Croelle's Story - And They Shall Come to Know Its Power

[Author's note: Fittingly, this is long, and dark, and spooky. Do not read if you don't want to know Croelle's background and origins, because these are huge SPOILERS for the game! I wrote nearly 10,000 words because this is the first time I've ever laid out Croelle's story in prose. If it isn't clear, it takes place during or just before the Castigation...

Happy Halloween!]

 At dawn, a party of Hunters and Mages arrived to investigate the massacre. 

The soot still danced in the weak light, in little flurries and flakes of grey, and eventually Harlyan had to pin up spells to clear the air while they picked their way through the ruins. Some of the houses had not been completely decimated: some of them still stood with their bases intact, wooden structures abruptly burnt away at the top or snapped clean in half, leaving only raw skeletons planted upright in the ground. 

Everywhere there were the crumpled, desiccated corpses of settlers.

“No looting,” Amaya said, looking at their charred but otherwise untouched clothes. “No pillaging, either—everything was just burned to the ground. Who would do this?”

“Shades,” Mattoglin replied. They looked at him; his grey eyes had flared, the strange and savage light in them blooming outwards. 

“It’s not Shades,” Harlyan said impatiently. “This is still too far East—we’re not in their territory. Not yet.”

“You think they obey borders?” Mattoglin asked coldly. “Or logical thinking? A Shade did this.” He was their head Hunter, the most experienced Shadowkiller of them all, and although he was not much past thirty, his face suddenly seemed old and pinched with hatred. “Bandits kill for supplies. Soldiers for war. Even the monsters of the Waste kill for a reason—for food. And if it was any of them, we’d see a lot of cleaned carcasses around here—but these bodies haven’t even been touched by carrion.” He shook his head. “Shades kill for no reason. It’s what makes them the worst out of all the Tainted. They live and breathe senseless destruction. This village has their mark.”

Jamishin, their youngest member, kicked aside a hunk of soft, rotting wood. “So from here on out, we’ll have to worry about Shades lurking around. Aren’t they attracted to magic, too?” 

“Like sharks to blood,” Amaya said grimly. “You’d better take those spells off, Harlyan.”

They walked on. They were a small group, the Shadowkillers: just a tiny band of mercenaries selling their services to those who needed Tainted killed. Their fiercer Endarkened cousins had vanished from the world millennia ago, after the Dawn Wars—but the demons’ descendants and mixed-blood offspring still remained, plaguing the outlands in the forms of bloodsuckers, nightmarish beasts, and even inhuman sorcerers like the Shades. 

It was why so few people ever came this close to the Waste and the Realm-of-Ghosts—dead lands that the early Gifted had hunted the Tainted into—but stirrings of Norm rebellion in the West had driven these frontiersmen to risk establishing an outpost here. 

It had been their one and final mistake.

Hours later they came across a bedraggled camp of ashen-faced travelers, about a score of people accompanied by one sickly ox pulling a wagon. The travelers scarcely noticed the Shadowkillers’ approach: they were laid low by grief, the women keening into their hands, the men bowed and silent. 

Amaya, who was the best at talking to people, went to investigate.

“They’re survivors from the village we saw,” she said a few minutes later, beckoning her companions over to one old woman staring blankly at the smoldering remains of a fire. The woman was hard-faced and flinty with life on the desolate plains—but when she looked up, her eyes were swollen and her dusty cheeks were streaked with old tears. She said, her voice cracked and terrible: “You’re hunting the thing that did this to our people?”

Amaya knelt in the grey dust next to her. “That’s right, umma,” she said, using the word of respect that the people of the North often applied to female elders. “You know who did it? The others said you were all away—attending the fair in Dursa.”

“I didn’t need to be there to know,” the old woman replied, almost viciously. Her aged, cracked hands suddenly twisted in her skirt. “We all know who it was. Vestakia’s spawn.” Quite suddenly she began to beat herself around the face, howling. “Why, why, why did I agree to deliver that demon into this world? Why do the gods punish me for my mercy?”

Amaya quickly caught the old woman’s hands as Harlyan, Jamishid, and even Mattoglin shifted uncomfortably. “Peace, umma,” she said in soothing tones. Growing up, she had always thought she’d be an Enchanter or a Healer; now she had to put those skills to the test. “What demon are you talking about?”

The woman raised miserable, red-rimmed eyes to Amaya’s dark ones. “I will tell you,” she said finally, heavily. “But only so that you may hunt the thing and kill it. But I will not speak its name.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Amaya answered gently; and it was true. Sometimes speaking a demon’s name could draw its attention—even if it was in Hael. 

The old woman raised her chin and drew a breath. “There was a woman,” she said slowly. “Vestakia. A Hedgewitch. She lived in our village since she was a girl. Her mam taught her to mix potions and brews, taught her to deliver our babies and weave charms for love and luck.” She drew another breath; for the first time Amaya noticed that her lungs had a consumptive rattle. “Her mam was my sister.”

In other words, Amaya thought, Vestakia was this woman’s niece. But she said nothing and nodded at the umma to go on.

“When she was grown and her good mam had died, Vestakia began to wish for greater spells, more powerful magic. I told her not to dabble in arts she didn’t understand; her blood was not strong enough to call up Light the way you Mages do.” She glanced once at the iladrin in Amaya’s eyes, then at Harlyan, who cocked his head quizzically. “But she didn’t listen. So she read the books, danced under the moonlight. Prayed to the gods to give her more power. To help the village, she said. For a long time nothing came of it. Then…” Her face twisted. “Then she called it.”

