by D. A. Stone
Tenlon turned at the foot of the basement steps, holding the lantern up to the vast collection of scrolls and texts. They were priceless, many of them. But he knew that many others were dangerous spell books that could not be allowed into enemy hands.
It caused a strange pain in his chest, but he knew Lesandra was right. They had to burn.
He hobbled over to the bookshelves, the pain of his ankle swelling with each step. The Volrathi swordsmen must have twisted it when he was pushed into the wooden chest. It hurt horribly, but he had to be swift.
The wind and rain thrashed outside as he swung the lantern about.
“Tenlon!” Desik snarled from above. “Faster!”
Quickly he searched the glass bottles and vials, uncorking three before finding one that burned his nostrils. He flung its contents across the bookshelves before knocking over a table of jars and potions, sending everything crashing to the floor.
Already he could smell the oily liquids and other incendiary potions filling the air. Moving again to the stairway, he pulled the lantern back and swung it forward to throw…
But stopped.
The arcing light of the lantern lit up the spine of a single book on the top shelf, letters glistening in gold for an instant before vanishing.
“Tenlon! Now!”
The Book of Aramid.
Just minutes earlier he had been dying. Locked in a trunk, alone and helpless. He lived now, not because of his own strength or courage, but only because that of another.
Such reliance must change. He had promised himself that he would fight next time, that he would not remain on the hillside while others battled for life, for freedom. The second chance he had prayed for was given to him and such promises were not to be taken lightly.
Quickly he ran to the shelf and removed the book. A weathered case of leather slid into its empty space, with The Lost Lagreans carefully handwritten on the cover. Shoving both the heavy text and memoir into a discarded pillowcase found on the floor, he swung it over his shoulder and returned to the stairs.
“Tenlon!”
“On my way,” he said under his breath, tossing the lantern out into the center of the basement and hopping up the steps.
The lantern crashed and a great rush of air brightened the basement behind him, but he was up the stairs and through the doorway before feeling the heat.
Exiting out the front, he found Lanard sitting atop a white mare with Lesandra in the saddle behind him. Another dark mare was next to him and he recognized it as Fenton’s mount from their ride through Killian Forest. Desik was nowhere on the deserted street.
The rain was coming down in sheets and the sky was black. Lesandra’s hair lay like a stringy wet curtain over her face and her arms looked white as they wrapped around the musician’s purple suit jacket.
“Explosions, assassins, Volrathi warriors,” Lanard said with a smile, holding his wide-brimmed hat tight against the storm’s wind. “You live quite the adventurous life! One day, my dear boy, you’ll have to tell me what all this is about. I’ll make a song of it.”
“Why does everyone keep speaking of songs?” Desik asked, coming out of the house with a heavily laden saddlebag over each shoulder. Already Tenlon could see smoke spilling out of the doorway.
“You, my friend, will have a song of your own,” Lanard told him. “What greater gift could be given?”
Desik swung the bags over the mare’s back, both rattling with what Tenlon figured to be Volrathi coin. “A warm fire and too much wine?”
“Now that you mention it, both do seem rather appealing at the moment.”
The warrior vaulted into the saddle. “Best we go see what new nightmares await us, yeah?”
Taking Tenlon’s hand and swinging him up behind, the four of them set off for the docks beneath the pelting rain.
“Desik?” Tenlon asked, their mount splashing through rivulets and puddles of rainwater. “I need to ask you something.”
“I paid the stable boy to ride him out a few minutes before I got to the house,” he answered, already knowing what was on Tenlon’s mind. “Took the rest of my silver to persuade him, but the lad rode out at speed for his uncle’s ranch, just north of Galla. Put it from your mind. Darkfire is gone from this place and so are we.”
***
The street they rode on was desolate, and forgotten lanterns swung unlit upon poles in the storm’s bluster. Buildings on either side soon turned to rock as their path angled down toward sea level, the wind deafening and rain stabbing their faces along the descent. After several minutes their cobbled thoroughfare gave way to what Tenlon imagined had once been a dirt path but now was a thick expanse of mud.
Their horses trudged along, plodding through the slop as the path curved to the left. At Tenlon’s right, the wall of rock gave way to open air and the storm gusts assaulted them with renewed strength. Silently he feared the Lancer would be long gone from these waters, fleeing the push of war along with their most precious cargo, but as lightning burst from the sky he was given a momentary glance of the harbor and wharf below.
In the distant water was a three-mast ship, sails furled to ride the rolling waves of the storm. Tenlon knew it to be the Lancer. Despite their hour, Hagart and his men had waited for them.
Again lightning split the sky, illuminating the tall cliffs that lined the shore. Escaping the mud, their path leveled to reveal a strip of sandy beach about a mile long that was soon snuffed out by more vertical cliffs. Reaching into the harbor were long walkways of wood, looking desperately fragile against the explosions of seawater that burst up from their planks and pilings.
