Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)

by Stuart Thaman

  “You know as well as I do that those wretched beasts never left,” Palos spat.

  Holte finished his meal and took a drink from one of his waterskins. “You’re right about that,” he said lightly. “What I meant to ask was if you think a new leader could have arisen. Perhaps there is a new Shadow King in Mournstead.”

  “I hope not,” Palos responded. “But I’m confident King Gottfried would put a swift end to any such uprising.”

  “Without the likes of Alistair the Fourth?” Holte pressed.

  Palos thought of Jarix’s wound and a fresh blast of anger coursed through his mind. “My son has the blood of Alistair running through his veins, just as I do. King Gottfried would have to select Jarix as his general if it came to open war,” he said.

  Holte shook his head. He never understood Palos’ blatant favoritism toward his eldest son, especially when he had named the younger boy for his legendary ancestor, though Jarix’s name had apparently been Palos’ wife’s idea, or so he had heard. “I’m sure Jarix will make a fine military commander,” Holte said, more out of formality than any real sincerity.

  The two awoke just before dawn, tired and sore, but eager to resume their journey. As Holte broke their camp, Palos untied the horses and made sure they drank from the pond. He anticipated another hard day of riding before they caught up to the messenger, and the thought brought a smile to his face. He drank in the fresh morning air, feeling more alive than he had in quite some time. Part of him wanted to uncover some nefarious plot which had the potential to plunge all of Vecnos into war.

  Palos had handled political intrigue several times in the past, but he had never been directly involved in anything so potentially grand. In one of his first years of service on King Gottfried’s high court, an assassin had been caught attempting to poison the king’s food. The ensuing investigation had taken months, and Palos had been one of the principal nobles who led the manhunt. That level of excitement was rare in the relatively peaceful city of Karrheim, and it was completely non-existent at Palos’ estate—until Wilkes had been killed and Alster taken.

  With visions of a grand war and Jarix leading legions of soldiers into battle, Palos and Holte returned to the road, immediately kicking their horses into a hard ride.

  They caught up to the messenger earlier than expected. The young man carried very little, having only two small saddlebags at his sides. One of them contained a scroll written by Palos and sealed with wax, which Palos took and burned.

  When Palos had dismissed the messenger back to his estate, he and Holte continued on toward the capital at a more leisurely pace, stopping at the roadside inns which served as their usual resting points. The closer they got to Karrheim, the more travelers they saw on the road, though none of them had the trademark red hair and eyes of those from the east.

  They neared the outskirts of Karrheim around noon on the fifth day, tired from the journey, but eager to see the king.

  The city rose up out of the surrounding forest like a towering monolith of spires, buttresses, and awe-inspiring vistas. Thousands of years ago, Karrheim had been settled by a group of monks from Xathrin, the kingdom north of Mournstead, beyond the Red Mountains. Palos only knew of a single expedition which had attempted to find Xathrin, but they had been sent by The Shadow King during the First Conquest of the Shades, and had never returned.

  “Always a sight to behold, is it not?” Holte said from atop his steed. He pulled his horse to a stop next to Palos and breathed deeply, enjoying the wondrous view spread out before him.

  “I’ve been here maybe a hundred times before,” Palos said quietly. “Still, the sight of Karrheim sends chills through my spine. Perhaps I will make it my permanent home someday,” he mused.

  Holte chuckled. “As long as you keep me in your employ, I’d carry the entire estate to Karrheim myself,” he said, “even if I had to carry it brick by brick.”

  Karrheim had been built upon six adjacent plateaus, giant pillars of stone and earth jutting up from the ground like the fingers of some colossal titan’s mighty hand. In the center, atop the highest protrusion, was King Gottfried’s castle, Whitecliff Citadel. When the Xathrin monks had built the city, Whitecliff had been a temple, its ornamental spires reaching over a thousand feet from the forest floor as a testament to the strength of the god they worshipped.

