Dark Eagle VIII: Shadow Walker, page 25
The truth of it hung between them. Cadoc had lost more than his position when he was defeated. He had lost his identity, his purpose, everything that had defined him for most of his life.
‘What about you, Falco?’ asked Bran. ‘What drives you towards this suicide?’
‘Friends whose lives depend on my success. An empire that needs threats eliminated before they grow beyond control. And the simple fact that I’ve never left a mission incomplete.’
It was only part of the truth, but it was the part he could speak aloud. The rest, the complex mixture of duty and pride and stubborn refusal to accept defeat, remained locked behind walls he had built over years of service to the Occultum.
They stood on the ridge whilst the sun climbed higher, three broken men contemplating a journey that would likely end in their deaths. East offered survival. West offered purpose. In the end, purpose won.
Cadoc led them into the forest, heading back towards Mordred’s stronghold. Falco followed, his ribs protesting with every step and Bran came last, and the forest closed around them like the jaws of some patient beast.
----
The journey back towards Mordred’s stronghold seemed never-ending and every step was a battle against injuries that had not healed enough to bear such strain. Falco’s ribs sent sharp reminders of their damage with each breath, whilst his shoulder grew stronger but remained unreliable. Bran’s ankle had improved under the shepherd’s crude ministrations, but the joint was still swollen and painful, forcing him to lean on his makeshift crutch more heavily as the miles accumulated.
They moved slowly through country they had fled in desperation only weeks before. The forests were the same, the hills unchanged, but their perspective had shifted. Then they had been hunted prey running for their lives. Now they were predators returning to the hunt, though predators so weakened they could barely maintain their own survival let alone threaten another.
Cadoc led them along paths that avoided main tracks and obvious routes. They travelled through dense undergrowth where progress was measured in steps rather than miles, crossed streams at points where the banks offered concealment, and made camp at night in hidden hollows where fires could not be lit and food had to be eaten cold. The dried meat the shepherd had provided grew harder with each passing day, requiring long chewing to make it soft enough to swallow.
On the third day, they came across signs of recent passage. Hoof prints in soft earth, still clear and well-defined. A campsite that had been used within the last day, its fire pit still holding ash that crumbled when Falco touched it. They waited in cover for an hour, watching and listening, before Cadoc declared it safe to continue.
‘Patrols,’ he said, ‘probably searching for us, or watching the approaches to the valley. We’ll need to be more careful from here.’
The caution slowed them further. Every ridge had to be scouted before crossing. Every open area required minutes of observation before they dared expose themselves. The constant vigilance was exhausting, adding mental strain to bodies already pushed beyond reasonable limits.
Bran’s ankle troubled him constantly. Each evening when they made camp, Cadoc would unwrap the joint and examine it by whatever light remained. The swelling never quite went down, and the bruising that spread across the foot suggested damage that would take months to heal properly. But the young man never complained, never suggested turning back. He simply gritted his teeth and continued, his crutch leaving distinctive marks in the soft earth.
----
The fourth day brought them within sight of the valley and they approached from the north this time, taking a route that avoided the obvious approaches where guards would surely be posted. The climb to the overlooking ridge took most of the afternoon, their progress agonisingly slow as Bran struggled with terrain that would have challenged a healthy man. But eventually they reached a position that offered clear views of the stronghold below.
The valley hadn’t changed. The transformed landscape still bore the marks of Mordred’s influence, the alien stone structures and carved symbols that spoke of power drawn from sources older than Rome. But the population had increased dramatically. Where before there had been perhaps a few hundred warriors, now there were twice as many. Tents and temporary shelters sprawled across areas that had been empty during their first reconnaissance and cooking fires dotted the valley floor like stars.
‘Gods,’ Falco breathed. ‘There must be five hundred men
down there. Maybe more.’
‘An army,’ Cadoc agreed. ‘Caratacus and Mordred have been busy gathering support.’
They watched as patrols moved through the valley on regular circuits. Guards stood at every approach, their positions carefully chosen to eliminate blind spots. And somewhere within that protected space, Mordred held court.
Falco studied the valley for an hour, looking for weaknesses or opportunities that might allow infiltration. Even at full strength with a complete Occultum unit, penetrating those defences would have been difficult but in his current condition, with only two injured companions for support, it was impossible.
They retreated to a sheltered hollow perhaps half a mile from the ridge, where a rock overhang provided concealment and protection from the wind that had begun to rise as afternoon faded towards evening. Falco sat with his back against cold stone, staring at nothing whilst frustration and anger built in his chest like pressure in a sealed vessel.
‘There’s no way,’ he said finally. ‘No way to get inside, no way to reach Mordred, no way to complete the mission. We’ve come all this way, survived everything they threw at us, and for what? To sit on a hillside and watch whilst he gathers an army that will probably march on Roman positions within weeks.’
Cadoc and Bran sat nearby, so quiet they might have been statues. But Falco noticed something that made his anger pause. The two men were looking at each other, their eyes meeting and holding in a way that spoke of communication beyond words. Some understanding passed between father and son, some agreement that excluded him completely.
