The Shadows

It is dark. They are no longer in the meadow.

That orb of distortion has deposited them in a strange place. There are no landmarks — in fact there is nothing, nothing at all, except for a void of darkness that stretches eternally in every direction, and the very faint, very distant, suggestion of stars an impossible distance away. In fact their light is so frail that the men must be an even further distance away from them than they would be if looking up at the sky from Lacren.

Despite the darkness, Renard can see Orpheus and Fidel clearly as if they were lit in daylight. Too, he sees Fidel’s satchel and, a moderate distance away, the corpse of the ghoul, which quietly falls into the void. Renard cranes his neck to peer after it. A mass of shadowy humanoid figures rises out of the black, fighting and squabbling like starved rats among themselves, shoving and swarming all to that body like maggots to rotting flesh. At least ten of them flood into the corpse, which twitches, and kicks, and whose glassy eyes sheen over with fresh mucous — Renard tightens his grip on his sword — but just as soon as the body reanimates, it shudders, like an epileptic, nips and claws at itself, every limb flailing without unity. Shadows are pushed out and flood in to the body in ceaseless cycles, never resolving. Renard relaxes his grip. Whatever things swarmed into that shrinking body, they care more about squabbling for it than about Renard or his group.

Renard returns his attention to the place where he stands. His heart jolts. There is another crowd of shadowy figures who did not pursue the corpse, but who are staring with their flat, blank faces towards Renard’s group. Like wolves at a treeline peering into a meadow, there is an air of wariness about them, but they certainly are not scared.

Renard’s throat tightens. He wets his lips.

The darkness in this place exudes a subtle pressure, squeezing upon the skin. If he has landed in a nest of these creatures, and it is their inclination to swarm, they are presently failing to do so. Kingslayer’s hilt burns under his hand. The urge to strike is immense.

No.

No, he instructs himself, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. Orpheus and Fidel need attendance — they are not even thirty steps away. And yet every nerve in his body screams that he is in such incredible danger, inside this coliseum of stares, that a single lapse in vigilance will destroy the world. Like an ocean, they will flood in, and sink this place of refuge….

…Indeed, refuge…

Renard experimentally raises Kingslayer an inch out of its scabbard.

From the shadows there rises a tittering of flowing whispers. Though their voices are too indistinct to solidify into any words, the clear sting of quaint bemusement scrunches Renard’s guts. What stays their assault is not Kingslayer. And if they do not fear Kingslayer, it is questionable what power Renard could have before them at all. Defenceless… they laugh, he is defenceless…

Renard forces his gaze forward.

Orpheus is slumped over Fidel, who is laying on the ground with his hands planted over his eyes. Their exact states are hard to tell from this distance, but Fidel’s leg is no longer thrashing and Orpheus is bandaged enough that he is no longer gushing blood so profusely.

They cannot reach into here, Renard assures himself, noticing the distinct, hard edge the shadows draw around the small void-island upon which the group have fortuitously landed. With that thought as his anchor, even as sweat teems down the back of his neck, he marches a step to the others.

A single shadow strolls out of the mass directly onto the platform ahead of Renard.

Renard’s guts drop to his rear. Kingslayer flashes into his grip. The shadow simply stands there. Nothing about its size, depth, or silhouette suggests it is more eminent than any of its fellows — conversely terrifying, for if this one could leak into the wall, surely, the whole legion could. His head shakes itself in denial, no, no… but there is only one path to take. It does stand somewhat off to the side… if he is careful, he might skirt around it.

Eyes peeled so wide that sweat drips into them, he approaches the thing at bladepoint.

It merely watches, waits.

The rolling whispers hush. The others are all watching too.

Two careful steps, to inch around…

But it merely watches, waits.

Inching slowly, step by step, never even glancing away from it, passing so near that a single footfall would drive Kingslayer into its belly…

But it merely watches…

—What on earth is it doing! Annoyance strikes Renard. Standing there so innocently, as if it is not a ball of evil so pungent that Renard’s very soul demands it purged!

“Stay back," Renard warns. The onlookers titter, but no other response comes.

Renard takes a final step, having now circled the shadow. It should be a direct path now to Fidel and Orpheus behind him — if he does not wish to turn his back, he may simply walk backwards. But no. No, no! Renard Cox, slinking away from a monster, when it is he whose single unquestioned strength is the one that will doubtless vanquish these shadows, the footing of more than a decade of life where he would without fail kill evil!

