The Shadows Eternal, Sequal to 'The Dead of Night'

[Krayt]

This is a short story I wrote in some free time. It's basically a sequal to my pervious story, The Dead of Night which can be found elsewhere in the Fictions. So, yeah, read that first.

The Shadows Eternal
By Jeremy Pickard

I

The weathered old chestnut clopped along at a stately pace through the night, looking vigilantly forward without so much as blinking. He was an elderly steed, far too old for the chases and grand charges of his youth, and far too old for walks of over a few miles without lengthy periods of rest throughout. Yet even old Hector could sense the eyes following them through the night, and kept on regardless of the aches and throbs that ate away at him.

Riding atop, Bishop DeCanth was even more alert than his elderly mount, casting his ocean-blue eyes back and forth across the forest that spread out for miles to either side of the tiny one-horse trail. Renault wasn’t quite sure when he had first noticed their follower, but rather had felt a gradual tingling along the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and back. It was a feeling with which he was well versed, he had to be. Those in his line of work who lacked that sense lasted only a short while. Perhaps a mile back, Renault’s hand had slipped down under his cape and encircled the polished grip of the twin-bladed sword at his hip.

Something snapped in the distance. Renault tensed, his ears perked up until they pulled at his skull, and Hector let out a gentle whimper. Over the treetops, a flock of crows broke for the sky, fleeing from the noise. Or its source. The Bishop clicked his tongue and spurred Hector on until his pace was nearly an otherwise impossible gallop.

Presently, the noise ceased to echo throughout the darkened forest. Renault’s ears and muscles settled somewhat, and Hector resumed his slow pace once more. The only sounds in the forest, then, were the clopping footsteps of the old chestnut and the gentle jingling of the Dragon’s Cross hanging around the Bishop’s neck. And yet, he could not, positively could not, shake the feeling that the pair were being watched. By something.

Renault possessed an immaculate sense of time. And if nothing else, he had more common sense than a tame crustacean. And so after hours of continuing along, he was positive beyond doubt that morning had long since come. And yet, darkness reigned in the forest. Absolute, impenetrable, oppressive, and unwholesome darkness. Moreover, the forest, too, continued on with the darkness. His map had shown the place to be barely a quarter day’s ride through, yet it had stretched on since late afternoon on the day before.

Every sense Renault had at his disposal screamed that something was woefully wrong, and yet he had no evidence of this. Neither watch nor even fleeting of whatever had been following him and his mount for the last half day. Yet he was certain. He refused to believe otherwise. Something was palpably wrong with the forest in its entirety.

Something smelled out of place. And yet it was strangely wholesome in the darkness of the forest, a kind of oasis of purity. Renault pulled back on Hector’s reins until he stopped, and the Bishop dismounted. Yes, he could place that smell, clear as the light of the sun. Water, fresh and clear through the stagnant air.

“Wait.” He commanded, and stepped away from the chestnut steed.

Almost immediately, there sounded a sudden, painfully loud cracking in the distance of the forest. Crows once more shot up from the treetops, bolting up until the sky was black thrice over with them. Renault looked up and frowned gravely. Something didn’t like him at all. Wanted him gone. The timing was too perfect for any other reasonable answer.

Renault paused long enough to both untie the cape from around his neck and firmly grasp the direction of the water from where he stood. He then let the cape fall to the ground and dashed into the trees, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Though he could only see a scant few feet before him, Renault avoided countless trees, making a northern bee-line to the source of the fragrance of the cool water.

As he ran, the snapping noise intensified. Repeated. Louder and so often that it was impossible to misplace the sound of breaking bones in the night. Renault felt somewhat sorry for whatever was being so gruesomely devoured, but also thankful to the same for distracting whatever stalked the nights from him. Assuming that there was only one thing to fear. And, unfortunately, he doubted this very much.

Renault had been a soldier once. He knew the sound of snapping bones all too well. And yet, though the sound was unmistakable, it was strangely off. These were not the bones of something he had ever encountered before in his life. And as the intensity of the snapping rose to unbearable levels, he knew that the source of the breaking bones and the fresh water were one and the same until the breaking came to an abrupt halt as a screeching echoed throughout the forest. His instinct had never failed him yet.

Water. Renault ground to a halt at the edge of a fast-flowing river that cut its way through the darkened forest like a thousand axmen. And on the opposite bank was the corpse of what could best be described as an enormous housecat. Or it had been at one point, before it was broken into a shape not unlike a ragdoll and drained until it carried the texture of parchment. Renault looked sharply away, and drew his silver blade a bare inch from the mouth of its sheath, and gently twisted the handle so that the black oil trickled down its body like tears of blood.

