Shadows Beneath Stone
Copyright© 2026 by Sol Tangoran
Chapter 1: the Road North
The birds were the first warning. Kaelen Thorn noticed them because nobody else did. A dozen blackwings exploded from the trees on the eastern side of the King’s Road, scattering into the gray morning sky in a frenzy of beating wings. They climbed sharply, wheeled north, and vanished over the pines. Kaelen watched them go while the wagon beneath him continued to creak along the muddy road, its iron-rimmed wheels grinding through ruts carved by generations of merchants, soldiers, pilgrims, thieves, and fools. Harness buckles jingled with every step of the draft horses. Somewhere farther back in the caravan, one of the teamsters was singing a song about a farmer’s daughter and a traveling priest, and doing considerable violence to both the tune and the dignity of the farmer’s daughter. Nothing else seemed unusual. That bothered Kaelen.
He shifted on the driver’s bench and studied the tree line again. Dense pine and black oak crowded the road there, their trunks disappearing into a tangle of bracken and shadow. The King’s Road curved gently northeast before disappearing between two low ridges perhaps half a mile ahead. The ground rose on one side and fell away slightly on the other, funneling travelers into a stretch where they could see little beyond the next bend. Perfect ground for an ambush. The thought came automatically. Kaelen frowned. He had been trying for six months to stop thinking that way and had made remarkably little progress.
Beside him, Jorek Vale hunched deeper into his wool coat and rubbed his gloved hands together. The merchant was a broad man in his early forties with thinning brown hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and the perpetually worried expression of someone whose entire fortune was currently distributed among twelve wagons traveling through bandit country. He glanced toward Kaelen. “Cold?”
Kaelen didn’t answer.
Jorek waited a moment before looking at him again. “Kaelen?”
“Stop the wagons.”
The merchant blinked. “What?”
“Stop the wagons.”
Jorek followed his gaze toward the road ahead. The lead wagon continued steadily onward while two mounted guards rode alongside it, laughing about something Kaelen couldn’t hear. Beyond them, the road remained empty. “Why?”
Kaelen stood on the moving wagon, one hand resting against the wooden frame for balance. “Because we’re about to be robbed.”
Jorek stared at him. “What?”
“Stop the wagons.”
“How in the seven hells do you—”
“Jorek.”
Something in Kaelen’s voice ended the argument. The merchant snatched the brass whistle hanging around his neck and blew twice. The shrill notes cut through the morning, and confusion rippled backward through the caravan as teamsters pulled on reins and shouted to their horses. Wagons slowed, wheels grinding into mud, while guards turned in their saddles to see what had happened. Kaelen jumped from the bench before the wagon had completely stopped. Mud swallowed his boots nearly to the ankle, but he ignored it and moved toward the head of the caravan.
“What’s happening?” The question came from Rellan, one of Jorek’s hired guards. He was a lanky man with an impressive mustache, a dented kettle helm, and the dangerous confidence of someone who had survived enough fights to believe that meant he understood them.
Kaelen pointed toward the eastern woods. “Get the riders off the road.”
Rellan followed his finger, squinting into the trees. “I don’t see anything.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why—”
“Get them off the road.”
Rellan looked toward Jorek rather than obeying. Kaelen caught the hesitation immediately. There it was—the moment every badly organized group encountered when danger arrived and nobody knew who was actually in charge. Jorek climbed awkwardly down from the wagon and slapped mud from his coat. “Do what he says.”
Rellan’s eyebrows rose. “But—”
“Now.”
That settled it. Rellan turned and shouted, “You heard him! Darin! Kel! Get those horses behind the wagons!”
Kaelen was already moving. He counted without consciously deciding to do so. Twelve wagons. Six guards besides himself. Eight teamsters. Jorek and his clerk. Three merchants traveling with their goods. A woman named Sella and her ten-year-old son, heading north to live with relatives after her husband’s death. Twenty-one people in all, with perhaps seven who could be trusted in a fight if Kaelen counted himself.
He looked at the terrain again. The road was too narrow to maneuver properly. The ground to the west was soft and partially flooded from recent rain. The woods to the east offered excellent concealment, and the low rise ahead could hide another dozen men without difficulty. He didn’t like the rise at all.
“Turn the first three wagons.”
Jorek stared at him. “Turn them?”
“Across the road.”
“My wagons aren’t barricades.”
“They’re about to be.”
“Kaelen, those axles cost—”
“How much does dying cost?”
Jorek opened his mouth, reconsidered, then shouted over his shoulder, “Turn the damned wagons!”
The teamsters scrambled to obey. Kaelen grabbed the bridle of the nearest draft horse and helped pull the lead wagon sideways while the driver fought the reins. “What are we doing?” the man asked.
“Making them come around us.”
“Them who?”
