The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  Incredibly, the creature called Kharl was back on its feet. Its chest was a ruined mess, so twisted and collapsed that there was no way it could be breathing. The wound didn't seem to faze it. Black eyes locked on Tanner. The thing shrieked. Bloody slaver dripped from its mouth and the black of its eyes spread until they gleamed like orbs of pure onyx. Its filthy nails grew long and curved and pointed, like a vulture's talons.

  “Blessed Guardian!” sobbed Yorst.

  “You hurt this, human,” the thing hissed, sputtering dark blood. It threw itself at Tanner.

  The big man braced himself and met the attack with his hammer. The creature ducked under it and slammed into Tanner with all the force of a charging bull. Incredibly, Tanner held his ground, bringing the butt of his hammer directly down on the creature’s head. The blow stunned it just enough for Tanner to break away and retreat several steps.

  He shouted at Palawen, “What the hells am I dealing with here, Red?”

  “I don't know!”

  She'd seen all manner of creatures over the past ten years of training with her father, and eventually venturing out on her own—wyrans and werebeasts, flickerwisps and firebirds, even a band of curious trolls that had wandered through the Shimmering. This was something different.

  “Seems like some sort of shape stealer!” she yelled as Tanner twisted away from another furious attack. The creature was managing to stay just out of the hammer's reach. “Something that can take over a human body, but doesn't seem to require its base functions to survive.”

  “How do I kill it?”

  The thing slashed, Tanner dogged.

  “I’m not sure you can.”

  “Not the answer I wanted!” The man’s fist caught the thing in the jaw.

  “This is the thing that's been hunting Shem!” Caleb said. He was holding a knife in one hand.

  “What are you talking about?” Palawen asked.

  “The man who sent me here—he said a demon was hunting him, something that could change its shape. He called it the Faceless.”

  “Did he say how to kill it?”

  “Only that he couldn’t. It does feel pain, though.”

  “Wonderful. Well, I wasn't planning on dying today, so let's make it hurt.” She turned to Yorst, who was cowering in the corner. “Get me my bloody weapons!” She reached once more for her magic. This time, she let it loose.

  In the passing of a single heartbeat, it was as though the storm had forced its way into the Dancing Whale. Powerful winds blew through the inn, so concentrated and focused that they smashed it against another wall. More panelling cracked and splintered. Tanner was on it faster than a wolf on its prey, growling as his hammer fell with all the force of an avalanche. The demon rolled. The blow merely scraped its shoulder. It didn't even flinch, springing to its feet and driving a fist into Tanner's gut.

  This is not going well. Palawen glanced across the room for Yorst. She found him at the far door, with her bow and quiver in hand. Throwing another burst of magic-powered wind to clear her path, she dashed across the room, snatched her gear from the innkeeper’s hand and slipped the quiver around her hips. She turned, nocked and fired, burying an arrow in the demon’s back. It glanced at her with all the disinterest of a horse shaking away a fly.

  “Damn you!” Palawen screamed, shooting a second arrow, and a third. Each struck true, and each had the same effect as the first—which was none at all.

  “Its wounds aren't closing.” Somehow, Caleb had found his way to her side.

  “What are you nattering about?” she snapped.

  “The wound on its chest,” he said. “It hasn’t changed at all, so it’s not as though it’s healing. It’s just fighting on in spite of its injuries. But there has to be a limit, right? A way to incapacitate it?”

  Palawen regarded him for the span of a single breath. She shrugged. “Might as well. It’s not like we have any better ideas.” Her fourth arrow pierced the demon through the back of one knee. The leg buckled, causing it to stumble.

  Tanner responded by butting it in the face.

  “Take out its legs!” Palawen screamed, nocking another arrow. “Drive it to the ground!”

  Tanner twisted to one side, evading another furious attack. He lashed out with one foot, tripping the demon. When it stumbled, the bigger man stomped it to the ground before bringing the full weight of his hammer down on its damaged leg. The sound of shattering bone was dampened by the wet thud of squishing flesh. The creature rolled away. When it tried to stand, the broken leg failed, and it fell to the floor. With a mighty cry, Tanner struck again, shattering the second knee with an even greater force. The demon crumpled but didn't stop. Using its arms to drag itself forward, it lunged with surprising speed and clutched at Tanner's leg.