Somewhere, far in the distance down the length of the river, Renault saw a light. A faint, glowing firelight that flickered in and out of sight. And for the first time, the thought that he was being stalked by something more than a bare animal crossed his mind. Something, in fact, that was much, much more. For surrounding that faintest of precious lights was the familiar shape of human architecture, that of a homestead, a dwelling. Where a man might dwell, or a beast.

Contented, the Bishop turned to fetch his mount.

[Krayt]

II

Two hours later, a thoroughly exhausted horse and a long-haired priest arrived at a small branch in the winding woodland path, carefully hidden away in the underbrush of trees and bushes. But Renault did spot it, if only by how utterly unkempt that particular spot looked in comparison to the rest of the woods, as if someone had tried too hard to blend the false brush in with the real. And, if his guess was accurate, the house he had seen in the distance was not too far off. He sensed a connection. It wasn’t a difficult guess. With a good deal of encouragement, Hector took a long step over the false bush, and continued his stately trot on the opposite side.

Not long after that, the firelight shone once more. The side path straightened into a narrow pinhead for its last half-mile, dwindling down to a wide open space around the structure Renault had seen. Though even from so far away, he could already begin to see that his appreciation of the building had been sorely understated. A house it was not, but rather an inexplicable castle settled into the heart of the forest, a small yet bright firelight emanating from the grand central spire the only illumination to be seen from it. It was built in the ancient style of the Old Dragonian Kingdom from before mankind’s prime; four towering guard posts made up the square outline of the castle, walls built of stone to connect them, all surrounding a single central tower that stretched up into the sky so that its top was wholly invisible amongst the overgrown treetops and the clouds above.

Renault and Hector approached the opening into the castle’s clearing with caution, careful not to make a sound more then they had to lest they stir whatever occupied the castle prematurely. Surrounding the castle was a dried-out moat, and there Renault dismounted with a final word of comfort for his steadfast companion. The drawbridge was down, suggesting either a lone occupant or temporary vacancy, and he crossed the sturdy wooden bridge without difficulty. He was surprised that the wood still held true, as it was obviously ancient, yet not wholly so, for there was magic afoot. He could feel it in his bones. And he was startled, yet not surprised, when the draw bridge was raised behind him. There was no visible method of reversing this from his position in the courtyard, nor sign of anyone to do so regardless. Magic, then. Renault slid his blade from its sheath and knocked the side of it against the castle wall. The oil ignited with a spark, casting a dim glow over the yard.

The courtyard was well-kempt and neat, with small tiles lined the ground, all in pristine condition, and small beds of crops on the entire perimeter of the walls. The crops, mostly wheat and a variant breed of corn, were young and far out of season; neither grew during the dead of winter, nor were they common in the region. Portswane County was famed for its poor growing conditions, offset by the most bountiful fishing in the world. But again, such an oddity was not wholly out of the question for an area rich with magical energies. Renault reached out to the plants and let the rich energies of the forest add to his fledgling magical powers, and brought one of the wheat plants to him. It carried with it the same rough and yet sweet smell that the breed always had, and so he let the uprooted plant fall to the ground, useless to him. Nothing about it gave him the slightest clue as to the resident of this accursed castle in the forest.

Renault waited in the courtyard for a short while longer, staying both silent and relatively still until he was certain that either he had not been noticed by the occupant, or they had chosen to ignore him. He hoped for the former and, feeding his blazing blade more of its lifeblood oil, prepared for the latter as he advanced into the central spire.

III

The Bishop stood near the top of the spire, bathed in the gentle glow of his torch, watching the firelight dance on the golden goblets and beautiful silk tapestries that lined the dining hall. Everything shone in the light; not a speck of dust to be seen in the whole of the spire. Every room the Bishop had seen was exactly the same. Treasure troves, every one of them, all in pristine condition. The owner of the place cared a great deal for his treasures, and took great lengths to protect them. Thrice, Renault had nearly been slain by a hidden trap at the doors. Two falling rocks and one group of crossbows, all nearly taking his life when he invaded the coffers of the fortress.

But this room was special. Neither trap nor guard stood to face him, and rather than gold and platinum and jewels stacked as high as the room itself, this room had but a handful of precious things to grace it. Only a pair of goblets on a long wooden table, surrounded by a handful of plates and tapestries. Aye, this room was special. Against everything else in this dread place, this room felt right. Felt lived in. Renault relaxed somewhat here, and indeed took a seat at the table, tired and aching from the climb up to this high level.

