Pursued by shadow: without, within
A deadly race, but who will win?
Starshadow Flint finally caught up with the sorcerer on the road west of Meadrun. It was a pleasant day; the wind had shifted and a cool breeze blew off the mountains, yet the sun retained a sting in its tail: Flint was sweating buckets beneath his black clothing and the huge, heavy crossbow strapped against his back. He was grateful for his hat, though.
To his right, the Valewood Forest crowded up against the side of the road; to his left, harvested fields stretched away into the lazy distance, dotted with farmhouses here and there. The sorcerer was not hurrying: indeed, he seemed to be wandering along lost in thought, but his strides were long and Flint had had to jog the whole way to catch him up.
Flint hated jogging. He was no good at it. He wasn't overweight, but he wasn't exactly in great physical shape, either. Any of the other Bladeshifters would have been a more suitable candidate for this task, and done a cleaner and more subtle job of it, too. Darkstar could've shot one of her tiny poison darts into the guy's back in the dark, when she'd tailed him, but no. Nightwalker was fond of playing games and Flint was pretty sure that his leader had singled him out on purpose, precisely because Flint was a most unlikely assassin.
He scowled beneath his hat, feeling sweat trickling down his neck and his heart hammering a little too fast as he slowly gained on the sorcerer, trotting beneath the shade of the large oak trees that lined the road. Besides, he and Eltorian had never gotten along very well. Nightwalker respected his skill with crossbows, but if Flint botched this mission and ended up as little floating pieces of burnt hat, he was sure Nightwalker would continue sleeping soundly afterwards.
Flint wiped sweat from his face with a clammy hand, and tried to concentrate on the plan. The idea was to attempt to befriend the sorcerer or at least gain his trust, so that he would let his guard down and provide an opportunity for Flint to remove him from all of their lives.
It was obvious that Nightwalker didn't want a sorcerer hanging around. No one had any idea of this man's motives, but he was clearly powerful and dangerous. Whether he was trying to be a hero, going around protecting people, or whether he intended to use his magic for political influence, or some other mysterious reason, no one could say. But none of these options put the Bladeshifters in a good position. They currently had most of the countryside nicely intimidated. The Freeroamers were occasionally a problem, but a sorcerer…
A sorcerer was something else entirely.
Flint had almost told Nightwalker where to shove his plan, but something had stopped him. Despite himself, he was curious.
The man had literally turned up out of thin air, defending a couple of hunters for no reason anyone could guess. Then he'd put a burning hole in Bloodmoon Grim and healed him directly afterwards, which was even more astonishing.
And it seemed that he knew something about the silver-eyed kid…
Flint wasn't sure yet about the assassination part of the plan, but letting the sorcerer walk off with so many unanswered questions: that was the real crime.
He was within hailing distance now. Thankfully, the sorcerer had stopped to examine something by the side of the road.
A patch of flowers, of all things.
Flint took a deep breath, and before he could think any more about it, called out: “Hey! Er… Yo!”
The sorcerer looked up.
Flint wasn't prepared for the impact of that piercing blue gaze. Instantly, he felt his insides turn to mush and very nearly exit the premises, but he managed to hold himself together.
“Oh,” the sorcerer said. He sighed and stood up, his face darkening. “One of you people.”
“Bladeshifters,” Flint panted, coming to a halt before the other man, who, he had just noticed, was significantly taller than himself. He stuck out a hand, beaming his best smile. “Starshadow Flint!”
The sorcerer stared down at Flint's hand for a long moment, as though he'd been offered a plate full of severed fingers. Eventually he sighed again, unfolded his elegant arms and took Flint's hand reluctantly in his own. “Lord Requar.”
The sorcerer looked down the road, towards Meadrun. “I assume your leader sent you after me?”
Flint hesitated, glancing away. “No,” he lied. He removed his large floppy hat and scratched his sweaty head. “What you did back there...” he gestured in the direction of the town, “the way you healed Grim. It was… impressive.”
Requar looked back at him and shook his head. “Magic is not only destructive,” he replied, his expression suddenly sad, almost defeated. “It can be used for so many other extraordinary purposes...”
Flint nodded nervously. “Er,” he said. “The thing is...” he fiddled with his hat. “My sister. She's, er… dying.” He placed his hat back on his head and stared down at the dusty road. “Ain't no one been able to do anything for her.”
There was a moment of silence, filled with the droning of crickets in the grass. Flint peered up from under the brim of his hat. Requar was studying him curiously.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, so that the sorcerer would not notice them shaking.
