Luck in the Shadows Read online

  Alec was beginning to be as frightened of Seregil as he was for him.

  He hadn’t intended to sleep the previous night, but the exhaustion of the past few days caught up with him and he’d dozed off. In the middle of the night he’d awakened to find Seregil crouched less than a foot away, eyes shining like a cat’s in the dark, his breathing was so harsh it was almost a growl. Motionless, he simply stared at Alec.

  Alec wasn’t certain how long they’d remained frozen like that, staring each other down, but Seregil finally turned away and threw himself down in the straw. Alec had spent the remainder of the night keeping watch from a safe distance.

  In the morning neither of them spoke of the incident. Alec doubted whether Seregil recalled it at all. But that, together with Seregil’s nervous vigilance today, strengthened his resolve to not close his eyes again until he could lock his companion safely in a ship’s cabin at sea.

  Driving along in daylight, however, Alec could see all too clearly how Seregil was suffering. Reaching behind the bench, he pulled out one of their tattered blankets and laid it over his shoulders.

  “You’re not looking so good.”

  “Neither are you,” Seregil croaked through dry lips. “If we drive through the night, we might make Keston by tomorrow afternoon. I could probably manage the reins for a while—if you need to sleep.”

  “No, I’ll be fine!” Alec replied quickly. Too quickly, it seemed, for Seregil turned away and resumed his morose vigil.

  The sense of pursuit grew stronger as the day dragged on. Seregil was beginning to catch glimpses of whatever it was that stalked him, a glimmer of movement, the blur of a dark figure that disappeared in the blink of an eye.

  Just after midday he started so violently that Alec laid a hand on his arm.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “You’ve been doing that since yesterday.”

  “It’s nothing,” Seregil muttered, but this time he was certain he’d caught sight of someone on the road far behind them.

  Soon after, they topped the crest of a hill and came upon a Dalnan funeral. Several well-dressed men and women and two young children stood by the road, singing as they watched a young farmer driving an ox and plow in the middle of an empty field. The winter soil gave way grudgingly before the plowshare, coming up in frozen plates of earth. An elderly woman followed the driver, scattering handfuls of ash from a wooden bowl into the fresh furrow. When the last of it was gone, she carefully wiped out the inside of the dish with a handful of earth and poured it out onto the ground. The farmer turned the ox and plowed slowly back over it. A dusting of snow floated down as Alec and Seregil rattled past in their cart.

  “It’s the same as in the north,” Alec remarked.

  Seregil glanced back listlessly.

  “The way they plow the ashes of the dead back into the earth, I mean. And the song they were singing was the same.”

  “I didn’t notice. What was it?”

  Encouraged by his companion’s show of interest, Alec sang:

  “All that we are is given by you, O Dalna, Maker and Provider.

  In death we return your bounty and become one with your wondrous creation.

  Accept the dead back into the fertile earth that new life may spring from the ashes

  And at the planting and at the harvest will the dead be remembered.

  Nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker.

  Nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker.”

  Seregil nodded. “I’ve heard that—”

  Breaking off suddenly, he lunged for the reins and yanked the pony to a stop. “By the Four, look there!” he gasped, looking wildly across the field on their left. A tall, black-swathed figure stood less than a hundred yards from the road.

  “Where? What is it?”

  “Right there!” Seregil hissed.

  Even at the distance of a bow shot Seregil could see something amiss in the lines of the figure, some profound wrongness of proportion that disturbed him more than the fact that Alec obviously could not see it himself.

  “Who are you?” Seregil shouted, more frightened than angry.

  The dark figure regarded him silently, then bowed deeply and began a grotesque dance, leaping and capering about in a fashion that would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t so horrible. Seregil felt his whole body go numb as the nightmarish performance continued.

  Shuddering, he shoved the reins into Alec’s hands. “Get us away from here!”

  Alec whipped up the pony without question.

  When Seregil looked back, the weird creature had vanished.

  “What was that all about?” Alec demanded, raising his voice to be heard over the rattling of the cart.

