A Slice of Shadow (working title)

CHAPTER ONE: NOTHING PERSONAL
A little less than three leagues from Mudroot, eastward along the Pinchpurse Path, three weary horsemen came to a sudden curve and dip in the trail, slowing their mounts.
"This'll do," Derfel gently brought his horse to a stop, "Good enough."
"Right you are." Replied the big man. He groaned as he ungracefully clambered down from his exhausted horse. "Let's get on with it, then."
He opened his saddlebag and from it produced a coiled length of slick-rope. The others watched closely as he lashed one end around a suitably sturdy tree trunk.
"Stay with the horses, Flick," said Derfel, lithely sliding to the ground, "they'll be here before long, so keep yourself out of sight."
"You sure, Derf?" The third, younger one asked, taking his companions reins in hand.
"Sure, Flick," the boy lead the horses off into the treeline, and Derfel lost sight of them almost immediately in the thick foliage, softly calling after the boy, "but stay in earshot, and keep quiet, lad."
Meanwhile the big man, known to his friends simply as Brinkle the Big, had lumbered over to the other side of the trail, letting the slick-rope play out behind him. It was a simple trap, tried and tested. Finished, he slumped to the ground with his back against a tree.
"I can't believe it's come to this." He mumbled, softly stroking the hilt of his knife in the dark. An owl hooted, far off in the distance.
"Believe it." Derfel pulled a small, half filled bottle from the leather pouch at his waist and held it up to bright, beautiful Mother Moon. The clear liquid within began to shimmer in the light, flickering specks of luminescence darting within like tiny, playful fireflies.
"Not much left, but here you go." Said Derfel, handing over the bottle. The big man's eyes widened. He uncorked it with a pop and inhaled vigorously as a grin spread from ear to ear. Derfel sighed. "Go easy now, only a taste."
The big man drank as Derfel listened closely for the riders who would be following along the twisting trail. Nothing yet. The whisper of the wind. A second, distant hoot. The soft sipping from the man at his side. A minute passed, then another. He strained to hear, willing them to come, and then finally there it was; an unmistakable rumble approaching.
"Here we go, then'." The big man sighed, handed back the bottle and lurched to his feet as Derfel followed the rope back across the trail, pulling up the hood of his cloak and concealing himself in the underbrush.
"They're coming Flick!" He called out softly into the shadows, sliding his blade from it's scabbard.
Brinkle wrapped the end of the slickrope around his arm and braced himself. The sound of hoofbeats was close now. Glancing over at Derfel he smirked and gave a wink, as the three horses rounded the bend. Rising to his full height with a bellowing roar, he hauled back on the rope with all his might, raising the deadly barrier at the very last moment. The first horse galloped straight on, oblivious, it's legs immediately snatched out from under it and sending its rider catapulting over his mount's head. The shock of the impact yanked Brinkle off balance, rattling him to his bones, as it took everything he had to keep his grip from slipping. The muscles in his back and shoulders tensed like an ox as he immediately pulled the rope taut once more, and the second rider, too late to act, also fell victim to one of the very oldest tricks in the book. He was somersaulting head over heels through the air with a yelp even before the first rider had hit the ground, which he did, crumpling into a lifeless heap in the dust. The crippled horses bucked and thrashed beside their owners; Front legs snapped like kindling against the iron-strong slickrope, their eyes rolled back in their sockets as spittle flew from their mouths.
The third and final horseman had been at the back of the pack, and took in the scene in an instant. He saw the giant crash from the treeline and watched as his companions were struck down by some unseen force. He tugged on his reins firmly, controlling his mount, jinking to the side and aiming to go around the huge figure. Sticking to the edge of the road he passed safely out of reach of the beast and felt relief surge through his veins. His poor, ruptured veins; Something had struck him in the flank. The blood was already wet and sticky to his fingertips as he clutched at his side.
He turned his head as the horse slowed, to see the slim figure of Derfel Cadarn slinking from the shadows, a long, thin dirk held at his side. He hadn't stood a chance in hell of seeing the blade as he had flown past. He had barely even felt its sting, as it slid up under his ribcage.
