Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)

by Stuart Thaman

  All around, small pockets of disheveled and weary soldiers stared at the two of them as though they were some sort of oddities at a travelling carnival. There weren’t many men, perhaps sixty by Alster’s estimation, and most of them were old. He only saw a few clean-shaven faces among the onlookers, and those were creased with deep lines. Some of the men bore horrific scars or other disfigurements.

  “What war have they been fighting?” Alster asked Elsey under his breath as he nodded toward a man whose left arm ended abruptly just beneath his elbow.

  “One of them mentioned ‘Nevansk’,” Elsey replied. “Where is that?”

  “North, I think,” Alster answered.

  “What do you know about it?” she asked.

  Alster thought back to his years of lessons, but the name ‘Nevansk’ rarely surfaced within his memories. “Traders from there bring some kind of cheese with them,” he explained. “It sells for its weight in gold.” He hesitated, trying to remember exactly what he had learned. “Although maybe it was some type of fruit, not cheese,” he thought aloud.

  “Perhaps these men fought a great war over a few caves full of aging cheeses,” Elsey remarked.

  “When we find the tomb, I’ll ask the king for some cheese. A whole wheel,” Alster playfully shot back.

  In the center of the small encampment, one tent stood a bit taller than all the rest. It was embroidered with slashes of blue and white, and at one time probably looked magnificent, but years of dirt and grime had made it just as drab as everything else. Red clay seeped up from the ground to stain the bottom of the fabric. In front of the tent, two men stood guard with spears and shields, though they looked bored and inattentive.

  “Is Hademar inside?” one of the soldiers leading Alster and Elsey asked when they reached the once-regal pavilion.

  The guard standing left of the tent’s entrance pulled the flap back a few inches to speak inside. “Got something for you, my liege,” he said. His voice was old and tired.

  A few minutes later, a man with a wild beard emerged from the tent holding a cup of dark wine. He was the only one in the camp not wearing armor or a weapon, though he looked more like a drunken beggar than a king.

  Having never met a king, Alster had no idea what the protocol was. He thought of speaking first to introduce himself and Elsey, but instead waited for one of the soldiers to break the silence.

  “What’s this?” the presumed king said with wide eyes before anyone else started to speak.

  “My lord,” the soldier began, “this boy says he can find the tomb.”

  Hademar’s expression didn’t change. He stared intently at Alster, looking him up and down before he finally spoke. “You know where it is?” he asked quietly.

  “I can find it,” Alster clarified.

  “So can I,” Hademar quickly responded. “But perhaps you can do it quicker. Come inside, show me on the maps.” The king retreated inside his tent with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, be quick about it, boy,” the soldier leading them said.

  With Elsey’s help, Alster dropped from the horse with a painful thud. The two of them approached the tent cautiously, keeping an eye on the tired guards as they went. Neither of the soldiers even moved to open the tent flap for them to enter.

  The cluttered tent was stiflingly hot inside. A few short candles burned in one corner, and the canvas was thin enough to let in a bit of light itself. Tattered chests and trunks were strewn haphazardly across the clay, most of them open with their contents spilling out. The king held a large map drawn on an animal hide in his hands. “Show me the tomb!” he yelled.

  “It isn’t like that,” Alster began, careful to keep his distance from the deranged man. “I can find it, but I don’t know where it is.”

  The king’s gaze shot from his map to Alster’s eyes. “Out with it, boy! There isn’t much time!” he barked.

  “No, no,” Alster tried to explain. “Here, I’ll show you what I mean.” He motioned for Elsey to hold back the tent flap, letting in a strong ray of morning light. He stepped into the sunlight quickly, eager to be done with the man’s maps and yelling.

  Alster pointed to his long, distorted shadow on the ground. As the three of them watched, his shadow began to bend northward, curving and growing like a grasping hand reaching for some hidden treasure. “There,” Alster said with a smile. “I can find the tomb.”

