Vision returned to Izrak as he knelt before his executioner. A broken blade lay upon the sand. My son. The mercenary looked up.

Ryol kneeled before him, leaning on his grandfather’s sword, its edges dull and rusted, the sigils along the fuller now faded. No longer the dark warrior, Ryol was once again the image of a boy, no more than sixteen. As you were… so long ago. Staring at Izrak, the boy remained silent.

Izrak reached out a trembling hand. Ryol’s flesh began to fall away in flakes of ashen decay, his body withering as thew and bone crumbled into dust. The boy slumped forward as his sword disintegrated in a cloud of rust. Still, his gaze was fixed upon the mercenary, honeyed eyes fading to milk white.

“This is your legacy, Izrak Laav.” Ryol’s voice was distant, empty. “This is all that you have left behind.”

“Ryol!” Izrak lurched forward, grasping for the boy as the last remnants of the revenant collapsed into a ruinous heap. “No!” Leaning over, his fingers sank into the mound. “I am sorry… Please.”

Moaning from beyond the shadows, a phantom wind stole through the coliseum. Ash, dust and sand, sifted through the dead man’s fingers—a murmur of cold lament—as Ryol’s remains rose in a whirlwind, drifted back, then reformed into the shape of a man.

A feral snarl escaped Izrak as the forest spirit materialized before him. Climbing to a bestial crouch, the dead man’s eyes were ablaze with hellfire.

“Where is he?” Chainmail rattled as the dead man’s body quaked with rage. “Give him back to me!” Izrak’s roar thundered through the arena. “Give me my son!”

“Ryol is lost to you, warrior,” the spirit said, pointing a gnarled finger at Izrak. “By your own hand your son is dead, consumed by the very wrath that burns within you, even now.” He lowered his hand. “Your son will never return.”

Izrak’s movement was a blur as he charged the spirit, maw agape with ravenous hunger. The dead man would have answers, even if he had to tear them from the spirit piece by piece.

Just as Izrak reached him, the spirit dissipated into a whirlwind. Grains of sand lashed at leather, mail, and bone as the dead man was lifted from the ground on a furious gale and hurled against a pillar. Stunned by the force of the impact, Izrak slumped to the ground, the unholy fire of his eyes extinguished.

Supporting himself on the pillar, the dead man climbed to his feet. Fierce winds howled as they coursed throughout the arena. One hand holding his head, Izrak clutched at the pouch on his belt. Why do you do this to me? Why will you not let her go?

The winds gathered rapidly in the center of the coliseum. “You do this to yourself, Izrak Laav.” Roiling columns of air rushed upwards to the starlit oculus, the spirit’s voice a faint echo on the rising currents. “Leave, warrior. You cannot save her….”

Then the air was still. And the Old City was shrouded in silence once more.

Izrak gazed at the haunted face of the moon, studying its terrible expanse of ivory desolation, its umbral seas of ebony despair. The dead man wanted desperately to crawl beneath the sands of the arena, to hide in that blood-soaked darkness until time itself ceased to pass, and all matter, all thought, dissolved into the icy embrace of oblivion. Is this not where I belong? A silver glint drew his gaze to the wind-whipped sands; his broken blade still lay where it had fallen. Is this not all that I am?

Fingers closing on the pouch at his hip, Izrak faced the gates of the coliseum. What do you want me to do? How long must I endure this suffering?

After a moment, the mercenary released the pouch and passed through the gates. You cannot save her. The spirit’s words haunted his mind as Izrak stepped out into the courtyard. Facing south, he wondered if the Old One was right. Rescuing Elishei would not make a difference. It will not bring her back. Hunting Zheso provided a clear purpose, one that the mercenary understood. There is no forgiveness. Izrak moved towards the pyramid stairs. Only vengeance.

As he reached the stairs, Elishei’s face—her face—once again seared his consciousness.

Izrak froze and looked to the east. Is that all there is? Only vengeance? Four hundred years I have followed this path. Four hundred years I have walked through the fire, passed through shadow. I have slain man and monster, noble and peasant. I have travelled the length and breadth of this land in search of its mysteries, that I might attain my final wish. Yet four hundred years of strife has not granted me that which I seek… Only that which I deserve.

Hunger… Ceaseless hunger…

A sudden flash of white, like an alabaster flame, flickered in the deserted avenues below. Izrak could make out the image of a young girl, flitting between the shadows of the monstrous edifices flanking the streets, racing towards the western reaches of the city.

Hunger burned within his desiccated guts, lashed at his back with fiery whips. He lurched towards the stairs, and with hitched steps, the dead man began his shambling descent.

***

Elishei was lost.