If they saw a chink in even his heart, how bold would these things grow! How dare he let himself be cowed by a beast that has done only nothing!

Nay! By righteousness, by virtue, by all good holy things! Kill evil! Kill evil! Kill evil!

Kill!

Roaring, without warning, Renard surges forward with Kingslayer to pierce the shade. He makes it a single step — a single, heavy, momentous step — before jolting immediately with the realisation that everything forward from his heel has just landed on air. He wrenches himself back and aborts the charge, reeling.

Hah, it was a trap! A trap?! There must be a hole in the barrier there! Nay, rather — who is to say the outline of the island is as large as Renard imagined it? That cursed shadow goaded him by coming to the edge! If he had completed that swing, he would have fallen into the void like that ghoul!

…Though truthfully, he may have fallen more readily if he had stayed confused as to the size of the island!

An uproarious peal of mocking laugher thunders out from the onlooking shades — but the target of their derision and amusement stunningly isn’t him. It’s their fellow shade. They are laughing at it. Renard can only stand mystified as the goading shade reams at itself, melts, and explodes into fragments that seep back into the air. The others just cackle louder, underscored with disgust and hatred.

These things have no loyalty and extremely cruel notions of entertainment. But if they attack by trickery, and are intelligent enough to understand the grim humour of this interaction, they might not be as immediately dangerous as a mindless thrashing ghoul. At the very least, they must have ego. If they can die in such an odd fashion, perhaps all they have is ego.

“Hoh," Renard spits as he turns on his heel. No longer so scared, he scoops up the discarded satchel and jogs to Fidel and Orpheus.

“We have been transported strangely," Renard announces in his approach. “Orpheus, how fare you?"

In coming nearer, Fidel and Orpheus’ states are more apparent. Cords of knotted eels still pulse under Orpheus’ hand, but the span of leg that they cover has shortened to the initial injury across Fidel’s calf and shin. They also move less freely, as though they have been compressed into the bounds of a normal leg. Finally arriving, Kingslayer twitches. In a reversal of the current of the infestation, smooth new planes of pink healthy flesh spread up and down over the eels, and the leg is restored to normal.

Orpheus is unconscious, or so weak that the distinction doesn’t matter.

Renard sets Kingslayer upon Fidel’s leg and spreads Orpheus out to asses him. Fidel, in his initial treatment, has bandaged the most vital wounds across Orpheus’ chest and collar. What remains is his mangled arm. Hopefully Renard will be able to follow up Fidel’s work suitably.

Or, he could take Kingslayer, lift Orpheus up by the hair, and lop the man’s head off. —What!?

It would be one less burden to deal with, and one less annoyance eating into resources. —What!!

Renard shakes his head as he snaps open Fidel’s satchel. Certainly, Renard and Orpheus are on poor terms. That does not mean Renard has ever had any drive to kill the man, who on all metrics is better than him, and who he would rather impress. Moreover, in this dire situation his guidance is vital, the privilege of his cooperation is present, and he is already in danger here anyway. It is a far more glorious thing to exit this ordeal with everyone still alive, and protect who he can to his best.

Plus, it is Renard’s fault he was injured in the first place, for not being there when the ghoul first attacked him.

It must be Nix inserting thoughts into his mind. With a shake of his head, Renard retrieves a roll of bandages and begins hastily wrapping Orpheus’ arm, sweeping the strange thoughts beneath his mind as easily he does his regular ones. For once this foolish habit of his is being a strength.

Dissatisfied with his sloppiness in one loop of bandage, Renard goes to peel it off and reapply it. Orpheus flinches and gasps in incredible pain, eyes popping wide — the length of bandage Renard has unfurled has flayed off a length of Orpheus’ already mangled flesh, which is stuck on the underside of the linen as if caught there by burs. By reflex, Renard hastily finishes bandaging down to the wrist.

Orpheus massages his forehead with his good hand, jolted an inch back to life by the rush of pain.

“Alive again, Orpheus?" Renard asks.

Orpheus jolts in search of Fidel to reapply his hand to his leg. Tension drains instantly into relief upon seeing him fine.

After a moment of silence, “ho," Renard mutters, “still, now. I’m to fix your hand, next."

Orpheus glances down to his mangled hand. With a frown and a heavy, resigned blink to brace himself, Orpheus snatches the bandages from Renard and fashions a splint from a wedge of metal in his boot. As he wraps his own hand, he eyes Renard strangely, evaluating: ‘Can we go forward without him? How well would that work?’.