  “So you can,” Hademar muttered, his voice so full of awe it was barely audible. He moved all around the shadow, and even managed to poke it once, though all he did was get his finger covered in red clay.

  “If you-” Alster started, but the king cut him off.

  “You’re sure it leads to the tomb?” Hademar demanded, suddenly changing from curious to violent.

  When Alster nodded, the king seemed to calm again at once.

  “Good, good, good,” Hademar breathed as though he was only then relieved of some great burden.

  “Why are you searching for the tomb?” Alster asked hesitantly. “Shouldn’t you be going to Karrheim… if you’re the king?”

  Hademar swirled away toward the back of his tent with a burst of maniacal laughter. When he didn’t turn back to answer the question, Alster shrugged. “Let’s, uh, let’s just leave,” he said.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Elsey said quietly. She ducked out of the tent without a second look back.

  A small group of soldiers had gathered around the king’s tent, curious expressions on their bearded faces. “You can find the tomb?” one of them asked. The man clearly commanded some authority among the group, though he was just as worn and disheveled as all the rest. His beard grew out of control, and his weathered face sported a thin scar across his jaw.

  “Yes,” Alster answered for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. “We can leave now so everyone stops asking me that question!” he snapped.

  The soldier smiled at Alster. “I like your enthusiasm,” he began. “My name is Ingvar. I’m the king’s second, one of the leaders of our little band out here in the wasteland.” He stepped forward to shake Alster’s hand. His grip was like an iron vice, the heavy hand far stronger than Alster had expected.

  “Thank you, Ingvar,” Alster replied. He winced as a brief twinge of pain flashed across his knuckles.

  Ingvar sucked in his breath as a flash of red light emanated from Alster’s hand, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Magic,” he whispered.

  Alster met the soldier’s gaze, his hand instinctively reaching toward the hilt of his dagger. Luckily, none of the other men seemed to notice what had happened.

  Taking a step back, Ingvar blinked the surprise from his eyes and nodded. “Magic,” he said again, though softly enough that none of the others could hear.

  “It leads me to the tomb,” Alster whispered quickly.

  “Well, if the two of you are quite ready to begin, I’ll see to it that our king breaks camp within the hour,” he said loudly. He looked to Elsey then and shook her hand as well, an inviting smile spread across his face. “In the meantime, one of my men will get your horse some proper food—the beast looks famished.” Ingvar turned to address the other soldiers gathered around the tent. “See to it that our new guides are properly welcomed,” he commanded.

  “Thank you,” Alster said, glancing quickly from his hand back to Ingvar.

  The old soldier gave Alster one last curious look as he lifted the king’s tent flap and disappeared inside.

  By noon, Alster rode at the head of a column of soldiers winding through the foothills of the Red Mountains. He felt like a brave general from the wars of old valiantly leading his troops to the front lines of some epic battle. The group only had two horses of their own, great creatures bred for war wearing old, battered heraldic barding. King Hademar rode one of the horses to Alster’s left. Ingvar owned the second creature, but he had graciously relinquished his saddle to Elsey, saying something under his breath about having a proper woman along as he had don
e so.

  The column marched onward at a slow pace through the gripping clay. The soldiers’ boots and the horses’ hooves sucked at the ground, making squishing noises as they went. The mountains rose up tall before them, and Alster continued to lead the men deeper and deeper into its embrace.

  By dusk, Alster’s shadow was too weak to see against the dark clay. “We have to stop,” he said to the king riding beside him. For hours, all Hademar had done was speak gently under his breath as though he was reciting some heroic tale to an unseen audience.

  When Hademar finally looked up from his musing to process Alster’s statement, his brow furrowed in confusion. “We can light a torch!” he said enthusiastically. “Hold it behind you! Make the shadow stronger!” he went on.

  Alster stifled a laugh. The man’s blind and somewhat reckless drive reminded him of an incessant house pet. As far as he could tell, the king never stopped. They only halted once to relieve themselves, and the king insisted the men eat their rations while they walked.