  “This will have your flesh, human.” It opened its mouth, as though to gnaw at his boot. Blackish-green ooze dripped from between crooked, yellow teeth.

  Palawen fired. Her arrow pierced the demon’s eye. It collapsed in a heap of broken, twitching flesh.

  Tanner disengaged himself from the demon's twisted hands. He was bleeding from a laceration over his left eye, and there were deep gouges in the leather of his armour. He glared at the body, spitting in contempt before stepping away and turning toward Palawen and Caleb. They were the only three remaining in the tavern. Palawen could not remember the other patrons leaving, but she supposed they must have fled during the battle.

  She ventured tentatively toward the body, salvaging three of her arrows, carefully wiping away the slime and blood. The stink of it churned her stomach.

  “Is it dead?”

  She turned to find Yorst peeking around a corner.

  “Seems that way,” Palawen admitted. “I’d recommend burning the remains.”

  “And what about my inn?” said the man, stepping forward. He straightened his back and glared at Palawen. “It’ll cost me somethin’ dear to repair all this damage.”

  “Just be glad you’re alive,” Palawen grumbled. “That thing could have killed you.”

  “But you’re the one who brought it here! Good-for-nothin’ drifter! Don’t think I didn’t see what you did with that wind. I might not be a sage or Kadir monk, but I recognize magic when I see it, girl. If I’d known what you were, I’d have never let you through my door.”

  “Leave her be, Yorst,” said Tanner. “It wasn’t her doing.”

  "Like hells it wasn't. What am I supposed to do about the damage?"

  “Put in on my tab.”

  “Bah! You haven’t paid your tab in months.”

  “You saying I'm not good for it, old man?”

  Tanner stepped forward, and Yorst scampered halfway back around the corner. The innkeeper's eyes lingered nervously on the mercenary's bloodied hammer.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” He unfastened a small purse from his belt and tossed it at Yorst. “That should cover it.”

  He glanced at the demon's still-twitching body. More of the foul ooze seeped from its wounds.

  “I think we'd best be moving on.” He turned to Palawen. “You coming, Red?”

  “I told you not to call me that,” she said, looping her bow through the holster on her quiver. “But yes, I’m coming. I want answers. This friend of yours seems like the best chance to get them.”

  “Then lead the way, lad.”

  Palawen followed the two men out of the Dancing Whale, grabbing her stormcloak as she passed. A handful of patrons still lingered on the street outside the inn, though the falling rains had driven most of the villagers back to their homes. They cast furtive, fearful glances at the small company. Palawen ignored them, pushing past as though she didn’t see their accusing stares. There was no sign of the local constabulary, which she assumed were stationed up in Stormholt itself. It was probably just as well. By the time they arrived, Yorst’s story would already have grown outrageously—and her role with it.

  Best not to linger. Palawen resolved to learn what she could about t
he shape-stealing demon and its twisted magic, then turn west. She’d find a ship to take her across the Inner Sea and begin the long journey home. She’d already been away too long, and if there was a new form of magic in the world, there were others who needed to be made aware. Her father would know how to spread the word.

  A Knife in the Heart

  The night was dark, wet and miserable as Caleb led Tanner and Palawen along the Queensway. The rains made it difficult to see, forcing them to proceed slower than Caleb would have liked. Lightning flashed sporadically. Once, it crashed so close that Pacer nearly bolted in fright. Tanner walked along beside the pony, carrying his hammer in one hand. Palawen trailed several yards behind them—so distant that she was little more than a murky silhouette whenever Caleb glanced over his shoulder.

  “Still with us, lad?” The suddenness of Tanner’s rough voice caused Caleb to jump. “You’re as skittish as a hare.”

  “Sorry. It’s just been a strange day.”

  “Never seen a fight before?”

  “Not like that.”

  Tanner chuckled. “Fair enough. Don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight quite like that, either.”

