The Shadow-man Read online

  The Shadow Man

  BY

  C. S. Marks

  The Shadow Man

  Copyright © 2014 by C. S. Marks, Iron Elf, LLC

  The characters and events this book are entirely fictional. No similarity between any of the names, characters, persons, and/or institutions in this book with those of any living or dead person or institutions is intended, and any such similarity which may exist is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photo-copying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  Published by Parthian Press, all rights reserved

  ParthianPress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9912351-0-0

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  FOREWORD

  Welcome to the third offering in the Alterra Histories series of novellas.

  In case you’re unfamiliar with them, they are the result of my attempting to expand on some of the characters and events alluded to in the Elfhunter trilogy, a series of three books set in the fantasy world of Alterra. They’re relatively brief, stand-alone ventures, affording fans a bit of additional insight into some of their favorite characters. They also provide new readers with an introduction to my world and writing style.

  I choose the subject matter for the novellas based on reader curiosity (influenced mightily by my own desire to shed more light on a particular character). The first two novellas, The Fire King and Fallen Embers, tell the stories of Aincor Fire-heart and Ri-Elathan, respectively. They are set in Elven realms, and therefore have a certain “loftiness” about them.

  Shadow-man is different, being entirely devoid of Elves. Here we travel to the South and east into the desert realms of Men, straight into the personal history of one of the more intriguing minor characters in the series.

  Readers have been asking about him since the first publication of Fire-heart (the second book in the Elfhunter trilogy). I can’t say I blame them...I mean, who can resist the mysterious character with a shadowed past? There’s something about him that makes you want to know more, especially after he reappears in the third book, Ravenshade.

  There’s nothing “lofty” in Shadow-man. It begins during the Plague years--a time filled with terror, madness, and despair. It’s a grittier, more graphic offering--a depiction of the struggle to remain human--of survival in the face of the unspeakable. Such events shape everyone touched by them. This is the story of one...

  —CSM

  The Shadow-man

  I killed my first man when I was eleven. No doubt he would have died anyway, but I most certainly hastened his end. Our father had taught us never to do such a thing—that killing was wrong—but he was gone. He was gone, and I couldn’t worry about what was right or wrong.

  It hadn’t always been that way. If I try hard enough, I can still remember summer days with my family, cook-fires, times of hard work and hard play, guiding words and comforting hands. Then everything went mad. Everything went mad, and I became a man at the age of eleven, or so I thought at the time. I had no idea of what “becoming a man” was really about.

  It started with a caravan of merchants, which was an ordinary enough occurrence and usually celebrated, as it meant new and wondrous items to be purchased. My father, who was in desperate need of a new hand-axe, purchased a good one. Finely tempered and polished, it would have served him well for many years, but he only used it a few times. It hangs from my belt now.

  I remember clamoring for a sight of the caravan and its wares, begging to be allowed a few coins to spend, but my father said none could be spared. He reminded me, as he often did, of the difference between “want” and “need.”

  I knew things weren’t right when I overheard my mother urging him to avoid the people of the caravan, as if there was something unwholesome about them. “There’s something wrong with them,” she had said. “There’s a shadow over their souls.” If only he had listened…but I suppose it was too late by then, anyway. The shadow was already among us.

  I had my first taste of it on the heels of what I thought was good fortune. I had found a coin in the dust—an old, tarnished copper, hardly worth anything. I thought perhaps I could buy a sweet, which, since no one else knew I had found the coin, I wouldn’t be compelled to share with my brother and sister. I crept to the merchants’ tent and peered inside.

  It smelled bad, and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, but my new-found wealth was crying to be spent.

  “Hello?”

  I looked deeper into the dim confines of the tent, breathing in the swirling blue smoke that drifted everywhere. It smelled sweet, but it couldn’t mask the stench pervading the air. I hadn’t ever encountered it before. The closest I could recall was that of a newly-dead carcass, just beginning to rot. The blowflies would have come, and the maggots would already be at work.

  A man grabbed the back of my neck, and I squealed, startled, as he spun me around. His face—his eyes—I will never forget them. “Get away from here, boy! Get away, if you want to live!” He literally flung me out of the tent, an act which seemed to elicit a terrible fit of coughing. He doubled over, coughing so hard that blood ran down his chin and into his beard. I needed nothing else to convince me, and I ran away as fast as I could. I only saw him once after that—amid the bodies of the dead.

  By the time we realized how terribly sick the merchant-men were, the seeds of death had already been sown. Anyone who had contacted them directly would be the first to suffer…all except father and me. Our mother fell ill after visiting one of the other families, every one of whom had been laid low. She brought their youngest child—a babe in arms—into our tent, weeping as she held her. “She is alone now. All the others are dead.” My mother was a gentle spirit.

