Excerpt: Rats and the Shadowmen

948
SPRING

CHAPTER ONE

It was three days short of his fifteenth birthday when Alric del Mathews learned that life wasn't fair.

It was a bright day, sunny and warm. The fresh promise of spring was in the air, and the first merchants out of the South would soon be making their way across the border at Renner and on to Kemlin to buy, among other things, the lacy iron gates and widows for which Alric's father was famous. It was Sun-day, and Ruther del Mathews was a faithful, church-going man. He was proud of his forge and of his skill, but come Sun-day he banked the fires, hung his hammers and his apron, and took his family to worship in the Hall of the Forgefather.

Alric walked hand-in-hand with his sister, Sheila, dressed in their Sun-day best as they followed their parents through the cobbled streets of the Forge Quarter. Their house was attached to the forge, in the richest part of the Quarter, and it was half an hour's walk to the Hall at the edge of the Temple Quarter. Folk smiled at Ruther and Raea, walking waving at them or offering a kind word. They were well-liked and generous with their wealth. Many of them were as bleary-eyed as his parents: Moon-day night celebrations were always more boisterous when the weather was warm.

The building was long and tall, built of Georg's native oak and granite. The smoke-stained windows were of rich, clear glass and barred by lacy iron of the sort the del Mathews family had been making for generations. Alric was proud of how many were, in fact, del Mathews work, and could point to which had been made or repaired by his father and grandfather. A hammer hung above the great, iron-bound double-doors, and the junior priest stood outside to welcome all who came.

"Ruther, Reaa," he said, taking their hands in turn. "So good to see you. Alric, Sheila." He laid a warm hand on Alric's shoulder and patted his sister's head.

"Brother Saemon."

Alric liked Saemon. He was always kind and never treated him like a child. It was a pity he had only another year or two left in service to Father Thomar before being given a forge and Hall of his own to tend. Alric would be sad when the juinor priest left.

Sheila smiled at him with particular warmth. It had occurred to him over the winter that she might fancy the young man. They were only a year apart, but it was difficult for him not to think of her as younger than she was, always day-dreaming as she was. Sometimes she would break out in song for no reason, or begin dancing to music that no one else could hear. It worried him, a little, but so for their parents seemed unconcerned. Alric had even overheard them talking of sending her to the temple of the Mother or the Moon Queen instead of finding her a husband.

Alric didn't like to think about it, but it would be time to do one or the other soon. The only children of their ages among their peers, neither of them had ever had many friends besides each other. Their were plenty of street children for them to play with, of course, and the children of servants and lesser smiths, but they were old enough not to shame their parents so.

It was hot and smoky inside the Hall, and the bellows rumbled quietly as Father Thomar stoked the forge. During the harsh Georgi winters, the heat was a welcome relief from the cold, but this would probably be the last indoor service of the year. Wooden pews sat in rows, facing the twin altars of the Forgefather. The first, a brightly polished anvil atop a gleaming marble block, was already covered in offerings: food and coin and craft items to honor the Forgefather and the church that served him. The del Mathews family added their own offerings to the pile, bowing their heads in prayer before moving to claim a bench. The second altar stood further back and higher up, a well-used anvil blackened and stained with use and surrounded by tools of the blacksmith's trade.

Father Thomar stood behind that second altar, bathing in the heat of the forge behind him. His eyes were distant, up-turned in prayer, and he held his long-hafted hammer in both hands. Alric had seen it up close: glyphs and runes covered it completely, from the butt of the haft all the way to the six faces of the head. It gleamed with wax and polish, but unlike the ceremonial altar, it saw daily use.

The Hall filled slowly, some folk more bleary-eyed than others. It would be another three years before Alric was old enough to participate in Moon-day festivities, but outside of the privilege itself, he was uncertain what the appeal was. The grown-ups seemed to enjoy themselves as they were doing it, but so many seemed miserable the morning after. Didn't they ever learn?

Father Thomas seemed to sense when the room was mostly full. He laid the sacred hammer across the working anvil and turned to stoke the forge once more. The bellows pumped and the fire roared, and he began the Sun-day rites, thanking the Forgefather for his blessings of wealth and prosperity upon the Georgi people. A sheaf of winter wheat was offered to the fire in the name of Oelra, the Forgefather's wife and hearth mistress, and their daughter Orhanna, the goddess of grain, harvest, and beer.

"Good morning my friends," Father Thomas called from the front of the room. "Thank you all for coming and adding your prayers to these Sun-day rites."