Mattoglin sucked in a breath, but Amaya ignored him. “It?”

“It,” the old woman growled, her grip on Amaya’s hands unconsciously tightening. “The Endarkened, the demon. It came to her in human form and seduced her. A common practice among Demonkind and well-known to the mountain folk—you must have heard the songs we sing about it?”

Amaya nodded, although she’d heard no such thing. 

The old woman went on. “We thought it was a traveler, some hunter passing through. We did not see it for what it truly was. It got her with child, then vanished—intending to come back to claim its spawn once it was birthed. When it abandoned her, Vestakia realized the truth of things and despaired. It was not a man who loved her, as it had claimed, but a monster who had used her womb for wicked things.”

She shook her head, her face tight with shame and anger. “She came to me. She was afraid. If anyone else knew she was pregnant by a demon, that she had consorted with an Endarkened—they would have put her to the death. And a child of Hael cannot be killed without also killing its mother.” She gave a snorting kind of sob. “I should have gone to the elders then. I should have told them everything. But she was my sister’s child…” She trailed off. “I agreed to help her hide it.”

“Why would you do that?” Jamishin blurted then, unable to keep silent for any longer. Amaya rolled her eyes. He was childish, their Jami, often bounding ahead like a rambunctious puppy; and he could never hide his thoughts for long. “You had to know it was going to kill you all once it was born, right?”

Mattoglin answered his cousin ahead of the old woman. “The child of a Mage and an Endarkened is a unique case,” he said. “Legend has it that it can be born human in spirit, but demonic in body; or demon in spirit, with the face and likeness of a human.” He shook his head. “All nonsense, of course, but many believe in it.”

“That’s right,” Harlyan said then, snapping his fingers. “I’ve also heard some claims that Endarkened are not by nature evil—that if one could only get an Imp young enough, and raise it with love and law, its temper could be turned away from darkness.” He glanced at the old woman. “I’m guessing this was sort of the idea with your niece’s child?”

The old woman’s face contorted. “The risk was great,” she muttered, almost to herself now. “If it was Tainted in spirit, it would have corrupted and destroyed everything she held dear. But she did not want to die for nothing, if it turned out a harmless babe.” She closed her eyes. “We stole away from the village that night. Went deep into the mountains, where no one would find us—not even the spawn’s Endarkened father. She gave birth on a barren rock under a blood-red moon.” 

She shuddered. “I went to fetch water to clean the baby. I remember—I remember being relieved. I thought it was dead, it was so silent: it did not cry. But then I saw it open its eyes, and th-they were—yellow—” Her fingers turned into claws as they clutched at her bony arms. “When I came back from the river, there was nothing of my niece except a bloody puddle on the rock. I called and called, but no one answered—I did not know if she’d fled or been dragged off by wolves—” Tears began to flow down her face again. “So I came home. And the long years passed, and gradually my grief eased… but now it has returned to curse me again. This time a hundred-fold.” 

She fell silent, clutching at herself and shivering. Amaya glanced at Mattoglin, who looked seriously unimpressed by the story: no doubt he very much disapproved of allowing a suspected Shade child to live. He said, “And so you believe whoever razed your village was the Shade child of your niece?”

“I know it was,” the old woman countered miserably. “I know because I spoke his name in my sleep: the one that my niece told me she would call her baby. His true name. He heard it on the wind, and he came to destroy me. Destroy all of us.” She looked like she wanted to spit. “It is as if I’d called up death itself.”

Mattoglin turned away, having heard all he needed to, and shortly after, Jamishin and Harlyan rose to follow. When they were out of earshot, Amaya leaned closer to the old woman. “What was his name, umma?” she asked in an undertone. “It might help us find him.”

The old woman clutched herself harder. “No! I will not speak it again!”

She felt a flicker of impatience. “Write it. I swear I won’t speak it aloud, not within a thousand leagues of here.”

Eventually she persuaded the old, tortured woman to write it for her in ash. Amaya couldn’t help but feel a shiver crawl up her spine, looking at the scratched figures before they were hurriedly wiped away. The wind howled in her ears as she stood and walked after her party, the sound so loud she could barely hear her own thoughts. Somewhere else, a bird of prey screeched. 

Despite herself, she shivered and rubbed her arms. 

A cursed name, indeed.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

The group ventured into the Waste proper the next day, hoping to catch and find the Shade in more conventional Tainted territory. They had been hired by the marquis of a nearby fiefdom to investigate what had happened to Windcry Village, and if they did well on this job, they might expect a steadier stream of work from his illustrious patronage from now on: a boon they sorely needed.

“What do you think all that nonsense was, about the name and whatnot?” Harlyan asked. Though a Battle-Mage, he was a scholar at heart. “Why would a Shade wipe out a whole village because one woman might have known his name?”

“Names have power,” Mattoglin replied, looking severe as a priest in his black coat adorned with silver medals and badges. “Especially when it comes to demonkind—you know that. When you know the true name of something, you can summon it, control it. Make it into a leash to tether that thing to yourself. That applies to everything, including us.” He glanced at Amaya, who pretended not to listen. “Amaya knows. It’s how Wild-Mages control their animals, too.” 

“So the Shade feared being leashed by his name,” Jamishin said slowly, putting the pieces together. “So he eradicated everyone to wipe knowledge of it from the face of the earth?”