  Ingvar heard the exchange a few paces behind the three lead horses. He came up slowly to the king’s side, his head glistening with sweat. “My lord,” he began between breaths. “We need to camp. We can leave the moment dawn breaks, but we must rest. It has been twelve years, you can wait another handful of days, certainly.”

  The king glowered down at his advisor. “Fine. We will stop for a few hours,” he conceded. “But we will leave three hours before dawn! We cannot waste any more time than we have to!”

  “Sir,” Ingvar pleaded. “We will need the sun if we want the boy to lead us!”

  After a moment, the king finally nodded. He turned back to Alster with another wild expression plastered to his face. “The moment you are ready, we will set out once more,” he decreed.

  When they had settled into their rudimentary camp for the night, Ingvar sat himself down in the clay next to Alster and Elsey. Their horse stood a few paces away where one of Hademar’s men inspected its horseshoes while muttering a stream of curses under his breath. “So,” Ingvar said, handing each of them a few pieces of hardtack with some sort of red spice sprinkled on it. “What are you two doing out here in the barren waste of eastern Vecnos?”

  Alster took an exploratory bite of the military ration. It broke apart in his mouth into something closer to a bland powder than the bread which it appeared to be.

  “He’s related to Alistair the Fourth,” Elsey answered as Alster struggled to swallow his mouthful of hardtack.

  “Chasing down old legends then?” Ingvar said, watching Alster’s expression with amusement.

  “We want to see the tomb,” Elsey said.

  “What’s with his hands?” Ingvar asked.

  “He fell…” Elsey began, but she wasn’t sure exactly how to describe Alster’s transformation, “he fell in Scalder’s Inlet,” she explained.

  “He fell in what?” the soldier asked. He took a bite of his own spiced hardtack, following it immediately with a drink from a metal canteen. After he wiped his mouth on his tabard, he handed the canteen to Alster who continued to struggle with the dry ration.

  “Scalder’s Inlet?” Elsey said again. “It’s where Alistair’s army dipped their weapons to let them kill shades.”

  “I’ve never heard of the place,” Ingvar replied with a shake of his head.

  “That’s disgusting,” Alster said when he finally regained his composure and spat out his hardtack. He handed the canteen back to Ingvar. “What is that?” he asked, his lips contorted.

  “This?” Ingvar said with a laugh, holding his canteen aloft. “This is a tawny port from Nevansk!” he said as though everyone should have known already. “It’s cheap, but it goes down quick and gets the job done!”

  Alster spat the final morsel of hardtack from his mouth with a grimace. “I disagree,” he said quietly.

  “Ha!” Ingvar carried on. “It’ll put hair on your chest before you know it.”

  “I think I’ve had enough for now,” Alster said.

  Ingvar took a long pull on his canteen and smiled. “When you’ve been on the road for twelve years, you learn to eat and drink a lot of different things,” he added.

  “Twelve years?” Elsey asked. “What have you been doing?”

  Ingvar’s eyes flashed to Alster’s shadow cast by the campfire in front of them. “We’ve been looking for that damned tomb,” he answered. “And then you came along.”

  “Why?” Alster questioned.

  Ingvar thought for a moment and took another drink of his wine before he responded. “It isn’t my place to say, I’m afraid. You should ask the king when you show him the entrance yourself,” he said, most of the mirth stolen from his voice.

  “I think we’re getting close,” Alster said. “We might find it tomorrow.”

  “That’s good,” Ingvar replied. “You’ve done the right thing by helping us.”

  “I don’t know,” Alster said. “The king-”

  Ingvar laughed again. “The king is mad as the day is long!” he said, tipping back his canteen once more.

  “Why do you follow him?” Elsey asked. “Why did you follow him?”

  “I swore an oath to him and his father when I was barely older than you are now,” he explained. “All of us have sworn oaths. So when King Hademar called us to duty, we went.”

  “You haven’t seen your family in twelve years?” Elsey pried.

