Walking with Shadows: Part I

The Realm of Cajynoor

The twin Harrow Moons drifted silently above the realm.

Their pale light spilled across the ancient canopy of the Cajyn Wood, turning the endless sea of leaves silver and black. Great pines swayed in the night wind, their branches whispering secrets older than kingdoms. Beneath them, unseen creatures stirred among roots thick as castle walls.

At the northern edge of the forest stood the Grivanduur.

The colossal land bridge stretched across a chasm so deep that even sunlight failed to touch its floor. Hewn by forgotten hands in an age before memory, the bridge spanned nearly a league, connecting the wilderness of Cajynoor to the mountain fortress of Ythoriss.

Ythoriss.

The Crown of the North.

Its black stone walls rose directly from the mountainside, tier upon tier, until they vanished among jagged peaks and drifting clouds. Towers crowned with emerald fire watched the horizon day and night. Massive chains anchored the city’s great gates, while hundreds of warm lights glowed from windows carved into the mountain itself.

For more than a millennium, the fortress had stood unconquered.

It was said that since Time had first been woven by the Children of the Immortals, the bloodline of Ziglorrum had governed Cajynoor with wisdom and restraint. Under their stewardship, trade flourished, harvests remained plentiful, and war became little more than a distant memory.

The people of Cajynoor slept peacefully.

They believed themselves safe.

They were wrong.

Death came with the fog.

It arrived shortly after midnight.

A cold mist crept through the streets of Ythoriss, spilling over rooftops and slithering through narrow alleys like a living thing. It swallowed lantern light, muffled footsteps, and transformed familiar streets into strange and uncertain places.

The city guards had already sealed the Northern Gate.

Not that it mattered.

Whatever hunted within the fog was already inside.

A young guardsman stood at the mouth of a narrow alley, his hands trembling so violently that the fletching of his arrow rattled against the bowstring. Sweat beaded across his brow despite the chill.

He could hear it moving.

Somewhere ahead.

Watching.

Waiting.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, he loosed an arrow into the mist.

The shaft vanished.

No cry followed.

No impact.

Nothing.

“Reinforcements!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Someone answer me!”

“Hold your position!”

The command came from somewhere behind him.

The young guard glanced over his shoulder.

Shapes emerged from the fog—three more soldiers accompanied by a veteran officer whose weathered face bore more scars than skin.

The young guard swallowed hard.

“He’s back there,” he said, pointing into the alley. “I know it.”

The veteran studied the mist.

He saw nothing.

Still, something about the silence unsettled him.

“He’s cornered,” the officer said at last. “You three, advance.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances before moving forward.

Their boots echoed softly against wet cobblestones.

Ten paces.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Then the darkness moved.

A shadow exploded from the fog.

The first guard barely had time to gasp before a blade opened his throat.

The second raised his shield.

Too slow.

Steel flashed.

He fell.

The third shouted a warning as he lunged, but the intruder flowed around the attack like smoke. A swift strike sent the soldier collapsing beside his companions.

The entire assault had lasted less than three heartbeats.

Only the veteran remained.

Unlike the others, he did not freeze.

With a roar, he charged.

His sword caught the shadow squarely across the shoulders.

The blow should have ended the fight.

Instead, the stranger merely stumbled.

The veteran struck again.

This time his blade connected with the intruder’s weapon, sending it skittering across the stones.

For a brief moment, the shadow stood disarmed.

The veteran smiled grimly.

A mistake.

The stranger seized a nearby torch from its iron bracket and spun.

Fire painted brilliant arcs through the fog.

Torch became staff.

Staff became whirlwind.

The veteran found himself retreating beneath a relentless storm of strikes. Sparks showered the alley as wood and steel collided again and again.

Then more guards arrived.

Half a dozen.

Perhaps more.

The shadow paused.

Even he could not defeat so many.

Retreating deeper into the alley, he hurled the burning torch toward a merchant’s wagon loaded with dry straw.

Flames erupted instantly.

A heartbeat later, the wagon exploded.

The street quaked.

The blast hurled soldiers through the air like rag dolls. Windows shattered. Horses screamed in distant stables.

Even the intruder was thrown violently against a wall.

For several moments, only fire and groans filled the night.

Slowly, the shadow rose.

The alley entrance was gone, consumed by a wall of flames.

Trapped.

For the first time, the figure hesitated.

Hidden beneath darkness and tattered cloak, he regarded his hands.

Then, quietly, he began to whisper.

The words belonged to another age.

Ancient.

Forbidden.

Magik.

Blue veins beneath his skin brightened.

Blood surged.

His hands convulsed.

He doubled over as fingers twisted into impossible shapes. Bones cracked with wet, sickening pops. Joints snapped and reformed. Long nails pushed through flesh, lengthening into curved black talons.

Pain rippled through him.

He endured it in silence.

Moments later, the transformation ended.

The agony faded.

The claws remained.

The shadow flexed them experimentally.

Satisfied, he looked skyward.

Moonlight spilled across the stone walls surrounding him.

Without hesitation, he drove the claws into the ancient masonry.

Stone surrendered.

Hand over hand, he climbed.

Higher.

Past burning windows.

Past startled onlookers.

Past the reach of the guards below.

Within moments, he had vanished onto the rooftops of Ythoriss.

Only drifting smoke and frightened whispers remained.

Somewhere high above the sleeping city, the hunter continued his approach.

And somewhere within the fortress, his target remained unaware that death had already entered Ythoriss.

From the Sketchbook