Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure Read online

  “Yes, Alya,” replied Greyson. “The gods often used the strife of men as their form of entertainment . . . or as pawns in their own power struggles.”

  “Are you saying that we are like them, like the gods?”

  “Oh no, Alya,” replied Greyson. “Typically, the gods used men as unwitting pawns. And although in our case the Black Foxes know of nothing beyond their virtual reality—and therefore in a sense are Avery’s unwitting pawns—their alpha team counterparts chose that existence for them. It is as if Jason and the Argonauts had once upon a time been different people, a group of Greeks who thought that becoming heroes and having an adventure would be a lark . . . yet the quest for the golden fleece was anything but. And here we have an alpha team who thought that having a Black Fox adventure in Itheria would be a lark. Yet as I said before, it is so very grim.”

  “Nevertheless, John,” replied Timothy, “it is what they wanted.”

  Greyson raised his eyebrows. “That I admit, Timothy. That I freely admit. Ah, but did they truly know what they would get into before they began? And . . . when they emerge, will they appreciate what they have experienced? What I’m getting at, Timothy, is the same point that Miss Rodgers made the very first day she was here, and that is, in any choice of virtual reality, people will expect to be entertained. Now I ask you, are these wretched people being entertained? And if not, what are we going to do about it? I suggest that in the future whenever we give parameters to Avery, we must above all keep in mind that satisfaction is what the client wants . . . so that when he emerges from his virtual reality, he will look back on his experience fondly rather than feeling as if he has been duped.”

  “Damn, John,” declared Mark Perry, “you make this sound like one of those deals with the Devil, where the contract has some trick, some trap, hidden within.”

  Timothy shook his head. “We’re not dealing with the Devil, Mark, but with Avery instead.”

  Mark Perry spread his hands wide and turned them palms up. “And who’s to say that Avery is not the Devil in disguise?”

  At his console, Doctor Stein snorted but otherwise remained silent.

  “Hmm,” mused Doctor Greyson, “perhaps this merely proves the old adage true.”

  “And what’s that, John?” asked Timothy.

  Greyson pointed at the holovid where miserable Black Foxes rode through icy, chill rain. “Just this, my boy: be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.”

  15

  Demons and War

  (Itheria)

  Standing naked in the swinging lantern light, his looming shadow swaying on the open door panel as if making love to the latch, Kane blinked owlishly at Lyssa and Arik. Yawning a great, wide groan, he said, “Well it’s back to bed for me, m’lord, m’lady.”

  As he turned to go, Lyssa’s pillow hit him in the back of the head. “Arda’s balls, Kane,” she cried, “you charge in here naked and drop this on us and then calmly go back to sleep? By the seven hells, man, I’ll be lying here with my saber in hand with half an eye open waiting for demonkind to come fetch us.”

  Kane half turned back and shrugged. “I just thought you’d want to know what came to me as I slept. Besides, if they knew where the gem was, they’d have taken it, silver or no.”

  “Kane’s right, love,” said Arik. “They’d’ve wrapped the dagger in cloth or some such had they sensed the gem’s whereabouts and would’ve borne it back to the demonplane with them. So I think we’re safe for the moment.”

  Lyssa arched her eyebrows. “Oh, you think so? Then tell me this, my sweetling: even though they did not find the gem, still if Kane is right then the gnoman’s death would seem to show that demonkind might know in general the location of the gem . . . hence, could not the demons come after us just as they did the gnoman?”

  Again Kane gave out with a great groanous yawn. “You two can argue about this all you wish. As for me, I’m for bed.”

  “Tell Rith,” said Arik. “She’s the one with the dagger.”

  Kane nodded and stumbled outward, shutting the door behind. In the now-dark chamber, Lyssa got up and found her pillow and then groped her way back to bed. “Damn, damn, damn,” she grumbled as she snuggled spoonwise against Arik and he threw his arm about her, “why did he have to cipher this out? Now I’ll lie here awake all night.”

  She fell asleep almost instantly.

  “Gahhh!” croaked Kane, tasting his tongue as he stared into his steaming cup of tea. “Why do I always get it so sweet?”

  The innkeeper’s five-year-old daughter looked up at him shyly and said, “Seven spoons of honey, sir, that’s what you said. Seven spoons, no more, no less.”