Derfel and Brinkle watched as the horse continued along the trail a short way, slowing to a walk, then finally coming to a halt. The rider was sat up straight as an arrow, the dark red heart-blood flowing heavily already, trickling it's way down to drip from his saddle. The other two horses were crippled beyond saving. Brinkle's eyes clouded as he knelt at their side and slit their throats, one after the other, calmly and carefully, with a certain reverence. Derfel could have sworn he saw a luminescent shimmer there for the briefest of moments, deep within the man's deep, black pupils as he watched the animals bleed out their final moments.
The first rider had been killed outright from the fall; his unprotected head cracked like an egg, its red-jelly yolk spilled and mingling with the dirt. The second had fared little better, though was at least still breathing, with a definitely broken arm and a possibly shattered spine.
"Flick! It's done!" Derfel yelled out. He approached the still-mounted third rider, taking the horses reins and looked up at the mortally wounded man. He was gurgling, a raspy, ragged effort at breathing. The blood flowed freely and gave a metallic tang to the crisp night air.
"Sorry friend. You're done." Derfel seemed genuinely sympathetic.
The gurgling grew in intensity as the rider opened his eyes. He wheezed and coughed, his shoulders shook.
"Are you laughing? Well, that's good. I'll tell you something you'll really laugh about though." Derfel smiled and began to walk the horse back to the others. "We weren't supposed to kill any of you, really. But you know how it is. Things happen out here and it's just easier this way, you know? Nothing personal."
Derfel grabbed at the man's sword belt and brought him down to the ground unceremoniously, before delivering a well placed kick to the hideous puncture wound, causing him to jerk and yelp like a struck puppy. He disarmed him and tossed the sword and scabbard aside.
Flick had already pillaged the unconscious rider, and now leaned over the dead man, rifling through coin purse and pockets, making things vanish into his own at a speed that would impress even the famed spider harvesters of Sweetshadow. Brinkle left the lifeless horses, reclaimed his rope and now stood coiling it around his arm as he watched in anticipation.
Derfel placed a boot square on his victim's chest, pinning him in place. Reaching into his pouch, he removed a small wooden box, deftly flicking off the lid and quickly shaking out the sandy powder contained within into the poor wretch's face. The man's eyes immediately widened to an alarming degree as he attempted to kick and wriggle free, realising the horror about to be visited upon him.
"Fffggllch..."
"I know, I know, fuck me. Just relax, it'll be over in a moment." He pressed down as the writhing intensified. "Shush now."
"Ffggllking nooooo!"
Derfel kept him in place only for the few moments between the effects kicking in and the spasms stopping. Potent stuff. He removed his boot from the man's torso and squatted over him, face mere inches from his. The laboured breathing had finally stopped.
"I know you're still in there, and I know it hurts like fucking hellfire my friend," Derfel whispered, staring into the straining eyes of the stricken man. "but I don't think you would have given it up willingly, would you have?"
There it was. The smallest flicker of life behind the pupils.
"It's the eyes, you know. That's how you get in. "Windows to the soul" they used to call the eyes." he reached down and dipped his finger in the blood pooling beneath the two of them before bringing it back up to the man's forehead and making a small red mark there, a swirl of colour against the pale flesh. "And this is the key."
As he pulled his finger away from the man's head, he watched as his pupils began to dilate, and constrict, then dilate, and so on back and forth steadily, in rhythm. Derfel stared intently, focusing on the crack in the window, and willing himself in. He followed the pace of the dilations with his every breath. In and out, in and out, he closed his senses off against the world, shutting out the night and allowing himself the familiar tumble into the dark, unending blankness of those black pinpricks. It came easily to him now; the ancient, sacred techniques long practised and perfected. He dove in deep and smooth, shattering the broken husk of a man's mind far more violently than his blade ever had his body. He probed and groped, pulling aside knowledge and dashing it carelessly against the floor of the man's sanity.
