The Nine Shadows: Chapter Nine

By Christopher Mitchell

Nine

Peck awoke with a start, realizing he’d drifted to sleep at some point during his watch. The sun had risen over the ruins of the village, the huts they’d set ablaze in the night now skeletal kindling and ash, sending streaks of smoke to drift lazily into the grey-cloaked sky. His eyes adjusted, and his heart lurched in his chest. The horses were gone, and neither Marcus nor Tiberius were anywhere to be seen.

“Marcus?” Peck rose, rubbing away the sleep that lingered in his lids. Only the sounds of crackling tinder answered him. “Tiberius?” He left the sanctuary of the well slowly, taking small, shuffling steps, unsure of which direction to investigate first. He tried to stifle the mounting dread he felt creeping up from the pit of his stomach as it clawed its way into the back of his throat, where he felt the panic erupt from within him. “Marcus!”

A new scent hit his nostrils, like the smell of something being roasted over a spit. It smelled of pork, and he realized where the soldiers were. He tried to stifle the anxiety that still clung to his knotted belly, and his attempt at a light trot turned into a mad dash for the mass grave at the edge of the village. He was relieved when the legionnaires came into view, standing over the burning bodies as Marcus made the sign of the cross. He’d finished the last of his prayers, it seemed, and Tiberius flung handfuls of dirt into the hollow, each—in their own way—performing the last rites for the village.

“Well, well.” Tiberius flung his last handful of dirt into the pit and turned to Peck. “Looks like someone finally decided to finish his firewatch.”

“Leave him be, Tiberius.” Marcus replaced the small wooden cross he wore around his neck in the folds of his cloak. “It was the boy’s first fight, and he needed the rest.”

“As did, you, Shield.” Tiberius held Peck’s gaze, lips drawn to a thin line as his eyes narrowed, though they held a light that hinted he was jesting. He wiped his hands together to remove the excess dirt on them and sighed. “I guess you’ll just have to sleep in the saddle while Peck walks.”

Peck tried to hide his smile, but the sight of the two soldiers caused Peck to rush toward Marcus and hug him about the waist.

Marcus laughed paternally, patting the boy’s back. “It was only a few hours of sleep Peck. There’s no need to thank me.”

“I thought…” Peck couldn’t finish the words. A knot had formed in his throat.

Tiberius chuckled and patted the boy on the shoulder. “No, young Peck, we’ve grown quite too fond of you to slip away quietly in the night; we’ll leave that to your future wives.”

Peck released Marcus and turned to embrace Tiberius, who held his arms up wardingly. Peck noticed that Tiberius’ eyes were hollow, and his face was pale, as if he hadn’t slept at all last night.

“I’ll not be pawed at, Peck.” Tiberius tried not to seem phased by Peck’s shocked expression at the change in Tiberius’ appearance. “Besides, you stink of smoke and onions; it’s surprising the flies haven’t returned to feast on your smell alone.”

Peck smiled wryly, and Marcus patted his shoulder as he passed him on the way to the horses. Argos and Sceppio were no worse for wear after their encounter with the lamias, though Argos sported a shallow gash on her hind quarters that already looked scabbed over. Peck was certain these warhorses had endured much worse over the course of their life, so he paid no more heed as he quickly returned to the square to secure his belongings. He looked about the village one more time, saying Marcus’ learned prayers silently to the huts at large, hoping that even the timbers and thatched rooves could be pardoned from the barbarity it had endured.

They set out, Peck keeping a light pace so Marcus could sleep in the saddle with minimal jostling from Sceppio. The boy fed it apples he’d found in the village as they walked, singing softly to the horse as they watched the scenic grey eventually dissolve around midday. The sun came out fiercely, baptizing the landscape in brilliant yellow light, showering the fallen leaves at their feet in brilliant shades of yellow, reds and browns. Peck dragged his feet through them, allowing the warmth of the sun to wash away the memories of the night, which now seemed to linger on the lamia boy reaching up to Tiberius’ cheek before Peck’s dagger stilled him. The image didn’t fade completely, choosing to linger in his mind—much like Peck himself did as he tunneled into the thoughts of his host.