Sweat-slicked fingers tightened on the branch she had scavenged from the forest after fleeing the church. It was a poor weapon, but what more could an orphan expect. Elishei gazed upon the branch, wondered what it might possibly do to stop the demons that hunted her. Would it even make a difference?

She peered around the corner of a monstrous black monolith, the dead silence of the city weighing on her like the unthinkable mass of alien stone towering above her. Elishei felt small. Why me? Why us? The road ahead looked the same as the last.

Clinging to the mocking shadows, she rounded the corner, sidled along the wall. Grigor would know how to get out of here. Elishei missed her brother. She missed him too. She just wished Gromm had been able to free them both. But I’ll find help. I’ll find a way to get them out. All of them.

Pain shot through her bleeding feet, and tears welled in her eyes. She needed a place to rest.

A roaring wind tore through the silence of the city. Eyes wide, Elishei saw a whirlwind rising out from that terrible arena in the city’s center. The roiling column rose higher, stopped, lingered for a moment as tendrils of air spread out like fingers searching. Then they folded back in, and the whirlwind shot through the sky, heading towards her.

The wind coursed along the avenue, its cool touch soothing her aching body, and pulled at her limbs, urging her forward. A voice came to her, a mountain spring, rising from the depths of her mind.

“Follow me, child. I will show you the way…”

Elishei pressed her back to the wall. What are you?

“A friend… Now, quickly. They draw near, and I cannot remain here much longer.”

For an instant, she hesitated, then chased after her ethereal guide.

A series of rapid turns carried Elishei through the labyrinthine streets at a breathless pace. Chest heaving, the girl rounded another dusk-haunted corner. Elishei winced at the sharp pain in her feet. The winds whispered to her.

“A little farther, child. We are near the edge of the city. Another right turn, up ahead, will lead you out, to the safety of the forest.”

Lancing pain seared the soles of her feet, and Elishei sprawled across the ground. The branch tumbled from her hand, rolling a short distance ahead. Panting, she rolled to her back, peered down the street into the moonlit gloom. A low snarling prowled the shadows beyond, crept towards her as three pairs of gleaming yellow orbs appeared.

Elishei sobbed, rolled over and scrambled for the branch. Seizing it, she leapt to her feet, faced the yellow orbs once more. The snarling grew louder as she backed away. Several long claws emerged from the black. Her breath caught in her throat; she trembled as her skin crawled with spiders of ice. The snarls deepened into growls, then, suddenly, pitched to whines. Elishei started breathing again as the claws retreated, and the yellow orbs blinked out.

What happened? Elishei staggered back a step. It doesn’t matter. She looked over her shoulder. The next corner was at hand. I need to go! The girl spun around, about to run.

And gloved fingers curled around the edge of the structure. Elishei cried out as she slid to a stop. With hitched movements, the dead man rounded the corner, hellfire smoldering in the pits of his eyes. Mouth parting, his lipless grin seemed to grow a little wider.

The dead man staggered forward, reached out for her. Elishei backed away, holding the branch before her like a sword. Halting, his burning eyes dimmed, and the dead man reeled back, clutching his skull.

“No… No! I never meant to…” The dead man growled, pressed his hands to his face. He peered at her through his fingers. “You look like her. As she was… back then.” Snarling, he hunched over, still clutching his face.

Elishei took another step back, lifted the branch above her shoulder.

The dead man’s gaze snapped to her, eyes blazing. Roaring, he lunged for the girl.

Wood split against his skull as Elishei swung with all the strength she possessed, stunning him for an instant. She ducked under his outstretched arms, slipped past him, and raced along the avenue.

As the dead man turned to face her, Elishei was already clear of the Old City. She risked one look back. He shambled after her, calling out a name. Only the cries of the dead man remained to pursue her as she crashed through the trees, the name an echo in her mind.

And though Elishei dared not stop to ponder, she could not but wonder who she was to him. Who is Cila?

***

A soul can only withstand so much punishment. Even less the soul that is fractured, weary, corrupted beyond all reconciliation, and the smallest mercy becomes a searing brand. And the brand leaves its mark upon the condemned; kindness turns to insult, love inflicts torture, and forgiveness becomes a prison for the unhallowed dead. Within that prison, the dead man lingers, languishes, and hope bleeds slowly through the black iron bars of a lonesome cell, until at last, despair guides his thoughts towards desperate escape. Yet, escape is but an empty grave. Night after night, he dreams of the grave’s dark embrace, of its cold oblivion, all the while failing to discern that the cell door was never locked, and that it opens from within….

