Through Shadows

  Fenris Whiteeyes ran like a hound with its babe between its teeth. Karlin was behind him, wailing, spluttering something. Occasionally, he’d pull back, trying to get his companion to stop, but Whiteeyes wasn’t having it. He dragged Karlin by the scruff of his neck, down the midnight streets of Vannarbar. Fenris didn’t know how long they’d been running now, but the cold and darkness suffocated them. As he chose which fork in the road, which winding avenue to run down, Fenris’s bones ached. His eyes could barely make out the light of the warding stone that he held before him. But he ran all the same, all the way back to the camp. Hell, he’d run across the bridge to Larker if that was what it took.

  Karlin was waning. Step by step, his legs were staggering forward. Fenris could feel Karlin’s blood too, each time the severed stump brushed against his forearm. It wasn’t warm anymore. The stuff was cold and thick, and hardened on his arm. Maybe he wouldn’t bleed out too fast then, Fenris had told himself. Maybe he could get Karlin back to camp, get the man stitched up. But they’d have to run fast.

  They hit the ground when Feniris’s boot plunged into a puddle that was deeper than it looked. He went over, reaching for the edge of a fountain in the middle of the street, bruising his ribs on its side. Then Karlin, with barely a fight, slumped against the ground.

  Fenris swore, fished the glowing ward from the cracked bowl of the fountain. A stone cherub with its legs missing smiled at him as he pulled his hand from the water. He turned to Karlin. “Get up.”

  He was slow as he turned to look at Fenris, bloody stump clutched in his hand. “Fenris…” Karlin breathed, then shook his head.

  Fenris dragged him upright, seated him against the fountain wall. He tore a rag from his shirt, wrapped it around the stump tightly. Then another rag. Fenris cinched this one around Karlin’s arm in an attempt to cut the blood flow off. Alayna would have known what to do better than he. Fenris wished she were there, then was suddenly glad that she wasn’t.

  Fenris looked Karlin dead in the eye. “You need to get up… I said, get to your fucking feet.”

  It was enough to make most men snap to attention, but Karlin stared at him with hollow eyes.

  “It’s not far now,” Fenris said. “We’re nearly-…”

  Karlin pulled Fenris close. Still a little strength in the big man’s good arm. “We’ve been going around in circles, Fenris. This place is cursed.”

  He pointed behind Fenris. The spire of the cathedral was barely visible, seen only by the way its black outline blocked the moonlight that shone through the clouds, but it was close now, closer than it had ever been.

  “I’m a dead man,” he said. “I saw it back there, in the first shadow. Saw myself. One arm. Like a vision or something. One arm. Leave me here. Leave me. Fenris, I’m…”

  Fenris slapped Karlin. Not hard enough to put the man to sleep, but hard enough to get his attention.

  “Not bad, Whiteeyes,” The big man chuckled. “But still not enough to kill a man.” Karlin’s panic had temporarily given way to a feverish humour.

  “Cursed my arse,” Fenris said. “You’re dead when you’re dead. Now, up!” And Fenris dragged Karlin to his feet. “You’re not done yet. They’ll call you Karlin fucking Oneamered when the battle’s over. Karlin Onearmed. You hear?”

  “Aye, boss.”

  They staggered off, down a different street this time. The big man weighed heavily on Fenris’s left shoulder.

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  “We just got turned around,” Fenris said. “Nothing more.”

  But this was the second time that Fenris Whiteeyes had found himself just turned around. He’d led men through forests in the dead of night, set ambushes in the fog of high moors. Yet here, in the streets of Vanarbar, he was getting turned around. He was lost, or cursed, and he knew it. But desperation is a stubborn thing, nearly as stubborn as Fenris Whiteeyes.

  They saw the shadow near the end of the street, darker than dark. Karlin didn’t have any weapons. He couldn’t have lifted one anyway. So, Fenris left him lying in the gloom of a hollow doorway. Karlin was well past running. It was an ox brain thing to think you could hide in the dark from the darkness, but that was how it was. Fenris himself, gripped his sword and held his shield with the warding stone clenched in his hand.