Mattoglin shrugged, the gesture easy and elegant. “Perhaps. Or we could be applying ration to the irrational. It is in a Shade’s very nature to destroy. Perhaps he simply craved the flame.” 

They walked for a while in silence, eventually coming to a great rift in the grey and blasted earth. There was no crossing such a thing, not until it either closed naturally or they reached a bridge—but the odds of finding any manmade structure out here in the Waste were slim to none. 

Jamishin groaned: he was young, still, and he lacked the discipline of his more experienced Hunter brethren. “Do we even know what we’re doing out here? Tell me we’re not just wandering around hoping to find his footprints, or something.”

“You are very stupid,” Mattoglin replied with great dignity. “I’ve been tracking his scent for miles. The trail ends here, though. The winds must have shifted.”

“Well, he could have only gone that way,” Amaya said, indicating the long, snaking ravine. “He couldn’t have crossed any more than we could, and he certainly didn’t turn around and go back the way we just came from. If he got all the way to the lip of the rift, he must have followed it in that direction.”

Harlyan threw down his pack. “Let’s rest a bit, then,” he said wearily. “All this blasted ash is in my eyes.”

They set off in a ragged line again after a half-hour’s rest; the silken grey dust stirred around their feet in hot clouds of grit. The ravine stretched beside them into the unending horizon, more like a wound in the earth than a natural formation; they avoided looking at it, though the rocky terrain soon had them marching very close to its edge.

“Have any idea what’s down there?” Harlyan asked Amaya in an undertone, when he caught her peeping over the ledge.

The Wild-mage shook her head. “No idea. Mattie?”

But the Hunter, who had been increasingly tense and silent all morning, only shook his head, his nostrils flaring.

It was hard work, picking their way through the steep and rocky path, always loath to stray too close to the chasm’s edge, but in turn forced to navigate the boulders, loose gravel, and irritating drifts of dirt that hedged them in. They were seasoned mercenaries and normally well-adjusted to physical hardship, but after days of wandering a land that drained their very vitality, robbed of steady sources of food and water, their endurance was stretched to the limit. 

Finally Mattoglin said, “Amaya, scout ahead and see if there’s an easier way to cross this place, or if the ravine narrows soon.”

“I live to serve,” she said. 

She skipped ahead of the group until they had vanished behind an outcrop of rocks. Shading her eyes, she climbed onto the highest boulder she could find and scanned the horizon. Nothing but flat grayness, featureless and unrelenting; and the ravine went on for leagues.

It'll take us an eternity just to walk around the thing, she thought with dismay. And if we don’t find him soon, I fear we’ll lose the trail altogether.

They were heading East, though, she realized—and Mattoglin always said that Shades tended to go East, into the very heart of the Waste. Rumor had it they had built a Citadel there, in the stomach of a dead volcano—or perhaps it was more like a hive built by ants. And like ants, they were connected to each other by some kind of hive-mind, and ruled by a queen who supposedly controlled their every thought and action, peering from behind every Shade’s eyes in a network spread across the land…

She shook her head. Hard to tell what were stories and what were valuable facts, in their line of work. When they returned home to Ambryn, she would look in the great Mage library and see if there was any truth to that particular myth.

She felt or saw a shadow pass over her, then. She glanced up to see a bright metal flash in the air; for a dizzying moment she thought it was someone’s sword, and she ducked. Something caught at her shoulder with wrenching force, and she spun—closer to the ravine edge.

Everything was happening in a blur. Amaya heard the keen sound of wind slicing over metal and ripped her spear from its holster, bringing it up before she could even see what was attacking her. Blindly, she struck upwards and felt the blade snag against Lugra wings. She wrenched. Black ichor squirted.

It wasn’t a flock of the creatures, more of a family—four or five of the monstrous, metal-winged birds had dropped out of the sky to assail their little party. She remembered what Harlyan had once said: they often liked to swoop down and wrench the heads from the shoulders of their prey.

“Amaya!”

She turned, found herself at the very lip of the ravine, the edge of the heel of her right boot just cresting the ridge. Mattoglin had shot a Lugra in the eye with his bow; the creature fell away from him, writhing in its hideous death throes. He wasn’t looking at her, but he was calling her back. 

Amaya looked up and saw another Lugra lunging towards her. She brought her spear up again and pierced its belly as it descended upon her; it lashed out with its claw and ripped into her arm, sending the spear spinning away in an arc of light. Amaya flung fire into its maw, forgetting herself; the Lugra’s claws bit into her shoulders, its beak stabbing close to her face, but at the spell it reared back and took to the air again. The force of its push sent her reeling back—

And Amaya began to fall.

At first it was so slow, and she so helpless, that it was almost annoying, then comical. But as she reached out and failed to grasp anything, as she felt her weight pitch backwards into the dark space of the rift, she could only think one thing—Oh, no. 

And then she was gone.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Amaya awoke in darkness. 

The first thought that occurred to her was that it was cold. It was as if she had been locked in an ice-chest, and its walls were crushing together, reducing her to a single point of cold, numb awareness.

There was a horrifying feeling of disconnect in her collarbone and legs—broken bones, she thought—and little by little she felt as if the light were seeping out of her.

I’m in shock, she thought, and I’m in the ravine.

She reached for her magic; it slipped away from her and left a red pain in its wake. She tried to twitch onto her side, but even the slightest movement sent waves of violet-white, nauseating pain blooming up and down her body. Amaya closed her eyes.

