Chapter 1

Dawn cut into day as the wreckage and the smoldering heap of the village beneath Shadowfoot lit the morning with an insatiable blaze.  Blood and bones, bodies heaved and cleaved, torsos gutted and leaking, arms and legs and heads scattered in piles, and the crows already at their feast.  It was the caws and beaks snapping that echoed into dawn, that and the cackle of flames.  All other life had fallen to silence.  They had been overwhelmed and caught unawares; the local magistrate found them out and sent a Lieutenant and a cohort of imperial soldiers.  It was likely a local villager—that young one with the blue eyes, he had taken too keen an interest in them—that sold them out for the promise of gold or perhaps some goods, fool!  He coughed a spoonful of blood as he yanked himself up from the ground, his chains still bound to the Olive tree.  Had he had strength to even breath, he might have cried until his lung burst and cursed the Old Gods for their cruelty.  He didn’t even know how he was still alive.  It had happened all at once he thought, and now at the Lieutenant’s mercy.

The Empire always acted with impunity and a need to set an example; it was too large and vast a power overreaching and miserly so.  To quell any signs of resistance, they showed that absolute power demands absolute obedience.  The village harbored him and his rebels.  They belonged to the Iron Sands, a rebellion that was spreading across the lands of Alamee.  It was an old land and its people just as old.  Three Kingdoms there once stood, each glorious and majestic in its own right, the Three Towers of Alamee built by their Ancient Goddess.  Proud and old the Alamaen tradition was, but for near a thousand years the Empire supplanted the old ways and instilled its own.  The Iron Sandssought freedom from the Empire’s influence.  Young and hungry and having endured so much personal loss at the hands of Imperial rule, a generation of young men and women sparked a rebellion. 

But what is the price of freedom, Shadowfoot shuddered at the thought.  He stared defenseless at the remains of a massacre. Too much. 

Not an hour ago, Four hundred imperial soldiers had descended onto the Village at the break of dawn.  As women were drawing water from the wells and the children accompanying them were playing with the rocks, imperial swords and spears cut through them.  Screams had erupted with the roosters’ crows, and torches wrapped in pitch were thrown into every building.  The men in the fields heard the nock of arrows aimed upon them, and only had time to raise their arms against the sun as those arrows were loosened into their chests and faces.  Even Shadowfoot’s own, having caught too late the scent of death, had been unprepared when the imperial soldiers fell on them.

Shadowfoot had time to grab his scabbard, but not before seeing Long-Tooth take a spear through the throat.  Able-Wit had emerged from his chair weaponless, grabbing hold of Long-Tooth’s assailant, but he was hacked down from two soldiers to his back.  Proud-Face, as large as a mountain lion and likely twice as strong, grabbed two of the imperial soldiers and smashed them together.  His heavy hands wailed on them as a hammer might break on an anvil.  Their faces splattered like melons splashed against stones.  Strong, but not impervious, had emerged from the other side of Proud-Face’s left arm.  Shadowfoot finally woke into action. His edged sword slid out its scabbard and struck true with a slice across his adversary’s face.  Left, then right, side step, and an upward slash.  Quickly, four more imperial soldiers dead.  Proud-Face stood up in relief, but that relief was short lived.  Half a dozen arrows filled his backside as he flailed forward and ended in Shadowfoot’s lap.  “For Alamee,” he heaved, before falling into death’s embrace.

“For Alamee,” cried Shadowfoot, springing to action. He was the quickest of his band of twenty men; not the youngest, strongest, or proudest, but certainly the swiftest. Imperial soldier after imperial solider, his blade slashed, and thrashed and glided through the archers that fell his brother in arms.  The blood of his enemies lined the floor, but so too did the blood of the innocent alongside them.  The children, the women, even the old and the week.  His own lay slain amongst them, Big Ears, Fat-Chin, Skinny Neck, Night Wind, and Lady Flowers all hacked and torn and bloodied. Vengeance filled the edge of his palms, and darkness edged his peripheries.  He took up Night Wind’s sword, in his hand it shimmered there in the daylight.  He had always eyed the blade in wonder, so named Mockingjay, that whistled a song of death through the night.  Two blades in hand, Shadowfoot edged to the thick of a field of wheat where hundreds of imperial soldiers slaughtered the villagers.

Death became him, and the whistle of his blade slid through flesh and bone and man.  Soldier after soldier crumbled as he swept through their defenses, running between them as a shadow in the wind.  His swiftness unmatched, vengeance boiled in every exhalation and stroke. For my brothers, he remembered the hatred in his heart.  Mockingjay made a canvass of the fields, the spray of crimson red spattered in linear streaks across the stems and the kernels of wheat.  There must have been twenty dead to the stroke of his blades, and there a moment of pause in the battle.  Adrenaline coursed through him as did deep tireless breathes, he could barely maintain.  Another deep breath, he reminded himself, breathe deeply and control your energy. The blood dripped from the edge of his blades, and he heard each drip as time slowed and he refocused his attention.