  It had been centuries since anyone in Vecnos could even name the old gods of Xathrin. Perhaps as a testament to the absolute rule of Vecnos’ kings, the temple had been repurposed as a military structure, the most impregnable fortress ever constructed, and the home of Gottfried’s marble throne. Whitecliff was only accessible by a single route, a winding staircase carved into the side of the plateau overlooked by several gatehouses, each turn threatening a fatal drop of several hundred feet should any would-be attacker lose his footing.

  Palos urged his horse forward, leading the creature along the final stretch of road which would bring them to the base of the first plateau where most of Karrheim’s residents lived. The sprawling residential district was an area large enough to nearly be a city in its own right.

  Out of necessity, all of Karrheim’s many stables were located along the base of the first plateau, some two hundred feet below the lowest of the six rises. One of the stables, distinguished from the many others by an array of royal banners decorating its entrance, housed the king’s personal horses, which is where Palos directed his own steed when he and Holte entered the massive city.

  Palos loved the bustle of the city. Even below the first rise, the city sprawled for miles, full of people in every direction. Most of the forest-level tier was dominated by single-story houses, but the muddy streets were also lined with a myriad of business. Palos and Holte passed dozens of taverns, inns, general stores, low-end brothels, blacksmiths, and other establishments as they made their way through the streets of Karrheim.

  The sun had nearly set by the time they reached the royal stable. When they arrived, a stablehand came out at once to greet them. He was a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, with dirty blonde hair and a nervous smile. Palos reached under his shirt and brought forth his silver necklace with the royal seal hanging from it, indicating his status as a member of King Gottfried’s high court.

  “Is the king’s horse currently stabled?” Palos asked the boy curtly.

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy said. Once Palos had dismounted, the stablehand took the reins and began to lead the horse to a stall.

  “Good,” Palos replied. “Do you know if the king intends to ride within the next several days?” he asked, stretching his legs and following the stablehand into the building.

  The boy shook his head. “I do not know, my lord,” he said.

  Palos sighed. “As long as Gottfried will be in Whitecliff in the morning, that is all that matters,” he said.

  When Palos and Holte had taken what they needed from their saddlebags, they headed for what would be the first of dozens of staircases. “How are your legs?” Palos asked.

  Holte rubbed a sore spot on his thigh. He enjoyed riding, but his body tended to disagree. “I can make it,” he said, though there wasn’t much spirit in his voice.

  “We’ll stay on the second rise,” Palos said. “I’m tired, and I don’t feel like climbing stairs all night.”

  Inwardly, Holte was thankful they would only have to climb two seemingly endless sets of stairs. If he had to ascend all the way to Whitecliff before morning, he wasn’t sure he would survive. “As you say,” the captain replied mechanically.

  Palos nodded and led them to the guardhouse nearby which protected the first ascent. The soldiers there were dressed in the traditional colors of Karrheim, blue checkers slashed across a field of white. The iron door in front of the stairs was open as always, and Palos knew the guards were more for appearance than any real function. He had served on the high court for years, and it was only a decision of the high court which could force the doors at each guardhouse to be closed. Barring a riot or some outsid
e invasion, Palos did not believe he would ever have to vote on such an order.

  The first ascent was always the easiest. The stairs had been carved into the side of the plateau centuries ago, and the abundance of foot traffic had worn them into wide, smooth, platforms which would have been easy to climb had they not been so numerous. “Only two hundred and seven steps,” Palos said with mock cheer to his captain.

  “At least it isn’t raining,” Holte said with a huff. He had traversed the stairs several times during storms or snow, and those journeys always made him wish he had become a jeweler like his father on the first rise instead of a nobleman’s personal guard.

  Both Palos and Holte were severely out of breath when they finally reached the top of the first plateau. “I’m too old for this,” Holte said with his hand on his knees.

  Palos nodded, pulling in air with heavy breaths. “How many times have we climbed this same path?” he asked between exhalations.