His victim screamed, an unending , heart-crushing scream of agonised torture as his memories were torn from him, one by one. Pulverised into nothing, his feelings were extinguished and wisdom erased by the careless upending of all that he had ever been or would be. He screamed but made no sound. He screamed with a fury known only by one who has experiened his very existence melting before him. Derfel moved quicker through the dark passages of the man's being now, discarding all such irrelevant trivialities, willing the man to accept this, do not resist, feeling his way towards more secretive things inside this place, esoteric thoughts and mind-worms. There were some good ideas in here, some bad, and most nonsense. There was hatred, and lust, and love. He trampled dreams and sent worries scattering, obliterated hopes and snuffed out precious relationships until at last, tucked away safely behind an existential crisis, he finally found his prize.
He snatched it up unto himself, absorbing it in an instant, and quickly retreated from this sacred place. He watched the tiny flicker of life give up at last as the husk of what was once a man was already beginning to turn to dust beneath him.
Brinkle and Flick were mounted and waiting, the young boy with the newly acquired horse roped behind him.
"And that's why you need bloody decent chainmail, lad," Brink was lecturing the boy again. He patted his substantial chest, "mine cost a damned fortune, or cost someone, anyway."
The youngster rolled his eyes and noticed Derfel approaching.
"Ready then?" he enquired. "Got it, Derf?"
"Got it, Flick. What about that one?" Derfel pointed at the unconscious, probably paralytic second trap victim. "May as well finish the job."
"Come on, Cadarn, stop fucking about and let's go. We got what we came for, now let's fuck off." Brinkle glared at him.
"Alright, alright." Derfel swung himself up into his saddle and laughed. "Easier than expected. Let's be off then before Father Sun shows his ugly face."
It took the best part of the rest of the night to reach Mudroot, and Father Sun was indeed peeking above the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the floodplains as the three stopped before the causeway in to town. They dismounted and began the half-fathom trek on foot, discussing what was to follow.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go alone?" Flick was asking.
"It's better this way, besides they already know what's going on. They aren't stupid." Brinkle peered at the walls surrounding the smog-topped town, imagining the guards' reaction to their return. He scratched at his gingery beard. "Three men leave, three follow, three return. Doesn't take a fucking general to work out."
"The idea is to act like we don't give a damn. Brash it out, lad. We won't be long, because we don't belong, which means as soon as he knows what happened he'll want to beat a hasty retreat." Derfel reassured him.
"I still think you could wait for us out here." Replied the boy.
"We could, but we won't, and so we all go to see him together." Brinkle scratched at his beard and yawned, letting out a sound more beast than man. "I'm fucked. This is going to be a hard day if you're right, Derf'. Where do you reckon we'll be away to then?"
"Not sure, it depends on what this thing is, I suppose. I'm not even sure he'll know. It feels complicated somehow, a weird one to be sure, never felt nothing quite like it. How much coin did they have anyway, Flick?" Derfel was fishing in his saddlebag, searching for something.
"A few severins, couple of coppers."
"Keep it. And take this, too." He handed Flick the short sword he had taken from the sigil-keeper whose mind he had pillaged mere hours before, a plain but sturdy blade. "If we're going to swagger in there then let's bloody well swagger, right?"
The youngster laughed as he fastened his new weapon to his side and seemed to grow two feet taller as he strode along with pride, the dirty-blonde mop of hair bouncing atop his head. The rest of the way the three joked and laughed and talked and teased and shared a little of Brinkle's secret stash of flame-water straight from the bottle. It refreshed their tired, aching bones and merried their minds. The gates of Mudroot would have been open since sun up, so they kept their heads down as they finally passed between the palisades and through the imposing gatehouse, keeping to themselves, both ignoring and ignored. None of the guards gave them cause for concern; perhaps the night watch hadn't passed on the news of last night's activities to the morning lads. Whatever the case, the three companions were the only ones crossing the wall in this direction so early, though inside the bustle of trade and travel was already winding up for the day. They passed by a handful of locals who paid them no heed as they busied themselves with packing carts and horses, eager to be on their way, no doubt laden with goods for the richer towns and cities. There wasn't much to offer from this long-forgotten piss-hole, but the fish they caught were easily dried in the oppressive heat of the early afternoons, and some folk further inland thought them tasty at least. The three friends made their way through the marketplace, dodging traders and merchants as they went about the daily rituals of setting up stall.
