by Wade Garret:
For fear of interception, the following wire was secured with Baudot Coding.
Mr. Black-STOP–
Mina must die-STOP–The cult must not gain another Master to its ranks-STOP–If it does, the situation in Collezia will force our hand-STOP–You have succeeded where others have failed-STOP–Do so again-STOP–Her death at all cost
Senator Grace
September 14,323 of the Third Age
Faces in Shadow and Shadows with Faces
Part I
Mr. Black and his travel-beaten horse cleared the bluff’s wood line.
Coven Hall’s near ruin. The decrepit castle teetering in the wind once held thousands for banquet. Black wondered what condition Wodan’s Altar was in.
The wind returned. The collar of his winter duster and matching dust black tricorn shielded him, but not from images of swords and grunting shouts from shadowy cover that swirled through his mind, into his flesh.
Mr. Black never let the past go. It’s how he survived to live other lives without the need for sword or justice. Weathered and tired, he barked a cough from his lungs. Something occurred to him then as the muddy road vanished beyond faint lanterns and lonely torches to deeper wooded mist:
It’s going to the same end…Light forsaken middle of this wretched land. It won’t end until every piece of rock and stone is torn down. Their greed will be their undoing.
Black slowed his horse as the subtle whistling between the natural rock formations ceased. It was like the forest had called back a dying breath. Wrapped in darkness, he wondered if they could’ve gained on him so quickly…
Only the dead lay behind, the path transformed into massacre, wandering down from the northern Gothann Mountains. Still, the place drove his jumping thoughts. The image of their limbs left to freeze in bloody stumps. The snow near the stream gagged with the violent mess of his enemies.
Black felt sorry, for it was only by chance he came across the shire. His mission had been something else entirely. Honestly, if not for the crimes he saw, evils known only to a few, his assassin’s path wouldn’t have changed. So when finally he fell upon them, vengeance was swift, the price exact for the atrocities done. It was only after cleaning his hands of the justice wrought he found enemies unperceived lying in wait.
Mr. Black knew then what he should’ve guessed all a long. It was his fault.
She knows! He’d been so close. She knows! He had to adapt. Information was now the mission’s lifeblood, if he was to get another chance.
Wet wind and the ill night sky eased him as he continued through the discarded history hidden by weakness and ancient politics. My, how far we’ve fallen. Iron Front of the great Gol Army…what would their fathers say? How could he judge the Scattered Lands though? He, too, knew the taste of glory and honor crippled by fear, greed and anger. He’d never admit it, but the abandoned capital mirrored him in the most intimate ways.
Black stiffened. The feeling of being watched dispersed as he crossed Ellizium’s forgotten boarder. He eyed every roof and wall position before catching the irregular shape in the wet grass at the base of the post just before the gate. Once they’re in, they’re in to stay. He secretly checked the disguised bandage on the horse’s flank. The bite-wound was deep, not healing. The medicine was failing. It would spread. Lucky for him his wounds weren’t so severe.
Beside the gate left ajar, opposite the infested door where guards often harassed locals, lived the town’s first line of defense. The watchman was fast asleep, spear cuddled in his arms. The rusted-out thermal condenser on the table wouldn’t last the winter, the old bolter at his feet equally condemned. His tattered cloak and hand-me-down shield spoke all-to-well to Black that this was the best Pehats Berg had to offer. Pity.
Coughing again, he turned seeing the sinister Hangman’s Noose. The blood-stained cordage was nailed to the heavy limb of a Snickering Ash, just inside the fence-line. Faith was all but gone in the Scarred Lands, especially Pehats Berg. The many nooses once knotted over this very ground by Light Bringer hands declared why.
I need a drink. The Two Sisters wasn’t far. The popular inn was in the center of the Berg, about a stone’s throw from Goran’s stables. The inn’s original logo, unlike the burnt-out or broken neon travesties once glorified by locals, could be seen swaying above the first floor. The white letters on the black board were peeling.
At three stories, twenty-one rooms, several with balconies, every other room on the ground furnished with a fireplace connected to the one above it, the Two Sisters was the largest lodging in town. Wide bricks and heavy Scatterwood gave it a fat, heavy base. Beard Moss and Spiraling Root ran up its backside like most other buildings. Elsewhere, the clinging vegetation often supplemented grass and animal feed; hard to be rid of and growing at such a rate, it was more a crop than a weed or strangling wall-crawler.
