The Shadow Vipers - Prologue and Part 1

Prologue

The small boy held onto his father's hand as they walked towards the stables laboratory. The boy knew better to cling too tightly, which would result in a cuff to the head, and more sorrowfully, his father would not let him hold his hand at all. The squeal of the horses no longer scared him, but he still had not lost the feeling of sadness that arose while taking this lesson. As they entered the main hall, two hooded men led the next horse to the center of the altar stall. His father began the concentration that was necessary for this ritual, and pulled the black steel dagger from his belt. The boy hated to lose his hand hold, but knew to pay close attention as the elaborate steps of the procedure were completed. He felt the power within his father grow with each new chant. The final step was at hand, and the boy steeled himself against the smell of blood he knew was to follow. As the dagger took the horse's life, and the attendants held the horse steady in the center of the altar, the boy could feel the power path between his father and the horse. The boy watched the flesh of the horse become shadowy as his father took control of it's soul.

His father now turned towards him and held out the dagger
“It is time you learned to do this yourself. If you have not been paying attention, you will fail”

The hooded assistants led the new horse towards the bloody stall. The boy crushed the fear and hesitation growing in the center of his stomach as he had been taught, and moved into the stall with the horse. The voice of his father leashed the boy to his purpose.
“Don't be afraid of the size or the power of the horse. Don't ever be afraid of power. Simply think through how you will defeat and then control it.”

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.
See page for author [CC BY 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

The boy drew in his mind and focused on the life force of the horse held before him. He concentrated on the ritual, letting each measure flow from the next. In the middle of the sacrifice, he almost faltered as the fear of failure intruded into his focus. He willed the doubt out of his mind without losing the flow of his actions. He put his spiritual collar on the horse as he thrust the dagger into it's neck. He could feel the horse become a part of himself, to call upon into flesh and ride, or to send back into the mists, as he willed. He allowed himself out of the almost trance to watch this horse transform itself into shadow, it's blood covering him.

He felt his father's approving hand grip the back of his neck, and looked up to see his father almost smiling at him.
“Very good for your first time. Indeed, your next test will be on a man.”

Chapter 1

Gustave Doré [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The stable boy looked up to see a rider churning through the snow and mud. Cloaked against the snowfall, the rider did not hurry as he approached the inn. The boy yet again wished he had the courage to warn the traveler against staying, but too many beatings had cowed him long before. The rider dismounted and looked at the boy, handing him a small bottle and not his reins.
“Here, drink this.”

The boy did as he was told, and felt the cold and the pain of his bruises withdraw from his body. He looked for the reins and in surprise could not see where the rider's horse had gone. The cloaked man was already moving towards the door of the inn, and the boy, in surprise from the feeling of comfort and the disappearance of the horse, had the courage to speak.
“Lord, do not go-”

The rider turned and smiled at the boy.
“Go home boy. Tuck yourself into your blankets, build a fire, enjoy the warmth. Do not come back here tonight. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded even as he turned to run home.

As the rider entered the inn, the sullen patrons sized him up. Short and stout, this fool was not even carrying a sword. Even an effeminate trading man carried a sword, if only to give a second thought to the riff raff of the world. But this mark did not even tarry at the door and size the crowd in return. He headed directly to the serving table, a trusting smile on what the patrons could see of his shadowed face. The keeper was the only one of the inn with a friendly smile in return, although that smile didn't quite match the glint in his eye. The rider arrived at the table and asked for mulled wine. The keeper was happy to provide a cup from the kettle which was specifically kept for lonely travelers, and two of the patrons started a slow walk towards the rider's back.

The keeper was not as happy when the rider closed his hand over the cup, and the keeper's hand holding it.
“You drink it”

The keeper's look of outrage turned to one as fear as the rider's cloak slid away from the arm holding his own. A tattoo of a dark green and black mottled snake was curled around the forearm. The keeper shrieked and tried to jerk his arm back, and as he pulled, the snake on the rider's arm shivered into living movement, suddenly striking out and driving it's fangs into the keeper's arm. The two men closing on the rider hesitated, then pulled short billys from their pockets and broke for the stranger. More of the inn patrons ran for the door. The rider did not even turn, simply motioned over the cup of wine before taking a contented sip. The attacker's behind him suddenly halted, as if some cold, unseen defenders had grabbed them and held them under arrest. The first man to the door drew back in fear, as another cold nebulous thing between him and the door seized him.