  Trembling, Seregil gripped the edge of the seat and said nothing. A few moments later he looked up to find the thing walking in the road ahead of them. At this range he could see that it was too tall to be a man. And there was too much distance between the shoulders and the head, not enough between shoulders and hips, so that the arms appeared immensely long, its movements graceless but powerful. It looked back over one sloping shoulder and beckoned to him, as if to hurry him toward some destination.

  “Look there!” Seregil cried in spite of himself, gripping Alec’s arm as he pointed. “All in black. Bilairy’s Eyes, you must see it now!”

  “I don’t see anything!” Alec replied, the edge of fear clear in his voice.

  Seregil released him with a snarl of exasperation. “Are you blind? It’s as tall as a—”

  But even as he pointed again it vanished with a parting wave of its arm. An icy wave of fear rolled over him.

  Throughout the remainder of that leaden afternoon his dark tormentor toyed with him, playing an evil game of hide-and-seek. First Seregil would spy it far off, spinning madly in the middle of a bare field. A moment later it would appear beside him, striding beside the cart close enough to touch. A troop of Mycenian militia rode by and he saw it lurching along unnoticed in their midst; soon after it rode past in the opposite direction on the back of a farm wagon.

  Alec clearly could not see it and Seregil soon gave up calling his attention to it; whatever the visitations meant, they were for him alone.

  The worst came just as the sun was stooping to the horizon. He hadn’t seen the specter for nearly half an hour. Suddenly a wave of appalling coldness engulfed him. Jumping unsteadily to his feet, he whirled to find the creature crouched in the tail of the cart, arms outstretched as if to gather both Alec and him to its breast. The hem of its black sleeve actually brushed Alec’s head.

  Then it laughed. An obscenely rich chuckle bubbled up from the depths of the black hood and with the sound came a charnel stench so revolting that Seregil retched dryly even as he grappled with Alec for the boy’s sword.

  Obviously convinced that Seregil had gone completely mad at last, Alec fought him for it and they both toppled over the side.

  They came down hard with Seregil on top. The pony continued on a few yards, then shuffled to a stop. Looking up, Seregil saw that the cart was empty.

  He rocked back on his heels and drew in deep, shuddering breaths, one hand pressed to his chest.

  “Look at me!” Alec demanded angrily, scrambling up to grasp him by the shoulders. “Never mind about the pony. It’s not going anywhere. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on! I want to help you, but damn it, Seregil, you’ve got to talk to me!”

  Seregil shook his head slowly, still staring over his shoulder at the cart. “Get us off the road before dark!” he whispered. “Aura Elustri málrei—”

  “Tell me what you saw!” Alec cried, shaking him in frustration.

  Seregil focused on Alec then, clutching at the front of the boy’s tunic in desperation. “We must get off the road!”

  Alec regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head resignedly. “We will,” he promised.

  They came to a ramshackle crossroads inn just before dark. Seregil’s legs buckled as he stepped down from the cart and Alec had t
o help him inside.

  “I want a room. No, two rooms,” Alec told the innkeeper curtly.

  “Top of the stairs.” The man eyed Seregil nervously. “Is your friend here sick?”

  “Not so sick that I can’t pay,” Seregil said, forcing a smile. It took all his concentration to make it convincing and as soon as he was out of the man’s sight he dropped the pretense, sagging against Alec as they climbed the narrow stairs.

  Suddenly he was tired, so tired! He was already half asleep as Alec lowered him onto a bed.

  He dozed, woke, dozed again. Alec was there for a time. He tried to help Seregil drink, but he wasn’t thirsty, just tired. Presently, Alec left and Seregil heard a key turn in the lock. It was all very strange, but he was too sleepy to think about it anymore. Turning onto his side, he drifted deeper into a murky doze.

  He woke up shivering sometime later. The room had grown cold and Alec was crowding him off the bed against the wall, digging an elbow into the small of his back in the process. Twisting a bit, he tried to reclaim some space, but it was just too cold to sleep. Could the window be open? Did this room have a window? It seemed to him it didn’t.

