Exile's Redemption: Book One of the Chronicles of Shadow

by Lee Dunning

  “From here on we need to stay as quiet as possible,” W’rath said. “We’ll capture the mage first, but try to refrain from any chatter until we get our hands on the king. You can speak the local language, correct?”

  Foxfire nodded, very much aware W’rath found his lack of martial skills … distasteful. Well, he guessed he couldn’t blame him. No point in dragging his ass through the camp, adding risk to their travels, if he couldn’t at least help them communicate with the humans.

  Satisfied they were ready, W’rath moved into the flickering, shadow-ridden camp. Foxfire’s eyes widened as the Shadow Elf simply disappeared. He grabbed onto Raven’s belt and moved into the camp with her. He didn’t feel any different, but as they shifted from tent to tent even those soldiers looking straight at them didn’t react. After several such encounters, he finally allowed himself to breathe again. He still couldn’t make out W’rath, but Raven moved with confidence. His own remarkable memory told him they traveled the exact route they had studied on the map. They quickly drew closer to the mage’s tent.

  One tent away from their goal, a slim hand shot out from the entry flap to tug on Raven’s sleeve. Much to her credit, she did little more than flinch in surprise. Wordlessly, they stepped into the tent. Foxfire’s eyes widened as he had to quick step to avoid tripping over the cooling bodies on the ground. All four men had a clean slash across their throats, and lay sprawled in a gruesome circle. W’rath must have appeared within their midst and made a deadly pirouette, taking all four by surprise. They had died in complete silence and couldn’t have met their ends more than a few seconds prior to his and Raven’s arrival. Foxfire tried to look away from the corpses, but the arterial spray decorating the tent walls proved just as disturbing.

  “How …” Raven began, but W’rath cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. Foxfire realized the gruesome tableau stunned her just as much as it did him. W’rath, completely ignoring the carnage, waved impatiently for them to follow him further into the tent. As far as the psion was concerned, Foxfire mused, the humans were dead and therefore no longer worthy of attention.

  The three huddled together and W’rath spoke to them in the softest of whispers. “We have ourselves a bit of a problem.”

  Foxfire started to point out the corpses sharing the tent with them, but thought better of it. The Shadow Elf couldn’t possibly mean the dead humans, and suggesting as much would only serve to lower his opinion of Foxfire even further.

  “Are the two of you familiar with the term Rider?” W’rath asked.

  “You mean like traveling on an animal?” Raven ventured.

  W’rath shook his head. “Very carefully peak out the tent flap and examine the guards by the mage’s tent. Don’t rely on your shadow walking ability—it won’t do you any good.”

  Foxfire shared an alarmed look with Raven. Together they crept to the tent flap. At first, the men Foxfire spied appeared no different from any other human, but then he caught the flicker of fire in their eyes. It wasn’t reflected light. It came from within. He withdrew back to where W’rath waited. Raven joined them, her expression troubled.

  “What in the Nine Hells is going on?” Foxfire hissed.

  “Fortunately, those creatures did not come from the hells,” W’rath whispered. “However, denizens from the Abyss will still prove troublesome. Our lovely king plays a very dangerous game.”

  “Does this have something to do with the mage’s ritual?” Raven asked.

  “It does,” W’rath said. “We wondered what they’re working on, and we now have our answer. You create a Rider by binding a demon to a host. King Oblund has chosen to use his own men as the hosts, sacrificing them in the hope of defeating the Wood Elves with a very short-lived, but very dangerous demonic army.”

  “Short-lived?” Foxfire asked.

  “Indeed. The Rider feeds on the host’s life force. The human begins to age rapidly. As they have extremely short life spans, they can’t hope to survive more than a few days. Once dead, the link to this plane breaks and the demon’s spirit returns to the Abyss. In the meantime, though, they are quite formidable.”

  “Bloody hell!” Foxfire said, nearly forgetting to keep his voice low.

  “A truly wretched way to treat one’s own people,” W’rath said, “but hardly what concerns us at the moment. The two chaps stationed at the mage’s tent can see through our Shadow Walking ability.”

