Besides, they would need the magic of the Sword of Leah if they
encountered any further Shadowen. And there was every reason
to expect that they might.
He struggled with his dilemma only briefly. He simply could
not ignore his discomfort and the vivid memory of that creature
breathing over him. He decided to keep quiet. Perhaps there
would be no need to speak out. If there was, he would do so
then. He put the matter aside.
They talked little that night, and when they did it was mostly
about the Shadowen. There was no longer any doubt in their
minds that these beings were real. Even Coil did not equivocate
when speaking of what it was that had attacked them. But ac-
ceptance did not bring enlightenment. The Shadowen remained
a mystery to them. They did not know where they had come
from or why. They did not even know what they were. They had
no idea as to the source of their power, though it seemed it must
derive from some form of magic. If these creatures were hunting
them, they did not know what they could do about it. They knew
only that the old man had been right when he had warned them
to be careful.
It was just after dawn when they reached Culhaven, emerging
aching and sleepy-eyed from the fading night shadows of the
forest into the half-light of the new day. Clouds hung across the
Eastiand skies, scraping the treetops as they eased past, lending
the Dwarf village beneath a gray and wintry cast. The compan-
ions stumbled to a halt, stretched, yawned, and looked about.
The trees had thinned before them and there was a gathering of
cottages with smoke curling out of stone chimneys, sheds filled
with tools and wagons, and small yards with animals staked and
penned. Vegetable gardens the size of thumbprints fought to
control tiny patches of earth as weeds attacked from every-
where. Everything seemed crammed together, the cottages and
sheds, the animals, the gardens and the forest, each on top of
the other. Nothing looked cared for; paint was peeling and
chipped, mortar and stone were cracked, fences broken and
sagging, animals shaggy and unkempt, and gardens and the
weeds grown so much into each other as to be almost indistin-
guishable.
Women drifted through doors and past windows, old mostly,
some with laundry to hang, some with cooking to tend, all with
the same ragged, disheveled look. Children played in the yards,
on the pathways, and in the roads, as shabby and wild as moun-
tain sheep.
Morgan caught Par and Coil staring and said, “I forgot-the
Culhaven you’re familiar with is the one you tell about in your
stories. Well, all that’s in the past. I know you’re tired, but, now
that you’re here, there are things you need to see.”
He took them down a pathway that led into the village. The
housing grew quickly worse, the cottages replaced by shacks,
the gardens and animals disappearing entirely. The path became
a roadway, rutted and pocked from lack of repair, filled with
refuse and stones. There were more children here, playing as
the others had, and there were more women working at house-
hold chores, exchanging a few words now and then with each
other and the children, but withdrawn mostly into themselves.
They watched guardedly as the three strangers walked past, sus-
picion and fear mirrored in their eyes.
“Culhaven, the most beautiful city in the Eastland, the heart
and soul of the Dwarf nation,” Morgan mused quietly. He didn’t
look at them. “I know the stories. It was a sanctuary, an oasis,
a haven of gentle souls, a monument to what pride and hard
work could accomplish.” He shook his head. “Well, this is the
way it is now.”
A few of the children came up to them and begged for coins.
Morgan shook his head gently, patted one or two, and moved
past.
They turned off into a lane that led down to a stream clogged
with trash and sewage. Children walked the banks, poking idly
at what floated past. A walkway took them across to the far
bank. The air was fetid with the smell of rotting things.