  Ingvar looked off into the distance. “I see my wife’s face every day, and the faces of my daughters, but I’m not sure I would even know who they are any more,” he said solemnly.

  “I’m sorry,” Elsey muttered.

  Ingvar finished his canteen of wine. “I’m an old man now. I’m not the same person I was when I left. They wouldn’t recognize me.” He stood and threw the last few pieces of his hardtack into the campfire where they sizzled and burned.

  “Hademar wants to be on the road by dawn,” Ingvar said as he began walking away. “Be ready to move.”

  DEATH

  When dawn broke, Alster was already awake. He sat on the hard, red clay with his legs crossed, listlessly spining Alistair the Fourth’s dagger with a finger. His shadow was just becoming visible before him. As it bent toward The Shadow King’s tomb, he turned his body in tandem, making his shadow look as natural as possible.

  A few feet below the small rise where he sat, he could see the entirety of the military outfit he was expected to guide. He saw the king’s embroidered tent standing tall in the middle of the camp, a blue and white pennant fluttering atop it in the gentle morning breeze.

  Several paces from the king’s tent, a few soldiers set about readying the three horses for travel. The one Alster and Elsey had stolen looked small compared to Hademar’s regal steed. The king’s horse was draped in blue and white barding, though all of the livery was worn and covered in years’ worth of filth.

  As Alster watched, a man came running toward the king’s tent from the west, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. He quickly ducked under one of the tent flaps. Only a few seconds later, he emerged with the king behind him. Both men began issuing orders at once, and the camp sprang to life. Alster began to hobble back toward his own gear, eager to find Ingvar and learn what was happening. His shadow bent as he walked, twisting and yearning for him to find the tomb.

  “Get ready!” Ingvar called. He stood near the sputtering collection of embers that had kept Alster and Elsey warm throughout the night.

  “What’s happening?” Alster asked.

  A deep horn sounded somewhere near the center of the camp, issuing a long, droning note that stole everyone’s attention. When it ended, a palpable wave of panic washed over the tents and bedrolls.

  “We’re being trailed!” Ingvar said quickly. He was strapping on armor over a cloth gambeson he wore, and a sword hung loosely at his side. “We have to leave!”

  It only took a few minutes for the small army to be on the move once more. Alster rode next to the king, following his own shadow d
eeper into the Red Mountains. Behind them, the soldiers had left most of their cookware and other non-essential equipment in the dirt. One of the men led the others in a marching chant, setting their pace as quickly as he could. To Alster’s right, Elsey rode Ingvar’s horse with a frightened expression dominating her features.

  The line of men wound into the foothills and through the mountains, climbing higher and higher in altitude as they went. Runners in light clothing without weapons or armor made their way to Hademar twice every hour with reports of the force following them—reports that made Alster wish the entire group was mounted so they might gallop away to safety.

  “They’re gaining on us, my lord,” the last runner had said. The man was thin and younger than most of the other soldiers, but he was struggling to keep up with the brutal march imposed by the king.

  From what Alster had overheard, they were outnumbered.

  Desperate to reach the tomb, Alster watched the movements of his shadow with unwavering intensity. By midday, Hademar had to call off his scouting efforts as the elevation proved to be too much for his runners to constantly overcome.

  “How close are we?” Hademar demanded to know as the group marched around the side of one of the lower mountains.

  “I…” Alster struggled to find the words. “I can feel the tomb, but…” he trailed off.

  “And?” the king demanded once more. “How far?” Behind them, the soldiers struggled to keep their balance on the sharply sloping clay.

  Alster’s shadow stretched out far beyond the length it should have been, wrapping nearly twenty feet around the curve of the mountainside. “I think we’re almost there,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to overinflate the mad king’s hope. Licking his lips, he felt a heavy presence of darkness lingering in the air. Everything tasted stale just like it had at the Rift.

  Finally, the ground began to level out, and Alster led the small army down the eastern side of the mountain, into a shallow valley between the jagged, red peaks.