Shadowfoot then seen a convoy in the field, horses and chariots and their Lieutenant stood riding on one of the horse-drawn chariots.  Plated armor hung from the lieutenant’s chest and ended at his waist.  Where the bottom of his leather plaided tunic ended, iron greaves covered his knees and met the lips of his leather boots.  His vambraces were laced in gold as were the trimmings of his sleeves, which draped over his armor in the emerald red of the Empire. The imperial sigil of the Golden Sun bristled in the daylight of the massacre. He wore the lieutenant’s helmet, the golden sun brandished above the eyes of the helm.  And his eyes, two colorless black things, large and looming over his small sharp nose.  Shadowfoot thought he had seen evil in those eyes, eyes that needed to be shut.  If I die, no matter Shadowfoot had thought…

Shadowfoot dashed between them, hoping to spring like a cat from the shadow of the wheat, but as soon as he leapt, he felt the hot and bruising whip of chains wrap itself around him.  Damn it! he winced and cursed as the chariot kept riding while his body whipped across the hard earth.  He heard their laughter and the boom of excitement that lingered in his enemies’ roars.  His body dragged as the rustle of wheat broke against his skin.  The other chariots boomed alongside him, a couple spearman jousting their spear ends into his arms and legs.  Indefatigably, Shadowfoot tried and tired and lost in the effort to regain footing or some sort of advantage.  Mockingjay had fallen behind him as did his other sword.  Rocks torn against his skin and dirt clamored against his face. When will this end? he remembered thinking.  It must have felt like hours even though it might have only been minutes. Dushara grant my soul safe passage he had prayed when his captors finally came to a standstill.

“Kill him?” asked one of the imperial soldiers.

“Not yet,” replied the Lieutenant, taking a step down from his chariot.  “I recall stories of this one.  The scouts did not lie, he is ugly as he is deadly.” The lieutenant grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up as if it were a root being pulled from the ground.  Shadowfoot only grimaced.  “Gods look at that face…half of it is missing, and his right eye,” he snapped his fat fingers in front of it.  “As hollow as an Alamaen cunt,” he boomed in laughter.  The soldiers laughed either out of fear or sincerity, Shadowfoot could not tell.

“As hollow as an imperial asshole,” dared Shadowfoot, “I know how your lot share their beds in the cold Alamaen ….” but an armored fist finished his sentence for him. 

“Did I give you leave to speak?” asked the Lieutenant.  Shadowfoot wanted to give him a satisfying answer, something to burn his red face with frustration and anger, but he hadn’t the lungs.  Heavy deep breaths. Wheezes, slowing to a murmur of exasperation.  “I did not think so,” continued the Lieutenant.  “We came her for you, you know? Swift Death, they call you.  The Blade in the Shadow, the Wretched of the Sands, the Whisper in the Meadows. You have killed many of our men, true.  Yet this isn’t usually worth the hassle, slaughtering a village, making an example of insurrection.  There are usually better ways.”

The Lieutenant seemed to know Shadowfoot was braving up the courage to say something, for suddenly, the imperial pushed his foot into Shadowfoot’s neck.  It sent his half-turned body straight to the ground.  “Still, you killed the wrong soldier, Alamaen,” he carried on nonchalantly, the weight of his own words sounding important in his own ears. “It was the governor’s cousin, sent to these parts to avoid the till of battle.  Yet, as animals are bound to lash out and bite, Young Tybalt was a casualty in your play at rebellion.  His only job was to sound the alarm if the garrisons were infiltrated, our storehouse of weapons being a godsend here in this wretched shithole of a country.  Yet…when he went to blow his horn, Swift Death befell him.  We found his body at dawn, his horn cleaved in a single stroke as was his throat.  By then your lot had already cleared our armory of supplies, but not without leaving some evidence.”

“Pity I did not find you instead,” mustered Shadowfoot. 

“Pity that I found you,” heaved the Lieutenant almost reluctantly, but Shadowfoot could see the pleasure the man was getting out of this exchange.  This was a game of cat and mouse to him, and the Lieutenant was merely a cat toying with its prey before the kill.  “Swift Death is your name, but it is unbecoming, don’t you say Cato?”

“Unbecoming,” nodded the man named Cato.  “Too slow to be Swift Death, eh?”

“Indeed, too slow,” said another.

“Eureka! There it is!” the Lieutenant exclaimed.  “Slow Death is your fate; Ravaged Corpse, Decayed Scourge, Withered Whisper.”

“It is a foolish man who enjoys the sound of his own voice,” spat Shadowfoot.  

Shadowfoot felt the hot metal of chains wrapped around his wrists and another set wrapped around his ankles.  The pull of his limbs ended with a harsh snap, he felt the bones shatter and then heard his back crack as they slung his body against the base of an olive tree.  One by one the imperial soldiers slugged his body, the crunch of his ribs answered in silent desperation. Punches, and kicks, and the slam of sword hilts came in waves, as Shadowfoot’s knees finally gave way and he felt the pain of his wrists collapse under the weight of his own body.  Give me a blade he had foolishly imagined; and for a few moments, he retreated into the inter recesses of his mind and all pain seemed to disappear from the world.

