The Shadow Isle

by Katharine Kerr

  All at once the image changed and lived: Faharn was standing beside his bay horse, unfastening an empty nose bag from the horse’s halter. Laz focused on the image and kept his mind upon it as he hopped up onto his sack. With a caw that echoed, strangely hollow, across the dead meadow, he leaped into the air and flew. The image hovered in the air in front of him, always seemingly just a few yards away, never coming closer, till at last it disappeared into a shimmering silver lozenge of pure force: the gate out.

  Laz swooped through the gate and found himself flying over a herd of horses, tethered out in a sparse patch of grass. He circled around and saw below him a scatter of crude tents, a campfire burning, and men, pointing up at the sky, yelling and waving. Voices floated up to him, “The raven, the raven!” With a squawk of greeting Laz circled lower until finally he found Faharn. He dropped his sack at Faharn’s feet, then tried to land in front of him. His damaged wing tips betrayed him yet again. He skidded to a halt on his tail feathers, then leaped up with a shake and a croak of rage.

  “You’re back!” Faharn sounded on the edge of tears. “Feathers and all!” Tears or no, he grinned as if his face would split from it. “Thank the gods! Thank all the gods!”

  Laz formed an image of his physical body, transferred his consciousness over to it, and banished the raven. He heard a click, saw a flash of blue light, felt every nerve in his body vibrate, and regained his human form. For a moment he stood dazed, blinking at the sunlight around him. The men—those he could recognize— started hurrying over to greet him. The strangers stayed some distance away, staring, murmuring among themselves. More than once Laz heard someone say “mazrak” in a hushed voice.

  “Back, indeed,” Laz said. “With many a strange tale to tell you, too. Here, let me get dressed.” He knelt down and opened the sack. His clothing had stayed intact and free of the obnoxious ectoplasm. The black crystal, too, lay safely wrapped in rags.

  Laz pulled his shirt over his head, then put on his brigga and laced them, a slow process with his maimed hands. When he finished, he paused to look around him. The camp sat in the middle of open land, mostly grass, though trees grew along the streams that wound through it. Stretching off to the horizon were grass-covered mounds of varying sizes, ranging from a mere ten feet or so across to massive artificial hills. They were all too circular in shape for natural features. Some, in fact, looked as if giants had leveled their tops with huge knives, while others peaked like roofs.

  “Where are we?” Laz said, pointing. “What are those?”

  “First question: about three hundred miles east of Braemel, as close as we can reckon,” Faharn said. “Second question: the Horsekin around here, and there aren’t a lot of them, call this the Ghostlands. Those barrows are the graves of our ancestors, I suppose. I don’t know who else would be buried in them.”

  “A very good point.” Laz flashed him a grin. “And I’d guess that no one’s going to look for you out here. Barrows always harbor evil spirits, right? No one’s going to come poking around them, therefore.”

  “That was my thinking, yes. Though I can see how the superstitions got started. There have been times when we’ve heard things in a barrow, a funny scraping sound, and something else.” Faharn paused, then shrugged. “Almost like someone talking. The wind, probably, or the earth shifting inside.”

  “Probably. Spirits or no, you look well.”

  “We’ve done well enough, though the winter was hard. We had some deserters desert.” Faharn smiled with a twist of his mouth. “We’ve lost men since you left us, but then I picked up a few, too.”

  “So I see. What happened between you and Pir?”

  “We split the band between us.” Faharn’s voice turned flat. “That woman of yours chose to surrender to the Ancients, and he went with her. So did a lot of our men.”

  “That I know. I scried for them.”

  “Oh? How much did you see? He’s taken your place with her.”

  “I’m not in the least surprised.” Laz fished his belt out of the sack and wrapped it over his shirt. “Pir has always had a way with the fillies.”

  Faharn hesitated on the edge of speaking. Laz finally got the buckle fastened and looked up to find Faharn staring at him with a peculiar expression.

  “You’re not angry?” Faharn said.

  “It’s her right to take a second man, isn’t it?” Laz said.

