Tide of Shadows and Other Stories by Aidan Moher Page B

hot in hell. There ain't no snow falling from the sky, no cold in the ground.
    Dandelion chuckles at his own wit—impressive still, even with ice on the brain.
    Snap .
    "Who's there?" Dandelion whispers. Time for a change already? Each watch was goin' faster than the last. Never thought he'd get used to these endless nights, 'specially not with the spectre of the Massacre at his back.
    Snick . That was metal—like a blade sliding from a scabbard.
    "Not funny," Dandelion says to the shadows. He still can't see who's coming through the trees, but the sound of their approach is just a whisper under the wind. "Is it time already? I was just gettin' comfortable out here!" A pause. "Who's there?" Dandelion stands, a hand on the pommel of his battered blade. A shadow stalks through the trees, a big body, hand raised in greeting.
    Must be the Northman. He doesn't say much, not with that broken tongue o' his.
    Dandelion raises his own hand. He feels like one of the heroes from the theatre, greeting a brave companion in the dead of night. "Hail, good sir!" he calls, mimicking the actors he’d seen on stage.
    The shadow drops its hand suddenly, a swift chop of the air. It is the only warning given before a callused hand clamps over Dandelion's mouth. He bites the hand, tastes blood. He’s pushed to his knees, and his head is yanked back. A feeble cry is lost in his assailant's hand.
    A line of heat blossoms across his neck then spills down his chest. He doesn't know what has happened until he remembers a play he saw once, at a theatre in Innskarrl. The hero, a dashing youth called the Spitting Dragon, had, as always, slain the demon prince, shorn off his head. As the lifeless head rolled around on stage, red syrup erupted from the dummy—the spurting fake blood set the crowd afire with cheers, hurrahs, and cries of dismay in equal force.
    Dandelion tries to cry out, to warn his friends, but all he can manage is a pathetic gurgle. Warmth spreads through his body as the first tendrils of hell wrap themselves around his sin.
    At least he'd finally be warm. But is there theatre in hell?

    2

    The shield lay hidden among the leftovers of battle, half-covered by a cloak beside a bedroll. It was my shield, though I had never blocked a blow with it nor held it with my hands except to scour the rust   when the Old Knight was still alive. It had been his shield then.  
    I was his squire, and proud to be so. He treated me fairly, as knights go. He fed me, never beat me too badly, and promised me his shield when I was old enough to wield it, old enough to bear its weight—emotional and physical both.
    The Old Knight was not one of the bodies left for me to bury. He died in the Massacre, struck down by the heavy blade of a Northman. Just like that. Dead. As a piece of flotsam on the boiling sea of battle, I had watched it happen. Looking back now, I am amazed I was not killed immediately during that bloody battle. I was a still target among the moving many.

    I watched, unable to move, as Tahir appeared from out of the storm of swords. He was covered in blood—his own and others'. His helmet was dented. His shield was cloven in two and dangled from the leather straps around his arm. He saw the Old Knight, dropped the broken shield, and stooped over the body to replace one shield with another.
    Time seemed to slow as our eyes met. He challenged me to say anything, to claim the shield as my own. I said nothing, and he was swept away by the flow of battle. I was broken by the death of the Old Knight — a coward — so I hid among the chaos as best I could. I killed a man who wasn't looking out for someone so small. I stabbed the back of his knee, slit his throat.
    One kill. Was I now a knight? A weak, cowardly knight, perhaps. The rules are different in this land of barbarians.

    I let the memory of that day dissipate, too painful to hold on to for so long. My master's shield had a lion painted on it—a crude crest that reminded me of home.