When Mr. Black entered, the door didn’t give, didn’t say hello, as it did everyone else; rather, it seemed included in his stealthy guise. He was all but midnight in the doorway, eyes barely noticeable under his tricorn. Men passed him, women in arm and ale in hand. Unflinching smoke slithered overhead. Despite the smell, the aroma of roasted meat and dirty vegetables somehow endured. If only a little.
Moving through the bar, Black removed his fingerless gloves, slipping a tarnished silver band from his left hand to his pocket. His draw-fingers were sore. His black, winter duster hinted he was from deeper, colder country and yet such little truth was empty compared to the unspoken trespasses surrounding him.
Mr. Black stopped as a pair of warm lips gently brushed his ear.
“Arium.”
Hearing the name closest to his heart, Mr. Black grinned.
Again the luscious voice tickled his ear: “Arium Black.”
Black replied to the host, “Good to see you too, Daphnia. Give Jezzy a kiss for me, won’t you.” It really was too bad. If the tall redhead with legs to kill for were there, he’d have rather done the kissing himself. Odds were though, she was somewhere below, grease on her chin, tinkering with devices few but her sister would ever see.
Daphnia took Black’s hand. “We must speak.”
“Later.”
“I’m afraid, old friend,” Daphnia spotted a Sleeve Stinger, “you do not have much time.”
Time? If he could’ve, he’d have severed himself from it long ago.
Unbuttoning his duster and surcoat, Mr. Black tried to recall the last time he’d felt such comfortable fire. Nothing came. Two hours. It’ll be contagious then. The stable master would be the first when the horse turned. Returning for his things wasn’t an option. Lucky for him he was prepared. Two hours.
“Evening,” said the barkeep.
Black directed his interest to the cedar casks, not the copper and brass kegs or the jerky automaton washing glasses in the corner.
“Something warm for your belly? Burn your throat good?” He returned Black’s nod.
Black would’ve spoken, but he wasn’t sure who listened. Despite the few who knew his acceptable alias, this time he wished to leave as little of himself behind as possible. Including the sound of his voice.
If suspicion’s delicate face wasn’t around him enough already, patrons evaluated his presence at a far table. Their greedy, hushed voices reached him from across the bar, over those dancing near the stage where the piano man played. He was impressed. Most discarded him altogether, one reason or another.
The hour was late. Any good man’s day was long over. Drifters? Guild? Either way, he sensed their lowness, how their lives were lost to the toil of the physical world. If it came, he wouldn’t think twice about killing them or anyone else in his way.
As the old saying went: “Sooner or later, Death’ll get his parley.” For Black, it was the mission alone that mattered. He’d get his chance to repay Lady Genza for every life lost fighting the Sabbat. Of that he was sure, but first he needed answers. Direction. This venomous foe had more than fang and claw at its disposal.
He sipped his drink. Sckag, there was nothing like it. The full lager chilled his hand. It was crisp and light over the tongue, heavy and bitter once swallowed. One pint was never enough. Black removed his tricorn. Wild hair now concealed his eyes, the longest locks reaching past his warming lips.
So many. Still, they came…
He’d lost the Black Bastards in the Orel Mountains, near Gren Wood, just beyond the Rift’s southwestern edge—a day’s ride from Ciliberyn. That was weeks ago, still, the questions persisted: Was it a trap for him or had he, for the first time in his life, succumbed to fear? Were the Nekctu in Pehats Berg?
Ambushing the Vhendo on the banks of the frozen stream cost him thirteen arrows, two daggers and a toebag of Fume Powder. The explosion had nearly killed him. If he hadn’t done it though, the monsters would’ve overrun his position.
Another hearty gulp dismissed the regret of a Peacemaker absent from his hand.
After a few songs, some he quietly sang in time with his fellow miscreants, Black found a soft chair far in the back to rest and wait in. It wouldn’t be long. Margaret, one of the Two Sisters’ best wenches, was always good at getting his messages out.