  “According to the laws, yes, but—” Faharn hesitated, and he looked oddly disappointed by something. “But it’s none of my affair, of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll be her first man still.” Laz knelt down again and pulled his boots out of the sack. “What about these new men? I see that some of them are carrying falcatas.”

  “Deserters, all of them. Can I help you with your boots? I’m guessing those crystals are what injured your hands.”

  “You’ve guessed right. No, I can get them on eventually. It’s a bit of a struggle, is all. Here, deserters from what?”

  “Regiments. They’re Gel da’Thae horse warriors. They’re more than a little fed up with the direction this Alshandra cult has taken. The rakzanir get more control over the priestesses every day, or so they tell me.”

  “Oh, do they? Now that’s extremely interesting.”

  Laz got the first boot on, tucked in the brigga leg, then glanced up. Faharn was watching him, his head cocked to one side, his eyes narrow.

  “What’s wrong?” Laz said.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Faharn said. “I suppose I thought you’d be angry about Pir and your woman.”

  “Her name is Sidro, by the by.” Laz pulled his second boot on. He tucked his brigga leg into it, then stood up. “And I don’t own her any longer.”

  “Of course not. Sorry.” Yet still Faharn hesitated with that peculiar expression on his face.

  What is this? Laz wondered. Did he want her himself? If so, he’d had an odd way of showing it, back in the forest camp. Laz decided that the problem lacked both importance and interest. He felt perfectly confident that Sidro would always choose him over any other man around.

  “Now,” Laz said, “what I want to do is head south and find them all, Vek as well as Pir and Sidro, and the others. What will the rest of you do?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Faharn said. “And I’ll wager that everyone else will, as well. Ye gods, there’s nothing out here! There’s no reason to stay.”

  Some of the men—those from his old band—cheered. The new men nodded and agreed more quietly. Most of them were still wearing their gray regimental shirts, Laz noted, stained with varying amounts of dirt.

  Laz spent the rest of that day talking with his band of outlaws, particularly the new men. They’d grown suspicious, they told him, of the convenient visions of a handful of priestesses, the ones that their leaders favored. One of the new men in particular, Drav, was more than willing to explain at some length. He was a hulking, beefy sort, a full-blooded Gel da’Thae with a swagger and a face full of tattoos that marked him as a member of a highly placed mach-fala. He’d been an officer in Braemel’s top regiment.

  “So,” Drav said by way of introduction, “you’re a mazrak, are you?”

  “I can hardly deny it,” Laz said, grinning. “Does that make you want to dispose of me in Alshandra’s holy name?”

  Drav spat into the dirt. “Better a mazrak than a hypocrite.”

  “Indeed. Tell me more.”

  “Look, I never much believed in all this Alshandra talk at first. It was just a way to keep the Horsekin in line and obedient. But then I started thinking, well, maybe there’s something to it. The men under my command believed, and it gave them fire and courage. Good enough, think I.” He paused, then began to underline his points by stabbing one thick finger into the callused palm of his other hand. “But then the priests got to the rakzanir. First they chased Exalted Mother Grallezar out of town. Didn’t like that. Then they started talking about killing slave women to make the Lijik Ganda shit their brigga. Really didn’t like
that. Then they started running good men onto the long spear just for grumbling about their orders. Couldn’t put up with that.”

  “I see,” Laz said. “If you stayed, could you have been raised up on the haft yourself?”

  “Pretty damn likely.” Drav grinned, exposing pointed teeth. “And all those damned Horsekin, parading around, the stinking bastards. They don’t understand discipline. Never will. Resent it if you give them direct orders. Cursed if I’m going to bow and scrape and beg the pardon of a lot of stinking Horsekin.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Laz said. “How do you feel about the Ancients?”

  Drav shrugged. “Never known any,” he said, “I’m willing to wait and see if I like them or not. The rest of the men here most likely feel the same.”

  Since Faharn had managed to steal some extra horses as he’d led the men east, Laz had a mount when they broke camp and headed south. Every morning, however, he assumed the raven form and flew ahead of the band, simply because no one was exactly sure of where they were. Judging direction by the sun’s position allowed them to head roughly south and little more. When Laz flew high he could see the lay of the land for miles and choose landmarks that they could sight upon to keep traveling in a reasonably straight line.

