The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) (23 page)

A pair of children ran across the square with their hands clasped “Please, someone! Help!” a boy yelled.

“Mother! Father!” the girl in his hands shouted.

No help would come for them today. The sun’s glow touched the houses behind them. A lantern swung in one of their arms, a foolish thing and hardly needed now. He watched them for a second, and then willed one of his surrogates to take them. It was second nature to him now, like making a single toe curl. It was difficult at first, but with a fair amount practice, he was getting better at it. His commands were more precise now and always obeyed. He wouldn’t stand for any more disasters.

The hinges on a door screamed as it opened. A figure flitted through the remaining shadows and snatched the children in her hands. She held each of their tiny arms in her iron grip. Her mouth parted and hissed as it latched onto the boy’s neck. The girl ineffectually kicked and punched at the surrogate’s leg as her brother writhed.

Why was she so worried? Did she not know her brother was being bestowed a gift men would have begged for centuries ago? The surrogate went to work on the girl now, leaving just enough blood in the boy to allow for his return. How the gift worked, or where it came from, Juzo was unsure.

It was beautiful. Juzo felt a manic smile creep across his lips, started to fight it, then let it be. His eye started to fill with damp, blurring the image of the ravaged children. They could have been him, a normal life cut off before it had ever began. The surrogate looked up at him, narrowed her eyes as if she felt his thoughts. It didn’t work that way, did it? He’d have to be more careful. No more disasters.

The surrogate trudged away out of view, resuming what it had started in the bakery. The boy’s ghastly face lay staring at his sister. Her hand had clawed its way across the earth, clutching his with her last breath. Her tongue lolled from the corner of her small mouth. It was so terribly small. Their necks bubbled blood, forming gleaming discs under them.

Walter had said something about demons, but he knew he was still himself. He felt good, strong. He nodded, reassuring himself that this was the path he needed to take. He would need many Blood Eaters to help Walter save the realm. He realized the only way he could do that was well away from him, where he couldn’t interfere. Walter would never let him do what needed to be done. Sometimes the hardest of things needed to be done alone.

Everyone would like him then, when they knew how powerful the Blood Eaters were. He’d be a hero, just like Walter. His Blood Eaters were tireless fighters, could self-heal without taking the energy of the wizards. They’d be the army we’d need to kill Asebor, to get revenge for what they did to us at the Tower, he thought.

“He would understand. They’ll all understand,” he whispered.

The boy’s legs twitched like he was struck by lightning. He rolled up into a sitting position, legs outstretched. His eyes started glowing a malevolent red. He rose up and stood over his sister, rigid as a spear, staring down and waiting for her.

Juzo couldn’t feel the boy’s thoughts, but only his own surrogates’. It was an elegant chain of command. He gave orders to his surrogates and it trickled down to the sub-surrogates, and on it went as they shared their gifts.

Juzo turned from the window and made his way back to the well in the Shipton square. He started walking the perimeter of the square, taking stock of his new home. He caught a pair of wails through a blacksmith’s shop. It had a wooden sign carved to resemble an anvil. He strolled with his arms behind his back and a gentle smile touched his lips.

Sacrifices had to be made. Blood must be shed. He had become numb to their sobbing pleas for mercy. Some claimed they had children or a sick mother to care for. One of his surrogates had even asked him who would care for his dog. They were like new babes straight from their mother’s wombs. Men were weak, blubbering, helpless creatures. What they didn’t understand was that they were being reborn, molded into a better shape. He was their potter. He was the newer version of man. Stronger, faster, nearly impossible to kill. What else could you ask for in an army? No, to kill Death Spawn, they needed to be more than men.

He stopped, eyebrows raising at a familiar scent wafting on the air. To Juzo, it smelled like roasted pork. The only thing missing were the potatoes. He felt his mouth water, sucked back the drool forming on the corner of his lip. He caught the source of the meat. A hardily built woodshed stood alongside the dirt road, its door closed.

Juzo snickered. “Come on out now. I know you’re waiting, waiting, waiting for
just
the right time to—”

The door shot open and a roar came with it. Juzo caught the gleam of tines, something hit him and pain splashed across his stomach. A bearded man wearing bib overalls screamed in his face.