  “We can try around back—cut open the tent and slip in,” Raven suggested.

  “And hope there aren’t any more of those things back there to see us,” Foxfire said. “Or inside with the mage.”

  “If we don’t do that, we’ll have to wait for the others to begin their attack, and hope these two abandon their posts to join the fight. The mage will probably wake up, though, and we’ll lose our chance to capture him without a fight,” Raven replied.

  At the mention of the coming attack W’rath grew still. “What?” asked Raven.

  “One of the first things our people plan to do is disrupt the ritual,” W’rath said.

  “Isn’t that a good thing? We don’t need them making even more of those creatures,” Foxfire said.

  “It’s also how they’re maintaining control over the ones they’ve already created,” W’rath explained. “Once the ritual halts, nothing will contain them—they’ll run amok. Overall, that may benefit us, as the demons won’t hesitate to turn on the humans. Since they’re in amongst the camp they could very well do most of our work for us. The humans will have no choice but to focus their attention on the Riders, and the two sides will destroy one another. We simply need to finish off the survivors.”

  “The demons will massacre them,” Raven said, horrified.

  “Most likely,” W’rath agreed, though the tone of his voice indicated his concerns lay entirely with the threat level the elves faced, and not the terrible fate awaiting the humans.

  Foxfire tried to bend his own thinking along the same lines. The elves expected to face mundane humans, not demons masquerading as humans. Would the chaos caused by the uncontrolled Riders prove more damaging to the king’s people, or would the elves’ magic attract the demons? Foxfire wished Sien had continued in with them. He considered his two companions. W’rath needed Raven. She could fight, and her strength would allow her to cart at least one, perhaps even two, adult humans if necessary. Foxfire had only his language skills to offer. The Shadow Elves had two of Lady Swiftbrook’s translation rings, one of which they could force on the king so they could communicate. I’ve just become redundant.

  W’rath’s next words to him confirmed Foxfire’s fears. “I need you to leave here and warn our forces of what they’re about to face. Let them decide how they wish to handle the ritual—whether to disrupt it as planned, or to let the magi maintain control of the Riders and hope the wretches keep them from going completely berserk. Make sure Lord Icewind is ready for us; Raven and I have no desire to find ourselves trapped in the middle of a demon fight.”

  Foxfire wanted to protest, but his voice seemed to have failed him. “Focus, lad,” W’rath said, reaching out to grasp Foxfire’s shoulder with a hand that felt like it had been forged from iron. “You remember our path here, correct?”

  Foxfire forced down his panic. He knew the way back. Along that path plenty of flickering shadows and difficult lighting would aid him. Most humans had poor night vision to begin with, and the small cook fires the soldiers used would blind them further, making it harder for them to notice a small camouflaged elf creeping from tent, to weapons rack, to supply crates.

  “I’m sure you can manage,” Raven said. “You can’t have spent time with Kela without picking up a little something about stealth.”

  If Kela had been present Foxfire knew she would have laughed, or at the very least made one of her derisive snorts. But now wasn’t the time to point that out. Before meeting Kela he’d never even set foot in a forest. The rest of his kin had chosen him for the council by default more than anything els
e. None of the other Wood Elves had the patience or social skills to get along with their fancier cousins. But now something more was needed of him. It terrified him, but if he didn’t warn the others, something akin to the slaughter at Second Home could result. His lips set in a determined line, he nodded.

  “Excellent,” W’rath said. “We’ll get you as far as that grey tent we passed. You exit the camp as quickly as you can, and we’ll circle around to have a go at the mage from the other side of his quarters.” They double-checked that he still had his enchanted chit so he could cross the border of the camp without setting off the alarm. “Good luck, lad.”

  Foxfire safely on his way, W’rath and Raven examined the mage’s tent from the back. So far, they had seen five additional Riders. The wholly human soldiers didn’t recognize what walked among them. Though aware of a wrongness about certain individuals, their confused faces said the chill running along their spines didn’t have an obvious source.