  The barrows provided many a good mark, but by the second day he saw fewer and fewer of them. By the third day, he realized that they were coming close to the last of the graves. He flew up high, then leveled off, looking to the south. A handful of mounds stood, widely scattered, on the grassland. Off to the east he could see woodland, hazed with blue in the hot sun. To the west, the ground swelled and rose into downs, natural hillocks unlike the barrows. Straight ahead to the south, the grassland began to narrow, caught between the downs to the west and patches of forest cover toward the east. At the far horizon he could just make out a sharp line of intermittent hills, the beginning of the broken tableland and its thick forests and canyons that marked the border between the Northlands and the plains of the Ancients.

  Laz flew back to his men, circled low so that they could see him, considered landing, then stayed in raven form. He didn’t like the look of the forest just ahead. A stand of old growth, dark and tangled, stretched for some miles. At the edges it bled out into a straggling collection of second-growth saplings and brush among old pines, many of them stunted and twisted by the constant winds blowing off the Ghostlands. All his dweomer faculties seemed to have gone on alert, whispering of danger. He turned toward the east and flew lower, swooping over the trees.

  Just at the forest verge he saw a caravan, a merchant caravan, judging by the long line of mules and the heap of pack panniers. Men wandered among the trees, picking up deadfall for firewood. No danger there—Laz flew higher and decided to follow the broad dirt road that wound eastward through the old forest. A few miles on he saw another camp, and the sight turned him cold even as he flew above it in the summer sun.

  In the middle of a clearing stood a red banner, tattered, stained with smoke, but bearing the gold hunting bow and arrows of Alshandra. Around it, rolling up bedrolls, saddling horses, and inspecting their weapons, were roughly thirty men. Some wore the brown shirts of a Gel da’Thae regiment; others wore leather tunics, painted with geometric designs—Horsekin warriors. Some wore bandages as well or had an arm in a sling, others seemed unharmed. They all looked sullen, snarling back and forth at each other like men will do when they’re hungry and exhausted. Their auras, which the raven could see with his etheric-tinged eyes, clung to them, shrunken and gray with despair.

  The horses, some of whom bore wounds, stood head down, already tired out here in the morning, stock that had done the hard work of carrying cavalrymen without a taste of grain. Laz saw no sign of a baggage train, nor could he pick out an officer as he circled high above. They were raiders, no doubt, who’d lost a good stiff fight and were trying to get home.

  And what lay just ahead of them on the road? Those merchants, all unknowing, traveling with fat mules and panniers of food and hay, guarded only by men with quarterstaves and one red-haired swordsman. Well, it’s none of my affair, he thought. Yet something he’d noticed about the caravan made him turn back west to take another look at it. As he flew over it for the second time, he noticed a dark-haired lass, vaguely familiar, among the men. That couldn’t be Wynni, he thought, way out here. Yet the resemblance brought Marnmara’s warning back to mind, a warning about atoning for evil done in lives long past. Which way will you go on the road, Laz. He estimated that some twenty souls rode with that caravan, and all of them would likely be dead by sunset.

  The raven croaked out an oath in his native Gel da’Thae, then turned north and flew as fast he could back to his men. He circled in front of them to make them halt, then managed to land reasonably smoothly near Faharn, who dismounted to come speak with him. Laz transformed back into human shape with a flash of blue light, then hunkered down for modesty’s sake. Faharn knelt on one knee to listen.

  “Something of interest,” Laz said, “a few miles ahead of us I spotted a band of Alshandra’s raiders. They are doubtless about to attack a rich-looking merchant caravan that’s ahead of them on the road.”

  “Huh, I’d rather we took that caravan for ourselves,” Faharn said.

  “Just so.” Laz, as usual, had a lie and some half-truths ready. “We can either let the damned raiders exhaust themselves taking the caravan, and then fall upon them, or we can present ourselves as rescuers, in which case the merchants will doubtless share what they have willingly. Your new men are all trained horse warriors, and they’re fresh. The raiders I saw look like they’ve already been beaten once.”

  “The decision’s yours, of course.” Faharn considered briefly. “But I’d prefer to save the merchants’ arses for them.”