“The memories never fade, Peck.”

Peck spun to see Tiberius staring at him. The boy observed a nearly imperceptible tremor coursing through Tiberius’ body, as if the sun did not penetrate to the depth of him. He kept the hood of his cloak up, using the cuff of the sleeve to pull at the side of the cowl. No piece of his skin was exposed to direct sunlight.

Tiberius continued. “I see him too, boy. Him and hundreds like him.”

Peck understood now, to a certain degree, the weight these men carried. The realization made him regret the ire he’d felt toward Tiberius less than a day ago. “How do you endure it, Dominus?”

“Strong drink, usually.” Tiberius reached for the wine skin. His fingers protruded slightly from the sleeve, and Tiberius hissed loudly as the sun shone on the exposed flesh. He retracted the hand back into the sleeve and asked Peck for assistance. Peck obliged, uncorking the skin and handing it to Tiberius, who took a quick draught of the liquid and handed it back down to the boy. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve and continued. “No, Peck, I’ve found that time does not heal the wounds we possess; it only makes them more bearable as we age.”

Tiberius pulled his blanket from behind himself and wrapped it about his body. “I’m no philosopher, Peck, but I’m convinced that the pain and hate and brutality of this world exists so we can come through it stronger, so when the real test of our lives arrives, we can meet it head on, unafraid, and full of the love we feel for the people we’re ready to leave behind so they can survive just a while longer.”

“He’s not always this grim, Peck.” Marus had woken from his place on Sceppio, stretching his arms upward to loosen stiff muscles. “The Maraughin has soured his usual pleasant countenance as she worms her way into his system.”

Peck started. “Is Dominus becoming one of them?”

Marcus looked uncomfortable, and Tiberius chuckled.

“Yes, Peck, I believe I am, though I’m uncertain.” Tiberius wrung the leather reins in his hands nervously. “I dreamt of her last night, though I have no memory of it, other than her within it. Since that time, neither food nor drink has slaked the hunger and thirst I feel.” He turned quickly to the grim expression of his partner. “And before you go removing my head from its shoulders, I’m not hers, Marcus… not yet at least.”

Marcus growled and grew pale, and Peck felt the knot return to his throat from earlier.

“We need to find the Maraughin.” Marcus gazed far beyond the horizon, using his hand to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the sun. Already, it was beginning its descent back behind the cover of grey clouds, their dark shapes threatening an afternoon of rain. “But first we’ll find some cover while this rain passes.”

They found a small crag of rocks half an hour later, as the first drops of rain kissed their skin. Tiberius had removed his hood and relished in the sensation of the small droplets as they cascaded across his newly exposed skin.

Peck noted that Tiberius looked paler than before and sickly. He did not appear fatigued, however, and he leapt from the back of Argos and held his arms out to the now thick droplets of rain as they descended from the heavens, like the baptisms Marcus spoke of in his stories. Peck wished he could help him. If only—

“Wait.”

He’d said it softly, but Tiberius perked up at his words, causing Peck to step back in surprise; Tiberius was at least fifteen paces away, far enough for Peck’s words to be drowned out by both the distance and the rain.

“What is it, young Peck?” Tiberius moved quickly—gracefully—toward the boy, like a cat closing in on its prey. The old legionnaire saw something in Peck’s expression, and he stopped. He looked down at his hands, then let them fall back into the folds of his sleeves. “Never mind, boy, go see to Marcus. He’ll need help hobbling the horses.”

Peck did as ordered, though he listened for rapidly approaching footsteps as he jogged back to help Marcus with downloading the essential gear from the backs of the horses. He was deeply worried about Tiberius, but he would not let that cloud his own self-preservation.

Marcus was mixing some of the dried meat and a sprinkle of salt into the puls as Peck approached. He extended the bowl to Peck, then froze as he examined the boy’s expression. “What is it, boy?” It wasn’t fear on Peck’s face, not entirely. It was apprehension and dread, intermingled with sorrow. Marcus relaxed, recognizing the look of watching a loved one die in front of them. He realized then that he’d spoken in Latin out of reaction, and adjusted his speech to—

“Dominus is growing worse, Marcus.” Peck opened and closed his hands repeatedly as he paced the small hollow they’d found to take shelter from the rain.