He was close to the end. That much was for certain. The lair of the beast was close; he could smell the reek of an animal, and close. But it was a stationary smell, and so Renault stayed as he was, letting his breathing return to normalcy and his muscles dim down to a dull throb. Though in this silent rest, the faint sound of breathing came to him, both near and far at once, heavy and nearly imperceptible. The breathing of a beast.

Rested, Renault stood. He traced the sound of the breathing to the underside of one of the largest tapestries and, with sword readied and body braced, pulled it aside. In the hidden room was a hellish mockery of a tannery, with skins stretched out against the far wall near a flagellant’s whip hung carelessly on a wooden peg. Cages lined the wall, all bloodied and in many ways defiled. Renault entered, holding his flaming blade high, and was nearly overtaken by the sheer smell of it. Blood and excrement and death combined into a purely malicious odor pleasing only to the most heartless fiends.

And yet, the breathing.

Slowly and with great care, Renault turned. In a cage between the flank of the door and the chamber’s side sat an animal of the same breed as the monstrous cat that had been slain outside. This cat sat in its cage, quietly breathing its growling breath, looking at him with wide, blue eyes that carried with them a haunted look that Renault was loathe to see. The look of shell-shocked soldiers and traumatized bystanders from the last war gone. Renault took a knee beside the cat’s cage and gingerly put his hand into the cage. The cat retreated some, but within a minute’s time had worked up enough courage to whimper and lick Renault’s hand. He was, by all standards and measures, afraid.

Renault undid the simple bolt lock on the cage and slid the door open. After he had retreated some small distance, the large cat slunk out of its cage, watchful and scared. In its entirety, the scene reminded him of the captured legionnaires found under the enemy’s keep at the end of the war, malnourished and paranoid from sometimes years of the cruelest magicians playing games with their minds.

But something hidden deep in the cats eyes told him otherwise. Something painfully intelligent glistened there, saying to him, I know who did this; not you. Feeling no threat from the cat as it sat huddled in the corner, Renault turned to the opposite face of the room and the small passageway that the skins were hung beside. He squeezed though it and into the chamber behind, a kind of sitting room with some few dozen books, mostly on the subject of hunting and skinning. All seemed to be freshly printed, if not dog-eared, in stark contrast to the view from outside. And, looking over them, Renault spotted a very familiar cover if he had ever seen one, Faith and Fire by Renault DeCanth. It was his own book, written as a view on the last war from the eyes of a chaplain. It was, contrary to everything said about it, complete fiction he had spun together in his free time. Renault gave a shrug, picked up a quill pen from the desk, and signed the inside cover of the book. In the event everything up to this point had been a simple misunderstanding and he was allowed to leave without violence, it would make a nice surprise. An unlikely situation, to be sure, but at his already leisurely pace, it was no great disruption.

Leading from this reading room was yet another hall connected to a washroom and stairwell. Renault ascended to what must have been the top floor, as he had counted windows from the outside, and then further still to the roof, acutely aware of the absurdly large cat that shyly tailed him yet showing no sign of it. The stairs spiraled up around a great pillar that started a dozen feet below the roof, likely the basis of some kind of pit or post. Renault achieved the top of the stairs, undid the small hatchway, and stepped out into the cold night air.

[Krayt]

IV

Renault stepped into the dark, starless night that cascaded the rooftop in shadow despite the blazing fire at its center. he knew instantly that he was not alone, but gave no sign of it. Rather, he spun his blade into a backhanded grip and stared into the forest around them. The shadows, eternally darkening the entire accursed place as far as the eye could see, seemed alive in the dancing light. At the base of the spire, he could see Hector staring back up at him, dark eyes glowing with fright.

He closed his eyes and drew a final deep breath of the cool night air. Behind him, there came the soft, imperceptible shift of a footfall as his soon-to-be attacker approached. over the crackle of the fire, he heard the gentle, vibrating him of a blade being drawn, and soft rustle of clothes as the swing was prepared. But before even Renault’s finely turned reflexes could jump into the fray, a roaring sounded and a great smashing came from behind.

Before Renault could fully turn, he knew exactly what had happened. Atop the figure of a tall, lean man was the cat, slashing and biting in a blind frenzy. But an instant later, there came a pneumatic hiss, and the cat was flung backwards down the stairs. The man, Renault’s would-be attack, stood and stared at the door down for a short while. Renault made no move to stop the man as he shut the door and locked it from their side. They both turned to face each the other.

The man was tall and lanky, with long white hair that fell around his shoulders, much like Renault’s blond hair did. The man carried a large, thick sword in his right hand that ended in a diamond tip, which he left resting against his shoulder. On his left arm was a long black gauntlet with a long hose snaking back to the man’s belt, where Renault could see a long water bag hanging limply. A steam-powered arm, in other words.