Reclining, he ran his fingers along the arm’s loose seams. The flowery pattern was masterfully detailed. The olive branches were splendid. The motif’s historical truth was unlearned or forgotten by most, but not Black. The fact it remained here, in this broken and bloody place, made what little hope he had for tomorrow, burn brighter.
I should take off my boots, let my socks dry by the fire. He next mused about Jezzy, chuckling at the idea before wincing. With such sore ribs he’d be little use in bed.
By two legs and four they came at him, little slowed them. Beasts he couldn’t remember. Some he wished to forget. Were they really machines? They know I’ve seen the bloodline. It gives them hunger. It’s what they want.
Despite song and drink now amusing him, Black’s awareness remained predator-like. Because of the mixed dialects, he only caught bits of the troubling conversation. Disconcerting travelers passing through the wadetowns along the Worsa. The highway stretching north to Maygar and Collezia—the Pillar Kingdom. Everywhere was gaining traffic. That’s all the gabbers complained about, but Mr. Black had keener spies.
The fact was, the White Knights of Carolinyea, the Holy Kingdom’s capital, were on the watch. What drew them out? The question was only a piece of his mission, an afterthought. Several regiments were already in sight of Maygar’s domain when last he’d heard. In reaction to this, Maygerian forts near their eastern boarder along the Vahast summoned their best. The Ram Core division.
Dhovemurn, you weren’t there. Black’s stay in Fort Ulkir ended after learning his friend, the Lord High-Captain, was missing. “Garrith, you bastard.” Who or What would gain from the disappearance of one of the Ram’s most formidable swordsman? Something moves. It’s done so for months…Longer. Did the signs elude him? How long had the Enemy the list before it was destroyed? Was it the only copy?
After a meal of bread, potatoes and a healthy portion of questionable beef, Mr. Black slept in the chair, though his hunter’s eye remained alert. When the door opened again, he knew it was Leeann who entered. She was late. Once seated, he asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No.” Though twelve, her voice carried a spark of fearlessness, belying her rather timid appearance. Her apron was a dirty lemon color. Her field-frock, a patchwork of cotton, wool and burlap. An old string secured her dirty blond hair, the extra length vanished within.
Summoning Margaret again, Black ordered Leeann a plate piled higher than his previously. The food arrived and he hid his contempt born of regret when Leeann awkwardly gripped the utensils. Like most in her situation, she often ate huddled next to fizzling fires or mangey dogs. There was still so much he’d yet to teach her.
Leeann ate as though comedown with a feverish hunger. Anywhere else and such a meal would’ve cost several times what he paid. But here, Mr. Black compensated more with information than coin. The kind, which, more-often-than-not, ended with bloody knives. It was the way of the Fifth Finger.
Scowling into the fire, his face reflected a strategic mind. It’s only going to get worse. In time, it’d be a famine. He rubbed his scraggily beard treated days ago for lice. With a wave of his hand then, Leeann understood and her eating slowed.
“It’s good. Brah’sebah.” She switched from Latorin to Scar Tongue to show her sincerity.
Once Leeann finished, he began his questions. “Tell me everything.” He was relaxed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the men near the window. They’d glanced too often at him since ordering her supper.
“He’s here. He’s at my master’s home, talking to Mr. Halgin just like you said.”
“Lord Rohndolphn? How many men? Does he carry Duke Talhgho’s seal?” Thinking back to the last time the Lord’s name was mentioned, he leaned closer to the fire. The twisted network framed by the Father of Lies was spreading.
“No,” answered the serf, “Prince Urhal’s. I saw it.” Lord Rohndolphn had it in his fist as he beat her master. The joy of it wasn’t in her eye but her overall demeanor.
Zahargan Marcus? This was more than Black or his employer expected. Was all the Eastern Mark involved? Was this the root of another Crown War? Was he reaching to be Hae Zar—uniting the Eight Marks under one royal banner, no longer shattered by the seven brothers, all blood-heirs of the Breakers? What were the chances Lady Genza’s faction in Carolinyea was connected here?
Tying loose threads of political turmoil together, Mr. Black asked, “Where’s he now?”
“With my master.”
“What else’ve you seen?”
“Nightmares. Is it true about Wodan? That he’s doing this, my sister asks me…” She didn’t know what to say and would’ve asked her parents, but they were just as fearful and unschooled as most Gentiles in the Scattered Lands.