You will die down here, something whispered from the shadows, a wisp of oiliness brushing against her failing consciousness. Down here in the dark, beyond all help. You will fade as if you had never existed. 

She cursed and tried to roll to her feet again. Savage pain tore into her, in deep grooves and gouges, and she eased herself back onto the wet, rocky floor, half-blind with agony. 

“Help,” she said, or croaked—the sound cracking off into a thin, reedy mewl of fear and dismay. No answer came back from within the complete darkness. There was not even the drip of water on rock to assure her this was still a part of the earth. 

It was simply an utter, muffled emptiness.

Amaya struggled to get a grip on her slippery thoughts. How had she gotten down here? Had she fallen? No—dropped. She remembered the Lugra, the bright metallic coats, the ruined eyes. Mattoglin and the others must have fought them off. But if that manner of beast roamed the Waste above, what would she find lurking here, deep in the sunless ground? What would she encounter, helpless and alone?

None of that, she told herself fiercely. She went through her options. She did not know how to heal; Harlyan was the one in their group who did that. Anyway, even if she did, it might attract whatever cave-dwellers that haunted this place: many Tainted, not just Shades, were attracted by shows of arma or grace or magic. 

Her head fell back against the rock with a hard rap. She was drifting away, and fast; how long would it take for the others to find her?

Would they find her at all?

You saw the rift, Amaya thought bleakly. It goes on for leagues, and you’ve fallen into complete darkness. They won’t find you. 

She came to again after an undetermined amount of time, realizing with a prickling rush that she’d been drifting. She shifted a little, kindling a bright flare of pain behind her eyes, before she gritted her teeth and cast out an invisible thread of Wild magic. She was barely aware of what she was doing, following a simple instinct to call for help: the magic fled from her into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but a tiny green glow in her fingertips, pulsing softly in the darkness like a beacon.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

“She’s gone,” Harlyan said simply. 

From the violent motion he made, Jamishin nearly killed him just for that. “Of course she’s gone!” he shouted. “But where?”

The Battle-Mage, crouching in the dust, touched the little spatter of blood that Amaya had left on the rocks. He glanced at her spear, lying abandoned on the ground, then at the footprints near the edge of the ravine. “Not carried off,” he said. “I think she’s down there.”

As one, they turned to look at the chasm.

Dawn was approaching, lifting the heavy greyness of the sky like a funeral veil. Mattoglin, who had been off calling for the Wild-mage, returned and said, “She’s not dead.” He spoke with the preternatural certainty that Hunters had about such things. “But she’s probably injured or lost—maybe even captured. We don’t know what’s down there.”

“You could scry for her,” Jamishin said to Harlyan hotly.

“No,” Harlyan answered, “I couldn’t, and you know damn well why. That Shade will hone in on us like—”

“Let him,” Jamishin said, a little wildly, and he drew his sword from over his shoulder. Everyone reared back on their heels. “I’ll kill him, once and for all. Just find out where she is!”

Every line in his profile was tense, as if he was prepared to simply hurl himself down after her. Mattoglin was already testing out the first handholds and footholds of the sheer edge of the chasm, lowering himself down experimentally. Harlyan closed his eyes briefly, then snapped, “Even if I could find her, exactly what are you going to do? Climb down and retrieve her? How will you get her back up? She’s obviously not in any condition to climb back herself, if she hasn’t come back yet.”

“You can heal her,” Mattoglin said, vaulting back onto the cliff. “Or we can raise her with rope.”

“Healing her, or doing anything with strong magic, is going to bring the Shade down on us,” Harlyan repeated. “Plus whatever else is out there. It’ll jeopardize everything.”

Jamishin wheeled on him. “Do you want her to die?”

They glared at each other; then Harlyan sighed. “No,” he said, “no, of course not. I…” He rubbed the back of his neck, staring thoughtfully down into the rift. “You can’t track her?” he asked Mattoglin finally.

The Hunter’s nostrils flared; he took a deep breath, letting the wind whistle through his throat and sinuses. “No,” he replied. “Her scent’s faint, and there’s all this—Rot in the air.”

“All right,” Harlyan said grimly. “I’ll scry for her, then.” 

He closed his eyes, and a deep, heavy kind of silence seemed to fall over him. The other men waited and watched as the Mage broke out in a sweat, waves of power coming off of him like breaths of cold air.

Finally he opened his eyes, and the alarm and confusion in them sent Jamishin’s stomach twisting in a snake’s nest of dread.  

“She’s moving,” Harlyan said, “away from us.” He pointed down into the chasm. “And fast.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Amaya began to forget entirely where she was. Sometimes she was back in Ambryn, walking with Mattoglin under a silvery sky. Sometimes she was a young girl studying at the Mage school, Solhadur, or an initiate into the Shadowkillers, a company of thirty back then. Pieces of images fluttered past her like tattered leaves in an ill wind; faces passed before her in a feverish smear. Faces of the living and the dead.

Sometimes—and these were the worst—she was somewhere she had never been, watching great armies she had never seen clash with each other on a blood-streaked battlefield. Some were Norms, she saw, and they wheeled great booming cannons that seemed to spit more fire than a Drake. They were killing everything, and a vast darkness seemed to be closing over the world. 

Eventually the pain drew her back into the dark, oily cold. Something brushed against her arm; Amaya stiffened. The thing was furry and blissfully warm. Weakly she tried to draw it closer; it hopped onto her stomach, causing a flash of agony so intense that Amaya nearly passed out again.

