Jon Sprunk - Shadow’s Lure

One of the soldiers grabbed the cloaked man’s arm and yanked him to a halt. “Where you off to?”

The other trooper snatched back the hood to reveal a youthful face with a hawkish nose, topped by a mop of unruly black hair. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen or eighteen. The soldiers grinned at each other.

“What’s this?” the first asked. “He looks a little young to be out wandering without his mother.”

The cloaked youth looked away, but said nothing. By this time, the big soldier had come over. Still holding his mug, he grabbed the boy by the hair and forced his head back.

“You with the army, boy?”

The first soldier poked the youth in the kidney. “Speak up, boy. We’re talking to you.”

The big soldier threw back the boy’s cloak and whistled as he reached down. He drew out a sword and held it up. It was a northern short sword called a spatha, with a straight blade and a narrow guard. This one had a bronze hilt and a dull steel blade that showed the dents of a blacksmith’s hammer.

“You better be explaining yourself,” the big soldier said.

The officer came over. “What have you got, Sergeant?”

The sergeant dropped the sword to the floor where it rattled with a hollow clang. “A deserter is my guess.”

“Is that true? Are you a deserter from His Grace’s army?”

“Leave him be!” the oldster sitting at the table yelled. “He ain’t harming nobody.”

The officer gestured, and the other three soldiers hauled the farmers to their feet and shoved them against the wall. The old man protested, and was cuffed across the mouth, which only made him curse them more roundly.

“Shut him up!” the sergeant shouted. “Or tickle his ribs with something sharp.”

One of the soldiers drew a dagger from his belt.

Caim sat back in his chair, feeling the ache of his wounds. This was going bad, fast. He thought the soldiers would just give the youth a hard time, but the mention of desertion had changed his mind. He didn’t know Eregothic law, but a man could get hanged for that in Nimea. And most of the executions were summary judgments on the spot. But this wasn’t his problem. He could remain here in the shadows, with luck pass undetected, and be on his way. But what would Josey say? Would she tell him he’d done the right thing? In his imagination he saw the disappointment in her eyes.

All right, Kit. Where are you?

The officer reached over and pulled aside the collar of the young man’s shirt. A filigree of knotted blue lines was tattooed on the boy’s shoulder in the shape of three circles bound through the center by a fourth. Caim didn’t know what that signified, but the sergeant pounced on the boy all of a sudden, yanking his arms behind his back, while the other soldiers drew their swords. One farmer turned around, and was slugged in the face with a steel pommel. He dropped to the floor, blood streaming from a mouthful of broken teeth. The old man cursed at their oppressors. Caim reached behind his back. He had seen enough.

As the troopers herded the boy toward the door, Caim stood up. His leg burned like red-hot hooks were shredding the flesh. He drew his left-hand suete knife. Every head turned as he slammed its point into the wooden tabletop.

“Let him go.”

A soldier with a drawn infantry sword started toward him. Caim turned the ruined side of his face toward the firelight. The soldier drew up quick. Not quite what you expected to see in this backwoods inn, eh?

The sergeant hollered, “Yanig! Stop ogling the bastard and put him up against the wall.”

The soldier took another step. That was all Caim needed. He jerked the suete free from its wooden prison. The soldier gasped and dropped his sword as the knife’s edge sliced across the back of his hand. As he pulled back, Caim lashed out again. Once, twice, thrice, and the soldier fell back, disarmed and bleeding from holes through his light armor. Messy wounds, but nothing vital. He’d live if they got him to a chirurgeon.

The other pair of soldiers guarding the patrons charged over. Caim drew his right-hand knife and yanked the other from the table. These soldiers showed more sense, coming in side by side. One held a cavalry sword with a long blade; the other had just a mean-looking dirk, but he carried it like he knew what he was doing. Caim caught the sword with a stop-thrust and bit back a curse as his leg buckled. He remained upright and fended off a slash from the knife-man, and responded with quick cuts that sent both soldiers reeling back. Caim let the men limp away. His forearm stung, and the strain of maintaining a fighting stance made his lower back tighten into knots. He was afraid he would fall over if he tried to move. What were his options? Surrender?

Tiny voices whispered in his ears. When the remaining soldiers advanced, he didn’t have to call for the shadows. They came on their own, and the light from the fireplace suddenly cut out as if a wet blanket had been thrown over the flames. One soldier stopped in midstep. His mouth contorted in terror as a shadow dropped on his head and oozed down his face. The others shouted and swiped at the air as an avalanche of shadows fell from the ceiling. Behind them, the officer drew his sword.

Caim took a step. His leg burned like hellfire, but it held. Every step was agony as he crossed the room. The shadows followed him, crawling along the floor, across the walls, over the struggling soldiers. He could feel them watching him, waiting… for what? The patrons had fled. The back room was quiet.

Caim stopped in front of the officer. Up close, he looked even younger, but he stood his ground even as his men groaned and bled on the floor. Brave little shit.

“Get out,” Caim said. “And take the others with you.”

The young officer looked at the suete knives. “We’ll be back. With more men.”

“Then bring shovels and a priest.”

Caim dismissed the shadows, sending them back to the corners of the room as the officer gathered up his men and herded them toward the door. They watched him with haunted eyes as they passed out the door. At least they were alive. Their voices murmured in the yard, followed by the muted thunder of retreating hoofbeats. Caim noticed the cloaked youth’s sword was gone, too, vanished from the floor where the soldiers had dropped it. You’re welcome, whoever you were.

Caim dragged himself back to his table, where he found a cloth to clean his knives before putting them away. For a moment, he felt the desire to inflict a real massacre in this place. His gaze went to his father’s sword against the wall. Flexing his right hand, he sat down. The stew had congealed into a gooey mass, but he ate it anyway. While he tore off hunks of the bread platter and shoveled them into his mouth, the innkeeper pushed through the curtain with his wife at his back. Caim got the impression they weren’t particularly glad to see him still here. The innkeeper looked around as if he half expected the soldiers to come charging back any moment.

“Erm,” he said. The woman prodded him. “You’ll have to be moving on now. We don’t want trouble.”

Funny. That’s what I said. And where did it get me?

Caim paused with a shovel of cold mush halfway to his mouth. “You’ve already had the trouble. It’s gone.”

“They’ll be back,” the woman said from behind the innkeeper’s elbow.

He pushed his cup toward them. “Another beer.”

At a nod from her husband, she took it and went back to the kitchen.

“Please,” the innkeeper said. “Leave us in peace.”

Caim chewed his food. He wanted to be angry, but he understood their position. Those soldiers would be back, probably at the head of a small army. These people would be lucky if this shack was still standing a few days from now.