Curious, Marcus spoke again. “Peck, do you understand the words I am saying?”

“Yes, of course Marcus, I—” Peck froze, then spun quickly to the roman giant. He understood their language, somehow.

Marcus was intrigued; could it possibly be from the boy’s tunneling into his mind? He hadn’t thought about their conversation as they faced the Blue King in his mind and wondered if he and the boy had somehow bridged a gap between their worlds. He tentatively tried again. “Peck, I am asking you about our horses; what are their names?”

Peck took a moment, then responded. “Argos and Sceppio, with Tiberius’ horse named for the ancient Greek city, and Sceppio, named for an old war comrade who saved you while on campaign in Germania.”

He did understand the language. Marcus stood, eyes narrowed with hands on hips. “Can you speak those words in Latin, Peck?”

Peck’s face twisted, thinking. Resigned, he shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Then you shall require another chance to try.” It was Tiberius, who’d entered their small hollow behind Peck, his eyes also curious.

He must have overheard their conversation, though Marcus was unsure how. The rain now came down in sheets, roaring as thick droplets crashed to the soft soil and bounced into the entryway of the hollow.

It’s her influence, Marcus thought, seeing the transition of both countenance and appearance in his oldest friend, she is close to taking him.

“You will tunnel into my mind, Peck.” Tiberius removed the sword and dagger from their place at his waist and smiled at the tension in Marcus’ face. “Worry not, old friend, I mean no harm.” He dropped the blades at his feet and kicked them over to Peck. “A token of peace.”

Marcus understood the gesture and removed the hand he hadn’t realized had gone to the hilt of his own sword.

Tiberius continued. “The Maraughin’s hold is tightening Peck; I want to know why.” He lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged, looking up at the boy. “I’m also curious of the power you possess. Perhaps a venture into the depths of my mind will bridge the gap to speaking in our tongue.”

Peck looked to Marcus, seeking permission. Marcus was apprehensive.

“I assure you, brother.” Tiberius cut in; it was the first time he’d called Marcus by such a name. “I mean the boy no harm.” He sighed. “I believe this may be the last thing I’ll be able to do to help you before…”

Marcus understood, feeling a seething knot build in his throat. He nodded, though he drew his sword, and Tiberius smiled and returned his nod in acceptance.

Peck seated himself across from Tiberius, placing his hands over his knees, the small fire Marcus had started casting yellow light over the pair, twisting Tiberius’ face into something demonic, while making Peck’s appear fair and angelic.

They locked eyes, and a moment later the flames of the small fire intensified.

Peck was in. He woke with a start to a village on fire. Argos and Sceppio were tied to the hitching post near the well. It was the village from the night before, still smoldering in the aftermath of their battle with the children of the Maraughin. He looked about, seeing Marcus’ large frame asleep on his bedroll, then the small frame of a boy holding a spear lightly before him, struggling to keep his eyes open. It was the first time he’d seen himself apart from the obscured reflections in streams and rivers, and he marveled at the sight until he heard a soft humming in the air around him. It was the hum of a woman’s voice, old and deep. Not in timbre, but in sheer dimension. It hummed of worlds beyond the sight of man, and Peck understood the melody as if words clung to them, singing to gods of dead worlds and to the beasts they created in their image.

            Peck’s eyes— not his eyes, but the eyes of the Peck in this vision—closed and did not reopen; the Maraughin’ s lullaby wasn’t for Tiberius alone, it seemed. He did not remember hearing a melody last night, but he also didn’t remember drowsing, either.

            Focus, young Peck, you have a task at hand. He found he admonished himself in Marcus’ voice, and he smiled in the corner of Tiberius’ mind. He steeled himself, training his thoughts on what Tiberius saw, on the still-burning village and the scent of blood and smoke and ash flitting through the square as wood and thatch crackled and popped against the whispering wind.

