Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm (6 page)

Albern drew another arrow, his quiver half-empty. He turned to Loren and Chet with a snarl. “Make use of those bows on your backs, or give me your arrows, but do not stand idle while she risks her life for yours.”
 

Sten kicked his mount’s flanks, and he, too, charged the Shades.

Gem, sitting behind Annis in their saddle, drew his short sword. It shook in his hand, but his eyes were hard. “Well, then. I had always thought to perish in bed, but death in battle seems a fair enough choice.”

“Can you help them?” said Loren, turning to Xain.

His body rattled in the saddle, his hands looking almost too frail for the reins. Loren knew his answer before he spoke. “My flames are nearly guttered. I might conjure enough to stop one, or mayhap two. But even that scant effort would exhaust me.”

“Loren?” said Annis, eyes wide with fright. “What do we—”

“Between my horse and Chet’s.” Loren drew forth her bow and nocked an arrow. “Gem, do not dare to strike except to save yourself and Annis. Keep close to the others, but above all, stay alive.”

They rode after Albern. Loren drew, the fletching all the way back to her ear, and sighted along the shaft. Mag stood against a squadron of foes as more slowly circled around her.
 

Loren aimed for a Shade, lowering her aim to strike him in the leg.

Blood dripping from his thigh, a trail for miles through the woods.

Loren tensed as the image flashed into her mind. The arrow went wide to strike the dirt.
 

Cursing, she drew another. Chet loosed a shaft beside her. It flew true, straight through a soldier’s calf. Albern’s bow was singing. Gem sat shaking in his saddle, holding his blade forth as if to ward the soldiers from coming too close. But they had no eyes for Loren and the others, only for Mag in their center.

Still she fought on, and her strikes had not slowed. They could not get inside her reach nor approach her from the side, for Sten stayed with her, standing at her back, guarding her rear as she guarded his. If he could not kill as many as she, still he could keep her from being outflanked. Any who threatened to break Sten’s guard soon found themselves with one of Albern’s shafts in their throats.

So intent were the Shades on felling the warriors that they had drifted to one side of the street, leaving the other open. Beyond them, Loren saw that at last they had stopped pouring through the entrance. The path to the Birchwood was clear, at least for her and Xain and the children. But despite their best efforts, Mag was hemmed in, and the Shades were close to surrounding Albern besides.

“Albern!” Loren yelled.
 

He risked a glance at her, and she pointed at the gate. His gaze followed, and she saw a light in his eyes. Then he turned back to Mag, and the light went dark.

Sten slipped. A powerful blow to his shield sent his feet sliding in the blood-slicked ground. His knee struck the dirt, and a sword flashed in a wide arc. He jerked his head back, and for a moment Loren thought he had avoided the blow, but then she saw a torrent of crimson gush from his throat.
 

Mag was behind him and could not see it, only that he knelt. She gripped his arm and tried pulling him up. Rather than rising, Sten fell onto his back, lifeblood bubbling forth.

The scream that poured from Mag’s throat was nothing human. Loren had heard its like before, and knew at once that she would never forget it.
 

For a moment the world held its breath. Chet froze with an arrow drawn. Even Gem stopped quaking. Xain had leaned forward in his saddle, one hand outstretched as though to send forth flame or thunder. But nothing came. Only the scream, piercing and terrible and filled with rage.

Before it finished, Mag was back on her feet, chopping trough the horde. She pressed into their mass, hacking like a woodsman at a cluster of logs. Even with her back unguarded, they could not fell her, but now at last their blades licked her flesh. Deep red rents appeared on Mag’s arms, and yet she fought on.

Albern looked back at Loren, and then to the open city gate that seemed leagues away. Loren gritted her teeth and spurred her horse forward.

“No!” he cried, and Loren reined up. “Fly, while you still can!”

She wanted to ride into them, and damn her vow not to kill.
 

A hand gripped her arm. She turned, expecting Chet—but it was the wizard, his eyes grim. “Fly. Remember Jordel.”

Loren ripped off her quiver and raised it, then tossed it to the bowyer.
 

He caught it with a solemn nod. Then he drew his sword and hurled himself into the fight, trying to cut his way through to Mag. But Loren would not watch. Loren would not watch.
 

Midnight turned at her touch, and they spurred to a gallop. In seconds, they had passed beyond the city on their way to the Birchwood. Northwood vanished behind the trunks—this time, mercifully.

seven

They did not stop upon reaching the trees but were finally forced to slow as the sun fell and the forest around them grew dark. Loren scarcely noticed, and so it was that Xain finally called them to a halt.
 

She did not move for a moment, looking at the wizard, confused.
 

Chet said, “The moons will not rise for hours, Loren. We can ride by their light if we must, but pressing on now is folly.”

Loren stared a moment longer before she heard the words, then nodded and slid from her saddle to let Midnight wander. Soon she was off among the trees, away from the others, eyes catching every mote of starlight to steer clear of a fall. But she failed to see the forest around her, spying only its ghost, just enough for her feet to avoid upturned roots and scattered stones. Instead of the trees and silvery starlight, she saw Albern’s ride into the Shades, Mag’s skin covered in cuts, and Sten’s opened throat.

It was some time before she could muster her thoughts. When she did, Loren realized she had wandered far from the others. She turned to retrace her steps and found that they had started a small fire beneath a canopy of branches. Part of her wanted to douse it, to keep them hidden in case of pursuit. But she could not muster the strength to care for so small a thing.

Chet sat alone, outside the fire’s edge. His knees were pulled to his chest, and his arms lay across them. He seemed to be looking at the firelight, but his gaze was far off as though he saw nothing.
 