“Fuck you, demon bastard!” the man shrieked, his blue eyes wild.

“Relax, friend. You got me… good.” Juzo reached with an imploring hand and frowned at the pitchfork in his gut. “I didn’t want to die like this.”

“You deserve worse for what you and your lot did here. Bunch of barbarians,” the farmer spat in his face. He jerked the pitchfork free, hissing out of Juzo’s abdomen.

Juzo collapsed and grinned at the pain, a reminder of what it felt like to be alive. He pressed his fingers into the wounds. He rubbed his hands together, massaging blood into his palms. It was pleasing, warm and slick.

“You… you ain’t right. You’re sick, boy. I should say sorry you got to die like this, but I’m not.”

Three doors creaked open from nearby houses, one after the other. Within the doorways, scarlet eyes watched him, waiting for further command.
No, stay.
Find those hiding in cabinets, cellars, closets, hidden alcoves in floors. Root them all out. Turn them all,
he told them with his thoughts.
No survivors.

No survivors,
they echoed in triplicate. The other two voices of his direct surrogates floated in his mind, confirming his commands. The farmer strode back to the shed, grumbling.

The four holes piercing his stomach closed up, new skin sliding over them. It was a magnificent feeling, refreshing as a night of long-awaited rest. He pushed himself up with a groan and worked his hips in a circle. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

The farmer whirled around, pitchfork leveled. “No,” he gasped. “What are you?”

“Put the tool down.” Juzo gestured for him to lower it. “Go on. This fight… you can’t win. I hope you see that now.”

The man’s hands wound tighter around the wooden handle, knuckles bone white. A sound came out of his throat, but it wasn’t any word Juzo knew.

“Look and listen. All around you, your little village dies. But—” He paused and drew an arc in the air. “Your deaths won’t go in vain. In fact, you’ll be reborn, never truly dead. I came here not to end your life, but make it better. You’ll see.”

“You’re mad. Mad as a Fang Cress addicted junkie,” the farmer stammered.

“No. You’ve heard of the Death Spawn, haven’t you?” Juzo inched towards him.

The farmer swallowed and took a defensive step back. He made a sharp jab with the pitchfork, a warning strike only.

Juzo innocently opened up his palms. “Whoa, you don’t really want to hurt your new…” he paused, inhaling and searching for the word, “…savior, do you? This isn’t a good way to start our long, likely very long relationship.”

“Shut up! Shut up, damn you,” he snarled and made for a lunging strike.

Juzo easily dodged it, and let out a snicker. The pitchfork slipped from the farmer’s lead hand, tines ringing as they struck a stone. “I—
we
—are the future of man. I know you’ve heard of the Death Spawn. You’d have to be living in a woodshed if you haven’t.” Juzo eyed the shed and bobbed his eyebrows at the scowling farmer. “We’re going to help save the world.” He said it slowly, as if speaking to a child whose mind had come out dull as logs.

The farmer sighed and raised the pitchfork up, setting the butt into the ground. “If you’re going to kill me, might as well do it already. I lived a good life. I don’t fear the Shadow Realm.”

Juzo’s posture slumped. “And here I was just starting to enjoy our conversation. A pity.”

The farmer tilted his chin up in defiance, back straight.

Juzo eyed his neck, watched the artery jump with each frightened beat of his heart. Blood promised deep satisfaction, but rarely delivered. Why was the world so cruel? Why did our mind’s idea how of a thing should be never quite match up to the reality of it? Maybe this time it would be different. He always liked to think everything would be better in the future. The future is where chaos reigns, the world changes, but he never did.

He was a viper to the farmer’s neck. His teeth, sharp as needles tore into the man’s skin. The pitchfork fell with a thump beside him. His blood had far too much metal and was sweet as honey cakes. The man had likely recently eaten based on the taste. It was cloying after a long minute. Sucking on that pliable artery always met him with an unavoidable gagging, and this was like any other time. Juzo staggered away, leaving just enough blood in him to rise, to enter the fold of his Blood Eaters.

