Island Shifters: Book 01 - An Oath of the Blood

by Valerie Zambito

  The young girl’s eyes deadened in grim hopelessness as she slid down and spread open her shaking knees. Tears dripped from her large, almond eyes as he approached, tugging at the lace of his trousers.

  Lucin prowled through the Cyman camp, barking and growling at anyone who tried to start a conversation. All of the arrangements had been made according to the instructions of the Mage and within the hour, Ravener would engage in his despicable dark arts. For what purpose, Lucin could not guess.

  Sickened, he stalked away from the army and its raucous noise and foul smells and disappeared over a towering dune. Once out of sight, he ran. He ran and ran, pumping his legs until he could continue no further and then sat down heavily in the white sand. Even in the moonlight, the Sandori Sands glistened in blinding splendor. The landscape was ever changing into exotic shapes as the dunes crested, caved, and swirled in the strong westerly winds. Hearty scrub grasses and plants dotted the terrain, but mostly it was a sea of glorious white as far as the eye could see.

  How we wished this campaign was over and he was back with Maree, Miah, and Titus. He worried for his son and longed for their reunion. It was his fervent hope that the Massans would not harm an innocent boy.

  Innocent? Lucin laughed grimly. Who was he kidding? The Cymans were as complicit as Adrian Ravener in this whole sordid affair. Did the shifters they encountered at the northern shores of Pyraan think the Cymans were innocent when they swarmed their shores with murderous intent? Did the young male Elf named Falcon think so when he took his last torturous breath crying out for his love? What about the Elven girl? If she had a chance, she would thrust a knife in Lucin’s heart without batting an eye, and he would not blame her one bit.

  He shook his head. They were halfway through the Sands now, and he just had to see as many of his people as possible safely through to Earthshine. According to the third prophecy he had yet to share with Ravener, the Mage would meet his equal at the final battle. It did not say for certain whether or not he would be defeated, only that there would be a chance.

  And, that was all he had left to hold on to.

  Pushing to his feet, he returned to camp and once again strode through the army without stopping for conversation. He slipped into the forest as stealthily as possible and made his way toward the ritual location.

  Earlier that evening, Lucin selected the requisite number of soldiers to participate in what Ravener called his war ritual. He had ordered Lucin to send the twelve Cymans to a clearing a full league south into the Du’Che Forest. Whatever Ravener had in mind, he did not want to be overheard.

  Lucin had been strictly forbidden from attending the ceremony, but he wanted to see for himself what the Mage planned. If his men were to be a part of these war rituals, Lucin wanted to see that they were safe.

  When he finally arrived at the clearing, he noticed the soldiers already present and standing within a circle of stones. Ravener had instructed that torches be staked into the ground outside of the ring, and they provided a companionable flickering glow to the moonlight.

  Skirting the edges of the clearing, he chose an enormous old oak several paces away and hauled himself into the boughs, settling onto a sizeable limb that provided a good view. He felt foolish. Here he was, the Captain of the Cyman Army, dripping in sweat and lying across a tree branch thirty feet off the ground to spy on his Master.

  His head twitched up when he heard movement from the far side of the clearing, and Ravener strode out of the darkened forest dressed in his usual all black, gripping the upper arm of the small Elven girl, Siole. Her eyes were frightened and wild as she looked around at the soldiers.

  “Where is he?” he heard her question the Mage suspiciously. “You said Falcon would be here.”

  Ravener ignored her and proceeded to the center of the circle of soldiers where he forced the girl to her knees. He looked around at the men. “There will be no speaking during this ceremony. You must thank Captain Lucin for your presence here this evening as it is he who has honored you for this service. Let us begin.”

  Ravener reached down to lift the Elf to her feet, and Lucin could see the small body shuddering uncontrollably in fear. The sleeves of the Mage’s robe fell to his elbows as he began weaving his arms in the air in front of the girl, his lips moving in a chant that Lucin could not hear from his position in the tree.