‘What?’ Falco demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
They didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched whilst the wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain that would
arrive before morning. Finally, Cadoc turned to face Falco directly.
‘There is a way.’
----
Chapter Thirty-Four
Terra Siluria
The next day, Cadoc rose before dawn and gestured for Falco to follow. Bran remained at their sheltered hollow keeping watch on the approaches but something in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what was about to unfold.
Cadoc led them deeper into the forest and it soon became obvious he was searching for something, his weathered face scanning the ground and surrounding vegetation with intense focus. But when Falco asked what they were looking for, the Silurian simply shook his head.
‘All will be revealed. Just follow.’
They walked for perhaps two hours, descending from the higher ground into valleys where moisture collected and the air grew thick with the smell of decay. The forest here was older, darker, with massive oaks that had stood for centuries casting such deep shade that little undergrowth could survive. Moss carpeted everything, whilst fungi sprouted from fallen logs in clusters of white and brown and sickly yellow.
Finally, Cadoc stopped at the edge of a wetland. The ground here was treacherous, neither solid earth nor open water but something in between. Rotting vegetation gave off a stench that made Falco’s stomach clench, whilst clouds of insects rose from the surface at their approach. Dead trees stood like skeletal sentinels, their bark long since stripped away to reveal grey wood beneath.
‘There,’ said Cadoc, pointing.
Falco followed his gesture to a cluster of mushrooms growing at the base of a fallen oak. They were small, perhaps the size of a child’s fist, with caps that ranged from deep red to almost purple. White spots dotted their surfaces in patterns that seemed almost deliberate.
‘Pick as many as you can find,’ Cadoc instructed. ‘But do not eat any. Not even a small piece. Do you understand?’
Falco nodded, though confusion warred with understanding in his mind. The mushrooms were clearly toxic, probably deadly if consumed. His first thought was poison, some plan to contaminate Mordred’s food or water supply. But how they would administer such poison to a man surrounded by guards and tasters was beyond his comprehension.
They worked in silence, Cadoc showing Falco which mushrooms to take and which to leave. The selection process seemed almost ritualistic, with certain specimens rejected for reasons Falco couldn’t discern. Some were too old, their caps beginning to decay. Others were too young, their stems still pale and thin. Only those of a certain size and colour were deemed acceptable.
Within an hour they had collected perhaps three dozen of the fungi, wrapped carefully in large leaves to prevent them touching their skin directly. Cadoc inspected the bundle with satisfaction before leading them back towards their camp.
Bran was waiting when they returned and took the mushrooms without comment, as if he had expected exactly this delivery. He unwrapped them carefully and began grinding them in the small clay pot they had carried from the shepherd’s hut. His movements were methodical, almost ceremonial, crushing each mushroom into paste before adding the next.
When all the fungi had been reduced to pulp, Bran added a small amount of water from their flask and set the pot over a carefully tended fire. The flames were low, barely more than embers, producing heat without smoke that might give away their position. He stirred the mixture whilst chanting quietly under his breath, words in the Celtic tongue that Falco couldn’t understand but whose rhythm suggested prayers or invocations.
Falco watched in silence. The mixture simmered for perhaps an hour, gradually thickening as moisture evaporated and the mushroom paste concentrated but Bran never stopped stirring, never ceased his quiet chanting, his attention focused entirely on the pot and its contents. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air, and his hands trembled slightly from the sustained effort.
Finally, he removed the pot from the heat and allowed it to cool. The paste inside had transformed into something the colour of old blood, thick and creamy, giving off an odour that was both sweet and somehow wrong. Bran stared at it for a long moment, then carefully transferred the paste into a small leather pouch before walking over to his father and holding out the pouch.
Cadoc looked down at it, his weathered face grave. For several heartbeats, neither man moved before Cadoc took the pouch and walked out to sit on the ground overlooking the valley.
‘What is happening?’ Falco asked, looking between father and son.
Bran settled himself on a flat rock, his injured ankle stretched out before him whilst his eyes remained fixed on his father’s motionless form. The silence stretched for several heartbeats before he finally spoke.
‘Have you heard of the Shadow Walkers?’
‘Yes. When I was first in these territories, warriors spoke of them. Fierce fighters who moved through the forest like ghosts, appearing and disappearing at will. Some of the men in Cadoc’s war band called themselves Shadow Walkers when they raided Roman patrols.’
‘They did,’ Bran agreed. ‘Many Silurian men claim that title. Half the warriors in my father’s old war band bore the name at one time or another. They wear it like a badge of honour, paint symbols on their shields, carve marks into their weapons. They think it means being fierce in battle, stealthy in the forest, able to move unseen through enemy territory. They learn certain techniques, practice certain skills, and believe they have become what the legends describe.’
Falco waited. There was more coming, he could sense it in the careful way Bran was choosing his words.