He was sure that Requar had seen straight through the lie, was now examining it from every angle to best determine how to stab it back into Flint's face.
But to his surprise, the sorcerer nodded. “Where does she live?” he asked.
Flint's heart leaped in relief. “Two days west,” he replied, pointing down the road in the direction the sorcerer had been travelling. “In Hillbank.”
* * *
Ferrian and Commander Trice watched the rock walls slide by in nervous apprehension. Grisket crouched tensely at the rear end of the raft. He had drawn his sword. Ferrian wished he had something better than a hunting knife to defend himself with. But then again, he thought morbidly, blades hadn't been much use to Sirannor's team, had they?
He shifted his grip on the rope handholds, wincing slightly as his hands stung. They were red and raw from trying to keep his hold on the raft, which now crashed into the wall at every corner.
Behind them the stream rushed away, swirling with white foam from their passage. The cliffs had steadily closed in on them as they sped and bounced through the pass, as though slowly trying to crush them. The cleft had now become so narrow that the raft was continually jouncing against the walls.
Ferrian barely noticed the uncomfortable jolts. He was too busy staring up at the cliffs, straining to catch some sign of the demons.
But there was no hint of anything unusual. They appeared to have left the disturbing shadow behind.
He was peering intently at the gloom beneath a slight overhang when he felt a prolonged shudder pass through the raft. Both he and Commander Trice looked over their shoulders.
They saw the cause of the problem instantly. The cleft had become too narrow for the raft. The logs were grinding against the rock walls, sending up splinters of wood. Sirannor heaved on the steering pole, trying to force the raft onwards, but its passage became slower and slower until finally it stopped altogether. Water continued to rush over the raft in shining waves, oblivious of the hindrance.
Sirannor continued to strain on the pole, the veins in his hands and neck standing out with the effort, but the raft did not budge. At last, the steering pole snapped with an echoing crack.
"What do we do now?" Ferrian asked anxiously, raising his voice over the booming crash of the water. Commander Trice glanced quickly behind them, but nothing followed except water and ancient grey rock.
Captain Sirannor paused for a moment, panting, and wiped his dripping face with his sleeve. He drew his sabre. "Cut the side logs free," he instructed.
They hastened to obey. Ferrian pulled out his knife and crawled to the side of the raft. Water was rushing over the logs, obscuring his vision. He felt for the bindings and slid his knife under them, hoping he was cutting the right ropes.
As he was working, an odd sensation came over him: as though something was creeping up behind him. He stopped cutting and raised his head.
A huge band of darkness was sliding through the cleft, as though something enormous were passing along it. But there was nothing there –the strip of blue above their heads stretched away unbroken, and the stream rushed on unhindered.
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Ferrian's eyes went wide. "Commander!" he cried.
Grisket and Sirannor's heads jerked up at Ferrian's cry. "Hurry!" Sirannor shouted.
They slashed with renewed vigour at the logs. The raft groaned and rocked slightly as Sirannor bounded across it and began helping Ferrian.
Ferrian's heart was racing. He glanced up again and saw that the shadow was advancing smoothly and swiftly, darkening into an inky blackness as it came. Thin trailers of smoke were now drifting off the walls in the shadow's wake, as though the rocks were smouldering.
He did not know what would happen if that shadow reached them, and he did not want to know. He wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
Sirannor sliced through the last of the bindings and threw himself against the cliff wall, pushing the raft forwards with his hands. Ferrian and Grisket quickly followed his example.
Slowly, the raft began to inch forward.
Ferrian pushed with all his might. He had a burning desire to turn around, to see how close the shadow was. He could sense it bearing down on them, silent and insidious, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled…
The raft gradually gathered momentum as the current caught it and bore it forward once more.
The three men slumped into a crouch, breathing heavily, and turned to look at the advancing shadow.
Ferrian's heart leapt into his mouth. The shadow was right there! It was so close he could see it creeping over the back edge of the raft. The entire cleft and sky behind them was cloaked in penetrating darkness, as though they were racing the oncoming night. Smoke was now pouring off the walls in huge, thick waves, boiling through the cleft like a ghostly surge of water.
Horror filled Ferrian in a hot wave as he noticed shapes appearing in the smoke…
He backed away in terror, willing the raft to go faster.
His wish was granted. The stream was thundering along at a rapid pace, and slowly, slowly, the shadow began to draw back.
Five feet.
Ten.
Fifteen…
BANG.
Grisket was nearly thrown off the back of the raft. He lost his grip on his sword and it dropped with a flash into the stream. He cursed loudly.
Ferrian pushed himself up and gasped through the water crashing over him, trying to see what had happened.
