Sea of Shadows (11 page)

Twenty

M
oria shivered. Gavril’s hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. She glanced over at him, startled. His gaze was fixed forward, straining to see whatever was coming, rubbing her back absently, as if in reflex to her shudder. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped and scowled, as if it was her fault he’d shown a moment’s kindness.

You’re always so angry, as hard as you try not to show it. Furious at being sent here, to guard this forest—the insult of it.

That
tramp-tramp
vibrated through the earth.
The thunderous drumbeat of an army on the move.

It was a line from many a tale, but Moria herself had never heard the sound. The empire had been at peace ever since the desert hordes were vanquished in the war that had sent Gavril’s father here.

But now, listening to the drumbeat of footfalls, the line came to mind, as did an image from another tale. The army of the night. A thousand shadow stalkers raised by a hundred sorcerers, long before the Age of Fire. The dead rose, and they moved across the land like a plague, killing army after army, the warriors falling, only to rise again. An unstoppable force.

But it had been stopped. By the warriors of the North on their snow dragons. They’d ridden over the battlefields and blasted ice on the shadow stalkers, freezing them so the armies of the living could shatter their corpses with a single blow, giving the shadow-stalker spirits no place to hide.

It was a story often singled out as proof that bards’ tales were foolish nonsense. People would laughingly debate which part of the story was the most ludicrous: shadow stalkers, snow dragons, or clever Northerners. All three were equally mythical beasts.

As the footfalls drew closer, Moria calculated the distance to the stream. Could they outrun them on more open ground? In legend, shadow stalkers were relentless, moving with speed, yet never running, as if their broken bodies couldn’t quite manage that. But they had a second form, too—the fog, their spirit form.

She moved her lips to Gavril’s ear. “Would you fight shadow stalkers? If they’re in manifested form?”

“Of course.” He looked offended and a little bewildered, as if there was no question.

“Good. If they come this way and there are fewer than it sounds, we’ll fight.”

He frowned. “You think those are shadow stalkers?”

“Don’t you?”

He turned his gaze forward again. “It sounds like boots. But the search party is dead.”

Or it was . . . and is risen again.

As the footfalls grew louder, the drumming lost its rhythm and became scattered boot clomps, as if distance had made it sound synchronous. Fewer feet than she’d thought, too. Perhaps a half dozen men.

“It was near the fresh stream,” a voice said. “I heard a girl talking, then a shriek.”

She began to rise. Gavril’s hand on her back slammed her down.

“It isn’t shadow stalkers,” she whispered. “They don’t speak—”

“Shhh!”

“It must be guards, from the village. They’re searching—”

“Shhh!” His lips came to her ear, warm breath filling it, his voice harsh with anger. “Be still and be quiet, Keeper. For
once
.”

Another voice, from the forest. “Do we even know this is the way to the fresh stream? Liam has already led us astray once.”

Moria knew all the guards by name. All the villagers, too. There was none named Liam.

“Do
you
want to try leading us through this forsaken place?” a third voice said. “You should thank the spirits I’m here.”

They heard many accents in Edgewood, which drew guards from all corners of the empire. She’d only heard this particular one once, from a tradesperson. It was a guttural accent, not soon to be forgotten.

So who were these men? Not a rescue party. Even if someone from the village had escaped across the Wastes, it would be many moons before help returned.

“I told you I heard a girl’s voice singing,” the first voice was saying again, as the others complained about tramping over rough terrain.

“I think you’ve been away from women too long,” another replied. “You’re hallucinating. Next you’ll see a pretty maid skipping along the stream.”

“Mmm,” another said. “Is she swimming in the stream, too? Unclothed? If he is imagining that, I don’t blame him. It has been too long. They should have let us loose on that village before—”

“Enough.” A man she hadn’t heard yet, his voice quiet but firm. “All of you. If one of those guards did survive, we won’t hear him with all your jaw flapping.”

Gavril shifted, his hand on her back, his leg tensing over hers. On her other side, Daigo squirmed closer, too, leaning against her, one paw resting on her outstretched hand.

“Don’t move,” Gavril whispered in her ear. “Whatever happens, don’t move.”

It’s not like I could anyway. With you and Daigo practically on top of me.

She made a noise of agreement. Gavril eased back. Then he let out a curse. He looked around frantically, and began wriggling out of his tunic. She didn’t avert her eyes. He’d told her not to move.

He winced as he tugged it over his head wound. Then he handed it to her.

“Cover your hair.”

“What?”

“Your—” The crack of a twig, telling them the men were almost on them. Gavril cursed and grabbed her hair, twisting it up over her neck, then slapping the tunic down over it. He adjusted it until her face was shadowed under the folds.

