Jon Sprunk: Shadow’s Lure

When Caim caught up, the stag was kicking weakly on its side. There was no sign of the strange transformation it had undergone. Caim drew one of the long suete knives sheathed in the harness at the small of his back and put the animal out of its misery. He tied its legs together while bright red blood pumped out into the snow.

Kit floated at his side and watched the animal’s last throes. “Did you see the way it looked at you? It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Kit continued to chatter as Caim dragged the carcass in the direction of his camp. He hadn’t known what to expect when he decided to come north. Eregoth loomed in his memory like a half-forgotten nightmare, but the last Nimean outpost was six days behind them and they hadn’t seen another living soul since. Of course, he traveled cross-country, avoiding anything more established than hunting trails. Game was plentiful; he wouldn’t starve if he could manage to keep from freezing to death. But he hardly slept anymore, and when he did the dreams were waiting for him, worse than before. And he saw things, too. Shadow things, like what happened with the stag. They appeared without warning, day and night. Ever since Othir.

“You’re passing it,” Kit chided over his head.

Caim stopped beside a screen of brush. Through the canopy of tree branches, the sky was a sheet of cobalt. The moon hung low, a slender sickle among the evening’s first stars. He dropped his prize and knelt down to clean it. With the bloody meat in hand, he kicked snow over the carcass and tromped through the undergrowth.

His camp was a lean-to and a fire pit, which had gone out in his absence. Once he got the fire going again, he spitted the meat and set it over the flames. Then he cleaned his hands in the snow and settled back against the tree supporting his impromptu shelter.

Kit appeared before him, standing in the fire. Her arms were folded across her chest, a bad sign. Caim took a deep breath to prepare for the onslaught.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Waiting for my supper.”

“You know what I mean!” She waved her hands over her head. “Why are we here?”

“You know why, Kit.” He broke a pair of semi-dry branches in half and tossed them into the fire. “You were all in favor of this before.”

“When?”

“Back in Othir. You heard me explain it to Josey. You didn’t have any objections then.”

“Yes, I did. I just didn’t voice them.”

He turned the spits. “Then you forfeited your chance.”

“I’m voicing them now! Look at you. You’re half frozen, living like an animal. And you don’t have any idea what you’re searching for. Do you?”

Caim grunted, but it came out like a clearing of his throat. When was the last time you agreed with anything I did, Kit? But she was always there, every time he fell down, even if sometimes it was only to throw salt in his wounds. “I’m tired, Kit. Let it go.”

She floated over to sit beside him and leaned against his arm. Ghostly tickles raised gooseflesh under his leathers. “Why don’t we go to Arnos? Just the two of us, down to the Midland shore. Bright beaches, clear waters. By the time we get there, it would be warmer-”

He scooted away from her. “Cut it out, Kit.”

“Fine.”

With a last glower, she vanished. No sparkles, no glitter. Out in the gathering darkness, an owl hooted. The air seemed colder when she was gone. What was he trying to prove? That he didn’t need anyone? He’d spent most of the first week after he left Othir looking over his shoulder, hoping Josey had ignored his admonition not to come after him. Even after he stopped looking back, that didn’t make his decision to continue north any easier. The encounter with Levictus was still fresh in his mind.

The wind died down for a moment, making the sorcerer’s next words resound like thunder crashing over Caim’s head. “ She dwells in the peerless realm of her ancestors, beyond the veil in the Land of Shadow.”

The Land of Shadow. Children’s nonsense. But it wasn’t. Caim reached out his hand and called to the darkness. A patch of shadow appeared in his palm. It came with hardly any effort. The shadows. The stag. His dreams. What else was changing?

Caim gave a mental push and the shadow slid away. After giving the spits another turn, he ducked inside the lean-to, where his few possessions were pushed against the canvas wall. On top of the pile lay a long bundle wrapped in burlap. He reached inside and pulled, and the sword slid clear of its housing with a whisper. The black blade reflected no shine from the firelight. It had lain in the ground behind Kas’s cabin for almost twenty years, yet showed not the least sign of tarnish.

Where did you come from?

As if in answer, a tremble slithered up his arm. And then the night came alive. The sky lightened to milky gray. The trees stood taller and shed their shady cloaks, and the snow gleamed beneath him like a blanket of stardust.

Caim thrust the sword back into its scabbard. When his hand left the hilt, his vision returned to normal. With a grimace, he folded the burlap over the end and shoved the entire thing under a blanket, where it made a conspicuous hump. He pulled over the bulging satchel. Under layers of spare clothes, he found a narrow book bound in a black cord. It was Archpriest Vassili’s personal journal, given to him by Josey. There had also been papers for safe passage, but he’d burned them. From what he had seen journeying north, any document found on his person tying him to the new empress would do him more harm than good. If things had been bad in Nimea before the Church’s downfall, they were worse now. There was no law beyond the length of a sword’s blade. The nobles squabbled over land rights while the commons stole off to become brigands.

Caim cracked open the book, and a square of parchment slid out onto his lap. He held it up. A capital letter J was stamped in gold wax over the fold. A letter from Josey, tucked where he would find it. Was it a plea for him to come back? Or a warning to stay away and never return? He shoved it in the back of the book.

The lines on the book’s smooth vellum pages were penned in Vassili’s cultured hand. He read a page or two each night. So far he hadn’t found anything useful, mostly passages about the archpriest’s early days as a praetor in Belastire.

Caim touched the key-shaped pendant, another gift from Josey, under his shirt as he flipped through the pages until something caught his eye.

Eighth day of Atrius, 1123

We have arrived in Othir after fourteen days on the road. Despite the speed of our passage, I was the last of the conclave to arrive, a fact which shall no doubt be used against me.

We were received at DiVecci in the afternoon. Just as I suggested in my treatise, the Inquest has been expanded several times beyond their original…

The next couple words were indecipherable. Then:

The oubliettes beneath the castle stink of river water and are bursting with prisoners, many of them imperialist agitators, but one caught my attention. Something about his eyes. I have decided to return tomorrow and inquire about him.

Hearing the sizzle of dripping fat, Caim lurched forward and caught the meat before it fell into the fire. He peeled off strips with his teeth and hissed as he gulped down the steaming flesh, then turned back to the journal. The text went on to tell how Vassili liberated a young man from the torture cells beneath Castle DiVecci and decided to keep him as a ward.

The prisoner’s name was Levictus.

By the time Caim finished the page, the sun had gone down. He put the book away, tossed another couple of branches on the fire, and crawled under his shelter. As he lay there, gazing up at the stars through gaps in the canopy, Josey intruded into his thoughts. What was she doing? Was she safe? Had she forgotten about him? But the more he thought of her, the more he knew he’d made the right decision. She was an empress now, and he was a penniless freebooter without a home or history.