Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)

by Stuart Thaman

  A withered hand reached up from the open sarcophagus, and then the rest of the body began to rise. The corpse was ancient, completely desiccated, and covered in frail cloth wrappings that slid from its body as it moved.

  With a mocking smile, the nearly skeletal corpse turned to gaze at the one who had awoken it. “Thank you,” it croaked, a puff of dust escaping its mouth as it spoke.

  Hademar fell backward, his shadowy eyes wide. “I’ve done it!” he said, oblivious to what he had actually begun. “I’ve brought back the dead! Petra!”

  The ghoulish corpse began to regenerate as it laughed. Its skin grew back in splotches all over its body, and Alster could see its teeth coming in through its skeletal jaw. The man was whole again in a moment, standing naked in his sarcophagus while his wild laughter echoed through the tomb.

  “Brother!” Alistair bellowed. He stalked toward the risen man with his pulsing, red dagger held tightly at his side.

  Before he reached the sarcophagus to strike, the man vanished.

  “What just happened?” Elsey shrieked.

  “Was that The Shadow King?” Alster added, his voice quavering.

  Alistair turned back on them, towering over Hademar’s shade with hatred gleaming in his red eyes. “You’ve brought back The Shadow King!” he yelled. “You cannot begin to understand the consequences of your actions, mortal!”

  Sounds came from the other two sarcophagi in the room, indicating the presence of living things within them as well. Alster shuddered to think what might be contained beneath their coverings.

  “Push the lid off,” the mighty shade commanded Alster. It pointed to the nearest sarcophagus with a shadowy finger.

  “What’s underneath?” Alster hesitated.

  “My horse,” Alistair replied as though the fact should have been easily known by everyone in the tomb. “And I am in the third, though I had wanted that body to stay buried.” He turned back to Hademar with another glare. “Now it seems I have no choice.”

  Alster pushed against the heavy lid of the sarcophagus, and his whole body trembled with magical red light. He saw Alistair’s armor shining through his flesh, materializing before his eyes, and a powerful burst of strength filled his muscles. The lid fell off the far side of the sarcophagus with a heavy clang.

  Inside, a skeletal horse was beginning to regenerate. Its hair and skin grew back, enveloping its bones and returning its vitality at an alarming rate. The beast kicked and whinnied, eager to be free from its metal confinement.

  “Ordenn, Ordenn,” Alistair said as gently as he could, calming the horse as it leapt from the sarcophagus. The beast settled a bit at the sight of its master’s shade, clearly recognizing Alistair for who and what he was.

  “And the third sarcophagus contains your body,” Elsey whispered to herself. “What are you going to do?”

  Alistair didn’t turn from his resurrected horse when he answered. “I don’t have much of a choice,” he said again. “My shade can only exist apart from my body for so long before the two snap back together. When my body was dead, it did not matter. Now, I have no other option.”

  Alster moved slowly to the final sarcophagus. The lid was carved as the other two had been, but it was not covered with any artistic depictions of battle. Instead, it held only a long pattern of old runes and the general’s seal. Summoning his strength, Alster pushed the lid away, and the hulking shade of his ancestor leapt into the body without hesitation.

  The corpse began knitting itself back together almost immediately. Within a few moments, Alistair stood in his physical form, his eyes blinking rapidly as they adjusted to light for the first time in over four hundred years. Oddly, they were still bright red, just like the eyes of his shade. Alster wondered if The Shadow King’s face had born the same red eyes as well.

  “What now?” Elsey asked.

  Alistair yawned and stretched his legs from side to side. He was tall, probably six inches taller than Palos, and he had broad shoulders like a man built for nothing but war. “You have my armor now, Lightbridge,” he said solemnly. “But we are both still shadowliths.” He closed his eyes and his body went translucent, fading back to the shade it had been just a few moments before. “But we aren’t like the other shadowliths,” he went on, pointing to Elsey and then to Hademar. “We don’t have to leave our bodies behind when we control our shades. We take them with us.”

  “And I can only call forth your armor when I get hurt?” Alster asked. It was comforting to be able to listen to Alistair’s booming voice at a normal, human level.

  “You will learn to control it,” Alistair told him. He let out a heavy sigh that sounded like it had been building for centuries. “For now, I must kill my brother before he builds another army. There can be no other way. He has always been hungry for dominance—this time will be no different than the last.”

  “Where will he go?” Elsey asked.

