by Justin Sloan
CONTENTS
Dedication
Legal
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Author Notes - Justin Sloan
Author Notes - Michael Anderle
Social Links
Series List
DEDICATION
From Justin
To Ugulay, Verona and Brendan Sloan
From Michael
To Family, Friends and
Those Who Love
To Read.
May We All Enjoy Grace
To Live The Life We Are
Called.
Shades of Light Team
Beta Editor / Readers
Robin Heath
Trista Collins
Lori Owens
Nipa Jhaveri
JIT Beta Readers
Paul Westman
James Caplan
Joshua Ahles
Kimberly Boyer
Alex Wilson
Keith Verret
John Raisor
Kelly O’Donnell
Brent Bakken
Thomas Ogden
Ginger Sparkman
If I missed anyone, please let me know!
Editors
Diane Newton
Candy Crum
SHADES OF LIGHT (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2017 Justin Sloan, Michael T. Anderle, CM Raymond, LE Barbant
Cover Design by Ivan Tao https://www.facebook.com/ivantaoart/
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
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First US edition, 2017
The Kurtherian Gambit (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2017 by Michael T. Anderle.
Prologue
Larick reached the top of the hill before his fellow mystic, Volney, and therefore felt like the beauty of the view was his and his alone. They had traveled over land and sea to reach this spot, and as the wind whipped at Larick’s heavy robes, casting them about like thrashing waves, he felt as one with nature.
Spread out before him was Roneland, the top portion of an island divided since the Age of Madness. Remnants of a city, old ruins of buildings that once reached into the heavens from the days of technology toppled and largely covered in vines and earth in spots, some completely overgrown so that they appeared to be new hills.
The ghosts howled, though Larick knew it to be simply the wind blowing through those old ruins, as he had heard those same ghosts many times before. He stood with the sea behind him, the green, rolling hills flowing in every direction, with the highlands just visible, rising up in the distance.
Heavy breathing came from his right, pulling him from the moment. He turned to see Volney, a shorter man with a shaved head like Larick’s, but with piercing blue eyes. Though the man was less physically intimidating, when those eyes turned white the man was a force to be reckoned with.
“If only I could learn to simply levitate,” Volney said between breaths, holding his chest, “this would be so much simpler.”
“You know, brother,” Larick replied with a taunting smile, “you could also spend more time on the physical.”
“And lose time from my mental studies? Hardly.”
For the first time, Volney looked up at Roneland and all exhaustion melted from his expression, replaced with awe.
“This is the place?” he asked. “Where are all the people?”
“My records indicate we’ll not find them in, or even around, the cities. Here, from what I’m told, the people scattered, avoiding the cities and turmoil, holding their own in the mountains on the one hand, or creating great fortresses in the lowlands.”
“There,” Volney said, eyes glazing over for a moment as he mentally reached out, sensing life. He pointed to a cluster of trees on a far hill. “Not more than a couple dozen, though.”
“The clans are like that here.” Larick pulled out his parchment, checking his notes. “Yes, small groups, though we’ll probably find some larger ones as well, and it seems they’ve come together in the lowlands.”
“And magic?”
“Rudimentary at best, I’d imagine. No one was able to give me more than that, but since they’ve had no one to teach them until now, I can only assume it’s a wild practice. Boys and girls discovering hints of magic, but unable to control it.”
“Or even if they can control it, such powers may be unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”
“Again, rudimentary at most.”
Volney motioned to their right. The wind at the edge of a cliff was looking up at them, oddly enough. It shifted, then danced as it materialized further into the form of a small, translucent woman. She moved with the wind, circling them, and then came to a stop a foot from Larick’s face, tilting her head to look at him.
“I see we’re not alone,” Larick said.
“Do you want me to…?”
“No, allow me.” Larick put away his parchment and closed his eyes, focusing his inner eye, searching for the source of this spell. Oddly, he found only one presence nearby, that of a child. With a gentle soothing, he opened his eyes to see the wind spirit return to the air, flowing halfway down the hill. There, waiting, was a pair of wide, surprised eyes. A small girl, wearing nothing but brown rags.
Larick mentally projected himself forward, so that he appeared in front of her, though in fact he hadn’t moved at all, and he said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, child. Not from us.”
With a giggle, the young girl ran off, soon disappearing into a clump of trees below.
“Rudimentary?” Volney laughed. “I have a feeling we’ll learn as much as we will teach, brother.”
Larick nodded in agreement. He had to admit, he hadn’t been expecting this.
