Sean Russell - The Shadow Roads

Caibre’s long life of battle had brought Hafydd memories andskills he had never dreamed of. Almost before the father knew it himself,Hafydd could see that the man intended to strike him with the oar. And when hedid, the knight easily stepped aside, pushing the boy down roughly and puttinga foot on his chest, the point of his blade to the boy’s heart.

“And I had intended you no harm.Yet this is how you repayme!”

The woman did fall on the ground, then, or perhaps threw herselfforward on her knees. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her entreaties almostlost beneath the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hair fell out of itsribbon and clung to her wet face.

“Don’t …” she cried. “Don’t hurt him! ’Twas a foolishthing my husband did. Foolish! I’ll row you across myself and offer you noharm.”

Hafydd stopped, his sword poised over the heart of the boy,who was too terrified even to cry. If he’d had both his arms, he would haveconsidered killing them all and rowing himself, but he was one-armed for themoment, and the Wynnd was broad.

Before the father could move, Hafydd struck him across theside of the face with the flat of his sword, a vicious blow that drove the manto his knees. Upon his face two thin, parallel lines of blood appeared, and theman swayed, dazed.

“Get up, boy,” Hafydd said. “You will sit in the stern withme.”

The woman strained to push the boat down the bank, but shemanaged and scrambled into the bow with the oars. Hafydd put the boy before himon the pile of baggage and took the stern seat, sword in hand.

“Row,” he said.

They set out into the river, the slow current taking hold ofthem. The woman put her back into her work, pulling at the sweeps with obviousfamiliarity. She was pale and shaken, her hair breaking loose from a braid andshivering in the wind. The boy sat still as stone, his hands covering his eyes.

“There be patrols upon the eastern shore,” the woman panted.“The river is watched.”

“And why is that?” Hafydd asked. She was obviously trying toingratiate herself with him, fearing for her child.

“The war,” she said, clearly surprised. “The Prince of Innesinvaded the Isle of Battle. That is what put us on the river. But we’ve heardnow that the Renne drove him back over the canal, with the loss of many.”

Hafydd sat back a little in his seat. That fool Innes wouldn’tgo to war without him? Would he?

“Is this a rumor, or do you know it for truth?”

“’Tis no rumor. We left the Isle as soon as the Princecrossed the canal. The roads were choked with people fleeing. We could havesold our skiff a dozen times, but we used it ourselves, to keep safe our child.”

Hafydd cursed under his breath. He left Innes alone for afew days and what did he do? Attacked the Renne- and lost !

The eastern shore was steep and falling away, trees leaningdangerously, their roots exposed. Hafydd had the woman row south a little, forthey were north of the Isle of Battle, she said. Shortly, the bank sloped down,and there they found a patrol of men-at-arms in purple and black-men servingthe Prince of Innes.

Hafydd hailed them, and they recognized him. The woman putthe boat ashore, silent now, looking warily at the men-at-arms, then guardedlyat Hafydd. The knight stepped ashore, tossing his shirt of mail down on thegrass.

“I must bathe in the river,” he said. “And then I will takea horse. Two of you will accompany me.”

The captain of the patrol bowed his head, not arguing.

Hafydd looked back over his shoulder at the mother andchild. “And these two …” He paused. “Kill them.”

There was a second’s stunned silence, then one of the mendrew a sword and stepped forward. The woman threw herself over her son, whereshe lay sobbing as the sword was raised.

“No, let them go,” Hafydd said, unsure why. Unsure of theodd feeling in his heart. “He is only a boy. Death will find him soon enough.”

He was cast down upon cold stone in a place of fainttwilight. The creature, the servant of Death, fled into the night, its cry echoingnightmarishly. The claws of Death’s servant had poisoned him, he was certain,for he could barely move his limbs, and lay on the stone waiting for Death tocome breathe him.

To his right, gray waters lay mercury still, to his left, ashadowy cliff. To his shame Beldor sobbed, sobbed like a child now that histime had come. But he sobbed half from frustration, for he had been about tosend Toren to this very place when Samul had interfered; and then the servantof Death had swept him up into the sky. He could only hope that the foulcreatures would find Toren, too.

The stone beneath him began to tremble, and a terriblegrinding noise assaulted his ears. Above him, the cliff shook, then appearedto move.

Death’s gate!

He tried to move, to crawl away, but at the same time hecould not tear his eyes away. Here it was, life’s great mystery. What lay beyond?No one ever returned to tell. And now, he would know.

The grinding of the gate seemed to continue for hours, adark stain spreading out from its base. Beldor had managed to wiggle a fewinches, and there he stopped, exhausted, his sobs reduced to whimpering.

How vain all of his pursuits seemed at that moment, all ofhis absurd pride, his boasts, his petty triumphs. He lay there trembling infear, like every ignorant peasant, his Renne pride reduced to whimpers.

From beyond the gate he heard scuttling and muttered wordshe could not understand. For a moment he closed his eyes, suddenly unable tobear the sight of Death.

Silence. But he could feel a presence-a cold, like openingan icehouse door. When he could bear the suspense no more, he looked.

A shadow loomed over him, black as a well by night. Not evena shimmer of surface, only fathomless darkness.

“So, we meet at last, Lord Death,” Beld whispered, his mouthdry and thick as paste.

“You flatter yourself, Beldor Renne,” a voice hissed. “Deathbarely noticed your passing-nor did life. But perhaps you will yet gain achance to leave your mark. To do something to affect the larger flow of events.”The voice paused, and Beldor felt himself being regarded, weighed. He struggledand managed to gain his knees, where he gasped for breath, his head bowed becausehe had not the strength to lift it.

“You might be of some small service, yet,” the dark voicehissed. “I am the Hand of Death, and I will give you an errand, Beldor Renne.If you manage it, you will be returned to the kingdom of the living for yournatural span of years-though likely a sword will see you here much sooner. Whatsay you, Lord of the Renn? A second life is granted to few.”

“Yes, whatever you ask,” Beldor gasped, “I will do.”

“Then you will deliver this to the knight known as Eremon,councilor to the Prince of Innes.”

“Hafydd,” Beldor whispered.

“So he was once called. You will tell him that Wyrr was laidto rest beneath the Moon’s Mirror.”

An object appeared from the shadow and was thrust into Beld’shands. It was hard-edged and bound in soft leather, warm as a woman’s skin. Abook.

“H-How do I proceed from here?” Beld stammered.

“Like this,” the shadow whispered.

From above a dark form fell through the twilight, and Beldwas snatched up in the claws of Death’s servant. He closed his eyes and clungto the book as though it were a shield that protected his life.

Hafydd leaned back in his chair, staring gravely at thebook. Beldor Renne stood by, watching, glad to have the cursed book out of hispossession. Just holding it had filled him with fever and dread.

Hafydd put a hand to his temple, the other arm immobilizedin a sling. “Have you any idea what you bore into this world, Beldor Renne?”