Moria lay still and tried not to breathe too deeply. She could smell the tunic. It wasn’t pleasant. However, the brief sight of Gavril without it had been quite nice, so she remembered that and ignored the rest.

She saw a flicker of movement through the trees. Then all went dark as Gavril fussed with the tunic, pulling it farther over her face. She waited until he turned away, then tugged it back enough to see again.

The men were, it seemed, not coming directly toward them, but off to the side, taking a clearer path. Still, as a figure took shape, Moria lowered her chin to the ground, her face better hidden by the tunic’s shadow. She’d pulled her hands into her own tunic. Gavril had tucked his forearms under him. Even Daigo had slitted his yellow eyes. No flash of color would betray them.

She could see figures now. Five of them, heading for a gap in the thick forest. They stepped into the light, and she watched them troop past, single file. Strangers, as she expected. Men from all corners of the empire, skin tones ranging from the light brown of oakwood to nearly black. One man’s head was shaven. Another wore warrior’s braids. The last man was the palest, with hair the color of copper.

For someone from Edgewood, accustomed to new guards and traveling merchants, the diversity was expected. It wasn’t until she truly thought about it that the regional variance seemed odd. If these men were responsible for somehow raising the shadow stalkers, it would make sense for them to come from the same area. A strike against the emperor meant one region in revolt.

Is that what you think this is? A strike against the emperor?

I don’t know.

What also startled her was their manner of dress. Or, more aptly, their swords and daggers, given their manner of dress. They wore the heavy boots favored by guards, and similar sleeveless tunics, leaving their arms bare to swing a blade freely. Two had cloaks over their shoulders. Their breeches were simple and more form-fitting than was the fashion.

While guards were allowed to commission their own clothing, there were severe restrictions on color and cut, so they would present a uniform image. These men’s clothes came in a variety of shades and cuts. Moreover, that clothing was filthy and ill kept, tears left unmended, boots scuffed and worn. Their own appearances were just as unkempt—with untrimmed beards and unshaven faces. If any guard showed up in such condition, he’d be on toilet-cleaning duty for a moon.

“Mercenaries,” Gavril whispered in her ear. “Hired blades.”

Moria had heard of such a thing. Not every warrior in the empire lived in a barracks, of course. That would hardly befit members of the highest caste. The guards they saw in Edgewood were usually from low-ranking families.

Other warriors owned property or became warlords or climbed the ranks in court itself. But there were those of lower ranks who had no hope of property or position and no interest in service. They hired their swords to whoever would purchase them.

The stories she’d heard about mercenaries were not flattering. True warriors considered them a stain on the caste; warriors were supposed to serve the empire. Mercenaries served only themselves. Perhaps even worse, they did not follow the warrior code.

Sometimes bards would sing heroic songs of the lone warrior, the blade without a warlord, a noble and dashing hero. Looking at these ragged men and hearing them talk, Moria would now place those stories alongside those of snow dragons, as products of a romantic—or optimistic—imagination.

The men filed past. Moria craned her neck to follow, making note of everything from their faces to their clothes to the cut of their weapons. The last part was, unfortunately, most impressive. Whatever care they neglected to give their bodies and garments they seemed to have paid to their weaponry. Their swords were clearly new—not ancestral blades—but they were the highest quality. True and strong steel, free of the adulterated metals and nicks and scrapes one saw on the purchased weapons of the lower-born guards.

They had more than blades, too. Two mercenaries bore bows. Another had a quiver of darts. Yet another wore a whip coiled on his belt. True warriors were forbidden such weapons; they were left to hunters and farmers.

Today the goddess showed some modicum of mercy, and the men continued on to the streambed. She could hear them sloshing and slopping in the mud. She and Gavril had walked on the firmer ground, but she still tensed, certain they’d spot a stray footprint.

The mercenaries split up, going both ways along the stream. Then came a cry. A body had been spotted.

Moria strained to listen as they seemed to decide Orbec was newly dead, and that’s what their comrade had heard—the warrior shouting or cursing, and then his death scream.

She listened as the footsteps retreated the way they’d come—after the mercenaries had stripped anything usable from Orbec. Still, she and Gavril stayed where they were until Daigo nudged her and rose, meaning even he could no longer hear the men.

Moria plucked the tunic from her head as they crawled out and stood. She handed it to Gavril.

“You ought to wear a hood,” he said. “Something to cover that hair and skin. I don’t know how you Northerners survive outside your land of ice and snow.”

He pulled his tunic on. She watched. He didn’t seem to notice, his gaze distant, looking toward Orbec’s body.

“I took his dagger,” she said.

“So I saw.” Still no expression.

“I thought I should. It’s an ancestral blade. I’ll return it to his family.”

