Short Story: ‘The Shadowed Man’

This story deserves a bit of background and context. In 2011, I wrote a fantasy novel called Nightmaria, which was meant to be the first in a series of five books. In fact, each one of those books has at least a completed draft. It was one of the greatest creative endeavors of my life. Unfortunately, the book’s publication was a jumbled mess and even though it has been out of print for a long time, I only gained the rights back in the past few years. That obviously killed any momentum for a potential series, but I created an entire world, it’s only natural that I’d want to go back for at least a visit.

I wrote this story a few years ago. You are absolutely not required to read my long out of print fantasy novel to understand it. This is a complete standalone story. It is set before the events of the novel and is its own separate entity. In fact, this story is meant to serve as an introduction to that world, and to Shannery Shadowman, one of its main antagonists. Because it may very well be the case, it’s also meant to be a story about this world and this monster that is complete unto itself, in case you’ve never encountered them before and never encounter them again. But I’ll admit, returning to Nightmaria for the first time in at least a decade, I fell in love with it all over again. So I hope I get to show you this world again. I hope you want to see it again. I hope I see it, too, and I hope I see it soon.

Things had been great in Nightmaria once, in a time when it had known a different name. That name had been spoken only by long-dead tongues, and since forgotten. It was lost and that was a fact that all but the most curious had learned to live with. Janaia was, unfortunately, among the curious. She had needed to know more about the world, about its history, but even as dramatic and painful as the story had been, she found it rather anticlimactic. It was the same story of every world she’d read about, both real and made up, and no matter the name of the regime, and it always boiled down to the same thing: things had been wonderful once, but then they’d gone and turned to shit.

Nightmaria was that shit. And while some were old enough to have lived through its transition, this was the only world Janaia had ever known. That, she had no doubt, was the reason for her obsession. Not only with history, but with stories in general. She needed to dream of something better than this, or she’d go insane. This world still had its share of beauty, outside the capital city of Allarogue, where she had lived all her life, where the grasp of oppression was so tight it couldn’t even be seen. It looked like normalcy. But there was still magic in the world if one knew where to look. Still vibrant, colorful, lush jungles, and forests filled with dark and terrible things as well. If Janaia was being honest with herself, that excited her too. The danger of it. The unpredictability. The very notion of adventure, while she read about it often, was a concept entirely alien to her. Her mind could contextualize it as nothing more than a dream, but that dream had at some point turned into her single greatest passion, probably years ago.

Janaia couldn’t quite say exactly when she had the first inkling of running away, but tonight was the first time her mind had allowed the thought to come fully formed. She couldn’t live like this. Here, the threat of death loomed every day and the tower of a monarch with too much power, more than any one person could possibly know what to do with, watched over her and her whole family. Even if she had to live in the woods, the threats would be unpredictable and that was a concept she found entirely freeing. There was no hope in the city, not for anything.

The Emperor Diabaron would never lose power and if he did, someone just as terrible would easily slip into his place and nothing would change, because that was how the world worked. There had been rumors as long as she had been alive of a savior, someone who would come and destroy the monarchy and restore Nightmaria to the nameless beauty it had once known. But that was a fairy tale and real life was not. It had simply been a story made up by frightened people to help them cope with a dying world. It was a very different thing than hope. There was no hope here and she was sure of that. But she believed with all her heart, all she had, that there might be hope somewhere else. And at seventeen, with her schooling nearly done, that meant that in just a month she would go to work in her father’s shop full-time, and take it over when he died, serving coffee and bread to the policemen who eagerly dealt out the Emperor’s perverse justice, and the citizens who cheered them on, for the rest of her life.

That was reason enough to leave.