“Aydolph’s sword was pulled over thirteen centuries ago,” said Black. “Tell her all’s well, she’ll forget about it. You shouldn’t listen to so many stories.” He knew what this season often did to people, how the Faithful poisoned the well. “That boy—Bringtum’s son. He likes to scare little girls.” Eyes closed, he rested his head. “Where do you play after chores?”
Leeann resounded with a curious tone. “In the Mahar, why?” It didn’t happen often, but when she could, the fields and woods were her favorite. The Fay Willows and thick Oaks were great for imagined adventures or when playing hooky from chores.
Knowing what battles were fought there, blood spilled by the Jackal’s Sword. Why the trees didn’t grow on the eastern side. How the fog was part of it in some old lost way. Mr. Black said. “Mind your mother. I know she’s told you not to play there.” What undid the old wards beneath the children’s feet? If he survived, he’d make a point of it in his next report. “How many men are with Rohndolphn?”
Leeann hesitated, “Three.”
He suspected she meant four: another she thought she saw but couldn’t identify. An Areht, perhaps a Shimmer. Arrows won’t kill it. He then grilled her on how they came, what street, how many horses, carriage if any and what arms. Leeann remembered more than any of his other spies with innocent dispositions. It was her talent. The reason she’d eventually leave this place for greater hunting grounds.
After she answered all his questions, he gave her three coppers and one silver piece. It was the most money anyone in her family had ever held. The silver was for a proper burial if things went wrong. The rest was for her.
Coins exchanged, Mr. Black turned to smoke. The pipe taken from his inner pocket, when assembled, was near a foot long. A silvery pattern was carved into the bowl’s bottom. The crisp edges were faded. The true image all but gone, except to him. It was a gift from long ago. A better time. When he was a different man.
Unsure if he’d more to ask while ruminating, Leeann waited. Besides, the chair was far more comfortable than the loft in her master’s home anyway. She closed her eyes, listened to the piano as a large woman took the stage and sang “The song of Luken Glenn.” After the first chorus, a man somewhere in the back, armed with a fiddle, joined in. His fingers were the only sign he’d any joy in his life.
When the song finished, Black spoke from smoke-filled lips, “It’s time for you to go.”
Leeann stood and left. The crowd’s applause covered her exit.
A faster, happier song was taken up moments later. “Bright Barley” was a common favorite. With the guitarist guiding the singer now, the fiddler returned to his empty mug and the sorrows of his life.
Plans were already in motion. Like once before, he’d have to make-it-up to the Sisters for what he was about to do. Had to do. From his duster, Black removed a small leather pouch, but instead of tobacco, there was an alchemical powder. Once sprinkled over the fires, the mixture would transmute. Burning hotter and hotter, the heat would release an invisible substance. Aromatic deliver wasn’t enough though, a catalyst was required, something to quickly expand the unseen power without losing radial or long-term potency.
Now at the stairs’ landing, Jezzy protected her nose and mouth with a very special blue flower. Her eyes shared: “You owe me, love.”
There is no rest for departing dreams or nightmares veiled by sunrise—
As the blue petals turned a dark crimson, Jezzy finished Black’s thought, Breathe deep and forget me. She wouldn’t though and not because of the secret bound within the flower either.
Black didn’t leave the door open for long, enough to establish his gentlemen guile for the fairer sex as his only reason for holding the door. Truth.
The now-contaminated air, after compounding with specific, heavier particulates drawn-in from the nearby Hatter’s late-night hours—multiplied thereafter by ale and liquor; the poison of women and other drugs used in the dark by most purveyors of the establishment’s delights would easily remedy what would’ve taken hours, had Black gone room by room.
Outside, the smell of firewood and fresh mud blanked the night’s cool breeze.
“Take your time going home.” Black sidestepped Leeann, who barely bit-back her surprise. His coat nipped her side before his silhouette vanished completely.
Questioning the shadow’s motives, his place in the ever moving world of many tongued devils, Mr. Black ducked into the damp alleyway. Above the narrow dismissed by many, empty clotheslines waited like spider webs. Around another corner of water-logged brick homes, several cracked or with poorly patched holes, Black listened. He was still alone. Two steps, that’s how far ahead he was in this dark game.
