Stalking the Shadows



  STALKING THE SHADOWS

  By Stephen Brown

  Copyright 2015 Stephen Brown

  Coming soon in Paperback. See author website for details

  https://www.thestephenbrown.co.uk

  For

  Moochie & Pepper

  Thanks to all the usual suspects

  For keeping faith

  And to particularly to Moz

  For your help I’ve made you the 2nd Emperor,

  in this world at least!

  xx

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Dedication and Thanks

  Contents

  Map – Kingdoms and Empire

  Map – Bergen

  Map - Werpenstad

  The beginning

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Chosen Charity

  Kingdoms and Empire

  Bergen

  Werpenstad

  STALKING THE SHADOWS

  The foetid moisture clogged in his lungs with each new breath. The air was thick and stinking, and though he could not see far in the malingering fog, Joshua Puss knew that the marshes of the Borgersveldt spread out before him for miles and miles and miles.

  Squinting his eyes, he peered through the mists; visibility was down to about four yards. He grimaced; this was not going to be easy. Still, he had tracked his quarry this far and was not about to stop now. Taking note of what few landmarks were around, he heaved his pack from off his back and set to work making markers. Speed was important, true, but it would count for nothing if he just blundered off into the fog and got himself lost.

  With well-practiced skill it took him only a few minutes to tear off a number of ragged strips of cloth and attach them to the stakes and metal pegs which he carried in carefully tied and rolled up bundles. Fixing these five dozen markers onto a series of bandoliers, he shrugged them across his shoulders and made a final check: his sword was loose in its scabbard and he had a bolt loaded in his crossbow, the string nice and tight, but with a safety block holding the trigger back until he sprung it. One more look at his surroundings and then he set off into the swamps, his expert eyes picking up the spore he had been following for the best part of a day now.

  Progress was slow but sure - Joshua lifted himself into the concentrated mind-set that had become second nature to him after eight years working as a tracker. Constantly checking all around to familiarise himself with any new landmarks showing through the gloom, he would push a flagged stake into the spongy ground whenever the last one was at the boundaries of his vision. In the absence of any wind the cloth strips hung limp against the pegs, and he made sure to place each marker so that the knot of the rags lay in the direction he had just come. That way, if the visibility cut even further, he would still be able to retrace his steps back out of the treacherous marsh.

  Puss would have been unhappy to be labelled bounty hunter, but it was true enough that he had long since turned his hunting skills away from catching the game surrounding the Stad to the pursuit of human quarry. Only through official channels mind you - they were all legitimate marks. He had a full time contract with the Council and never did any private work. Nor would he ever, he had vowed when he had begun. If it ever came down to that he would go back to hunting meat for the butchers’ blocks, or the never ending supply of caravans that plied up and down the Imperial Highway or the numerous other roads in the area. Better that than to accept questionable coin from dubious patrons in all those no-questions-asked arrangements that he knew went on. No, he would never do that. Joshua Puss had decided that from day one.

  An hour of careful progress into the Borgersveldt and the air was heavier than he would have thought possible. The fogs had closed in around him so thick that Puss felt he could almost slash through them with his knife. His lip curled ironically at the thought. If only I could! The saturated mists had cut visibility down to almost nothing.

  The wispy white tendrils clung to him now like a spectral horde of beggars, and he found himself waving an arm in front of his face at times in a frustrated effort to clear their grasping hands away. Feeling for another flag, he realised he was down to his last bandolier - his final twelve markers - having been forced to cut the distance between them as he progressed further and further into the fickle swamp.

  He was still able to follow the spore - just. Squatting down every few steps he expertly sighted a bent reed here, a flattened clump of tussock grass there and, rarely, the occasional partial print in the mud on one of the raised patches of ground. These prints had become the cause of some anxiety for Joshua as, in places at least, they seemed to bear alarming similarities to... well, to animal tracks, but he knew that was just his imagination playing with him.

  The spongy terrain distorted everything, he knew, and in these mists, with all the stories everyone had heard about the Borgersveldt and the creatures that lived there... He had pushed all those childhood stories out of his mind and focussed as he pressed on, but when he reached the next patch of raised mud and crouched down to inspect it the stories came screaming back with a vengeance, filling him instantly with an earth-shattering terror.

  There, pressed into the sodden turf on a mound rising some two feet above the water, Joshua Puss found himself staring down on a complete footprint.

  It was not entirely intact, but as whole as you would ever hope to find in a pursuit such as this; the only thing was, having found it, Joshua almost wished he hadn’t.

  There was none of the usual elation at finding such a solid trace, none of the anticipation it should have brought. Instead, it filled Puss with dread, pure and simple. His heart sunk and shrunk away, seeking solace in the very depths of his soul, and he suddenly become aware of the icy chill that hung around him in the fog. Gaping down disbelievingly at the print, a murmured prayer rose unbidden to his lips, a prayer from his childhood, dredged up from his deepest memories to every God he knew.

  “Puurs protect me, Talal spare me, Griet give me grace, and Sweet Sulaika show me your face, to guide me on, to guide me on, by the Pearl, by the Egg, by the Eye and the Sun, hear the plea in my heart and the words on my tongue, don’t come for me Miu, my time isn’t done.”