They were in for one hell of an adventure.
CHAPTER ONE
Flames burst forth from the farmhouse, the same one Rhona’s brother had entered just moments before. Alastar, ever the hero, had drawn his sword and gone charging in mere seconds before, leaving her to hide far away from trouble.
Clearly, that wasn’t an option. Not when he could be in danger.
She worked her way around the farmhouse, searching for a way in. A scream sounded, then the grunt of a man, and she decided it wasn’t time to be timid. She ran for the open doors Alastar had rushed thro
ugh, in spite of the black smoke that billowed forth.
The sight froze her in her tracks—her brother in his white and gold armor, his white cloak smoldering at the edges, circling a man in the black and green plaid of Clan Buchan, the fire users.
A warlock.
She had studied the various clans and what magic they used, at least to the extent that the paladins had been able to chronicle it in their war against the evils of magic.
Her first thought was to jump in and help her brother, but the warlock spun, hands pushing out, and a wall of flame came at Alastar that caused him to leap back and call upon the blessings of Saint Rodrick for protection.
Watching the shield of light that formed between her brother and the wall of flames, she knew this wasn’t her fight. But when a figure caught her eye, a cowering woman in the corner, she knew she could at least help her. She darted through the smoke, staying low in a crouched run, and knelt beside the woman. Her eyes were barely open, her breathing short.
“Sera,” Rhona said, recognizing the woman from days in the market, where she and her father sold goat’s milk and cheese. “Sera, I need you to stay with me.”
Sera moaned, and her eyes rolled toward Rhona, but she managed a nod.
“Good, I’m getting you out of here.” Rhona placed Sera’s arm over her shoulders, while wrapping her own arm around Sera’s waist before heaving her up.
Her brother’s battle cry startled her and immediately turned her focus to see that his sword had been knocked from his hands. He had reached the Warlock and was engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The two were exchanging blows without magic or blessings, but their circling and maneuvering put them closer to the burning walls and directly beneath a rafter that looked like it was about to collapse.
Rhona knew she needed to hurry, so she pulled Sera with her, pushing for the back door. The woman nearly collapsed, but Rhona grunted and pushed on, supporting nearly all of her weight. Sunlight met them as they emerged from the smoke and fire, and fresh air filled her lungs.
Then, she saw Sera’s father, lying next to the tree line. She pulled Sera over to his side, then helped her to sit next to her father on the grass before turning to check his pulse. He was still alive, though unconscious.
Another shout came from inside and this time flames blew out from every window and the doorway, followed by a cry that was unmistakably Alastar.
Her own safety meant nothing if she didn’t have him.
Throwing caution to the wind, she sprinted for the doorway. As the flames pulled back, she leaped in, dress pulled up to her face to block out the smoke.
Flames were all around her brother, pushing in on him and the circle of light that was protecting him but fading by the second.
Desperately looking around, Rhona spotted her brother’s sword on the ground. She ran for it and heaved it up with both hands, but hadn’t counted on it feeling so heavy. She had trained with it many times, but this time wasn’t the same. Every muscle in her body strained as she tried to lift it, hoping to charge the warlock and impale him on its holy blade. It was hopeless, though, because even as she dragged it toward him, his eyes darted toward her.
A look of confusion crossed his face, fading to determination as he lifted a hand and the nearby flames moved toward her like the river after the breaking of a dam.
In that moment, nothing else mattered—only her life, and that of her brother. The sword fell from her hands, and they seemed to lift on their own, aimed at the man, and everything darkened. She wasn’t sure what was happening, except that the flames pulled back, and the warlock collapsed to his knees, eyes turning black. A long scream came from his mouth as dark tendrils of mist or shadow, she wasn’t sure what, wrapped around his limbs and throat.
And then he was falling, collapsing to the ground.
What followed was a blur. She would have sworn it was a dream, if everything in her wasn’t tearing at her, pushing pain throughout her body. Her instinct pulled her to her brother, and he to her.
They fell into each other’s arms, both on the edge of collapse.
“Wh—what happened?” he asked, eyes darting from her to the fallen warlock and back.
She stared at him, unable to answer. How could she, when she herself didn’t know what had happened?
The flames roared and then seemed to be spinning around them. Could the warlock be up and doing this? She tried to turn, to fight again, and then collapsed.
When she came to, her eyes opened to reveal dusk had settled upon the land. She was lying on a cow-drawn cart, Sera at her side, her brother leading the cows. Staggering along behind them, bound and tied to the wagon, was the warlock.
