The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4)

by Everet Martins

  He stomped up the stairs, the wood shrieking in protest. He grasped the handrail to drag himself up. His hand tore free, slick with blood. He lashed out with his arm, snaking it between balusters and catching himself before tumbling backwards. “Fuck!” he breathed.

  The demon hit the door, rattling the hinges. With each step he took, the demon struck the door. He heard wood cracking, buckling under its tremendous power. It was a heavy door and no man should’ve been able to get through it, not even Grim. The door roared with a final blow, the hinges screeching as they were ripped from the wall.

  He reached at the top of the stairs and sucked in a ragged breath. His eyes found Lovebleeder’s curved edge glinting in an amber ray of light.

  “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be old man,” the demon hissed from the bottom of the stairs. His hands were on either side of the rails, its wicked eye glowing, white hair dangling over half his face. Blood pattered onto a stair tread from his wounded arm.

  “Leave this place! Now! You’ll be sorry if you don’t, you demon-scum, you bastard.” The words felt weak from his throat, but he wanted them to come out strong. It gave him a chance to be still, to catch his heaving breath.

  The demon growled and bounded up the stairs three at a time.

  His breath caught and he dashed for Lovebleeder. He reached forward, fingers closing to fit the shape of its haft. He could almost feel it in his palms before he got there, its smooth grain and familiar weight. Almost. A hand caught his wrist, ripped his arm back and spun him face first into the ground.

  Charles yelped when he landed, heard something pop in his nose. White pain filled his face and he felt blood pool around his cheeks. He moaned and started to rise. The vice around his wrist jerked him to his feet with unnatural strength, shoulder popping and tearing free from the socket. He screamed in pain, his arm limp as a doll’s in the demon’s alabaster hand. “Wha… what do you want?”

  The demon paused at the question, cheeks sucking in. “You know, you’re the first person to ask me that,” he said casually as if having a fireside chat.

  Charles’s vision swam. The demon became a ghost, eye glimmering with fire. He became a man again, lips drawn into a bloody sneer.

  Charles punched at his gut with his other hand, but the demon blocked it while simultaneously counter-punching. His breath was expelled from his lungs and bile crested in his throat. His legs drained of life and the demon let his arm go, collapsing onto the floor. His legs sprawled out and a muscle twanged in his knee.

  The demon started pacing around him, boots scraping on the wood. “That is a nice axe,” he muttered. “A shame you didn’t get to use it.” He picked it up, hefted it in his hands. He raised it overhead and hurled it through a window overlooking the square. Glass shattered and the axe clattered onto stones below. Screams carried in from the square from houses all around. How many others like him were there?

  “All my life, I’ve been nothing but the son of a fisherman,” the demon started. Charles flopped onto his side, staring. “I was a given a gift—a curse, maybe. But I have the opportunity to be something more than a fucking cattle farmer or fisherman. Something that matters, been given the chance to matter, to etch my name on the sands of time.”

  Charles swallowed, blood spurting out his nose and into the cracks between the boards. Maybe this thing could be reasoned with. “It matters,” he croaked.

  “What matters?” The demon squatted beside him, looking him up and down like a piece of butchered meat.

  He coughed on the blood collecting at the back of his throat. “Working. Find work you like, it’ll never feel bad. Work hard. Love your family, friends, lovers… that’s all that matters in this life.”

  “Love?” The demon scoffed and rose up. “Love is just a fleeting moment in time. It disappears without any notice.” The demon drew a blade from behind his shoulder, its red eye reflected on the flat. “An impolite bastard. It doesn’t ask before leaving. And when it leaves, it never returns.”

  “A sad way to live.” Charles coughed and closed his eyes. He thought of Grimbald, teaching him how to use the axe when he was a wee lad. Showing him the proper way to clean a mug, cut wood, and tend to the chickens. Thought of his wife, sitting at her desk, charcoal on her hands and cheeks. There was a stack of sketches next to her of the forest. She loved the trees and their fractal beauty.

