The Nine Shadows: Chapter Ten

By Christoper Mitchell

Ten

Marcus’ breathing was deep, though unlabored. He looked as if he were resting peacefully, the images of Adrianople no longer clawing at his dreams.

Peck placed his hand on Marcus’ forehead, not knowing what else to do. He had memories of his mother, so long ago, doing something similar to his father when he’d fallen ill. Marcus’ forehead was cool to the touch. He touched his own forehead, comparing their heat differences. He assumed that was a good sign. Tel had spiked a fever once after taking a spear to the side on a robbery gone bad, and his forehead had been hot and sweaty.

Remembering that Ert had insisted their leader drink copious amounts of water, Peck retrieved the water skin from its place in Marcus’ belongings and propped the large man’s head in his lap. He poured a small amount in his mouth, hoping Marcus wouldn’t choke. It went down smooth enough, so he did it again, then decided to sit there and wait for the man to wake.

“I do not know what to do, Marcus…” Peck didn’t like how he sounded, his voice coming through strained and close to tears. “The Maraughin is coming, and I need your help.”

Marcus didn’t stir, only continued that deep breathing. Tiberius, Peck assumed, had fled as he came up from tunneling, headed toward the song of the Maraughin after flooring his friend and bodyguard.

Peck would have to do this himself.

He looked about the hollow. It had only one entrance, the stone above sturdy with no appearance of cracks or fault lines. The entrance itself was about double the size of Marcus. It was sparsely covered on the outside with a canopy of rowan trees obscuring its opening from prying eyes.

He stood, gently placing Marcus’ head in the soft soil of the hollow, then grabbed the large man’s pack and placed it under his head to make him comfortable. It seemed unnecessary, but it felt right. He left the hollow, stepping into the gloam of mid-afternoon and surveying his surroundings, noting that the hollow’s face went high above his head and appeared unscalable. He hoped Lamia could not clamber down the rock face; if they couldn’t, it would mean they could only advance from three sides. Argos and Sceppio munched lazily at the grass nearby, concealed by thick brush from would-be bandits.

Marcus had chosen their site well.

“What would you do, Marcus?” Peck scratched the back of his head, looking about at the far-off hills, wondering which direction the lamia would approach from. He felt so lost. There were too many variables, too many avenues for them to approach from.

Think not of what you can do. A voice came from inside his mind. But of what you have at your disposal.

The voice sounded like Marcus, and Peck took heart. It was a start, at least.

He went back into the hollow and took stock of their inventory. He gently pulled the pack from underneath Marcus’ head, apologizing, then rummaged through it. There was nothing of import in Marcus’ pack, just cooking gear, a spare tunic, some leather straps, and something tattered, covered in black leather, with two lines intersecting, one up and one sideways, the sideways line up slightly from crossing at its center. Peck opened the object, looking at the symbols bunched together, seeing certain groups of symbols underlined. He didn’t understand them and thought he would ask Marcus about them when he woke.

If he wakes at all. The thought made Peck’s throat tighten, and he shoved his sadness down. He didn’t have time to weep; there was much still to do. He gingerly placed the pack back underneath Marcus’ head, then went to Tiberius’ pack. There were several baubles and trinkets in this one, scattered about it wantonly, but nothing that would—

His hands touched something familiar and useful, and a plan flooded his mind unbidden, as if the large Roman behind him had forced it through his ears himself.

Peck looked to the entrance of the shallow cavern, and his eyes fell on two nearby objects just inside the hollow, glinting in the light of the dying fire. He remembered Marcus’ words when he’d tunneled into his mind while facing the Blue King.

Courage, young Peck…

He stood, moving quickly to the objects and grabbing them on his way out of the cavern. He stowed Tiberius’ sword and dagger at his waist.

He had work to do, and the sun would set in mere hours.

The Blue King stood atop the hill; keen eyes filled with the glow of moonlight overhead. A flicker of light danced from the mouth of a cavern in the distance, and he knew his prey was there. He could smell the two humans, hearing their hearts thrum in their chests as if his ear were pressed directly to their ribcages. One’s heart beat slowly, unafraid—or asleep, he could not tell—while another, smaller one sounded as if it were going to burst. He smiled and pushed his tongue into the point of his long canines. He was pleased that the little rabbit was afraid.