Finally he reached his bag of dispatchment stowed away even before Goran’s man began tending his horse. Over the years, it became a usual drop-point. Anything left behind was expendable, proof of his death perhaps. He wouldn’t risk touching it now, the sword removed from his side shortly after entering the Berg, but he had to let it know he was there. For now, only the dagger at his back and the thing he started to uncover would watch over and protect him.
The recurve bow of baloxen horn and Snake Eye wood was pristine in its sleekness. The wide handle, its deep-treated make of Borderland skill, gave the oiled frame overpowering distance and an owl’s site accuracy. With only the dead to speak of it, few knew how powerful a second it was, compared to the rarer, vastly more expensive and sometimes less reliable Peacemaker.
Notching one arrow, Black sprinted to Mr. Halgin’s home. There, he studied the area to gain the best attack point. The Halgin Home was two leveled with smokestacks at both ends running heat throughout. Five rooms defined the interior: cellar, kitchen, audience room with the back quarter closed off for private dining, a modest storeroom where staff slept in shifts in-order to better hear their master’s bell and, of course, the Grand Bed Chamber. Like many, greed had blessed Mr. Halgin.
The Duke came himself? There were only three mounts. Perhaps Leeann was right?
Concealed, lowering his eyes from the two plumes departing the chimneys, Mr. Black removed four caltrops from his belt compartment. He checked again; the Duke’s sentry was motionless, only his green cloak and tunic fluttered in the breeze.
His toss aimed for their hooves was perfect. The metallic “clinking” just enough to break the silence. Dropping from the sentry position completely then, the guard crossed the little light escaping the main window to inspect the noise.
Too late, thought Black.
After twitching its tail, the sentry’s horse did exactly what Black foresaw. It shifted its back hoof, stepping hard on the caltrop! Neighing and snorting, the horse stomped and kicked to shake free the unknown pain.
Closer now, Mr. Black saw the guard was wearing no more than a chain mail shirt. He could also see enough of the emblem on the sentry’s back to tell he was of the Eastern Mark. A soldier, someone who wouldn’t be easily remembered this far from home.
Before the guard spotted the caltrops, he fell limp. The arrow through his eye killed him instantly. Once across the open street, Mr. Black heaved the fleshy weight to the horse, fixing the corpse fast atop it. He then untied the others and with a quick slap of their backs sent them down the road. The trap was set. He again melded into the fog and waited.
One down, three to go.
The light broke as the front door swung open revealing the truth.
“Damn!” Pressing the back of his head against the wall was all he could do to resist yelling. The Duke wasn’t there. Leeann was right. There wasn’t a Shimmer, but there was another she failed to see—if he could find that horse, it’d serve him later.
Had the Duke already departed or was this a diversion? A trap within a trap? Mr. Black looked, but there was no movement behind the house. Then why remain? None of the three were eager to test their fate in the wet darkness.
They wait for something? Someone? Why didn’t they run? Halgin’s the prize!
Another guard fell! Swords were drawn. Not fast enough. A third guard gurgled a bloody gasp, his larynx pierced! Panicking, the last conspirator turned to kill Halgin, but before he could, Mr. Black, emerging from the night like a pool of velvet nothingness, slit his throat, then split his ribs.
“Madu thi mhrgrul bakas hi sic thi-dor.” The First Tongue, Latyn, carried its own power of stoic anger. Black pulled the dagger free. May the dead shun you at the door—surging adrenaline repeated the lines again in his thoughts before finishing aloud in the Common Tongue. “And may you walk forever in darkness.” To Halgin, stepping into the open then, he ordered. “You, take a body. We must get them inside.”
“Who are you?” Mr. Halgin’s speech was quick and furious. Fueled by the fact the bloodshed wasn’t attributed to any particular part of his doing, least not this time. A second look from the man in black dripping with other men’s blood, however, compelled the master of the house to act.
Ceann, Leeann’s younger sister, peeking out from behind furniture after hearing the commotion, then exited the back door to gather Black’s things from the alley. One item in particular. Such a good girl, he never had to give the same sign twice.
The pain would only worsen without it at his side. His curse at times acted like a beacon to the Unclean One’s servants. There wasn’t much time. He had to work fast to escape, fighting here would be a gamble and he never gambled.