She laid still, breathing quickly, and strained her eyes. 

It was a bat. She felt a surge of warm excitement, quickly quelled. A bat had answered her call for help! She reached out to its mind eagerly. 

I need help, wing-friend, she told it.

The bat chittered in the darkness, and its consciousness brushed against hers, opened up a tiny stream of thought and understanding. 

I heard your call, it said. You’re hurt? You can’t fly?

No… I need you to find help for me. I need to get out of this place… She was fading again, and fast. Angrily she pushed herself back to consciousness and said, Please, get help. 

She tried to impress upon it the image of Mattoglin and the others, but before she could fix the idea firmly in the bat’s mind, it straightened and said, I will find you help. 

And it took off in a silent rush of wings. Amaya was alone again.

She laid still in the darkness for a while, wondering. Did the bat know enough to truly find help, if she hadn’t given it specific directions? There was still a little magic lingering in its mind from her summons: maybe that was enough to direct the creature to the nearest source of aid. And surely, in all the Waste, her friends were the only ones who possessed the goodwill to fit the picture.

She closed her eyes. She would sleep a while, then think of a way to get out on her own, in case the bat didn’t come back.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Amaya woke suddenly, not quite knowing what woke her. The darkness was still pressed heavily against her eyes—there was no telling what time it was, down here in the depths of the earth—but she thought she caught a slithering noise over the rocks.

A chill ran through her; her hand groped weakly for a weapon that wasn’t there. She’d been right—there were nefarious creatures lurking down here, and one had finally come across her. 

She had a dagger in her boot. But the thought of reaching for it, even moving slightly, sent imagined pain blazing through her in waves. The noise sounded again, a little closer. Amaya grit her teeth and thought, It doesn’t matter how much it’ll hurt, you just have to move!

In a savage burst, she launched herself off the ground and snatched at her boot. Her clammy fingers scrabbled briefly at the hilt of the knife before her body folded in on itself, and she bit her lips to bleeding to keep back the howls of pain. She fell back, sobbing for breath and half-blinded.

The thing drew closer.

I’m going to die here, I’m going to die like this, please, gods, why couldn’t you at least let me get hold of the knife, I’m going to die—

“Well, well,” a voice said silkily in the darkness. “A little animal witch has fallen into my lap. Here’s a surprise.”

She went rigid, staring wildly into the gloom. Finally she picked out a pair of eyes, watching her. They were gold, the color of ochre, and burning with demonic light. 

Amaya pressed her jaws together to keep her teeth from chattering. The Shade… she thought. Her mind flew to the store of magic she had left. She might not be able to concentrate enough to heal, but she might be able to perform a powerful offensive spell, especially if she no longer had to worry about avoiding detection. Harlyan often said she had a talent for fire, even though her true skills lay in psionic magic. She thought she could unleash something powerful enough to make the Shade think twice, but if he didn’t leave after that…

She was reaching for a detonation spell when the Shade lifted his hand and conjured a ball of light. It hung in the air, sickly and green, and Amaya, raising herself to a sitting position, caught herself and stared. 

He looked like all Shades did, but he didn’t look like any of the Shades they had killed before: those had all looked like carbon copies of each other. His blood-red hair was short, and nearly hidden under a wide-brimmed black hat; he was also taller and thinner than the others, though no less dangerous-looking. His eyes burned in his pale face, which was fixed in an expression of scornful amusement. He wore a long, tattered cloak and gloves, and a thin rapier hung at his side.

Perched on his shoulder was her bat.

Amaya’s hazy mind didn’t make the connection. She shouted desperately at the bat, I asked you to find help!

I did, it replied. He will help.

The Shade, as if hearing this little exchange, smiled. Amaya reached for her magic again.

“Peace, witch,” the Shade said, his voice light and strangely human, though it echoed strangely in the depths of the rift. “I prefer prey that has a fighting chance. I have no interest in the broken and maimed.”

Amaya managed to let out a shaky laugh; in the back of her mind, she was gathering energy for the assault. “That’s all Shades do, though: break and maim.”

He stepped closer and gave a feral grin. “Perhaps this is true. But we also know when to make interesting new toys last. How did you end up down here?”

The spell was almost ready. When she unleashed it, it would ignite down the ravine like a flaming comet, and hopefully incinerate him. “I fell, obviously.”

In a flash, the Shade had propelled himself forward and grabbed her by the hair, shaking her roughly. Gasping, Amaya lost grip of her magic and squeezed her eyes shut to prevent him from seeing the tears of pain. 

“I don’t think this is the time to be coy with me,” the Shade said, perfectly calm, though his grip threatened to tear her hair from her scalp by the roots. He ignored the bat’s urgent squeaking. “I’m your only way out of this blasted hole in the ground. You called for my help, didn’t you?”

She said nothing. Indifferently, the Shade released her and sat back on his heels, scrutinizing her. Amaya had fallen back and lay on the ground, supine. 

“You did call for my help,” he drawled. “Or the little beast wouldn’t have found me.”

Her mind was slurring, as if working its way through slush, or muddy water. Did I call him? Would the magic choose him if he wasn’t suitable? Could he really help me? 

No, he’s a Shade. He’s going to kill me…

He touched her with a gloved hand; Amaya’s eyes snapped open and she flinched away, expecting the burn of a demon’s touch, the greasy, tainted Rot poised to invade her flesh. 