  The demon sighed and raised his blade. “You seem like a good person. I’ll spare you the suffering I endure.”

  As he remembered those he loved, he felt the sword bite into his neck for an instant, heard it thump into the wood. The world faded away. Grimbald’s father’s heart beat its last beat.

  * * *

  Juzo exhaled and watched the chubby-cheeked man’s head roll up against the wall. He almost looked happy. Would he be able to smile when death came for him? Would it ever? He ran his palm over his face, sloughing off a mix of dried and sticky blood onto his fingers. His other arm hung down, fingers digging into the leather wrapped sword haft. He jerked the sword from the wood, squeaking as it came free.

  He forced his fingers to uncurl and placed the flat of the blade on his shoulder. He walked over to the broken window, boards softly creaking underfoot. Blood pattered from the sword tip behind his heels, maybe on his coat. The glass partly showed him his reflection, a sallow-faced creature needing to be put to the flame. His eye glowed with fiery intensity due to his recent feeding. He listened to the wailing of the dying carrying in the morning air. They were scared now, but they wouldn’t be for long. Once they came into the fold, they would know what it was to have strength, freedom. The ability to make a difference.

  A pair of children ran across the square with their hands clasped “Please, someone! Help!” a boy yelled.

  “Mother! Father!” the girl in his hands shouted.

  No help would come for them today. The sun’s glow touched the houses behind them. A lantern swung in one of their arms, a foolish thing and hardly needed now. He watched them for a second, and then willed one of his surrogates to take them. It was second nature to him now, like making a single toe curl. It was difficult at first, but with a fair amount practice, he was getting better at it. His commands were more precise now and always obeyed. He wouldn’t stand for any more disasters.

  The hinges on a door screamed as it opened. A figure flitted through the remaining shadows and snatched the children in her hands. She held each of their tiny arms in her iron grip. Her mouth parted and hissed as it latched onto the boy’s neck. The girl ineffectually kicked and punched at the surrogate’s leg as her brother writhed.

  Why was she so worried? Did she not know her brother was being bestowed a gift men would have begged for centuries ago? The surrogate went to work on the girl now, leaving just enough blood in the boy to allow for his return. How the gift worked, or where it came from, Juzo was unsure.

  It was beautiful. Juzo felt a manic smile creep across his lips, started to fight it, then let it be. His eye started to fill with damp, blurring the image of the ravaged children. They could have been him, a normal life cut off before it had ever began. The surrogate looked up at him, narrowed her eyes as if she felt his thoughts. It didn’t work that way, did it? He’d have to be more careful. No more disasters.

  The surrogate trudged away out of view, resuming what it had started in the bakery. The boy’s ghastly face lay staring at his sister. Her hand had clawed its way across the earth, clutching his with her last breath. Her tongue lolled from the corner of her small mouth. It was so terribly small. Their necks bubbled blood, forming gleaming discs under them.

  Walter had said something about demons, but he knew he was still himself. He felt good, strong. He nodded, reassuring himself that this was the path he needed to take. He would need many Blood Eaters to help Walter save the realm. He realized the only way he could do that was well away from him, where he couldn’t interfere. Walter would never let him do what needed to be done. Sometimes the hardest of things nee
ded to be done alone.

  Everyone would like him then, when they knew how powerful the Blood Eaters were. He’d be a hero, just like Walter. His Blood Eaters were tireless fighters, could self-heal without taking the energy of the wizards. They’d be the army we’d need to kill Asebor, to get revenge for what they did to us at the Tower, he thought.

  “He would understand. They’ll all understand,” he whispered.

  The boy’s legs twitched like he was struck by lightning. He rolled up into a sitting position, legs outstretched. His eyes started glowing a malevolent red. He rose up and stood over his sister, rigid as a spear, staring down and waiting for her.

  Juzo couldn’t feel the boy’s thoughts, but only his own surrogates’. It was an elegant chain of command. He gave orders to his surrogates and it trickled down to the sub-surrogates, and on it went as they shared their gifts.

