by Dan Neil
the
dark
disciple
Dan Neil
Copyright Dan Neil 2020, All Rights Reserved.
Maps Designed by Alexandra Berg of Arebeld Design
Cover/Interior Design by Lance Buckley of Lance Buckley Design
Copyedited by Crystal Durnan of Anima Editing
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Acknowledgments
As with The Lost Dawn, I have far too many people to thank.
I have multiple family members to acknowledge; many have kept The Dark Disciple’s secrets for years, and for that, they have my eternal gratitude. Many more helped me stay sane, rooted for me, or supported my passion. You all know who you are, though I doubt you realize how much it meant (and still means) to me. I love you all.
I’ll also thank my fiancée for supporting me through this whole crazy endeavor. I also have many friends to thank, whether for lending an ear, poking a hole in shoddy ideas, or providing a good laugh. The experience of writing a novel is (often) a lonely one, but my friends have helped to make it less so.
My heartfelt gratitude, as always, goes out to my beta readers, and I have countless thanks to give to Crystal, who helped me immensely, and whose guidance is something I always keep in the back of my mind. I am also grateful to my awesome proofreader, Rachelle, the incredible Alex of Arebeld Design for bringing the world of Alea to life, and Lance Buckley of Lance Buckley Design, who is amazing all around.
Finally, I would like to convey my thanks to anyone who gave The Lost Dawn a chance. More people than I thought expressed hope for a sequel. I hope The Dark Disciple is everything you’re looking for and that the world of Alea comes alive for you as much as it does for me.
I hope that you enjoy the journey.
This one is for an English teacher
who has rooted for me every step of the way,
Who molded me into a better writer by challenging me,
And whose contribution cannot be overstated.
This one’s for you, Mrs. Peggy Swan,
my favorite teacher and a good friend.
I hope you enjoy it!
Prologue
The Ranger
Day 34 of the Season of Aion, 1020 YAR
Carter Atlos braved the frenzied gales of a forest cursed with eternal winter—Greerwood. A mask shielded his face, and he wore a tangled mess of armor, leather, and fur to stave off the ravenous cold. It was enough to freeze flesh, bone, and blood solid within seconds of exposure. A throbbing, unnatural pain gnawed at his head, worsening with each step toward Greerwood’s nexus.
The ranger was alone. His partner had separated from him a few miles ago; having too many people in one place attracted heat-seeking wolves. While Carter liked a good fight, their mission was on a schedule. He wiped a layer of mist from his goggles, searching for a tree with a mark; it didn’t take long to find. After so many ranges, the forest’s twists and turns were carved into his subconscious.
A lifeless tree, alone in a small clearing, had the initials CA carved into its trunk. It was a richer shade of brown than those around it.
The Heart of Greerwood. He was further into the forest than King Symon Del Gaddeaux’s Army had ever been.
Twice they turned back before this point, he thought with a hint of pride. Carter was obsessed with the Northerlands; he fondly remembered stories told by his mother. Her loving voice recounted tales of warriors, unholy magic, and ancient evils. Once, these stories were but legends and myths to him—once.
A steady hand silently moved to his blade, ready for anything. Missions this deep in the forest were particularly dangerous. More than regular danger, something felt—off.
Carter stumbled as he neared the tree. Knives stabbed outward from his brain with each shift of his weight; this wasn’t a normal headache.
A voice rang out from within Carter’s mind: his partner, Vaste DuPont, was reaching him with a telepathic spell.
‘Check in.’
‘All’s well,’ Carter thought to Vaste. ‘Are you feeling this?’
‘Yes. What do you think it is?’ his partner replied.
‘Could be anything. We’ve survived worse. The pyramid’s just two days away.’
‘I don’t think we should travel alone. This presence—it’s really messing with my head.’
Carter scoffed. ‘Don’t tell me you want to go home?’
‘No,’ Vaste hastily replied, ‘I just think we should meet up. You know what to do.’
The reach ended. A stone on Carter’s wristband glowed green—Vaste was signaling him. If the light turned red, he was going the wrong way.
Even Vaste feels it, Carter thought. They were not easily shaken—nothing had killed them in thirteen years of ranging—not yet.
He chuckled. Not for lack of trying.
Carter followed the signal, altering his path as necessary. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. The realm had seen forty years of peace—hardly peaceful, though, really. The kingdom’s population had swelled under King Symon’s iron protection. The people of cities like Genievon, Kent, and Valdremus lived decadently with their little illusions. Carter knew the truth: they were denying the signs looming on the horizon.
Nothing lasts forever, he mused. Especially peace.
The ranger felt out of place at home. He brought more of the wild lands with him whenever he returned. Here was his true home—every step a fight for survival. He had too much of his mother’s fire in him. Carter dedicated every completed range to the memory of Jihandi Atlos. He left his father to be memorialized by Aliya or Keia, who inherited his magical powers.
Carter’s stomach twisted at the thought of Keia marching off to war without her magic. Part of him blamed himself; perhaps if he hadn’t been gone so much, she wouldn’t have run away for two years.
