The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7)

by Everet Martins

  “N-no! Please!” Lillian whimpered. Her other hand rose up to grip another stone. She pulled and pulled, freeing herself from the pressure of the burning bodies around her.

  “Don’t leave us!” a man shouted and grabbed at her leg.

  “Off me,” she growled, giving the man a hard kick, shattering his nose and freeing his grip.

  “So sorry, but back you must go. Maybe you’ll have better luck tomorrow?” Prodal gave a listless shrug. “I hope you know your efforts do not go unappreciated.” A giant four-fingered hand pushed up from the flames, its flesh lined with gray barbs, and easily wrapped a pair of fingers around her torso. With a flick of its wrist, it sent her hurtling into the black sky, flames and blood trailing behind. “Maybe you’ll try again tomorrow.” The spectacle would’ve made him snicker had he not already seen it thousands of times now.

  He sat amid his treasures, folding his legs to once again watch them burn. Even if they figured out a way to remove his conduit to the mortal realm, at least he would always have his treasures to watch over. There would be no Shadow Realm for those who made the bargain. That was his duty and his burden.

  TWELVE

  The Fall

  “Pride is our greatest folly. We all make mistakes, but the best of us try to mend them.” - The Diaries of Nyset Camfield

  The clang of metal against metal pierced Senka’s ears, the sound flattening and stretching out to a long warble. She drifted in some vast emptiness, lost in a numbing motion much like the sea. She thought that perhaps she had indeed died after fighting Bezog and this place was death. She remembered collapsing shortly after they dragged her out of the square, darkness and exhaustion cloaking her vision. There was a moment when all sensation fled, even the Mistress’s icy healing spells. There were some wounds too grievous for even the Phoenix to heal. The wound of her near failure was the largest, its brothers the echoes of her bodily pains.

  A thump resounded in her ears that she knew to be her heart. It was slow and weak and foreign. Then it came hard and fast in a series of incessant beats, pain burning around her throat. Someone’s hands were shoving hard on her sternum, pushing with so much force she heard the snap of an upper rib, though she found it odd that she felt no pain.

  The sensation went away, and she welcomed that cold darkness. The darkness became something else, a pinhole of bright light that grew wider by the moment. The world beyond showed a series of verdant valleys teeming with glittering streams. Bright butterflies danced between exotic plants with mammoth flowers. Towering trees swayed on a gentle breeze, their bright red leaves upturned. The circle stopped widening, abruptly narrowed, and the darkness returned. No. I want to go back to that place, she thought.

  A harsh cough issued from Senka’s throat, launching her onto her side and choking for a full breath. Her body convulsed in a flare of agony as the cough magnified in intensity, throat feeling as if it had been crushed. Tears streamed thick from her eyes, chest starting to ache from all the coughing. It eventually subsided, and she lay back, finding herself on something soft.

  A bed, she realized, reaching back to squeeze the feather-stuffed mattress. She blinked at the ceiling and narrowed her eyes as it ruffled. The soft squeak of greased wheels reached her ears. She frantically took in her surroundings, realizing she was in a wagon. She saw the sun was setting behind it through the back of the canvas tent, opened for the crisp air. The sky was a stunning array of pink and amber streaks behind patchy clouds. It was more vivid than any sunset she’d ever seen.

  An olive-faced woman with golden hair tied in a bun sat on a stool, slumped against the back of the driver’s side wall. Her chin rested on her chest, arms and legs crossed. Bangles collected at her wrist, fingers decorated with various rings. The Mistress, Senka thought with a smile. Beside her was a barrel topped with bloody bandages, canteens, scissors, clips, and used rags.

  I live, she tried to say, but all that came out was a renewed fury of coughing.

  Nyset woke with a start, legs spreading to stop herself before she collapsed to the floor. “Senka! Easy now, easy,” she murmured, coming over to her side.

  “Where is Isa?” She asked, eyes narrowing, worry creeping into her guts. She propped herself up on her elbows, aches and buzzing pains flaring anew from what felt like every part of her body.

