Shadow Weapons of Doom Read online

  I shrug. "Are you going to untie my hands?"

  The warlock pauses. I recognize the uncertainty crawling beneath the warlock's burned face.

  "Come now," I laugh. "Do you think I need my hands freed to harm you? You've already provided me with your name, Jeffre, and that is all the weapon I need."

  The warlock's eyes widen. The lands of the Khy'Meir tribes are sparse. Our armies are not large. They are miniscule compared to the legions the Alhambran empire musters. Yet of all the kingdoms and realms that have faced the Alhambran spear, only the Khy'Meir lands have defied invasion. Uncertainty has always proven our greatest tactic, terror our most lethal blade. Perhaps, I am charged with all the magic my enemies believe me to be. Perhaps, all the stories telling of the Shadows - of my kind turning the rains to poison, of suffocating our foes through their dreams, of crumbling stones walls with a dance - are only fantasy. What is important is that the warlock in front of me does not know one way or another, and that gives me power no matter how man times Tully rattles my brains with his fist.

  "I do not fear you, Shadow."

  "If you say so."

  The warlock points me towards the stone stairs. Though a captive, I step carefully so that my feet remain silent. A pair of sentries joins my escort as I reach the top stair, their blades hanging uncovered at their hips. I say nothing. It is best to keep silent when confronted by naked weapons. It is better to let sentries simmer in their own worries so that their arms turn weak. I know I am safe from their swords. Had the warlock not needed me, my friends Tully and Midge would not have shown me so much kindness.

  We walk down many halls and through many turns before passing beneath an archway and mounting a new series of stone stairs. The stairs are twisting and tight, the stairs of a thin an tall tower. The confines force my sentries to occasionally jostle against me, and each time they recoil from the contact. They think me a monster. I smile.

  When a child of the Khy'Meir tribes, before the Alhambran crimson banner arrived at our villages with torches and flame, I enjoyed more than anything else listening to the old crones and midwives tell stories of monsters. I never tired of hearing of the adventures of Kell Raven, the legendary monster hunter of the tribes. I listened to how Kell Raven tracked the one-eyed trickster called Xerog, who had stolen the winds from the miller's waters. I imagined myself standing at Kell Raven's side as he battled the Fay King's minion thrall. I learned to walk quietly by emulating the steps described in Kell Raven's theft of the Grave Vulture's feathers, with which the hero made a potion that lifted his lover, Ann'Wyth, from the dead. I dreamed I was one of the pallbearers who carried Kell Raven's body home after my hero fell after vanquished the most terrible monster of all, the three-headed Harbinger Drake, so that apocalypse did not descend upon the world.

  But then, the crimson banners of the Alhambran king arrived upon our horizon. The time for stories ended. I trained to become a Shadow as war raged upon our lands. I learned how to cross our enemy's lines undetected. I learned how to infiltrate my enemy's tents. I learned that it was better to slit the throat of a single sleeper than to slaughter all of those who dreamed within, so that those I spared woke the next morning to lifetimes filled with fear. The tales of Kell Raven gave me strength when my training exhausted me. Kell Raven gave my hand conviction when it hesitated to drop the dagger.

  So I chuckle as I ascend those circling, stone stairs. I laugh when the sentries refuse to return my gaze. I have become one of the monsters. Perhaps the Alhambrans have their own heroes who fight the monsters who flutter in the night.

  "Are my guards going to make it to the top?"

  The sentries pant for breath. I think I could send both guards rolling down the stairs with a simple trip. I do not doubt that I could kill them with my hands tied. Only, I am not sure which direction I should flee. Nor do I feel like running like a monster. A Shadow should show more dignity.

  The warlock hisses. "They have plenty energy remaining to cleave you in two, Shadow. Our soldiers are strong."

  I shake my head. "It would've been easier to split me open upon the road two weeks ago if that was your intention."

  "We can change our mind. We can catch another Shadow."

  "But I'm a special guest until you do."

  We say nothing more as we continue up the stone stairs. A panting sentry removes a large key from his pocket at the top and fumbles with a lock before swinging open a thick, wooden doorway. Wind strikes my face as we step onto a balcony circling near the tower's peak. My eyes are beginning to swell from the damage beaten upon my nose, and the wind brings tears to my vision.