The priest's rites alone were sufficient, but it was best to let the gods know how well they were appreciated.

"This beautiful morning tells us that winter is coming to an end and that soon it will be time for the Spring Rites, thanking the Sun Lord for restoring the warmth of summer to the world., and reminding him of his allegiance to the Forgefather and his clan."

Everyone smiled, a few of the more boisterous attendees cheered.

"With the coming of summer, the Veil will grow strong again and we will be safe from the Shadowmen once more." That stilled the room. There had been more Shadowman attacks this year than any could recall, and Shadowhounds had howled at the full moons in greater numbers. "Let us remember the dead, as I remind you all of Illustria, and the folly that brought this plague upon us."

Three had died in Kemlin, and rumor spoke of dozens - half a hundred! - across
the country. Willum del Thursa, the goldsmith's apprentice, slain by a Shadowhound at Midwinter Moon's full. He had been engaged to wed Dina ryl Enhyl, journeyman priestess of the Mother. Molly do Kemlin, a weaver from one of the lesser quarters, taken by a Shadowman before her husband's very eyes. Henri del Durne, of the once-great del Durnes, vanished on the road north and never found.

"As you know, this very town is built with the bones of Illustria. A few ancient buildings stand to this day, and many of our foundations are more ancient than we dream. A thousand years ago and more, this was prosperous land, farmed by honest men and ruled by well-meaning priestesses of Shii. Great buildings reached to the heavens, supported more by Shadow-sorcery than by stone. More magic ran the sewers and the aqueducts, and it was doomed when Shadow-sorcery failed."

Alric tried to picture such buildings. It was said the like were to be seen in Vencar, far to the south, built with blood-wizardry and by genius engineers more clever than the masons of Georg. They stretched as much as a hundred feet into the sky, it was said, with bridges reaching between the spires. No matter the stories, though, his imagination failed him in this. Especially the part about the engineers: the masons he knew were too clever by half and could hardly be trusted when they were scheming, which was all the time.

"But the magic, that tragic gift of Shii, did not fail all at once. First the Veil began to tear, slowly, letting through only a few men and beasts of the Shadow Realm, as we suffer today. Too son, though, the Veil rent apart, and creatures of the Shadow Realm made war upon this world. Illustria thought itself prepared for war, it had just conquered the Golden Kingdom a'Rasyr, where today we have Vencar and Naal, and the desert further south. They made that conquest by Shadow-magic and steel, but the Illustrian's sorcery did not work against the Shadow armies. Soon their magic failed altogether, and with it the infrastructure built therefrom. There was starvation and plague, and the newest, more distant parts of the empire rose up in rebellion. So fell the first great empire of men, victims of their own folly and reliance upon magic."

Alric had heard stories of those times, of course. They were favorites for Sun-day sermons and Moon-day recitations. The heroes who had struggled against the Shadow hordes with their failing magics and the few artifacts that continued to function. The villains who had used the chaos for their own gain. The monstrous creatures that had plagued them all.

"So began a dark age in the history of this part of the world. Little is known of what happened here in the north, save that the Shadowmen and beasts scourged the men of what had once been Illustria for the next century or more. So let us remember fallen Illustria. Let us remember her power and her folly, and be ever cautious of relying too much upon works of magic, or even upon the gifts of the gods, lest we abuse them as the Illustrians did and fall as well."

A grim service for such a beautiful Sun-day. Father Thomar bent his head, hands clasped at his waste. The faithful did the same. Long minutes went by, until Alric and Sheila began to shift restlessly in their seats. At last Father Thomar raised his head.

"Come, my friends. Sun-day is a day of rest and reflection, but not of mourning. Although we must remember the dead, they are now safe in Torh's care. Let us return to our homes and reflect on what we have to be grateful for, not what we have lost."

Father Thomar and Brother Saemon walked among the people, restoring their spirits with a touch, a smile, or a word. It was Saemon who approached the del Mathews, hands clasped within his sleeves. He inclined his head politely, placing a companionable hand upon Ruther's shoulder.

"I hope all is well with you," he said, glancing first to Raea, then to Alric and Sheila.

"As well as anyone can ask."

"I'm so glad to hear that." Saemon turned to Alric. "It will be your birth-day, soon, will it not?"

"I'll be sixteen on third-day."

"Halfway between a boy and a man," his father said. "He carries it with more grace than most."

"Indeed. And when is your birthday, Sheila?"

"Not until Stag moon. I'll be fifteen."

