The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) (18 page)

“Sorry things had to go this way, but she needs you back.” The voice behind him cut the long silence.

“Who needs me back? Your sorry doesn’t do all that much for me.”

“Eh? Well, I know it does little. Try to have a little class, you know. The Shadow god needs you back. Can’t have you running around up here.”

“Class, right. You’d fit right in at King Ezra’s table. Just like a regular hero.”

“Everyone’s a hero to someone.” The man grunted, the point of the knife drawing more blood from his back.

“I don’t understand. Juzo made you, aren’t you supposed to obey him?”

“We only obey the Shadow mother. We’re tethered to her for life.”

If they were, then Juzo. Shit, Juzo must be too.

“We’re just about there now.”

A dilapidated house jutted from the darkness like a shattered tooth. Small and quiet as a grave, covered with lichen and dead weeds. The whole structure seemed to be slanted to the left and paint flaked off in pieces as big as his hand. It had a foreboding look to it. He supposed everything here did with a blade at your back.

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” the man said, ripping the lantern from Walter’s sweaty palm.

There was a picket fence in front of the house, but few were left standing. It was mostly reclaimed by coiling vines. There were a few shovels and a pickaxe leaning against it, soddened with dirt and smeared with the signs of hard use. What were they doing with digging tools?

Walter hadn’t felt much more than curiosity on the way here. Now fear lanced through his guts for an instant. Between a recently cleared gap in the fence, the Blood Eater swung the lantern across the hewed barley and illuminated piles of tilled earth.

“We’ve been working hard, gettin’ prepared for your return.”

“Never did get much rest under your friend’s command,” said another voice. A man stepped out from an opened door, clinging onto the frame by a single hinge. He was a burly man, thick as Grimbald and wearing mud caked pants and a leather vest. Walter got a good look at his captor now, rat-faced with a week’s worth of ratty stubble, not much different than he’d imagined. He recognized the face now, the same one who had stood up to stop him from coming to Juzo.

“You,” Walter said, pointing with his index finger.

“Me.” Rat face grinned, showing what remained of his few teeth. “Come now, hop in.” He pointed to a pit of black earth.

Walter felt a chill creep down his neck at seeing the edge of the empty grave. It was about three steps away, the other side of it shrouded in shadow. “You really have no idea?”

“No idea about what?” Burly replied. Something short and heavy hung by his side. A mace or a club maybe.

“How I got out.” Walter took a step towards the grave, twig snapping underfoot. “You don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rat-face said. “Don’t have all night now, walking slow won’t make much of a difference.” He slinked up behind Walter, nudging him with his blade.

The sides of the pit crawled into view as the lantern dispelled a bit more of the dark. Pebbles rolled into the grave as Walter drew closer, seeing roots poking out from the inside walls. There was something else in there too, a bare leg, a few hands. They were corpses, at least ten, stripped naked and heaped in a mix of blood and dirt.

“You did this?” Walter said quietly, unable to take his eyes from the dark and twisted limbs. There was a child there, a few of them. Their tiny, pale-skinned bodies were smeared with earth. Who were these people? What had they done to deserve this? The children could’ve been like him, someday wanting to grow up and go on an adventure. That story had been stabbed and clubbed before ever having a chance at being told.

“Nice work, isn’t it?” Burly snickered. “We found em’ out here, livin’ in this shit shack. They were good, drained them all dry… seemed like the fitting spot for you. No sense in spending all night digging another grave.”

“Practical, enterprising even.” Walter felt his throat tighten like there was a noose around his neck, each breath an effort. He stared into the black eye sockets of a child’s face, tried to figure out which limbs in the tangled heap belonged to it.

“Don’t be scared,” Rat-face said.

“You’ll be alright,” Burly added.

He wondered how deep the pit was, and if there’d be enough room for these two.

“Just another step,” Rat-face gave him a good stab, but Walter hardly felt it. “Move!” He slammed the blade into Walter’s back, but his feet did not waver.

His fingers reached for the shattered Breden long sword that had always been at his hip, but it was gone, left in the lake of blood in the Shadow Realm. His back snapped rigid, plying at the Dragon raging in his chest. He was feeling at it and checking it over. He felt as calm as if he were preparing to plow an elixir field instead of fight for his life. This was a chaotic world. He felt more peace than he’d felt in a long time. It was like he had been staring at the section of his farm he’d always wanted to plow and was now finally getting the chance.