  Rith leaned down sideways in her chair and smiled at the girl and whispered conspiratorially, “He always drinks it that way, lass, and always grumbles loudly.”

  The girl whispered back, “If he doesn’t like it, then why doesn’t he change?”

  “Hmph,” growled Kane, “never have, never will.”

  The little girl cut her eyes toward Kane, glee in her gaze. Rith reached out and stroked the child’s golden ringlets. The girl grinned up at the bard. Then she reached and touched Rith’s cheek and drew her finger across the chocolate skin. “Did you stand in the sun too long? I get red if I stand in the sun too long.”

  Rith laughed. “No, lass, this is the way I have always been, just as you have always been fair.”

  “Is she bothering you?” called the innkeeper. But even as Rith shook her head No, the man said, “Eavy, come here and leave the guests be.”

  As the girl giggled and skipped back to her father, Kane grumbled, “I’m thinkin’ I’ve seen her somewhere before.” He took another sip of his oversweet tea and shuddered.

  The innkeeper’s wife, a great, strapping woman, came out from the kitchen, her arms laden with platters of food—rashers of bacon, fried eggs, loaves of fresh-baked bread, and a brick of newly churned butter. Following her came Ky, a grin on the syldari’s face, she bearing damson preserves, honey, scones, and clotted cream.

  Kane stood. “I’ll whistle up the others.”

  Eavy darted out from behind the bar. “They’re in the mews with Veyar. I’ll show you the way.” She reached up and took hold of Kane’s little finger and headed for the back door, tugging the big man after.

  In the stable, Arton, Lyssa, and Arik curried the horses and mules, while a skinny, freckle-faced, ten-year-old barefoot boy lugged water from the well to the individual stalls. As Kane entered, towed by Eavy, he proclaimed, “Breakfast . . . and Ky has made scones.”

  Arik, now digging a pebble from a hind hoof of one of the mules, looked up. “Oats for the animals, and we’re done.”

  “Oats,” Kane said to the little girl. “Show me where.”

  “They’re over there, sir,” called out the lad lugging water, tilting his head to the left.

  Eavy stamped her foot in anger. “But he asked me, Veyar. He asked me!” And she towed Kane to the grain bin.

  As Kane and Eavy carried scoops of oats to the feed boxes, Veyar offered Lyssa a dipper of water. She smiled but declined, and then frowned in puzzlement, as if an elusive thought had just fled her grasp.

  Kane shoveled in another mouthful of eggs, then pointed his spoon at Rith. “Trnhh unh boun thn gmmnwrs.”

  Rith rolled her eyes and turned up her hands and looked at the others.

  They all shrugged.

  Eavy squirmed on the bench next to Kane. In her tiny, voice she piped, “He said, ‘Tell us about the demonwars.’”

  Kane pointed his spoon at Eavy and nodded vigorously. “Vrrs wrnt” was all he managed around the mouthful.

  Eavy smiled proudly then asked, “More tea?”

  Kane reluctantly nodded, and Eavy grabbed his cup and slid from the bench and scurried off.

  Arik looked at Rith and tilted his head toward Kane. “He’s right, you know. If it’s demonkind we face, the more we know, the better we’ll be prepared.”

  The innkeeper’s
wife stepped from the back of the hostel. She bore with her a blanket which she held out to Kane. “Here you are, sir, your bedroll spread. Scalded, washed, dried, and folded. And getting that grume from it was no easy task, I tell you. You should have laundered it the moment you got it all stained, I’ll have you know. And that’s a word to the wise for tomorrow and all the days to come thereafter.” Her pronouncement made, she spun on her heel and retired toward the back rooms.

  Kane finally swallowed and muttered under his breath, “Lady, they usually don’t have laundry facilities at a murder site.” Then he called out after her retreating form, “Thank you!” But the innkeeper’s wife made no acknowledgment and strode onward, passing her daughter, who walked slowly and carefully toward the table, protecting Kane’s brim-filled cup. She set the cup on the bench and climbed up beside it, then transferred it to the tabletop next to Kane’s plate.

  Kane handed her another of Ky’s scones, slathered with preserves and clotted cream. Eavy grinned and took it, licking slow drippings from ’round the edges before taking a bite.