It wasn’t all, though. There had been those two policemen today, and the way they had looked at her, and the waifish pale man with the white eyes at their side. A Seer. The first one she had ever, ironically, seen. They saw her in the crowd, looked directly at her and pointed. The Seer had said a word, one that sounded impossible, but one she knew she had heard plainly: insurrectionist. She hadn’t waited to watch them move toward her, she had simply run. Inside her, a stirring, stern feeling said that if she wanted to leave, this was the time and there wouldn’t be another. She had packed her things as quietly as she could. Janaia had not taken much. Adventurers, she thought, never do. It was dark when she left, but not dark enough so that she couldn’t see where she was going. As much as she wanted to leave without being seen, she did not want to risk blindly bumping into one of the Royal Guard and ending her adventure before it even had the chance to begin. When they did find out she was gone, she wondered, would they send someone after her?

It was possible. She couldn’t deny that.

But it was also unlikely. The Emperor would have to be even crazier than she thought to send a squad out to hunt one measly missing peasant. So she didn’t dwell on the thought, if only because she didn’t want to think on it too long and risk turning back. That seemed less and less likely the further she went. No matter what happened, no matter the risk, the promise of a new experience was simply too great.

So she left the reaches of the city and entered the forest beyond. She glanced back occasionally at the amber glow of what passed for a Nightmarian metropolis, thinking that at a distance it looked like nothing more than the embers of a dying fire. Red streaks of lightning cracked across the sky as she walked into the darkness of the trees, splitting the black of the night like a canal of blood. Janaia took one final look back at the city and did not say goodbye.

She found the forest fairly uneventful in its mystery as she entered. That didn’t come as a great surprise. This close to the city, she figured no one dared try anything, human or animal or otherwise. But as she continued to walk, she began to hear the tittering of beasts in the shadows between the trees. Whether they were hungry or territorial, she did not know and did not want to find out. Whichever was the case, it was best to keep moving. If she could walk through the night, she could find a village by morning and hopefully an Inn, where (with any luck) she could get some rest and no one would come looking for her. But she doubted that very much.

No one in Nightmaria had ever had much in the way of luck. If they had, they’d probably have called it something else.

Still, Janaia had kept walking. The morning sun greeted her on the other side of the trees, scorching her olive skin and stinging her golden eyes. Her entire body ached, but she walked on, eventually coming to a village. At the end of that village, which stood at the basin of a mountain that looked exactly like the proper start of a big adventure, she found her Inn. This was the way it was meant to be. This was exactly as she would have read it in a book. It was also just the kind of establishment she’d been hoping for: they took her money happily and they didn’t ask a single question.

From the look of them, though, the people of the Tookery Inn didn’t get visitors all that often. Its main function appeared to be a tavern, its available rooms rarely claimed, and likely gathering dust. She entered a small main room, both a lobby and a dining hall from the looks of it, serving hot food that she didn’t dare ask for, with everyone staring at her from the moment she stepped through the door. But they gave her a room without giving her any trouble. At the very least, they did not seem like the kind of people to call into the city and report her as a runaway, so she took some small comfort in that. But they also did not seem like the kind of people who would hide her if anyone came looking.

When she got to her room, the first thing she did even before sleeping was to sit by the small, dirty window and try to write in her empty diary, to finally begin to record her adventure. Nothing came. As much as she wanted to write it down, as badly as she wanted to begin her tale, the adventure hadn’t started yet. Relieved as Janaia was to be out of the city for the first time in her life, coming here was the only thing that had happened so far. As big as it felt, even that was more a preface than a beginning.

So with no journey yet begun and nothing to write about, she slept. The sleep came easier than the writing. It had an urgency that couldn’t be faked, that she couldn’t talk herself down from. Her body had been demanding it long before she had even set foot in the Inn.

When Janaia slept she did not dream of her family or the city she had left behind. She did not dream of the Memmorine, the vast Dream Sea from which all life in Nightmaria had sprung, once upon a time. She did not even dream of the of the island villages she had always heard about, where people lived their lives free from tyranny. Even though those were the places she was hoping to find, they made no appearance in her dreams, not tonight. In fact, she wasn’t quite sure what she dreamed.

As little of Nightmaria as she had seen, she knew this was not it. In her dreams, she saw another world. A world where the forests were made of glass and steel, where towers reached to touch the sky and the people lived inside those towers, millions of them packed in tight like sardines. Where the air was polluted by smog, but the stench of that smog had its own appeal, as the smell was entirely new to her. But how could she smell in her dream? Janaia knew nothing of this place and the images she saw were not flattering, but they were fascinating all the same. What was this? And where? It was so different from the unpredictable wilds of Nightmaria and yet there was a distinct appeal in how utterly alien it was.