  Juzo turned from the window and made his way back to the well in the Shipton square. He started walking the perimeter of the square, taking stock of his new home. He caught a pair of wails through a blacksmith’s shop. It had a wooden sign carved to resemble an anvil. He strolled with his arms behind his back and a gentle smile touched his lips.

  Sacrifices had to be made. Blood must be shed. He had become numb to their sobbing pleas for mercy. Some claimed they had children or a sick mother to care for. One of his surrogates had even asked him who would care for his dog. They were like new babes straight from their mother’s wombs. Men were weak, blubbering, helpless creatures. What they didn’t understand was that they were being reborn, molded into a better shape. He was their potter. He was the newer version of man. Stronger, faster, nearly impossible to kill. What else could you ask for in an army? No, to kill Death Spawn, they needed to be more than men.

  He stopped, eyebrows raising at a familiar scent wafting on the air. To Juzo, it smelled like roasted pork. The only thing missing were the potatoes. He felt his mouth water, sucked back the drool forming on the corner of his lip. He caught the source of the meat. A hardily built woodshed stood alongside the dirt road, its door closed.

  Juzo snickered. “Come on out now. I know you’re waiting, waiting, waiting for just the right time to—”

  The door shot open and a roar came with it. Juzo caught the gleam of tines, something hit him and pain splashed across his stomach. A bearded man wearing bib overalls screamed in his face.

  “Fuck you, demon bastard!” the man shrieked, his blue eyes wild.

  “Relax, friend. You got me… good.” Juzo reached with an imploring hand and frowned at the pitchfork in his gut. “I didn’t want to die like this.”

  “You deserve worse for what you and your lot did here. Bunch of barbarians,” the farmer spat in his face. He jerked the pitchfork free, hissing out of Juzo’s abdomen.

  Juzo collapsed and grinned at the pain, a reminder of what it felt like to be alive. He pressed his fingers into the wounds. He rubbed his hands together, massaging blood into his palms. It was pleasing, warm and slick.

  “You… you ain’t right. You’re sick, boy. I should say sorry you got to die like this, but I’m not.”

  Three doors creaked open from nearby houses, one after the other. Within the doorways, scarlet eyes watched him, waiting for further command. No, stay. Find those hiding in cabinets, cellars, closets, hidden alcoves in floors. Root them all out. Turn them all, he told them with his thoughts. No survivors.

  No survivors, they echoed in triplicate. The other two voices of his direct surrogates floated in his mind, confirming his commands. The farmer strode back to the shed, grumbling.

  The four holes piercing his stomach closed up, new skin sliding over them. It was a magnificent feeling, refreshing as a night of long-awaited rest. He pushed himself up with a groan and worked his hips in a circle. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

  The farmer whirled around, pitchfork leveled. “No,” he gasped. “What are you?”

  “Put the tool down.” Juzo gestured for him to lower it. “Go on. This fight… you can’t win. I hope you see that now.”

  The man’s hands wound tighter around the wooden handle, knuckles bone white. A sound came out of his throat, but it wasn’t any word Juzo knew.

  “Look and listen. All around you, your little village dies. But—” He paused and drew an arc in the air. “Your deaths won’t go in vain. In fact, you’ll be reborn, never truly dead. I came here not to end your life, but make it better. You’ll see.”

  “You’re mad. Mad as a Fang Cress addicted junkie,” the farmer stammered.

  “No. You’ve heard of the Death Spawn, haven’t you?” Juzo inched towards him.

  The farmer swallowed and took a defensive step back. He made a sharp jab with the pitchfork, a warning strike only.

  Juzo innocently opened up his palms. “Whoa, you don’t really want to hurt your new…” he paused, inhaling and searching for the word, “…savior, do you? This isn’t a good way to start our long, likely very long relationship.”

  “Shut up! Shut up, damn you,” he snarled and made for a lunging strike.