As if there is room for such questions! Something plainly is wrong here. Orpheus, too, seems to realise it, for his expression drops and strength drains out of his shoulders as Renard snorts off the look and sits back on his heels.

Shades still crowd in a ring around the men, in that same wary, distanced fashion as they initially did. Darkness stretches eternally beyond them. Silence dominates but for the light huffs of Fidel’s weeping.

Renard’s heart wrenches, but he lets steel coat his heart, for an instant, as he instead looks to Orpheus, who is gazing coolly out into the black.

Orpheus then shakes his head with a sigh, but says nothing.

“May we be further from the earth than ever has been a man," Renard laughs.

“You jest now?" Orpheus snaps.

“No," Renard replies timidly. “It… Sir Orpheus, you are meant to be wise of this place. Where next can we go from this…" he trails off, looking into the black.

“—This is a pocket," Orpheus explains. “Tides of Nix will carry apart great masses of earth, breaking into many pieces what was once whole… spaces as these are the remainder of that. What eludes me is the quality of this one." He presses the heel of his hand into his eye. “Whether it is a shifter, or a yoke, a place that is moved or is moved to… There are more here than I’ve ever seen."

“More of what?" Renard follows his gaze, to the mass of shadows.

“Natives," Orpheus mumbles. “They often watch us… constant and skittish. It’s wisest to not pay them heed."

Indeed, Renard thinks, though an objection does rest on his tongue. Intuition screams that these ‘natives’ would be extraordinarily dangerous if they ever stopped being ‘skittish’, but the argument is not worth it.

“We cannot stay here." Orpheus says, setting his hand on Fidel’s leg. “Look around for an exit."

Renard pauses as he gets to his feet, struggling to grasp this command. There is very obviously nothing here but blackness and shadows.

“Everywhere you can… just look," Orpheus repeats.

Best you not make a fool of me, Orpheus, Renard thinks as he retrieves Kingslayer. Upon stepping barely two armspans away, horrible squelching noises arise as Fidel’s calf morphs back into a mound of intertwined, writhing, slimy black eels. The progression of the curse to anywhere beyond that calf is again restricted by proximity to Orpheus’ ring, but Renard’s heart still falls.

Fidel’s constitution has been altered permanently for the rest of his life. Whenever he is not near to witchbane, that rapid transformation into a vermin will resume. It’s like Verdan.

No.

It’s worse than Verdan. At least Verdan retained a human shape and speech; it is unclear whether Fidel, if his affliction were allowed to resolve, would keep even these basic faculties, or if he would just be a wriggling puddle of muck best shoved in a terrarium.

At the very least, Fidel has stopped crying. He now simply stares at the sky with exhausted resignation, listening as Orpheus speaks to him quietly.

Chop that damn leg off, growls Kingslayer, but Renard shakes his head. The boy hardly needs to be cursed and an amputee…

Orpheus looks to Renard: Go ahead. I’ve got him.

Chop it off! Swallowing back this burst of anger, and the pricks of jealousy evoked by Orpheus, Renard wrenches himself away from the pair and begins searching for an exit.

It’s a questionable proposition, given the utter blankness of everything around. Renard arches onto his tiptoes and peeks under empty air, feeling remarkably foolish. Perhaps what Orpheus means is that, somewhere beyond the tide of shadows, there will be some manner of obfuscated doorway? It is hard to imagine where else an exit could possibly be.

Shadowed figures in their hordes follow Renard about from beyond their bounds, spectating. Their whispers weave through the thick air like a mist. The more solid voices of Fidel and Orpheus, though hushed, rumble against the wisping sound.

“There is nothing," Renard announces.

“Keep looking," says Orpheus.

Where! The only place left would be to dunk his head into the shadows — surely, Orpheus does not mean that?

“Perhaps nearer the edge," Orpheus continues.

Surely! A growl sheaths itself in Renard’s throat as he shoots a dirty glare to Orpheus. “I have cycled this path sixteen times, that you’d have gone dizzy had you both watched. I tell, there’s as much here as upon a friar’s head. Nothing!"

“Try circling the other direction," says Orpheus, “Renard, there’s little else we can do…"

What change does it make if he goes left, right, or upside down on his head! With a frustrated grunt, Renard stomps away from the pair to circle in the opposite direction. But there is already no reason why any fruit should come from this production.

Yes, production… more and more, it is beginning to feel that Orpheus is having him on with these nonsense demands. Simply telling him to do this and to do that, so that he may snicker while Renard makes himself look like a moron!