  “Probably to the east,” Alistair replied. “The monks who live in the hills and valleys of Xathrin are the ones who discovered the magic of shadows. It is said that the sun is always low in that country, that a great monk once anchored the sun in the sky so that his shadow would always be strong, and so Xathrin would always be kept in a moment of perpetual dawn. When the two of us were young, my brother went to Xathrin for several years. It was there that he learned to make shadowliths with the Umbral Blade. I imagine he will return first to his master, whoever that may be.”

  “The dagger,” Alster whispered. “It makes shadowliths?”

  Alistair nodded. “My brother brought the Umbral Blade back with him from Xathrin. The first shadowlith he created was one of our maids. When he discovered how much power the weapon gave him, he left our house to build an army of the monsters. Now he will do the same, though he will not be as foolish as he was in the past. He has had centuries to dwell on his mistakes. He must be stopped.”

  “We could go with you,” Alster offered.

  Still sitting against the side of the tomb, Hademar’s shade laughed and laughed, wearing a crazed expression full of depraved insanity.

  “No,” Alistair said at once, urgency in his voice. “I have a different need of you. It is time I obliterate my brother’s soul once and for all. For that, I will need something very specific: a shade prison. They were somewhat common items during the war—perhaps there are still a few in existence. I will bring my brother back to this place. You need to be ready with a shade prison when I return.”

  Alistair pulled himself up onto his horse’s back with practiced ease, and both of them began to flicker, fading into barely discernible shadows.

  “Where-”

  Before Alster could finish his question, Alistair spurred his ethereal mount forward and galloped through the tomb’s eastern wall.

  “How will you find a shade prison?” Elsey asked tentatively. Hademar’s laughs continued to echo through the chamber, serving as a constant reminder of the sheer absurdity of their plan.

  “I don’t know,” Alster answered. “The Shadow King lived in Mournstead. We can begin by looking there.”

  Alster and Elsey moved to the stairs that would take them back to the tomb’s stone entrance. “I’m stronger now,” Alster said, though his voice lacked confidence. He flexed the muscles in his legs and jumped on his toes a few times to test his lower half. Nothing burned. For once, no knot of pain formed in his knees or settled into the small of his back.

  Alster shot forward, taking the carved stairs two at a time, and shouted with joy when he reached the top free of any pain. His legs glowed with a faint red shimmer, and a smile danced across his face.

  “Congratulations,” Elsey said sarcastically as she drifted up behind him. Hademar’s shade followed them, though he seemed to be looking everywhere at once.

  “What do you think has happened out there?” Elsey asked when they reached the tomb’s entrance once more.

  “I don’t know,” Alster replied. “Wait!” He remembered the painting of Alistair the Fourth i
n his family’s archive. “The general held a sword in the painting from the archive, and I didn’t see one below. Did you?” he asked. He missed the feel of the dagger clutched in his hands. Sadly, he felt like he might not ever see the weapon again, or at least not for a very long time.

  Elsey shook her incorporeal head. “Perhaps it is in Mournstead as well,” she said after a moment.

  “Perhaps,” Alster agreed. He took a step forward, hesitating for a moment before he reached a hand through the stone wall in front of him. When he materialized on the other side of the tomb, a hundred or more sets of eyes turned at once.

  “Um,” Elsey whispered just before her shade snapped back into her body and her physical form awoke.

  “I’ve raised—” Hademar started to yell, but then he too was reunited with his flesh and bones, losing his words in a flash.

  Alster looked at the host of soldiers staring back at him, looking for Ingvar’s familiar face among the crowd. The men held weapons in their hands, looking like they were about to begin killing each other at any moment. He wondered how they had gotten so close without a battle, though he saw several patches of blood staining the ground. None of it made sense.

  Then he saw his father standing in the center, and his heart caught in his throat.

  Palos’ eyes went wild with a mixture of shock, fear, and disbelief. He had his sword held at his side, and the hilt slid slowly from hand. “What… How?” he stammered. “Why are you here?” he finally asked.

  Alster’s muscles twitched. His mind blazed with a thousand different emotions. “You didn’t know I was here,” Alster concluded. “You weren’t looking for me.”

  Suddenly hardened once more, Palos growled through his teeth. “I should kill you for helping these traitors,” he threatened.

  Palos took a step forward, his hands balled into fists.

  “Protect the boy!” the weary king called out. Two of Hademar’s closest men stepped in front of Alster with their weapons drawn.

  “It’s alright,” Alster told them. He steadied his breathing as best he could and wondered what Alistair would do in his situation. “Alistair would fight,” he decided quietly to himself.