  “Alright then,” he called with equal parts fury and exhaustion, “Let’s be done.”

  Something streaked towards Fenris, and he barely got his shield up in time. It clanged against the boss, fell to the ground. It was an arrow leaking dark vapour, slowly vanishing where it lay. Fenris cursed and charged, head bowed beneath his shield. He’d have to close the distance fast. The second arrow came in low, just missed Fenris’s shin and went skidding along the ground.

  “Shit,” he muttered. That was exactly the type of dirty trick Fenris would have played. He might not be so lucky on the next arrow. Fenris peeked over his shield, saw the silhouette drawing the bowstring back.

  It came high, and Fenris raised his shield, felt it clip the edge. It splashed in a puddle behind him, then he felt the unmistakable pain in his thigh. His leg quivered, gave way, and he hit the ground, face smashing the back of his shield as his sword went skittering across the stones. There was a shaft in his leg. Warm blood dripping over the black fletching of the arrow. He writhed around, got his shield up. It was hit by another arrow. Thud.

  He thought of Saints to pray to, then, cowering behind his shield without a sword. Saints of strength or luck. Had he learned anything from those rare days in chapel as a boy? Had he learned anything from sacking monasteries as a man? Hell, the only preacher he’d paid any attention to had been the priest, Meirtaz. Bloody holy man.

  The shadow was bearing down on him now. Its bow was dropped to the ground, its sword and shield raised. Fenris Whiteeyes struggled to a knee and braced his shield. Then he saw it. The glowing warding stone gripped in his hand, almost forgotten.

  Fenris flung the stone as hard as it would go. It tumbled in the air like a single star shooting across the sky and broke against the darkness. There was a burst of light, a sound like a hammer on an anvil. The shadow was stunned. He scrambled for his sword, leapt up, and plunged his blade into the shadow’s gut before it had time to recover. Black ooze trickled down the steel. But he’d got the bastard, got him good.

  As he held the blade there, leg trembling, breath coming in mad gasps, the shadows parted for Fenris Whiteeyes. He saw a familiar face staring back at him. An ugly fucker with two pale white eyes and a crooked chin. His own face, maybe older, maybe just worse for wear. Its hair was the colour of ash, and scars ran through the beard in jagged lines. Then Fenris saw the cut in a gruesome smile across its neck. He’d seen that cut before, see it on the neck of Ralke Grey. The cracked lips were mumbling something. A mixture of blood and spit started to bubble out of its mouth and dribble down its chin. Fenris Whiteeyes watched the life leave his own pale eyes.

  Fenris staggered back, ripped his sword free. The shadows closed in on themselves, and the figure returned to darkness. It stood for a second, then, bleeding from a single point of light from where Fenris’s anointed blade had stabbed, it collapsed to the ground and vanished. Was that what Karlin had seen? The bloody ruins of his own fate acted before him like some twisted play. Fenris wanted to fight. He wanted to grab the shadow, scream at it, ask it why. But all that was left was a puddle and his own murky reflection.

  He pulled the arrow out, wrapped a rag around the wound, and left the future for another man.

  Karlin was cold when Fenris returned, bloody cold. His skin was snow white, and Fenris would have thought him dead if it wasn’t for the slow breaths that rattled out of the man’s chest.

  “Come on, you bastard.” Fenris heaved Karlin up, put an arm around his back. He was hardly conscious. He swayed backwards then forward.

  “Fenris… Fenris.” Karlin sounded delusional.

  The weight on Fenris’s leg made him want to scream, but he bit his tongue, focused on the ground before him.

  “Save your breath,” Fenris said. “We’ll get you help soon.”

  Fenris looked up at the cathedral, felt his gut churn, but there wasn’t much to do about it. That was the only way he could go. He prayed that he would find Miertaz there too.