‘But they haven’t?’
Bran shook his head slowly.
‘They’ve learned from the legends without realising the stories were based on facts. They’ve taken the name and made it their own, turned it into something it was never meant to be. A title for skilled warriors, nothing more. They know how to move quietly, how to strike from ambush, how to disappear into the forest after a raid. Good skills, useful skills, but not what the true Shadow Walkers possessed.’
‘So there’s a difference between what they claim and what the legends describe?’
‘There’s a difference between a man who moves quietly through the forest and a man who walks between worlds.’ Bran’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. ‘The warriors who call themselves Shadow Walkers are skilled, yes. But they’re still just men. They bleed when cut, tire when pursued, die when the odds turn against them. The true Shadow Walkers were something else entirely.’
Falco felt his interest sharpen despite his exhaustion.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There used to be men with special skills, truly special. Not just better fighters or stealthier scouts, but something that went beyond ordinary human capability. The stories say they were unafraid of death because they had already touched it and found it wanting. Invincible in combat because weapons passed through them like mist. Almost invisible to their enemies because they existed partially in this world and partially in the next. They moved through hostile territory like spirits, neither fully of this realm nor of the otherworld, but somehow both and neither at once.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Falco flatly. ‘Men are men. We bleed, we die, we’re bound by the laws of flesh and bone.’
‘That’s what I thought. That’s what everyone thinks now. The stories have become so exaggerated over the generations that no one believes them anymore. They’re just tales to frighten children and inspire young warriors to be brave in battle. Myths that have no basis in reality.’
‘But you’re saying they’re not myths.’
Bran looked at him directly.
‘I’m saying they weren’t myths. Not originally. There really were men who could do what the legends claim. Men who had learned certain skills from their forebears, skills that had been passed down through generations, kept secret within families, taught only to those deemed worthy and strong enough to survive the transformation.’
‘Transformation into what?’
‘Into something between man and spirit. Something that exists in the shadow realm where the living and the dead meet. The skills of walking that path, of surrendering part of your humanity to gain power that transcends mortal limitations.’ Bran paused, his young face troubled. ‘The Romans have their word for it. Magic, sorcery, witchcraft. We have different words, older words, but the effect is the same. A man who undergoes the proper rituals becomes something else, to accomplish what needs to be done.’
Falco felt cold despite the afternoon warmth. He had heard stories during his years with the Occultum, tales of druids who could summon mists or predict the future, of priests who claimed to speak with the dead. He had always dismissed such things as superstition, tricks played on the credulous. But something in Bran’s voice suggested this was different.
‘And then?’ he asked. ‘After the transformation, what happens?’
‘The transformation consumes the body and mind. It’s like burning a candle from both ends and the middle simultaneously. The power it grants comes at a terrible cost. Those who walk the shadow path rarely return unchanged, and many don’t return at all. Their minds shatter under the strain of existing between worlds. Their bodies break down as the poison works through their blood. Some die screaming, clawing at enemies only they can see. Others simply stop, their hearts giving out as if they’d run a thousand miles without rest.’
The horror of it settled over Falco like a shroud.
‘Then why would anyone willingly do this?’
‘Because sometimes there are things that matter more than survival. Duties that transcend self-preservation. Enemies that can only be defeated by those willing to pay the ultimate price.’ Bran’s voice was steady but his eyes were wet. ‘That’s why the skill was almost lost. What father would teach his son a technique that would certainly kill him? What mother would allow her child to learn secrets that led only to madness and death? What warrior would willingly surrender his sanity, his life, his very soul for a single battle?’
‘So the knowledge faded.’
‘Almost. Over the years, as the old ways gave ground to new ones, as tribes merged and customs changed, the true Shadow Walker technique became shrouded in the mist of history. It got mixed with legends and half-truths, embellished with impossible details and supernatural claims, until no one could separate fact from fiction anymore. The families that once possessed the knowledge looked at what it cost and decided some secrets were better left to die. Better to let their children live normal lives, fight normal battles, die normal deaths. Better to forget than to remember what that knowledge demanded.’
Falco absorbed this, watching Cadoc’s still form across the clearing.
‘But not all the families forgot.’
‘No. There were a few who kept the knowledge alive. Who taught it to their sons despite knowing what it would cost them. Who believed that some threats required weapons so terrible that using them destroyed the wielder.’ Bran wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. ‘My grandfather was one. He taught my father the rituals when he was barely older than I am now. Made him watch as other men underwent the transformation, made him see what it did to them so he would understand the price. Then made him memorise every word, every gesture, every detail of the preparation so that the knowledge wouldn’t die with them.’
‘Did your father ever...?’
‘No. He never had reason to. The knowledge was insurance, something kept in reserve for threats so great that ordinary methods couldn’t address them. He hoped he would never need to use it, that he could live his whole life without having to make that choice. And until now, he succeeded. The knowledge passed from grandfather to father to me, unused but preserved, waiting for a moment desperate enough to justify its use.’