  Ky smiled at the child, then turned to Rith. “Now what about these demonwars?”

  Rith took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. But before she could begin, Arton said, “First tell us about demonkind. What do they look like? How do they fight? And whatever else we might need to know should they assail us.”

  “Yes,” said Arik. “Tactics first; history next.”

  “Well, there’s not a whole lot I know about strategy and tactics when it comes to demonkind,” replied Rith. “But as to their appearance”—she turned to Ky—”you probably know more about what they look like, Ky. I mean, don’t you encounter them during shadowtravel?”

  Ky’s hand strayed to the black main gauche strapped to her thigh. “Skelga. Mostly it’s skelga I encounter, though occasionally a greater demon lurks in the darkness between.”

  Arton set his spoon down and leaned forward. “Say now, I always knew that shadowtravel wasn’t safe, but until this very moment I didn’t understand just what the danger was. Demonkind, eh?”

  Ky looked at Arton. “Yes. Demonkind. They are all creatures of darkness, of the night, and often lurk in the in-between.”

  Arik spread his scone with preserves. “On their way to Itheria?”

  Ky nodded then said, “On their way in or out. At times, though, they merely lie in wait. If coming to Itheria, they pass across during the nighttime—at least that’s the way it used to be.”

  Lyssa took up her tea. “That is, until they slew the gnoman, right?”

  Ky turned up her hands. “I didn’t think demonkind had the power to open the way to Itheria during daylight, much less be able to withstand Arda’s sun.” She slapped a hand to the table, rattling crockery. “Damn! I still don’t see how drakka and demonsteeds could have slain the gnoman. I don’t think any have been seen on Itheria since the demonwars. Not even at night. My people believe they were banished. But even if they are not, still they should not have been able to come when they did. It was daylight!”

  Silence fell, and none said aught for a while. Finally Arton looked at Ky. “Regardless how they did it, can you answer my original question? What does demonkind look like?”

  Ky sighed. “They have chaotic shapes for the most, though I must say that each of the drakka favor one another, as do the skelga. But for the rest—it seems chaos alone chooses their form.”

  Arik reached for another scone. “Tell me about the drakka and these demonsteeds of theirs.”

  Ky sipped her tea, then set the cup aside. “Drakka: well I’ve never actually seen one, nor has anyone else for that matter, except perhaps another demon. What I am saying is that no one has seen their faces, though legends handed down by my folk from the demonwars tell that they are man-sized and are clad in dark armor—plate, chain, scale, and the like, and iron gauntlets cover their hands. On their heads they wear dark helms with metal horns jutting up and hideous visors that hide their features, whatever they might be. And that is why it is said no one has ever seen the true visage of one of the drakka. Skut, Arik, for all I know the armor is hollow, with no one inside!”

  “Huah,” grunted Kane, glancing at his nearby spear. “Just let me skewer one and we’ll have us a look.”

  Arik wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And the demonsteeds?”

  “Well, I’ve been told they’re more or less horselike, but scaled.”

  “And cloven-hoofed,” added Lyssa. “At least that was the shape of the tracks we found.”

  “Yes. Cloven-hoofed. And with a snakelike tail. And it is said that only the drakka can ride them.” Ky glanced at Rith and received a confirming nod.

  Arik leaned back. “Weapons?”

  “Obsidian blades. Black bows with obsidian points on the arrows.” Ky looked at Kane. “Obsidian-pointed spears, too.”

  “All stone?” murmured Arton. “From the chip Lyssa found in the gnoman, I guessed that a keen stone blade had been used to gut him and his ponies, but, Arda, all their weaponry is of stone?”

  Ky nodded. “So I have been told.”

  “All right,” said Lyssa, “that describes the drakka. What about the skelga?”

  “Ah,” replied Ky, “those I’ve seen. Those I’ve fought in the in-between.” Ky shuddered. “Filthy creatures—all claws and teeth. That’s a prime difference between drakka and skelga: the drakka use weaponry; the skelga do not. They instead try to haul you down by their very numbers and rip you to shreds and feast on your remains. They relish the raw taste of flesh and blood and bone.”