"As close to being a woman as Alric is to being a man."

Sheila blushed and looked away, letting a wave of dark curls conceal her eyes. That was her habit when she was embarrassed, or trying to lie. She wasn't much of a lier, but she was better at it than he.

Truth be told, she looked the part more than he did. Although the hours he spent at the forge had given him muscles to be envied, he was still far shorter than he might like. Sheila, meanwhile, was growing up as well as out. Other boys their age were beginning to watch her when they went by, and he had heard whispered talk of what sort of dower their father might demand.

Raea laughed a little and her children by their arms.

"Thank you, Brother Saemon. Please give our love and respects to Father Thomar."

"Of course, Master Ruther, Goodwife Raea. The Forgefather's blessing be upon your day, and Oelra's blessing upon your hearth and home."

They left the Hall of the Forgefather in good cheer, hand in hand. The air outside was clean and crisp, especially after the stifling heat of the Hall, and Sheila laughed for the sheer joy of it. Others laughed with her, and their mother ran her hand through Sheila's hair. Alric was looking up at his parents when it happened, watching them smile at each other in the morning son.

Ruther stumbled a little, like he'd caught a toe on an uneven cobblestone. His jaw clenched and his free hand came up to his chest. Then he fell.

Alric tried to catch him, but he missed, catching only his father's arm and loosing his own balance as well. They fell together, his father's head hitting the cobbles with a gruesome noise that was somehow both sharp and wet.

People were shouting and his mother was pushing him aside, pulling her husband into her lap. Blood. There was blood on the stones, thick and purple. Ruther's face was gray and he wasn't breathing.

Alric was shouting, too, he realized, clinging to his sister as hard as he could. A priestess. Someone needed to fetch a priestess of the Mother.

And suddenly a priestess was there, kneeling beside his mother, careless of the blood at her knees. Her robes were a thousand shades of green and brown, tied at the waist with a wide leather belt from which hung a half-dozen pouches. Two fingers of one hand went to the side of Ruther's neck, the other splayed over his chest, her head bent in concentration.

"I'm sorry," she said, grief painting her wrinkled face. "It's too late. He's already gone."

All the color drained from Raea's face. She pulled her husband to her chest, staring at the priestess with too-wide eyes.

"I don't understand."

The priestess stroked Raea's hair, her face compassionate. Alric stared in horror, unable to move. Sheila struggled in his arms, but he couldn't let her go.

"His heart stopped. I'm sorry, but there's nothing to do."

Brother Saemon and Father Thomar were there, too, Alric realized. Saemon pulled his father from his mother's arms while Thomar and the priestess drew Raea to her feet.

Sheila gave up struggling against his arms and began to drag him forward. He let her, haltingly, until the priests could guide them into their mother's arms. They held each other, trembling, too shocked to even cry. The priestess stroked their hair while Father Thomar helped them keep their feet, each whispering soothing words as best they could.

The priestess pulled away after a few moments.

"I will fetch them," she said. No need to name the Servants of Torh.

The priests of death were there too soon, their white robes gleaming in the sun, marred only by the stripe of black that ran round their necks, their cuffs and hem, and in a thin line down the front from collar to hem. There were six of them altogether, four bearing smoking censers, and two of them, carrying a bier, already wore their hoods up, pulled forward to hide their faces. The oldest handed his censer to a bier-bearer, leading Alric and his family away while the others began to perform their rites.

"I am sorry to hear of your loss." His voice was sincere, but his eyes were cold and pale. "Grim Torh comes for us all, but the Inevitable is never welcome."

"It's not fair." The words were childish, but they forced their way from Alric's mouth before he could stop them. "Father was strong! Healthy!"

The priest inclined his head.

"I'm certain he was, son. Ruther del Mathews was respected throughout the city." He turned to Alric's mother. "We will take him, now. The funeral must be in three days."

"Of course." Raea's voice was numb. Her trembling had stilled, and her hand clutched Alric's hair too tightly. "I will make the arrangements."

The priest inclined his head again, bowing his shoulders as well and clasping his hands before his chest. When he stood, he pulled his hood up to hide his face.

"As we serve the dead, so do we serve those who remain. If there is aught that we might do fo you, let us know."

"Of course."

The priests had completed their rites and Ruther del Mathews now lay upon the bier, covered by a white cloth. All their faces were hidden, and they sang dirges as they left with the body.

The funeral would be in three days time.

His birthday.

"It's not fair," he said again, but the words were lost in his tears.