  “Do you think there are any inside the tent guarding the mage?” Raven whispered.

  She saw W’rath’s jaw clench and worried for a moment she had somehow annoyed him. Then she realized it wasn’t her but the necessity to speak out loud which grated on his nerves. If overtly using his psionics wouldn’t debilitate him, he could converse with her in complete silence. For that matter, he could have communicated with the rest of the council members without having to send Foxfire off on his own. A broken arm could regenerate in a few minutes, but a brain took days, sometimes weeks to recover from a psionic overload.

  “We haven’t much choice, I’m afraid,” he said at last. “I think it’s safe to assume, though, even as skillful as these fellows seem, they’d still find it uncomfortable with a demon in the room, staring at them while they sleep.”

  Raven nodded, accepting his reasoning, and scanned the area to see if the path to the mage’s tent was clear of Riders. With unspoken agreement the two took to the shadows and met up at the back of the tent. Without pause, W’rath slit the fabric and made an opening for them to slip through. Raven entered first, her sword drawn, alert for any attack. W’rath entered next and immediately pounced on the snoring mage. Finally! Raven had started to think the entire expedition cursed. No guardians and the mage asleep. Thank you, Ancestors.

  Raven’s relief was short-lived, though, as a small fanged creature launched itself from its perch and tried to eat her face. Purely on reflex, she snapped her hand up, snatching it out of the air by its slavering little head. She squeezed and a soft crunch met her ears. The thing went limp, bat-like wings drooping, tiny clawed hands falling to its sides. She dropped it in disgust and attempted to shake its brain goo from her hand. An imp, a common enough sight in her home city. It wasn’t surprising that a mage who used demon magic would keep such a creature as a familiar.

  She turned to see how W’rath faired with the mage and found her companion grinning at her futile attempts to fling the imp’s grey matter from her hand. He gestured with his chin toward an elegant silk shirt draped carelessly over a chest. Gratefully, Raven used it to clean away the last bits of imp. When she finished, W’rath hefted the unconscious mage to a sitting position. She grabbed the fellow up and slung him over one broad shoulder.

  The ease at which W’rath had subdued the man surprised Raven. Surely, the human had had some form of magical protection, but he hadn’t even stirred. She gave one last glance at the dead imp, and wondered if the shock of his familiar’s death could have contributed to the mage’s lack of fight. Or did humans sleep so deeply they were helpless? W’rath had expressed disbelief that elves slept at all, but what she called sleep bore little resemblance to the exhausted unconsciousness of a human.

  Their first goal achieved, the two quickly exited the tent the same way they’d entered. They flitted from shadow to shadow, keeping an eye out for Riders. Raven had to admit, without the nervous Foxfire clutching at her belt, they made better time. It almost turned into a game, quietly moving past the oblivious humans and ducking hastily behind crates, tents and wagons to keep the Riders from spotting them .

  They had no difficulty locating their next destination. The king kept a large pavilion with fluttering pennants directly in the center of the camp. Unfortunately, as they drew closer the number of Riders grew, making the going more perilous. They studied the space between them and the entry of the royal pavilion. The two wholly human men at the doorway appeared quite nervous, touching the pommels of their swords as if to reassure themselves. A group of Riders moved by them, muttering in low, unwholesome tones. The men’s eyes followed them, unable to focus on anything else. The elves saw their chance, and walked the shadows to appear before the startled guards. “No need to announce us,” W’rath said with a wicked grin.

  King Oblund III raised his goblet, and a boy, whose name he’d already forgotten, rushed to refill it. The boy poured Southern Red into the goblet, leaving enough space for the crimson nectar to breathe. The king flicked a finger at the boy, who bowed, and slipped into the background.

  Oblund sampled the wine, savoring it, allowing the woody scent of it to permeate his senses. He settled back in his chair, and studied the two guards standing on either side of the inner doorway of the pavilion. As sons of nobles, he had spared them the enhancement process the mercenary magi had been subjecting the common soldiers to. While he trusted no one, these two had proven they understood politics well enough to feign deafness during every conversation held within the confines of the war room. If they continued to prove worthy, he would arrange property and marriages for them. If not … well, anything could happen during times of war. Elven assassins lurked everywhere and the savages couldn’t tell, or appreciate, the differences between a civilized man and a pig farmer.

