Chapter 1
He wasn't ready to trust anyone, and the darkness no longer frightened him. He had grown accustomed to it like a second skin. The bushes and their gray blur in the moonlight no longer startled him as they had in the beginning, when every whisper of leaves made him jump and clench his fists. He had learned to read the language of the night. He learned to find even the faintest animal trails – barely visible streaks in the grass where deer descended to the water, or the packed-down little paths between trees where bears left marks with their claws on the bark. When he came across human tracks, they seemed like highways to him – wide, clear, almost screaming of civilization's presence.
He avoided the rutted cart roads and the rare sensation of human presence. When the wind carried the scent of woodsmoke or the sound of metal striking stone, he would veer far aside, adding hours to his journey. He walked without a specific destination, but followed an unwavering direction – the one leading farther away from his brother. Betrayed or abandoned – what was the difference, when the result for him was the same? The words from their last conversation still echoed in his ears like a curse. He just had to get away and not let himself be caught by the hunters his older brother had sent after him. He knew Aiji well enough to be certain his pride wouldn't let such a challenge go unanswered.
He crossed several mountain streams, whose cold waters made his skin go numb. He even swam for about a mile in the waters of a river, whose stony bed carried him through the rocky gorge that had become impassable for his feet. The current seemed brisk, but not enough to be a danger to him. He didn't have much of a choice. He had to erase his tracks, and water was his best ally in that regard. The cold pierced his body to the bone, and the current slammed him into submerged rocks, but he stubbornly pressed on, dunking his head every time he heard a sound that didn't belong to the river.
He emerged from the foamy waters just before they thundered down into the abyss of a waterfall, strewn with sharp rocks. His wiry body easily scaled the rock that split the water flow in two. His fingers found purchase in the smallest cracks, and his feet held onto ledges barely larger than walnuts. From its top, he managed a jump of almost two meters. The air whistled in his ears, and the ground approached at a frightening speed. He landed, tumbling his body onto the soft moss growing under the ferns on the left bank. The right side – farther from his pursuers.
He didn't know if they were there, but he was sure such men would be sent on his heels. He was as certain of it as he was of the sunrise. His brother wouldn't let him slip away. Not anymore! Not after he had questioned his leadership qualities and the future of their father's legacy before the entire council. The words he had spoken that cursed night now weighed like stones in his gut. Aiji would not forgive such humiliation.
Dawn was beginning to break. The gray of the moonlit night was yielding to the first rosy hues of sunrise, and this made him hurry his search for a suitable spot to provide him shelter during the day. Daylight turned every person into a target, and he couldn't afford to be spotted.
Scanning the cliffs ahead for an overhang or a niche, his gaze settled on a barely visible entrance to a small cave, slightly darker against the rock face, high up on the ridge. The entrance looked no larger than a peasant's sack, but for him, it meant safety. He didn't hesitate. His fingers sought out bumps and cracks in the stone to allow him to climb the near-vertical wall. Every step was carefully measured, every movement planned. One wrong move, and the fall would be the last thing he'd remember.
On his way up to the cave, the young man stepped onto a path cut into the sheer rock face. Although wide enough to fit a cart, the path wasn't visible from below, from the river. Cunningly built, as if specifically designed to hide movement upon it from prying eyes. He stopped for a moment, feeling his pulse quicken. He wondered whether to take the path, but dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. The sun had risen above the mountain ridges, bathing the slopes in a golden light, and he realized his vulnerability. Anyone looking up would easily spot him on the exposed path. He still didn't feel safe traveling by day. He needed to hide and rest.
The cave turned out to be shallow. Just a few paces of level stone floor, with the ceiling and walls narrowing in on him. The air was stale and cold, carrying the smell of dampness and something else – something organic and long-rotted. On the floor, he discovered remnants of woven twigs, resembling a nest. Apparently the home of a bird that had long since abandoned it, and judging by its size and the few crushed small bones scattered about, he decided the bird had been large and predatory. Perhaps an eagle, or something larger. He didn't know the birds in these lands.
