Shadow (10 page)

‘Shut up,' said Kiown, surprised. The cook sang louder.

‘Battle, battle, for our lives

Rouse your blood, rouse your pride

To war! To war we ride

To war! To war we ride…'

‘Enough!'

The cook's voice rose to a rousing tumult: ‘
To warrr—'

Kiown hopped down from the bench, meaning to add one of the cook's ears to the frying pan. Then Envidis was in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the song, a call-to-arms anthem of one rebel city or other, Kiown forgot which.

Envidis gazed serenely in, a faint smile on those fat-woman's lips of his poking through his black beard. Watching, watching, always watching with dark serene eyes.
This game is not allowed,
the gaze said without needing words. Not angered, not amused.

This was the usual rule in enemy country: don't be noticed or remembered. But the whole world had taken a sudden lurch into no one knew where, and the general rules didn't apply. Kiown had granted himself some leeway, and resented being schooled on the basics, with Anfen's blood still dry on his sword.

At the same time, he knew: he was now in an elevated class of Hunter. Envidis, Thaun and Evelle were elites. And now so was he. He had been with the group of rebels when they brought the Pilgrim in, had got to know the Pilgrim personally. By Vous, he himself had
been
to Otherworld! He'd have needed ten more years of service for the status he'd now gained by virtue of circumstance.

Kiown put the knife away against the impulse to escalate things. He knew little of Envidis, only that he had long survived a profession which swiftly made martyrs of most (and had come within a hair's breadth of making one of Kiown, many times; how he'd avoided execution at the tower top was a puzzle for finer minds than his). Envidis had given no clue as yet to what charms and wards he wore, what enhancements they'd given him. Nor had he said a word, not one, since joining the rest of them four days prior. He was a blank page. A blank page was a brilliant disguise. Kiown had with his own hand written disquieting things all over it.

Envidis stepped into the kitchen, tall, thin and graceful as he leaned on the wall, folded arms unnaturally long, and continued to stare. Two minutes from now he would act like this had never happened. Master of the situation, whichever way it went.

Kiown plucked the steak out of the pan and slapped it onto his plate. The cook quite wisely kept his face neutral. Of course he'd stopped singing.

2

Out in the dining room was First Captain Tauvene, beard neatly trimmed, uniform spick and span, mail shirt gleaming where its metal sleeves poked out from beneath the blue-grey of Pyren.

Tauvene, who by some masterful sleights of hand by the Hunters,
still
believed himself in charge of things even as they'd steered him further and further south, away from his area, his men, and – though he didn't yet know it – his allegiances. Over his shoulders were slung medallions of rank. Down over his breast they hung, impossible not to notice, glinting, polished each evening. Rather foolish to wear them openly in disputed country, but no matter.

Kiown and Envidis took their seats at the table, bowing as though in deference to their unwitting inferior, who nodded curtly in response to the interruption of his breakfast. This was someone who aspired to be a general, Kiown reflected, but who most drunks wouldn't hesitate to brawl with in a tavern. The other Hunters surrounded his table, watching him efficiently shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth, not getting the faintest trace on his neatly trimmed beard. Envidis still wore that little smile-shaped non-smile of his. Kiown had been trying to work out what wild creature the wiry Thaun reminded him of. With that braided stringy beard hung about his chin, he'd decided it was some kind of venomous goat. A warrior, though. Not as
classical
a fighter as Anfen had been, but even without charms and wards, at least as dangerous.

Evelle's jutting breasts poured out of a dress Kiown did not feel it should be permissible to wear if the men on a mission with her were supposed to keep their wits about them. It was likely, Kiown guessed, that First Captain Tauvene hadn't even yet worked out Evelle too was a Hunter. When he learned he'd shared his bed with one, and no doubt some of his intimate thoughts, it would turn parts of his neat beard grey.

It was still almost dark enough to be night. Thaun was explaining (in tones very much feeding the illusion that it was First Captain Tauvene rather than Hunter Thaun himself in charge) that they were to go to a more discreet location soon, in fact now, to meet an important contact. His name? A secret. First Captain Tauvene bristled as the very first inkling came that he was
not
in fact the author of his situation after all.