  The ceremonial mantra went on for several moments before Lucin saw the impact that the Mage’s words were having on Siole. Her body stopped shaking, and she snapped upright rigidly before Ravener. Her eyes were still wild but she seemed unable to move any part of her body including her mouth. She was making horrible moaning noises that sent the hair on the back of Lucin’s neck standing straight up. The soldiers were shuffling their feet, uneasy at the sight of the girl’s obvious torment, especially when she began to froth at the mouth. Suddenly, Ravener screamed out, lifted his arms high above his head and then brought them down swiftly and knelt in front of the girl, all in one sweeping motion. As the Mage continued to kneel with his head down, Siole’s mouth opened wide—wider than was humanly possible. Lucin put his hand to his own gaping mouth to cover his horrified gasp. The oral cavity continued to elongate and Lucin heard the cracking of her jaw. Shadowed fingers appeared at the maw opening and widened the mouth further. Impossibly, the silhouette of a head materialized and the figure of a female apparition began to crawl out of Siole. As soon as it was free, the specter shot into the air and the little Elf crumbled to the ground, an empty husk devoid of life.

  Lucin watched as the creature alighted on the ground and approached Ravener. It was definitely female with naked breasts exposed around a tight fitting black outfit and billowing black cape tied at the neck. Horns protruded from both sides of her temples and pointed upward in sharp lethal tips. Her smile revealed tiny sharpened teeth.

  “Niema,” breathed the Mage, reverently.

  The evil that emanated from the creature brought all of the soldiers falling to their knees and covering their heads in soft groans. Lucin almost tumbled to the ground as his body shook in an uncontrollable desire to flee from the abomination in his presence.

  “It has been a very long time,” rasped out the demon, her voice like a file chafing away at Lucin’s brain. “It has been even longer since I have tasted a fledgling Elven soul.” The demon slid her long forked tongue out to lick at her lips. “Thank you, Adrian.”

  “Niema, I am honored that it is you who has answered my call.”

  The creature barked out a brittle laugh as she hovered over the kneeling Mage. “I have accepted your offering. What is it you wish, spiritshifter, for I see you have earned this title.”

  “I am in need of assistance to help me secure my position as ruler of this island. I am the last Mage alive, and the sniveling leaders of Massa want nothing more than to abolish all magic.” He looked up at the female demon. “You would not want that, would you, Niema?”

  Her red glowing eyes narrowed at Ravener. “Galen Starr is dead at last?”

  “Yes.”

  The demon flipped into the air backwards in satisfaction and swooped down to within inches of Ravener’s face. “Magic is needed in all of the worlds, spiritshifter. I will help you.”

  “Thank you, Niema,” breathed out the Mage.

  “Just as I, spiritshifter, each demon you call forth will demand a sacrifice in offering and a portal through which to emerge here into this mortal world.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. I have not yet built up the power necessary to summon the number of demons needed, so I require your help.”

  Niema smiled sinisterly and licked her lips again in anticipation. “Shall I start with these twelve?” she asked, sweeping her arm around the circle.

  Horrified screams escaped from the men and one collapsed to the ground.

  Ravener raised an eyebrow. “That is why they are here, Niema. You may begin.”

  Niema cackled and then began weaving the air, bidding the demons of the Netherworld to her side.
Lucin’s fingers dug into the bark of the branch beneath him as the men on their knees jerked up straight to their feet, even the man who had fainted. As had befallen the Elven girl only moments before, foam began to emit from their mouths. Tears streamed down Lucin’s eye as he watched the mutilation of his men and the horrors that crawled from their outstretched jaws.

  Ravener looked on in delight as twelve demon spirits swirled in the air around him. They were caped and horned like Niema, but taller and more muscular.

  Beckoning them close, the Mage gave them their instructions. Four demons each were to go to the leading cities in Iserlohn, Deepstone and Haventhal in search of the Savitars in the unlikely event they were still alive and to terrorize the citizens of the land along the way. “Frightened people have a way of convincing their Kings to surrender,” cooed Ravener to Niema.