Kaelen looked toward the woods. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
The birds hadn’t returned. That mattered. A disturbed flock normally settled somewhere nearby once the danger passed, but these had kept going. Something was moving through those trees—something large enough to keep them moving, or several somethings.
The wagons ground into position. Kaelen pointed toward the second. “Put that one there. Leave enough room for a man to pass between them.”
Rellan frowned as he helped guide it around. “Why leave a gap?”
“Because I want them to think we made a mistake.”
Rellan studied him for half a second, then smiled. “Right.”
Kaelen didn’t return it. “Put two men behind that wagon. Spears.”
“We’ve only got one spear.”
“Then give the other one something long.”
One of the teamsters raised a wood axe uncertainly. “This?”
“That’ll do.”
Jorek came up beside him, breathing hard from helping with the horses. “What about the rear?”
“Keep three wagons lengthwise. If they’re smart, they’ll hit both ends.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then we’re fortunate.”
“You have an unsettling definition of fortunate.”
Kaelen ignored that and looked over the civilians. “Sella.”
The widow looked up sharply, one arm already wrapped around her son. Kaelen pointed toward the fourth wagon. “Take him under there. Stay behind the rear axle.”
“Under it?”
“Whatever happens, don’t run into the trees.”
Her son looked at Kaelen with wide eyes. “Are there bandits?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you going to fight them?”
“If they insist.” Kaelen lowered himself enough to meet the boy’s gaze. “Stay with your mother. If somebody tells you to move, you move. Otherwise you stay exactly where you are. Understand?”
The boy swallowed and nodded.
Kaelen straightened and looked around. “Archers?”
Rellan pointed at himself and another guard. “Me and Kel.”
“Get on the third wagon.”
“On it?”
“Higher position. Better angle into the trees.”
Rellan glanced at the canvas-covered cargo bed. “Also makes us excellent targets.”
“Then crouch.”
Rellan snorted. “You always this cheerful?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d hate to see you in a bad mood.”
Kaelen went to Jorek’s wagon and retrieved his shield. It was old, round-topped and slightly tapered, wood reinforced with steel and faced with worn leather. Once, the black falcon of the Valerian Royal Army had been painted across its surface. Kaelen had scraped the insignia away months ago, although the leather remained lighter where the emblem had been. He slipped his arm through the straps and tightened his grip.
Jorek noticed. His eyes lingered briefly on the scraped leather before he looked back at Kaelen. “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Get down.”
Jorek frowned. Then Kaelen heard it—a faint metallic click from the woods. Crossbow mechanism.
“Down!”
The bolt hissed over Jorek’s head as Kaelen slammed into him. They hit the mud together just as three more bolts flew from the trees. One struck the wagon with a heavy thunk, another punched through the canvas, and somewhere behind them a horse screamed.
“Contact east!”
The words tore out of Kaelen before he could stop them. Military words. Army words.
Rellan didn’t care. He rose behind the wagon, drew, and loosed an arrow toward the trees. “There!”
Figures burst from the undergrowth. Nine at first, then twelve, with more shapes moving behind them. Leather armor, scarves across their faces, axes, short swords, hunting bows and crossbows. Bandits.
“Hold!” Kaelen shouted.
One of Jorek’s guards ignored him and charged.
“Hold, damn you!”
Too late. The man sprinted from behind the wagon with his sword raised. A crossbow bolt struck him below the collarbone. He spun and collapsed into the road.
“Kel!” Rellan started forward.
Kaelen caught the back of his armor and dragged him down. “No.”
“He’s hit!”
“And you’ll join him.”
Kel writhed in the road twenty feet away. A bandit broke from the trees and ran toward him. Kaelen waited as the distance closed—ten yards, eight, six. “Now.”
Rellan rose and fired. His arrow struck the bandit high in the thigh. The man stumbled, screamed and collapsed, but two more came behind him. Kaelen stepped through the deliberate gap between the wagons.
The first bandit swung an axe. Kaelen caught it on his shield, the impact jolting through his shoulder. Instead of retreating, he stepped inward and twisted, trapping the axe against the shield rim before driving the pommel of his sword into the man’s face. Bone crunched. The bandit stumbled backward, and Kaelen kicked his knee sideways. The man dropped.
The second attacker came in with a sword held too high. Kaelen saw the shoulder move before the blade. He ducked beneath the swing, stepped past it and slashed across the man’s forearm. The sword fell into the mud. Kaelen shoved him backward. “Take him!”
The teamster with the wood axe stared for half a heartbeat before swinging the handle rather than the blade. It caught the wounded bandit across the temple and dropped him.
The teamster stared at the man on the ground. “I hit him.”
“I noticed.”
“I’ve never hit anyone before.”
“Consider celebrating later.”
