The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4)

by Everet Martins

  The man in front of them shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. He clutched a rumpled hat in dirt creased hands and held it over his groin like that would protect him from King Ezra’s ignorance. Bits of plant matter clung to his trousers. His head was bald and white tufts of hair sprouted from every other spot on his pate. He was a farmer, Walter knew.

  He and Grimbald had been waiting in the same corridor and breathing in the same dusty air for over two hours. It was adjacent to the king’s audience chamber, and they had been unable to see it until now. Walter found his feet involuntarily shifting from side to side, anything to keep his mind off of his bulging bladder. Where was a piss pot when you needed one?

  He thought he should have felt some kind of pity for the princess with such a man as her father. He found he couldn’t give it much thought though. He had to focus on figuring out how he’d get an army out of King Ezra’s mad clutches.

  Walter traced a finger along the smooth mortar of the walls, joints wide as his thumb. The stones twinkled with tiny crystals in a shaft of light. There was a window above the center of the hallway, occasionally sighing with warm air.

  “Hand off the wall, cripple.” The Black Guard smirked.

  Walter bit his tongue, drawing a bead of blood. He inhaled sharply through his nose, licked his lips and let the spike of rage slip out with his exhaled breath. This wasn’t the time nor the place, and he had to learn to let his ego slide. He relaxed his face and stared at the guard, like he was a piece of meat to be butchered. A breeze pushed through the windows and the paintings marching along the walls twitched.

  Walter could hear Grimbald rumbling with a low growl, like a wolf to trapped prey.

  The swishing of silks carried down the chamber and into the hallway. Walter peered around the edge as Thurber approached, his face drooping with boredom. He wore billowing forest green robes with gold thread around the collar and wrists. He donned a strange hat in the shape of a cylinder with tendrils of gold fabric that fell over his back.

  “Please send in the next person for the King’s audience,” Thurber said to the Black Guard, who slowly pulled his gaze from Walter.

  “Come,” the Black Guard barked.

  The man before them shuffled forward and entered the chamber. He almost fell when his boot caught on the first step ascending to the dais. It flapped open like a mouth, showing his toes. “Sorry, sir. My King, sir,” he stammered.

  “Uh, where do I stand? Here? There” The farmer pointed at different steps.

  “There is fine,” Thurber intoned. He tossed his stub of charcoal in a pot and produced a new one from a pouch on his hip.

  “This,” King Ezra gestured with his goblet. “Is my life.” He took a slurping sip. A droplet of red wine curled around his beard. “What do you want?”

  “Uh—” The farmer dropped to his knees, head down.

  Thurber noisily flipped a page on his clipboard, narrowly avoiding the burning candle. “He claims his farm was razed by the death, uh, things and seeks help.”

  “Death Spawn, Thurber,” Ezra muttered.

  “Right, Death Spawn.” Thurber coughed into his writing hand.

  “Well, that’s downright ridiculous. We have patrols everywhere. It’s impossible for the Midgaard Falcon, the most disciplined men in all the realms, to have missed anything. Impossible, damn it.”

  “Impossible, sir?” Thurber raised his razor thin eyebrows.

  “Dragons, Thurber. Have you no loyalty at all to your benevolent King?” Ezra ground his palms into the arms of his throne. The ends were molded into lion’s heads with rubies for eyes.

  “Of course, my liege. I was merely saying—”

  “I haven’t got all day secretary. You do know how to waste my time, don’t you? Why I haven’t I replaced you yet?”

  Thurber audibly swallowed and took a step back away from the throne. His clipboard came up by his side, as if he were preparing to hurl it at him. He scratched the arm holding it and then lowered it, his nostrils flaring open.

  The King leaned over in his throne and spoke into his daughter’s ear, seeming to forget everyone could hear him unless he lowered his voice. “Now, pay close attention, Larissa. You may have to deal with this sort of rabble if your king isn’t up for the task or has to travel.”

  “Yes, father,” she whispered.

  Ezra peered at the farmer and scowled. “Out with it already. What is it that you need?”

  A pregnant silence crept into the chamber.

  “Me, sir?”