  "Enjoy the air while you have the opportunity," hisses the warlock.

  "The air does me good," I reply. "Strange way to treat a captive."

  The warlock chuckles. "You are foolish. I bring you to this peak so you can look upon our splendor and weep."

  Though a sworn and bitter enemy to the Alhambran kingdom, I cannot deny that his capital city of Rhone inspires awe in those who look upon it. No race builds like the Alhambrans. Walls and ramparts rise from the ground as far as my eye can see. The streets are wide, and wagons filled with merchandise, food and soldiers move easily through the city. Towers scrape the sky. Many of their peaks extend beyond my lofty perch. Temples of marble and alabaster rise upon many city blocks, surrounded by gardens blooming with the flaming pedals of red, yellow and orange flowers. Aqueducts deliver glistening water into homes. Crowds gather around the dramas danced upon small, stone stages. Spectators crowd arenas, their cheers for racing chariots rising to my ears. My lands have nothing to compete with such splendor. Our lands do not brim with wood and stone. Our clay hovels are meager in comparison.

  "Are you not ashamed when you look upon what we have built?" Arrogance fills the warlock's voice.

  I squint through my watering eyes. I peer closely at the city and smile.

 

  Looking more closely at the walls, I notice many stones piled upon the ground, original resources never stacked together to realize dreamed plans. I count the fissures cracking along the wide streets, scars of disrepair likely to snag wagon wheels and horses. Broken window panes turn many a temple's once wonderful stain glass into toothy grins. I see the weeds winding through the gardens. The crowds before the stone stages stand silent. The spectators filling the arenas jeer more than cheer.

  Discontent has settled within even Rhone. I see that shadows gather in the alleys.

  "I am prouder than ever before." I answer the warlock.

  The warlock's face flushes with anger. The view is meant to break my spirit following my beating. The sight of the city is supposed to teach me of my inferiority compared to the Alhambran.

  I grin. "I see that we are winning the war. I see the cracks running through the walls. I smell your city's fear no matter my smashed nose. Our defiance demands all your attention. You spend all your resources to destroy us. Still, we continue to defy, so that your city grows hungry and your streets crumble."

  The warlock's fist flies in a flash. I barely feel its impact against the side of my face following Tully's efforts. My grin only widens as I spit out a tooth. Even my torturers have strengthened me.

  "Alhambran warlocks must practice shallow magics if they rely upon their fists to deliver pain," I smirk.

  The warlock's voice turns into a deep growl. "You'll soon see our most recent, and greatest, manifestation of our power. You will see the return of so much we have invested into defeating the Khy'Meir tribes. Even Shadows will fail to find shelter from the flames."

  The years of my training have taught me that bluster is a strategy employed by the weak. I do not doubt that my life nears its end. I suspect that my captors will execute me before I look upon another morning. Perhaps they will draw and quarter me before hanging my limbs upon the corners of their kingdom, like trophies gathered by their king. I smile regardless. For before my death, I have looked upon my enemy's treasure room and found his coff
ers empty.

  We return within the tower and descend its stairs. The warlock and the sentries keep quiet. A new set of guards escort us as we twist through new halls and descend still deeper. They pay no more attention to me than what is needed to keep me between them. They do not recoil from me. These guards do not fear me, and I wonder what concerns them so that a Shadow agent hardly quickens their heart. Time and again, we pause as the guards unlock iron gates knotted in thick chain. We continue following steps downward and the walls glisten from the moisture. I smell the grave. I think they escort me to the crypt.

  "Pity my people if we should ever have to fight you underground," I scoff.

 

  My captors still pay me no attention.

  I feel the first choking of fear since my captivity.

  "Do you not feel it, Shadow?" I hear glee in the warlock's voice. "Is it not a weapon of your people? It's a weapon we too now possess. It's a weapon we have already unleashed."

  The walls rumble as if that deep earth houses thunder. A strange glow of blue and green supplements the dim light thrown by the wall sconces. Electricity fills the