Perhaps if I’d told her…
Fear clouded the ranger’s mind; the realm was in decline. The world was too vast to be one kingdom ruled by one man, even the immortal King Symon—and the cracks were beginning to show. The pressure was building, and Carter hoped Keia and Aliya could avoid the chaos once the dam burst.
This concern affected his dreams, which had worsened recently. In nightmares, he searched the burning wreckage of Genievon, only to find dismembered remains amongst the scattered, seared rubble. But that wasn’t the part that terrified him the most; the part that was real—that he was cursed to remember.
A scream penetrated the air. Carter sprinted and found a small, open space.
Vaste entered the clearing from the opposite direction. His blood froze instantly as it oozed from his head, spattering against the eyeshields of his mask. Just as Carter was about to help, the headache sharply worsened.
“Carter! We need to go!” Vaste gasped. “It’s—AAAH!” He fell to the snow and writhed about helplessly. “It knows! It knows! It’s here!”
Carter’s searing headache blocked Vaste’s words. His hands were pressed firmly against his temples—shadow magic had taken hold. His ears, eyes, nose, and mouth began to bleed. He was a prisoner inside his own mind.
Distant cries for mercy and shrieks imposed on his senses, but they barely registered. When the excruciating pain forced his eyes open, a dim shadow fell into view. The shadowy
blur moved up and down, as if hacking away at something. The screams had stopped.
Suddenly, Carter snapped to attention, a moment of clarity overtaking him. He absorbed the surreal, dreamlike surroundings. The storm slowed, and the air turned warm. The very figure that haunted his nightmares stood before him, towering over the charred corpse of Vaste with a malevolent smile. Carter’s heart skipped a beat.
An ever-changing blade twisted in the figure’s left hand. It was fire-shaped but made of shadows, humming deeply and sputtering as the black flame danced and writhed. The blade groaned as it was retrieved from Vaste’s remains. Flesh and bone alike turned to black ash as the rot consumed his body.
The tall, lean-framed figure, a young man, was dressed in a black cloak; one of his eyes was green, and the other brown. His skin was lifeless and gray, and his untrimmed hair was swept to one side. Upon his right arm, he wore a metal gauntlet of ancient design: six intricately carved spell circles were arranged in a larger circle, surrounded by perfectly cut stones emitting a shadowy aura. Each circle was inscribed with writing in a lost language. Unlike Carter, he did not wear a mask to stave off the cold; instead, he was continuously casting heat, exuding a crushing aura as an afterthought. A familiar voice rang out as the Dark Disciple extended his gauntlet.
“Look what’s become of you.”
Carter scanned the area; the winds were gone, as was the cold. The ranger pulled off his mask and revealed his scarred face. He laid his eyes upon the young man before him but offered no reply.
“You’ve come a long way,” the man continued. “Running from a home where you don’t belong and searching for something you’ll never hope to find.” He twirled the sword in his hand. “And now, something has found you.”
Carter sneered. “You look as unhinged as ever.”
“Unhinged? I’ve found clarity,” the man countered, “and purpose.”
“Is that why you’re out here? Are you really a slave to that monster?”
The man’s eyes flashed with amusement. “You think it wise to insult the Master?”
“What’s it matter?” Carter’s shaking hand retreated from his sword.
The young man smirked. “You still don’t plan on fighting me? It hasn’t crossed your mind after all these years—what you’d do if you actually found what you were looking for?”
“It’s crossed my mind every day; I’ve always known exactly what I’d do. I made a promise.”
“And what good did that do?” the figure sneered. “You failed her, and now you’re out here—alone, with me. Who’s going to keep you safe?”
Carter sighed, the knot in his stomach twisting. “Only the gods can do that now.”
Both eyes aglow with predatory malice, the Dark Disciple said in a low voice, “There is only one god, and he is cruel. Nothing can save you—or that kingdom you love so much. You’ve seen it—I know you have.”
Carter did not reply.
“You’re alone. It’s frightening, I know.”
Shaking his head, Carter said, “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
Carter shifted. “Do you think I’d come all this way if I was scared of you?”
The disciple smiled. “You don’t seem very happy to see me again.”
“I never wanted to see you like this. Gray-skinned, starved—you look like a damned corpse. You need to—”
The figure snarled, “You don’t get to tell me what I need to do.”
Carter continued, “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“Oh, really? Look at yourself!” The man’s sword surged to match his anger. “A broken man, lost and alone.”
“I know how you got that.” Carter motioned toward the shadowy sword. “You gave up your soul.”
Almost jubilantly, the figure responded, “That I did—and I’d do so again.”
“I thought you’d have something more to show for the price you paid.”
This ignited The Dark Disciple’s fury. He pointed his blade, which sizzled violently to match its master’s wrath, at Carter, who felt the weight of the sword’s power. The blade’s presence exuded a pressure unlike anything he’d experienced.