  “He went to take care of something, despite my admonition otherwise. He’s well, don’t worry about him now.” The Arch Wizard regarded her with a warm smile. She placed a hand on Senka’s brow, gently pressing her back into the soft confines of the bed. “You have to rest. There was something about him, something about his hammer maybe that prevented me from properly healing all of your wounds. Bezog was blessed, I think, or perhaps had some form of magic. I’m not sure. I’m sorry, I wish I could’ve healed you better. But you’re alive and you won. I think much of your recovery will have to pass with time.

  Senka nodded against Nyset’s hand, blinking away new tears born of the agony coursing through her body. “Okay,” she breathed.

  “Senka, you’ve made me so proud. You alone have diffused the tensions with Midgaard. Thanks to your victory, you’ve kept us from having to deal with a civil war among this mess. I want you to know I’ll never forget what you did for me, for us. We’re all indebted to you.”

  A full smile came to her lips then, briefly eclipsing the pain. “Thank you, Mistress. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.” More than you’ll ever know. Her throat hitched, and her body again convulsed with a series of hard coughs.

  “Senka, here… drink,” Nyset said, bringing a canteen to her lips. The liquid coursed down her throat, bringing soothing relief and a jolt of memory. “Someone tried to poison me during the fight! Windroot oil. I’m practically immune, so it didn’t work.”

  “Yes.” Nyset nodded. “Isa’s taking care of it.” Nyset shifted her eyes to peer out the back of the wagon. “A few years ago, I had the Earl of Helm’s Reach executed for trying to take the New Tower from me. I should’ve known his heirs would try to seek revenge someday. I’ve made many enemies, Senka. Too many to keep track of, it seems.” She wrinkled her brow, setting eyes to hers. “I’m sorry they tried to hurt you, that I didn’t see it coming.” She let out a heavy breath. “I will account for them. This won’t happen again.”

  “You couldn’t have known, and your responsibilities are great. You’re too hard on yourself, Mistress. It’s impossible to remember them all. None of us are perfect.” Her voice broke into a raspy whisper. Nyset offered more water, and she gladly accepted. “My father was always hard on me, and there’s a part of me that wished he’d been different. I was never enough in his eyes, always a hair under his unrealistic desire for perfection.”

  Nyset frowned. “Do you… perhaps think he was just trying to prepare you for this world?”

  “Maybe,” Senka replied, settling her body on the bed, the urge for conversation wilting, eyelids drooping. “Bezog. He fought with two books on his sides. Did you get a look at them?”

  “I did, briefly. One book fell open. I-I recognized the text.” Nyset nodded and licked her teeth.

  “And?” Senka let her eyes close.

  “They were The Chronicles of Walter Glade, my very own work. Surprising, to say the least.”

  Senka gave a scornful snicker. “As Bezog lay dying, he kept saying ‘hero.’”

  “Maybe he wanted to be a hero, like you.” Nyset’s voice lowered, failing to hide a quiver.

  “Yes,” Senka breathed as sleep wrapped her in its numbing embrace. “I think so.”

  Greyson tossed in his bed, discomfort choking him off from the rest he so badly needed. Every joint from his neck to his toes, and even his hair, ached. His skin was coated with a chronic sheen of cold sweat, his sheets annoying and clinging to his legs. His eyes felt like there were hammers throbbing behind them. There was something wrong with his lips, always cracked and bleeding. The apothecary was just as useless on this front as well as all the others. He should have
the man hanged. His guts churned with a sudden violent compression. He swiftly turned onto his side, aiming his mouth at the partially filled wooden bucket placed at the side of his bed, emptying the meager remains of his dinner.

  “Gods, please. Oh, please make this stop,” he whispered. He wiped his face with a towel, smearing it with a sticky length of vomit colored in gold and speckled with bright reds. “This… this is not—” he cut off as he was forced back toward the bucket, another bolus of vomit ejecting from his mouth. “Where is it all coming from? How is there so much?” He wiped his mouth again, eyes narrowing at his bile, now a pure red. “I’m sadly… dying. Must be.”

  He felt his will shatter then, all resolve dashed away. He couldn’t take any more pain. The nonstop vomiting, shitting, gagging, and retching. “Let me die. Just get it over with,” he hissed at his stone walls, dimly illuminated by a lone candle.

  He didn’t deserve this fate. He’d always done well by his father’s wishes. He only tried to get by without making much of a stir, but the Arch Wizard had to go and ruin everything. She ruined his life for her petty need for vengeance. The bitch would pay for it if it was the last thing he did.