Several docks still held small crafts being flung in all directions by the violent swells, their mooring lines stretching and pulling through the onslaught. To their far left Tenlon saw one of the docks collapse from the strain beneath another flash of thunder and lightning, the timber platform condemned to the Venda so suddenly that the darkness hadn’t even had time to settle. A few pieces of debris bobbed on the surface before he lost sight of it through the pelting rain, and the next flash of the storm showed no sign of the dock at all.
Three men were on shore some distance ahead, their long jackets and hoods buttoned up tight, slick and glistening in the rain beside a small skiff that had been hauled onto the sand. Tenlon shivered against the cold. No one else was in sight, not a soul.
Angling their horses toward the men, Desik dismounted before them.
Hagart pulled back his hood, handing a heavy crossbow off to one of his crewmen. “You’re late!” he yelled through the wind. “And two passengers heavy!”
“I appreciate you waiting.”
“Oh, waiting wasn’t my first choice,” Hagart said angrily. “But Gemma is aboard and she wouldn’t let me leave without you, even if my ship was torn to shit in the process.”
“I’ll pay extra,” Desik assured him through the dark.
“You’ll pay double!”
Lanard slid off his saddle and helped Lesandra down, while Tenlon dropped gingerly to the sand, mindful of his throbbing ankle. Desik and the rest of the men pushed the skiff to the water’s edge, which foamed and spit at their feet.
The warrior seated Lesandra first, then Tenlon and Lanard. After throwing the saddlebags into the back of the vessel, he helped Hagart shove off before they both jumped in on either side of him. They slid into the first swell, which hammered their boat like a rolling boulder, before emerging beyond it. Twice more they burst through white froth that soaked them through, chilling Tenlon to his core. He noticed the captain’s crewmen frantically rowing them further out at the prow of the skiff.
The boat was small, but Tenlon imagined that was because Hagart had thought there would only be two of them instead of four. The captain opened the top three buttons of his jacket and reached beneath Tenlon, sliding forth two oars.
Handing one of the oars to Desik, he nudged Tenlon with an elbow. “Ready for the fun part?” the captain asked with an odd laugh.
&
nbsp; Hagart and Desik dug their oars into the water, the urgency of their rows heightening Tenlon’s nerves. Seawater suddenly blasted them, filling his mouth and jostling him about his seat. Caught directly in the impact zone, the wave collapsed onto them with such strength that Tenlon was surprised to see everyone still aboard when his eyes opened again.
Soon they dipped down into the trough of the next wave and Tenlon’s gaze narrowed with fear as a crack of lightning exposed another rearing wall of black water before them, its crest curled white and already beginning to drop. The oars continued to plunge down, driving their craft upwards into the monstrous swell.
The skiff tilted back as it climbed the wave, forcing Tenlon to clench his seat. Ropes and other gear slid to the rear of the vessel past his feet as their angle grew. Up they climbed, higher and higher, and Tenlon knew they were doomed. The Venda had them in her grip, and now all she had to do was flip them over and pull them down into her depths. There would be no swimming to shore for any of them, not in these turbulent waters.
Despite their apparent defeat, the men still labored with the oars, pulling them along in a frenzied succession.
The prow of their skiff broke through the crest in a shimmering rupture, and they slammed down onto the backside of the swell with enough force to jar Tenlon from his seat and into the partially flooded hull.
Hagart yelled out a wild cry as they slid down the back of the wave, laughing heartily. The old sailor seemed to actually be enjoying himself. The four continued to row over the mountainous waves, but the next burst of lightning revealed that they were beyond the breaking point. The stinging rain still assaulted them from all directions, but they’d made it out to open water.
The Lancer loomed ahead, a black silhouette that rose and fell with the undulating sea.
Hagart pulled his oar in as they coasted toward the ship.
Desik continued to row, the motions leisurely. “Once we’re underway, I want you to head west, along the coast.”
“Oh yes?” Hagart asked with surprise. “And why is that? East will see you ahead of the Volrathi advance. West will see you dead within a month of wherever I drop you.”
“Not if you take me to the Prazi Isles.”
Hagart laughed again, buttoning his jacket up once more. “Den Prazi? You’ll have a warmer welcome at the hands of the Volrathi. If you’re suggesting I sail my men into Guardship territory, you’re--”
“It will be fine,” Desik assured him. “I have friends there and, like I said…I can pay.”
The storm spit forth another spear of lightning and within its burst Tenlon saw the Lancer rocking crisp and bright. A handful of Hagart’s crew lined the rail, and rope netting was dropped down, its end splashing into the water.
As they approached the ship, he could sense the hidden egg within, buried deep below deck. He was connected to it in some strange way. If he focused he could even feel its heartbeat, its warmth and strength. The egg’s life-force rippled across the air and he was aware of it, like sunlight against his soul, even through the thrashing storm.
They’d escaped Ebnan and the time for it to hatch was near, he knew.
