5 Movement in the shadows

The Herald of death comes, my little one. And darkness with him. The realms will burn, leaving only ashes of what once was. Come and take my hand, little one, and salvation will be yours. It is your choice. Death or life, it all rides on your decision. But know this, the storm is coming, and no one will escape.

Iota awoke with a start, his shirt drenched in his sweat. He sat there, silent and still, not daring to even breathe. His head felt like someone had drilled a hole through it. He quickly stripped off his thick, cotton shirt. A nightmare, ages since he had last dreamed of one. What had it meant? He couldn't recall the specifics, but he knew there was some storm involved. What type it was, he couldn't remember. Best not to stew over it too long, he decided. It was probably like all nightmares, meaningless and fleeting.

He rolled out of bed with a reluctant groan and went to the washroom to freshen up. But not before scooping up the sling on his nightstand at the side of his bed. He had thrown it around his neck like a scarf. The washroom was relatively simple, with only the most basic of amenities. A tub of cool water, a chamberpot, and a mirror were all he needed. Crouching over the tub, he soaked a towel and slapped it over his back. He glanced up at the large mirror placed against the wall. His reflection looked haggard, his angular features thin and drawn, and while his skin had always been pale, it appeared almost ghastly. Placing his hands on both sides of the tub, Iota dunked his head into the water.

A sense of calm settled over him, the cool water clearing his mind. After several seconds, he slowly lifted his face out of the tub. Standing up to his full height, he used both hands to sweep his dripping wet hair back into place. Iota admitted his hair was getting a little long, even for his liking. He would get Jen to cut it later.

With his head clear, Iota suddenly realized it was freezing. He dashed back to his suite and picked out a clean shirt from his closet. Still feeling the chill, he threw a thick winter coat on top for good measure.

After lacing up knee-high boots, he made his way from his suite to the balcony. The moon hung high above the skyline. Looking out to the forest beyond the clan walls, he decided going back to sleep wasn't worth the effort. He leaned out over the balcony railing as far as he could, his hair dancing in the wind. The depths of the forest seemed impenetrable to his eyes.

"You're up early."

He turned his head to see Fafir standing at the doorway. She was still in her nightgown, with a heavy robe around her shoulders to ward off the winter chill. Long, raven-black hair pulled up in a messy bun, and her face not even the least bit puffy, Fafir seemed like a princess from the highlands, even half asleep.

"What do you want?" he asked, stepping away from the railing. "Don't worry. I'm not going to chuck myself off the edge."

She smiled sweetly. "I wasn't worried about that."

Iota turned toward her. "So why are you out here?" he asked with a slight frown on his lips. "Aren't you the one always going about sleep being important for the body?"

Fafir shrugged. "I can make exceptions once in a while," she said softly. "I was just curious as to why my little brother was sneaking around in the night, that's all." She stepped forward beside him on the balcony and placed her hands on the railing, just like he had. "I think I understand your obsession with that forest, Iota."

"Obsession?" he whispered. "I don't have an obsession. I just like it there is all."

She looked up at the night sky. For a brief moment, they both stood there silently. "Father loved the forest," she finally said to Iota, her gaze settling back down on his face. "Before you were born, and when Sigur was only a babe, he used to take me out to the forest. I don't remember much about those trips, but I know I was happier then, happier than I'd ever been in my life. What do you remember about him?"

Iota didn't answer. The truth was, he knew virtually nothing about his father. Imagining the current Fafir prancing in the forest amused him, but he didn't let it show on his face.

"He always smelled like flowers," she continued, adopting a distant expression. "And he was gentle with everyone. I think Mother was happier then. She smiled more often."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Iota demanded, meeting her dreamy gaze with a cold glare. "That man deserted us. He left his family."

Fafir stared at him blankly, her lips slightly parted. "What do you mean-" she paused mid-sentence and straightened her shoulders. "By the divine breath, is that what you think happened?"

He scowled. "Well, I'm not entirely sure."

"How could you not know?" she demanded, her voice turning to ice. "Caspian Mord, that was his name. That was the name of the man who loved us with all his heart."

Iota only shrugged. "Sorry, but that name doesn't mean anything to me."

"He was our father! For divine's sake!"

Iota clicked his tongue. "No one ever told me anything about him," he said, feeling the heat bleed into his words. "Whenever I asked, Mother would fly off the handle, and you'd always side-step." He leveled an accusatory finger at her. "Everyone's always so quick to blame me. Is it just me? Or does it seem like I'm perpetually the one in the wrong? I don't care about Caspian or what he was to us. Regardless of the past, the man's long gone."

Fafir's face softened to a degree, but an angry glint remained in her eye. "The past does matter," she whispered. "I remember you sitting on Father's lap beside the hearth. You probably like the forest so much because of him."

"He doesn't have anything to do with me," Iota said coldly, his fists balled up by his side. "I go to the forest because I like it there, not because of some stranger whose face I don't even know." He turned and began to walk to the doorway. Fafir made no move to stop him. She watched him with wide, doleful eyes. "Why don't you get married already, hag," he muttered quietly, but loud enough for her to hear.

Not looking back, he quickly fled down the halls and to the kitchen. He regretted the words the instant they came out of his mouth. Fafir was merely trying to help, and not only had he pushed her away, but Iota also struck her where he knew it would hurt the most.

He barely noticed the earth beneath his feet as he ran down the hill and across the village, reaching the edge of the forest with heaving gasps for breath. The wall sentries were curious why he wanted to leave in the dead of night, but as their young lord, what else could they do but admit him through?