  His bed sat in a corner of the room, surrounded by a canopy of drawn curtains. The rafters of the ceiling were bare, and from them, in the center of his chamber, hung an enormous candelabra with twenty unlit candles. Below it was a small round table where a lone candle sputtered on the last of its wick. The table had three thick legs surrounded by three auburn leathered chairs. On the floor was a crimson carpet, flanked by a few porcelain vases bearing Sand Buckeyes.

  Something unusual happened. His guts rumbled in a way he’d never felt before. “No, no, no,” he pleaded, panic gripping his mind. He remembered Tigeria and what happened to all those men and catfolk bitten by Shadow snakes. He had been infected, and the result was inevitable. “Please, no.”

  He pushed himself upright, leaning his back against the headboard and rubbing his belly through a heavy shirt. “This can’t be real, can’t be happening, can’t be!” He stifled a shriek that turned into a moan. “That fucking Arch Wizard. This is her fault. It’s all her fault. She sent me to that fucking Tigerian wasteland. She—” Something moved under his skin, cutting off his murmurings for a long moment. “No, no, please.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Please.” He curled his fingers into the blankets, arms trembling from the pressure.

  “But it is,” a feminine voice crooned in his head. “Wait for me, my pet. We can soothe each other’s pain. I can help you. I can save you. I’ll not tarry here much longer.”

  “Who are you? Here? Where? What is this!” He sobbed, hot tears sliding down his cheeks. “I’m losing my fucking mind. Gone full fucking mad,” he whispered with a shudder. “Can’t be real, can’t be happening.”

  “We are the daughters of Shadow. Where… in Tigeria. We’ll not be long. You know who I am. I am you. You are me. We are one and will be together, my prince. For so long I have listened to your thoughts and feel as if I’ve known you all of my life.”

  “Get out of my head” he growled. “Get out!”

  She laughed, a silky-smooth sound he might have enjoyed had it not emerged in his mind. “Witness my arrival.”

  “What?” Greyson said aloud. A hot lance of pain ripped at his abdomen. He bit his upper lip so hard he drew blood. He lifted his shirt, exposing his abdomen, eyes wide as he stared at a spot where the skin had bulged and broken, streaming bright blood. Pain filled his world. He threw his head back in a howl of agony and terror, spittle flying. Cords of muscles and veins emerged from his neck.

  Boots thundered outside his door. The guards poised at either end of the hallway shouted curses. Armor clanged and swords rattled. “Sir! What’s happening?” a guard shouted, fist banging on his door.

  Greyson could only shriek in response, stomach skin further bulging and audibly tearing. He couldn’t bear to look, setting his stare at the canopy over his bed. Hot blood washed over his hips and spilled down his groin. He roared, voice breaking in the heart of pain.

  “Your majesty! We’re coming in!” The guards smashed on the door, only serving to rattle the heavy iron hinges. Greyson’s shrieks grew more frantic, throat flexing, eyes blurred behind tears. “Stop! Make it stop! No! No!” he roared.

  “Damn this door!” a guard shouted.

  “Out of the way, I’ll do it!” another barked.

  Something slithered into Greyson’s vision. A pair of glowing violet eyes stared at him, and he forced himself to look back. It slowly swayed back and forth like a pendulum, appraising him. He blinked away the tears, pain fading into the background of his mind. He wondered if he was dead then. A hooded snake had emerged from his guts, its body as thick as his arm, skin mauve and coated in a slimy layer of blood. He swallowed, inching his trembling fingers out to touch it. It slowly swayed from side to side, and he could feel its movement against his belly. He touched the edge of its hood with a shudder, black forked tongue lapping at the air. Its skin felt like hardened leather, its flesh as cold as snow.

  The door to his chamber roared, wood splinters flying across the room. An axe head hung in a shatter board, withdrawn, then followed by a reaching arm. “We’re almost in, your majesty! Just a minute more,” a guard yelled. Greyson saw from the corner of his eye as the guard fumbled for the latch, finally grabbing it with a triumphant bark. The Shadow snake stared at him as if entranced. The door was jerked open with a squeal and two guards dashed into the room, one brandishing an axe and another a spear.