Sera saw that she was awake and brushed the hair from Rhona’s face with a gentle smile. “We made it, Rhona. Thanks to the bravery of your brother and the blessings of Saint Rodrick, we all made it.”
Rhona groaned in pain, her body hurting like hell, so she let her eyes close and sleep take her again.
Yes, thanks to her brother… and whatever the hell had come over her. She must never let him know about it. She must never let anyone know.
***
Alastar had just finished wiping a smudge of dirt from his gold-rimmed, pure white armor when his sister, Rhona, entered. She gave him that look he always hated—a raised eyebrow, a gaze that dared him to look away from her green eyes, and a hint of a smile at her lips. It was the look she gave him whenever she was about to knock him back down to size and remind him of their humble beginnings.
“Let me stop you right there,” he said, fastening his gold cloak over his shoulders and turning to the mirror. Damn, he looked good. Not in a conceited, sexy sort of way, but as a strong paladin who deserved every bit of honor the High Paladin, Sir Gildon, was about to bestow on him.
Making eye contact with Rhona, he attempted to match her confidence as he said, “I earned this.”
“Oh, and I had nothing to do with it?”
“You were there when I needed you, aye. But I was the one who caught the warlock. I am the paladin here, don’t forget.”
“How could I ever?” Her brow furrowed into a glare that lasted only a moment. “I’m simply looking out for you.” She stepped up beside him and reached a hand over to smooth out his cloak. “It’s just… there’ve been too many times we thought he was preparing to send you on the holy quest.”
“I have proven myself.” Alastar turned, voice rising in his excitement. “Why shouldn’t Sir Gildon send me on the next expedition?”
She shrugged. “He should, there’s no doubt. But that doesn’t mean he will. You don’t notice the way he eyes me.”
“The High Paladin? His holiness?” He waved her off, then approached the table at his bedside, where he had his sword and sheath laid out. “I won’t hear it again.” He strapped on the sheath, then hefted the sword and felt its balance. The jewels in its hilt made it seem gaudy to some, but the Order of Saint Rodrick believed swords above all else held a spiritual connection. They should be adorned, but it was more than that. When the Saint blessed their prayers in times of combat, these precious stones would glow as if they had a light of their own. Proof of the Saint’s miracles.
“Brother…”
“He is the head of this order, the senior paladin in all of Roneland,” Alastar said, sheathing his sword. “He does not covet my sister.”
She nervously glanced around, as if the walls had ears, then wrapped an arm around herself as her free hand fidgeted with the blue cloth of her dress. It complimented her strawberry hair nicely, giving her a playful look that most paladins might not agree with, but simply reminded Alastar the joys of their youth.
“Well, let’s not keep them waiting then,” Rhona said, heading for the door.
With a brush of his hair, he turned to follow her. They would be toasting to him this evening, and he certainly couldn’t be late in such a situation. It ate at him that the High Paladin hadn’t seen fit to send him on the holy quests, but he would get his chance, he wa
s certain of it.
Finding the Holy Sword of Saint Rodrick would give the paladins the power to fight off the invaders from the sea to the north, thereby earning their place at the King’s right hand.
And if Alastar was the one to find it for his lord, he would be second to none in the Order of Saint Rodrick, except Sir Gildon, naturally.
He passed halls lined with armor and images of the Sword of Light. Its likeness was in these paintings and embroideries and elsewhere throughout the castle on shields and more. Its hilt was encrusted with the mystical green rock known as jade, giving its blade a distinctively green glow when blessed, a rarity, as other blades would always simply glow a whitish-gold, regardless of the stones they were adorned with.
This was all speculation, however, as the real one had gone missing over one-hundred years before, when Saint Rodrick led the attack on the creatures of Madness who populated Sair Talem, the large island to the west.
A pleasant aroma came from the main hall—the scent of roast pheasant cooked with thyme, apricots, and in white wine, if he had to guess. It made his mouth water. He could tell his sister must have noticed the scent as well, because she had stopped, one hand on the wall.
But as he approached, he realized that something must be wrong. His armor clanked as he darted to her side and reached up to touch her face.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s…” She looked up at him with dark gray in her normally green irises, shadows under her eyes over pale skin. “I’m fine.” The prayer was already on his lips as he reached for her, but she pulled back. “No, keep your energy.” She smiled, and already the darkness seemed unnoticeable, the color returning to her cheeks.