by Matthew Ward
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Matthew Ward
Excerpt from The Shadow of the Gods copyright © 2021 by John Gwynne
Cover design by Charlotte Stroomer – LBBG
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant
Map by Viv Mullett, The Flying Fish Studios, based on an original illustration by Matthew Ward
Author photograph by Photo Nottingham
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First Edition: August 2021
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021933369
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45794-1 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-45795-8 (ebook)
E3-20210713-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
One Year Ago: Jeradas, 24th Day of Witherhold
Maladas, 26th Day of Wanetithe One
Tzadas, 27th Day of Wanetithe Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Lunandas, 28th Day of Wanetithe: Midwintertide Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Endas, 4th Day of Dawntithe Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Maladas, 5th Day of Dawntithe Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Tzadas, 6th Day of Dawntithe Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Lunandas, 7th Day of Dawntithe Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Astridas, 9th Day of Dawntithe Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Jeradas, 10th Day of Dawntithe Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Maladas, 11th Day of Dawntithe Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Tzadas, 12th Day of Dawntithe Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Lumendas, 14th Day of Dawntithe Fifty-Four
Astridas, 15th Day of Dawntithe Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Jeradas, 16th Day of Dawntithe Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Maladas, 17th Day of Dawntithe Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Tzadas, 18th Day of Dawntithe Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Lunandas, 19th Day of Dawntithe Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Jeradas, 23rd Day of Dawntithe Sixty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Discover More
Extras Meet the Author
A Preview of The Shadow of the Gods
Also by Matthew Ward
Praise for the Legacy Trilogy
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Dramatis Personae
IN THE CITY OF TRESSIA
Viktor Droshna
Lord Protector of the Tressian Republic
Josiri Trelan
Head of the Constabulary
Altiris Czaron
Lieutenant of the Stonecrest Hearthguard; a Phoenix
Anastacia Psanneque
Definitely not Lady Trelan
Sidara Reveque
Adopted daughter of Josiri and Anastacia
Constans Droshna
Adopted son of Viktor Droshna, brother to Sidara Reveque
Stantin Izack
Lord Marshal of the Tressian Army
Vladama Kurkas
Steward to the Trelan household
Eldor Shalamoh
Scholar of Antiquity
Hawkin Darrow
Scoundrel
Elzar Ilnarov
Tressian High Proctor; Master of the foundry
Tzila
Viktor Droshna’s seneschal and bodyguard
Konor Zarn
Peddler of wares and influence
Kasvin
A lost soul, awash on dark tides
Viara Boronav
Hearthguard at Stonecrest; a Phoenix
Adbert Brass
Hearthguard at Stonecrest; a Phoenix
Amella Jaridav
Hearthguard at Stonecrest; a Phoenix
IN THE CONTESTED LANDS
Sevaka Orova
Governor of the Marcher Lands
Roslava Orova
Repentant warrior
Zephan Tanor
Knight of Essamere
Silda Drenn
Pardoned Wolf’s-head
IN THE HADARI EMPIRE
Melanna Saranal
Dotha Rhaled, Empress of the Hadari
Aeldran Andwar
Prince of Icansae, Regent of Rhaled
Kaila Saranal
Daughter to Melanna and Aeldran
Apara Rann
Repentant rogue
Cardivan Tirane
King of Silsaria
Thirava Tirane
Prince of Silsaria, Regent of Redsigor
Tavar Rasha
Jasaldar of the Rhalesh Royal Guard
Tesni Rhanaja
Immortal of the Rhalesh Royal Guard
Haldrane
Spymaster; Head of the Emperor’s icularis
Elim Jorcari
Retired veteran, Master of Blackwind Lodge
Sera
Lunassera; a devoted servant of Ashana
Aelia Andwaral
Dotha Icansae, sister to Aeldran Andwar
ELSEWHERE
Arlanne Keldrov
Governor of the Southshires
DIVINITIES
Lumestra
Tressian Goddess of the Sun, known as Astarra in the Hadari Empire
Ashana
; Hadari Goddess of the Moon, known as Lunastra in Tressia
The Raven
The God of the Dead, Keeper of Otherworld
Jack o’ Fellhallow
God of the Living Lands
The Huntsman
Ashana’s herald
GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Malatriant
Tyrant Queen of Old, known as Sceadotha in the Hadari Empire
Kai Saran
Former Hadari Emperor, father of Melanna Saranal
Alfric Saran
Former Hadari Emperor, great-great-grandfather of Melanna Saranal
Hadon Akadra
Former Councillor, Viktor Droshna’s father
Calenne Trelan
Sister to Josiri Trelan
Calenne Akadra
Imperfect mirror of Calenne Trelan, born of the Dark
One Year Ago
Jeradas, 24th Day of Witherhold
There are those who blame the gods for our failings, but pride was ever the cause.