Another bolt struck Kaelen’s shield hard enough to turn him half sideways. He stepped backward through the gap. “Close it!”
Two men shoved crates into the opening as bandits hit the barricade. Rellan and the second archer fired downward from the wagon. One attacker climbed onto a wheel, only for Jorek to swing a shovel into his face. The bandit fell backward with a curse. Kaelen glanced at the merchant.
Jorek stared at the shovel in his hands. “Don’t say anything.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
A movement behind Jorek caught Kaelen’s eye. Another bandit had made it around the wagon and was raising a blade. Kaelen crossed the distance in three strides. “Down!”
Jorek dropped without questioning him. Kaelen’s sword caught the attacker’s blade with a sharp ring of steel. The bandit was younger than Kaelen had expected—seventeen, perhaps eighteen, with fear visible above the scarf covering his mouth. Not a hardened killer. Hungry, desperate and frightened. Still holding a sword.
The boy swung again. Kaelen parried and forced the blade wide. “Drop it.”
The boy hesitated.
“Drop the sword.”
He glanced toward the trees, then back at Kaelen. Then attacked.
Kaelen knocked the blade aside and slammed his shield into the boy’s chest. The impact threw him onto his back. Kaelen stepped forward and put the point of his sword against his throat. “Don’t.”
The boy froze.
Kaelen kicked the fallen sword away. “Stay down.”
The battle shifted around them. The bandits had expected frightened merchants and scattered guards. Instead, they had found a barricade, elevated archers and defenders who had somehow become organized before the first shot. Their advantage was disappearing. A whistle sounded from the trees. Twice. Retreat.
“Let them go!” Kaelen shouted.
Rellan already had another arrow nocked. “They’re running!”
“Let them.”
“They’ll hit someone else!”
“Maybe, but if we chase them into those woods, we’ll be fighting on ground they chose.”
Rellan’s jaw tightened, but he lowered the bow. The surviving bandits disappeared among the trees. Silence returned almost immediately—not true silence, but the strange compressed quiet that followed violence. Horses snorted and stamped. Someone was crying. A wounded man groaned. Men breathed too loudly while staring at the trees, still expecting the world to erupt again. Kaelen waited. Ten seconds.
Twenty. Thirty.
“Rellan, watch the woods. Nobody leaves the barricade.”
“Right.”
Kaelen sheathed his sword and went to Kel.
The wounded guard lay on his back, hands trembling around the crossbow bolt protruding beneath his collarbone. “Don’t pull it,” Kaelen said.
Kel’s face had gone gray. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.”
“Feels like shit.”
“That’s because you’ve been shot.”
Kel laughed once and immediately regretted it. “You’re a comforting bastard.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Kaelen examined the wound. The bolt had entered high. There was no bubbling blood and no obvious arterial spray. Lucky, perhaps, though Kaelen had seen enough wounds to know that luck sometimes took time to decide whether it was finished with a man.
He looked toward Jorek. “Medical kit.”
The merchant nodded and ran.
Kaelen placed folded cloth around the bolt to stabilize it. “Can you move your fingers?”
Kel flexed them weakly. “Yes.”
“Feel this?”
Kaelen pressed against his fingertips.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You a healer?”
“No.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I know enough not to yank a crossbow bolt out of someone’s chest beside a muddy road.”
“Reassuring.”
Jorek returned carrying a leather case. Kaelen stabilized the bolt and wrapped the wound as tightly as he dared. “There’s a healer in Ravenford?”
“Several.”
“How far?”
“Half a day.”
Kaelen looked at the sky. “We make it in four hours.”
Jorek stared at him. “With twelve wagons?”
“Eleven.”
“What?”
“Leave the damaged one.”
“That’s three hundred crowns of—”
“Jorek.”
The merchant stopped.
Kaelen pointed toward Kel. “Four hours.”
Jorek followed his gaze. His expression changed almost immediately. “Four hours.”
“Good.”
Behind them, the young bandit Kaelen had spared tried to crawl toward his sword. Rellan kicked the weapon away. “Don’t.”
The boy froze. Rellan grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upright. “What do we do with this one?”
The boy’s eyes went immediately to Kaelen.
Kaelen stood. “What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Name.”
“Finn.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
Kaelen looked at him. Finn looked away.
“Sixteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“How many more are in the woods?”
Finn said nothing. Rellan drew his knife. “We can find out.”
Kaelen looked at him. “Put that away.”
Rellan frowned. “He’s a bandit.”
“I know.”
“He tried to kill us.”
“I noticed.”
“So?”
“So put the knife away.”
Rellan held Kaelen’s gaze for a moment. Kaelen could see the argument forming, but something in his expression apparently discouraged it. Rellan finally sheathed the knife.
Kaelen turned back to Finn. “How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
“We saw twelve.”
“Others were supposed to circle around.”