Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm (15 page)

“That is too dangerous,” said Annis. “And it is a worthless piece of information next to your life. Whether they know we are here or not, our path seems the same: ride east until our horses drop.”

“It makes all the difference,” said Loren. “If they know where we are, we must learn how, or we will never hope to evade them. And we have no time to argue. To the horses,
now.
”

Loren went running from the room, but Chet was on her heels. He shook his head when she turned to him. “There is no time to argue with me, either. I will come with you. I am as sneaky as you ever were, and two are safer than one.”

Loren nodded, and they went off, back the way they had gone through the village before. By the time they reached the west end again, the Shades had halted just beyond the buildings. There were more than Loren had thought, scores and scores. She recognized Rogan at their head and trembled. She and Chet ran for cover, Loren thanking her stars that they had not been seen.

Rogan sat high in his saddle, his horse covered with thick plates of armor, same as the rider. He had a helm that left his face exposed, but it had dangling chains to cover the back of his neck. It made her remember Trisken’s tattoo—the tattoo that Jordel had eventually used to kill him, though at terrible cost.

They had missed some words between the Shades and villagers already, but now Rogan was speaking. “We will not turn back. All my life I have heard fine tales of Dorsean hospitality, and I will not be greeted with anything less. Or would you have me spread tales of your dishonor to the neighboring towns?”

“We have no room for so many,” said one of the villagers. He was somewhat older than Loren though still young, and stood forward from the rest of them as though he were their leader. “If you must rest for the night, we shall not begrudge you, only do it beyond the town’s borders, in the fields outside.”

Rogan studied him. Tall and strong the man might have been, but before Rogan he looked like a child. The Shade captain rolled his shoulders, and when he spoke it was as though he had not heard.

“We are looking for someone. A girl. She is young, and clad in a black cloak. If you came close enough, you might remark upon her eyes, for they are a bright shade of green. Has anyone seen such a girl?”

Some of the villagers shifted on their feet, Crastus among them, and his boy Ham standing beside him. But no one spoke.

“Come now,” said Rogan. “She would have passed through recently, no more than a few days ago, if at all. Certainly, someone would have remarked upon her passing?”

“As I said, take your horses back out into the plains and stay the night,” repeated the man. “If you wish, some of your men can come and buy supplies in town.”

Rogan pursed his lips. Then, with more speed than Loren would have guessed from his massive frame, he slid from the saddle. The townsfolk fell a step back. He came forward, and Loren saw the axe slung across his back. It was huge—the head at least half again as wide as her torso. Loren doubted she could wrap her hands around the haft.

The villagers were backing up slowly, but the man at their head did not falter. He took a step forward instead and hefted the club. Even he must have realized how frail he looked before Rogan, but he did not turn.
 

“Leave here, now!” he said, his voice strong. “You are not welcome!”

Rogan’s hand flew to the axe, and it sprang from his back in a flourish. He did not strike the man, but swung it into both hands and sent the handle’s butt into his chest with a
THUNK
.
 

The man fell to the ground, gasping, and Rogan seized the back of his collar. He dragged him to his knees and brought the axe around again until the blade was pressed to the man’s throat.

“I will ask again, since hospitality has failed us all,” said Rogan. “I look for a girl in a black cloak, with green eyes. Who has seen her?”

The others traded glances, and for a moment Loren thought they might answer. But Rogan did not wait. The axe jerked, and the man’s throat spilled blood into the dirt. Some in the crowd screamed, and they all drew back as though from a burning flame.

“Take the town,” said Rogan. “Collect the children.”

Chet was tugging at her arm, but Loren stood unmoving. She felt the urge to run with him, to leap atop Midnight’s saddle and ride off into the night. But these people would die under the Shades’ swords, and all to find her. She remembered the boy from the Birchwood.
Are you her?
he had asked, for he could not see Loren through empty sockets.

She shrugged off Chet and stepped into the open, drawing the bow from her back. “Rogan! I am here!”

Everything stopped. The villagers looked at Loren in fear, their faces orange in the torchlight. Rogan looked at her like a wolf eyeing its meal.

“Loren, of the family Nelda,” he said, almost sweetly. “We meet at last. I have eagerly awaited this moment.”

“Let them be. Whatever your quarrel with me, they are no part.”

“Whatever our quarrel?” Rogan threw back his head with a laugh. “Loren, do not feign ignorance with me. It says you think ill of my wisdom, and that is the height of poor manners. Do you think we would let you live to reveal what you know to the Mystics holding your leash?”

“No one controls or commands me,” said Loren. “And you cannot win, whatever you might do. Word of your coming will already have spread through Selvan at least, and has likely reached the Mystics’ ears already. They will find and crush you in your infancy, before your plans bear fruit.”

Rogan’s false courtesy vanished, and he found the look of a brute, thick layers of muscle encased in armor, and the gore kissing his axe was full of dark promise. But his eyes were bright and filled with a dark wisdom that frightened Loren all the more.

“Our infancy?” His face filled with contempt. “You think we are new to this kingdom? I drew blood before your first breath. I serve death itself. I am shadeborn. My master is my father, and in his name I will lay low all the nine lands.”

“I think you boast overmuch.”

“I think we are alike in that. You say you have spread word of us, but I think you lie. You have no friends in the nine lands. The Mystics themselves are hunting you, and the constables would throw you in a dark cell if ever they laid their hands upon your worthless body. No one else will help you. We killed your companions in Northwood, and your woodland kin in the Birchwood. We even found the village where you were whelped and raised, and put it to the torch.”

“
No!
” Chet rushed forward as if to charge the giant, alone and unaided. Loren pulled him back. Still he struggled, so she twisted his arm back until he winced.

“He baits you,” she snapped. “Leave it be. He is likely lying.”