  “Too many,” Holte replied. “All the other nobles live on the fourth rise. You’re the only member of the high court who does not reside in Karrheim.”

  “Not the only one,” Palos said, correcting Holte with a shake of his head. “The king’s brother does not even live in Vecnos, or did you forget?”

  “Ha!” Holte laughed. “Hademar? I don’t even think Gottfried has seen him in a decade. That chair has been empty since before you joined the high court,” he said.

  “I doubt Hademar is even still alive,” Palos agreed. The king’s strange brother had fled Vecnos a long time ago after his wife, Petra, had mysteriously died in the middle of an otherwise peaceful and normal night. The citizens of Karrheim had been told that the event was nothing nefarious, but Hademar had thought differently. He had sworn for weeks that an assassin from Mournstead had been behind his wife’s death, but the investigation had never produced any evidence.

  “Whatever he was looking for in Nevansk, I hope he at least found it,” Holte said.

  “If he ever returns, I’ll be sure to ask him,” Palos added. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Holte nodded and fell into step with Palos. The first plateau of Karrheim housed most of the tradesmen and merchants of the city. Their heaviest wares were all stored down on the forest level below, but some of the city’s richest traders had devised a system of pulleys and ropes which could hoist the larger trade goods such as furniture and stones for new construction up to the first rise. Palos had ridden in one of those elevators once, but he didn’t trust them. The lack of solid ground beneath his feet made him feel like he was always one strong gust of wind away from death.

  The architecture of the Karrheim had always filled Holte with a child-like sense of wonder. The houses and stores of the first rise were mostly one or two stories, built of wood and plaster with the larger beams exposed, making a patchwork of brown logs crisscrossing over a sea of white. Near the place where the second plateau met the first, Karrheim’s foundries belched thick clouds of smoke into the air. People often said that steel from the northern island of Nevansk made the best weapons and tools, but Holte knew the smiths who worked in Karrheim to be second to none.

  As the two of them progressed through the center street of the first rise, the smell of fresh meat mingled in the air with the sounds of taverns coming alive. Songs came from open windows, laughter from others, and the tell-tale clinking of coins filled his ears from every direction. Unlike Palos’ quiet estate, Karrheim never seemed to sleep. Holte had walked the streets of the capital at all hours, and he had never felt alone.

  Night had fully taken hold of the city by the time Palos and Holte reached the end of the first rise. They could feel the heat from the nearby forges washing over them in waves. Holte had often wondered how the men in the guardhouse could tolerate being stationed so closely to the furnaces, though he had never bothered to ask. Palos led him without pause to the staircase.

  “Three hundred and forty,” Palos said over his shoulder.

  Holte stretched his legs once more before taking the first upward step. The second staircase was exactly like the first: monotonous, dreary, and unbearably long.

  At the top of the second rise, Palos led Holte to the inn where they usually stayed in Karrheim when they were not visiting the city on official business and afforded a room in Whitecliff. The inn, situated near the edge of the plateau and named for something vulgar which Holte could not remember, was a favorite among the military officers. The front of the building was marked by a blue and white banner, and several drunken soldiers stumbled around in front of the door arguing over dice.

  Most of the second rise was empty, serving as a parade ground for Karrheim’s militia, complete with practice areas for every aspect of the army save the cavalry. Holte had trained for three years on the second rise, and he felt as though he knew every rock and inch of dirt better than he knew his own home at Palos’ estate.

  When he had joined the military, he had dreamt of leading men into battle, though against what or whom he did not know. Around his thirtieth birthday, Holte had accepted his commission as a captain and the significant pay raise which accompanied guarding a nobleman of the king’s high court. He wasn’t sure if he regretted the decision or not, but staying at the soldier’s inn on the second rise always made him question his past.

  “We haven’t been followed,” Rai said with confidence.

  Alster looked down on him with sleepy eyes from the back of their horse. “That’s good,” he said, his voice threatening to reveal his fatigue. The sun was about to rise, and they had been riding for days, only taking short breaks for a few hours at a time. Elsey trudged along slowly at Alster’s side. Her boots were torn, and her feet were covered in blisters.