But no, there was nothing. The Shade looked down at her, his expression not benevolent or kind, in fact impatient and ill-tempered—but it was not a monster’s expression.

Amaya’s tentative grasp on reality began to loosen again. She slid back into the healing waters of unconsciousness and mumbled, “Shit…” 

The Shade waited until she had closed her eyes, then picked the bat off his shoulder and set it on the ground. The bat, uninjured but indignant, vanished into the darkness. The Shade slipped his hands under Amaya’s limp body, lifted her into his arms, and smiled grimly down at her. Then he, too, vanished into the dark.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Amaya woke and felt a cold finger of wind gliding across her face and down her shoulder. She shuddered, and moved a little to look at her surroundings.

She cringed. She was in a cave, though it didn’t seem to be within the ravine—the air was warmer, freer, and there was a soft grey light humbly peeking in through the cave entrance. The Shade was sitting not too far away from her—he had put his cloak over her—and was methodically sawing off the limbs of some grey, furry creature. She saw that its neck had been broken. 

He glanced up immediately when he heard her shift, and for a moment his eyes seemed to scorch her as they perused her in the gloom. Then his mouth twisted in a smile, and Amaya noticed that his canines were slightly longer than what was considered normal. And sharper. 

She had to struggle with some very ingrained instincts to keep from screaming, or panicking, or both. She allowed herself to recollect the events in the rift, and, after a moment, said calmly, “So you did help me.”

“So it would seem.” The Shade turned back and continued to flense the fur from a hairy haunch. 

“Why?”

“You called.” 

“Yes, but—why did the magic choose you?” 

The Shade’s head snapped around. “Was it not right to do so? I’ve proved my willingness to help you; my ability to. There should be no reason that the magic wouldn’t select me as someone who would help you when, in fact, I did.”

For the first time Amaya noticed that she felt perfectly whole again: tired, weak, but unbroken and unwounded. There was a bright wellspring of magic lying within her, waiting for her to call it up. Wonderingly, she said, “But you’re—”

She stopped herself. The Shade went on cutting away at his animal leg. Finally Amaya said, “Even if the bat chose you to hear my call, why did you answer? Your kind…” She felt around helplessly for the words. “…doesn’t often help my kind.”

The Shade finished clearing the limb of its fur and raised the bloody, dripping haunch to his face, tearing into it with his teeth. Amaya blanched. He fed for a while, until he held nothing but a smooth, milk-white bone in his hand; then he tossed it to the side and turned to her, gory mouth and all. He gave a terrible smile.

“I am not like the rest of my kind,” he said. 

They stared at each other for a moment; Amaya struggled not to feel sick or, perversely, hungry. 

“Where are my friends?” she asked, determined not to drop her eyes.

The Shade’s brows lifted. “There are more of you?” Casually, he wiped his mouth, getting most of the blood off, though a little remained on his chin. “I should have guessed. Not even a witch like you would be fool enough to venture into these lands alone.”

“I guess that means you haven’t seen them, then. Where are we?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how you were miraculously healed?”

“I was getting to that.” 

Again, he was at her side in a flash, reaching down and seizing her chin to crank her face up to his. Amaya’s hand leapt for a weapon she didn’t have; she stiffened, wide-eyed, staring into his eyes, which were cold, glittering, and—it seemed—utterly devoid of emotion. 

“You’re quite insolent,” he breathed, his breath icy on her face and reeking of blood. “I don’t know if it angers me or interests me. I saved you from being ripped apart by the Abyssal Ghouls because I thought you were interesting. A little toy to play with after the monotony of this wasteland.  But the moment I grow bored of you, or if you anger me, mistake me not, Mage—I’ll break your neck like a hen’s.”

“Please,” Amaya said despite herself, breathing very fast. Her chest palpitated like a frightened rabbit’s. Why was she so afraid? She’d killed a dozen Shades before.

With the help of the Hunters, the other part of her thought. You were just backup. 

He stared into her face for a moment, then released her, sneering a little. He went back to the rock he’d been sitting on and kicked aside the animal’s remains. 

Amaya stared unseeingly at the scraps of fur and bone. Her mind was racing. She said, “So how did you heal me? You’re a Mage—” She broke off from her reverie and looked at him. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m a Shade,” the Shade said, his sneer growing. 

Amaya bit back a retort. “But Shades can do magic. Dark magic. I didn’t realize that included healing.” Belatedly she realized she might be acting insolent again, but her instincts told her that meekness would not win her any favors either. She stared at the Shade as steadily as she could. 

His mouth twitched a little. Then he gestured towards the bloody smear on the ground. “Here’s a secret,” he said. “We can heal, though it’s so opposite our essence that it requires some—special energy for us to perform the act. We Shades by our very nature tend towards the destructive magics; we have the capacity to learn anything you Mages can do, but we’re built with preferences.” Thoughtfully, he picked a bit of flesh from his teeth. “So in order to sustain any kind of magic that isn’t—” He glanced at her again, in contemptuous amusement. “—dark magic, as you so quaintly call it, we need more life force than we have. We need something to feed on.”

“Blood,” she said, realizing. “You need to sacrifice something.”

“And then feast on it,” he answered chillingly. “Mangy mountain goat will do, but what we really like are helpless little Mage maidens. Particularly virgins.” 

She ignored that comment and said, “You mean there are animals out in this barren nothing?” She felt a pang of sadness, remembering the poor bat. “How wretched for them.”

“There are a few, if you know how to find them.” He got up and moved towards the cave entrance, staring out into the grey light. Amaya craned to see past him and asked again, “Where are we?”