Mr. Halgin tried, but couldn’t clean the blood from his nails or the specks tarnishing his no longer pristine, dark maple vest and white shirt. His trousers remained untouched, except where knees met dirt when lifting the bodies before dragging them to the rug connecting the main hall to the common room. Everywhere was evidence of a failed marriage.
Mr. Halgin didn’t understand Black’s interest with keeping the bodies on the rugs, he thought he was just adding further insult to injury. But it was the only way to cover his tracks as efficiently as time allowed. If needed, the dead would be rolled, loaded and taken away without leaving much evidence behind. All forests, these especially, had ways of dealing with the ugliness of murder.
“Here, Mr. Black.” After handing the bag, Ceann quickly sat.
Mr. Halgin, now sluggish from moving the heavy dead, paused at the mentioning of what sounded like a name.
Leeann eyed Ceann: If she’d harmed, in anyway, her chances of leaving and never coming back to this wretched place, she’d beat her backside worse than Mr. Halgin or their parents ever had. It was bad enough Margaret had delivered the message to Ceann and not Leeann earlier—the reason’s not very important at the moment, though it had something to do with a certain boy two farms over.
“What in the name of Eyoh are you doing?”
Black said nothing.
“By all the Saints! Do you know who these men are?”
Were, thought Leeann. Had she been so nervous the first time with Black?
“Do you know who I am?” Tension then dominated Halgin’s face. “What do you want?”
Mr. Black felt weak at the question. Long had it been since he was asked his thoughts, wants or needs. He’d just served. The question took him at odds with his mission and the passionate personalities in his head. The ones keeping him alive or happy when he required it. Honestly, he wanted it not to be his problem. He wanted to go home, for her not to have died. He wanted not to have seen it burn—to forget like everyone else as the seasons passed, but it was partially his fault. So he had to wait. The promise wasn’t yet his.
“Faces in Shadow and Shadows with Faces.” Taking the sheathed longsword from his pack, he fastened it about his waist, covering the hilt with his coat. It was too late though, they saw it. The sheath’s tip was white-silver, as well as the clasp where hilt and sheath met to form the Shield. Cracked, yet the proud leather held the eye suspiciously; like it had passed through many hands, over many lifetimes.
Ignoring Black’s whisperings, Halgin repeated, “What do you want?” The short burst of lordly strength refreshed him, yet a truly insightful glance would’ve revealed uneasiness as the key factor in his reaction.
“I want what was said to you this night.” Mr. Halgin feigned ignorance. “It wasn’t meant for you.” Because he’d asked so many times before, Mr. Halgin’s face blended into others questioned on this long road of lost souls. “You might’ve heard it, but I know you wished you hadn’t. Tell me what was said.”
“Sir! The children…do you have no decency?” the vile irony of it eluded Mr. Halgin, for he was a master of false conviction.
“Tell me before the Vhendo come!”
To the man born of ravens, Halgin declared, “You will not say such things in my presence!” Who was this rogue to assume such influence and power? A hired sword? Next came the questioned if Black was working for a rival—another who came here long ago to scavenge what riches could be made off the backs of the Scattered Kingdoms’ suffering. A Knifeman? The plump man was nervous and he wasn’t hiding it well.
Recently, members of Pehats Berg’s Council had discussed, among other things, the idea of inviting the Children of the Pillars to talk. There was hope old grudges might be settled. Perhaps there could yet be a place for the People’s Religion again. If so, maybe one day the Scattered Lands would return to its former glory. Curses and wickedness put behind them. But Mr. Halgin spoke out against it and won; less money in fixing the problem, as opposed to poorly treating it.
“They’re on their way.” The pace Black spoke carried a subtle eeriness, like a dead clock wound backwards. “What wounds they suffered slowed them.” He wondered if they were days or hours behind him. “After feeding on the flesh of their dead…They will come.” He stepped to the pompous man. “What was said? What names?”
The pommel emerged again from behind the black.
The Shield! It’s marked! Fear took Mr. Halgin, his suspicions biting like hungry dogs. “You’re Horran?”
“Tell me!” Black’s persona went darker still. “What truth did you hear in lies?”
Author Wade Garret can be found on his website, Facebook, goodreads, and booktalk.org.
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