T
he stone bridge
curved over the river in a gradual arc. It was wide enough for a single carriage to pass. It would carry them further west, the last bridge before Shipton. The river below it musically gurgled and foam crests formed on its banks. The icy water came from the Mountains of Misery in the far north, which then became the Blanched Falls south of the Great Retreat. At the other end of the bridge was a small guardhouse, seeming unoccupied.

The first half of the bridge was choked in verdant ivy, spiraling around it and navigating its way to the other side. The bridge was flanked at either end by towering spruces and oaks whose leaves were becoming the colors of fire. A bough with leaves red as the setting sun stretched over the bridge, speckling it in shadows interspersed with shafts of light. Insects fluttered in the sun rays, merrily buzzing. Where the plants of the forest met the river’s edge, Sand Buckeyes dominated, waiting for unwary victims.

Walter, Grimbald and Scab approached the bridge, their mounts’ hooves hissing on the gravel before it. The gravel yielded to cobbles, hooves clopping and echoing from the river below. Walter peered over the low side wall. Where the bridge met the soil were a few discarded beer kegs, green moss on one side and black mold on the other. An epic battle had probably been waging for dominance on those kegs for years. A squirrel with fur the color of red wine poked its head out of another barrel, then skittered back in when it saw him.

The band of mercenaries wound behind them, their barking and laughing like the biggest pack of dogs Walter had ever seen. They were a lot like dogs, he realized. They had all the qualities of a dog, except loyalty. That wasn’t true. They were loyal to one thing alone: marks. There was no way a small village like Shipton would know what to do with this rabble.

“Did you find your dear friend in Midgaard?” Scab asked, peering at him through eyes red with exhaustion. Had he slept at all in Midgaard? Walter wondered. A rivulet of dried red wine spiraled around his neck and down his chest.

Walter gave him a sideways smile and shook his head. “No sign of him. Checked the Lair, the market place… nothing.”

“That’s a damned shame. The Lair.” Scab scoffed. “What idiot came up with that name? Don’t tell me that’s the name of your home. Sounds like something a kid would make up,” Scab laughed, clapping Walter on the shoulder.

Walter cleared his throat and nodded. “The biggest idiot you’ve ever met.” He licked his teeth.

He caught Grimbald’s eye and couldn’t contain himself. Laughter spilled from his lips.

“No—” Scab tugged on his jet-black gelding’s reigns. “That ridic—” He snapped his mouth closed and tried again. “That
brilliant
idea was yours? Well, well, well. Why am I not surprised? My esteemed employer’s ingenuity strikes again.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re mocking me?”

Scab recoiled as if he was assaulted by the gravest of insults. “I’d never.”

“You’re a man of many talents. Coldblooded killer for hire by day, court jester by night.”

“It pays to have many skills. A hedge against uncertainty.” Scab twiddled the end of his mustache.

“Oh, Juzo. Hopefully he didn’t go too far. As much as I don’t like those new Blood Eaters of his, Juzo was right about one thing. If they’re anything like him, they can fight well and we’ll need people like that.” Grimbald snorted then produced a threadbare handkerchief. Scab watched with raised brows. Grimbald blasted a wad of mucus into it, hardly enough thread to contain the greenish bolus. He folded it up and tucked it behind his breastplate.

Scab’s lip curled and dried skin flaked from a corner of his mouth. “Delightful.”

“When my dad was teaching me the axe, he’d tell me that if you’re injured, or perhaps vulnerable to attack for some reason, you shouldn’t consider attacking.” Grimbald’s lips held the start of a smile.

“Your father was a wise man. I can’t wait to meet him. We’re getting closer now, aren’t we?” Scab slipped a map from the wide arm of his coat, how it had stayed in there all this time was a mystery to Walter.

“About another twenty minutes after the bridge.” Grimbald sighed. “I can’t wait to see my Pa. It’s been so long, there’s so much to tell him. He’ll be so proud.” His fingers rubbed the Captain’s pin on his collar.

“I’m sure the men will sorely miss Juzo.” Scab waved his fingers. “What sort of aid did you wrangle from our gracious king?”

Walter and Grimbald both grunted.

Grimbald cocked his head. “Just a thwarted assassination attempt. A typical day of work for us.”

