The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  “I know,” Milos assured him. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  Tiberius nodded. Some of the tension eased from his mind and body—enough that he was able to stand. “Then I’ll be off. These old bones need rest. Tomorrow will be the first in a string of long days, I think.”

  “Of course.” Once again, the chaplain placed one comforting hand on Tiberius’ shoulder. “Be well, brother. May the Guardian shield you and the Teacher guide your work.”

  “Let us hope so, my friend. I suspect I’ll need it.”

  Passing Through

  Rain beat down like a torrent, turning the forest floor into a quagmire of battered leaves and broken bramble. Rivulets of water accumulated faster than they could drain away, creating a network of small pools. The cold wind howled its mournful cry as it directed the rain's wild dance. A murky dimness filled the Fanmor like a veil of shadow, occasionally shorn by the flash of distant lightning. There was no sign of any animals; no rustling of the underbrush or calls from between the trees.

  Palawen Ty could only assume that all sensible creatures had retreated to the warmth and safety of their dens and burrows. She longed to get out of the rain herself, but everything in the forest was already so sopping wet that there was little point in building a shelter now. Her stormcloak would have to do. Earlier in the day, she had seen the parapeted grey walls of what she could only assume was the city of Stormholt. She’d been standing over the massive basin of churning waters that marked the end of the Targuine, in the exact place where the trail ended.

  For more than two weeks, Palawen had been tracking the strange magic that she’d first encountered in the Eastweald. It was vaguely Iria in nature—her heritage as a feyling allowed her to sense that much—but was also strange and dark, like a beloved song set in a minor key. There was something more, too; a sense of wrongness that she could not quite pinpoint.

  Only a handful of the Iria lived on this side of the Shimmering, and those who did possessed magics that Palawen would recognize immediately—magics much like her own. Anything different was cause for concern, so she'd followed the trail, intent on discovering its source. Everything she'd found had only fanned the fires of her fear. Twice, the trail had led her through what appeared to be the remnants of furious battles. Each time, she'd also discovered a strange mass of putrid, brackish ooze that she couldn't identify.

  All the more reason to find it. Such was the life of a drifter: wandering the Realm, defending its people against threats they didn’t even know existed.

  Now the trail had vanished.

  Palawen couldn’t begin to guess what such a disappearance meant. She considered the possibility that whatever she was hunting had been destroyed, but it seemed unlikely. Such magic was not easily unmade. Something else has happened, she thought. Something violent. She’d found blood up amid the cliffs, and a trail leading south down toward the coast. It had been simple enough to follow until the rains came and washed away all traces of blood and footprints.

  She was forced to make a few assumptions. The first was that someone had been injured, likely severely enough that they'd need medical attention. The best place to find them would be in Stormholt or any surrounding villages. The second assumption was that the injured party likely knew something about the magic she was tracking. She pressed onward.

  An hour passed before she broke free of the woods onto a wide, open road that she assumed was part of the Queensway. The looked out over the rough, stony shores of the Blasted Coast and across the endless expanse of the Boundless Sea. The rain was still coming down hard, and the darker thunderheads were rolling in. Lightning had turned from distant flashes to visible forks cutting through the skies. Palawen took a moment to orient herself, catching the faint glow of a village about a half-mile northwest of her position. She wiped the water from her face and pushed on.

  Minutes later, she approached the first outlying buildings. She passed a wooden sign that welcomed travellers to Therrin's Crossing. The name was set amid a relief of oak leaves and thistles, intricately carved in large letters. Time and weather had worn away much of the blue paint.

  Palawen entered a village much like many of the others that dotted the coasts of the Boundless Sea. The Queensway passed through the heart of the community, narrowing at the old stone bridge that spanned the waters of the lower Targuine. The buildings along the road were constructed close together, many sharing common walls. There were numerous shops, with their lights extinguished and their windows shuttered against the storm. It had a sleepy feeling to it, but Palawen remained alert. Many of the Realm's most notorious mercenary companies operated out of Barden—things could turn ugly very quickly.

  One larger, four-storey building stood out from the others. It was brightly lit, and she heard the sounds of laughter and faint music. The stylized image of a whale hung over the door. If there was any place to make her inquiries, this would surely be it. With a steadying breath, Palawen pushed through the heavy, hinged door and drew back her hood.

  The room beyond was bright and warm and dry, with a faint cloud of smoke lingering amid the rafters. It was smaller than she'd expected, at least until she saw open doorways that suggested it was partitioned. A bear of a man stood behind a counter of polished wood, watching Palawen with kindly eyes. His thick grey moustache nearly obscured his wide grin.

  Palawen wondered if he’d still be smiling if he knew what she was. Drifter or feyling? Which would be the most offensive?

  “Evening darlin’,” he said. “Miserable weather, no?”

  “I’ve been through worse,” muttered Palawen, drawing a cheery laugh.

  “No doubt! Welcome to the Dancing Whale. The name’s Yorst. Yorst Grover. I’m the proprietor of this fine establishment. You lookin’ for board?”

  “Just information.”

  “Ah, well, how about somethin’ to drink? We got the finest of rosewines, deep amber ales and spirits aplenty to chase away the chill.”