And as a damned soul crawling out from the black depths of perdition, the dead man shambled towards the expanding ring of coruscant light piercing the dense line of birch screening the lake. He hesitated. Uncertain of what he may find on the other side of that verdant veil, doubt hunched his back as Izrak stood ensnared, hands held out before his face—the pulsating light was blinding to the dead man’s unholy sight—a shameful pariah, clutching the rusted bars of his darkling cell.

Yet, there was nothing left. She was without, waiting on the other side.

Grasping the pouch on his hip, the dead man pushed through the boles.

Izrak emerged and stood at the edge of a clearing. Where are you? The light had vanished. Blades of soft green grass swayed in rhythmic undulations with the breeze, the leaves of the trees sighing as though in deep slumber. He moved into the clearing.

A large windmill towered overhead to the right, resting upon a square structure of ancient logs. Part of the roof had fallen in. Its broken sails turned slowly on the gathering winds.

Further ahead, a field of white lilies, possessed of an unnatural luminescence, circled the shore of the vast lake. The water was still, the night sky reflected in its surface, spreading beyond the mist-veiled horizon. It was as though the dead man were standing at the edge of the world, gazing out into the brumal expanse of frost-limned eternity….

How often had Izrak found himself here? Back turned towards a world fraught with strife and deceit, standing at the edge of an infinite and unknowable truth. Unknowable, forever at the tips of his fingers, forever out of reach. Yet he wanders, the soles of his boots flayed by his torturous pilgrimage; he peels back the earth’s flesh, digging, clawing, cruelly seeking the secrets of creation’s eldritch mysteries, only to find that the question is pointless, for the answer is always the same. Always the same.

Where are you?

Sweet laughter… “I’m here, Papa.”

A tremor wracked the dead man’s desolate frame, shattered the smothering fugue of his suffocating mind.

A young girl of seven summers stood before him at the water’s edge, facing away, her pearlescent nightgown billowing over the water like the morning mist. She turned, looked up at him. Her image was dawn in the heart of spring; fair, blonde tresses flowed in resplendent golden rays down her shoulders, around a soft face white as clouds, over eyes like dew-frosted meadows glistening beneath the rising sun. Cila….

Izrak staggered, fell to his knees. “Daughter…” The dead man trembled, arms hanging at his sides, fingers digging into the soil, seeking for something real to hold onto, to assuage the anguish of a grieving soul. “Forgive me… Please, do not leave me.” He lifted his hollow gaze to her. Black ichor, profane tears, seethed from the purulent pits. “Forgive me.”

Cila smiled. “I never left you, Papa.” She woke one of the budding lilies from its bed, plucked it, and stepped closer to her father. Tracing the edges of the petals with her finger, she said, “I think forgiveness is like one of these.” Taking the dead man’s hand, she placed the flower on his soiled palm. “It’s a gift.” She closed his fingers around the bud. “It’s selfish to keep it to yourself.” Holding Izrak’s hand, she knelt before him. “Can you forgive yourself, Papa?”

The dead man lifted his empty hand towards Cila, brushed her cheek, then pulled back. Izrak looked away. “How could I?”

The girl giggled. “I told you, Papa. Like the flower. It’s a gift, but you need to take care of it. Give it warmth and love and room to grow. You decide what to do with it.” Cila lifted her father’s hand. “Look.”

Izrak opened his hand. The lily was in full bloom, diamond petals shimmering with radiant splendor.

“Just like that flower, Papa. It opens from within.” Cila reached out, held the dead man’s head, and wiped the black tears from her father’s eyes. All faded into darkness.

VI

It Opens from Within

VII

We Will Go Together

Cila stepped out onto the riverbank, a faint song of spring upon her lips.

The skirt of her sarafan danced lightly on the morning breeze. Verdant boughs swayed overhead in rhythm to the azure, crystalline hum of the rolling waters; the descant tones of nightingales warbled harmoniously with the child’s sanguine melodies. Vitality surged within the sturdy boles of aspen and birch, and illuminated the petals of plantain, iris, and loosestrife in a tableau of chromatic splendor.

All about her, creation rose in concert, celebrating the birth of a new season, sang praise for new beginnings. And as the girl moved into a neighboring grove, to pick mushrooms for her mother, Cila offered silent prayers for the rebirth of dreams once lost to the dead of winter.

It was not long before Cila’s basket was nearly full of brown porcini and golden chanterelles. Mama’s stew will be so tasty! She grinned as she placed another chanterelle inside, breathing deep its sweet apricot scent. Maybe Papa will eat with us too… Yet, Cila’s smile shriveled as another scent sought to overpower it, one decadent, foul, and out of place in her floral haven.

The odor grew stronger.