He nodded curtly. “Good. Might as well use it, too, while you have it.”

Was he mocking her? His voice lacked the edge that usually crept in when he did.

“I wasn’t sure if I ought,” she said. “It seemed wrong, but it also seemed wrong to leave it. What does the warrior’s code say?”

She expected him to snap some retort. But he only shrugged.

“Nothing specific. You acted out of respect. While carrying another warrior’s sword is forbidden, the code allows for necessity, too, under the circumstances. You’ll honor his memory. They—” He hooked his finger toward the departed mercenaries. “They’d sell it to the first merchant they found.”

“What were those men?”

“Mercenaries,” he said, as he turned in the direction of the stream.

“You said that. I mean what are they doing out here? They mentioned the village. They must be connected with what happened—”

“We don’t know what happened. But if you stop talking and start walking, perhaps we’ll live long enough to find out.”

Twenty-one

A
s they’d hoped, the stream ended at the swamp, less than a hundred paces from the canyon wall. The very air seemed different here. Warmer. Easier to breathe. Daigo bounded ahead, leaving them clamoring to keep up.

When Moria reached the canyon wall, she put her hands on it outstretched, eyes closed, as if communing with its spirit. She expected Gavril to make some sarcastic comment. He only mumbled that they ought to get into the village while there was still light to see.

They walked along the wall, Moria keeping one hand on the cold stone, until they reached the opening. Gavril stood at the base of the first tower, peering up as if he expected to see someone there.

“It’s empty,” she said. “Everyone is—”

“This
guard tower
is empty,” he said, and strode ahead into the village proper.

She wanted to be wrong. She prayed to the spirits that she was. Prove that she’d exaggerated the danger. That people had survived. They’d been sleeping or hiding, and they were alive and fine.

As Moria passed through the gates, she stared out at the dark, silent village and knew she’d not been wrong. She wanted to drop to her knees and weep. Ashyn would. Moria stared out, dry-eyed, and felt . . .

A little less than human.

When Gavril returned with lanterns, she knew he’d seen no sign of life. He’d be quick to tell her otherwise, to prove her wrong.

I wish you could. You may forever afterward call me a child, a careless girl who flits after butterflies. Just prove I was mistaken.

They continued on, walking side by side to the barracks. Gavril stopped inside the door and shone his lantern about. Moria headed straight for the ladder down to the cells. The top hatch was open. The guard’s chair at the bottom was empty. So, too, was Ronan’s cell. She ran her light over the walls and down to the floor. There were no signs of blood or struggle. Daigo stalked up and down the hall, then grunted in satisfaction, as if reaching the same conclusion.

“They’re gone,” Moria said as Gavril came down the ladder.

He did his own inspection. Then he said, “They’re not
gone
, Keeper. They’ve left. Of their own volition.”

He glanced over, as if expecting her to argue, but she only nodded before heading back to the ladder. She didn’t ask what he’d found upstairs. Again, he’d tell her if it was good news.

They went out. He followed now, letting her and Daigo lead the way.

She should go home. That wall in her head quivered at the thought, but she pushed on. It would be the first place Ashyn would go.

They found blood just past the barracks, where the public buildings ended and the private homes began. A pool of crimson with an empty spot in the middle. A spot where someone had lain . . . then risen again.

They were about to pass the blood when Daigo stopped. His nose was to the ground, sniffing something. He lifted his head and grunted, calling Moria back.

She shone the lantern light on a bloodied print. A massive paw.

“Tova,” she whispered.

There was another, fainter print heading away.

“They passed here,” she said. “They saw the blood. Tova stepped in it.”

Daigo rolled his eyes.
Dogs. Such clumsy beasts.
Moria managed a half smile and slung her arm over his neck in a quick embrace. When she stood, Gavril was there, looking relieved.

“See?” he said. “I told you—”

“Stop telling me,” she said. “Please.”

“I’m only—”

She looked up at him. “Do you think I want to be proven right?”

He had the grace to dip his gaze and waved her on.

She began searching houses as they reached them. The doors were unlocked. That wasn’t unusual in Edgewood, where people only latched doors when a trade wagon was in town. Last night, though . . . After what happened in the forest? They would have locked their doors.

The first house was empty. So was the second. In the third, they found death. A woman, so bloodied and torn that Moria couldn’t be sure who it was, and preferred not to struggle to recall.

When Moria turned to leave, Gavril was blocking her path. She thought he was going to give some explanation for what they’d found, but his gaze was fixed on the corpse. She circled past, and he made no move to stop her. Only when she reached the road did she hear his boot steps behind her.