  Faced with that print, Joshua’s whole world came crashing down and he became in an instant very, very scared. All that he had ever known as good, solid truth, all the certainties that had propped up his world and made it safe had been knocked out from under him, all his comfort zones dissipated into the now quite terrifying mist.

  Joshua suddenly became aware that he was alone, isolated and very small.

  *

  The temple town of Werpenstad was a modest, but important one, lying as it did on the Great West Road, the paved Imperial Highway running the length of the western border of the Empire, linking Cipriana and the Partition Lands in the south with Delta and the coast in the north. It was walled and gated, with a standing militia force of some five hundred regular troops plus officers. This, coupled with the occasional sorties made by the patrolling regiments of the Imperial Army from Spastad, meant that the citizens of Werpenstad had always felt safe. Always, that is, until last night with the rising of the Eye, the sinister and ill-omened third Moon whose blood red gleam was as fickle and evil as a predatory cat.

  Rumours had already flooded through the Stad like a plague of rats. Although none of the normal burghers had been directly affected, this was the biggest story to erupt in Werpenstad since... well, it was just the biggest, simple as that.

  Somebody had tried to assassinate the Burghermeister, in his own home!

  The attempt had failed, more through outrageous good fortune than anything else: a bucket of soiled water thrown from an upstairs window by his teenage daughter had distracted the would-be assassin at the critical moment, and the feathered dart intended for Heinrich Dupont, Burghermeister of Werpenstad still in his first year in office, had embedded itself instead into the wooden panel right beside his cheek.

  Quivering with the force of the impact, a thick sheen of poison glistened off the needle in the flickering light of the candles illuminating the room from their ornate holders, and a single, oily globule dropped soundlessly to the flag-stone floor. The assassin had fled unseen through the sewers, if the stories were to be believed.

  The Burghermeister had gone into shock, understandably, but was otherwise unharmed and had been whisked to the Stadhuis by the Vice-mayor’s personal guard almost immediately after the alarm was raised. The militia had been mobilised in full force and the town’s tracker summoned.

  Shortly before the troopers systematically starting scouring Werpenstad, Joshua Puss had dropped down into the sewers via a culvert in a narrow lane not far from the Burghermeister’s residence, following the very faintest of trails he had managed to pick up at the scene.

  It was now sundown the following day and all of the Stad’s gates had remained locked since the attack. Vice-mayor Lord Karl Kreigel had taken marshal control of the town, deeming the Burghermeister too badly shaken up to make any responsible decisions - indeed, to make any decisions at all at the moment, for all the man seemed able to do was keep himself curled up in a shuddering ball, moaning softly to himself and crying out loudly when anybody touched him.

  Karl Kreigel was the head of what had been a noble family up until around a hundred years ago, before the Secession Wars when the lowland countries in the north had split from the Kingdoms to form their own Empire. Though the landed gentry no longer existed in this part of the world, his f
amily and others like it, had retained through merit a high status in the hierarchy of the new Imperium and had remained prominent citizens ever since. The Kreigel family had lived in these parts since the foundation stones of the Stad had been laid centuries ago and had, for the most part, been popular lords.

  Despite the fact that the feudal system had been torn down by Bogdan Janosik in the building of the Empire, the honorifics Lord and Lady had been retained, although unlike in the Kingdoms they had separated themselves from, they were merely used as titles and carried no weight or hereditary authority whatsoever.

  Lord Kreigel had been an important member of the council for getting on five years now, and currently held the position of Vice-mayor, second only to Dupont. Amongst his other duties he was also head of the Stad’s militia and he took the defence of his town very seriously.

  It was his own liveried soldiers, bearing the Double K of his personal heraldry, which formed the ring around Dupont’s residence, keeping back the small but persistent crowd which had hovered near the Burghermeister’s house since the news had broken. Even though neither Dupont nor any of his family remained in the house, Kreigel could not run the risk of the crime scene being contaminated by the hands and feet of curious burghers.

  Despite the offer of this protection remaining after Karl’s investigations were complete, the Burghermeister had steadfastly refused to return home, preferring the sanctity and solid stone structure of the elaborately carved Stadhuis, the main administrative building and centre of government in the Stad. Kreigel had also seen fit to surround this four-storied edifice with a detachment of his own personal guard.

  “Your family has been removed to another residence Burghermeister,” Peter van Buren, the Secretary to the Council explained. All the council members were present in the high-ceilinged Council Chamber, an emergency meeting having been called at first light that morning.

  “But they’re safe? You’re sure?” Dupont asked, still ashen-faced and trembling these scant few hours after the attempt on his life.

  “I’m positive Burghermeister,” van Buren assured him. “They are staying over at Councillor Hoskam’s, whose house has also been put under guard.”

  “They’re not to be allowed back do you hear?” Dupont leapt from his chair, vehement in his insistence. “No matter what any of them say! Sweet Sulaika’s mercy, if Florentine hadn’t emptied her chamber pot...” his eyes clouded over and he sunk his head in his hands, beginning to sob once more.

