Jon Sprunk - Shadow’s Lure

Caim reached back and drew the left-hand knife. He held it up so the light reflected off the long blade. He still remembered the day he had claimed them off the body of a mercenary in Michaia. At the time, he’d had no idea they would become so much a part of him.

“I haven’t seen a knife like that in a long time. Not since the war.”

Caim believed him. The Suete rarely left their highlands far to the north in the lee of the Drakstag Mountains, and when they did it was to make war.

Hagan tossed another stick in the fire. “Mind if I ask what takes you up to Haldeshale?”

Caim put the knife away. Haldeshale was a region that had bordered his father’s estate. “I have family in Morrowglen.”

“Maybe I know them. I’ve been all around these-”

“I doubt it.” Caim bit his tongue. He was exhausted and not thinking straight.

Hagan pulled a pipe from his coat. It was a nice piece of craftsmanship, carved from a light yellow wood and polished to a shine. He filled the bowl with a pinch of dry leaves-wild talbac by the rich green color-and lit the bowl with a stick from the fire. He didn’t give any sign that he suspected anything.

There’s nothing to suspect. That was true enough. It had been more than seventeen years since he left Eregoth, an orphan and a fugitive.

“Maybe you do,” Caim said. “My father soldiered a bit, under the baron.”

“The old lord of Morrowglen?”

“I suppose. I heard his name was Du’Vartha.”

Hagan took a long pull from his pipe and blew the smoke up into the tree branches. “That’s a name from the old days. It reminds me of a story. About a nobleman who went north to fight in a great battle, and returned with a Fae wife.”

Caim nodded and tried not to appear too interested. “I never heard that one.”

“It happened not so long ago, during the empire’s crusade into the Wastes. The lord was injured on the battlefield and struck senseless. When he awoke his army had moved on, but such were his wounds that he could not follow.”

Anxiety stirred in Caim’s belly as the old man talked. He felt like he knew how this tale was going to end.

“He managed to crawl away,” Hagan continued. “Into an old, old forest where he thought to spend his last hours in this world. But just as he was beginning to lose hope, someone found him. A maid, alone in the woods. Day after day, she tended to him and cared for his wounds. In time, when he was able to ride again, he brought her back to his homeland, and she became his wife.”

Caim listened to the crackle of the fire as he digested the tale. Is that what they said about his parents? His mother was a Fae wife? His memories of his childhood were mixed up and fragmented. He knew his mother had come from a foreign land, but not which one.

Caim caught the old man watching him. “Nice story, but I don’t see how it could be true. A great lord like that, it doesn’t make sense his army would leave without making sure he was well and truly dead.”

Hagan shrugged. “Like most tales, it’s hard to know where the truth leaves off and storytelling takes over. But that’s how it was told to me. Lots of folks around here respected the baron. Du’Vartha, I mean. Even though he was a foreigner.”

Caim looked up. “He wasn’t from Eregoth?”

“No, from down your way. Nimea, or so I heard. It’s not uncommon. Eregoth is a tapestry of clans and families from all over. The Du’Ormiks came from the south, too, long time ago.”

Caim ground his teeth together. His father was Nimean? Why hadn’t he ever heard about that? “Any stories about why he came north? The baron, that is.”

“He was an exile. Some kind of trouble back home, before the war. Came up with some armsmen and made a deal in Liovard for a plot of land and assurances of peace.”

“But that didn’t last long.”

Caim meant it for himself, but Hagan nodded.

“True enough, but in the end it wasn’t the clans that came for Du’Vartha.”

“How’s that?”

Hagan glanced out at the darkness beyond the circle of their campfire. “What do you know about recent troubles in Warmond and Uthenor?”

“Not much. Talk of fighting reached us in Nimea, but not the details.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would speak your mind. I’m a stranger here, but even I can see that things are amiss. The people at the roadhouse were afraid.”

“There’s good reason.” Hagan looked into the fire for several heartbeats. “But it’s getting late. We’ll need our strength for tomorrow.”

Caim’s hands itched. “What were you doing at the tavern?”

Hagan tapped the ashes from his pipe and settled against the tree trunk. “Looking for someone.”

“Did you find him?”

When Hagan didn’t seem inclined to talk further, Caim lay back and closed his eyes. But even tired as he was, sleep eluded him. He watched the play of the shadows cast by the firelight on the branches overhead. Pockets of deeper darkness peered down at him from the spaces within. After a time, he fished inside his satchel for Vassili’s journal. With the book propped on his chest, Caim skimmed through the pages until a line caught his attention. He went up to the top of the entry.

Thirteenth day of Sorrob, 1126

It has been more than two months since my apprentice departed to the northern marches. I am anxious to learn whether my efforts in those lands have been for gain or ill. If the northern lands cannot be tamed, then all this effort and treasure have been for naught, and there will be a reckoning within the Council. Yet that may also work to my advantage.

The entry went on about Vassili’s personal agenda for two pages before Caim found another name he recognized.

Levictus has returned.

I have grave misgivings about the northern campaign, even more than before. The countryside is awash in uprisings, and the governor’s militia dares not muster beyond the walls of Liovard. Perhaps more disturbing, the stories of evil happenings in the outlands seem to have some basis in truth, though Levictus could find no direct proof. His distant gaze upon me as I write this is evidence enough. I intend to request an audience with the Holy Office today.

Caim set down the journal. Eighteen years ago, the north was in disarray, and the political winds were shifting. In the chaos, few would notice an assault against a foreign lord. And less would care. As Caim tried to imagine what those times must have been like for his mother and father, images of the old dream flashed through his head. Of Levictus standing over his father’s corpse. And behind the sorcerer, a great mountain of darkness.

A low droning sound intruded upon his rest. Caim tried to ignore it, but the buzzing persisted, and a feeling developed in his stomach. Like he was being watched.

Caim’s eyes snapped open as he stood up. The night was full upon the land now, its darkness blanketing the forest. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, he slipped the sword into his belt and left the shelter.

Beyond the firelight, the buzz grew louder. Caim stalked the sensation in a slow circle until he faced the northern horizon. He didn’t see anything moving on the bright, snowy plain, but the feeling never left him. There was something out in the darkness. He stood for a few minutes more, until the cold and the mounting pain in his leg forced him to move. He turned to find a figure standing behind him. It melded so perfectly with the darkness he almost didn’t see it. By its petite outline, his first thought was it might be Kit. Then it hissed and flew toward him.

Both suetes flashed in Caim’s fists. The figure raised a slender hand. He slashed, but the blades cut through nothing. The campfire shone through the thing’s parted fingers as it clawed at him. He leapt back, cutting again and again, but the thing paid no attention to his defenses. When the smoky hand touched him, a lance of freezing cold speared through his chest. The knives fell to the ground as his muscles spasmed.