Holding the ends of her shawl to her nose, Cila turned about. The birds had ceased their singing, and the sunlight seemed to retreat from an umbral patch of dense, twisted brush across the grove. Warmth fled from her; the girl’s skin crawled as she pressed her back against a tall birch. Underbrush crunched; branches snapped. Cila held the basket to her chest.

A pale hand broke through the dark, twisted mass, then another, and pulled it apart. And Izrak Laav emerged into the grove. Cila stood frozen, watched as her father—the dead man—approached, his darkling eyes fixed upon her.

“Cila?” Izrak halted a few paces away. “Did something frighten you, daughter?” Taking another step, he gestured to the basket. “You have gathered so many. Your mother will be pleased. Still, I thought I might join you.”

Daughter… Cila remained silent. Even still, she was unaccustomed to her father’s presence.

Just an infant when he left, the girl had little sense of who or what he was, only that which her mother and brother had seldom spoken of. I wish I remembered how you looked… before. Cila stared at the dead man, scoured the empty eyes, the sad smile, the tiny fissures lining the bones of his face, like wrinkles in the skin he no longer wore, searching for some semblance of the father she never knew.

Cila looked away. “Yes, Papa.” Her voice was muffled beneath the shawl. “Let’s go back to the river. The air is sweeter there.”

“As you wish. And how may I help?”

Giggling, Cila released her shawl and thrust out the fungal hoard. “You get to carry the basket!”

Izrak chuckled, took the basket. “So be it.”

The sun climbed towards noon, and with her father’s aid, Cila filled the basket to near overflowing. After adding a particularly large bay bolete to the gathering, Izrak moved down the embankment near the water and sat upon the grass. He placed a hand beside him. “Come, Cila. Sit with me.”

Joining her father, she looked at the clear, glittering waters as she plucked a lily from its bed, traced the edges of the petals with her fingers. For a time, they did not speak, only listened to the river’s soothing murmurs. Cila glanced at her father.

Fingers playing over the pouch he always carried, Izrak’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, as though searching for something only he could find. No. Waiting for someone who will never return.

“Papa, are you going to leave us again?”

The dead man’s hand closed tight around the pouch; he looked at it for a moment, then placed it inside his tunic. “No, my daughter, I will not leave you again. I promise.”

Smiling, Cila took a mushroom from the basket and ate it. She ate another.

Izrak laughed. “Save some for us, little rabbit.”

Cila giggled, took one more, and handed it to her father. Izrak hesitated, turning the mushroom over in his fingers. He ate it.

“How does it taste, Papa?”

The dead man stared at her for a moment, shook his head and chuckled. “Let us return home, little rabbit. Your mother will soon be expecting this fine harvest.”

Laughing, Cila leapt to her feet. “Yes, Papa.” The girl skipped ahead several paces, turned to face him. “I’ll race you! If you catch me before we make it home, you win!”

***

That evening, Cila and her mother ate alone. Her father’s absence at dinner was expected, but Ryol’s absence was unusual, discomforting. Her brother cherished their meals together as much as any family could wish for. What could make him so mad? Cila played with her stew as Lebi spoke of Ryol’s argument with their father. After her mother had finished, Cila sat quietly for a time.

Cila let go of her spoon. “Where did Ryol go?”

Lebi frowned, peered out the window into the dusky gloom. “I do not know, dear,” she said, more to herself, the knuckles of one hand pressed to her lips. “I am sure he will return soon, and in better spirits.”

“Where’s Papa? Did he go look for him?”

“He…” Lebi paled, drew a hand across her eyes. A moment passed, and she looked at Cila, her lips cracked in a brittle smile. “Your father went to help Bogda bring in his pigs.”

Cila scrunched her face at this. “But why won’t he go look for Ryol?”

“Your father is just giving him space. Maybe,” Lebi turned her gaze to the window once more, “he too needs some space.” A nervous chuckle broke from her. “You know how hot their tempers can burn…”

Cila stared at the stew before her, studying the bits of sausage, potato, and mushroom, held together by the warm broth, all sheltered within the sturdy bowl. Why can’t we be like that? Jealousy flared in the girl. All the other girls, the ones who laughed at her, had normal homes, happy families. None seemed to have that cold shadow, that dark cloud, hanging forever over her own home. I just want our family to be like theirs. Normal. Together. Whole….

Pushing the bowl away, Cila stood. “Fine. I’ll go look for him.” Her cheeks were flushed, breath quickened. She bolted for the door, but Lebi flew from the table to bar her exit.

“No, Cila. I already had one child run off today. I will not have it so with you.”

“Then we’ll go together!” Cila’s eyes reddened, welled with tears.

“No, Cila!” Lebi’s lips were pale, drawn tight. Her amber eyes blazed, brooking no reproach.

