitten knight. He fell to the ground, his head just beneath the wagon’s wheel. He was dead.

  A good portion of his face had been melted away by the snake’s venom, as if it were acidic. Shiny white bone stuck out, mingling with the red and black of the blood and poison.

  The mustachioed man started yelling in his foreign language, screaming at the top of his lungs. Three armored knights had to hold him down and pull him back from the wagon and the dead snake, while others secured the cargo compartment in fear of more. More guards rushed out from within the city, and soon, there were so many armored men and women surrounding the wagon that Isaac couldn’t see anything besides moonlight gleaming off of silver armor.

  “The Shadowshah,” a voice said from behind Isaac.

  He turned to face it, his hand wrapped tightly in Carmen’s rope. The voice belonged to the woman. She, among a few others, hadn’t scattered when the chaos began.

  “You mean the Shadow King?” Isaac replied.

  His blood started to run cold; thoughts of the shadow creature standing over his mother filled his head.

  “Shadow King.” The woman nodded. “Shadowshah.” She made a star over her left breast and closed her eyes.

  Where she was from, Isaac couldn’t place, but it certainly wasn’t Aendvar.

  “But the Shadow King is dead. He was assassinated by the Knights before he could raise his army,” Isaac said.

  “So they want us to believe,” said the woman. “The Black Serpent. The Death Fang. Those are signs of the end times.”

  Whatever Isaac was going to say next never found its way out of his throat. He felt icy cold.

  The woman started walking to the raised gate, skirting the knights surrounding the wagon.

  Some had begun to drag the mustachioed man away. As he went, he shouted in a language Isaac didn’t understand; yet it was different than the tongue he’d spoken in earlier.

  The words: “Vol aishe huma ra! Vol aishe huma ra! Vol aishe huma ra!”

  The woman stopped, turned back, and spoke to Isaac.

  Her translation: “The Dark King rises. The Dark King rises.”

  Chapter 12

  Dolan’s

  A large crowd had gathered on the inside of the city, people jostling for position and a better view. Amidst the chaos, Isaac and his cow were able to pass through the gate’s threshold.

  He clutched the knapsack to his chest like a thief, worried one of the knights would stop him, would shout, “Hey, boy! You come here!” and they would go through his bag and find the ancient revolver and take it. Sure, versus one lonely bandit, Isaac had fared well…but against an entire legion of guards? He wouldn’t bet money on himself.

  There was also the fact that he was a boy in appearance: tall and lanky with not the slightest bit of facial hair. He was seventeen, perhaps legally a man in the eyes of some, but to the bad people that lurked among the city proper, he was just another easy target, a skinny kid with a prized possession in his bag.

  “What did he say?” a woman in a headdress asked. “What language was that?”

  “I’ve never seen such a creature,” a man with a deep voice added.

  Others mumbled their agreement. Confusion ran rampant throughout the crowd.

  Isaac kept going, his head low, his eyes on the ground. Miraculously, no knights stopped him. He was surprised at just how easy he was able to slip in, even with Carmen in tow. The cow seemed happy to be in a new environment, her nose twitching at the many smells, her eyes drinking in all the new sights.

  Others came through the gates, too. Neither were they stopped. A cow and a lonely boy with a knapsack weren’t much,
compared to some.

  Isaac muttered a prayer when he was far away from the gate and the chaos.

  Before him, past the crowd, trees ran down the middle of the cobblestone street. He moved with the flow of people who had seen the likes of the attack before, merchants and travelers uninterested in such trivial things. Men and women stood outside of their shops, shouting their products and prices.

  “Mutton! Two silver!”

  “Buy one, get one half off! Best oranges this side of the Sarpin River! You never tasted one so sweet!”

  Up ahead, a shabby looking man in clothes that were once colorful, but were now muted with dirt and age, played a guitar gently. The sound was beautiful. Passersby filled his case with bronze and silver coins. Isaac smiled at him and the man smiled back.

  As he wound deeper into the city, the buildings grew taller, standing over him like trees in a forest. People sat out on balconies, pipes in their hands, smoke blowing from their noses. A few scantily clad women stood outside of a brothel called Madam Cruxeau’s. A tall redhead, her legs visible through fishnet stockings, asked him if he was looking for a good time.