  Juzo easily dodged it, and let out a snicker. The pitchfork slipped from the farmer’s lead hand, tines ringing as they struck a stone. “I—we—are the future of man. I know you’ve heard of the Death Spawn. You’d have to be living in a woodshed if you haven’t.” Juzo eyed the shed and bobbed his eyebrows at the scowling farmer. “We’re going to help save the world.” He said it slowly, as if speaking to a child whose mind had come out dull as logs.

  The farmer sighed and raised the pitchfork up, setting the butt into the ground. “If you’re going to kill me, might as well do it already. I lived a good life. I don’t fear the Shadow Realm.”

  Juzo’s posture slumped. “And here I was just starting to enjoy our conversation. A pity.”

  The farmer tilted his chin up in defiance, back straight.

  Juzo eyed his neck, watched the artery jump with each frightened beat of his heart. Blood promised deep satisfaction, but rarely delivered. Why was the world so cruel? Why did our mind’s idea how of a thing should be never quite match up to the reality of it? Maybe this time it would be different. He always liked to think everything would be better in the future. The future is where chaos reigns, the world changes, but he never did.

  He was a viper to the farmer’s neck. His teeth, sharp as needles tore into the man’s skin. The pitchfork fell with a thump beside him. His blood had far too much metal and was sweet as honey cakes. The man had likely recently eaten based on the taste. It was cloying after a long minute. Sucking on that pliable artery always met him with an unavoidable gagging, and this was like any other time. Juzo staggered away, leaving just enough blood in him to rise, to enter the fold of his Blood Eaters.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hard Choices

  “Black Fire: A Necromantic spell to be avoided as it does cause corruption of the soul. Your hands will feel warm with the fire of the Dragon, but it is used to part the veil between worlds. The fires you pull come from the Shadow Realm, the source in the Shadow Realm itself is unknown. Once pulled forth, you cannot see the fire as it presents itself as shadows. You’ll know it is there by the damaged caused to those it’s used upon.” -The Lost Spells of Zoria

  The stone bridge curved over the river in a gradual arc. It was wide enough for a single carriage to pass. It would carry them further west, the last bridge before Shipton. The river below it musically gurgled and foam crests formed on its banks. The icy water came from the Mountains of Misery in the far north, which then became the Blanched Falls south of the Great Retreat. At the other end of the bridge was a small guardhouse, seeming unoccupied.

  The first half of the bridge was choked in verdant ivy, spiraling around it and navigating its way to the other side. The bridge was flanked at either end by towering spruces and oaks whose leaves were becoming the colors of fire. A bough with leaves red as the setting sun stretched over the bridge, speckling it in shadows interspersed with shafts of light. Insects fl
uttered in the sun rays, merrily buzzing. Where the plants of the forest met the river’s edge, Sand Buckeyes dominated, waiting for unwary victims.

  Walter, Grimbald and Scab approached the bridge, their mounts’ hooves hissing on the gravel before it. The gravel yielded to cobbles, hooves clopping and echoing from the river below. Walter peered over the low side wall. Where the bridge met the soil were a few discarded beer kegs, green moss on one side and black mold on the other. An epic battle had probably been waging for dominance on those kegs for years. A squirrel with fur the color of red wine poked its head out of another barrel, then skittered back in when it saw him.

  The band of mercenaries wound behind them, their barking and laughing like the biggest pack of dogs Walter had ever seen. They were a lot like dogs, he realized. They had all the qualities of a dog, except loyalty. That wasn’t true. They were loyal to one thing alone: marks. There was no way a small village like Shipton would know what to do with this rabble.

  “Did you find your dear friend in Midgaard?” Scab asked, peering at him through eyes red with exhaustion. Had he slept at all in Midgaard? Walter wondered. A rivulet of dried red wine spiraled around his neck and down his chest.

  Walter gave him a sideways smile and shook his head. “No sign of him. Checked the Lair, the market place… nothing.”