“What are you?” Rat-face croaked from behind.

He turned around and Rat-face’s blade squelched out of his back. He felt the warm blood trickling along the rim of his belt, down along one side of his ass.

“What I am, you’ll never forget.” His voice felt distant, like someone else’s. He opened himself to the Dragon, allowed all of its pain and fury into his body. It spread up and down from his chest down to his toenails and up to the hair bristling atop his head. The power spread strength into his legs, a new sharpness to his vision and filled him with an insatiable desire for murder.

“Looks like Dragon power,” Burly scoffed. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

Rat-face didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. His dagger trembled, his eye a tidal wave of twitches. Walter reached out, his arm going as slow as if moving through dirt. Rat-face’s dagger fell, shimmering in the amber glow pouring out from Walter’s skin. Walter’s hand slipped under his chin, fingers curling around his wiry neck. His hand clamped down, crushing Rat-face’s windpipe, feeling it pop in his palm. It felt like throttling a chicken. He was nothing but an animal to be put down. His blood and earth caked hands dragged against Walter’s hand, then pulled away, smoking and burned. Walter grinned at seeing the man writhing, watching his frantic eyes bulge with surprise. There was laughter somewhere, maybe bellowing out from his throat. Rat-face’s head lolled over in Walter’s iron grip, his neck crushed flat as a strip of leather. Walter hurled his limp body into the grave, the pile of white bodies all welcoming him with open arms, legs, heads, and torsos.

Just then, Burly gave a high pitched whistle and thumped his club in his palm. Through the door of the house, more pale faced, red-eyed figures boiled out of it. Their mouths glinted with savage edges, hands hefting stolen axes and chipped blades.

“Go on, get ‘em my pets.” Burly grinned. Walter saw that his lips were dark with what was likely blood.

They were white as phantoms, shrieking and screaming, an animalistic howling that resembled a pack of wolves. The roaring seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Walter thought of the Shadow Realm, the endless screaming madness of it all had merged with this realm.

A ragged ghost came hurtling at him and he pushed his stump forward. His eyes relaxed and a cone of molten fire came forth, scorching his attacker and sending him shrieking, rolling on the ground. The sharp stench of rotting meat cooking bit at his nostrils.

Another came a second later and he reached with his hand, twisted to avoid a dagger stab, jabbed his fingers into its mouth. He pulled and ripped its cheek apart from the inside, leaving it with a permanent smile on one side. The figure screamed, stumbling and falling into the grave and knocking clumps of earth from the edge. His fingers were slippery and thick with saliva and blood.

He looked up into a snarling face, a red eye bugling out. He wrapped his arm around its body and they fell over, rolling backwards into the barley. He tried to vault it off as they stopped, but there were powerful hands pressing his skull into the earth. They lifted his head up and slammed it into the ground, rattling his vision. The hands lifted and twisted his head again, neck cracking as it tried to tear his head off. Walter’s fist pounded the man in the jaw, sending him onto Walter’s thighs.

This scuffle had gone on long enough for Walter’s taste. He snarled and the man straddling him growled back, raising a rusted axe overhead. Walter flicked his fingers open and a roaring ball of fire tore through the night from the man’s back. It left a yawning hole lined with embers, wide enough to stick his head through. The axe fell with a thud into the trampled barley and the man’s body collapsed to the side. The man clutched his chest with one hand as blood pumped out around it like a split wineskin.

Walter dragged himself to his feet, slow as mud, and took a step on the shaking world. The dying Blood Eater reached for Walter’s boot and he lifted it, stomping on the hand and feasting on the pleasant snapping of fragile bones.

There were five more, licking their lips, pointlessly twirling weapons, and gibbering just as madly as any Cerumal. Walter took a step back, planting his foot as they fanned out around him. A bold Blood Eater lurched towards him, its mouth wide open. The ornate greatsword glittered with gems and clutched in bloody fists. Walter’s arm was a blur, Stormcaller coming after, and the man’s face split apart, spraying the air with blood. Red trails from Stormcaller’s tendrils hung in his vision for a second like fading ghosts in the dark.