Soon they would have a dragon, and a dragon could change world.
Epilogue
Brock and Gerta were laying linens over the bar and furniture in the Lonely Fox. The back entrance was already chained and the windows were all boarded up tight. Their bags were packed and a small wagon was waiting for them out front. Gerta had a sister who lived in eastern Varishna—a bitter hag of a woman, but anywhere was better than here. It would take them a few weeks to reach the western lands and it was high time they left Korando. Volrathi troops were making their way to the coastal cities and now that Gemma was safely aboard the Lancer, they’d best be on their way too.
It would be an adventure, he told himself. Just like the days of his youth.
The wind and rain outside was fierce, shaking the closed shutters and buffeting the tavern walls, causing the hanging lanterns to rattle. Someone shook the main entrance door from the outside, but the locking bar was already in place and no one could enter. Whoever wanted a drink and shelter from the storm would have to find it somewhere else.
The door was rammed from the street, splintering the top edge. Brock and Gerta exchanged worried glances. Were they too late?
“Out the back with you,” he told his wife as he ran behind the bar.
Another crash shattered the door open even wider. Dark helms and armor could be seen beyond. Black eyes looking in.
“No,” Gerta said as she stood next to him, her tone firm. “I’m not leaving you.”
Brock gathered his great sword from above the mirror. “You were always a terrible pain in my ass,” he said, lifting her up with one arm and kissing her deeply.
The next blow smashed the door to shards.
Brock placed Gerta back on her feet as armed men stormed into his tavern. Their wet breastplates looked glossy in the lantern light and they brandished a host of weapons.
He stepped out from the bar, sword gripped tight in both hands. The Volrathi soldiers didn’t look so frightening.
“Tavern’s closed,” he said. “Take yourselves elsewhere.”
A smaller Volrathi entered; this one was wolf-lean with sharp eyes and an arrogant strut. The milling warriors gave him space. Brock saw two men shuffle in after him—one blond with a welt on his forehead, the other Gil, arm in a sling. They were the boys Desik had roughed up earlier, Okin’s men.
“Is this the place?” the slim Volrathi asked.
“Yeah,” Gil answered nervously.
The Volrathi looked to Brock, letting out a defeated sigh. “A man with markings on his arm and a boy were here earlier. They’ve left on a ship with something that’s very important to me. I need the name of the ship and its destination.”
“I’d give them up in a heartbeat,” Brock said truthfully. “But they’ve got something with them that’s important to me too, and I won’t help any Volrathi cunt-scabs bring harm to them.”
The slender man laughed. “My people and I do not board ships—not anymore at least. I’ll be sending out Okin’s men to track them down. The one with the bronze ram? What’s she called? The Rapture?”
“No!” Gerta yelled.
The Volrathi tapped his lips with a finger before pointing from Brock to his wife. “She knows of the ship I’m looking for, doesn’t she?”
“You don’t look at her,” Brock growled, stepping forward with sword ready. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t--”
The small Volrathi’s hand shot forward and a flash of light filled the tavern, bright as the sun.
Brock’s heavy sword spun out, clattering to the floor.
When Gerta opened her eyes, she was covered in her husband’s blood. Brock was in a heap on the floor, his head and upper torso reduced to a splattered stain across the linen-covered bar and wide mirror.
Gerta screamed, falling to his side.
“Now,” the Volrathi said, bending down next to her. “We are going to have a conversation. You know things, things that I would also like to know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Growing up in small town USA and encouraged by his parents as well as some pretty great elementary school teachers, D.A. Stone was easily drawn to a love of reading. He began at age eight with his favorite Rikki-Tikki-Tavi (Kipling) and moved quickly to Watership Down (Richard Adams). In his teens, he delved into reading just about everything he could and especially enjoyed spending the midnight hours with a copy of the latest Stephen King novel never far from reach.
When D.A. began to write, his obsession to find his vision would eventually lead him to discover the power of fantasy. In his own words, “The fantastical can exist, but only if your execution of it is solid. It is escapism, but when done properly and you strip all the layers of any fantasy story down to the bones, you see that there is usually something very simple and truthful staring back at you. For a writer, it’s freedom.”
CREDITS
This book is a work of art produced by Luthando Coeur,
an imprint of The Zharmae Publishing Press.
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
James Crewe
COVER ARTIST
Randy Garcia
COVER DESIGNER
Joel Garza
TYPESETTER
Shaughnessey Marshall
COPY EDITOR
Amanda Kreklau
PROOFREADER
Eric Tate
REVEIWER
Andrew Call
READERS
Rochelle Barainca & Emmanuel Díaz
MANAGING EDITOR
Tomiko Breland
PUBLISHER
Travis Robert Grundy
THE ZHARMAE PUBLISHING PRESS
Spokane | January 2014
Table of Contents
SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN
Shadow
Prologue
About the Author
Credits