from Eldor Shalamoh’s “Historica”
The horsemen came at dusk, as they had the day before, and the day before that. Dark shapes hunched against Wintertide’s cold night, spears held high. Flickering blue-white ghostfires set to ward against weeping, unhallowed things did little to cheat the mist. The world beyond felt distant. Unreachable.
And perhaps it was. Forbidden Places brushed the face of the divine, and none were more forbidden than this. Darkmere, ruined capital of Malatriant, the Tyrant Queen.
Though the gate was long gone to decay and sickly black ivy clung between the parapet’s rotten teeth, the boundary wall was thick, and the gateway narrow. A dozen men could have held it. Rosa Orova had nearly as many Knights Essamere to hand, hawks glinting gold on hunter’s green shields. And on the walls, the Drazina knights of Viktor Droshna’s personal guard, black tabards drawn tight over banded leather and chamfered plate, the old Akadra swan repurposed. Named for the folk heroes of the old kingdom, they offered a rare glimpse of poetry in the Lord Protector’s sombre soul. Just as his taking of the Droshna name – one born of Hadari fears, and now wielded as a weapon against them – spoke to old wounds gone unhealed.
A slow exhalation marked the end of Viktor’s contemplation. He stood a head taller than Rosa, a brooding mountain, dark-haired and dark-eyed. The swirling sea-gold flames etched into his armour shifted as he folded his arms.
“How many today?”
“Maybe fifty. Why? Are you tempted to surrender?”
“To a mere fifty?” Viktor’s mouth twitched, pulling at the old scar on his cheek. “Time was, you’d have settled that many alone.”
Rosa suppressed a shiver. Five years, she’d tried to leave that day behind. The day she’d become something more than human, and also far less. That cursed woman belonged to history.
Five years ago, Viktor would have considered it poor taste to remind a friend of her failings. But neither of them were who they’d been. She was better. Not redeemed, exactly. You moved forward as best you could and hoped fresh deeds counted more than the stale. Rosa welcomed the moments of stiffness that presaged middle age. Ephemeral humanity wrested from eternity’s clutch, though not without price. Ash-white hair was only part of it.
Yes, she was better. Viktor?
Viktor, Rosa worried about.
“They don’t really want any part of this miserable place,” she said. “But they can’t look the other way with the mighty Lord Protector traipsing their territory. Pride paves strange roads.”
He scowled away the title’s formality. The air crackled with frost. It did that a lot around Viktor, lately. The shadow in his soul rising with his temper.
The northern reaches of the Greyridge Mountains weren’t Hadari territory. Not by right. Like the rest of the Eastshires, they chafed beneath the white stag of Silsaria, one of the Empire’s many kingdoms. Redsigor, the Hadari named it. Contested Lands whose conquest Viktor had sworn to undo. A rare failure in a life thick with success.
Pride paved strange roads.
Friendship paved stranger ones. Rosa had gladly followed Viktor to Darkmere, though Sevaka hadn’t approved. She’d not said as much to Rosa. Not aloud. But five years of marriage eroded a wife’s secrets as surely as the wind. Anything to escape the Essamere chapterhouse; the empty chairs and faded escutcheons where once song and mirth had hammered out. Roslava Orova, who’d so nearly been the Queen of the Dead, had instead become a mistress of ghosts in an ailing fortress.
There were others. Memoralia stones raised in every village stood stark reminder of empty houses, silent fields and borders desperate for defenders the Republic no longer possessed. Viktor had promised the expedition to Darkmere might change everything. Of the few truths Rosa yet clung to, one outweighed all: if Viktor promised a thing could be done, it would be done.