The raft had stopped again. It was well and truly stuck this time. The cleft here twisted sharply to the right, barely more than a yard wide. They would have to hack it to pieces to make it fit through that gap.
Yet Sirannor was trying. He was heaving on the wall, trying to manoeuvre the raft through. Spray exploded all around them as the stream bounded over the obstruction.
"Captain!" Grisket shouted, clutching the raft as it tilted ominously, the wood groaning and cracking as it scraped against the rock. "There is no way this raft is going to…" his voice trailed off.
Darkness swept over them. Smoke billowed along the walls and across the water towards them. Ferrian and Grisket watched in frozen horror as the demons began to take shape.
The nearest cloud of smoke swirled and thickened, forming into the torso of a man. Its arms were long and gangly, and all the fingers of its hands were twisted at unnatural angles as though broken. Two more arms with abnormally long, pale fingers protruded from its shoulder blades like hideous wings.
But most terrible was its face. Its features were identifiable as Human, but they continually swirled around on its head as though its face were made of molten wax. Ferrian's head spun and he felt queasy looking at it.
The demon-wraith drifted towards them, its mouth opening in a silent scream that spread and melted into its face like a patch of oil. Ferrian's stomach gave a heave and he retched.
"Don't look at them!" Sirannor screamed.
More demons were forming out of the smoke: dozens of them.
"Abandon the raft!" Sirannor yelled. The echoes of his voice seemed to linger on the mountain rock even longer than usual. He grabbed Ferrian's shoulder and dragged him roughly towards the forward edge of the raft. Grisket clambered after them.
Sirannor waited until Grisket had a firm grip on Ferrian's other arm. Then he nodded once to the Commander and threw himself into the stream.
The thundering of the water became eerily muted as Ferrian plunged beneath the surface. Everything became a whirl of confusion: he could see nothing but darkness filled with glittering bubbles. Something extremely hard slammed into the back of his head and he heard a dull crack. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He caught a wisp of red out of the corner of his eye. He gasped instinctively and choked as water flooded into his lungs. Panicking, he struggled for the surface.
He only managed to gasp one breath before someone grabbed him and forced him back under. Ferrian started to fight, and then something burst into the water right by his shoulder. It was a long grey arm with horribly twisted fingers.
He pushed himself away in terror, the clutching hand narrowly missing his flailing arm.
Something smashed into him again, in a spot right between his shoulder blades. He spluttered silently in pain. Grey arms were plunging into the water all around him now, sending up clouds of silver bubbles. He twisted away, trying desperately to avoid them.
A flailing arm grabbed him and he screamed, but the sound came out as a strangled gurgle, and once again water surged into his throat. He wrenched away from the hand, but the fingers dug deeper into his arm like claws. He thrashed violently until he finally realised it was not a demon who had grabbed him – it was Sirannor.
The Captain dragged him to the surface and Ferrian gasped and coughed up water, his lungs burning as he fought to breathe. When he had blinked the water out of his eyes, he became aware that the light had changed.
Ferrian looked back over the swirling water and saw that the shadow had fallen away. The demons were still advancing, but they could not keep up with the racing stream. Slowly and steadily the shadow retreated until it was an ominous black shaft in the distance, like a cleft to the netherworld.
As he gazed back the way they had come, over the roiling waves, he realised suddenly that he could not see Commander Trice.
He looked around in panic, trying in vain to see through the churning water. "Commander!" he screamed, fearing the worst.
But to his immense relief, Grisket's head burst out of the water just behind him, spluttering and heaving for breath.
The walls were rushing by incredibly quickly now. The three men let the current sweep them along while they caught their breath. Ferrian was so thankful that they had escaped the demons that he completely forgot where the stream was taking them.
That was, until he became aware that the steady, echoing roar of water was now a great deal louder than it had been before.
"Captain," Grisket yelled. "Tell me you've got a plan to get us out of this!"
"Of a sort," Sirannor called back.
"What does that mean?"
"It means a large part of it relies on luck!"
"Fantastic!" Grisket shouted. "No worries then! We've got plenty of that!"
Yeah, Ferrian thought. Just none of the good sort.
Thunder boomed through the mountain heights. Ferrian, Grisket and Sirannor were swept mercilessly towards the edge of the cliff. They rounded a final bend in the cleft. The stream surged on for another fifty yards or so, and then simply disappeared. Ferrian could see thick bars of sunlight falling across the craggy walls of the valley beyond, glittering in the haze of spray that hung over the head of the falls.