  Ezra stared at him, eyes hooded. He took a glug of wine, swished it around then swallowed. He leaned over onto his side, half of his ass in the air and let out a cheek-vibrating fart.

  Thurber’s eyes peeled apart and his eyebrows tried to escape his forehead.

  The farmer started. “Well, my king, there were patrols as you said so, yes. They came and—” He peered up at Ezra, then looked off to the side.

  “And?” King Ezra beckoned with jeweled fingers.

  “They were killed.” The farmer croaked. “By the monsters, the Death Spawn. They burned everything we had. More soldiers came to help, they did. The soldiers killed them right and good, but by then it was already too late. Not just my farm either. Couple other’s farms too. Kasey’s and Marvin’s among ‘em.”

  Thurber’s wide eyes looked enormous behind his spectacles, unblinking.

  Larissa leaned forward in her chair, one hand on her delicate chin.

  King Ezra let out a great sigh, all the air in his body seeming to leak out. He slumped against the back of his chair as if he’d just taken a crippling body blow. “How many?”

  “Patrols or Death Spawn?” The farmer’s hands massaged his hat.

  “How many dead, you dolt!” King Ezra snapped.

  “Oh.” The farmer sniffed. “Three, my liege. They fought hard to save us. I’ll never forget their sacrifice.”

  “Why are you here?” The King upturned his goblet into his mouth and gave it a shake, then held it out to be refilled. The cupbearer was there in an instant, filled his goblet, and scurried back into the shadows behind the chamber.

  The farmer pressed himself lower into the marbled floor. “I was hoping, your majesty, there’d be some help from the city. To help me rebuild my farm and my dwelling. For the sake of my children.”

  “No, no. You misunderstand my question.” He wagged his index finger at the farmer and his eyes formed into wrinkly slits “Why are you alive?”

  The farmer turned back, looking into Walter’s eyes, wrought with defeat. He slowly turned to face the king. “I hid. Me and my sons and daughters. We hid in the root cellar. Was too afraid to do much.” His head sagged onto his chest. “Did nothing but sat there like scared babes.”

  “As I suspected.” King Ezra tilted his chin up and scratched his neck. “Thurber, send for the barber. I need a shave, my beard grows unruly.”

  Thurber made a note and strode through an archway, exiting the chamber. He was likely thrilled to have a few moments away from the king.

  King Ezra opened his palms in a gesture of helpless innocence. “Our coffers are quite empty. I deeply apologize, for the city cannot give you compensation for your losses.”

  “But I pay my fair share of taxes every fortnight. Never a day missed in seventeen years.” He rose up, sitting on his knees, back straight. “I understand things are hard…” The farmer’s head turned to face the eastern wall, made up of mainly glittering gems and mortar to hold it all together. His face was bathed in reds, greens and blues of the afternoon sun. “But there must be some way you can help?” he pleaded.

  “I understand that you’re a fool,” the king muttered. “There’s nothing I can do for you. Next!” He nodded towards a Black Guard, who darted forward like a cat.

  “Nothing? Not even seed? Some wood maybe?” The farmer stood up and the Black Guard’s big arms slid under his, dragging him on his heels. “No, but wait!” the farmer yelled. “You have to help us!”

  T
he king jerked up out of his throne, his face a thunderhead. “You and your family should’ve fought back. Maybe your farm wouldn’t have been burned if you weren’t such a coward. This world has no room for cowards!” He pointed and jabbed with his finger, wine slopping out of the goblet in his other hand.

  “Father,” Larissa placed a hand on his arm, gently lowering it.

  “I’m not a fighter, damn you!” the farmer shouted.

  “Stop resisting,” the Black Guard said into his ear.

  “Without me, without us you and everyone wouldn’t have a scrap to feed upon.” He leaned forward, bared his teeth, and pressed his feet into the stone.

  The Black Guard released one of his arms, and drove hard a fist into the farmer’s lower back.

  He cried out and fell to his knees, sobbing.

  “Stop your whimpering.” The Black Guard dragged him up, limp legs trailing on the stone.

  “Damn peasants!” Ezra roared. “It’s never enough for you. Always wanting something more. You shouldn’t have farmed outside the Wall. That was a risk you elected to take.”