The Blue King no longer considered himself among their kind, no longer frail and weak as he’d been before the kiss of his queen. No, he was something new. He and the Maraughin would soon devour this world and everything in it, their children at their side, until it was time to ascend into the heavens and enter the realm of Nod, where new and more interesting things, according to his queen, resided. Then they would start the cycle anew, bathing in the blood of strange beasts, howling at unfamiliar moons he’d seen in the visions of his empress.

He was unsure, however, of their new companion’s place in this plan. He’d appeared before the sun slumbered, kneeling at the feet of his love, and the Blue King wished to end its miserable life. He could smell her on him, his frightening bride, and assumed she wished the newcomer to be one of their slaves. He spoke in the language of usurpers, and his queen understood him. She said he’d come to swear allegiance to their reign as a servant, and the Blue King laughed.

He could use a new cupbearer.

Their new servant had been hesitant to say where his tribe had hidden, so the queen had tasted his thoughts and afterward sent the Blue King and the entirety of the horde to retrieve them. He wished to devour the little one in front of the big one, in retribution for the children he’d lost to their knives. He could taste the boy’s fear, as he had tasted his new sons’ fear while turning them. His children now stood behind him, slowly becoming feral at the scent rising in the air from their encampment.

The Blue King howled to the moon overhead, and his children picked up the cry, sending the haunting melody to dance over the hills of this now-forsaken land; a message to the nearby villages that their time would soon be over, and a new kingdom would rise from its ashes.

Their echoing cries were silenced as the young boy left the mouth of the cave, carrying a torch high above his head. They were a great distance away, but the Blue King’s eyesight was keener than even that of the hovering hawk. He could see the outline of the boy’s face now, covered in an intricate design of loops and lines and circles. His warpaint smelled of ash and crushed rowan berries. The boy held the torch high over his head and drew a sword from his waist, screaming high into the sky, in bellowing answer to their howls.

The Blue King’s heart leapt in his chest.

Here was one who would make a wonderful addition to the horde; a lieutenant perhaps… He’d have to restrain himself from ripping the young lad’s arms off. He pointed at the boy and roared, his children rushing past him as he looked on.

He would let them have a head start.

Peck watched the legion of Lamia descend from the nearby hilltop like a colony of ants. How many villages had the Blue King ravaged to create such a nightmarish army? Five at least, based on how many he remembered from yesterday’s battle. Had it been only yesterday? He felt so tired. Between preparations and his growing lack of sleep, the boy was exhausted, though fear kept his mind alert. He longed for Marcus’ sword, for his help in this endeavor, but the lumbering giant still slumbered.

No, Peck would have to do this himself.

He did not mind. If he had to die, he could think of no better way than on his feet with a sword in his hand. He no longer felt like the boy who’d cowered in a bush while his captors died at the hands of two men that he now considered family. He would make them proud, even if they never learned of what he’d accomplished here this night.

“I kill…” he gripped the sword tighter, watching the creatures close in, remembering the words Marcus had spoken while presiding over the dead. “…because those I love require it of me.”

They approached, the Lamia boys loping in alternating bounds of two legs, then hands and feet, then back up on two legs. They were animals, howling in hunger and hate and in the feral thrill of the hunt. The first of them crossed his marker, and he thought back to Marcus’ words when facing the Blue King.

Right then, at that very moment, they were perfect…

“He’s Mine…” He flung the torch down at his feet, the alchemical oil alighting iridescent green and rushing away from him towards the approaching legion of monsters. It connected with the rest of the oil he’d discovered on the backs of Argos and Sceppio, mixed with water to spread its effects, turning the clearing in front of him into a blazing killing field.

Peck closed his heart to the wails of young men now erupting in spurts of green flame, thrashing and beating at themselves as the blaze caught their dead skin like kindling, turning them to ash in moments. Peck now understood why they feared fire so.

In seconds, the horde was reduced to a harrying party, and Peck sprang into the battle, picking up the spear he’d set in the brush nearby, ready to take on the only two who managed to make it through the fire. They were fast, but their rage and hunger had blinded them.