A sharp pang in Loren’s gut reminded her she had not eaten for hours, so she went to fetch some meat and bread.

Something went
clink
when she opened her saddlebag. Loren lifted the flap and saw a small coin purse. Her spare, the one she had given to Mag. Slowly, she untied the strings and spilled the contents into her hand. Ten gold weights, gleaming in the firelight. She stared for a while, then returned them to her purse and stowed it in her saddlebag.
 

Her appetite was gone, so she closed the bag and went to sit by the fire. But once she reached it, she did not want to rest, so she kept walking past it and over to Chet. He looked up with a weak smile.

“You should eat,” he said. “I suppose I should, too.”

“I tried. Will you walk with me?”

Chet shrugged and stood. Together, they returned to the darkness. To her surprise she found it easier to see, and she realized with a start that the moons had risen. Loren had spent more time alone than she thought.

Chet stopped and turned away from her, heaving. His shoulders gently shook. She put a hand on his back, using it to turn him around. Once he faced her again, his cheeks were wet with tears.

“They were mindful, at least, of who they killed. I saw no children fall beneath their blades.”

“That is not always the case when armies sack cities,” said Loren. “Or so I have heard. I was there for the battle of Wellmont, but the city held. I saw no killing in the streets.”

He looked away, blinked hard, and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, Loren could hear him trying to sound as though his tears were not there. “You barely blinked. I nearly fell from my saddle.”

“We have seen killing before. Some more than others.”

“I am sorry about Albern. I knew him only a few days, but his heart seemed good. Mag and Sten, as well.”

“Aye.”

He swiped a hand across his eyes but tried to make it seem as if he were merely wicking sweat from his brow. “Loren, we must get away from here. We should ride into Dorsea and vanish where no one will find us. If that army came to Northwood searching for you, and was willing to sack the city just to find you, they will not stop their pursuit now.”

“That is why we must ride east, to warn the Mystics of their coming.”

“Will they not expect that? Will they not hunt us all along the road?”

“That matters not. It is the duty I have taken upon myself. I have been hunted before.”

“Duty?” Chet’s voice climbed high and hysterical. “Why would you wish this upon yourself? I thought to travel in your company, not die beside you. All the nine lands may be dangerous, but this is something else. You have done your time, unhappy and trapped by your parents. Do not misplace your duty.”
 

“That was nothing I chose. This is my life now, as it has been since leaving the Birchwood. Doom follows in my footsteps. That is why I implored you not to come. Even now I urge you to turn east, let your tracks lead you back home.”

Chet stood frozen, looking at Loren in fear. With a sinking heart, she realized he was considering her prompt. He finally looked away, shaking his head. “No. I shall come with you. Who could call me anything but faithless, if I turned away because the road grew dark?”

“Who cares what anyone would call you? I am happy to have you by my side but would rather see you safe.”

“And I you. That is why we should go, and now. Let others tend to duty. You and I have spent our lives as its victims.”

“I cannot,” she said, in a small voice. “I owe it to Jordel.”

Chet looked as if he might say more, but then her stomach gurgled. He stopped, collected himself, and shook his head. “Truly, we should eat. The road will grow darker still if we find ourselves starving upon it.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Hungry or not, I think you can swallow. Come.”

They made their way back to the firelight. By the time they reached it, Chet seemed to have shed some of the darkness in his mind. Loren wondered if it had been so easy for her the first time.
 

She had first seen men killed in mindless rage when the merchant Damaris had ordered a company of constables murdered to preserve the secrecy of her smuggled goods. Loren remembered her horror at the senseless slaughter, at how the merchant forced her to help dig graves for the bodies. Looking back on it now, Loren found she hardly blinked at the constables dying. She had seen much since then, so much worse, many more frightening things.
 

And yet she could not banish from her mind what had happened during the fight. She had chosen her target, and then she had hesitated. She had seen her father’s corpse, and her shot had gone wide. Mayhap, if she had managed to fire the arrow . . .

But such thoughts were absurd. With scores of Shades, her arrow would not have made a difference. An empty quiver would not have swayed fate.

Yet mayhap she
could
have done something. For one brief, thrilling moment, Loren had meant to charge in and rescue Mag however she could. Looking back on it, she would not have hesitated to spill blood. That prospect terrified her—and yet it made her wonder: why did she still hold so tightly to that ideal, when she had already taken a life?

That was different
.

Gem and Annis had already eaten and lounged by the fire, staring into its heart. Loren had not seen Xain touch his food, but then the wizard’s appetite was scant these days. He, too, watched the flames but every few seconds would glance over his shoulder into the darkness. His eyes flashed with interest upon their return.

“Good,” he said. “We must discuss our plans, and what is next.”

“I myself am most curious about that,” said Gem. “We have made our escape, and a narrow one. But what now?”

Loren sat by the fire. “We must warn the Mystics.”

“We know
that
,” said Annis, “but where do we mean to go? South to Cabrus? The High King’s Seat? I do not relish either choice, for we will find my family thick about us. And remember, even Jordel did not trust every one of his brothers. How will we know who among the redcloaks we should speak to and who will ignore the warnings to hang us as criminals?”

“If
you
will remember, Jordel told us where he meant to go,” said Xain. “His stronghold of Ammon, in Feldemar. He told me where it lies, and that is where our course must lie. His master lives there—a man named Kal, of the family Endil.”

“And you think this man can be trusted?” said Loren. “Have you met him?”

“I trust few, Mystics least of all,” said Xain. “But this, at least, we owe him: to deliver his message and let the Mystics do what they may with the tale.”

“But how shall we get there?” Loren stared into the fire. “I have scarcely a clue how we shall make our way to Feldemar. I know only that it is north and east of Selvan.”