As they pressed further into town the streets narrowed and took on strange angles, the wooden homes rising two floors tall here, sometimes three. The air was thick with dust and smoke from morning fires, the wooden chimneys belching forth their poison plumes.
"Fucking miracle this place hasn't burned to the ground yet," Brinkle grumbled, "it would be bloody beautiful." he grinned as he removed his boot, hopping on one leg as he attempted to shake a stone from within the stinking cavern. The others watched, smiling at the sight. The brute was over seven feet of solid oak-hard flesh, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. Wobbling dangerously he stumbled, nearly falling into the path of an oncoming labourer, causing the man to swerve and drop the bundle of tools he was carrying and sending an assortment of what appeared to be rakes and hoes clattering to the ground.
"Watch it, you bell-end!" The labourer cried out.
"Fuck off, shit dick." Brinkle scowled, roughly pulling his boot back over his foot. The man hurriedly scooped up the scattered tools and scampered off, realising his mistake and eager to be away from this giant of a man. Derfel and Flick laughed at their friend, glad of his company as they continued, leading their horses through the dingy streets until, at long last, they arrived at the small, unremarkable house which their illustrious captain had chosen to call his home.
Two of the Baron's men lounged on the front step, engrossed in a game of knuckles. Another leant on his spear and watched as they took turns to flick the little rocks from between their fingers at the target; a squawking, plucky chicken. It was launching ineffective counter-attacks periodically, coming at them as if headless. The spearman looked up, noticing the newcomers arrival and throwing a salute, tapping the back of his fist to his forehead.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in." He gestured towards them with his weapon. "Where did you disappear to last night then?"
"Morning, Korbax." Derfel strode past the chicken and squeezed between the two players. "We went for a little ride along Pinchpurse, it was a beautiful night."
He opened the door a sliver and slid through.
"And you two?" Korbax looked inquisitively to Brinkle and Flick. "Care to share? You're his merry men after all."
"We'll not be so merry if you don't leave that fucking chicken alone." Replied Brinkle, wrinkling his reddish nose in the air.
"Oh I don't know, I'm quite merry, Brink." Flick took a hefty swig of flame-water, "It's a good day so far."
"Give that back you little bugger!" Brinkle snatched the bottle from the boy, holding back his laughter.

CHAPTER TWO: THE BASTARD BARON
Entering into the dim hallway, Derfel closed the creaking door behind him and pulled down the hood of his whip-seal fur lined cloak. Moving cautiously, he made his way through the detritus of a good week's fun, carefully stepping over scattered bottles and broken furniture. There were chicken bones everywhere. A pale, blue woman's blouse hung on the end of the bannister, the faint scent of woodsmoke and lavender lingering in the air as he brushed by.
Stepping through into the main room he took in the sight; it was equally as disgraceful in here, if not worse. The fireplace was cold and dead, and at some point the log had rolled from the hearth and caused a sizeable scorch to the floorboards. The room stank of stale sweat, vomit and strong liquor. In one corner, sprawled face down on a straw pallet, lay the Baron, his bare arse for all the world to see. At the opposite side of the room sat Sheeper, tucking in to a hearty plate of lightly fried seal meat. A lit candle stood on the table before him, along with an open ledger, ink pot and quill. Derfel pulled up a chair, his stomach crying out for him to punch the chubby man square in the face, snatch up his meal and hop out the broken window before it was too late.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in." Sheeper smirked.
"I heard that already. Do you mind?" Derfel pointed at the plate.