  “By the Dragon… my lord!” A guard gasped, spear clattering to the tiles. His hands clasped over his mouth, eyes wide with horror.

  “Dark magic! Kill it!” the other guard cried, charging toward the Shadow snake with his axe leveled, the red plume atop his helm waving.

  The Shadow snake’s violet eyes twinkled like stars, shifting to regard the guard, leaping from his guts in a parting torrent of agony. It hurled its body like an arrow, wide mouth agape, fangs blazing white. Its aim was true, mouth latching over the guard’s throat, who thumped to the floor a second after. “Bastard bit me!” the guard shouted, chopping down with his axe and clashing against only tiles as the snake slithered out of reach, dashing under the table.

  Greyson clutched his guts, blood weeping between his fingers, jaw clamped. “No. Oh, no,” he whispered. “Don’t let it out!” He screamed. Sweat fell in fat droplets from his temples.

  The other guard bent down to snatch his spear as the snake coiled its body and vaulted upward. Its upper teeth tore into his eye socket, the bottom of its mandible crushing down around the man’s cheek. The guard howled, tearing the snake free and taking his eye with it in a grisly tearing of flesh. Blood sprouted from the guard’s eye socket like a punctured wineskin, spilling down his face. He dropped to all fours, bravely finding his spear as the snake darted through the doorway.

  “No, no, no, no!” Not here. Not Midgaard. Not like this. Greyson rose from his bed, surprised to find his legs still functioning. His muscles violently quivered, eyes vibrated in his skull, skin ghastly. Each step felt like he’d climbed a mountain.

  The guards scrambled to their feet. The spear wielder charged for the door and was sent sprawling onto his back as he tried to exit holding the spear across his body, the ends of the spear clashing against the walls.

  “Idiot!” the axe wielder growled, leaping over him and sprinting down the hall. The spearman muttered curses as he dragged himself up among blood slicked tiles, one hand pressing over his ruined eye. He followed after the axeman, the ringing of their footfalls growing ever more distant.

  Greyson managed to lurch his way to the door frame and leaned against it, one arm raised to grasp the lintel for support. Torches flickered from iron scones, casting the hallway in a murky light. Paintings framed in gold adorned the walls, each depicting a portrait of past kings in regal stances. He leaned into the hallway, and with his eyes, tracked the glistening prints from the guards, among them a
sinusoid trail. A grim chuckle escaped his throat. “The start of the end,” he whispered, eyes fluttering. “What have I done? Unforgivable. Should’ve… stayed in Tigeria.”

  He peered back at the bed to assess his blood loss and saw hand sized pools between streams from where he had staggered. Shouts of concern and screams of terror erupted from distant hallways. There was a clamor of voices issuing commands. Somewhere, an alarm bell started to furiously ding. It was soon joined by a harmony of others in a four-count beat, the rhythm used to indicate there were enemies in the palace. Greyson slowly slid to the ground, clutching his ruined guts as a disc of warmth formed around his ass. He closed his eyes, hands going limp at his side.

  I have an offer for you, an oddly familiar voice said in his head.

  Who are you? Greyson thought back, no longer unfamiliar with this sort of inner dialog. Wait. I know this voice. I’ve met you before, haven’t I? Is this a dream?

  Not a dream, young man. Yes, I think we’ve met before, the voice said thoughtfully.

  A frozen shiver passed over Greyson’s arms. I remember you, your lair in the Dread Temple. Prodal is your name.

  It is. Do you wish to live? he asked, tone colored by a hint of anger.

  No, Greyson replied, thoughts a muddled wreck. I wish only for death.

  But your sister. She needs you, wants you. You would leave her behind to be engulfed by the horror you’ve unleashed upon this world?

  Greyson’s grin was a thin sickle. Goodbye, trickster. Death and the Shadow Realm await.

  Only for those who wish it.

  Greyson’s head slumped to his chest, and he breathed a warm sigh of relief.

  A heavy knock thumped on the Arch Wizard’s door. Nyset blinked at the darkness from the cozy confines of her bed. Sleep eluded her as it always had since Walter’s passing. She threw aside her covers in a practiced gesture and willed a ball of Dragon fire to life, burning away the abyss, and illuminating the room.