  Giving up, he opened his eyes to check and found the night lamp still burning.

  “Damn it, Alec, move—”

  The words died in his throat.

  It wasn’t Alec pressing against him, but his tormentor, the black specter. It lay face up, arms crossed over its breast in the frightful parody of a tomb effigy. It remained perfectly motionless as Seregil dragged himself over the foot of the bed and scrambled for the door. Too late he remembered hearing the key turn; he was locked in.

  “Alec! Alec, help me!” he shouted, pounding on the door. Dizzying panic constricted around his chest like bands of iron.

  “No one will hear you.”

  The creature’s voice was like a high wind rushing through the naked branches of winter trees—sardonic, inhuman, the embodiment of desolation. Seregil turned and the dark thing sat up, its upper body levering in a single rigid motion like the folding of a clasp knife. In the same unnatural fashion it bent forward slightly and stood up. It seemed to fill the cramped room.

  Seregil tried to cry out again, but no sound came out.

  “He can’t help you now.” Waves of frigid cold radiated from the figure, and with it the same terrible stench.

  “What are you?” Seregil demanded in a strangled whisper.

  The specter advanced a step, halving the distance between them. “You led a good chase,” it replied in its soft, moaning voice. “But there is no escape, no forgiveness for such as you.”

  Seregil flattened himself against the wall, eyes darting about the room for some cover, finding none. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you know? Such a pity to die in ignorance. But it is all one to us. You are a thief, and we want back what you have stolen. You can elude us no longer.”

  “Tell me what it is!” Anger and despair mingled with his fear to recall a tentative shred of courage.

  Stretching its arms out across the ceiling, the loathsome thing wheezed out another blast of sepulchral fetor.

  He was going to die; not knowing why seemed the final injustice.

  The figure laughed again as it reached down for him, the sound of its voice tugging at the last roots of his sanity.

  “No!” Snarling, Seregil sprang at it.

  For a brief second his hands seemed to grasp at some distorted form, then he slammed into the far wall. When he whirled about, the creature was standing by the door.

  Another of the strange fits of blood lust came over Seregil then and this time he welcomed it, opening himself to the strength it lent. He ached with it, was driven mad with it as he flew at the dark thing. The night candle was kicked over and went out but still he fought on, finding the creature with his hands, feeling the chill of it slip away again and again.

  Suddenly his fingers found purchase. The form grew solid and he clawed at it, seeking a throat with his hands. It toyed with him, fending him off without returning his blows.

  The game did not last long, however. Huge talons sank suddenly into his chest and the world erupted in a searing blast of pain. Mercifully, his mind went out.

  Alec lay half strangled on the cold floor beside Seregil. In the darkness he couldn’t see what had happened to his hand, but it hurt like hell.

  “What’s going on up there?” the landlord shouted angrily from the far end of the passage. “I’ll not have my house torn up in the middle of the night, do you hear?”

  “Bring a light. Hurry!” Alec gasped, struggling one-handed to his knees.

  The landlord appeared in the doorway, candle in one hand, a stout cudgel in the other. “Sounds like someone’s bein’ murdered up—”

  He stopped short as his light fell over them. Seregil lay unconscious or worse, blood staining the breast of his shirt and his throat. Alec realized he probably didn’t look much better. His nose was bleeding where Seregil had struck him, and his face and neck were badly scratched. Cradling his left hand against his chest, he saw what looked like a round, raw burn in the center of his palm.

  “Hold the light down,” he told the innkeeper. Kneeling over Seregil, he made certain his friend was still breathing, then pulled the neck of his shirt open and gasped in dismay.

  The last time he’d seen the reddened area on Seregil’s chest had been aboard the Darter. Now there was a bloody wound in the same spot. Holding the palm of his throbbing hand to the light again, Alec saw that his burn and this mark were exactly the same size and shape.