With only the moon as his guide, Iota went further and further into the forest, passing shriveled, bare trees and thorny brambles. The further he got from that place, the better.

His eyes glued only to what was in front of him, Iota never saw his feet tumble off the edge of a cliff.

. . .

For the second time tonight, Iota awoke with a pounding headache. Lifting his hand to his forehead, Iota felt a bloody gash right above his left brow. He could still see the moon above him, which was only slightly reassuring. So he hadn't been out for too long. Slowly rising to his feet, Iota trembled a bit before righting himself.

A single glance up was enough to tell him he had fallen from quite the height. It was a miracle he hadn't snapped his neck from the fall. He looked around the clearing where he had landed. There, amidst a copse of trees, was a flickering orb of light. Not fire, he realized. Pure, blinding radiance, nothing like the boy had seen before.

He slowly inched toward the light, with fear of the unknown lingering in his mind. Just a few dozen strides away, he crouched down and peered at the two men conversing by the floating orb of light.

"Iman," he hissed under his breath.

Two men, one of whom was, without doubt, Iman Ashvan, conversed softly under the canopy of a willow tree. The second man was a stranger. He was bald, ugly, dark scars crisscrossing across his scalp. And he wore a thin mustache that extended into a full beard, a favored style among highland gentry.

Clutched within the hand of the bald man was a wicked, narrow dagger. That was no ordinary knife for chores of hunting; it was one designed to kill. And in his other was a piece of parchment.

"Are they pleased with my terms?" Iman asked, his face nearly as hard as iron.

"The Most Holy has heard your plea," the strange, bald man said.

Iman snarled something unintelligible. "What does that mean? You better start making sense, bloody cultists."

Iota recoiled. Iman sounded different. Nothing at all like his usual self. He was more coarse here, and hatred seemed to ooze out of his voice. He felt a little guilty eavesdropping on his uncle, but his curiosity urged him onward. What could he possibly be doing out in the forest at the dead of night with a stranger? If it was business, why couldn't he conduct it during the day? That was the custom of the land. Only fiends and dishonest rogues carried out business when the moon was out.

"It shall be as the divine wills," the stranger said in a low, threatening tone.

Iman sneered. "Count yourself lucky I don't gut you where you stand," he said, putting a hand on the sword strapped to his side. He clicked his tongue at the stranger and glanced up. His eyes met Iota.

"Eavesdropper!" he cried, pulling free his sword. The stranger spun about, his dagger raised. "Get him!" Iman demanded, shoving the stranger forward.

The stranger began to run in Iota's direction. Paralyzed with fear, Iota seemed to remain rooted in place. Gathering his wits, Iota reached for his sling but quickly abandoned the thought. His fool self had forgotten to bring along ammo.

"Hold there!" the stranger cried behind him as Iota scrambled away into the night, melting into the underbrush. He swore to thank Verda profusely later if he managed to make it through the night. Iota wasn't sure how close the stranger was on his heels, and he wasn't sure if it mattered. The thought of facing Iman later brought chills to his spine. With enough luck, it had been too dark for him to make out Iota's face.

The sound of running water attracted him to a small stream running under the exposed roots of an uprooted oak. He picked out a handful of small, smooth stones from the streambed. They weren't his custom forged lead shot back at the estate, but it didn't take a fancy lead shot to kill a man with a sling. With enough force, even a pebble could kill a man.

"He's coming," a voice whispered in his head. "Stop him!"

Iota froze, lifting his hand to massage his temples. Was he hearing voices now? He shook his head. That was an issue for another time.

He slipped his middle finger around one looped end of his sling and held the other end in between his thumb and forefinger. His hand shaking trembling, he loaded the pouch with a stone. Odd. He never usually felt this nervous when hunting. But of course, this time around, he wasn't hunting rabbits or squirrels.

He stalked through the forest with as much grace as he could muster. Without composure, the fight was already as good as lost. Those were the words of Verda, and Verda had seen many battles.

With a snap of the twig and then boots crushing leaves, Iota swiveled his head down at the foot of a steep incline. The stranger was no hunter, not like Iota was. Ducking behind a tree, Iota realized he had the high ground and a perfect shot. A deadly combination for a sure kill. But it wouldn't be an easy shot, not in the dark of night with only the moon for light.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. Nestled in the pouch in between two leather cords was a smooth river stone. He let it dangle from his hand before starting to swing the shot in a circular motion. His eyes glued to his target, who was blissfully unaware of what was to come. He whipped his arm out in a throwing motion, and the stone hurtled toward the stranger. Moonlight catching on the smooth surface of the river stone, it hit home right above the stranger's nose, in between his eyes.

The man crumpled onto the ground like a puppet whose strings snapped. He let out the breath he wasn't aware he was holding, and like the stranger, fell to the ground.

"You win," a voice crooned in his mind. "He is dead."

Iota ignored the voice. His gaze fell to the sling still gripped in his right hand. He had just killed a man. Despite his instincts, Iota was already moving down the incline and toward the fallen man. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the night sky as Iota had done just earlier. He couldn't stop his stomach from lurching.

Time to reflect can come later, he told himself sternly. A dark liquid began to seep from his side. Iota knelt and turned the stranger's body over with a groan of effort. A wicked sharp dagger, long and narrow, was buried in his back. With a sudden tug, Iota pulled the blade free and wiped it on his tunic. With that, he quickly rose to his feet and melted back into the shadows of the forest.