Shadow (17 page)

The greedy River Misery gorged itself. And there went yet more armies, the men opening canisters to the sky to collect her flung drops without a word of thanks, on their way to kill others just like them. In Faifen the process was in full swing. A big number of them surrounded the city's walls, gathered about its main gate. Beyond its eastern fields, hidden in grass and the cover of night, more of them waited in secret with blades ready to get those who'd flee that way. The roads looked clear and unimpeded but those thirsty knives waited unseen. There came the first wave, and the knives caught them like teeth in closing jaws. Some were allowed to escape the massacre and spread the tale. Tempest drenched the fields, washing blood from the grass and dirt.

She battered window panes of a cabin where the mayor, Liha, sat ashen-faced across from a man in castle colours. He was alone, clean shaven and young, his face expressing grave sympathy. ‘Those who lay down their arms may flee by the gate, but shall vacate our land at once. They have an hour to fetch their families and treasures. After that…' He shrugged.

‘You will allow them to flee and join the other cities?' the Mayor said sceptically.

‘
This
dispute is my focus.'

Liha stood defiantly as she began to reply but Tempest, not interested in this drama, left them.

Sad creatures. The dragons had quarrelled now and then, but rarely done such things as this to their own.

Southward then, and where was Mountain? How good he was at hiding, for one so large. What were his thoughts? Hidden, always hidden! No matter. She stretched across the sky so that nearly all the ground at once got a taste of her water, right down to the very southern parts where Nightmare worked with some difficulty to keep the stoneflesh giants from going past World's End. The giants felt the same firm push that made the clouds go south, and each longed to cross over. How easily were the young gods frightened!

Her energy was easing. She folded in on herself, concentrated her rains on a small patch in the middle of the world, randomly chosen. Among other roofs, her heavy drops battered an inn. She looked through windows her water ran down in sheets, but she was dissipating, tiring, and listened to the men inside like someone hearing a story before sleep.

THE WARRIOR'S RETURN

1

The stool was a tad uneven under Sharfy's rump, tilting it like a boat in water. Or more like a boat in a tide of beer. Braziers and brands held the night off with a flickering glow that seemed angelic. The world was indeed a fine place, these strangers dear friends, and the tavern's rowdy babble a warm blanket wrapped around him. Bad memories were balmed or forgotten, or better yet completely rewritten.

Even the innkeeper's criminally overpriced beer was no issue any more. Everyone had complained until about their fourth or fifth. Sharfy had kept it up till he could barely see how many coins he shoved across the bar top through spilled overpriced puddles of it.

Like inns all down the Great Dividing Road, the place was stuffed with men who had hit on the only worthwhile thing left to do. The sense that all would be soon resolved was as strong as the smell of ale and sweat. Rain drummed the tavern roof, a heavenly sound drunk or sober. It reminded him there
was
a roof overhead, that time on the road was over, at least until his pockets emptied (and he had not forgotten the art of robbery, should that occur). And in all likelihood, time on the road was over forever. Let the end find him pissed or snoring. He drained his cup to that, slammed it down, slurred for another.

World's End. How that name had revealed its second meaning like a mask falling off someone who had seemed familiar. Sharfy kind of felt he should have understood it long ago, him and everyone else. An omen from the smart-arse seer who'd named it, laughing at the distant generations who would one day discover his jest.

The
war
was certainly lost, whether or not catastrophe crept its way from World's End. Lost with it was any sense of purpose to Sharfy's life. These men around him were just as doomed, yet only a few seemed to know it. Around the bar he could spot the ones who didn't know: grim-faced, they huddled together making plans, mapping out what each Mayor was likely to do, as if it mattered. The ones who had
half
an inkling were morose or shocked-looking, staring into the distance and draining more than the planners. The ones who
really
knew were cheerful like Sharfy, almost openly celebrating the life that was forfeit while still they could.

Sharfy drained his mug again, slammed it down too hard, earning a glower from the barkeeper. People looked at him that way so often he barely noticed. He belched and gestured for more, eavesdropping on conversation around him while waiting for his chance to jump in with a war story.