They found more bodies. More blood where there were no bodies. Sometimes the condition of the corpses meant Moria could pretend it wasn’t someone she’d known all her life. Other times, there was no doubt. Faces so familiar she knew them even in the half light. Faces fixed in looks of agony and horror, each one chipping a block from that wall, letting her feel a little more.

Most who remained were women. A deliberate choice, she was sure. That’s why they found no guards. The warriors had been killed and had risen again, as had the other able-bodied men.

Building an army.

The men had risen, and their wives . . . Moria knew that the men were responsible for the corpses she’d found. They’d risen, possessed by shadow stalkers, and slaughtered their own families.

But the children . . . ? That’s what she didn’t understand. There were no children. She was blessedly glad not to find them horribly murdered, like their mothers. But what had happened to them? Had they died and risen again? Perhaps the older boys, even the older girls. Yet they were all gone, down to the baker’s daughter, barely able to toddle.

Again, she had to brush past Gavril in the doorway. He’d been better after the first house, but now he seemed frozen in the baker’s home. She pushed on. The next house was hers. When she neared it, her head started to throb. She rubbed the back of her neck. It didn’t help. Nothing would help but getting past this.

As she pulled open the door, she heard a soft flutter, like the wings of a moth. She lifted the lantern and saw a note pinned to the door with a needle. A note in her sister’s handwriting.

Moria grabbed it and smoothed it as she turned to sit on the front stoop, lantern perched on her lap, light leaping over the paper.

Moria,

Wenda says you’re with the children, long gone, but in case she is wrong, I ought to leave a note.

Everyone is dead or missing. I do not know what has happened, only that I am certain you are safe, because I would feel it otherwise. Father is . . . You know what has happened. I will speak no more of it until I see you, which I pray will be soon.

Men took the children. Men on horseback. I do not know why. Wenda believes she saw you with them, so we follow. The horses head east. There is nowhere else to go, I suppose.

If you find this note, come, but take care. Ronan has left us, but I am with Tova and Gregor of the guards, and I have my dagger, which I am quite capable of using, however much you insist otherwise. We are safe and we are fine, and I do not wish you to kill yourself rushing to my rescue. I do not need rescue. I need my sister, alive and unharmed.

Ashyn

“They’re safe,” Moria whispered to Daigo, sitting beside her. “Ashyn and Tova. They’re safe.”

He chuffed, as if this was never in question. She looked up to tell Gavril but found herself staring into the night.

She hurried back to the baker’s house and strode into the bedroom to see the baker’s wife on the floor. She was turning to leave when she spotted Gavril. He stood in the corner, his back against the wall, lantern out, staring at the body.

She walked to him. She wanted to comfort him. But she didn’t know the words, and even if she did, she didn’t think she could speak them. In refusing to accept her account of the massacre, he’d denied her any comfort, and she could not find it in herself to offer some to him. Ashyn would.

But Ashyn isn’t here. All you have is me, and I can’t grant you anything that you wouldn’t grant me.

“We need to—” Moria began.

“I knew her.”

“You knew all of them.” She heard the snap in her words and wished she regretted it. She didn’t. She wanted to shout at him. To pound at him.
They’re dead. My village—our village—they’re dead. Do you see that? Do you finally see it?

“She brought our bread,” he said. “Every day. When she had honey cakes, she always kept one for me. ‘In your father’s memory,’ she’d say. She remembered seeing my parents’ wedding, when she was a child. There was a parade, and my father waved to her, and my mother tossed her a honey cake. She remembered that.” He paused. “She was kind to me.”

“They all were. You just didn’t care to notice.”

He dipped his chin, and she did feel guilt then, just a twinge.

“They’ve taken the children,” she said.

His chin shot up, gaze swinging to her. “What?”

She lifted the note. “It’s from Ashyn. She’s with a few others. They’re following men on horseback who took the children. A girl saw me with them. Or saw another phantasm, I suspect.”

“I don’t understand.” He looked at the baker’s wife. “It’s all . . . I don’t understand. This isn’t . . . Something’s gone wrong.”

“Yes. Our village is gone. The women massacred, the men turned to shadow stalkers, the children stolen. I believe that qualifies as ‘something gone wrong.’”

She expected her tone to rouse him to anger, to slough off his shock. But he only stared at the dead woman.

“We need to go after my sister,” she said. “Find her.”

“Yes.”

“And we need to tell someone. Out there. Warn them.”

“Tell . . . ?” His voice faded to a whisper. “Yes, I suppose that’s all that can be done. My duty . . .” He swallowed. “Tell someone. Warn them.” He pushed to his feet so fast Daigo jumped. Then he turned on Moria, and in a blink, the old Gavril was back, his face stone, his eyes harder still. “Let’s see that note.”