What is this situation? Kiown wondered as the group marched swiftly from the inn without talk, Tauvene ‘leading' the way. What were they now? ‘Defectors' did not fit, because it seemed to him – to all of them – that
they
had stayed on the same course, that it was the Arch Mage who had left the path of loyalty.

Tauvene paused in his stride. ‘Why is she still here?' he demanded of Evelle.

‘She is a loyalist,' said Thaun, smiling enigmatically. Tauvene bristled, not liking that answer at all. But on they went, marching half a mile till they came to a raised rocky platform with a cleared lookout, wherein sat a stone altar for a long defunct cult. Dragon worshippers, by the nearly eroded hieroglyphs inscribed.

‘Why here?' demanded Tauvene. All four Hunters saw the man's hand lingering near his sword hilt; each read the thought flash through his mind:
assassination…?
Kiown was tempted to reassure him that if they'd meant to kill him, three of them would still be relaxing at the inn.

‘Our contact wished it,' said Thaun, shrugging in helplessness.

‘He is an important “contact”,' said the First Captain testily. ‘Can you reveal his name yet?'

‘Shut up and wait,' said Thaun coldly. The First Captain recoiled as if struck.

At that moment an ancient man hobbled stiffly up the path with the aid of a walking stick. First Captain Tauvene's face spelled out his chagrin quite clearly as he recognised the newcomer.

Strategist Blain's angry, bearded face was curled as though sour tastes always filled his mouth. He pulled off a weathered cloak. The Strategist's robe beneath bled with shifting colours, poured sickly light into the clearing. He hobbled to a slab by the altar and glanced around at all present, taking inventory of faces, an eye lingering on the First Captain.

Tauvene was surely not a coward, Kiown thought. Nor was he as meek a man as he looked. The hypothetical tavern drunk assailing him would likely have had his neck's burden relieved rather quickly. It was fear for his career, not his mortal flesh, that had made him turn ghost white. Until now, all their talk had been plausibly deniable; he was no conspirator yet. It had been, until this moment, not too late to flee safely back to his general and report all he'd heard and seen, or at least leave this business to others until winners emerged to side with. No more. Blain's arrival had set his place in stone.

Blain caught his breath. He was so much feebler and weaker out here away from the castle's potent airs. ‘How many men can you get?' he growled at Tauvene.

Still reeling: ‘How many men…? The time frame, and … for what
purpose?
'

Blain waved a hand impatiently and spoke to the Hunters. ‘For his benefit. Events are as follows. The war march has begun. The final march. The castle is finishing off the game while there's confusion in the rebel cities. Wise enough I'd say, in normal times. They've ditched Elvury. Can't be taken back. Tormentors have it. It's theirs. Wasn't supposed to be that way of course. Terrible miscalculation. We've culled some trouble from the forces, but also wasted good stock trying to purge the monsters from that city.'

Kiown wondered what to make of the mix of
they
and
we
in Blain's speech.

‘In what order are the cities to be conquered?' said Thaun as Blain caught his breath again.

‘The east first, working down the map. Not enough horses to go around, as usual. War reaches Faifen by tonight, I judge.
If
they've the spine to fight that is, or else call it a massacre, not a war. But for us, for all of us, there's a more important problem, and the fool has caused it all by himself.' None present had heard a more damning vitriolic pronunciation of the word
fool
in all their lives.

‘What has he done?' said Evelle, in a tone so at odds with the ditsy sex-kitten Tauvene had briefly come to know that he blanched and turned to her in amazement.

‘You know what he's done,' said Blain. ‘Destroyed the Wall of course. You just don't know what it means. And nor does he!' Blain laughed. ‘Few do. Does the word “pendulum” mean anything to you? I doubt it.' Blain stared into the brightening sky, thinking. They waited. ‘Hall of Windows,' he muttered after a while. ‘The Hall of Windows, he based it all on that, on what pretty things it showed him. Amazing! What a sense of adventure he has. All in the Project must have that, and a love of risk, to do what we have done.' An uneasy look passed between the Hunters, though nothing rippled the serene surface of Envidis's face. ‘And all this fear he cultivated in our Friend and Lord, this nonsense about “Shadow” … you!' He pointed at Tauvene. ‘Tell me. Who or what is Shadow?'

