Reign of Shadows (4 page)

Furiously,
he circled the infirmary and classrooms. All the windows were shuttered firmly.
The doors were locked tight.

No
refuge anywhere.

The
wind blew stronger now, whipping his clothing and lashing his hair into his eyes.
It cut straight through him, driving him into a corner of the wall. Gusting and
shrieking around the eaves of the buildings, it seemed to sob and wail. For a
moment he thought he saw a blurry shape forming in the air itself, long talons
reaching out to rend him.

“No!”
he shouted, and shoved himself out into the open again.

He
wasn’t going to give up, and he wasn’t going to beg for forgiveness. There had
to be another way, one he’d wanted for a long time.

He
limped toward the main gates. It took four men to lift the stout crossbeam that
lay across the brackets of the gates. But there was a smaller pass gate, also
bolted from inside and guarded by a softly glowing warding key.

By
day the key was only a crude triangle of hand-hammered bronze. But at night its
powers awakened to guard against all creatures of the shadows, including wind
spirits and the unnameable things that crept the earth in increasing numbers.
Spell-forged by the mysterious, nomadic Choven, warding keys could be found on
the gates of the largest holds in Trau, or on the doors of the humblest daub
and wattle cottages.

Warding
gloves were required to handle the keys, but those were locked away in the
gatehouse along with the gatekeeper, who was probably spooning his supper and
refusing to listen to any knocking on his door.

The
glimmer of pale blue light in the distance made Caelan look up. He saw a
proctor gliding along the upper ramparts of the wall.

Caelan
shouted and waved, but the proctor did not glance in his direction. When it
reached the corner of the wall, it descended the steps and vanished from sight
among the working sheds.

Desperation
had many sides. Caelan’s resolution hardened. He’d rather be cursed now than to
chase down a proctor and beg for mercy. He’d rather lose a hand from touching a
warding key than endure another beating. Everyone in Rieschelhold could go to
Beloth, for all he cared.

He
looked around, but as usual no tools had been left lying about. There was
nothing he could use to pry the warding key off the gate.

Every
time Caelan stepped too near, the key’s glow brightened to a dazzling
intensity, and the metal hummed with a force that vibrated through his skull.

He
stepped back and scowled with growing  determination. Beyond the gate lay
freedom and hope. He could join the soldiers and shake the dust of Trau once
and for all off his shoes.

Although
most of the time Caelan daydreamed through his lessons, he had received some
training in
severance
at home from his father. And the extra drills from Master Mygar had not all
been worthless.

Caelan
squared his shoulders and shut his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate. All
his anger had to be gathered first. He visualized a chest with a lock. Placing
his anger inside, he slammed shut the lid. He visualized another chest. Into it
he shoved doubts, fear, cold, hunger, and thought.

It
was harder to do out here in the brutal cold than in the classroom under Master
Mygar’s cynical eye. Caelan could feel himself wavering. A trickle of sweat
beaded along his temples, and he gasped with the effort.

Focus,
he told himself.
Focus hard.

Then,
for a wavering instant, he felt a surge of icy coldness go through him, a
coldness that burned inside and cleared away everything. He seemed to stand in
a frozen place of pure isolation. For a second he could see ...

Now.

His
hand reached out and plucked off the warding key. Heat blazed into his palm,
but the pain was far away.

He
tossed the key aside, and it clattered and spun on the cobblestones before
going black.

Exultation
roared through Caelan. He heard himself shout; then the world rushed back
around him at its normal speed. He half stumbled forward, hit the gate with his
shoulder, and shoved up the bar.

The
gate swung open with a frozen creak of its hinges, and he went staggering
through.

His
hand ached intensely, but when he checked it there was no burn.

A
feeling of wonder spread through him, but he had no time to think about what he’d
done. Instead he spun around and shot a defiant gesture at the dark walls
towering above him.

He
was free at last of his prison.

With
a laugh ringing in his throat, he stepped onto the smooth, stone-paved road and
headed west at a trot, eager to catch up with the army he could still hear
marching far ahead of him.

Defiance
was easy enough in the heat of the act, but a far different thing when the path
was dark, the trail long, and only cold and hunger marched by his shoulder.

Caelan
gritted his teeth against fear, refusing to look too far to the left or right.
The forest bordered the road in ominous quiet. Now and then he heard distant
howls that might belong to wolves or worse. He kept quickening his pace,
refusing to run, but going fast enough to be breathless. How had the rear of
the army gotten so far ahead so quickly? All day he’d listened to them march by;
now there was only the dreadful silence of the woods.

He
thought he saw eyes gleaming off to one side. His mouth went dry and his heart
quickened jerkily. But then the faint gleam vanished.

Caelan
told himself he was seeing visions.

The
gleam reappeared in the trees, brighter now although still distant. He heard a
faint trace of sounds, an echo of laughter perhaps, and smelled food cooking.
Pausing in the middle of the road, Caelan realized he was seeing the lights of
a camp ahead. He’d found the army.

Relief
washed over him. It was hard to believe his lifelong dream was finally in his
grasp. At last he was going to live as he chose. All he had to do to enter the
army was to lie about his age. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He thought he
could convince the officers he was old enough to serve.

Squaring
his shoulders and brushing quick hands down the front of his short novice robe,
he practiced briefly what he would say, then strode toward the outskirts of the
camp.