  The twelve horned shadows flew up into the night and streaked across the sky.

  Lucin watched them go and then glanced back at the clearing and the thirteen bodies that lie on the ground. Only a coward would watch the events of this night perched in a tree and do nothing, Lucin berated himself. But, what could I have done? If he had tried to intervene, he would have been killed. That much was clear.

  He vowed then and there to destroy Adrian Ravener. It did not matter when or how, only that he be the one to do it.

  Without warning, the female demon turned her glowing red eyes on him. The temperature around him dropped and his breath clouded in front of his face. She hissed as she crouched, forked tongue darting in and out.

  Adrian held up his hand. “Do not worry, Niema, there is no threat out there. It is just the Captain of my Cyman Army. Although he apparently finds it hard to follow orders, he is harmless.”

  “You are one strange Dwarf,” commented one of Rogan’s escorts with a long, red beard as he dragged Rogan to his feet from out of the bottom of the skiff that carried them from Deeport.

  Rogan could not decide whether his earlier hysteria sprung from the stress of his current situation or the irony of being freed from exile at long last only to arrive in his homeland to be arrested and thrown face first into a boat. It took two days to navigate the Koda River, and Rogan was cold sober now, but with his disheveled clothing and matted hair, he knew he probably looked like the demented creature they thought him to be.

  “I want to see the King,” he said hoarsely to the two soldiers ensconced on either side of him with a firm grip on his upper arms.

  Redbeard laughed. “Yeah, and I want to date the Princess of Men.”

  “She’s already taken,” Rogan replied caustically.

  The soldier looked at him askance and then shook his head. “I am afraid it is the dungeons for you, my friend.”

  “Nice homecoming,” he snorted to himself as they walked down another stone dock to the street below, all the while wondering if the Dwarves harbored some deep-seated resentment against trees and wood.

  The weather was comfortably cool in the early morning hour, and citizens were taking advantage as they briskly went about their errands without a hint as to the danger that loomed. He was unsure of the name of this riverside city, but knew that Kondor was located some distance away still on the eastern border of Deepstone. Somehow, he must find a way to convince the soldiers on the journey to give him an audience with the King. He would protect his countrymen from Adrian Ravener whether they wished it or not!

  “Homecoming?” asked the other soldier who had not yet spoken. He had a light brown beard that just dusted his chin, which meant he was close to Rogan’s age. “I thought you were a shifter born in Pyraan?”

  Rogan shook his head. “I was born in Kondor and then exiled when I was six years old. At least that is what I have always been told.”

  The soldier stopped in his tracks. “What is your name?”

  “Radek. Rogan Radek.”

  The young soldier glanced at his partner. “Maybe we ought to bring him to the King after all.”

  “Yes, you should!” Rogan said trying to shrug off his captors. “In my pack, you will see that I carry a Decree of Purpose that will authenticate my need to see King Rik.”

  Redbeard untied Rogan’s hands just long enough to strip him of his pack and then quickly put the binds back in place. He opened the pack, pulled out the Decree, and read through it carefully. “Wait here,” he said to his younger companion. “I will arrange for horses and dispatch a messenger ahead of us to Kondor to inform the Fists.”

  The younger Dwarf nodded and led Rogan to a stone bench at the edge of a small square, gesturing for him to sit. “I am Dillon Hamderk.”

  Rogan sat down. “You recognize my name?”

  “Of course. You do not remember me?”

  Rogan shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  “We were friends. Good friends. We lived next door to each other. I am actually quite shocked to see you again because I was told that you had died.”

  The thumping in Rogan’s chest was loud even to his own ears as he leapt to his feet. “Do my parents still live next to you?” he asked, and then held his breath as he waited for Dillon to respond.

  Dillon lowered his head. “No, I am sorry, Rogan, but they passed years ago.”

  Rogan felt like somebody rammed a wooden club into his abdomen, and he fell back onto the hard bench. Just like that, his search had come to an abrupt end. All those years of wondering what his parents were like. All that time fantasizing about a reunion in which his parents gather him in their arms and tell him how much they missed and loved him. With a few short words, his dream had ended and there was no family standing at the end of it.