When she woke, it was dark. Janaia tried to gauge how long she had been asleep, but that was impossible. The Inn had no clocks that she had seen, at least not in her room, and she had left her watch at home alongside nearly everything she owned. For a brief second, she cursed herself for electing to take an empty diary over so many things she could have actually used. But that thought was interrupted by the sound of voices coming from downstairs.

The Inn had been full of people earlier, but this conversation sounded different, as little of it as she could hear. People talking in low voices, just above a whisper. Janaia knew what this was. She was an idiot for dismissing it so easily. They were coming for her. She didn’t know how many, but there was no mistaking those voices, trying to be hushed whispers only to be seduced by the rumble of gossip. God, she’d been so stupid. She had no weapons, nothing she could use to defend herself if it came to that. And she knew it would.

The conversation beneath her stopped. Sounds of footsteps steadily, rhythmically climbed the stairs. Janaia looked back to the window, debating whether she could make it out before they made it to her room. She probably could, but the fall would at best break her ankle and she wouldn’t get much further from there. Maybe, she thought, they would just tell her that her days of adventuring were over and that she needed to come back to the city and that would be that. But she knew that these people didn’t deal in second chances. They weren’t going to send her back to her family, they were going to imprison her for her embarrassing attempt at escape, possibly for the rest of her life.

The footsteps drew closer.

Janaia’s heart began to pound in her chest. She wished she’d done everything differently.

The footsteps were almost to her room.

She swallowed, mouth dry, her heart about to burst.

The footsteps passed her and went on walking down the hall. To another room, where the man they belonged to settled in for his own stay. Whoever they were, they had nothing to do with her. It was a false alarm and Janaia felt a surge of relief rush through her as she finally felt — for perhaps the first time since running — safe.

“Lucky break,” said a voice, a low, rumbling purr from the shadowed corner of her room.

Janaia froze. She pushed through her immediate terror to turn into that darkness and look her speaker in the eye. Those eyes were all she could see at first. The vague outline of a man, yes, but it was the yellow cat eyes glimmering in the shadows that commanded her attention. As a girl obsessed with stories, she knew who this was at first glance, and she knew what it meant for her. This was the Emperor’s hand of death, the Shadowed Man. Shannery Shadowman. And if he was here then it was so much worse than expected. So much worse than policemen pounding on her door. It was worse than anything.

“From your stunned silence,” said the shadow in the corner of the room, “I’d gather that you know who I am. That’s good. My reputation is a tricky thing. It’s not the kind of thing you think about until it’s right there. And if you know who I am, you know what this is. That’s good, too. I hate when I have to explain things. Cuts into everyone’s time for no reason at all.”

Shadowman stood up then and stepped into the light. He was hairless, his skin a twilight blue. The blue was contrasted, broken through with red runes and symbols he had carved all over his body, with no order to them at all. As if they were simply for the art of it. He smiled a leopard’s smile, revealing teeth filed into sharp points. Janaia froze. He was exactly as she had always pictured: a walking nightmare.

Shadowman stared at her, tired and unimpressed. “You are going to waste my time, though, aren’t you? And yours. Your own precious few moments by putting up a pointless struggle.”

“No,” she found herself saying, but she didn’t even know what it meant.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “You’re a scrappy one. You’re a fighter. That’s what brought me here, isn’t it? Fight. That’s the name of the mess you’re in.” He didn’t take his eyes off of her, yet he made no move toward her, either. There was a patience to him that was just as unsettling as his pointed teeth and gleaming eyes. “Let’s talk about the system,” he said after a moment. He paced back and forth, but his movements were casual, almost fluid.

Janaia listened.