There was a roar in Walter’s head, half laughter. He felt his face twist in a mocking smile at their feeble attempts on his life. They all seemed to be waiting to see who would go next.

“Who wishes to die?” Walter felt himself laughing harder at their hesitation.

A squat man with a head shaped like a sideways potato darted in with short, pig sticking daggers in each hand. Walter slashed with his stump and a wave of fire tore the man in half. He kicked the burning corpse away. He opened an ugly wound in another’s gut with Stormcaller, white bone splinters mingling in dark blood. Another charged in and a fireball tore the bottom half of its leg off. He fell, stumbling into his arms, his sword falling from its stunned hand. Walter raised the squirming Blood Eater up over his shoulder and dashed its head against the rim of a rusty bucket, black streaks splashed onto its sides. He lifted his stump, a spear of fire forming out from it, and rammed it through the Blood Eater’s back. The Blood Eater’s form went limp.

There was one left, Burly, who’s mad grin seemed to have departed from his lips. All alone against an unstoppable force, Walter knew what that deep sense of dread felt like. To know that no matter what you did, hope was but a candle miles away in a pit of darkness.

“You killed my pets!” he screamed.

Walter snorted and tilted his chin up, sucking in the damp air through his nose. “Get in,” he beckoned to the open grave.

“You’ll have to kill me first. She’ll come for you if I fail. She’ll have you back one way or another. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—”

Walter pulled his shoulders back. “So be it.” Walter cut the air with his stump and a line of fire passed through the man’s legs, cutting them both through at the thighs.

“No, ah! No!” He screamed, fingers clawing for his dropped club as if that were the key to saving himself. He wriggled on the ground, hands patting at his mutilated legs. He raised his hands to his face, dark with blood, then let out an echoing shriek.

Walter trudged over to him, angry scarlet eyes staring into his from the ground. Walter hauled him onto his back while his hands ripped and tore at his cloak. Walter sighed as he flopped Burly from his back into the pit. Blood from his severed legs pumped out onto the face of one of the dead children.

Walter grabbed a shovel with a splintered haft, wound it tight in his hand and hauled a clump of earth from the grave’s edge, splitting apart against Burly’s head.

“What are you doing? You can’t do this.”

Another clod of earth slapped against the side of his face, filling his mouth with dirt. Burly spat and cursed, wiping at his eyes.

“I have marks, lots of—”

A heavy rock in the next shovel full thudded into his shoulder.

“Ah! Damn you.”

People took it for granted how easy things were when you had two working hands. Every day since his return to this realm, Walter had been made painfully aware at how much the world was built for only the perfectly formed person. Any defects of the body or the mind weren’t conducive to an easy life. The world of men was built by a cruel bastard. This life was a continuous struggle against the tide trying to sweep him out to sea. Walter groaned, his bicep burning with acid at the force needed to operate a shovel with one hand. His stump was of little use, mainly for supporting the shovel’s head.

“Walter? Is that you?” A curious voice said from behind.

Walter turned, shovel hoisted over his shoulder. Juzo was there, his scarlet eye glowing like an ember in the dark. He was crouching under a tree, boughs snagging his cloak, reaching down to reclaim the land. The forest seemed to be fighting back against the human infestation.

“Juzo,” Walter breathed, thrusting the shovel towards him. “You’re just in time. Dig him in, would you?”

“I felt pain in one of my… my surrogates. What happened?”

“Oh, that.” Walter snickered. It sounded like a mad sound in his head. “A few went rogue it seems, made some surrogates of their own out of Scab’s men, I reckon.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Juzo strode forward, peering into the grave. “Dragons, Walter. What have you done?” Juzo held a hand to his mouth, his lips twisted with disgust.

“What have I done?” Walter dropped the shovel, his hand a vice around the back of Juzo’s neck, pressing him towards the edge. “Look closer,” he hissed into his ear.

“Alright, let me go.” Juzo swatted Walter’s hand away, but Walter held it there. For a split second, he thought he’d push Juzo in there too, bury them all and be done with it. Part of him knew deep down that he was no different from the beasts lurking the planes of the Shadow Realm.