  A thick sheen of sweat dripped from Rai’s forehead. He tried to wipe it off, but his shirt was damp as well. “I ran back at least four miles,” he said. “There was nothing. No tracks, no sign of a fire, nothing. If anyone is looking for you, they aren’t looking in the right direction.”

  “Do you know where we are?” Alster asked. Hearing that no one was following them lifted his spirits, but the news did little to make the journey any easier. In every direction, the only thing Alster could see was scrubland. The thick vegetation of the forest had ended the day before, leaving a splotchy landscape of short trees, thorny bushes, and grasses which were tall enough to brush against Alster’s legs as he rode.

  Rai shook his head. “We’ve been going south, which is the right direction to get to the Frosted Coast, but I thought the forest would last longer. Perhaps we have traveled farther than I thought,” he answered.

  “How much colder will it get?” Elsey asked. The wind whipped her hair in wild patterns atop her head as they walked. She crossed her arms over her chest to trap her body’s warmth, but the wind still bit through her meager clothing. Atop the horse, Alster had a heavy cloak wrapped about his shoulders, but if what Rai had said about the Frosted Coast was true, he would freeze to death before they ever found Scalder’s Inlet.

  “There will be snow on the ground before we can see the ocean,” Rai replied. “But there are settlements along the coast. People live there. Not many, but some,” he said.

  “How long until we reach one of their towns?” Alster asked. “And if it is so cold, why do people choose to live there?”

  Rai laughed. “So many question! But I figure the distance from Velnwood to the coast is somewhere around three hundred miles, which means we are getting close to halfway. As to why people choose to live in the cold south, I do not know for sure. Perhaps the tax collectors from Karrheim do not bother them each year as they do the other cities of Vecnos. Or perhaps they simply enjoy the cold.”

  The three rode onward at a slower pace for the rest of the day, taking frequent stops to let the horse eat and allow their own legs to recover. When night came, Rai built a large fire, and they laid pieces of animal hide on the ground to insulate them from the cold ground as they slept.

  Alster flexed his fingers tightly aro
und the hilt of his dagger. He secretly yearned to wear Alistair’s gauntlets as well, but he thought Rai would laugh at him if he did.

  “There aren’t going to be any shades out here,” Rai said, clearly noticing Alster’s trepidation.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Take a look around!” Rai laughed. “Shades are controlled by shadowliths. They aren’t random spirits that appear in every single shadow.” He spread his arms wide as if he was giving a tour of the entire scrubland. “There isn’t another human within a dozen miles of us, and there might only be a handful of shadowliths left in existence, if that. I doubt any of them has decided to take up residence in a place like this on the off chance that they can torment the one traveler who comes through here each year,” he explained.

  Alster knew Rai was right, but he still felt vulnerable whenever his hand left the dagger.

  Elsey smiled at him from under her animal hide on the other side of the fire. “We’re safe out here,” she said. “No one followed us. No one is looking for us.”

  Alster thought of his father and brother back at the Lightbridge estate. He wasn’t surprised that his father had chosen not to send a search party after him, but it did bring an unwelcome sense of abandonment to his chest. He wondered if Palos had even noticed he was missing yet. The man who had questioned Rai in Velnwood had only asked for the horse, not about any missing person.

  With the fire crackling beside him and keeping him warm, Alster tried to push all of his thoughts of home as far from his mind as possible. When he finally managed to drift off to sleep several hours later, his mind was restless.

  In a dream, Alster found himself underground. He stood in a musty cave, lightless, yet he could see perfectly. Water dripped all around him from the low ceiling, and he could just barely hear a chorus of voices coming from somewhere else. The sounds were too garbled to have any meaning, but he knew they were violent. Alster felt his heartbeat rise in his chest. He tried to force himself awake, but instead, his dream self began to move.