  “We had no choice my king, no choice. Couldn’t afford anything else.”

  “Get him out of my sight, Lajoy!” Ezra threw his furs over the back of this chair.

  Walter’s jaw hung open, staring as Lajoy dragged the farmer into the corridor, passing him and Grimbald. Walter remembered Lajoy now, the first Black Guard he had the misfortune of meeting. A few sprigs of his golden hair fanned out from under his midnight helmet. The farmer’s eyes were closed tight, tears trickling down his cheeks.

  “This is the King of Zoria?” Grimbald whispered.

  “Afraid so,” Walter muttered, staring down at his boots. “Well, that doesn’t bode well for us, does it?”

  Grimbald blew out his cheeks. “I hope you have good convincing skills.”

  “Shit. Let’s try not to piss him off.”

  Walter looked up to see Thurber slide into view, eyes bored. “Let’s make this quick.” He produced a charcoal stick in his long fingers. “Why are you here and what is it you seek?”

  Walter and Grimbald shared a grave expression.

  “I’m Walter Glade of Breden. This is Grimbald Landon of Shipton, now residents of Midgaard. You may remember us for foiling an assassination attempt on the King’s life.”

  “Hmm.” Thurber scribbled something. “I don’t recall.”

  “Killed a Skin Flayer in the halls leading to Ezra’s quarters. Remember that?”

  “Ah, yes. Thought you looked familiar.” He nodded and tugged on his gilded collar. “Follow me.” He started off, beckoning them to follow.

  “Don’t forget to kneel,” he hissed over his shoulder.

  Intricate carvings of beasts unknown, Dragons, and Phoenixes wound around the room on its crown molding. Inlaid in the creamy marble floor was a giant Dragon circling a Phoenix of silver and gold. On either side of the dais were giant vases in an opalescent blue, spilling out with blooming white flowers as big as a plate. Bright shafts of colored light passed through the wall of gems, highlighting the dust particles lazing on the air. It all felt like a strange dream. He remembered the room. It had only been six months since he was last here, but he felt the memories of a former life.

  Ezra was right about one thing, this room was in dire need of fresh air. It felt like a different part of the realm from the cool corridor where they had been waiting. It was thick and humid as if it had just rained. He thought he spied black mold lingering in the dark corners of the stone carvings, the light the only force keeping it from spreading.

  “Finally, the last of the day. It has been a most taxing day.” The King put his goblet on a small table and rubbed his eyes. “This is what you have to look forward to, my dear.”

  Larissa forced a smile and Walter met her eyes again, heart thumping in his chest. Grimbald kneeled beside him and Walter followed, staring at a white flower at the base of the vase. One of its petals that had remained coiled popped open, revealing pink stamens dusted with violet pollen.

  Thurber introduced them to the king by name and Lajoy strode back in, wiping his hands as if they were soiled. Lajoy stood off to the side of the throne, bulky arms crossed over his chest. Walter felt his eyes on him, trying to cut a hole through him.

  “I thought you looked familiar. You live in Malek’s old place now, is it?” the king asked.

  “We do.”

  Lajoy grunted and shifted his feet, spreading them into a wide base.

  “Yes, yes. I remember now. My debt is already paid to you. What more do you want?” Ezra’s fingers reached for his goblet, almost knocking it over before snatching it.

  “My king.” Walter rose up and bowed, teeth gritted. Was there anything worse than having to bow to someone you loathed? He supposed everyone had masters. “As you well know, there are Death Spawn traveling the lands.”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it.” The king flicked his wrist, waving away invisible flies.

  A short man appeared in the narrow entryway at the back of the chamber. He nodded at the cupbearer and smiled crisply. He wore an untarnished apron and clutched a wooden box before his chest. His black hair was slicked back and shining with oil.

  “The barber, sir.” Thurber motioned to the aproned man.

  Walter sighed through his nose.

  “Go on, go on.” The King’s gray eyes were netted with wrinkles. The barber placed his polished box on a table and produced a gleaming straight razor. He held it up to a narrowed eye and frowned. His hands unfurled a strop from the box and started gently running the blade up and down it.