  Isaac stopped in the middle of the street, much to Carmen’s displeasure. He offered the woman a weak smile and tried speaking, but no words would come out. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the brothel’s window. His face was streaked with dirt; his hair, too long as it was, lay flat to his head greasily; his clothes were torn and dirtier than his skin.

  “Okay, honey,” the woman said. “If you change your mind, you come back here and ask for Scarlet.” She blew him a kiss and Isaac’s stomach fluttered with butterflies.

  Someone behind him said, “Get a move on, perv!”

  Isaac glanced back, looking sheepishly at a man on a horse. Others filed around him and Carmen, but the man couldn’t find a spot to squeeze past.

  “S-sorry,” Isaac replied, and set to walking again.

  Since he’d last been here, the city seemed to have changed greatly. In just a few months, at least a dozen new businesses lined King Street: pubs, clothing stores, bakeries, a weapons store guarded by armed guards, not to mention all the vendors in between. These people sold cheap novelties such as shirts, and cards, and plush and crocheted people in the likeness of Track City’s three rulers, Princess Delilah, Randar the Brute, and the Mayor, whose name was confusedly King Thomas. There were also books, boots, bags, toys, and pretty much anything else one could think of.

  These people made their living like this, and somehow, that notion seemed positively wild to Isaac. He passed by many carts full of trinkets and items he wanted but didn’t have the coin to purchase. Some of them reminded him of his mother, and his excitement at being in the city, taking it all in, was snuffed out at the thought of her.

  From then on, he kept his head down as he made his way toward the end of the street. At the corner of King and Beetle Street, there was the one business Isaac knew very well. He and his mother had done business at Dolan’s Trade many times before. This business did a little of everything, but it specialized in livestock, some of which was kept on the grounds right there at the corner.

  As he got closer, the smell of hay and manure won out over everything else. This was the one part of the street most people avoided. Dolan said he liked it that way. The bulk of his business came from local farming communities and the knightsguard. He didn’t rely on the tourists as much as others did.

  Isaac walked up to the front door. He hitched Carmen to the post meant for horses. Since no one was currently browsing, she had the post all to herself.

  Inside, the store was empty. Isaac went out and around to the back, where the stables were. A few horses inside whinnied and clopped their hooves. The scent of manure and hay was nearly unbearable, but Isaac couldn’t have smelled much better himself.

  Standing near the back, in an oversized white shirt tucked into a pair of riding trousers, was Dolan. He was a man of about fifty years. His hair had gone gray long before Isaac had ever met him and it was mostly gone from atop his head. The little he had left, he combed over his balding pate.

  Isaac cleared his throat, and Dolan jumped at the sound.

  Turning around, a few sugar cubes in his palm, he said, “Sorry, mate. We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.” Then he mumbled, “Or don’t. Ya know,” which Isaac heard as clear as day.

  Dolan barely spared Isaac a glance, and Isaac didn’t blame him for that. Had he been in Dolan’s boots, he would’ve done the same thing, probably thinking Isaac was a beggar come looking for a place to sleep among the stables.

  “Dolan, it’s me, Isaac Bleake.”

  The man turned around slowly. He looked Isaac over again, this time much more carefully.

  “Isaac…Bleake?”

  A large smile split his face, and he broke away from the stable, much to the horse’s displeasure; he wanted the rest of the sugar cubes.

  “It’s been too long, my friend. Too long! How are you? You don’t look very good. You know that, right? And where’s that beautiful mother of yours?”

  Isaac did his best to remain calm. It was not easy, but if his journey over the past few days had taught him anything, it was that even in the face of adversity it was possible to stay strong.

  But Dolan was a friend, and right now, more than anything, Isaac needed a friend.

  He dropped his head and began to sob. The tears came like a river through a broken dam.

  Dolan, shocked, stood still.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “I’m sorry, Dolan.”

  “What’s wrong, boy? Tell me.”

  “My mother’s dead. The farm is gone, and I am all on my own.”

  A few moments passed before Isaac, his vision blurred by tears, felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Dolan patted him a couple times, obviously not practiced in the art of sympathy, and said, “C’mon, mate. Let’s get inside. You can tell me all about it over a drink—wait, you’re old enough to drink, right? Ah, what does it matter? You need it, kid.”