His stomach was so twisted with fear that it ached. He looked up at the cliff walls on either side. They were sheer and pitiless all the way to the edge of the falls. He hoped to all the Gods that Captain Sirannor knew what he was doing.
The falls rushed towards them at an alarming pace. Before him, Sirannor floated calm and motionless in the stream, as though unconcerned by the fact that there was a cliff rapidly approaching. Still Ferrian could see no sign of anything that could stop them being washed over the edge.
The fear in his stomach began to rise up his throat. The roar of the falls was deafening. They were ten yards from the edge and picking up speed…
Without warning, Sirannor made a sudden lunge to the right. Ferrian and Grisket swept helplessly by him. "Captain Sirannor!" Ferrian screamed.
Just then all the air left his lungs in a rush as the rope which still bound him to the Captain went taut. A second later he felt another yank as Grisket jerked to a halt behind him.
Gasping for breath, Ferrian turned and struggled to see through the white water crashing over him. Commander Trice was almost lost in the churning foam. He had come to a stop so close to the precipice that half of his body was hanging over the edge.
Sirannor had managed grab hold of a small protrusion of rock in the cleft wall. He wedged himself as best he could beside it and began hauling on the rope, slowly dragging them away from the edge.
It seemed to take an aeon for him to drag Ferrian in. Finally he took hold of Ferrian's arms and pulled him up beside him. Ferrian had nothing to hold on to except Sirannor. He clutched the Captain for dear life, feeling the powerful current tugging at him, determined to drag him over the falls.
Sirannor was hauling in Commander Trice, grunting with the effort. His long hair was grey with water and hung in dripping strands over his face. There was a fierceness in his eyes that Ferrian had seen only once before: just before they had entered the tunnel beneath the lake, when he was trying to convince them they could survive. Ferrian knew that Sirannor would rather give his own life than let anyone else die in this pass.
He wanted to help the Captain, but he was terrified to loosen his grip even a fraction.
Grisket finally pulled himself up beside Ferrian, and the three of them slumped against each other, exhausted. "You… oughta be… a chef," Grisket panted. " 'Cause you sure… know how to cut… things fine."
"The worst part isn't… over yet…" Sirannor replied grimly.
As though to emphasise the truth of his words, a movement in the cleft caught their attention. They looked around in dismay. The shadow was still advancing relentlessly.
Sirannor struggled to unwind the spare length of rope he had tied around his waist. The shadow glided towards them soundlessly. Once again, they could make out the turbid grey smoke churning in its depths. Ferrian's grip on Sirannor's coat tightened. He remembered the skeletal grey arms, plunging through the watery darkness, searching for him…
He shuddered. He would rather go over the falls than lose his soul to those gruesome creatures.
"Sirannor, whatever you're doing, do it fast!" Grisket yelled warningly. The darkness was almost upon them.
Sirannor wrenched the last of the rope free and quickly scanned the mouth of the cleft, searching…
Night fell upon them. Smoke billowed across their vision. All around them, demon-wraiths were forming, drifting towards them with their long arms outstretched as if to embrace them.
Ferrian's stomach churned and he almost threw up. He felt Grisket grasp his shoulder. "Don't look at their faces!" the Commander yelled in his ear.
There was an outcropping of broken rock on the very edge of the cliff: a barely visible silhouette in the gloom. Sirannor hurled the rope with all his strength towards it.
The loop fell short and flopped with a splash into the stream.
Sirannor swore. He began hurriedly untying the rope that bound his waist.
"What the hell are you doing?" Grisket yelled.
"Need more rope!" the Captain yelled back.
Smoke was pouring off the rock like the ghosts of waterfalls. The cleft was crammed with demons, all of them reaching out with their terrible, disfigured hands like eager children. Ferrian tried not to look at them, but they filled his vision. He felt dizzy with nausea and fear.
"Captain!" Grisket screamed.
The wraiths closed in, glowing with a pale grey light like the moon behind a cloud. The hands reached…
Sirannor had freed himself from the rope. He pulled it in and hurled it again, though blindly this time, for the demons obscured his vision. The rope fell through the cluster of advancing demons, sending out swirls of smoke – and caught.
There was no time to test the rope to see if it would hold their weight. "Let's go!" Sirannor shouted. Without waiting to see if they were ready, he took a tight hold on the rope and flung himself out into the stream.
Ferrian and Grisket were yanked unceremoniously after him. They swept out into the current just as the demons converged on the place where they had been just seconds before – but their lunging hands found nothing but empty air.
The current snatched up the three men, bore them right underneath the swirling mass of demons and flung them like pebbles over the edge of the cliff.