  Walter made his clenched jaw relax so he could speak. “The Tower has fallen, torn down by Death Spawn blades.” His voice sliced through the room. The barber paused mid-stroke. “They now march west, pillaging and razing the coast. I have reliable sources that say they plan to lay siege to the Great Retreat. If we do not intervene… well, I don’t need to tell you what happens next.”

  “I cannot help you. We need every spear we have here,” Ezra said with cheerful indifference. He poked his head out of his billowing shirt and the barber made a few more passes on the strop. He worked a horsehair brush, lathering the king’s neck in shimmering oil.

  “You can’t—” Walter felt his hand curl into a fist.

  “We must not. You’re right, though. I shouldn’t have listened to you and Baylist when you first came to me.”

  “Baylan,” Walter corrected. “And that’s not what I meant.”

  “I sent battalions at your request to the east and the west, to give the realm support. Look at what good that did, almost a thousand men dead, cut down by beasts from the devil’s own asshole. Now we have the damned Purists flocking here, infiltrating everything and trying to purge the city of the last of the wizards.”

  Walter sucked in air through his nose. “We fought alongside the Falcon at the battle of Dressna. Had they not been there—”

  “Many would still be alive!” the king barked, thumping his fist on his chair arm. The barber jerked his hand back to avoid cutting him.

  Walter felt Grimbald inch away from him, feet shifting from side to side. He caught the scent of roasting onions wafting from him.

  “No. All the villages, small towns up and down the east coast would have been ravaged, burned to ashes had they not come to help. They gave their lives, yes, but saved many. Their deaths did not go in vain.”

  The king sniffed and the princess regarded Walter with a raised chin. Her eyes studied him as if watching a curious dog.

  “The Falcon stays here. Midgaard cannot fall. We’re the last bastion of safety. Will not, damn it!” The king’s neck quivered, eyes blazing.

  “Grim?” Walter met his eyes, face turning ashen. Grim gave a quick shake of his head. “You’ll not give one of your best Captains, one who survived the Tower’s fall men to command?” Walter pointed at the pins on Grimbald’s collar.

  The king muttered to himself, staring down into his lap. He raised
his head, addressing Grimbald flatly. “What was it like? The Tower’s fall, I mean?”

  Grimbald paused, his whole body going rigid. “Bloody,” he managed.

  Walter waited for him to say more, but his mouth hung open without emitting sound. “So you’ll let the Great Retreat fight alone? Without the help they’ve paid taxes for over the past five-hundred years?”

  King Ezra worked his lips and looked to be chewing on the insides of his cheeks. “Dirty Shamans and their damned experiments. They deserve it with their bullshit sorcery. They’re heretics. They deserve whatever fate befalls them. Maybe it’s the Dragon finally taking his glorious revenge upon their cultist hearts.” His lips peeled back to show his black molars.

  Walter felt energy drain out of his body. He had forgotten that trying to convince King Ezra was as useless as hot water without elixir beans. “You’re a madman,” he whispered.

  He and Grimbald shared a pained expression.

  “What did you say, boy?”

  “You heard me well,” he hissed.

  “Why, you arrogant swine.” Ezra jerked from his chair, his shoulders pulled back with all the regal muster he could manage. Lajoy stepped forward, hands dropping to his dagger’s hilts. His eyes twitched with a murderous hunger.

  Walter instinctively reached for the Dragon. Something was wrong. He started to blink and saw there was a wall of ice where the Dragon should’ve been. A single ray of its brilliance bored through, like the sun behind a dark cloud. It was trapped, unreachable for an instant before the ice shattered it into burning shards. The ice melted, hissed away in his mind as if never there. He opened his eye and everything slowed down, like the world had been submerged in invisible molasses.

  “Get rid of him,” Ezra said in a eulogy’s pace.

  He peered around the room, guts squirming for the source of the Dragon’s block, an Equalizer crystal. Every neck was unadorned except for… the barber’s. He had a silvery chain with something the size of a pigeon’s egg under his shirt. Walter would bet his life that it would be glowing. He thought he could even see a hint of violet light from the shape.