Shadowing: A Henchman's Tale

Shadowing

A Henchman’s Tale

Book One of Moonblind

by Kat Zantow

Copyright 2011 by Kat Zantow

Smashwords Edition

Fictician Press. www.fictician.com

Canary Editing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed and sold for your personal enjoyment only. Under copyright law, you may not resell copies of this ebook, but you may lend it and suggest it to everyone you know. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, out of respect for the author’s effort and right to earn income from the work, please contact the publisher or the relevant ebook retailer to purchase a legal copy.

Dedicated to my editors, the Z’s,

and every fantastic fantasy book I’ve read.

Table of Contents

A History

Part I: Raining Fire from Above

Salamander Shadows

The Wasted Wyvern

Part II: The Thrill of the Chase

Flight and Fight

Small Steppes

Caving In

Part III: Pulling the Wool

Falling Water

Nightfall

Nightmares

Part IV: Long Live the Magna

Fire Sermon

Horse Thieves

The Citadel

The Road

About the Author

A History

Keane sat before a deep silver basin filled with water, which reflected the perfect orb of the moon. A circle of sunstones cast a dim glow on both storyteller and crowd. Keane’s beard was white and glittered with frost, the length lost beneath the many folds of his heavy coat.

Gather near for the story of the realm.

The storyteller’s voice boomed, and his hands moved in broad gestures to draw the crowd closer. Rough-hewn herders and merchants, bundled against the cold, sat still. Children fidgeted beneath blankets. A few outsiders huddled around the edges of the crowd, shivering. Keane thought he caught a glimpse of a Shadow’s cloak and a soldier’s face, but he did not spot the man again. He felt uneasy, and resolved to say nothing ambiguous about the greatness of the Magna, long live the Magna.

When the world was young, the sun shone bright and warm. The land was peaceful and green, and water flowed freely from the white peaks of the mountains.

Keane pushed back his sleeves, exposing thin forearms to the night air. He dipped gnarled fingers into the water of the basin, and raised them up. The water followed his hands, and solidified into a cold peak of ice, bright with moonlight, that slowly melted as his story continued.

The plains were thick with caribou, and there was always enough to eat. Our herds were strong, and there was nothing more to fear in the world than a pack of hungry wolves.

He waved his hands and the mountain sank with a splash. Water droplets doubled and redoubled and froze. Crystalline wolves with jaws set in frozen snarls reared out of the bowl. The children leaned in close, eyes glittering in the moonlight. A small girl ignored the morphing ice and stared at the speaker. Her hand shot up, but the boy behind her batted the arm down and wrapped her tight in a blanket.

Far in the north the mountains were always cold, their icy slopes slick as glass. But one day the mountains melted in a river of fire. Dragons, wyverns, and wyrms emerged belching flame. They swarmed over the land, burning forests and swallowing cities. Leviathans of the ocean were angry and climbed out of the water to tear every boat and fishing village asunder.

The water roiled under Keane’s fingers, and scaled heads and wings emerged, like dripping crystals. The creatures pulled themselves up to the edges of the basin, hissing and snapping with icicle fangs.

All hope was lost, he said. But then a hero rose from the ashes.

He made a gesture and the dragons of ice were dragged back into the basin, though they fought the pull.

The girl’s tiny hand snaked out of the blanket again, waving. The boy grabbed her arms and held her in a warm hug. Some of the herders were muttering to each other. Keane saw deep frowns and heard an outright scoff, but he kept going.

The great Magna scaled the top of the highest mountain and cursed the dragons in the name of the goddess, Moon. He stopped the fire on their tongues and blunted their claws, and they became afraid. When he came down from the mountain with the blessing of the goddess, the sky cleared. The full moon shone brightly, protecting us with her watchful eye, and she has not blinked since. We carried the hero on our shoulders to the broken palace. We begged him for six days and six nights to take the throne, and on the seventh he agreed.

Keane tilted the basin, and the water poured onto the ground and splashed upward. The liquid crept higher in thin sheets and curled until it had frozen into the image of the king with a high collar and crown of ice. The storyteller released his hold on the image, but the ice sculpture remained, glowing in the moonlight.

The audience applauded loosely, but Keane could not fool himself into thinking it enthusiastic.

The chief herder stood up, and nodded to the storyteller. Thank you for your light. The statue will surely bring the village good fortune. Let the wine flow as limitless as the blood which pulses in the veins of the Magna.

Keane hid a frown. This was not the first ambiguous toast he had encountered in these fringe communities. He walked with the others to the bonfire in the center of the village. The flames cast a warm glow upon the felt and leather walls of the surrounding dwellings. Warm wine and food were produced, and a couple of the villagers thanked the storyteller. He found a piece of paper slipped into his hand but couldn’t match a face with it. He tucked the note into his beard to read later.

A herder woman, age masked with dirt, staggered toward him with a scowl. She carried a large wine cup in her hand.

Thank you so, she said, for praising the tyrant that burns down our homes time and time again. She gestured wildly and splashed Keane with wine.

He held his ground as the wine seeped into his coat. I suspect you mistake the wild and shiftless beasts for his soldiers. The great Magna, long live the Magna, preserves these lands. He defeated and bound a much greater—

The woman spat on the ground before him, and walked off. Keane stood there, surprised. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and turned to see the hand-raiser looking up at him.

Mister Storyteller? the girl said. I was wondering if you were there for your stories.

The boy, carrying a blanket, caught up to her and grabbed the collar of her heavy coat. Don’t ask rude questions, he whispered.

I was there for some, but not for all. Keane said. Stories drift up in smoke and float on the wind until the Sage hears them and gifts them to us.

I was also wondering, she said, why do you tell cold stories? I like warm because it’s cold here.

Fire is a dangerous force. Servants of the Sun—

When I grow up, the girl said, I’m going to tell stories. But they won’t be lies.

The chief herder’s laughter broke through her words, and her mouth snapped shut. The girl grabbed the blanket away from the boy, and darted off, giggling. The boy pursued.

A headache was building behind his temples, and Keane found himself longing for the comfort of the Lyceum and the Sage’s guidance. The Magna’s Shadows were making his work next to impossible.

You’ll have to excuse the children, said the Chief. So few storytellers make it out this far.

I can see that. The children are nearing the age of placement.

The herder’s mouth merged smile and grimace. Yes. When are your pedagogues coming through to steal those who will learn the art?

The old man shrugged. I am not sure. I have heard that several storytellers wandering through this region foundered in the snow and were found many days later, eaten by wolves. I hesitate to encourage any teacher to enter such treacherous mountain passages.

I see you are wise. There is a great darkness this far north, and we appreciate your light for the evening, said the chief herder.

Keane smiled at the implied threat, and bade the man goodnight. The storyteller hobbled away from the fire toward the cold edge of the village. He entered the tent bearing a roughly painted staff and bowl. A small pile of sunstones glowed faintly in the center of the room, and he tied off the leather flap of the door quickly to keep the heat inside.

He leaned the head of his staff against the sunstones, and spoke a word. The stone set into the metal top flared with a low flame, and cast shadows around the room. The room was quiet. Keane sat on the stuffed pallet against the wall and packed his pipe, lighting it against the flame. Puffs of smoke drifted up and hung in the air.

They will use that sculpture for target practice, he said to the curls of smoke. This cannot go on much longer.

Keane looked around the tent. Every town offered a few days shelter in exchange for a story. This was not the worst shelter he had stayed in—that honor went to a village further west, where an elk had walked through a wall. But this, like many in the mountain strand, was sparse enough to offend, and clean enough to raise suspicion.

He remembered the note and pulled the damp paper out