“You don’t have a place in it. Which is fine, in fact, it’s probably the point. Most people don’t. They’re not notable, they’re not interesting. They have no effect on things. And if you’re fine with that, you can live a relatively happy life, as most people do. Most people don’t matter. It’s just the way of the world. Isn’t that right?” He narrowed his gaze at her, obviously expecting an answer.

“I-I guess so,” she said.

“But you, unfortunately, have decided to matter. The decision might not even be conscious, not yet, but the Seers know. Don’t try to argue it, you’ve already made the grand gesture. You’ve run away from home, you’ve turned your back on a regime built on death and destruction — and it is, I don’t think we should be shy about that. The damage is done. But idealism is a cancer, and it tends to spread. Right now, maybe you’re just running away, but where does it lead? I think we both probably know. You crave adventure. You’re not the first. And from there, well, we’ve all heard fantastical stories told and retold. Of heroes. Worse: revolutionaries.”

Janaia froze. “That’s not me.”

“Oh, but it could be,” Shadowman said with another predatory grin. “It would be, if you lived. They tell me that one day you’ll have a part in dismantling the whole world as we know it. You’ll inspire people who will inspire people, who will eventually inspire everyone. And you should be flattered, really. You do matter. You could matter to the grand scheme of things and that, well, that’s what I’ve been tasked with trying to avoid. You’ve got all the makings of greatness in you. I can even see it in your eyes. Unfortunately,” he sighed without dropping his grin. “This just isn’t the world for greatness. It’s like a weed. If you don’t monitor it, pull it up at the root, it could spread and before you know it, it could overtake everything.”

“How are you going to do it?” Janaia said, finally meeting his gaze.

Shadowman looked at her for a moment. Then he broke into a cold and crackling laughter, like a log on a fire. He clapped his hands together. “Well done! I’m not sure I’ve ever had that question before, at least not so blunt. So stern. See, that’s that spark of passion we were so afraid of. And you say you don’t have the makings of greatness.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt and traced a clawed fingernail along the blade. “But,” he said. “It’s important to me to have fun on the job. If you can’t enjoy work, it’s work, and then life has no meaning. And I can’t stand the thought of life without meaning. So I don’t want to spoil any surprises.” He sliced the dagger along the palm of his hand, turning his eyes back up to meet hers. “Not for either one of us.”

He took a single step forward.

“Please,” Janaia found herself saying.

Shadowman’s smile disappeared in an instant. “Oh, that’s a shame. I expected more. All that bravery, all that strength, that potential, and it’s gone the moment I pull out a knife. You knew what this was the moment you saw me. I really thought you’d at least try.”

“I can return to the city,” she said. “I can pretend none of this ever happened. I’ll never say another word to anyone, never tell anyone I tried to leave.”

“But you can’t take away the desire to leave, to run, to thirst for adventure,” Shadowman said. “And it’s not just the fantasies of revolution. It’s not just the dream. It’s the dreams. You’ve had them, haven’t you?”

Her eyes widened. Shadowman’s teeth glistened in the darkness.

“Yes, they said you had. You’ve seen glimpses of a world not our own. The forest of glass and steel. The vulnerable people, aimless and devoid of magic. You’re not the first, but you do understand our problem, don’t you? The more you dream of it, the more concrete the doorway gets, the easier it is to slip out into there. And worse, the easier it becomes for something over there to slip in over here, where they are most unwelcome. Nobody can know the doorway is open. Nobody can know it exists. Not ever. You’re not the first to dream of it, but when it happens, it has to be cut down, fast. So let’s cut the bullshit right now. You’ve seen things you weren’t supposed to see, through no fault of your own, and you were never going to survive. You’re going to die and I’m going to do it, there is no other alternative, no other option, there is only this and we both know it. So either stop wasting my time or fight back so I can at least enjoy my night.”

Janaia turned back to the window. It was a long drop onto weathered cobblestone. At the moment, a broken ankle didn’t look so bad. She broke into a sprint and focused her eyes on the glass.

She broke through. The glass shattered outward and she barely felt it. The splintering cuts on her arms felt like nothing more than a light rain. A moment later, she hit the ground. That, she felt deeply.

Her ankle pulsated with pain, but by some miracle it was not broken.