  However, the relative usefulness of noblemen’s sons hardly concerned him at the moment. No, the man giving him indigestion just now was His Golden Eminence, Holy Purveyor of the Word, and Humble Servant of the Duality, Chalice Ungren Renoir. A cancerous pain in the ass more like. Not to mention, a bottomless well of sanctimonious platitudes. Damned arrogant, too.

  The king’s black eyes glittered from beneath black brows, studying the human vessel of the will of the Duality. No frail and bookish priest, Ungren dominated any room with his commanding presence. His face boasted strong features and a lion-like mane of hair that fell in perfectly with his beard. It was as if a golden halo surrounded his face.

  Even his single flaw branded him a hero. A savage scar marred his face, starting from his scalp, skirting his right eye, and ending just below his strong cheekbone. He’d fought his way across a battlefield to stand protectively by his king, sustaining the infuriatingly dashing wound in the process. Oblund loathed him.

  And now the bastard had the audacity to lecture him. Apparently, there existed rules, even in warfare. Lines that men of honor should not cross. Gods! Would he ever shut up?

  “Your Majesty, I implore you, dismiss the magi. The evil they do shall stain our people for generations. Even as we speak, the demons feed upon your men’s souls. And for what? A bit of wilderness?”

  “As usual, Chalice, you oversimplify the situation. Ours is a wood poor land, sharing a border with a hostile country which, even now, works to exploit that weakness. In order to protect ourselves we need to fortify our borders, repair our forts and build weapons. For that,” he pointed a finger at the priest, “we need this forest. Unfortunately, the savages laying claim to it seem capable of making entire armies disappear. We need a powerful weapon, and only magic can provide that.”

  “Enlisting those who use demonic magic will doom us all,” the Chalice countered. “Sire,” he added belatedly. King Oblund did not miss the purposeful slight. This was intolerable. Even the discrete young nobles by the door could not ignore the fact that the wretchedly popular battle priest treated his king like a child in need of chastising.

  The rustle of fabric from the back of the pavilion announced the queen’s arrival. Slim hands gripped the king’s shoulders a
nd attempted to ease the tenseness they found there. She said nothing, but Oblund knew her eyes focused not on him but on the priest who, even now, bowed to her: His lover. Oh, he had no proof, but he had seen how they glanced at one another. Eventually, he would find a witness to their treason and both would lose their heads. His own fault for marrying a woman who thought herself entitled to an opinion. That Ungren encouraged her deviant behavior, despite holding a position which made it his job to uphold the doctrines of the church, betrayed his true nature. I am beset by schemers.

  “Pardon us for disturbing your rest, Your Majesty,” the priest said, bowing again. “It pains me you have so long suffered these ill conditions, and yet, I cannot help but rejoice in your presence. The men draw strength at the sight of you, knowing you share in their plight.”

  The queen laughed. “Chalice, I hardly think I suffer unduly. I consider it no more than my duty to stand by His Majesty and offer my support.”

  Is that what you call it? Ever since she’d arrived she’d argued with him as insistently as Ungren against hiring the magi from the mercenary city state of Tassilia. She had tried a different tact, claiming that, by laying siege to the Wood Elves forest, he left their kingdom open to attack from King Luccan. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected things to play out so long. When ten thousand men had marched into the forest that first day, only to disappear without a trace, he’d realized he was up against something far worse than a pack of child-like primitives. They obviously possessed some unholy power.

  His first instinct had been to contact the church. He’d even tolerated their decision to send Ungren to render his opinion. But, of course, the contrary bastard had insisted he could discern no unnatural communion going on between the elves and any of the planes of evil. He’d actually suggested they try to parlay with the elves, even volunteered to do so in the king’s name. Apparently, the sun-blessed priest spoke fluent Elvish, and felt certain he could reach some accommodation with the creatures.