  “Good lad! I agree.”

  Faharn smiled and glanced away as if he’d been given a splendid compliment.

  “I’m going to fly off and warn them,” Laz went on. “Then I’ll be back to transform and join you. We’ve got to hurry, but don’t tire out your mounts too badly.”

  “Right.”

  In a flash of blue and a quiver of nerves, Laz changed himself back into the raven form. As he flew off, he could see his men following at a walk-trot cavalry pace.

  Aethel’s caravan had camped that night at the western edge of the forest. Out in the grassy meadows the mules had good grazing, evening and morning. The broad, flat road ahead looked like easy traveling, and, or so Aethel assured Berwynna, there were no more strange villagers ahead. Some hours before noon, the muleteers loaded up the pack animals, those that rode mounted their mules, and they set off westward. Far ahead lay a scatter of trees and a wink of silver that meant sunlight reflecting from water. At the horizon rose a gentle swell of hills, marking the beginning of the downs, Aethel told Berwynna.

  “We be still a good hundred fifty mile from home,” Aethel said, “but soon, some miles down the road, we’ll come to a hill that does mark the halfway point of our journey. It always does gladden my heart to see it, though some say evil spirits do live upon it.”

  “Evil spirits? Truly?”

  “So some say.” Aethel winked at her. “I have my doubts.”

  They’d gone another mile, perhaps, when Berwynna noticed the raven. It came flying fast out of the north, a black mark on the clear warm sky at first.

  “Dougie,” Berwynna said. “I think that bird’s heading straight for us.”

  “So it is.” Dougie shaded his eyes with his hand. “And it’s a fair big bird for a raven, too.”

  About the size of a pony, Berwynna suddenly realized, when the raven swooped down low. The caravan halted in sheer surprise at this impossible sight and turned into a milling confusion on the road as the enormous raven circled overhead. It was cawing in a loud shriek, over and over. Berwynna suddenly realized that it was trying to speak.

  “Bandits, bandits! Danger, danger!” she called out. “Be that what you’re telling us?”

  “Ban
dits, danger!” the raven called back. “True, true!”

  With a last flap of wings it flew away, heading back north. Aethel raised his quarterstaff high and took charge.

  “Bring the stock round in a circle! Hobble the mules! Get your staves ready, men! Berwynna, ride into the middle of the circle of mules and stay there!”

  The mules picked up the mood of the men. They began braying and kicking as the muleteers pulled the leather hobbles out of packsaddles and various sacks. One muleteer had to grab a mule’s halter and steady it while another fought to get the hobbles on its forefeet. Berwynna’s own mount laid back its ears and tried to buck. Dougie grabbed its halter with both hands and pulled it down.

  “Listen, lass!” Dougie said. “I can’t stay with you if we get attacked. If this blasted animal tries to buck again, you make a fist like this—” He held up a clenched fist. “And hit it hard between the ears.”

  “I will.”

  Aethel suddenly yelled, a wordless screech of alarm. Berwynna twisted round in the saddle and looked back at the forest verge just as mounted men trotted out of the trees. They yelled in return and kicked their mounts to a gallop.

  “Horsekin!” Richt yelled. “Ah, shit!”

  The muleteers left the stock to its panic and rushed to grab quarterstaves. Dougie drew his long sword and ran toward the forming battle line. Berwynna tried to urge her mule in among the others, but it ignored her yanks on the halter rope and swung around toward the danger as if it wanted to see what might happen. All around them the other mules brayed and jostled one another.

  The galloping mob of Horsekin slowed to a trot and split in two. Each half swerved off the road, then trotted around, readying themselves to attack the band of mules and men from the sides like two halves of a pair of iron tongs. We’re doomed! she thought. They’re high up on horseback. Our men are on the ground. Even Aethel and Richt had dismounted to fight. The bandits paused, letting their horses blow and recover their breath, just long enough for her to get a good look at them—tall men, all of them, carrying curved swords, with huge manes of curly black hair and pale faces covered in bright-colored tattoos. At a yell from their leader they inched their horses forward and began to surround the circled muleteers.