  Needless to say, the little one did not live long, blue and gasping as its tiny lungs filled up with blood. Well, perhaps not needless to say, as it soon became clear that some of our folk did not get the Sickness. Others sickened but did not die—not at first. My mother was among them. She recovered, but it left her so damaged that we wondered whether she would ever be herself again. When the scourge had burned its way through our little settlement, only a few remained alive and unmarked. We did not yet realize what that would mean.

  Most of our sheep and goats had also sickened and died. The few that survived, like my mother, were left with terrible damage. They wandered, witless and half-blind, through the empty tents. Their flesh fell away, for they would not eat, and their milk dried up. I found a healthy kid, bleating beside his dead mother, but I had nothing to feed him.

  Mother was just like the sheep, half blind and witless, her face covered with sores that would not heal. Father tried to help her, but she would not eat, and she soon passed away in the night. I heard my father weeping, and in the morning she was gone—I never saw her again. Father had gathered the last few bodies of the dead, and he set them afire in the early morning light. He stood with my brother Seth, my sister Salina, and me, watching the smoke billowing toward heaven, praying that our mother would find her eternal home.

  ***

  We had plenty of provisions left behind by the dead. Once we had burned all the bodies, the settlement was livable, but we saw the ghosts of our friends and neighbors everywhere. The empty tents and market-stalls were never silent—it was as though we could hear voices carried in the wind. Father tried to be strong, but he wept every night. I wept, too, and I felt more guilt than a boy of eleven should ever have to—if only I hadn’t found that penny and gone into the merchants’ tent, the Sickness might have spared us.

  One day our father
left us, promising to return as soon as he could manage. “I’m going to see if I can find other survivors. We can’t stay alone forever,” he said. Then he knelt down in front of me, looked me straight in the eye, and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Glennroy, as the eldest, you must take care of our family until I return.”

  He gave me his new hand-axe. “If enemies threaten, stay hidden. If they find you, use this if you can’t run away.”

  I nodded, solemn-faced, as he smiled down at me. “I know you can keep our family safe, my son. Take care of Seth and Salina.” Then he was gone.

  Days passed, nights came and went, and we made our way as best we could. We ate and drank, played games and told stories, but we were afraid, especially at night. Though we always built a fire, the darkness seemed to close in around us as we huddled together. Then, one night, we heard voices—real voices, not ghost-voices—and I knew we had been found.

  Several rough-looking men came upon our campfire, intent on taking whatever they could find of value. We had gone into hiding by then, but they knew we were there. “Find whoever made this fire, and we’ll soon learn where they keep their valuables,” said one. “We’ll have some sport tonight!” As he turned toward me in the fire-light, I saw his face—the telltale scarring—and I knew he had once had the Sickness. His eyes betrayed the madness it had left behind.

  I clutched my father’s axe with both hands, knowing that I wouldn’t stand a chance against such men. As I watched them tearing the settlement apart in the search for us, I knew the time had come to leave. I grabbed two full water-skins, a loaf of hard, dry bread, and the leather pack containing my father’s knife, my flint-and-steel, and some twine. Then I crept into the stony hills surrounding the settlement with my brother and sister in tow.

  All I knew was that Father had gone to the north. We had heard of a village on the other side of the Stone Hills, but I had never been there and had no idea of how far away it was. We were all nearly dead of exhaustion and thirst when we finally found water on the fifth day…I had been carrying my sister for two days and nights. The wind had been our friend, stirring the dust to cover what tracks we left, but it chilled us to the bone at night. We risked no fires, but huddled together for warmth, listening to the big-eared foxes gibbering and bark-howling in their harsh, eerie voices.

  We continued north, eating grasshoppers and crickets and anything else we could find, until at last we saw the village in the distance. It had been there for quite some time, judging by the numerous stone dwellings and obvious, established marketplace. It existed largely because of a clear, bubbling spring that flowed from the stones—much larger than the one in our settlement—bringing life and prosperity. Trees stood here, too, but I wondered what was wrong with some of them. They looked as though they had lost most of their leaves, and some of the branches wilted and drooped like crippled, weary old men.

  When we drew nearer, we saw the blackened bodies tethered to those trees—sad skeletons clad in scraps of charred flesh, lolling skulls open-mouthed as though still screaming. The worst were the remains of those who had been crucified—hung up alive and slowly tortured to death. I had never seen a man so savagely tormented before, but I have since learned what it means. Crucifixion was done only to the worst offenders. Why, then, had they crucified my father?

  I knew him at once…what was left of him. Mercifully, my brother and sister did not see him at first. I had left them hidden, creeping closer to investigate, hoping I was wrong. He had been dead for several days, but his body still bore witness to the unspeakable pain he had endured. Another man, hanging nearby, was still alive, struggling to draw breath, his face a mask of agony, his face streaked with tears.

  The people of that village had turned into madmen. Many had been scarred by the Sickness, and quite a number appeared to be still in the throes of it, judging by the blood on their faces. When the wind changed, I could smell the distant pile of bodies.