“Get back here!” Shadowman roared after her.

There was something almost funny about him now. He’d delighted in playing with her when she was under his knife, when her chances of survival were hopeless. Now, like a child, he threw a tantrum simply because she’d had the audacity to run. Like a cat she’d had in her youth, playing with a mouse only to sit in stunned, embarrassed silence when the mouse bit back.

“Help me!” Janaia screamed.

Nobody did. The streets were almost entirely empty. The few people that she could see locked eyes with her for only a moment before turning away. They knew what her screaming meant and she understood it in their eyes. She had been marked for death. If they tried to help, they’d be signing their own death certificate as well. Shannery Shadowman was a boogeyman and everyone knew to fear him, especially in those small towns caught in Allarogue’s immediate shadow. But Janaia could not let herself be afraid of him, not anymore.

Fear had been for five minutes ago and that had been a whole other life.

Now all she felt was anger.

She tucked into an alley and knew it was not a smart move, to duck into a dark alley when being stalked by a notorious murderer, but a stupid move was also an unexpected one. If he had left the Inn, she would have heard him behind her. Right now, the alley beat standing out in the open and waiting for his knife to meet her throat.

Janaia ran, but the pain caught up with her, growing louder and louder inside her until she found it hard to think. Was this all she had? It hurt her to watch the limits of her survival instinct, to see that it ended here and simply stopped. No. She wouldn’t let it. She pushed her way toward an abandoned meat cart and grabbed a knife, dull and sticky with dried blood and gristle. Janaia held the knife close to her chest. And for the first time, she felt like the woman Shadowman claimed she was. Someone important, someone who could change things, someone smart and capable.

For the first time in her life, she felt like a fighter.

A figure leapt down from the rooftop, its feet hitting the ground just behind her and barely making a sound.

But she heard it.

“Now,” Shadowman said, his predator’s smile spreading across his face again. “We’ll have no more of — ”

Janaia screamed in rage and drove the knife into the boogeyman’s breast.

His yellow cat eyes went wide. Stunned. He hadn’t expected this. She’d bested him, and even more, she’d frightened and hurt him and God, this was the most satisfying thing she’d ever felt in her life.

He pulled the knife out.

Janaia turned to run, screaming as she twisted her ankle.

Shadowman scratched at her face, nearly taking out her eye. She pushed back against him with everything she had and knocked him to the ground. Then she ran and left him behind, knowing what was going to happen, but running anyway because it was all she had left.

Shadowman did not try to grab her. He didn’t even move at all. Instead, he flicked the dagger at his side with a simple move of his thumb and sent it flying into her calf.

Janaia screamed and fell to her knees before she could even make it to the window.

Shadowman moved to stand beside her in a second, running his sharpened fingers through her hair. “Well,” he said, unimpressed. “You had a little fight in you after all.”

She had hurt him, she told herself. No matter what happened now, she had seen fear in his eyes and it was a victory she would hold over him forever, even if no one remembered her name. Even if no one would ever know she did it.

She knew.

“I don’t deserve this,” Janaia said, and she said it like stating nothing more than a simple fact. No tears, no whimpers. Just the truth.

Shadowman, rather than attempting to ignore it, gave her a small nod. “Yes, you do,” he said. “And that’s the point. You are very literally too good for this world. And we can’t have that. If people don’t see inspiration, then maybe they’ll never know what it is. Heroes rise, and sometimes they win, and that’s why it’s important to take them out at the bottom of the hill, before they even start to climb. This is a tyrannical world, and between you and me, I don’t much like it either. I have no taste for oppression.”

He traced the blade along her cheek.

“But it beats the Hell out of being on the other end of this knife.”

He thrust it into her stomach. Janaia blinked and froze for a second before registering the pain. Even still, for a dim moment she thought she would escape. That she would push her way through the pain, to the street, blend into the shadows and disappear. She would find some place, some island, where no one would come looking for her. Somehow, even in the presence of death, she thought she might get lucky.

But no one in Nightmaria had ever had much in the way of luck. If they had, they’d have probably called it something else.