“We’ve come a long way to be here,” she said. “Shame if it were all for nothing.”
“My thoughts also,” Viktor replied.
Three riders broke ranks in a muffled clatter of hooves. Steeds’ snorting breaths fed the mists. Golden scale shone as they advanced beneath the city’s wind-blasted walls and empty windows. Two Immortals trotted at the fore. One held a furled rust-coloured banner aloft. A naked blade, inverted in the tradition of parley, gleamed in the hand of the second.
The third rider was a slender man of Rosa’s age, his armour dotted with glittering black gemstones. Where the Immortals wore close-fitting helms, he was bare-headed, his thin, olive-toned features twisted in distaste. Prince Thirava Tirane, Regent of Redsigor, seldom stirred beyond the comforts and walls of Haldravord. If he’d come so far south…? Well, the estimate of fifty Hadari looked smaller and smaller all the time.
“They want to talk,” said Viktor.
“Nice for them,” Rosa replied.
“I could kill him.” Once, the words would have been a joke, the unthinkable breach of honour framed by grim smile. But after years of tending the Republic’s wounds, Viktor had little mirth to spare, and especially not for the Hadari. Nor, were she honest, did Rosa.
“You do that, could be we’ll none of us get out of here alive.”
“Then we’d better listen to what he has to say.”
Viktor clapped Rosa on the back, hitched his claymore’s scabbard higher on his shoulders and strode to meet the riders.
“You choose a strange place to partake the glory of Redsigor, Lord Droshna.” Thirava spoke the Tressian low-tongue with an easterner’s harsh accent, and measured politeness. The legend of Viktor Droshna had spread faster in the Empire than in the Republic. Tales of the dead raised, and impossible victory seized while gods warred. “Tell me, what fate would befall me, had I trespassed your land?”
Icy air prickled Rosa’s lungs.
“That would depend on your reason,” said Viktor.
Thirava narrowed his eyes. “And what is your reason, Lord Droshna?”
“My business is my own.”
“In Redsigor, there is no business that is not also mine.” Thirava’s words hung heavy with the resentment of a man whose father clung to life and throne a little too resolutely. The captured Eastshires would never be the equal of the sprawling Silsarian heartlands. A prince in exile remained an exile, whatever titles he claimed and however many spears he commanded. “If you depart at once, you may live.”
“And if we stay?” asked Rosa.
“Then you will find my hospitality equal to the task.” Thirava’s tone cooled to threat. “I lost kin at Govanna. I’ve not forgotten the dead.”
Viktor’s breath frosted the air. The ruins’ shadows crept closer, black rivulets trickling over stone. The banner bearer flinched, then stared stoically ahead.
“Nor I,” said Viktor.
Offering a tight nod, Thirava hauled his horse about and rode away, companions close behind, until the mist swallowed all.
“I doubt we’ll live out the moonrise.” Rosa shook her head. “I’m not sure why he bothered to talk
at all.”
Viktor grunted. “To show he’s not afraid. I do have a reputation.”
A small smile accompanied the words, an old friend glimpsed beneath the Lord Protector’s dour mantle. The air lost its chill, the encroaching shadows receding as Viktor’s mood improved. Then smile and friend were gone and the Lord Protector returned, like a helm’s visor lowered for battle.
“Maybe you should have killed him,” said Rosa.
“Maybe.”
Rosa followed him back to the gateway, running the tally of blades. Thirava likely had hundreds. She’d thirty knights at the gate that protected the now-ruined inner city. Another twenty deeper in. Rosa knew herself equal to three or four. Viktor was worth at least a dozen – more, with his shadow loosed.
Not enough. But when was it ever?
Drazina knights stiffened to attention as they passed beneath the gateway.
“Captain Jard? Have everyone fall back to the temple.” Viktor beckoned to his left. “Constans?”
The dark-haired boy emerged from a patch of shadow. “Father?”
Rosa stilled a twitch. Constans Reveque had a knack for moving unnoticed, a skill learnt while breaking parental curfew. Like Viktor – like all Drazina – he wore the black surcoat and silver swan of the vanished Akadra family, though he favoured frontiersman’s dark leathers over steel plate.