The Shade made a sound that she couldn’t identify. “So many questions. I’m growing weary of them.”

She wondered if she shouldn’t press her luck, but then decided to, anyway. She had never had a conversation with a Tainted person before; it was morbidly fascinating, and somehow she felt she would never get the chance again. 

“You said you’re not like the rest of your kind,” Amaya said slowly, testing the waters. When he didn’t move from his spot, she continued: “Even I can see that. You aren’t like other Shades I’ve seen.” As monstrous as he was acting, the way he sat and talked—it all seemed human. “Why?”

For a moment the Shade didn’t speak, the line of his shoulders tense and rigid as he stared off beyond the cave entrance. Amaya fought back a shiver. Was such a creature capable of true good, of altruism? He had done something good by rescuing her, hadn’t he? 

But why? Was there some more sinister purpose behind his actions?

“The other Shades are the Citadel’s,” he said finally, without turning his head. “They’re all the same because they belong to the Motherqueen. She calls them, and once they fall under her snare, she forces them to become her soldiers. They all become limbs of the same body.”

Amaya perked up: now they were getting somewhere. “The Motherqueen?”

The Shade’s lip curled. “An ancient creature; some mutation of the Endarkened. Like our greater cousins, she can control Shades the way the Archdemon controls Imps.” 

“But not you,” she said.

He didn’t answer for a long, long time. “No,” he said finally. “Not me.” 

She chewed on this in silence for a while. Why not? Why was he not commanded by this… Motherqueen, if it was true all Shades were drawn to her like moths to flame? 

Could Harlyan have been right: was it true that Shades brought up in the right circumstances could rebel against their natures?

Or was it a mere fluke, some freakish side effect of his birth? The one-in-a-million Shade who still kept his free will?

It came to her suddenly that he had slaughtered an entire village for one very important reason. “How does this Motherqueen call Shades?” Amaya asked him. “The ones who become her… limbs?” Or how does an Endarkened father put to task a wayward son? All at once it occurred to her why he’d been in that ravine in the first place, why the trail had gone cold there. That was probably his home. 

He was probably hiding: from both the Shades who wanted to convert him into their hive and the Endarkened who wanted to claim his soul.

And all the other forces, like her Shadowkillers, who wanted to hunt down and destroy everything he was. 

The Shade was leaning against the cave entrance, as if waiting for her to say more. When she failed to speak, he did too; so Amaya said awkwardly, “It’s by collecting their names, isn’t it? When the Motherqueen gets ahold of a Shade’s name, she can summon them to her—and enslave them to her will?” The way we can do it to Endarkened, and probably the Endarkened can also do to you?

The Shade made a sound that was neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Amaya blew out a breath. Perhaps this knowledge would be useful to their demon-killing endeavors—if she could ever find her friends again. “I’m… grateful for your help,” she told him tentatively, shifting under the tattered cloak. Best to pacify him until she could put together a plan, or buy her companions time to find her. “Whatever your motivations for it were. I would have died without you, so… thank you.” Belatedly she realized he might not know what gratitude was. If it was true Vestakia had died, he might have been raised by wolves, for all she knew. “Do you know what ‘thank you’ means?”

He made another sound, which might have been a laugh. “I’m curious, witch. Do your kind truly believe we’re all just drooling monsters, shambling around without thought or feeling?”

“Um…”

He grunted and pushed himself off the wall with his shoulder. “You don’t want to thank me,” he said. Then he cocked his head to the side. “I see your little friends coming. I think I may have to kill them.” He leapt out of the cave and vanished. 

Amaya lurched to her feet. “What?”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Harlyan, Jamishin, and Mattoglin had been pursuing Amaya’s trail for several hours now. According to Harlyan, she had shot away from them at an impossible speed, climbing up out of the ravine and away into the distant hills before they could even descend halfway into the abyss. They’d had to climb out again once he noticed that she had left and loped towards the sullen bumps on the horizon, confused and anxious.
 “Are you sure it’s her?” Jamishin had demanded several times, tormented by the idea that Harlyan had simply found the wrong target and they’d abandoned Amaya down in the rift to chase a bird, or perhaps a wild hare.
 “I’m sure,” Harlyan snapped. “It’s her, I just don’t know how she’s moving so quickly—I don’t sense her using magic—”

At that point, Mattoglin had stiffened, and his pupils contracted to pinpoints. “She’s with a Shade,” he said, his voice very low. Jamishin’s cousin had always had much better sensory perception than him. “It’s the Shade.”

Jamishin felt as if he’d been struck. They all slowed, stared at Mattoglin for a moment; in return, he sped up. Something began to thump, very loud and hard, in the back of Jamishin’s head. He felt fear pulsing white-hot all over his body and shouted, “Hurry!”

They’d hurried. They were scrambling up a stony, rocky slope under Harlyan’s directions when Jamishin caught sight of the cave. He surged ahead of the others, including Mattoglin, who was nearly frothing at the mouth at that point as the blood-rage bridled within him, and unslung his sword. His boots slipped against the steep, shale-ridden hill, but he charged forwards, the clamor of fear in his head deafening. 

When he reached the mouth of the cave, what he saw was this: 

The Shade was waiting for him, his mouth and face covered in blood. Inside the cave, there was blood everywhere, and Amaya was standing in the very back of the cave, looking scared and battered. 