Both men stood in the darkness, silently regarding each other. It was the other man who broke the silence, the white-haired hunter. His voice was guttural and hoarse, as if it had not been used for ages; The man spoke with calm precision and tremendous force regardless.

“It’s strange. I never thought I’d see another man here. Much less a holy man.”

Renault shrugged. That wasn’t the opening he had been expecting. But, somehow, it worked. He swung his blade around and made his reply.

“I prefer the term ‘priest’, thank you. Who are you?”

“I was the finest huntsman in all the human world. I came to this place by accident, but found that the limitless numbers of animals here seem to finally be a near-match for me. I have remained here for the last seventeen years, alone until your intrusion.”

“So tell me then, how do I get out of here?”

“You passed under a gate when you entered my woods, did you not? One inscribed with ancient runes. Its twin, your only hope of exit, lies underneath this enchanted fire.”

The Huntsman swept his arm grandly toward the fire pit in the center of the spire. Renault followed the man’s steam-powered arm, and in so left himself open for the man’s attack.

It came like lighting, a sword-thrust to the chest that nearly cleft Renault in two had he not been a bare moment quicker. Renault lashed out with his flaming sword, but the Huntsman, too, was quick on his feet, dodging the strike with ease. The two men parted a small ways, facing each other down, blades readied. A moment passed, and they struck again, blades clashing with sparks and flames dancing at their feet. They held together for only a second before being thrust apart by the sheer force of the other man’s strike. Again they faced each other from opposite edges of the spire.

Again they threw themselves together, Renault twisting his weapons to the side and catching the Huntsman’s sword between the twin blades of his own. And though for a fleeting second he thought victory would quickly be his, he was forced to disengage when he heard the hiss of the man’s gauntlet rushing toward him. Renault ducked the blow and snapped their blades free of each other before his foe could reverse the advantage.

“Why are you attacking me?” Renault growled, feeing his flaming sword more oil as the pair stood off.

“Game can only interest one for so long.” The Huntsman said with a smirk, changing his grip on his broadsword and flexing his steam powered arm, “I am a man of opportunity, Bishop DeCanth.”

“What? Hunting human beings?”

The Huntsman shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Renault’s face contorted into a grimace, and he braced himself for another pass. They rushed each other, their blades clashed, and Renault made his move. He sidestepped, drew his blade up, and let the Huntsman’s momentum carry him forward. Renault thrust back with his sword, striking the metal of the steam gauntlet, and the sound of it cracking open echoed throughout the forest. The Huntsman screamed out in agony as the burning sword carved into his arm, twisted, and withdrew.

Renault spun out of the Huntsman’s reach and flicked the boiling blood from his twin-bladed sword. His foe fell to his knees, coddling his wounded arm and broken weapon. But the Huntsman was on his feet again a moment later, his gauntlet cast off and his broadsword held in his one good hand. He leveled the blade squarely at the cross hanging around Renault’s neck, and smirked. The Bishop shook his head solemnly, but raised his own blade to meet his opponent’s.

There was a moment of silence before the Huntsman made his last charge. Renault ducked his broad sweep and swung up and sideways, feeling the cracking of a neck and skull through the metal of his blade. A moment later and the Huntsman’s body fell over the side of the spire, his head rolling off a moment later. And as it did, the fire extinguished itself, showing the Bishop the dark stone gate, wholly covered in ancient Dragonian runes, that he had passed through on his entrance.

“Hector, come.” Renault called, and opened the door to the spire. A moment later, the large cat slunk out, cringing with pain with each step it took. Then came Hector, awkwardly climbing to where no horse was ever meant to go. Together, the three crossed the threshold.

V

“Bishop DeCanth!”

Renault shifted his gaze from the pommel of his saddle to the near blinding light of the sun which he had not seen in nearly three days. A quartet of hazy figures stood in the distance, racing toward him. As they came into focus, Renault began to recognize them. High Priest Pathios, a one-armed veteran chaplain, and a trio of lower clergymen.

“Ah, brother Pathios.” Renault said, dismounting, “What brings you here?”

“Looking for you, of course. You’ve been missing for nearly two and a half years, Bishop. Where have you been?”

Renault shrugged and scratched the ears of the cat the had walked alongside them all of the day before. He looked over his shoulder and over the forest horizon. No sign of the castle could be seen, hide nor hair of any human intrusion to the shadowed woods.

“Here and there.” Renault answered, leading Hector and Intellis, what he had named his newfound friend, away from the cursed forest. “Come now, Pathios. Let’s get away from here before something else strange happens.”

“Yes, um, yes sire.” The High Priest answered, and led his men away on the heels of the Bishop.

The End