“And you still haven’t anything to show for all your years of searching. Tell me, what have you learned during all that time that will save you now—that’ll save the ones you love?”
Carter did not answer.
“That’s what I thought,” the figure sneered. “I’ve been in your head since you stepped into my forest. The liar’s doing well as a paladin, which is nice to hear. Poor Keia’s struggling. I’m sure they have such bright futures ahead of them. I’ll be giving them my regards in person very soon.”
Carter laughed. “You’re just going to march into the capital?”
“No,” the figure grinned wickedly as he approached, stopping a foot from his prey. “The liar—she’ll come to me. You don’t think she’ll wonder what could have happened to their dear older brother, lost and alone in Greerwood? I imagine you’ve become quite close. All these years, bonding over the lies you fed your own sister. But don’t worry—the Master has something extraordinary planned for little Keia. I’m sure it’ll be painful for her, sensitive as she is, to be killed by a friend.”
Smiling, the man’s eyes fell to Carter’s sword.
The ranger’s hand twitched. Carter wished he could end it right there, but he knew the truth: there was no use fighting, even if he wanted to. He dropped his sword, sheath and all.
The disciple’s eyes burned cold, but his features were contorted into a tight frown.
“I won’t make it that easy for you.” Carter waited for the disciple’s eyes to waver, to betray any sign of humanity, but they did not. He sighed and said resignedly, “Do it, then.”
The man raised his gauntlet as his arm began to glow. “It’ll be over quickly,” he promised.
The air vibrated under the weight of his magic. Carter was powerless against the disciple’s shadow telepathy. The figure stormed his mind freely, probing his innermost thoughts and extracting them painfully.
The ranger felt like his brain was forcing its way through his eye sockets. A voice called from within, I see the city burning, too. But in my dreams, you’re years too late to stop it.
Carter stumbled about while unendurable pain filled every vein in his body. He could barely keep his eyes focused as the shadowy blade surged through the air and pierced his chest.
Gasping, the ranger grasped at the young man to balance himself. Blood gushed from his mouth as he reached out and touched the disciple’s face. Pulling the figure close, he managed to choke out, “I’m sorry—I—”
When the words were spoken, his last breath left his lungs. The man pulled his sword from Carter’s chest cavity and watched him fall. After staring coldly for a few seconds, the Dark Disciple’s shadowy blade dissipated into thin air. He turned and walked away. The wind picked up again, burying Carter’s body in the snow as ghostly howls filled the empty woods: a funeral in Greerwood—such was the fate of a ranger.
Chapter 1
Arrivals
Day 96 of the Season of Aion, 1020 YAR
The sun had yet to rise over Genievon. A hooded man traversed a crooked path in Capital Forest. Only the shadowy outlines of trees were visible.
I’d almost forgotten how much it feels like I’m being watched here.
The traveler had been walking for some time, always with one hand tucked into his cloak. A jet-black wooden wand awaited beneath, ready to be raised defensively at any moment. He hoped there was no need for it.
A crack came from the top of the treeline, then the snapping of a branch. He instantly raised his wand and cast a blinding light that illuminated the area. Two fully armored members of the King’s Militia stood before him, weapons drawn.
“Greetings,” he said
cautiously. “Rather peculiar to see members of the King’s Militia here this late.”
“Were you hoping not to see us?” inquired the shorter soldier, a woman with dirty blond hair and piercing green eyes. Pointing a spellstone-lined knife with a gilded hilt, she continued, “Because it’s even more peculiar to see hooded men walking around these woods at this time.”
The man nodded. “I merely wished to avoid recognition in the city.”
The woman scoffed and said, “At this hour?”
“If this Genievon is the Genievon I remember, this city never sleeps.”
Her nostrils flared with a sharp exhale as a half-grin came over her face. “All right, then. And what is your business here?”
“I’ve come at the personal request of the King’s Adviser on Magic,” the man said. He examined the woman in the light and noticed the patch on her arm. “Fifth Magician’s Division. You ought to know him.”
Their blades stayed trained on him. The woman’s partner, a man of thin stature holding a spear and shield, asked, “How are we supposed to know if that’s true?”
The blinding light faded as the traveler ceased his spell, lowering his weapon. “You could always ask him. Come—I’ll walk with the two of you to the capital, and you can see to my apprehension if the guards are not expecting me.”
The woman stepped out of her combat stance. “If it gets us through the gate faster, I’m fine with it. Though I prefer not to walk with strangers.”
The man chuckled. “I suppose it’s only right to introduce myself. I’m Lord Mar Mercer of Northstead. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
The spearman lowered his weapons and said, “My name is Sir Reginald Pryor, Second Royal Brigade.”
Sheathing her blade, the woman said, “Lorinal LeBlanc. I thought the Lord of Northstead was dead.”
Mar chuckled. “Is that what they’re saying about me now?”
Lorinal gave a wry grin. “No one’s saying much, to be honest. Very well, we’ll escort you to the Nothron Gate. If the guards are expecting you, I’m sure you can find your way to Myrddin’s chambers?”