The talk was that nothing had yet come through from beyond World's End. There was some kind of veil keeping the place hidden from sight. What dwelled in the lands behind it? Some claimed it was people, just like those who lived here. ‘Perhaps their help could be had in the war.'

Some optimistic fools predicted treasures untold lay in mountainous piles for the taking, scales, gems and charms. They were going to go and claim it; who was in?

Others said in that place dragons still roamed free, and would come here to release their cousins from their sky holds …

All of it rot. A year of life left, Sharfy guessed. It would be spent downing all the beer he'd dreamed of when pulling roots out of the ground or hauling rocks in the slave farm. There were girls for hire in the parlour too, many of them having fled Elvury with no possessions and not natural to this sad trade at all. A buyer's market. Tempting. Looks alone certainly wouldn't get Sharfy laid and he'd not thirsted only for ale on those hard days. But he'd seen Kiown like a swine at a feed trough around girls for sale, like a cruel slobbering dog, and had sworn never to stoop to that (not that he never had). He resolved to slip some coin to one or two of them, maybe with a kind word, for the sole purpose of telling Kiown about it next time they met.

Next time. Strange, how hard it was to keep from thinking like there was still a future to be had. Meanwhile the old vet had finished his story about the Hashlam massacre and a gap opened up for a voice to fill. Sharfy jumped in fast. ‘Did I tell you about the Pilgrim, from Otherworld?'

Some piqued interest, some rolled eyes, surely directed at the old vet (whose story Sharfy too had found somewhat implausible).

‘Tell it,' said someone.

He didn't need to be asked twice. ‘It was a clear day. The Entry Point opened, right behind the castle. Like a window in the sky. There were war mages. Eight of em. And the Pilgrim came in. Clothes were strange. He wielded an Otherworld weapon, which he named
Gun.
It breathed fire, louder than … louder than when a storm knocks a big branch onto the roof.' Pleasing! He'd fallen dearly in love with
window in the sky
too. ‘Deadly it was,
Gun.
But he was so scared he couldn't use it. It was the first war mage he ever seen. It killed a hundred men who already came in. And it went for him too. I was too far away to help him. But the Pilgrim was a prince in his own land—'

A burly man in Faifen colours who had just sat down interrupted, ‘Pilgrim! My arse has spoken sweeter lies.'

‘Was, too,' said Sharfy. ‘You heard of him? Some people's calling him Shadow, but his name's not Shadow. S'Eric. I knowed him. Taught him some sword play. This scar? He done it. Wields a good blade. Fast as any I seen, since my war days. Fast as me, when I was younger. I teached it to him. So listen. The war mages killed a thousand other Pilgrims. But when Eric come through, I got there in time to save him. I jumped out into the field—'

‘You speak shit,' said the newcomer. ‘Never happened. None of it. None of the rest of your claptrap either. I heard you last night, belching such gas. We could be trading talk of what to do in this tumult and we're listening to your rot.'

‘Nothing we can do.'

‘A coward too. You never swung a blade.'

Sharfy almost slipped off his stool in outrage. ‘I sparred with Anfen every day on the road.'

‘Who?'

‘He won Valour's Helm four times. He was the one brought down the Wall. I was there when he done it.' The big man laughed. The others around him joined in rather than mind their own stinking business (or better yet, politely listen to Sharfy's tale). ‘I killed ten front-rankers in the Pyren battle,' said Sharfy, his good mood souring. ‘Did time in the farms for it.
And
I got out alive. You probably don't know about the farms. Or the mines. Cos no one gets out alive. But I did.'

The newcomer grinned wide through his beard. ‘Ten front rank, you say?'

‘Ten in
that
fight. There's been more.'

‘Finishing off the wounded after the battle, notching your belt, aye? Then off to boast. I've met such men before.'

Sharfy observed the man's left hand, where the skin was rubbed red from drawing arrows. ‘Ten front-rankers. That's
from
the front rank. Not sitting away from the blades with a stringed coward-stick. Safe as the Mayors back home.'

