The Nine Shadows: Chapter Two

By Christopher Mitchell

Two

The latrones hadn’t eaten in two days. Catching the speck of firelight from the crest of their small hill encampment, the pack of four brigands loped towards the fire with hunger in their eyes. Moving on shaky legs, they teetered closer, hoping to catch the weary travelers off guard. They knew these hills, knew every scratch and twig and how to circumvent detection, until they were right on top of their prey, slitting throats to fill their hungry bellies.

Something about these two, however, made Peck nervous. It may have been their unwary nature, laughing and conversing loudly against the wilds of Pictland. It may have been the size of the large man nearest him, whose deep voice made him think of the bears in the upper highlands. Whatever it was, he’d wished they’d stayed on their hill and gone searching the west for something edible. Tel was circling the far side of the camp, with Ert and Meb taking the right and left sides.

Peck’s role, being the smallest, was to grab their packs and run. The other three would distract—and kill, if possible—so that Peck could scurry in and scurry out before the din of chaos ebbed. He disliked the task, as it meant he was the one most likely to be killed first.

The other three moved in close, just outside the cloister of firelight, when the smaller man rose quickly, throwing something small at Ert. It connected, and Ert fell with a scream, clutching at a knife handle in his chest. The large man stood, towering over Meb and Tel, who held their clubs up in fear, brandishing the cudgels like torches against a massive wolf. The giant huffed, then reached out, moving with lightning precision to pluck the clubs from their hands, and tossed them into the small fire. Meb ran, falling upon the smaller one’s sword as he scrambled past the fire. Peck hadn’t even seen the blade leave its sheath.

Tel, their leader, made a valiant stand. Peck knew that look in his eyes; he remembered it on his father’s face when Tel had crushed his skull, taking the boy as a slave when he was only five winters old. It was the look of a man prepared to defend himself to the last, and Peck felt something he couldn’t name, feeling a cold smile creep across his face. Tel’s small dagger cast a yellowish bronze flash as the firelight struck it, sending flares of amber into the sky with his mad slashes at the midsection of the large man. It then fell from his hands as the giant grabbed him on both sides of his head. He screamed, and his skull crunched. The smaller man watched the bigger one throw his prior captor into the darkness beyond the campsite, then turned to face Peck.

“You can come out of the shadows, little mouse.” The man’s dialect said he was from the south, yet the hilt of the dagger protruding from the chest of Ert said these men were of the eagle tribes that Meb called Romans. They were rarely, if ever, seen on this side of the wall. Peck assumed the two were deserters, as Meb had been, and decided that fleeing was fruitless.

Peck emerged from his place in the scrub nearby, arms raised, moving slowly toward the warmth of their campfire. The two men exchanged words in their native tongue. It sounded so different from his own. Flat and clipped, almost like the pattering of rainfall, and Peck assumed it to be a made-up language entirely. The smaller man gestured at Peck, and the larger one spoke quickly, driving his fist into the palm of his other hand. Peck stifled the urge to run; if he was to die today, he would do so with his back to the darkness, prepared to see his father once again on the planes of the next world.

The smaller man faced Peck. “Are there others with you?”

Peck shook his head.

The smaller man turned to the larger, making a face that reminded Peck of a time when Tel had warned Ert against pulling at the roots of a large holly. Ert’s back seized, and Tel had laughed, saying, “See? I told you Mother Holly’s claws are stronger than yours.”

Peck shook the memory away, fear consuming him as the larger man approached, shrouded in shadow against the backdrop of the fire. The cudgels had caught flames, causing the light to grow brighter, making the man’s face appear like that of piskies. The imps were said to change shapes and steal the souls of men while they slept.

The giant knelt forward, with hands on knees, looking deep into Peck’s eyes, searching for something. “Are you alone out here, young one?”

His tone was soft, reassuring. Peck mistrusted it. Tel would often take that timbre, right before beating him. Still, he knew a lie would mean his death. He nodded his head.

“Come to the fire. Warm yourself.” The large man stood and turned his back to Peck, who stared, baffled. The smaller man was cleaning the dagger he’d thrown into Ert’s chest. Peck approached, noting the large slash across Ert’s throat; these men were thorough, not allowing a man to suffer.

They were nothing like Tel.

Peck sat close to the fire, warming himself as directed. The two men set to rifling through pockets, making a collection near where the larger man had lain. Peck looked around the small campsite, looking for objects that could be used as a weapon. If these men planned to kill him, he would die fighting. In the meantime, the heat of the flames warmed his numb fingers, bringing that bite of pain as life flowed back into them. He watched the tongues of flame gyrate against the clubs that had earlier that day been used against his ribs for oversleeping.

“Have you eaten, boy?” The larger man spoke, dragging Ert’s body near where he’d tossed Tel, then helped the smaller man move Meb to the same area.

Peck remained silent and shook his head when the large man caught his eye. The smaller man said something to the larger one, with a look that reminded him of the ones Meb would make when Peck would watch him eat, feeling the gnawing pain of hunger wrench his insides.

The large man said something, and the smaller man growled and knelt. He went through his pack and produced a small crust of bread. He threw it up to the large man, who caught it. The walking giant came over to where Peck sat, stooping on his haunches and proffering the bread to him.

“We have little in the way of food, but you look half-starved, boy.” The large man continued to hold it out, and Peck was uncertain. The smaller man said something, and the big one rolled his eyes. “He thinks you’ll slit our throats in the night, and that wasting our last crust of bread on you is wasteful.”

It caught Peck off guard, because that was what he’d conceived in his mind: a contingency over becoming a slave again. He was free now, and he would never go back to being property. But the honesty felt sincere, so Peck plucked the crust of bread from the man’s hands and shoved it ravenously in his mouth.

The large man chuckled. “Careful, boy, you’ll choke!” He reached to where he’d sat before killing a man with his bare hands, pulling a water skin from its place beside the bedroll and handing it to Peck. Peck drank greedily, and the man had to gently, yet sternly, persuade him to release the skin before he drank it all.

“No use in throwing it all up from an aching belly…then Tiberius will be irate with both of us.” The large man stood, holding his hand to his chest. “My name is Marcus of House Cassius.” He turned to his partner. “This is Tiberius Cassius Sapiens, my master.”

The man named Tiberius held a finger up. “Former master. You haven’t been owned since you sprouted past all men of the house…” he gestured to Peck. “You were no older than the boy here.”

Marcus grumbled and waved Tiberius off. “He jests. His father released me when I proved able to keep this troublemaker from dishonoring the house name.” He held out the water skin again. “What’s your name, or should we continue calling you ‘boy’?”

Peck hesitated—only a moment—then slowly grasped the waterskin. “Peck.”

Marcus smiled, then nodded. “Well met, young Peck.” He moved back to his place on his bedroll. “We’ll need your help burying the bodies in the morning.”

“Why do you think I’ll help you?” The ebb of his hunger pangs and his newly-wet lips emboldened him.

Tiberius laughed, collecting the belongings of Peck’s dead masters. “Because you mourn for none of them.” Tiberius dropped the dead men’s belongings at Peck’s feet. “These rightfully belong to you now, Peck…” The smaller man returned to his bedroll and lay down, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

“We no longer have use for trinkets of war.”

End

Tune in next Friday for the Next exciting Chapter!