  He turned his head so Dillon would not see the tears welling in his eyes. He wondered why he did not remember Dillon when the young Dwarf so clearly remembered him. “Did I have any siblings?” he managed to croak out, his face still averted.

  “Not that I am aware.”

  “Who lives in the house now?”

  “Nobody. Nobody has lived there since your parents died.”

  Rogan knew he was taking a risk, but had little choice in the matter. Dillon was his only potential ally in this land. He lifted his head to look the soldier in the eyes. “If we were once good friends as you have just told me, Dillon, then I should be able to trust you.”

  “You can. I swear it on my life.”

  Rogan breathed out a sigh of relief. “I need to see if any of my parents’ belongings are still in that house. I am looking for a pendant that I must retrieve without fail.”

  “I will see what I can do, but I am sure that once the King hears what you have to say, he will release you from detention and you can search for yourself. I will guide you there if you like.”

  “I would. Thank you, Dillon.” He cracked a smile. “I wish I could remember more about our friendship.”

  “Me, too,” he replied and pulled Rogan to his feet when Redbeard returned with the horses.

  It was a hard, three-day ride through the otherworldly landscape of bare rock to Kondor. His body was raw from sunburn and his throat ached from constant thirst. So much so that he almost cried in relief when the dust kicked up from the horses of their escort appeared on the horizon.

  “The Fists?” asked Rogan.

  Dillon nodded. “The King’s elite personal warriors.”

  They were outfitted in the same blue and maroon as Dillon and Redbeard except with the addition of black sashes tied at their waists. Without any conversation, the Fists created an impenetrable ring around their small party and led them into Kondor. They moved at a clipped pace and within a short time, the stone palace of the King of Dwarves came into view. Crossing beneath a portcullis and into the courtyard of the castle, Rogan took notice of the soldiers standing on the wall above, warily watching his progress.

  They are afraid of me.

  Servants scattered out of the way of the imposing entourage when they dismounted, and the Fists led the way promptly up the palace stairs. Rogan did not have time to blink as he was usher
ed directly into an audience chamber where King Rik Rojin stood near his throne. Seeing the King for the first time, Rogan was momentarily taken aback at the naked hatred he saw in the man’s eyes. He was taller than any Dwarf Rogan had ever seen, and had a long, flowing white beard that he wore gathered at the middle with a gold and ruby clasp. A simple gold circlet sat regally upon his head.

  Dillon and Redbeard released their hold on Rogan’s arm and went to stand with the Iron Fists who had spread out efficiently throughout the chamber.

  Rogan walked forward, hands still bound, and dropped to his knee in front of the King. “Your Grace.”

  “What are you doing in this country, shifter?” the King growled, malice rolling off him in waves that seemed powerful enough to physically sweep him from the room. The King held the Decree limply in his right hand.

  “I have just come from Iserlohn…,” he began.

  “The affairs of Iserlohn do not concern me,” interrupted the King, sitting down on his throne and tossing the parchment to the ground.

  “Your Grace!” cried Rogan in astonishment. “You do not understand. The island has been invaded by the Mage, Adrian Ravener, who was one of those who fled to the north at the end of the Mage War. He brings with him an army of thousands! If you do not aid us in this fight, Ravener will make slaves out of every man, woman, and child, whether Dwarf, Man or Elf!”

  Rogan could hear the Fists shuffle their feet behind him. He did not care. If the King was going to act irresponsibly, he needed the Dwarves to be witness to it.

  “I believe you exaggerate this Mage’s capabilities for your own purpose, shifter.”

  “And, what purpose would that be?” Rogan asked in bewilderment.

  “Your freedom.”

  Rogan could not understand why this King was directing such loathing at him. Although he had never met the King, it felt extremely personal. “You are right, Your Grace, my freedom is something I desire, but I desire my life more.”

  The King turned his back and waved his arm. “Escort this shifter to a cell.”