It was as if Jamishin’s bones were lined with gunpowder, and the sight of Amaya like that lit a fuse. 

He launched himself at the Shade, teeth bared, and, forgetting his sword, attempted to swing his fist into the thing’s eye. The Shade drifted back, almost lazily, caught his arm, and threw him casually into the cave wall. Jamishin was struggling to his feet, winded, when he heard the ring of another sword being drawn and fumbled for his sword. 

“I’ll kill you,” he snarled, aiming through the dark green haze that had come from cracking his skull. The blood-rage was taking him too, the smell of Rot invading his senses, darkening his vision. He could hear himself saying, as if his voice belonged to someone else: “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you—”

Then he felt something warm and soft collide with him. 

“Don’t!”

Both the Shade and Jamishin stared at her in astonishment. Amaya stood between the two of them, wild-eyed, holding out her hands to stop either of them from hurting each other. The Shade looked at her, nonplussed, almost in annoyance; Harlyan wrestled with the voice inside of himself screaming at him to kill and ground out: “Get out of the way.” Before I lose control of myself and hurt you. 

Amaya began, “Just stop for a second, all right? This isn’t what it looks like!” She turned to the Shade with a snarl. “What’re you doing? You know these are my friends—”

Her efforts, however, were in vain, because at that point Mattoglin arrived on the scene.

He flew at the Shade in a blur of white and black. This time the Shade looked a little less relaxed; though his expression didn’t change, his profile seemed to tense when he saw that Mattoglin had his shining Hunter bow in his hands, a bolt of white light nocked and ready. Black fire bloomed at the Shade’s hands, and he raised his palm to unleash it. Amaya shrieked, “No!” but it was too late; Hunter and Shade met with a sizzling clash, accompanied by the smell of burning ozone.

Amaya had no doubt that the Shade would really kill Mattoglin, if he got the chance. But she didn’t know how to calm the killing intent that was between them; it was taking all her willpower to hold back Jamishin, who was clutching his head and groaning and growling with the pressure to leap into the fray after his cousin. There was really no stopping the Hunter need to kill a demon-blooded mark, once they’d caught wind of it: she was only delaying the inevitable.

But she found herself wanting to know more about the Shade. If it was true that he wasn’t—well, he was evil, of course he was, but if he was free of influence from Endarkened and Tainted both, that had to mean something, didn’t it? What if there was a way to help all Shades like him, or free innocent people taken under Thrall, or any number of problems? 

All of this flashed through her mind as she bolted forward, out of Jamishin’s grip, and towards the two battling enemies. Mattoglin’s lips were pulled back from his teeth; his grey eyes flamed with blood-rage, the curse of his people rampant and unbreakable. The Shade was fending him off capably, though his face was as still as a marble statue’s, and his eyes had gone nearly black.

She didn’t know who to grab; Mattoglin was locked in his racial hatred and was about as tamable as a rabid animal, unlikely to stop even if she incapacitated the Shade—and yet she wouldn’t put it past the Shade to kill Mattoglin while he was accosted, either. 

An idea came to her then, terrible and chillingly clear. Mattoglin had said it just hours ago: Wild-Mages used the names of things to control them. It was how she’d called the bat: not that one, specifically, but she’d had an idea of the true name of its kind. 

And she knew the Shade’s true name. The old woman had written it for her in the ash. 

“Croelle,” Amaya said. Then she raised her voice, and it was high and clear. “Croelle! Stop fighting!” 

For the barest moment she felt the press of her will against his; it struggled against her, oily and elusive, and the Shade bared his teeth and screamed.

“No!” he howled. His face was white and terrible. “They’ll hear you!”

In that moment before she could subdue him, a connection flew open between Amaya’s mind and Croelle’s. She saw flashes, tattered pieces of images that confused her—living in an endless dark, beating fallen birds to death on rocks to tear at their feathers with her teeth. Grey sunlight on her face. Evading, always, the army of other Shades who wanted to press her down into a suffocating heap, to snuff out her thoughts with the weight of them; the agents of Endarkened searching always to seed something dark and terrible within her, an insidious vine that would strangle her heart; the forces of Hunters and Mages and Elves and Ket and Norms who wanted to burn her alive and rid the earth of her existence. A woman’s voice telling her, I bargained with the sleeping gods for you. Your freedom in exchange for a life of running. 

And she heard, too, her name being spoken on the wind, for the first time in her life. Following the call to find a village in flames. Her father had been here, drawn by that same call: when he hadn’t found its source he had razed the place to the ground. 

And now he was coming here.

Amaya jerked free from the entanglement with Croelle just as Harlyan panted up to the cave. For an instant she took the picture in—they were still fighting, and now Jamishin had leapt in—but in that split second their thoughts had connected, she saw the fear that was in Croelle now. 

Darkness was closing over the cave, as if the sun outside had been blotted out. The air suddenly went still and heavy.

“Run!” Amaya screamed, though whether it was at herself, her friends, or the Shade, she didn’t know. “The demons are coming!”

The Hunters could not hear her, and Harlyan looked outside, not knowing what she meant.  The walls of the cave seemed to be breathing like grey lungs, contracting and drawing closer. 

Amaya looked up to meet Croelle’s gaze one last time—found him grim, defiant, resigned. 

“Gods help us,” she whispered, feeling the chilly hunger of some demon’s regard.

She did not know if he thought it or spoke the words aloud to her. 

“There are no gods where we’re going,” Croelle said.

Then the darkness snapped closed around them, and they were gone.