"Not at all my fellow, by all means, by all means." He slid it over to Derfel before pulling up the hem of his tunic to wipe his greasy lips. "We weren't expecting you here so bright and early, otherwise I would have had Sarephel prepare sufficient for all, please accept my apologies. Tell me my good man, what brings you to our humble shit-hole at this unmoonly hour?"
Derfel chewed as he talked around the delicious flesh melting in his mouth. "Had a spot of bother in the inn last night, Sheep. Well, maybe not bother, I'm not sure yet."
The quartermaster leaned in eagerly.
"Oh? How so? What did he manage to achieve this time, another dead innkeeper? A couple of locals we have to compensate for freshly broken limbs? Or perhaps he simply burned down the entire bloody premises, with all the patrons still inside, eh? He'd like that, I'd wager." He chuckled, his belly jiggling.
"It wasn't Brink." Derfel squinted. "We met some blokes, some of the Wrackbone's men, Sheep. They'd just got here."
Sheeper's jaw dropped.
"The Wrackbone? Are you absolutely certain, Cadarn?"
"Certain, Sheep."
He sat back in his chair, pushed a finger under his eye-patch and gave a good rub. "Sarephel!" He screeched,"Water, wench!"
The Baron cried out in shock, brutally yanked from the sleep of the dead kicking and screaming back to the land of the living. "What in the hell is the matter? What's all the screaming about, you damned fool?"
Derfel scooped up a chunk of seal meat and lobbed it at the Barons naked buttocks. It struck with a horrible splat. The Baron rolled over, peering through bleary, bloodshot eyes at their unexpected guest.
"Well, well, well then. Look what the cat dragged in."
"Bugger your cat, I'm sick of hearing about the beast." Derfel popped another chunk of meat into his mouth and bit down.
"Eh?" The Baron furrowed his brow. "What in Moon's name are you doing here Cadarn?"
He rolled off the pallet onto the floor and began rooting about underneath, pulling forth items of clothing and applying them to the appropriate places, one by one.
"I was just telling Sheep." Derfel explained. "We had a little run in with some of the Wrackbone's men last night, down at the inn. They'd only just arrived, ridden in from Moon only knows where, wherever they've been hiding."
The Baron stood, finally securing his belt and sparing them the awful sights.
"I'd been wondering when we were going to hear from the Wrackbone again." His eyes narrowed. "It's been what, five years now since my brother sent him packing. He tucked tail and fucked off like a coward! But it was only a matter of time."
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen was thrown open as a young woman bustled into the room carrying a pitcher. She banged it down on the table in front of Sheeper, water sloshing over the rim and splashing onto the cover of the book before him.
"Careful, woman!" He snatched up the ledger and dabbed at the cover with his tunic, absorbing most of the liquid but leaving behind a dark stain of seal grease in it's place. "Damn, now look!"
The woman raised a hand and flicked two fingers at him, a foot from his furious red face. Then she snorted and stomped back through the door, slamming it in her wake.
"Who was that delightful enchantress?" Derfel gulped down water, only now realising how thirsty he was. It washed the meat down well.
"Sarephel, that's who. Our wonderful hostess and housewife this past week. Comely creature, is she not?" The Baron was smiling, his moustache twitched and tickled his nose. "I need a trim."
Taking the pitcher from Derfel he drank deeply, before taking out a knife and beginning to hack and chop at his bushy beard. "What happened then? You met these miscreants, and what about it? How do you know they follow the Wrackbone?"
Derfel paused before giving his reply. He had been there when the Baron's brother, King Hasrin, had finally defeated the Wrackbone's army on that foggy hilltop five years ago. He had seen the invaders die in their hundreds, and still remembered the blood in the grass, how he and his men had slipped and scrambled down the hillside in their eagerness to pursue the fleeing enemy, hacking at their backs in a roaring bloodlust. They had chased them all the way back into the forest like rats, and after the fury had cleared he had looked up find himself separated and alone, and it was then that he had personally met, and felt, the Wrackbone.
He would have to tread carefully here; when it came to the past there were some things best left unsaid.