  “Cider?”

  “Aye! A unique blend of apple and pear. Made fresh by my own wife. Sweet as a summer rose, it is.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Excellent! Take a seat anywhere you please. I’ll find you easily enough. There’s pegs along the wall for your cloak, but I’m afraid we’ll need to ask you to leave your weapons here.”

  Palawen raised one eyebrow.

  “House policy. Keeps the fightin’ down, and helps stop those that do break out from turnin’ fatal.”

  Palawen removed her bow and quiver, then unbuckled the long knife from her belt, handing them to Yorst with a scowl. “My father carved this bow for me. Treat it with care.”

  “As though she were my own.”

  She nodded, taking a moment to hang up her cloak before heading deeper into the tavern. She straightened her damp, coppery hair as she wandered from room to room. She counted six different divisions, spread around the central bar. Most of the patrons were seated in groups of three or four, eating and drinking while casting runes or playing at Five Kings. A number of the men glanced in her direction as she passed. A few scowled openly, leading her to wonder if they somehow recognized her for what she was. She was determined not to care. Savan had always assured her that she was the picture of her human mother.

  Her attention fell on the lone, broad-shouldered man seated in one shadowy corner. His hair was short and unkempt. Several days of growth shadowed his rough, angular face. Both his tunic and jerkin appeared well tailored, despite the various wrinkles and stains. A fearsome-looking hammer leaned against the wall beside his chair. Palawen wondered how he'd managed to get the weapon past Yorst. The man watched as she approached. She pulled out a chair and silently seated herself across from him.

  “You want something?” he asked between swigs from his flagon. A single drop of ale traced the ugly white scar that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

  “Just a bit of talk.”

  “You one of Luna's girls? ’Cause I don't owe her piss.�
�

  Palawen glared at him. “I don’t know who Luna is, but I assure you I’m nobody’s girl, so don't get any ideas. I'm just looking for information, and you looked like you could use some company—the conversational kind.”

  The man grunted and took another swallow of his drink, wiping the froth from his whiskers with one stained sleeve. “Relax, Red. It's obvious you're no sell servant. You've got the look of a fighter, so I thought maybe you were part of Luna's Thorns. Guess not. So what'd you want?”

  “I’m just passing through this village. Been following a trail, but it’s gone cold. I’m looking for information to help pick it up again.”

  “What makes you think I can help?”

  She shrugged. “Need to start somewhere.”

  “And I looked like the friendliest of this bunch?”

  “Only the loneliest.”

  That drew a mirthless laugh. The man slammed his empty flagon down on the table. “You’ve got guts, girl. I’ll give you that. Tell you what, you buy me another drink, and I’ll listen to your questions.”

  Palawen motioned to Yorst, who was approaching with her cider. “More beer for my friend here,” she said.

  “I don’t want no trouble, Tanner,” said the innkeeper.

  “Then best keep the liquid gold flowing.”

  Yorst scowled, but turned and ambled back toward the bar.

  “Ask your questions, Red.”

  "Don't call me that. Have there been any strange occurrences in these parts lately?"

  “Strange how?”

  “Just strange.”

  “Well, there’s talk of rebellion. Some damned nonsense called the Liberation. But then there’s nothing strange there. These Bardenites love nothing more than starting up a good rebellion. Doubt this one’s got any more legs than any of the others, though there’s more mercenaries passing through town than normal.”

  “I’ve no interest in politics.”

  “No? Well, you might've noticed that the weather's a damned mess. Not sure we've had a full day without rain in over a month, but I suspect that ain't what you're looking for either, is it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then I'm afraid I can't help you.” The man leaned closer and spoke very quietly. “I'd be very careful asking your questions around here, Red. Drifters ain't exactly welcome, and feylings even less so.”

  Palawen leaned back, startled. Her hand fell instinctively to where she usually carried her knife. “How'd you know?”

  “A lone girl walks into a place like this and starts on about strange happenings? Not that hard to guess what she’s about. As to the second part, I’ve been around, Red. Seen a lot of things. It was mostly a guess, but you just confirmed it.”

  Palawen cursed her mental clumsiness. Savan would be disappointed.

  Tanner seemed to notice something in her face. He shrugged. “I’ve no interest in setting the local fools on you, girl, but unless you’ve got a personal interest in seeing the hot side of a pyre, I’d be more careful about the questions you’re asking.” Tanner glanced toward the bar. “Yorst! Where's my damned beer?”

  The innkeeper appeared from another room, frowning fiercely but carrying a flagon overflowing with froth. He set the drink on the table, and Palawen passed him a single copper wren.

  “Thank you for your time,” said Palawen to Tanner. “I think I’ll be on my way.”

  She stood and turned, nearly colliding with a young man. He was slight and only marginally taller than her so that they stood almost eye to eye. He stumbled backward, twisting awkwardly. When he managed to catch himself, he seemed to be favouring one leg.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing his sopping hair back out of his face. His smile was slightly crooked. “My fault. I was just coming to see him.” He gestured toward Tanner.

  “Well, aren’t I popular today?” the man grumbled between swallows of beer. “Do I know you, boy?”