A
shape barreled into him from nowhere and knocked him flat.

Half-stunned,
Caelan slowly registered a foul stench; hard, heavy muscles; and a triumphant
grunting. It was a lurker, and it had him.

Fear
galvanized Caelan, and he yelled with all his might, flailing wildly with his
arms to drive the creature off.

His
resistance only seemed to excite the creature. It leaped atop him, ripping his
robe into shreds. Lurker smell was nauseating, and Caelan gagged and choked. He
had no weapon, not even a tinder strike or a coal box. Lurkers were skulkers,
cowards who preyed on carrion and stragglers. Although vicious, they were
easily frightened off by simple tactics such as armed resistance or even lire.

With
regret Caelan thought of the knife he kept hidden in his clothes chest in his
quarters. He’d bought it at the fair from a Neika tribesman last summer. It was
forbidden, of course, and certainly not allowed at school. But he’d managed to
keep the proctors from finding it during their periodic room searches. What he’d
give to have the weapon at hand now.

Stupid
to be caught like this. With the wide, paved road bordered on either side by
deep ditches kept cleared by imperial order, he had felt safe. He hadn’t even
been thinking of lurkers this close to the hold or the nearby town.

Sniffing
along Caelan’s throat, the lurker laughed low. For a moment it sounded almost
human.

Horrified,
Caelan jabbed it in one eye with his thumb.

The
creature reared back with a howl, and Caelan was able to scramble free. He gave
it a kick that knocked it over, gained his feet, and ran for his life.

Shrieking,
the lurker lunged after him, and the chase
began in earnest. Caelan knew if it caught him it
would tear him apart in its excitement, or else drag him off to feed a colony.

Lurkers
were fearsome things, half human and half animal. Man-sized when grown, they
could walk upright or drop to their knuckles. Hook-nosed and fanged, they had
faces that looked semi-intelligent, and they were certainly cunning. Their skin
was usually mottled or covered with warts. Long silver hair grew to their
shoulders and hung in tangled locks filled with twigs and burrs. Said to be
originally spawned of demons, they skulked the fringes of fields and hid in
mountain passes. They preferred fresh meat, but they were also carrion eaters.
If they were hungry enough, they would even prey on each other.

In
springtime they were especially bold, seeking field- maids to force. If the
villagers did not kill women who were attacked, often they killed themselves
rather than give birth to such monsters.

Peasants
slaughtered lurkers at every chance. Whenever the creatures ventured too near
villages, the men formed hunting parties and rounded them up, driving them to
their deaths over cliffs. But still the bestial creatures increased in number
every year, migrating in from other regions.

The
one coursing at Caelan’s heels now was more than enough. Snuffling, it kept up
with him easily. Caelan ran flat out, arms and legs pumping, straining to hold
his short lead.

His
cut knee began to twinge, then hurt. He ran anyway, ignoring it, but the pain
intensified until every step brought a wrenching stab of agony.

The
lurker was closer now, snuffling and grunting in excitement. It lunged at
Caelan, and the graze of its claws on his back made him leap forward.

Howling,
the lurker lunged again.

This
time Caelan’s leg buckled under him without warning. He went down hard, the
lurker clawing his back with shrieks of triumph.

Mashed
beneath it, Caelan felt it grip his neck to snap it. Fear convulsed him, but he
was pinned and helpless.

The
lurker squalled anew, uttering a bellow of triumph that changed to a weird,
high-pitched sound and ended abruptly.

It
fell across Caelan with a thud and did not stir.

Breathing
hard, terror still running through him in waves, Caelan did not at first
realize what had happened.

Then
he heard running footsteps and voices. A light from a lantern shone in his
eyes.

Dizzy
with relief, Caelan raised his head. “Help me!” he cried. “Get it off.”

The
soldiers surrounded him and dragged off the lurker’s dead body. Sitting up,
Caelan saw the haft of a javelin sticking up from the lurker’s back. One of the
soldiers pulled out the weapon, and dark green blood dripped off the point.

A
noxious stench rose up from the wound, driving the soldiers back with wrinkled
noses.

“Break
that javelin and throw it away,” one of the men advised in slurred Lingua. “You’ll
never clean lurker stink off it.”

The
owner of the weapon grimaced, then cursed to the war god Faure. He snapped the
javelin across his knee and tossed it in the ditch.

Caelan
scrambled to his feet, filled with admiration. “That was as true a throw as
anyone could hope for, sir,” he said in flawless Lingua. “And in the dark, even
finer. Thank you for saving my life.”

The
four soldiers exchanged glances and hooted with laughter.

Not
understanding, Caelan stared up at them. His  eagerness for acceptance burned
brightly. It was hard to believe his dream was finally coming true. Already he
felt a part of the group. He had survived danger and been rescued. His eyes
drank in their mail and long daggers, gleaming in the lantern light. Scarred
and tattooed with shocking symbols of blasphemy, their faces looked cruel and
savage, but he didn’t mind. To him, they were heroes.

“I
thought you Traulanders were afraid of the dark,” the tallest man said. He was
swarthy with an evil-looking pagan tattoo on his cheek. Long plaits of braided
hair hung to his shoulders, and a leather thong kept them back from his face.
He wore a gold ring in one ear. “Comes dark, and the whole populace bolts
indoors like rats into their holes.”