He wearily slumped down near the nest and closed his eyes. His muscles relaxed for the first time in hours, but his mind remained on alert. He expected the usual nightmare, and most of all, the voice that never stopped speaking and pleading. The voice of the man he had killed to escape.
Chapter 2
"I told you that dog is too old. It won't last."
Noel tightened the reins of his horse and cast another dissatisfied glance at the huge, shaggy silhouette moving some thirty meters ahead of the column. A former caravan guard, a veteran of numerous battles, and the General's current aide-de-camp, he was accustomed to having his words heeded and his decisions respected. The last years of his illustrious military career had changed him profoundly. His posture had acquired the dignity of a hardened warrior, so typical of veterans – broad shoulders, a straight back, a vigilant gaze. Under the weight of responsibilities, his temper had smoothed and settled. Dozens of battles and command duties had refined his character, making him a worthy comrade to the General. Yet, his eyes still occasionally flashed with a hint of that old devilry, and his shrewdness had become proverbial among the soldiers.
His words, however, seemed to go unheard. The man to whom they were clearly addressed showed no reaction whatsoever.
His back rigid, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, he gripped the reins of his black stallion with his left hand. His scowling gaze was fixed on the enormous dog crouched thirty meters ahead of them. His blue eyes flashed from under a streaked lock of hair that had escaped the leather tie holding back his long tail of hair beneath the blue cloak. The hilt of a long sword protruded over his left shoulder, and another was visible on his right, near his hip. A calloused palm – hardened by battle and time, with white scars across the knuckles – rested casually upon it.
The Sweeper felt the muscles in his thighs tense instinctively. With a slight movement, he urged his horse to quicken its pace and position itself sideways before the group of riders following him. His eyes never left the dog, anticipating its reaction. Every gesture the beast made could be decisive for the life or death of the entire group.
Up ahead, just before a slight bend in the road, the enormous Maneater, with the surprisingly gentle name of Shaggy, sat on its haunches, ears pricked, sniffing the air intently.
The animal had moved ahead, outpacing the column of riders, but not so far as to be lost from sight. The narrow path, carved into the rock, offered no place to deviate. The roar of the river below to the right drowned out almost all other sounds – only the rhythm of shod hooves on stone was faintly audible. Yet, the dog's nose picked up the traces left by various living creatures on the stone path, and those carried on the air painted an invisible picture of the teeming life all around.
A minute ago, lured by the sweet scent of a mountain goat, Shaggy had approached the bend. Then he had frozen. A wave of scents from the rocks above the path assailed him. His nose identified the smell of an old bird's nest, an aroma atypical for the area mixed with spices, and the familiar scent of a human being.
A distant memory stirred within him, provoked by the human element in the scent. It made him sit on his haunches like a vigilant sentinel, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He wagged his tail almost joyfully, raising a small cloud of dust from the rocky path. But then he detected differences. Very subtle, but definite differences.
Disappointed, the Maneater shook his massive head, shaking off the memories. He sniffed again, raising his nose and exposing it to the faintest breeze. He wasn't mistaken. The scent remained, as did the differences, but he detected no danger. He turned his head to look back at the riders slowly approaching him.
The Sweeper had sensed it. He watched from his horse – his sharp blue eyes always ready to catch a change in the animal's behavior. He had noticed the change and the slight wag of the tail. Good! The warning had been received. There was no danger!
The Maneater stood up, with a sense of duty fulfilled. He stepped confidently onto his four huge paws and slowly moved forward, passing the source of the memories. His friend would show up someday!
"Old or not..."
As he reached the spot where the dog had stopped, the scowling man riding at the head of the column raised his right fist. The movement was sharp, decisive. The riders following him stopped immediately – the sound of shod hooves ceased almost simultaneously on the stone.
The Sweeper carefully scanned the area. His eyes took in every detail from the rock wall on the left to the chasm on the right. Although he discerned the outline of a cave entrance up in the rocks, his gaze passed over it without lingering. The old trick was: never show you've spotted a potential ambush. To reinforce the impression that he noticed nothing suspicious, he even diverted his attention downward to the abyss where the mountain river raged.