  “I don’t think so. My name’s Caleb Rusk.”

  “Good for you. What the hells do you want?”

  “A friend of yours sent me to deliver a message.”

  “That so? I don’t recall having many friends.”

  “He says he needs your help.”

  Palawen turned to leave, but the next words made her pause.

  “He’s hurt pretty bad. My mother stitched him up.”

  “Hurt?” she asked. Her mind returned to the trail of blood leading down through the forest. “Hurt how?”

  “A wound on his side.” The young man looked at her in confusion.

  “How’d he get it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “An interested party,” said Tanner. “This friend of mine, he have a name?”

  Caleb nodded. “He calls himself Shem.”

  Tanner’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Palawen sensed him tense like a rockcat ready to pounce. Caleb must have noticed it, too, because he took a step backward.

  “He say anything else, boy?” The mercenary’s voice had an edge like blasted stone. “Think real careful now.”

  The young man swallowed. “He said to tell you that the midnight lamb is bleating.”

  “By the Graven One!” Tanner reached for his hammer. “This better not be some game, boy.”

  “It’s not. I swear.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s at my cottage.”

  “Then we’d best be there, too.” Tanner turned to Palawen. “You’ll want to come along too, Red.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “This friend of mine—you're in the same business. You asked for strangeness, and you damned well found it. Let me fetch my things, and we'll be off.”

  Tanner stood. Palawen expected him to stumble or sway from the beer, but his movements were all precise and controlled. He slid his hammer through a holster at his side, then turned and stalked from the room. The closest patrons watched him go, gazing after him with all the wide-eyed amazement they might have shown at seeing a dead man walk.

  Palawen was left standing awkwardly with the young man named Caleb.

  “Sorry again for bumping into you,” he said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “My name’s Caleb.” He extended his hand in greeting.

  “I got that.” She hesitated, unsure of what to do. She wasn't accustomed to interacting with others—especially with those her own age. Finally, deciding there was no harm in it, she reached out and clasped his hand. “Palawen Ty.”

  “Good to meet you, Palawen. I don’t think I’ve seen you in Therrin’s Crossing before.”

  “I’m just passing through.”

  “You're looking for something?”

  Palawen frowned, and Caleb winced.

  “Just from the way Tanner spoke.”

  “You could say that. I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Sure,” he said. It seemed as though he wanted to say something else, but his eyes widened as they focused on something over her shoulder. “Curse my luck.”

  Palawen turned to see what had caught his attention. Another man had entered the tavern. His greasy black hair was as sopping wet as his clothes—so much so that a puddle was accumulating at his feet. A long, hooked nose dominated his face, twitching as though he were sniffing the air.

  “Kharl,” muttered Caleb, turning his back to the man.

  “Friend of yours.”

  “Given that he tried to stab me earlier today, I’d say no.”

  “Kharl Doran!” bellowed Yorst, storming out from behind the bar with a furrowed brow and puffed, ruddy cheeks. “You know you’re not welcome here. Get your sorry ass out.”

  The innkeeper placed one hand on the other man’s shoulder, as though to escort him out of the building.

  The hawk-faced man turned on him with all the speed and ferocity of a wolverine. One hand clamped around Yorst's throat, lifting the larger man off the floor. With a bestial growl, he hurled the innkeeper across the room. The impact of Yorst'
s considerable bulk reduced the wood-panelled wall to splinters.

  The Dancing Whale's patrons all leaped to their feet. A few looked ready to fight. Palawen suspected they were the ones well into Yorst's spirits. The rest were staring in shock at the man called Kharl.

  “Sweet Mother,” said one of the pair. “What’s gotten into him?”

  “He’s a bloody lunatic,” someone replied. “You hear that growl? He’s gone mad as the damned princess.”

  “Been crackin’ for years. But what happened to his eyes?”

  “You!” the man screeched, pointing at Caleb’s back. “This scents the manling’s blood about you. You’ve seen him. You will take this to him now, or this will tear your throat open.”

  What the hells is happening here? Palawen caught sight of the man’s eyes. Each iris was an oily black. It was only in that moment that she recognized the stirring of the same magic she’d tracked out of the Eastweald. She wondered how she had managed to miss it when the thing had first stepped into the inn. It was so twisted and rancid that she found it difficult not to recoil in disgust.

  Stepping sideways, she placed herself between Caleb and the creature—Palawen couldn’t think of it as a man. Yorst may have taken her knife and bow, but he hadn’t left her entirely defenceless. A current of air began to flow through the inn as Palawen reached for her own magic.

  Before she could release it, the room exploded into violence.

  Tanner Hoff appeared as if from nowhere, his hammer flashing. The creature turned and hissed, but Tanner was impossibly fast. The broad head of his weapon crushed its sternum with a sickening crack. It flew backward, collapsing in a heap of broken flesh. Blood flowed thick and viscous, the colour of fine wine. A deep hush fell over the inn.

  “You all right, lad?” asked Tanner. He'd traded his tunic and jerkin for a mail shirt and a studded vest of hardened leather. He wore a heavy black cloak, lined with coarse white fur, and a large pack strapped to his back.

  Caleb started to nod. Instead, he cried out. “Behind you!”