Walter groaned at the reminder. Bile crept up his throat. He took a draught from his waterskin to push it back where it belonged.

“Huh. The king owes you a great debt then,” Scab said.

“Don’t think he’s the kind of man who repays them,” Grimbald muttered.

“Can he make us those incredible flour cakes again?” Walter asked. The question made him feel young, when things were a little easier. When he was last in Shipton, the Death Spawn had first emerged from the shadows of the realm. He thought back to when he’d told John, his father’s help, that he craved adventure, something more than being a farmer. If he had known what that would entail, would he have still wished for it? He wasn’t sure anymore. If he had made different choices, would he still have his parents? His arm and eye? He stared down at his stump, the skin bumpy along the contours of his bones. His mind was traversing a dark path, he knew. Would he have been forced to watch his mother defiled by those nightmarish creatures? He wrangled his thoughts in, breathing deep and returning to the moment. Those were useless thoughts. The past was etched in unbreakable Milvorian steel.

“Walt?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you not hear me?” Grimbald squinted at him.

“Sorry, getting lost in my thoughts again. This place brings back memories.”

“Ah memory, the great betrayer. Be careful with memory. I’ve learned the hard way we’re really good at only remembering the flowers growing in the shit, forgetting about the shit below the surface, stinking just as bad as before it was unearthed.” Scab beamed. “You might want to write that down, learning from your elders, and all that matter.”

Walter snickered. Scab was an odd man, but it seemed to have a ring of pained truth to it. “Perhaps you’ll have a future career as a roving philosopher.”

“Perhaps.” Scab leaned on his pommel, peering out. Walter followed his gaze. They were cresting the apex of the bridge. A blanket of mist crept along the forest floor. It was burned away in the light at the end of the bridge.

“So, Walt. I’m sure my Pa will make flour cakes for us if I ask.” Grimbald’s enormous torso comfortably swung with the gait of the Blood Donkey.

Walter held up his hand to quiet them. They complied, understanding. He wanted to listen as they approached the guardhouse. There was no accosting by soldiers, gibbering Death Spawn, or snapping bowstrings. A pair of birds sang to one another between the oaks flanking the bridge. Walter stopped and peered through the small window of the guardhouse. Inside was a small table with a handful of dice set like a game had just started. Beside them were two partially drunk mugs of elixir. A spear lay propped against the back of a chair and a bow was slung across the other. A Falcon helmet was upside down in a corner of the cramped room, its red plume bent in half.

“Strange,” Walter muttered.

“Very,” Grimbald replied beside him. “I’ve never seen the Falcon leave their posts on this bridge.”

Scab twisted around on his horse, facing his band trailing behind. He gave three sharp whistles. Walter saw hands twitching to blades, belt buckles tightening, and wineskins corking. “Better to be over prepared, I always say.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Walter nodded at him.

They rode onward into the shadowy forest for at least another fifteen minutes. The mist curled around the legs of the horses and puffed into the air. The air seemed to grow heavy with humidity trapped by the forest. There was something else wrong about it, something Walter couldn’t pinpoint.

“We’re almost there. By the Dragon, I can’t wait to see everyone. It’s been oh, so long.” Grimbald grinned and sat rigid on his saddle. He was almost exactly what Walter had imagined a brave warrior returning home would look like. Maybe with a sword and shield instead of a pair of deadly axes.

Walter forced a grin back at him. He was glad for him. He knew when they stopped in Breden next, there wouldn’t be much in the way of rejoicing. Likely just a lot of digging. Maybe he’d have a future in grave digging. Not the most satisfying work, but it paid well.

“Strange. We haven’t seen any travelers coming this way. This is usually a big trading day in Shipton’s market.” Grimbald scratched his neck and crinkled his flaring nose.

Walter was starting to get an inkling why. “Shit,” he whispered.

“Your friend’s work?” Scab peered at him, his cheeks red with sunburn.

Grimbald turned to Scab then Walter. “No, no. He wouldn’t. Would he?” His face had grown ashen.

“Scab, why don’t you and your men wait here? We’ll come back for you. Try not to rob anyone passing through.”

Scab slumped. “Is that an order?”