The first of the boys closed in, then fell as his feet descended into the shallow groove Peck had dug and lined with spikes made from the nearby rowan trees. Peck thrust his spear into the howling boy’s chest, and he stilled.

Peck spun quickly, but the next Lamia boy was too fast. He was thrown to the ground in a tackle, unable to pry the spear from the other boy’s chest in time. Peck tightened his grip on the sword to keep from dropping it and took a set of teeth to the shoulder. The Lamia—consumed by the thrill of the hunt, not on the kill—lost its focus. Peck screamed in pain but allowed the boy to lap hungrily at the wound while he fished the dagger from his belt. He plunged it deep into the lamia’s back as it grunted in satisfaction at its meal, and Peck hoped his aim was true. The Lamia whimpered, then stilled. He pushed the dead boy off him as three more Lamia leapt the flames, narrowly missing those verdant tongues of death as they landed. They advanced, though they seemed more wary as they passed their crippled brother, still caught in Peck’s snare. He assumed they’d begun to worry about more traps nearby.

They had assumed correctly.

Peck turned and ran to the mouth of the cave, lighting the remaining oil to block its entrance. Marcus would be safe while Peck disappeared into the woods nearby, the next phase of his plan in place. He heard the beasts howl in frustration, then turn to pursue him. From the hilltop nearby, he heard the Blue King roar in rage.

Good… We will not go quietly, filth.

His heart was racing in fear and exhilaration. He sprinted the last few paces to the next position and turned. Two more Lamia boys were within twenty paces of him, and he brought the sword down hard on the rope he’d secured from Tiberius’ pack. It snapped with a twang, and the branches it held shot forward, the spikes attached at their ends catching at the perfect angle, taking one square in the chest and the other in the eye. While one stilled, the one with the impaled eye kicked and bucked, screaming as it tried to pry itself free of the spike. Peck rushed forward, driving his dagger through the boy’s heart, and it stilled. Peck did not wait to see who followed.

He had to keep moving.

Panting, drenched with sweat, he heard a single Lamia grunting and growling behind him. He dared a glance over his shoulder and recognized this one as the leader of the children in the village. He was gaining on him, and Peck feared he wouldn’t make it in time.

Just a bit—

His foot caught on a snarled root, and he tumbled end over end, losing the sword he held in the process. His shoulder and sides screamed, battered and torn by the veins of roots that protruded from the soil. Against the agony in his body, he tried to roll quickly, to get to his feet—

The pack leader was on him in moments. He fought feebly against the overpowering strength of both a larger opponent and the newfound strength of the leader’s Lamian body. The leader caught Peck’s thrashing arms and planted them firmly above him, sending bolts of pain coursing through Peck’s body as they caught the tangle of roots. Peck tried to buck the leader from atop him, but the leader brought his forehead down, connecting with Peck’s lips, sending a spray of blood outward and stunning him momentarily.

The leader laughed, eyes glowing in the darkness of overgrowth. He stank of blood and rotting meat. “So close, little rabbit.” He opened his mouth, baring those brilliant white canines as he came down to tear out Peck’s throat.

Peck felt the leader’s hand relax, ever so slightly, and he took that moment to fan his arms downward, throwing the leader off balance and causing his teeth to connect with the roots of the rowan trees. The leader screamed and released Peck’s hands, holding them over his mouth where the rigid roots had dislodged those teeth from their place in his open maw. Peck thrust the now free dagger into the leader’s chest, then watched as he froze in place and collapsed to the side. Peck wormed the rest of the way free and stood, looking down at the leader.

He spat blood to the side and sneered. “So close… little rabbit.”

He turned and continued his descent into the wood line, finally reaching the place where he’d fashioned the bow from the branches of the rowan trees. It would only last for one or two draws, but Peck didn’t care. By all accounts, he hadn’t thought he would have made it this far, let alone have an opportunity to use the rudimentary weapon. He squatted in the brush and waited, trying to keep his heart and heavy breathing under control.

He waited, but no more footsteps approached. Instead, from near the mouth of the hollow, he heard the Blue King roar in hate.

“Marcus!” Peck shot off in a flash, racing back to where his mentor and protector lay helpless. He could only hope the flames still lingered, keeping the monster at bay from hurting the man he now looked to as a father.

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