  On the floor beside Seregil lay the wooden disk, the useless trinket he had stolen from the mayor’s house because it wouldn’t be missed. Picking it up gingerly by the broken leather thong, Alec compared it to the strange burn on his palm and the one on Seregil’s chest.

  It matched perfectly. Looking closer, he could even make out the print of the small square opening in its center.

  It was right in front of us all the time! he thought in silent anguish. How could he not have known? Why didn’t I see?

  He’d been awakened by the sound of Seregil crashing about in the next room and gone to see what was the matter. In his haste he forgot the lamp and cursed angrily to himself as he’d fumbled the key into the lock of Seregil’s door. The hallway was dark, the room inside darker still. In spite of the noise, he’d been unprepared for the attack that came the moment he stepped in.

  When cold fingers grasped at his throat, Alec’s only thought was how he could defend himself without injuring Seregil. He was trying to get a better grip on Seregil’s tunic when his hand slipped inside the neck of it. Finding the thong under his hand, he’d grabbed for it, felt it sliding away as Seregil drew back. Then the terrible pain.

  “What sort of foolishness is this?” the landlord demanded, looking over Alec’s shoulder. Then the man was backing way, making a sign against evil. “You’ve killed him with sorcery!”

  Alec thrust the disk out of sight. “He’s not dead. Come back here with that light!”

  But the man fled. Cursing in frustration, Alec stumbled to his own room and struck a light.

  What was he to do with the cursed disk? Throwing it into the fire seemed to be the wisest course of action, yet doubt stayed his hand; Seregil had thought it valuable enough to steal, and later had said he was determined to get it to Rhíminee.

  Handling it only by the leather lacing, he found a patched tunic in Seregil’s pack and rolled the disk up in it. Shoving it to the bottom of the pack, he carried their gear downstairs and hurried back for Seregil. The innkeeper and his family had barricaded themselves in the kitchen storeroom and, despite his various pleas and assurances, refused to come out.

  In the end he had to get Seregil down by himself, carrying the unconscious man across his shoulders like a slaughtered deer. Once downstairs, he laid him on a table and went through the kitchen again to the storeroom.

  “You in there!” he called through the door. “I need
a few supplies. I’ll leave money on the mantelpiece.”

  There was no reply.

  A candle stood in a dish on the sideboard. Lighting it with an ember from the banked fire, he cast about for food. Most of it was locked in the storeroom with its owner but he still managed to come away with a basket of boiled eggs, a jug of brandy, half a wheel of good Mycenian cheese, some new bread, and a sack of pippins. Going out to the well, he discovered a jar of milk let to cool and added that to his haul.

  Stowing everything beneath the seat of the cart, he used their blankets and a few from the inn to make a pallet in the back.

  When everything was ready, he carried Seregil out to the makeshift bed and carefully wrapped him up. Except for his labored breathing, Seregil looked like a dead man on a bier.

  “Well, he won’t get any better sitting here,” Alec muttered grimly, slapping the reins over the pony’s rump. “I said we were going to Rhíminee, and that’s where I mean to go!”

  12

  ALONE

  –did the dead sleep within death? Some vestige of his living consciousness sensed the passage of time. There was a change of some sort, but what? Slowly he became aware of pain but it was muted, experienced at a distance.

  Very odd.

  Smells came with the pain, the smell of illness, infection, the unwashed odors of his own body from which his fastidious nature recoiled even as he rejoiced in the ability to discern them. Perhaps he wasn’t dead, after all? He had neither explanation for his predicament nor memory of his past and now even the pain was slipping away again. Silently, helplessly, he willed it back, but it was gone.

  He was alone. And lonely—

  Alec drove as hard as he dared, determined to reach the seaport by the following day. He stopped only to rest the pony and tend Seregil’s wound.

  The burn on his own hand made his arm ache to the elbow, but it was scabbing over already. Inspecting Seregil’s breast in daylight, however, he found that the wound there was still raw, with angry lines of infection fanning out from it.