By James McBryde [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The rider finished his mulled wine, not watching the melee behind him, as the formless forces he had summoned grabbed and held all of the patrons, twisting their arms behind their backs, and gripping their throats in frigid, unseen hands. Neither did he spare a glance at the keeper, twisting on the floor in a torture of poison. Soon, the keeper was dragged into line with the others. The rider finally turned to cast his eye in judgment over this simulacrum of a court. There were three women amongst the prisoners, and he motioned that two of these be released. The rider told the first woman to go home and stay in warmth for the night, but for the second woman he found an approving eye; after some wordless concentration.
“Fix hot water for a bath, a bath for two if you wish for some warmth and some coin this night. I know you to be blameless in this. Go upstairs to the keeper's room. Do not come down here, do not listen to the noises from down here. The water will be brought to you.”

By Albert Welti (1862-1912) (Dobiaschofsky Auktionen) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

At this, the things that had not been seen formed from the shadows as men, but as colorless men from whom the life seemed to be drained. There were more of them then the inn patrons, who started bleats of innocence and mercy. The rider clenched his fist and ice that was not there filled the mouths of these jackals to stifle their nonsense. He then called for more of his pale men to seize others of the village who were not at the inn. One of his cold guard began carting water up the stairs as others coalesced in and out of solidity.

The rider finished one cup of the wine as his preparations were completed. Three more men were dragged in and finally the inn was filled with eleven whimpering men and one silently defiant woman. The rider addressed them in contemptuous tone.
“For two years you have been murdering everyone you thought had money and no protection as they passed through here. You have cowed the others in this village with beatings and even murdered some of your own neighbors who had the courage to send for the reeve or even to challenge what you were doing. You claim you have no fault in this? You beg for the mercy you have shown no one else? Let me explain who I am”

At this he displayed the tattoo on his arm which had panicked the keeper; at the sight of the snake on his arm, the prisoners began another fruitless struggle which ceased at the rider's laugh.
“Oh yes, a Shadow Viper. You didn't quite believe in us, did you? Or if you did, and one came to you, you thought you could buy me as easily as you did the reeve. But we are real, and we do the things that are unreal. I command the dead as easily as you command your chickens. I have watched from the shadows, and I have spoken to the spirits of your victims. You didn't see my servants, but they have been here, and they have seen you. Seen, and reported. I know where you burned the bodies, but that didn't stop me from talking to their souls. Innocence? Mercy?”

The rider laughed as if he had seen a fat man fall into a pile of manure.
“Your souls are real things; they can be used for all sorts of magical uses, they can be used to create servants of mist and cold, they can be sold to The Elders, they can be sent free to the After, or they can be held in endless pain. You, my friends, will get the mercy of eternal pain...unless I need a cheap bargain with the demons. You might ask why I say cheap?”

“Because weak people breed weak, valueless souls, and merciless, cowardly killers are as weak as a soul gets.”

The pale men faded back into shadow, but did not release the grip they held on the prisoners. The rider moved from man to man, pulling his dagger across their throats after a few moments of silent ritual. The condemned tried but could not scream through the shapeless ice filling their mouths, keeping them silent as death. The rider moved to the woman last. She, at least ,did not struggle or try to plead though the gag, keeping her eyes, as cold as the ice blocking her speech, fixed on the rider as he approached.
“It was your husband that started this. You were the strong one out of this bunch. You were content to drug the lonely men who went with the girls you forced to whore. Oh, a few beatings when somebody...mostly your girls...got out of line. But murder? So tell me, why didn't you stop them after their drunken bragging turned into plans to murder?”

She remained silent even as the ice in her mouth had melted away, defiant eyes staring back at the rider.
“So be it then. But I'll give you this mercy of knowledge...it will be easier to drag the answer out of your soul as it burns and freezes under my order”

Her defiance turned into fear as he leaned over her, but her sudden babble of words was cut just as cleanly as her throat. He snickered.
“Oops, I guess that wasn't a mercy after all”

The rider started up the stairs with the contented smile of a blacksmith after a whole day of hammering out perfect horseshoes.