"They don't anymore. Brink gave them insult, and they followed us out along the Pinchpurse where we could handle them." Derfel leaned over and pried Sheeper's ledger from his pudgy, ring encrusted fingers. He opened it, flicking through the pages past list after list of supplies, weapons, armor, equipment and all the things needed for the Lucky Legion to stay on it's feet.
"I recognised one of them, from Hangman's Hill. He was a sigil-keeper for the Wrackbone, so I had a fair notion of what exactly it was that they had. It was in his noggin."
Reaching a blank page at last, he took up the quill and began to draw. The Baron had ceased sawing at his face and now leaned on the table between the other two, he and Sheeper peering curiously at the twisting, writhing knots leaking from the tip of the feather as it flew across the paper. The patterns seemed to fold back on themselves in weird spirals, tying and coiling themselves around each other. It seemed to the Baron and Sheeper that a hundred, long, thin worms were crawling about inside the thin layer of paper.
Derfel placed the quill back in the ink pot and the illusion was shattered, the worms ceased their writhing and the sigil was still.
"Seen this before?" Derfel asked, looking from one to the other, then back. "No?"
They shook their heads in unison. Derfel tore the page from the book and stood up from the table. Scrunching it into a ball, he cast it into the fireplace. "It's a ritual, a powerful one, but it's so bloody... messy. It took a lot of work to make, complicated stuff, but chaotic."
The Baron leant down and scooped up the log from the floor. "Can you perform it?" He asked, tossing it in after the sigil.
"Of course I can." Derfel sneered at idea of not being able. "But I don't know what it does, remember? And in my experience these things don't usually turn out so well for their targets. So, who should I use?"
The kitchen door slammed open once more as Sarephel barged back in, broom in hand, and immediately set about pushing bottles and bones across the floor. Derfel looked at her with a wicked smile.
"You'll not use anyone!" The Baron moved to stand in front of Derfel, blocking his line of sight.
"You've used me for a whole cunting week!" The woman cursed, "used and abused and ruined the place. Look at this mess!"
She looked furious. Her black pony tail swung behind her head as she glanced about the room. "Fucking pigs!" Hauling back her arm, she launched the broom with all the strength she could muster, straight at the Barons' face. The shaft glanced off his head with a hollow clunk as he tried and failed to get out of it's path. Sarephel yelled in victory and stormed once more into the kitchen, door slamming shut behind her.
"Okay Sheeper, let's be about our business." The Baron pulled the sword belt from under the bed and fastened it around his waist. "We'll take it to Hasrin, first. He'll want to know if the Wrackbone is back, and I should tell him. It might be bad for business if all that shit kicks off again, so it's probably for the best if we can avoid it if at all possible, eh?"
Derfel looked a little disappointed as he opened his pouch. "Fine. Brink will be pleased at least, he's not handling the heat well."
He took out a small, folded square of paper about the width of his thumb, and laid it flat on his palm. "I'm going to need more of these, Sheep, and more shut-dust too, it's a good batch this time. And while you're at it, Brinkle would surely appreciate a little Moonlick... he's nearly dry."
The quartermaster finally got to his feet, his round gut swaying as he made his way to his pack, tossed in the corner days ago and ignored since. Dust twinkled in the air above as he opened the flap and began to search for the required concoctions.
On Derfel's upturned hand, the paper square had now begun to unfold, slowly rising at the corners and curling in on itself like the bud of a small, white flower. It shivered softly and began to bloom, a bright red flower of flame bursting from within. It burned white hot, and Derfel cast the ball of fire onto the hearth. It erupted immediately, the sigil and log engulfed in the flames.
"You could have used the candle, you know." Sheeper handed over the treats one by one as Derfel stuffed them into his pouch. "They're costly, my dear Derfel."
"You're no fun, Sheep." He slapped the shorter man on the back and turned to the Baron. "Back to camp then, Captain?"
A piercing screech came from the kitchen, followed by a terrible clattering crash of pots and pans.
"And quick about it!" The Baron clutched his hand to his sore head, marched through the hallway and entered out into the world, his two favourite subordinates close behind.