  “But you have been in a lot of fights, haven’t you?”

  “More than I care to count. Carried this hammer across most of this bloody Realm. How much further to this cottage of yours?”

  “It should be just up ahead.” Caleb squinted through the darkness. “There. That should be it just through those trees.”

  “I see it. Step to the left.” Tanner reached out and pulled the reins toward him, guiding Pacer around a patch of broken paving stones that Caleb had almost missed in the gloom.

  “How did you see that?”

  “Good eyes. You keeping up, Red?”

  “Call me that one more time, and I’ll put an arrow through your skull.”

  Tanner chuckled.

  They arrived at the cottage minutes later. Caleb tied Pacer up in the small, single-stall stable along the back wall, brushing her down quickly and pouring out a fresh portion of oats. Then he limped past his mother’s garden toward the front door. His companions followed.

  “Rainsbreath,” muttered Palawen.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s rainsbreath in the garden. It’s not a flower I’d expect to see here.”

  Caleb shrugged. “Mother's always been fond of it. She tends to those bushes carefully.”

  They came around the corner to the front of the cottage. Light danced across the aged, greying fabric of the drawn curtains. Caleb could hear his mother’s voice, only slightly muffled by the thin wooden planking that was the front door. She was speaking too quietly for him to catch her words, but she sounded agitated.

  He turned the handle and pushed into the cottage, ushering Tanner and Palawen in before closing the door and latching it against the storm.

  “Caleb!” cried Tamara. “I was getting worried.”

  “We ran into some trouble.”

  “Kharl?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Questions filled his mother’s eyes, but Caleb turned to Shem and motioned toward Tanner. “Here he is.”

  “My thanks.” Some of the colour had returned to the drifter’s face, but when he attempted to stand, it was clear that he was still weak and in a great deal of pain. He shuffled toward Tanner and pulled the big warrior into a feeble embrace. “It’s good to see you, my friend. I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

  Tanner grunted. “If you were in better circumstances, you wouldn't need me. Still, it's good to see you. How's your mother?”

  “Obstinate as always. And who’s this?” Shem turned his gaze toward Palawen.

  “Palawen Ty,” she said.

  Shem raised one eyebrow. “Savan’s girl?”

  “You know my father?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

  “We’ve crossed paths a few times. He speaks well of you, girl. Says you’re the finest archer in all Kravenstal.”

  “A father’s boast.” Her tone was dismissive, a faint flush blooming on the gentle contour of her cheeks. “It’s strange that he’s never mentioned you, though.”

  “Not so strange. We’re creatures of secrecy, girl. All of us. What are you doing here?”

  “Tracking a demon, it seems.”

  Shem’s eyes narrowed intently.

  She went on, “I caught traces of a strange magic in the Eastweald. Something I couldn’t quite place. I tracked it for more than two weeks. The trail brought me here.”

  “To this cottage?”

  “To the village, anyhow.”

  “And did you find this demon?”

  “Only because it found him.” She pointed at Caleb.

  He felt his gut turn to lead. Tamara shot him a worried look.

  “Said it could smell a drifter on him. I can only assume that was you.”

  Shem nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

  Over the next quarter-hour, they recounted everything that had occurred at the Dancing Whale, from Palawen's arrival and conversation with Tanner, through the battle with the demon. Shem listened intently, nodding and asking questions where he wanted clarification or more detail. Several times, he glanced at Tamara with an expression that Caleb found oddly disturbing. When they finished, Shem was silent for several long moments.

  “Pack your things,” he said finally. “We’re leaving. All of us. Tonight.”

  “Are you mad?” said Tamara. “We can't just leave everything.”

  “Take what you can carry.”

  “But our entire lives—”

  “This isn't a debate, Tamara!” He spoke harshly, wincing in pain and clutching his side. “I didn't account for the demon returning so quickly. But it has, and it's seen Caleb. You're not safe here. If you stay, you die.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Timberford.”

  Tamara shook her head. “Even if we had horses, that's a two-week ride. As it happens, all we have is an old pony, and in your condition, you'll never make it. Besides, if this so-called demon is as dangerous as you say, I don't want you leading it to my daughter's front door.”