  “Won’t you try to calm down Burghermeister, please,” van Buren tried to placate him, leading him away from the table to the arrangement of cushioned seats over by the fireplace. Meanwhile a discussion was going on further down the table between Lord Kreigel and Councillors Ann de Ludgaard and Lars Schtomm.

  “But to have your own soldiers out there Kreigel, is that absolutely necessary?” the elderly de Ludgaard pressed. “I mean, people are talking - what does it say about the rest of the militia?”

  “Don’t you trust them?” Schtomm asked him in his usual bellicose manner. “By the Bhard, you trained them man!”

  Kreigel frowned at the man’s tone, as idiotic and reactionary as ever. “We cannot afford to trust anyone Lars, not until we know who this assassin was, and who sent him. Besides, it’s not a question of trust; the militia already have enough to do - they’re spread pretty thin between the increased patrols, and conducting house to house searches in the area around Dupont’s house.”

  “With regards to the Burghermeister’s residence,” came in the oldest member of the council, the much respected and wily Maxwell Weisselsbloed, “why post anybody there at all? Perhaps a better approach would be to keep a more discreet eye on the building; a less visible presence. Maybe then this assassin might be lured back, if he thought there might be another chance to strike...?”

  Over by the fireplace the Burghermeister jumped to his feet again, knocking back his chair and spilling the decanter of fortified wine van Buren had given him to calm his nerves. “I’m not going back there!” he shouted in a panic-stricken voice. “You can’t make me!” he jabbed a shaking finger at Maxwell. “No one can make me! It’s a death trap! The house is a death trap and must be knocked down! Yes, you must knock it down, do you hear? Demolish it, it’s the only way!”

  “Sit down!” barked Kreigel across the room, fixing Dupont with a withering stare of contempt. This is what happens when you allow a slob like him to govern, he thought, disgusted at Dupont’s total lack of composure. The man had completely fallen apart. One trying incident and he had gone to pieces. Talal’s teeth, he was the Burghermeister - did he not think he was going to make enemies?

  Kreigel had run for office in the same election as Dupont and many had been surprised when he had been beaten by the guildsman. A merchant’s silver-tongue was the only difference between them, it had been said. Undoubtedly Dupont would have been prepared to grease a few palms where Kreigel would not.

  Seeing the Burghermeister sit again beneath the intensity of his gaze, Karl turned to Weisselsbloed and continued. “This killer’s not coming back, or I very much doubt it. Not straight away at least. This was no hack and slash, back-alley thug. He was a professional, presumably highly trained and equally highly paid. The only reason I wanted the house guarding was to keep it clear of burghers so I could examine the area and try and get something from the crime scene.”

  “Ahhh yes,” Weisselsbloed smiled, “once a policeman always a policeman.” He turned to Philips Brandt sat next to him, only recently elected to the council. “He used to be Assistant Chief Commissioner in Spastad you know,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Years ago now of course. Cut his teeth in Aub and Gansen too in his youth, way back.” He turned again to Kreigel. “So you’ve been over the place already have you?”

  “Indeed. I examined the crime scene extensively this morning.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  “Indeed I did,” the Vice-mayor nodded. “Indeed I did.”

  *

  Slowly, Joshua Puss finished easing the stake into the ground, trying not to make a noise. Having done so he switched his hands to grip his huntsman’s crossbow. Had he heard something? He was sure that he had - but then he had thought that already on five different occasions in the last five minutes, including once when he would have sworn on Griet’s Grace that he had glimpsed a pair of burning red eyes peering malevolently out at him from the mists; but there had been nothing there.

  He felt a faint gust of wind whispering chill against his skin, rolling down lazily from the Spears, the colossal barrier range of mountains to the west. Moving cautiously on as the fog temporarily thinned, he swung his crossbow in a wide, smooth arc, taking in as much of the - There! What was that?

  Through the swirling mists, painted blood red in places where the setting sun was able to penetrate the thick white mist, Joshua thought he could make out the faint outline of... something, away to his right. How far, twenty yards? It was difficult to tell with the fog dancing and gyrating in the breeze, but that was probably not far off, as that was about the furthest he’d been able to see at any time since he’d entered the Borgersveldt, and these were about the best conditions there had been.

  There was a shape out there. Definitely something, on the very edges of his vision! Keeping low and placing each step softly and deliberately in the treacherous ground, he made his way over to the silhouette rising out of the gloom.

  The figure did not move as he stalked towards it, and when he got to within five yards Joshua knew why. He had thought it looked vaguely man-sized in the murky light and in fairness it was; up close though, the tracker could see that it was nothing more than a gnarled and twisted, long-dead tree, clinging to a mound of raised sod with roots almost rotted through.

  Clucking disappointedly, Puss lowered his crossbow and looked around. The tree and its hillock lay on the fringes of an area otherwise completely submerged in green, stagnant water, its flat surface broken only by several clusters of reeds and bull rushes, poking up sporadically as the shallow lake stretched out into the mist-smothered distance. Well, at least he could use the tree as a marker as he was almost out of them now; he was down to his last three.