Walter smirked. “That’s an order.” His gut was swimming in possibilities. Did Juzo kill the guards? Why would he? Maybe he and his surrogates just scared them off.

“A splendid idea. I overheard more than a few of the men discussing what they would do to your friend if they were to get their hands on him. Needless to say, his death wouldn’t be over quickly.”

“Shit, Scab. Now you tell me?”

Scab shrugged and turned his mount, walking back to his men. He swayed in his saddle with a tuneless whistling.

“You don’t think Juzo could’ve… he could’ve…” Grimbald swallowed and his lips pressed into a red line.

“No,” he lied. He had a feeling what they were going to find wasn’t good.

“Does he give a shit about anything?” Grimbald watched as Scab rounded a bend, fading behind the thicket.

Walter’s lips twitched. “Doesn’t seem it. Maybe makes the hard things easier.”

Grimbald grunted. “Maybe his life is as empty as my waterskin.” He tugged on the Blood Donkey’s reigns to get him moving.

They came upon a simple archway with a sign carved in an elegant script that read “Shipton – Trader’s Haven.” Walter vaguely remembered when they were last here. It felt like someone else’s memories. They were badly fragmented during the time he had worn the Cerumal’s armor. His throat felt dry as sand. He was so close to becoming one of the Death Spawn then. The demons of the Shadow Realm had been waiting to bind to him, to take his body in this world. He uncurled his fingers, seeing them biting ellipses into the reins. He felt his pores prickling open along his neck.

In a shard of his memory were children chasing each other with wooden swords and struggling to get kites supported by the wind. He remembered the tumult of the square lined with carts for tobacco, elixir beans, goats, sheep, and vendors shouting the prices of rice to passersby. It was a glimpse into a past he wasn’t entirely sure was his.

The birds twittered and the rustling of leaves carried down from treetops. There were no screaming children now, no men in spirited conversation, no women waving from the gardens. As they made their way further into the village, he kept expecting the din of human life to strike his ears.

They arrived at the main path leading into the square where houses and shops clustered together. A simple woodshed’s door was left open, hinges whining in the breeze. At the back of the shed wood was piled from floor to ceiling. At the sides were sets of farm tools coated in years of rust, handles smooth from hard use. A pitchfork was on the other side of the road, laying on the ground. Walter inhaled sharply at what he saw on its tines. They were brown with dried blood. Beside it was patch of crusted blood, not fully dried yet.

Grimbald dismounted and stared at the sight. He nodded a few times. His hands brushed the hilts of his axes then fell to his hips. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. Death Spawn left bodies, mutilated and broken. Men hid bodies to avoid punishment from the law. Blood Eaters rose up and walked away with their own legs. There were footprints here, hardly visible in the dappling light, trailing away from the drying blood pool.

“Maybe it’s just wine… Juzo,” Grimbald growled. He squatted down and jabbed a finger into the blood. It came out bright red and clung to his fingertip like sap. There was no doubting what it was now. “Do you? Do you think…?”

Walter averted his eyes, unable to meet them. There was no use denying it. Juzo had been here, used the village to feed his surrogates and likely himself. It was time to assess the damage. A deep exhaustion settled into his bones. He was tired of cleaning up after Juzo. Scab’s man said he was headed west. This would be the most logical place, but he thought Juzo would be better than this. He had to be. Walter’s scalp prickled and he attacked his hair with a clawed hand. It had grown since he’d returned, about half as long as his fingers.

Grimbald slowly rose up and flinched, eyes snapping wide open. “My Pa!” He vaulted onto his mount with hidden dexterity and gave the donkey a kick. It let out a blubbering bay and charged down the path. Walter followed.

The air whipped through Walter’s hair. He dropped himself low on his saddle, narrowing his eyes into the dust thrown up by the Blood Donkey’s hooves. Walter wished he could have done something to numb his friend’s pain. He could see in his face, he already knew what they’d find. Walter knew any sort of consoling words wouldn’t do much, but being with him would. He followed Grim to his father’s tavern looming up ahead, the place where he grew up. An oversized lantern the size of a man’s torso hung down from the roof, its wick blackened above a sea of oil.