“Oh, but look,” the Lieutenant interrupted that peace, his voice the last thing Shadowfoot cared to hear before death.  The Lieutenant pointed to the fields below. “Our men have surrounded the village and gathered up the survivors.  The Magistrate wants to make an example of you and your kind, the disobedient dogs that you are.  May it inspire more acts of treason so that I may put the strays to sleep.  Do you see it, Slow Death?  I did not think there would be so many to survive the onslaught.  A couple hundred at least, don’t you say, oh my math was never too good.”

“Some two hundred and thirty villagers,” Cato answered his Lieutenant.  “Seven of the New Creed rebels have been taken captive as well.”

“Undeniable don’t you see,” the Lieutenant turned his gaze to Shadowfoot, but the Alamaen had not the strength to lift his head.  “Power is an immeasurable thing, and greed the greatest ally in our imperial efforts.  How quickly did a lone villager turn for the promise of more?  As much as you might think the Empire an evil thing, know that it too holds the promise for a better world.  The cows get fatter, the fields bountiful, and those wise enough to serve the Empire’s interest are rewarded in kind.  All the while the whole continent of Zaman remains at peace.  Opportunities lay like golden hens in the bloom of spring.”

Must do something Shadowfoot imagined.  Think! An opening that might avail him.  But I can barely see.

“No words,” the Lieutenant smiled wildly, as if he read his mind.  He casually approached Shadowfoot one more time.  “Damn it, his good eye is swelling up, Cato, a knife now!” and as he said it, the Lieutenant took the knife from his imperial acolyte and slit open the welt that had formed over Shadowfoot’s right eye.  “Now that’s better, let him see.  Cato, the signal,” he pointed towards the earth and gripped his palms as if he was trying to squeeze a lemon.  

“Yes Lieutenant Graves,” nodded Cato, before raising a red banner and waving it in a specific fashion.  “Make him watch!”

His name was Graves.  

The other imperial soldiers lifted Shadowfoot’s face and forced his gaze upon the field.  There were a couple hundred villagers, who having been rounded-up, were herded like sheep in a pen.  The pen was three hundred imperial soldiers with their long Scutum shields, the barbs their long-toothed javelins.  Fires enveloped the buildings that stood around the village.  Villager and rebel alike stood defenseless in the pupil of the blaze.  A handful of imperial soldiers broke from their formation, and seemed to be dousing an oil around the herd.  A long cry broke the silent anticipation, but a barb poked through the pen and ended any more attempts at courage.

“Not like this,” Shadowfoot heaved.  “Stop this! GRAVES!”

“It will be a glorious grave indeed,” Lieutenant Graves chuckled. He nodded at Cato who gave the second wave of his banner.  Shadowfoot could all but watch as the fires were set and the pupil set ablaze.  Screams broke through the day, the cry of mothers begging for their children’s lives, villagers squealing for mercy to the Goddess, and men anguishing the flames in their attempt to break the Imperial line.  The imperial line held, and while those Javelins impaled those trying to break free, the dead’s bodies only added fuel for the flames that enveloped the herd.  It happened quick after that.  Excruciatingly, inhumanely, barbarically, but the flames ate away at flesh and bone and silenced those voices forever.  Shadowfoot gave way to despair, his body still bound to chains but his mind barely clinging to the reality of his failure. 

“Quick for them,” laughed Graves, “Slow death for you!”  The Lieutenant with an unexpected quickness, shoved a knife beneath Shadowfoot’s ribs.  He looked him in his lone good eye and smiled as he broke the hilt off the blade itself. Shadowfoot heard the smile turn into chortles as he coughed the blood that flowed against gravity in his throat. Shadowfoot winced with such pain that he did not think he might open his eye again.  It was again, as if the Lieutenant read his mind, Graves jabbed his knife again into the same wound, breaking the hilt as he stood and turned away. Shadowfoot lost himself to his screams that echoed with the cackle of flames.  A spindle loomed for an eternity, before Shadowfoot heard at last: “Men, move out!” 

The fires and screams shifted in his mind’s eye, like waves crashing ceaselessly against a drowning fool who had swam too far out in the waves.  Too much! Shadowfoot retreated in his thoughts.  The price was always the innocent.  Still chained to the olive tree where the imperials left him, Shadowfoot felt the torrent of blood pouring from the broken hilt.  He ached at every twitch and movement of his broken bones, as breathing itself became a fight for another few moments of life.  It will be over soon, he thought.  Graves! I will haunt you in death!  The sound of horse hooves and chariots moving slowly faded into the distance.  

“Not yet,” he heard a woman’s voice.

The wind rustled quietly as the cackle of flames bloomed effigies in the fields below.  Darkness covered Shadowfoot’s eye as he slipped in the depths of oblivion, but the torment of both his body and mind, was eased with the lulling of that same voice…somewhere distant springing from nothingness.

UPDATED 07/15/25