  “Lord!” exclaimed Arton. “And when you go, er, between, when you shadowtravel, that’s what you have to face?”

  Ky looked at the thief. “Yes. Only, on short jaunts in-between, the danger is minimal. But for long steps . . . ai, the danger mounts: the longer the journey, the greater the peril. And if one goes too far, he will not survive to emerge from the shadow at the distant end.”

  Lyssa looked at the Shadowmaster. “Then why ever travel that road?”

  Ky cocked an eyebrow and turned up a hand. “There are times when going in-between is the only way to get from one place to another. At other times it is the best tactic to use in a given situation, as you have all seen. Then again I may use the road when the risk is low and the convenience high. But in all cases, going in-between shortens a journey considerably. I would use it more often if it weren’t for the peril of demonkind—mostly the skelga.”

  “Oh well,” mused Arton, “so they’ve got teeth and claws.”

  “Pointed teeth, Arton,” flared Ky, sliding up her left sleeve to expose scars on her forearm. “Like long needles. And claws like slashing razors. Don’t underestimate them, my friend.”

  Arton held up a denying hand. “What I meant to say, Ky, is that they have teeth and claws, but what else? What do they look like?”

  Ky settled back. “Skinny. Black. Small.” Ky held out a hand some three feet above the floor. “About so high.”

  Eavy squealed. “Just my size!”

  Kane looked down at the child who had been sitting quietly beside him all this time. “Oh, sweet child, don’t even think of yourself as one of their kind.”

  Eavy’s face grew stormy. “I didn’t say I was a sk-sk—one of those bad things. I just said they were my size.”

  Kane hugged her, but, highly offended, she shrugged him off and flounced away, just as her brother, Veyar, came into the greatroom. Lyssa beckoned the lad over and gave him one of Ky’s scones. He mumbled his thanks and settled down at the nearby hearth.

  Arik’s gaze swept across each of the Foxes. “Look, if it’s demons we’re up against, we’d better get our weapons flashed with silver.”

  Ky vigorously nodded in agreement. “Good idea, Arik. Though my blade is already proof against demonkind, yours are not. But silver flashing now, well, it’ll serve splendidly.”

  “Argo could do it,” piped up Veyar. “He’s a metalsmith.”

  “Good, la
d,” said Arton, fishing out his pouch and flipping the boy a copper coin. “Would you run fetch him?”

  Veyar snatched the coin from the air and grinned broadly. “Yes sir!”

  As he ran from the room, Eavy came bearing a steaming cup of tea to Kane. “I have decided to forgive you,” she said, all dignity. “Now drink up.”

  Kane cast an askance look at the cup, but then gulped it all down. “Gahhh! How many spoons of honey?”

  Eavy giggled, then soberly said, “Just seven. No more; no less.”

  Arton grinned, then turned to Rith. “All right, what about the demonwars?”

  Rith stood. “Let’s all move to the fireplace. I’m still a bit chill.” She looked at Eavy. “Sweetheart, could you fetch us a pot of tea? This will take some telling.”

  As the child ran off, the Foxes moved to the fireplace, with its logs aflame driving back the damp. Plopping down at random on the various chairs and couches, they settled in, all eyes on Rith, who sat on the raised hearth. The black bard took a deep breath and began:

  “The legends handed down are sparse, and much is speculated, yet here is what I know. Some thirty-five hundred years past, the DemonQueen, Atraxia—”

  “Atraxia?” blurted Arton. “Now where did I hear that name?” He looked about, receiving only blank stares. “I am sorry, Rith. I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that recently . . . Never mind me; tell the tale instead.”

  Rith leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “The DemonQueen, Atraxia, decided that she would expand her demesne, taking this world of Itheria as her own. And she transported her armies across to do so, but how she managed that, I know not. You see, it is said that no two beings may use the same shadow to pass between.”

  Rith glanced at Ky, and the Shadowmaster nodded and said, “Like a key in a lock, shadows must be tuned to auras, and once tuned are usable only by the one whose aura fits. It remains thus until the shadow disappears and is born anew.” She turned to Arton. “Not even you could pick such a lock, my friend.”

  “Huh?” said Arton, looking up from the flames curling ’round the logs in the hearth. “Sorry, I was thinking of something else . . . trying to remember.”