He trusted the dog. The beast's judgment had saved him dozens of times over the years. From that first battle at the Iron Gates to the last fight near the Stone Peaks – Shaggy had never been wrong. The dog had unequivocally let him know that whatever was up there posed no immediate threat. But he mentally noted, invisible to the others, the warning that they were not alone on the road.
"...Shaggy is with me."
Noel shook his head thoughtfully. His lips tightened into a thin line of disapproval, but he found no words to contradict his General. Internally, he was convinced that the General's terrifying, shaggy pet would only be a hindrance on this journey. Too old, too slow, too attached to memories of times long past. Stationed right beside the General's horse, he allowed himself the liberty of leaning slightly towards the rider. His voice was quiet, cautious:
"The dog is yours, Sweeper. You decide."
Hearing his old nickname, the General softened his gaze. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed slightly, and his lips curved into a faint smile – the first in many days. He had long noticed that Noel addressed him that way only when forced to acknowledge his own powerlessness. His aide had never managed to get used to the Maneater's presence, despite the years spent alongside it.
"He's not mine, Noel. He's Nick's. I'm just temporarily making use of his services and friendship. Only until Nick shows up again."
The words were spoken quietly, almost thoughtfully. The Sweeper looked towards the distant mountain peaks hidden beyond the next bend. Somewhere out there, in the world beyond the known, his old friend might be fighting demons he couldn't even suspect.
"You still can't get used to the idea that we won't see him again, can you?"
Noel was amazed that the Sweeper still expected to see his friend. A note of irritation, mixed with concern for his commander's mental state, crept into his voice.
"It's only been eleven years, Noel. Did you forget that for him, that's just... what... thirteen, fourteen months?"
"Even so..."
"I'll give him a little more time before I give up on him. I hope he's there with Kira and they're both happy."
The Sweeper's smile warmed at the mention of the woman his friend had loved. Even now, so many years later, her name carried equal parts pain and hope.
"But she died so long ago! I don't understand a word of what you're saying!"
Noel shook his head in despair. He had never fully grasped the whole story about the Endless – those beings who lived by rules incomprehensible to ordinary people, despite the lengthy explanations the Sweeper would launch into when nostalgia for those days seized him.
"Oh, Noel!"
The General sighed with exasperation. His voice took on that patient tone he used when explaining complex tactical maneuvers to younger officers.
You haven't been listening. She died Here and didn't remain. Which means she's There. But as Mira says: 'You were a dumb guard and you'll stay that way.'"
Noel flinched at the mention of the assassin. He managed a strained smile, but his eyes avoided the General's gaze.
He paused briefly, just enough to demonstrate his feelings, then continued in a cautious tone:
"And when was the last time you saw your beloved Shadow?"
The Sweeper laughed. In these rare moments, his voice shed its new owner's persona, and his old acquaintances saw again that young and carefree guard from years past. His laughter was deep, genuine.
"Just recently. No more than three days ago."
Noel looked at him, stressed. His eyes widened.
"She's been here?! Wait a minute… where were we then… At the inn." He slapped his thighs. "Right? When we were at the inn? And I didn't even notice!"
"Of course you didn't. She's a shadow! What do you want – a drum to beat when she comes? Maybe some fanfares! Ha!"
The Sweeper laughed again, but this time the laughter sounded sharper, colder. The old General was regaining dominance over the young guard.
"There are many things you don't understand, aide!"
And with those words, the Sweeper vanished again along with the smile. Now, on the horse next to Noel, rode the honorable and respected General – the man who had led armies to victory and whose name commanded respect across several kingdoms.
"Yes, my General."
The aide understood that the brief window to the past had closed. His voice returned to the established, formal, and distant tone. He raised his hand to the accompanying riders:
"Forward!"
The column moved slowly onward after Shaggy, who was disappearing around the bend. The horses' hooves resumed their insistent rhythm on the stones, and the mountain wind carried a very faint – almost imperceptible – scent of the unknown from the bend ahead.