Sean Russell - The Shadow Roads

Waving arms and legs, he turned himself so that his headlifted clear of the water, and he searched the darkness. The Wynnd was broadhere, but he could make out a line of trees, poplars, swaying gently in a softbreeze, moonlight shimmering off their leaves.

He set out for the shore, his strength seeming to grow witheach stroke. A light, appeared among the trees. It was unlike the cold light ofthe stars, for this was orange-yellow and warm. Fire .

The man who had once been Sainth slowed his pace as heneared the shore. He could see other fires now. It was an encampment, hethought. And then a strand of music wafted out over the water and wove itselfinto the night sounds.

Fael . He had found an encampment of black wanderers.

For a moment he hovered out of sight, silent in the slowlymoving waters. On the embankment some Fael men were watering horses in thedark. They must have just returned from somewhere. He could hear their muffledvoices as they spoke softly. The horses splashed in the shallows beneath thelow embankment, drinking, then lifting their great heads to peer into thenight. Their white faces appeared to glow palely in the moonlight. He wonderedif they sensed him here, in the dark.

“Nann is distressed,” one of the Fael said. “I have seen itin her face. And Tuath … Tuath has not been out of her tent in two days. Norhas her needle stopped in all that time. A vision has possessed her, they say.”

Alaan could hear the uneasiness in the men’s voices. Evenamong the Fael the vision weavers-for certainly that is who they were speakingof-were viewed with a mixture of awe and loathing. Too often their visions wereof dark events, calamities pending. Yet such visions had allowed the Fael toescape or at least mitigate such disasters many times. Thus the weavers weretolerated, even treated with some respect, but they were also feared andshunned-outcasts among the outcast.

“The one with no legs … he has unsettled Nann as much asany. As much as that small boy who makes speech with his hands. I don’t likewhat goes on. We should have been gone from this place days ago. Why we remainis a mystery to me. War is gathering, has begun already if the rumors are true.We should flee-west or south-as fast as our horses will bear us.”

“Nann is not foolish. She is wise and cautious, Deeken. Bearwith her yet awhile. There might be more for the Fael to do than simply fly.”

“We’ll not be involving ourselves in the wars of the Renneand the Wills-the wars of men. Our people have taken oaths.”

“Long ago, Deeken. Long ago. Nothing is as it once was. Up,you!” he said, clucking at the horse whose lead he held. The two men turned themassive beasts and led them back up the bank, into the firelit camp.

Alaan gazed into the darkness along the shore. Among theshadows there were bowmen watching the river. He could sense them.

For some time he waited, patient as the river, holding hisposition near to the bank. And then he slipped ashore, silent as a serpent.He was in the central open area before anyone noticed him.

A group seated beneath lanterns stared at him, gape-mouthed.A determined-looking Fael woman rose and was about to sound the alarm whenAlaan noticed a legless man seated in one of the bent-willow chairs. Alaanstopped, as surprised to see this ghost as they were to see him.

“Kilydd?” he said.

The man only stared at him, his mouth opening and closingsoundlessly, like a fish gasping for water.

“Go back,” the man managed finally, his voice a frightenedwhisper. “Go back into the river where you belong.”

The shaft of an arrow, jaggedly broken off, protruded fromthe links of mail, a bit of wine-dark blood drying on the polished wood andstaining the armor. Hafydd cursed. It had been one of those meddlers from thenorth who’d shot him-which he would not forget.

He cleaned the shaft with a fold of his cloak, then tookhold of the wood. Pain coursed through his shoulder, far worse than when thearrow had entered. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the pain washthrough him, like a wave of fire. He focused his mind on the feel of the shaftin his fingers. In a single, slow motion, he drew the arrow out, then doubledover, gasping. He tried to press a fold of his robe against the wound, but thearrowhead was caught up in his mail and stymied his efforts. The world began tospin, and he fought to keep his balance and push back the blackness at the edgeof his vision. Nausea shook him, and he broke out in an unhealthy sweat.

After a moment, the pain subsided enough that he could situp and examine the wound, half-hidden beneath his armor and the padded shirtbeneath.

It appeared worse than he expected-the foul Stillwater corruptedit, no doubt. He would have to bathe it in the River Wyrr. That would healalmost any hurt he might have. He covered the wound, ignoring the ache. Risingto his feet unsteadily, he set out into the wood in search of the river, whichhe sensed was nearby.

Less than an hour later he saw the Wynnd sparkling throughthe trees. He drank from the waters, and sat for a moment on the grass,exhausted-unnaturally exhausted. With great effort and pain he managed to pullhis mail shirt over his head and bathed his wound in river water. Almostimmediately, the pain receded, as though it had been driven deep, almost beyondfeeling-almost.

He set off, again, along the bank, where a narrow footpathhad worn away the covering of green. The breeze was redolent with the scent ofpine trees and the musky river. And then a tang of smoke reached him.

Hafydd was not beyond caution when it was deemed necessary.He was, after all, without his guards and not wearing a shirt of mail. Andthough he could press back an army with his spells, he was ever vulnerable toan arrow, as recent events had shown.

Creeping through the underwood, he pulled aside thethin-limbed bushes and peered through the leaves. Flames crackled, and he heardvoices speaking softly. People crouched around a cooking fire-a woman, a man, achild-eating from crude bowls. Beyond them, angled up the bank, an old skifflay burdened with their baggage, oar blades pressing down the summer grasses.

Hafydd watched them warily for a moment. Watched the womanclean their dishes in the river while the man doused the fire and the childpicked a few huckleberries from low bushes bordering the path. As he searchedamong the branches, the child sang quietly to himself, his plain, freckled facebobbing among the summer-green leaves.

To a man who had seen so many conflicts, they looked likerefugees to him-a family displaced by war. By their dress, likely people oflittle or no wealth, no property, certainly. Tenant farmers.

He decided they would likely not want to help him, agrim-looking man-at-arms, obviously wounded, likely on the run.

Hafydd drew his dark blade and stepped out into the open,grabbing the boy child by the scruff of his neck with his bad arm. If the boystruggled, he would easily break free, so weakened was this arm and so painfuleven this small movement.

“I want only passage across the river,” Hafydd said. “Nothingmore. Bear me over, and I will set your child free. Refuse, and I will kill youall and row myself.”

The father had stepped forward, but stopped when he realizedwhat he faced-a trained man-at-arms bearing a blade, his manner deadly.

“Don’t hurt him,” the father pleaded, his voice breaking,hands up in supplication. “Leave him, and I’ll bear you across. You need notfear.”

“He will accompany us,” the knight said. “I’ll release himupon the other shore, and you may go where you will.”

The frightened father nodded. His wife, white-faced and nearto tears, had begun to tremble, so that Hafydd wondered if she would collapse.The knight pushed the boy forward as his father stooped to retrieve his oars.