Tauvene began to speak, then didn't. For the first time a smile broke out on Blain's face. ‘Stop quailing, you little shit!' he said, chuckling. ‘You're implicated. Doomed, understand? It's over for you. Be useful on your way to the grave. Who or what is Shadow?'

‘He is, as I understand it,' Tauvene frowned, trying to remember, ‘a mythical figure, whom some credit with actual historical existence—'

Blain laughed. ‘From the story books, eh? Just like the Invia. And the dragons.
Those
are real too. You.' He pointed to Kiown. ‘What do you know of Shadow?'

‘Nothing, Strategist. This is the first I've heard of it, or him, or her.'

‘You?' said Blain to Thaun.

‘Heard the name, Strategist. The context escapes me.'

Blain chuckled. ‘Would it surprise you all to know that until recently there was
no such thing
as Shadow? He did
not
exist. Now he does. And it all sprang from his mind, his new power. Our Friend and Lord is very … nearly …
there.
Whether the other gods can do this kind of thing, I don't know. Do you fathom what he's done? Woven a new thing, not only into present reality, but made it
part of the past.
This time a month ago, two months, three, you'd not heard the name. You won't believe me. You have memories, I'm sure, of hearing of Shadow. Of bedside stories, perhaps. Tavern tales. And the
fool
helped this happen. A forged letter from “Shadow” about the Wall coming down, given to our Friend and Lord. Feeding poisonous whispers to him, feeding a phobia, making it realer. It's here now, it has happened.'

‘What has happened, Strategist?' said Thaun.

‘There's a loose force in the world, that's what. Maybe enough to topple him, us, everything. And that's
without
the Wall's destruction to deal with on top of it all!'

‘Are we to eliminate this force?' said Thaun quietly.

‘Try if you like!' said Blain with another mirthless laugh. ‘No. Better we try to
use
it. We may need to, when the Pendulum swings higher and faster. We must study the new force, learn its ways. We must find it. Urgently. This Shadow. He is probably with the Pilgrims.'

‘The new war you spoke of?' said Thaun.

Blain laughed grimly and turned to Tauvene. ‘Have our First Captain's nerves settled? How many men can you get to World's End, soon as can be? I want a big number.'

‘For fighting duty? For siege duty? For…?'

‘Men! Men! Bodies, working bodies. Fool, dribbling jester of a man, we'll send you simpering into this ravine and find a more useful idiot. How many?'

‘Five thousand, at the very most. It would be difficult. Very difficult, if you wish it done quietly and quickly.' Blain made a noise of mock sympathy. ‘I can scoop some from the forces gathering for Tsith,' said Tauvene. ‘Some from Pyren's home guard. I can send for many of the roaming patrols. It would leave some homelands unguarded, which will be noticed.'

‘Five thousand? Not enough. Get more. Double that, at least.'

‘Where am I to get these troops? As you say, an invasion of Tsith and then all the rebel cities is practically begun, with some boots already on the road! But if this is your official order, I shall try,' said Tauvene in the tone of one trying to hide his disbelief. ‘May I ask for what purpose the men are needed, Strategist? Precisely who is our foe?'

Blain laughed again. ‘Your foe is whoever seeks to cross into Levaal South. No one's to get anywhere near the border, where the Wall stood. Fan them out, cover as much territory as you can. Concentrate on the roads and plains where a group could charge. Arm your men with longbows; use bolt throwers. Set up staves, pits. Lay traps. Create a moat of death before the boundary. Make examples of any who try to cross it. Be cruel. Crueller than cruel.'

Tauvene's mouth hung open. ‘That is … absurd. Your pardon, Strategist. I mean only to be useful on my way to the grave. That is too much territory to cover with any hope of—'

‘I'll find some reinforcements for you,' said Blain as though the First Captain had not spoken a word. ‘They'll be wearing the city colours of our enemies, if I succeed in my next task.
That's
in doubt. I'm not known for a silver tongue. I've some sworn enemies to persuade to help us. Tell your men to expect them, nonetheless.' Blain grunted in disgust, contemplating his task. ‘At least you'll have a god or two on your side. No one, not a single man or beast, is to cross the boundary. Understand? Not a one. Forget about “why” for now. Your weak fool brain has load enough to carry.'