“You saw what he did to that village.” His voice sounded like it might break. She knew he was thinking of his father, who had stayed behind after Chet had left.

“Your companion shows more spirit than you,” said Rogan. “A promising protégé. Sadly, he is too old for my purposes. But there are many others here who will serve the master well. Take them. I shall deal with the girl.”

The Shades at Chet’s back moved at last, jumping from their horses and charging at the villagers. The townsfolk raised their weapons, but as in Northwood, they were a rabble facing trained soldiers, and were cut down.
 

The Shades hacked men and women both until the few left standing turned to flee. But they did not kill the children. Loren’s heart stilled as she saw them pause, lower their blades, and seize any child in sight by the arm.
 

They threw them over their shoulders and carried them back to the horses. One took Ham, the innkeeper Crastus’s son. Crastus ran at the Shade with a cry, only to find her sword buried in his guts.
 

Ham screamed, tears streaming his cheeks as the Shade carried him away.

“Loren!” cried Chet.

She had stood frozen too long. The Shade captain was almost upon them. Instinct claimed her, and Loren snatched an arrow from the quiver at her hip the way Albern had taught her. She drew and fired, aiming low, and by good fortune the shaft buried itself in the joint between his thigh and hip. Rogan sank to one knee with a grunt but soon fought his way back to standing, snapping the arrow off where the fletching stuck out.

“Run!” Loren cried, and then turned to follow her own command. They vanished among the village buildings, Rogan limping behind them.

“Fly, little girl!” He boomed through the night. “Fly, and leave these innocents to die in your place. The bodies will stack ever higher until they wall you, and there is no place to flee.”
 

Loren had hoped the Shades would charge them, but she should have known it for the futile thought it was. They stayed behind and felled the innocents, even those who did not fight. Panicked glances over her shoulder showed Loren more children being carried away, slung across shoulders, or dragged screaming by their limbs.

Just beyond the village’s eastern edge, they found the others waiting, eyes wide with fright and horses ready to run. Together, Loren and Chet climbed into their saddles before stopping to look back.
 

Some of the buildings were burning in a bright red blaze that smeared its wreckage from one roof to another. The air was filled with screaming men and women—silenced by the wet sounds of blades into flesh—and the screams of children, which lingered on until they finally faded into the dark.

“What happened?” Gem sounded near tears.
 

“I cannot say,” said Loren. “If you value our friendship, never ask me again. Turn now, and ride.”

They did, while the nameless village died behind them.
 

eighteen

On and on they rode, Loren urging them to ever greater haste though they saw no sign of pursuit. The burning town was a memory before long, but Loren thought she could imagine the heat of flames through the night. Dawn came bleak and hopeless, and after a brief pause to survey the horizon behind them, she let them stop to eat.

“I do not understand,” she said, pacing while the others sat. “He scarcely chased us. Why stay to kill those villagers?”

“He is a cruel man,” said Gem. “Cruelty does not always need a reason.”

“He is
not
some simpleton,” said Loren. “I have seen savagery so strong it is almost madness. We all have. Rogan is different. He is cunning, and wise. He does not kill only for the joy, but for some dark purpose.”

“Trisken loved his cruelty well enough.” Xain rubbed at his throat as if nursing a phantom pain. The brutish Trisken had given him many dark memories when they fought in the Greatrocks.

“Rogan is
not
Trisken,” said Loren. “He is worse. Something darker, and more terrible.”

“If he is indeed worse, then all the more reason he would stay to kill those who cannot defend themselves,” said Annis. She was looking up at Loren with concern, and with empathy, neither of which Loren was glad to see. She was not a child in need of consoling.

“I think you look for reason in madness,” said Xain. “Those touched by a berserker’s fury do not act like reasonable folk. You cannot hope to control them.”

“So we must put them down. Is that your reasoning, wizard?” Chet spoke harshly enough to surprise her. Xain glowered up at him but said nothing. Chet held his stare a moment longer, and then returned to his meal.

They downed their hasty breakfast and rode. That day was no hotter than the last, yet the sunlight seemed harsher, and the wind seemed to nip at Loren’s skin. She guessed it was her imagination; the village, Crastus, and his son, Ham, were only the latest fuel thrown on the great bonfire of guilt that had been building since Wellmont. Still, it made her irritable, and that made her cross with the others. When they stopped to relieve themselves, or water the horses, she did her best to avoid them. Soon, they took her hint and only spoke when necessary.

By evening, the children were dead in their saddle, and Xain was nearly slumped across his horse’s neck. Loren felt as if she could ride for days if she must but could not press the party forever. She found a high rise in the ground and led them there—a place to rest while keeping a watch on the land around them. The others threw themselves into sleep, and Loren stood watch through the night. She looked out across the plains, and whenever she glanced at the campfire, saw only the burning village.

Another three days passed without incident. Whenever they saw signs of other people, Loren went to great pains to avoid them. The others followed without question or comment, though Loren knew that she sometimes took them many miles out of their way, greatly slowing their progress. But she would not endanger any other lives, not if there was a way to avoid it.

In the middle of the fourth day, they crested a rise and came at last to view the sea. In truth it was only the Great Bay, and not the wide ocean itself. But the Bay stretched for leagues upon leagues, wider than some of the nine kingdoms were long, and so it seemed as vast as the ocean to her. Indeed, it stole Loren’s breath when she saw it, sun cascading off its great breadth like a thousand precious jewels. She almost forgot the dark thoughts that had plagued her for the last many days.
 

“The Great Bay,” said Xain. “Where men first came to the Underrealm from the northern lands. Many long months has it been since I glimpsed its blue expanse. I never thought the day would come when I might miss it, and yet neither can I say I am glad to see it now.”