  Dolan turned around and tossed the rest of the sugar cubes into the horse’s stable. The horse, a beautiful white gelding, whinnied with satisfaction.

  Together, Isaac and Dolan went into the shop. Dolan closed the door behind him and flipped the OPEN sign to the side that said ‘GO AWAY’. They went through the back to Dolan’s living quarters, which had a bed in the corner, a table in the middle of the room, and a liquor cabinet on a far wall. Off this room was a small kitchen and a bathroom.

  Dolan pulled a dusty green bottle from the cabinet and brushed it off, then he grabbed two small glasses of ice from the kitchen, came back, and set one in front of Isaac.

  He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes stung, and he felt stupid for breaking down like that in front of Dolan. He supposed, however, that it had been coming, was long overdue. Even when he buried his mother, the tears had not flowed like that.

  Dolan poured him a drink, just a splash, then he poured himself one nearly to the brim.

  “So, talk to me, kid,” he invited.

  Almost absentmindedly, Isaac answered, “I’m not a kid anymore. I turned seventeen a few days ago.”

  Dolan chuckled mirthlessly and took a gulp of his drink. “Tell me what happened.”

  Isaac opened his mouth to speak, his brain trying desperately to organize the hundreds of thoughts and feelings into words—a daunting task—but Dolan held up a hand.

  “First, take a sip. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it. Hell, with the way things have been going in the capital, we’re all gonna need a lot of drinks.” He waved the same hand. “Never mind that for now. Out here, near the coast, that doesn’t concern us yet.” Motioning to the cup. “Go on.” He took a drink himself, downing half the glass, and then poured more.

  Isaac picked up his cup. The smell of the liquor burned the inside of his nostrils, almost singeing the hairs. His eyes, on the cusp of being dry, stung with tears again. Slowly, he brought the cup to his lips and took a si
p, and then immediately, once he swallowed down the bit of liquid, he began coughing, his throat and chest afire.

  Dolan laughed heartily, clapping a big hand to the table. “That’ll put some hairs on your chest, that will!”

  The burning didn’t last long, for that Isaac was grateful, and once it subsided, he felt a little better—thanks to the pleasant buzzing in his head, of course. So he took another drink, this one deeper. The burning wasn’t as bad this time, and beneath it, he tasted a concoction of herbs that was both sweet and mildly spicy.

  “See, kid? You’re a natural,” Dolan said. “Now, tell me about your trip up here.”

  Isaac spoke the tale of his journey so far, of his birthday, the apple pie, the rifle, and then of the bad things; the shadow creature, the fire, his mother’s chest punctured by talons, him waking up, her dying, her final gift and final words.

  Much to Isaac’s surprise, Dolan didn’t harp on the gift or the words. By the time Isaac completed his story, only about a quarter of the liquor bottle remained. Most of that had been drunk up by Dolan, however Isaac had had his fair share.

  Admittedly, for the moment, he felt good, really good. Come tomorrow morning, he would not. His head would pound and he would vomit twice and suffer from a splitting headache most of the day, but as Dolan would say, it was a good learning experience, and hey, at least he’d have a few chest hairs to show for it.

  “A shadow creature?” Dolan said. “As in a shadowfiend?”

  Isaac cocked his head. He had never heard the term.

  “Right, right, you’re too young. You weren’t even born yet,” Dolan said.

  He grabbed the drink, his hand trembling as he did so. This time, he didn’t bother pouring the rest of the liquor into his glass, opting to down it straight from the bottle.

  “When King Zoroth lost his mind, he was said to have been working with dark magic, conjuring creatures from the Undervoid. Shadowfiends. Reports said that these…these creatures had been seen around Aendvar, yet no one believed, truly believed. Such dark magic hadn’t been seen in millennia. The Knights of the Gun tried apprehending King Zoroth, but to no avail. A great battle was fought, and many died, King Zoroth among them. Now, was the king truly mad, or were those lies? That is the age-old question, my friend, isn’t it? Me, well, I’d like to believe them lies, because I consider myself an optimist. And maybe it’s the booze talking, but if Zoroth didn’t die those three decades ago, what would have become of Aendvar? I shudder to think about it, Isaac. And now you come to me talking of shadow creatures and sacred revolvers—”

 

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