  One of the scarred ones stood upon a wooden platform, yelling and waving his arms about in some sort of emphatic speech. His listeners were frightened—I could tell by the way they huddled together—but not nearly as frightened as I was of them. I did not yet fully realize the depth and breadth of savagery that fear can drive men to.

  I heard Seth’s cries as he was set upon—he had disobeyed, coming out of hiding to follow me unaware—but before I could leap to defend him, strong hands grabbed my arms.

  “There’s nothing you can do, boy,” said a cold voice in a hissing whisper. “They have found him, and that has doomed him. The scarred ones will kill anyone of your race who is unmarked. You must come away with me now!”

  I struggled, trying to cry out as a large hand clamped over my nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe, which gained my full attention for the moment.

  “Stop struggling!” said the voice. “I am only one man, and you are only a scrawny little boy. If they find us, I will have to abandon you and your sister. I’d rather not do that.”

  To my horror, some men were dragging Seth down to the village, where they were soon joined by a ragged group of perhaps twenty other men and women. I could hear my brother crying. The people screamed and bellowed in angry voices, chanting something in a tongue I did not know. Snarling and beating their breasts, they tied Seth to one of the charred trees amid the skeletons. He had stopped crying, now terrified into shocked silence, pale and helpless amid the twisted black tangle of bones. To my horror, he looked toward the hills, and his eyes met mine. I saw his lips move, speaking my name. Then his chest began heaving and he screamed in terror. He strained against his bonds…strained toward me, wailing, begging me to save him.

  The stranger’s grip tightened on me, though he allowed me to breathe again, knowing I would be too breathless to cry out. “They will be occupied with him for a while. We’ll take advantage of that—you, your sister, and I.” He took hold of my neck in one of his strong hands, clamping down until darkness took me, sparing me the spectacle of the terrible fate of my little brother, who had never done anything to harm anyone.

  ***

  I awoke to the sound of wind hissing through the rocks, and the soft moaning of my little sister as she lay beside me, lost in a fitful dream. For a moment, I wondered whether I had been dreaming, too. I held that blessed hope for as long as I could, until the bruises on my neck spoke up and reminded me. You’re not dreaming. Father is dead, and Seth…he’s gone, too. I thought of the man who had taken Salina and me away from the village, my mind full of questions. Who is he? Where has he gone? What does he want with us? What will he do to us?

  I tried to stay still, in case he was nearby. I didn’t want him to know I was awake, but I couldn’t see much of my surroundings, so at last I was forced to move my head. I heard a rustling noise from behind me as the man, who was wrapped in a ripped, dusty bedroll, came to life.

  “Are we awake?” he asked, his bright eyes peering intelligently from a very dirty, brown-bearded face.

  I did not reply, but turned back to my little sister, who was still dreaming. Her small, damp body shook with terror until her eyes snapped open and she cried out, jerking into wakefulness and pushing away from me with both hands. I let her alone, knowing she would realize she had been dreaming. When she did, she started to cry and I took her into my arms.

  “Sounds like we’re all awake now,” drawled the bearded man, whose name, I learned, was Caspar. “We’d better get moving. We need to find water today or tomorrow at the latest.”

  I knew better than to argue, following along behind him, holding my sister’s hand. She was hungry, and said so.

  “Here you are, little one. Better make it last,” said Caspar, tossing her a strip of some kind of dried mix of meat and fruit. Salina, who was quite thoughtful for a girl of five, broke the strip in two and handed half to me. Then she took one small bite and put the rest in her pocket. We did find water the next morning, and again the next, as we traveled farther north. We said very little to one another until the fou
rth day, when I finally summoned the courage to ask about my brother, Seth.

  “Did they do what I think they did?” I asked.

  Caspar rubbed his weary eyes with grubby fingers. “You know they did. They burned him alive, just like the others.”

  “But why? And why did they kill my father? He only went there to help…and to seek help.”

  “Because he was unmarked.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, confused and getting angrier by the minute.

  “It means you, your father, and your brother and sister have come from a place of pestilence, yet you remain unmarked. In their minds, you are evil beings who bring the Sickness among men and remain untouched by it. Those people are survivors—you saw the scars on their faces—and they believe that only by killing you can they keep the Sickness at bay.”

  “But we didn’t bring any sickness. It came in a merchant caravan,” I said, my cheeks hot with indignation.

  “I know,” said Caspar. “But the Sickness has made them mad. They cannot care for themselves any more. They won’t live long…they’re sure to starve before the year is out. And they’ve witnessed horrible things happening to ones they loved—things which they are convinced came from people like you. There’s no point in trying to make sense of it, believe me.”

  That night, I curled up with Salina in Caspar’s spare bedroll until she fell asleep. Then I rose and went out under the moon. I wanted to scream at it. I wanted to rage against whoever was responsible for the repulsive idea that my father, or six-year-old Seth, who barely knew how to tie his own boot-laces, could ever be blamed for such a horrible thing as the Sickness. That they could ever be thought of as “evil beings.”