Crying, Cila turned away. She felt as though the earth trembled beneath her feet, as though the walls of her home were crumbling around her. Stomach roiling, Cila’s mind spun, caught in a whirlwind of forces that she did not understand, could not control.

Suddenly, warmth enfolded her as arms closed around her shoulders, infused her with calm. The ground stood still; her mind steadied, came to rest.

Lebi knelt behind her daughter, held Cila in a tight embrace. “I know it is hard right now, dear child.” She turned the girl to face her. “I will talk to your father when he returns. Although, Ryol will come home soon, I am sure. All will be well.”

Her mother offered a faint smile. Cila wiped her eyes, nodded her head.

“Now, go wash before bed. I will come read to you before you sleep,” Lebi said, rising to her feet.

Cila hugged her mother one last time, then went to do as she was bid.

***

A scream dragged Cila from her sleep. Clutching her furs, the girl sat up, body wracked with a shivering born not of the cold. The candle beside her bed had burned out. Only the moon’s shallow light trickled in through the window. It did little to stave off the darkness that thickened about her, bubbling up from living shadows growing far beyond their natural limit.

Another scream ripped through the house.

“Mama!” Cila cried into the black. Silence was the only reply.

Then, muffled sounds of struggle seeped through the walls of her room. A faint snarling—a wolf on the hunt—prowled the hallway beyond her door. Did one of Bogda’s dogs get inside? Cila tossed the fur cover to the ground and crawled beneath her bed. Just like Ryol told me to do…

Someone entered the main room. Cila fought to hold her breath against the battering of her heart. Ryol! Did he come back? The girl was about to climb out from under the bed when her door burst open. A pair of heavy, muddy boots stomped into the room, the silver gleam of a blade falling into view. Cila jolted the bed as she lurched away from the menacing figure.

“Cila!” the deepening voice cried out.

Ryol! The thought crashed through Cila’s mind, propelling her forward. At that same moment, a sickening, gut-wrenching sound seethed from their parents’ room. Ryol suddenly fled her room. Unconscious of the action, the girl dug her nails into the wood, clinging to the floor with bloodless fingers… Waiting… Praying…

A moment, a lifetime, passed, and Ryol’s shout broke the fugue of Cila’s mind. “What have you done? Get away from her!” An infernal roar met her brother’s challenge.

Bodies slammed and rolled against the hallway wall. The house itself shook under the impacts as the battle drew closer to Cila’s room. The girl wanted desperately to go to her brother, to help him, but the roots of fear sprung from her flesh, reached far and sank deep into the ground to drink of the terror-soaked soil. The rush of blood roared in her ears, curdled in her veins.

Ryol fell in through the doorway. Rolling on a crimson-painted neck, his head turned towards Cila, listless eyes staring at her as the sword clattered across the floor, coming to rest near the bed. That feral snarl stalked just beyond the door. Ryol’s body jerked towards the door, then was dragged over the threshold. Those same sickening sounds seethed from the black once more. Cila quickly reached for the sword, grabbing it by the blade, and pulled it towards her.

Pale feet stepped into the room. Papa? Tears welled in her eyes as her grip tightened on the blade. Izrak moved to the bed, then stood still, for a heartbeat, for two, for three… Skeletal fingers wrapped around the edge of the frame. The wood groaned for an instant, then leapt from the floor to crash against the wall.

Cila lifted the sword against her father as she stumbled back towards the window. The moon’s cold light drew her into its silver embrace, washing the rune-engraved blade in its argent gleam. Her wounded hands quivered, and Izrak’s sword wept rubrous tears. Chilled glass pressed against her back, sapping what little strength remained to a girl whose courage had been taxed beyond all mercy. Cila slumped against the panes as the sword fell to her side.

Izrak drew near, his maw drawn in its sanguinary smile, looming over his daughter as death’s pale shadow. The dead man reached out, his eyes flared orange, pits set with burning coals….

About the Author:

Lee Patton is a Christian and Army veteran from North Dakota. His work has been published in The Literary Fantasy Magazine and The Penmen Review. Fascinated with mythic tales of mighty heroes and dark terrors, Lee dwells in the realm of fantasy, where faith and courage are carried on the edge of a blade. In his free time, Lee is reading vintage Sword & Sorcery, exercising, and learning the Russian language.

Heed The Call and discover more at: Deathless Realms – Fantasy Tales of Lee Patton.

A Valley of Shadow Schedule:

• Part One: 28 Feb. 2025

• Part Two: 28 March 2025

• Part Three: 25 April 2025

• Part Four: 30 May 2025

• Part Five: 27 June 2025