He ought grab Orpheus and throw him into the black, then he can go searching for exits!

And rather, rather… rather, could it be possible that Orpheus does know a way out of this space, but is feeding poor information to Renard? When Orpheus says, ‘there’s little else we can do’, why does that sound like a lie? An image coheres in Renard’s mind. A secret method, a bold flourish into the dark, hoho, hoho, hoho! If Renard simply does something audacious enough, the world surely will answer. Then it will be Orpheus eating the eggs, with a gasp, ‘Oh curses, Renard! I didn’t think you would figure it out!’.

Renard glances back to Orpheus and Fidel from the corner of his eye, grinning, as this genius plan slots itself together.

Staring back at him is Fidel, laying yet as he was on the ground, but watching Renard with an expression as grave as it is hopeful. Guilt wrenches Renard a step nearer to rationality. Even if Orpheus’ directions are bad, Fidel earnestly believes in Renard’s ability to solve this dead end. And if Fidel believes, this surely can’t be a dead end. There has to be a solution. But why can Renard not see it?

Renard sighs and takes one last step. He can’t in good conscience keep walking in circles; now may be the time to surrender this course and properly discuss even the unlikely alternatives. He goes to turn—

—When something flashes past Renard’s eye.

Renard wrenches himself back in surprise, and again the same flash of colour comes and passes, too quick to be intelligible. Carefully, Renard inches his posture forward, backward, up, down, like a falcon adjusting its strike. A vertical bar of bright colour flashes in and out of his sight, itself not moving an inch, but by some strange aspect of its nature, only becoming visible when viewed from extremely specific angles.

Slowly, Renard settles into a posture that holds the bar reliably in view.

“—I’ve found it," he mutters.

Orpheus and Fidel lurch to attention behind him, but Renard cannot focus on them. He peels his eyes wider as he stares at the bar, as though glimpsing away even once will mean he will never find it again. He inches closer, peering in.

The more Renard focuses on it, the more it seems to expand, consuming more of his vision without actually growing larger in size. The nature of the bar comes clear. It is like a pair of mirrors, angled towards each other at a hinge like the pages of a book, endlessly reflecting into each other hundreds of thousands of images. Each image is a ‘page’ in this book, and each page displays a different scene…

Horrible, horrible scenes. Cliffsides made of flesh and teeth that bubble over a caustic sea; a field of leaden smog so thick that simply viewing it constricts Renard’s throat; a nest of biting insects; an endless flow of slime… and then are the truly strange ones, where the walls and surfaces bend through each other in ways that Renard can see are wrong, but that his mind refuses to try and comprehend, for attempting to give these shapes order will undoubtedly make his mind snap. Then are the ones that are blank… truly, utterly, blank…

Renard senses that stepping through the bar at the correct angle will deposit him in the corresponding scene. The group is no longer stuck in this ‘pocket’.

But none of these are good destinations. If not simply worse voids, they all look actively hostile. Renard massages his chin in thought. Greater hostility would suggest them reaching deeper into Nix, and closer to Arsene. If they can power through to the bottom, mayhap that be a way out…

Regardless. Renard announces his findings to Fidel and Orpheus, and together they discuss their route. Though the debilitated condition of his allies has been obvious for the last hour, it only now strikes Renard how heavily he will need to compensate. Orpheus, while conscious and no longer bleeding, is too weak to even stand without leaning on Fidel’s shoulder. And Fidel cannot be separated from Orpheus’ witchbane ring — or from Kingslayer — else he will be turned to eels. …And Renard himself cannot give Fidel Kingslayer, for, if Fidel exited the radius in which Kingslayer affects his leg when wielded by Renard anyway, Renard would pass out on the spot.

Very well, Renard thinks. Those are the conditions he must play by in Nix. The abject insanity of accepting these handicaps while consciously pushing deeper down, as though he will sweep smoothly to the bottom and conquer it all, does not even occur to him.

Orpheus recognises none of the scenes and identifies no characteristics in them that would indicate passage back to familiar, or even just to more surface, regions. All being equal, the group decides the cliff of flesh and teeth to be the least acrimonious route, as, while uninviting, it at least has a structured environment.

Renard secures Kingslayer, takes Orpheus in his arms, and lets Fidel brace on his shoulders. A cruel thought spears through his mind to crush the weakened Orpheus, but it is easily discarded. Renard takes a breath, fixes his aim upon the cliffs—

—and, glimpsing at the last moment a flash of green trees, twists his footing to fall into that scene instead.