And her voice. Peck heard it as Tiberius heard it. He understood why now, why she had such a grip on this stalwart soldier and how he could let himself fall into her seduction. Peck felt himself losing control, urging Tiberius to call out to her from within his mind.

“Are you there?” Tiberius said it in their clipped way of speaking, but Peck understood it fully now, like muddy water filtered through layers of rocks and sand and charcoal.

I am always here, Tiberius… watching…

“Waiting…” Tiberius spun to the direction of her voice. She stood on the outskirts of the village, her silhouette in silver thanks to the parting of cloud cover, letting that gibbous moon shower her in sweet white radiance.

Peck sensed that longing. It melded with his own, unbidden. He reviled that sensation, and his mind reeled at the mixture of revulsion and thrill she sent coursing through his body—no, Tiberius’ body… it was becoming jumbled, fragmented… it was too much.

He tried to break the connection, seeking a departure from the sensations he felt. He saw a flash of white, and opened his eyes to—

He was still in Tiberius’ mind. He’d been unable to sever the connection.

Tiberius was walking in the Maraughin’s direction.

Peck tried again, seeing all go white, and he was once again thrust back into the vision. He felt his lips connect with the Maraughin. They were cold and dead and waxy, and she bit his lip, sending a rivulet of pain cascading through the whole of his body.

While Peck reeled, Tiberius was elated. He moaned against her brutality, begging for more. He longed to be punished for the sins he’d committed in the name of peace.

Peck tried once more to sever the connection and found himself unable to do so, the flash of white hurling him forward in time, to the Maraughin’s exposed upper half, dead skin reflecting against the moonlight as it shone over her. Peck screamed in Tiberius’ mind, though he was unheard, unable to flee, forced to watch and feel as she and Tiberius became connected, her gyrations against him sending unwanted flits of elation through his mind. He tried to flee once again, seeing white, then hurtled forward in time instead, to the Maraughin clasping Tiberius’ cheeks and looking directly into his eyes.

“No, Bridger of Minds… you will be witness to this.” She saw him, saw Peck hiding in the dark recesses of this memory, and he felt exposed, naked…

Afraid.

She tore a chunk of flesh from her wrist with her teeth, and black blood poured from the site and disappeared in faint whisps of moon-tinted smoke, and she forced it into Tiberius mouth. “Now you see… and you cannot unsee.” She said the words as Tiberius lapped hungrily at the wound, devouring her essence, feeling a shift as all became brighter—

NO!

Peck screamed in the back of Tiberius’ mind, and the Maraughin was hurled back and away from Tiberius, the full weight of her vile body now visible and putrid. Peck felt Tiberius grow sick, and he retched, turning his head to the side and vomiting black blood from the depths of himself. The taste was awful, nothing like the sweet flavor the young boy had tasted in his earlier vision. The liquid turned to vapor and disappeared like the morning mist.

The Maraughin raged. “What did you do!”

Peck heard Tiberius cough. “This was not as it was in my memory.” He propped himself up on one elbow, now sensing the boy in the back of his mind. “You must flee, Peck. Now, before she returns!”

Peck severed the connection as the Maraughin screamed and advanced, fingers curled into claws, ready to gouge his eyes from their sockets…

He awoke with a start in the small hollow. Tiberius was nowhere to be seen, and Marcus lay on the ground, rolled away from him.

“Marcus!” Peck tried to stand and felt his legs wobble unsteadily beneath him. He sank to his knees and crawled to his mentor’s aid. Hoping, praying that—

Marcus still drew breath. He was unconscious, a large gash in his forehead where something had struck him.

“Marcus!” Peck shook the large man fiercely, his vision growing wet and blurry, and his voice straining against the fear that Marcus would not wake. “Please!”

Pray he wakes, Bridger of Minds… The Maraughin’s voice echoed in Peck’s mind, and he looked about wildly, fearing she would finish what she started in the vision.

When the sun sets, we are coming…

Her laughter echoed in the small hollow, deep and expansive, then disappeared.

Peck stifled the mounting panic in his mind, focusing instead on his mentor.

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