"Ahh...just about right. Try that," Zeb said, ladling several dollops of camp stew into a soldier's bowl. "I think I finally got the spices how I like them."
"You mean so that it'll burn the rust off an old buckle?" the soldier jibed, blowing carefully on a spoonful of the thick brew.
"Yeah, yeah, maybe next time you can-" Zeb cut off suddenly in mid-sentence. "Is that who I think it is?"
Fifty yards or so away, a figure strode along the ridge-line, outlined against the purpling dusk. A thin man wearing black, his garment looking like an assemblage of torn rags, a black cloak whipping in the wind behind him as he walked parallel to the squad's camp. A long, curved blade rode at his hip, swaying with each step. His face was obscured behind a mask, seemingly pieced together of the same black material as the rest of his outfit.
"Who? Oh, mother...it's Shaketh," Timmon, a short man in his mid-twenties breathed. At the sound of the name, half a dozen or more soldiers crowded around, murmuring among themselves.
"I hear he can turn invisible."
"He rides a nightmare made of darkness."
"He can jump from shadow to shadow like stepping through a door."
"Who are you guys talking about?" this from Simon, a young recruit who didn't look a day over fourteen.
Timmon tore his gaze away as the dark figure passed behind a tent. He turned back toward the boy "Shaketh - the Shadow."
"Never heard of him." At this declaration from Simon, the men all began talking over themselves, repeating the various outrageous powers attributed to the man.
"That's a bunch of faca and you all know it," chimed in Gregor, a swarthy Demetian a few years old than Timmon.
"I don't know. Have you ever seen him fight?" Timmon argued.
"No, have you?" Gregor retorted.
"Well...no, but Belor has. Haven't you, Bel? At Tormon Ridge?" Timmon directed this question to the grizzled old squad leader sharpening his blade a few feet outside their circle.
"What's Tormon Ridge?" Simon asked, leading to an eruption of consternation from the older boys and men.
"Mother damn! What pig farm did they find you in, boy?" Zeb, the old cook asked in exasperation. "Bel, get over here and educate this pup, will you?"
Bel put down his blade with a sigh and walked over to the fire, taking a seat on someone's pack. He pointedly stared at Timmon's bowl of stew until the younger man handed it over. Taking a bite, he savored it for a few seconds and then allowed a bit of a smile to cross his scarred and bearded face. "Zeb, I think you might have finally got the spices right after all."
With an annoyed sigh, Gregor prodded him "Bel, you going to tell the story or what?"
Bel glared at Gregor until the younger man looked away, then nodded. "Yeah, I was there, at Tormon Ridge. Twenty-three years ago this next summer. We were fighting for the old King, Carack, putting down the rebellion from the Seven Cities. Calvary charge had shattered our lines and my company was left to die up on a ridge. Two hundred men reduced to no more than twenty. Half of us with serious wounds. I had an arrow in my shoulder and could barely keep my hand closed tight enough to hold my spear. We had formed a hedgehog, but there were eighty men surrounding us. It was going to be a slaughter. I had said my prayers to the Mother and was looking forward to meeting my old Da a the Great Feast."
"Then I hear this scream, like a lamb being slaughtered. I looked up, and there he his, Shaketh, the Shadow. That curved blade of his was whirling around so fast it's nothin' but a blur, and he's just striding among the enemy like he's walking to the market. They don't even seem to know what's happening. Men are panicking, and dead bodies are falling to either side of him like wheat to the scythe. I thought the Mother sent one of her protectors, or maybe the Father sent one of his demons. I think they thought it, too."
"Faca!" Gregor spat. "You're trying to tell me that one man killed eighty men?"
"He had help," Bel answered grimly. "Old Darius the Red was my cohort commander. He yelled 'charge!' and I dropped my shield and spear, drew my sword with my good hand, and went to work. I blacked out from the bloodlust, I guess. Came to sitting on my ass in a pool of someone else's blood, laughing and hands shaking. Three more of us were dead, including Darius...and every last one of the rebels. They're piled up, either dead or dying. And off walks that man in black, like nothing happened, that curved blade of his held out to the side and dripping." Bel shuddered, handing the bowl of stew back to Timmon.
Simon's eyes were as wide as saucers. Gregor nudged him hard in the ribs and laughed, "Don't believe every damn campfire tale these old men tell you, boy. You'll be wetting your bedroll, dreaming about spooks and styres and demons."
Bel just glared across the fire. "You find yourself alone out on that field tomorrow, your friends dying all around you, you'll be praying to see the Shadow coming over the ridge. You bet on it."
The men all fell silent, the sound of the crackling fire fighting against the stillness of the night.