  “That’s why we’re going to fly.” Shem turned to Caleb. “I understand you work at the wind yards, lad. Does Laynne have a small rider? A swoop, maybe?”

  “How do you know—”

  “Just answer the question!”

  “Sure. Laynne has a swoop. But we can’t just take it.”

  “We can,” insisted Shem, “and we will.”

  “Lord Laynne will have our heads!”

  “You just leave Branden to me.”

  Branden? What kind of drifter is on a first-name basis with a lord of the Realm? Caleb found himself reassessing the man. He was rough and hard and everything a drifter was expected to be, but there was also something more in the man, an air of dignity and poise that marked him as more than a vagabond warrior. This was a man who was accustomed to giving commands—and to having them obeyed.

  “Who are you?” Caleb asked.

  “Right now, I’m the best damned chance you have at living through tomorrow. That’s all you need to know. Can you rig a swoop?”

  “I can rig every rider on the field.” Almost. An image of Zephyr’s Song sprang, perfectly formed, into Caleb’s mind, and with it an idea. It could be madness, but…

  “Then we’re set,” said Shem.

  “Maybe not.”

  “Listen, boy. I’m not about to—”

  “I’m not arguing. You say we have to leave and after seeing what that thing did, I don’t think you’re wrong. But what if there was a different way? I mean, other than stealing a swoop?”

  “What other way?”

  Caleb took a deep breath. He could hardly believe what he was about to suggest. “I know a man. He’s a bit strange, but he captains a rider. A private vessel that’s currently moored here. We spoke earlier today and…”

  “And what?”

  "He offered to take Mother and I aw
ay from here."

  “What?” exclaimed Tamara.

  “He says there's trouble brewing in the east, that the Easterlings have been parlaying with the Kith.”

  That comment seemed to grab Shem's attention. He leaned forward, listening intently.

  “He thinks the Blasted Coast might become a dangerous place.”

  “And well it might. Damn the Easterling bastards. This friend of yours have a name?”

  Caleb nodded. “Shevik Den.”

  “The sky pirate?” asked Tanner.

  “You know him?”

  “Only by reputation. Saw that rider of his flying through a few times. Strangest damned vessel I’ve ever seen, with that great big sail hovering over it.”

  “It helps maintain loft,” Caleb explained. “If he angles it properly, it works almost like a balloon. I'm surprised others haven't adopted the idea.”

  “What makes you think he’ll help?” asked Shem.

  Tamara interjected, “He was a friend of my late husband.” She was already on her feet, stuffing a burlap sack full of cheese, salted meat and dried fruit. “Loud, boisterous and far too enamoured with himself, but a loyal friend. If he made an offer to Caleb, he’ll honour it.”

  “He told me he’d be moored on the wind yards until tomorrow.”

  “You think he’d take us to Timberford?”

  “Maybe. He's bound for Antaskotia. It's not exactly in the right direction, but it'd get us closer. We could grab another rider from there. Or even find a merchant caravan to travel with.”

  “Might be less of a hassle,” muttered Tanner. “Smoothing things over with Laynne would take some doing.”

  Shem considered Caleb for what seemed like an endless moment in time. His eyes were still flecked with malachite, smouldering as he weighed his options. Finally, the drifter spoke. “So be it. We'll talk to this friend of yours, but if he won't help—or if he can't, for any reason—we take the swoop.” He spoke decisively, without asking for agreement. His mind was made up, and Caleb doubted that even the Queen herself could have changed it. “Gather your things. We leave in half an hour.”

  Caleb nodded. He turned away and pulled himself up the ladder to the small loft. There was a simple wooden palette, with an aged down mattress. It was one of his few luxuries, brought home by his father years earlier. A threadbare, woollen blanket covered the mattress. It provided little in the way of warmth, but the loft was always warm, collecting the thickly humid air in the summer and the smoky heat of the hearth in the winter. Still, it was all he had, so he rolled it tightly, bound it with a length of twine, and stuffed it in his pack.