The burly man's eyes went hard. He set his beer down. ‘You saw me come in with my bow last night, it seems, but are too stupid to know the difference between a hunting bow and a fighting one.'

A ripple of quiet went through the room as heads turned to watch what was unavoidable at this point. ‘I do secret ops for the Mayors' Command,' Sharfy slurred. ‘Used to. S'why I met the Pilgrims.'

‘Then you are to be feared.' The burly man took in a mouthful of beer then spat it in Sharfy's face. The watchers laughed.

Sharfy got up from his stool, made the universal gesture of hand-to-hand challenge and headed to the exit. To lay this bastard out inside might get him turfed from the inn, and he rather liked this place. The burly man laughed at the challenge but he followed. ‘Merry one, you are,' said Sharfy, wiping the spat beer from his face with both sleeves.

‘A good bit of sport you are,' the man said cheerfully. No doubt in the fellow's mind who was about to be embarrassed. Sharfy was equally assured, though the floor seemed to tilt and he walked into the door frame on his way out. No matter. He'd been drunker than this and beaten better than this.

Only a small crowd gathered outside, the other drinkers put off by the rain still coming down and not wishing to give up their seats to watch what promised to be a brief and unremarkable fight. The two combatants squared off by the roadside. Sharfy's opponent was a few years his junior, much larger, with broad shoulders and a longer reach. He didn't mind that; the big ones were not used to being challenged and often swung clumsily. What's more, best an opponent of this size and they'd buy him drinks all night, hear every tale he wished to tell.

Mud squelched around his boots as he got into his preferred fighting stance for hand-to-hand. His opponent advanced, fists raised like a common brawler. Sharfy saw immediate mistakes in the way the man held himself and felt a surge of confidence.

A bob left then right, with good speed for someone so big. Sharfy himself however seemed to be moving rather slowly. He threw what he felt should have been a decisive blow at where his opponent had been just a moment ago. Which it turned out was far too late. A large forearm very swiftly tried to occupy the same space as Sharfy's head. With a dull explosion of pain slow to filter through the beer he dropped like a flung sack. His face fell in mud delightfully soft and cool.

One blow. What a mercy he would not remember it took only one blow.

‘Roll him over so he's not face down in a puddle,' said the victor when he was done laughing with the spectators. ‘Just because he's a fool doesn't mean he should be drowned.'

‘What about robbed?' said another.

‘Suit yourself.' More laughter. Sharfy blacked out as hands fished through his pockets.

2

When his eyes peeled open, a fine drizzling mist slanted against the dull orange from a group of distant lit windows. It was still night. Sharfy's head throbbed badly but he could not remember why. With some dismay he found his pockets relieved of their coins. He had taken far too much money to the bar … he thanked the Spirits for the little locked box under his bed.

The world spun a little and his head pounded. He shivered and sat up, rubbing his arms for warmth. The inn's bar – usually an all-nighter – had put out its lights, which could only mean they'd run out of beer. How much of it did my coin pay for? he wondered sadly.

Despite the rain he still stank of the beer which had been spat in his face (the very last point of memory which had just returned, and he feared it helped fill in the parts that were missing).

There was a shriek from the sky – and not too far – which was unmistakeably that of a war mage. Another sounded much further away, and another. Shivers went down his back when he heard how many of them there were. Most of the township's window lights went out at once. They'd not have heard the sound here in some while, but they knew it all right. He almost felt them passing overhead. Then their cries faded.

When Sharfy sat up it was a shock to find he was not alone. The man stood some way behind him with feet planted apart, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other behind his back. A hood covered his face, but Sharfy knew who he was looking at. The surprise of it stunned him speechless for a moment. ‘I wouldn't be here if I were you,' he said, his voice croaking.

‘I am not,' said Anfen quietly.

Sharfy grunted. His poor throbbing head did not need cryptic remarks, not right now. ‘Mayors looking for you,' he elaborated. ‘Bounties. Lots of military, hereabouts. Inns are packed with em. Some know of you, some don't. Some know who to blame for all the trouble.'