  “Step aside,” Palos commanded, but the soldiers in front of him were not his to command.

  “It’s alright,” Alster repeated, this time a little louder. “I can do this.”

  DOWNFALL

  Elsey struggled to regain her feet. Her ethereal jaunt through the tomb of The Shadow King had left her drained and dizzy. She could barely keep her thoughts straight as she watched the confrontation between Alster and his father unfold.

  The soldiers of both armies retreated to their respective sides, letting the two would-be combatants hold the center ground by themselves, though no one was eager to stand too close to their freshly resurrected comrades. The risen soldiers scratched at their previously mortal wounds, though it appeared that their flesh had been remade perfectly, and many of them fared better than those who had not fallen at all.

  “You didn’t come searching for me,” Alster accused. Most of the soldiers quieted when the boy spoke. Near the tomb’s circular marker, one of Hademar’s men stared in awe at his once-severed arm, flexing his fingers over and over.

  “Of course I didn’t,” Palos sneered back. “I came here on orders directly from King Gottfried.” He spoke more to the enemy soldiers than he did to his son. “Hademar must be stopped. Everyone who follows him must be stopped.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, old man,” one of Hademar’s soldiers scoffed.

  Palos turned on the soldier with an arrogant expression. “You call me old?” he jabbed back. “You haven’t shaved or bathed in a decade.”

  “Enough of this bickering!” Hademar shouted when he finally hobbled up to the small area where Palos and Alster stood. “You know each other?” he asked the boy.

  “My father, the lord of Lightbridge,” Alster answered.

  “I sit on the king’s high court!” Palos added arrogantly. “I am charged with your capture, dead or alive.”

  Hademar laughed. “How is my dear brother?” he asked. “I trust his ass has not grown weary of sitting upon my throne?”

  “A true king would never have left his people on some fool’s errand,” Palos snapped.

  “For his queen, a king would sacrifice anything,” Hademar said. One of the riderless horses nearby whinnied, reminding the reanimated soldiers of the battle they had just fought.

  “You see you are outnumbered,” Palos went on. “Now, only one question remains. Do I arrest you and haul you back to Karrheim, or do I take only your head?”

  “Fight me,” Alster spoke up. “Like the old ways. Two champions determine the battle.”

  Palos chuckled. “And you would be Hademar’s champion, runt?” he mocked with more laughter.

  Hademar shot Alster a curious look, but he did not stop the boy.

  “Fight me,” the boy repeated.

  “Captain Holte!” Palos called over his shoulder, scanning the soldiers for his most trusted fighter.

  “He’s still out, my lord,” a man said a moment later.

  “I don’t want to fight him,” Alster said calmly. “I want to fight you.”

  “You’re crippled,” Palos stated. Some of the men on both sides began to nervously whisper amongst themselves.

  “Just do it. Fight me.” Alster stepped forward so he was only a few feet from his father. He could practically feel the heat of Palos’ anger radiating off the man’s shoulders. “No weapons, just us,” Alster added, noting the fallen sword at Palos’ feet.

  “Fine,” Palos agreed, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

  “You’d kill your own son?” one of his officers quietly questioned from behind. Regardless of if Palos heard him or not, he refused to respond.

  “Ha,” Hademar laughed sharply. “Kill him, kid,” he said. “I have a wife to see, and I’d rather do it before I die of boredom in this wasteland.”

  Alster put up his hands and planted his feet. He wanted Palos to come for him, to swing wildly at him as he had so many times in the past.

  And Palos did just that. He came on with abandon, throwing his fists out in front of him like a drunken tavern brawler. Alster stood his ground firmly. He raised his forearms together to block the first swing that came close enough to hit him, and his skin flashed to life with blood-red magic.

  Palos didn’t relent. He kept hammering at his son from both sides, punching recklessly. If his men had thought him a poor fighter before, their suspicions were certainly confirmed.

  As Alster’s magic began to build beneath his skin, he felt the presence of Alistair’s armor. He saw it in his mind’s eye just below the surface of his body. It waited there, absorbing blow after blow, just waiting to be summoned forth.

  Alster let a laugh slip through his lips. None of Palos’ hits had delivered even the slightest tickle of pain. For the first time in his life, he felt strong enough to defend himself—strong enough to fight back. Then, all at once, the entire suit of armor came forward, bursting forth with a blaze of red light.

  Palos’ left fist was halfway through its arc when the armor appeared. The man’s knuckles slammed into Alster’s magical pauldron, their skin ripping apart against the rough metal. He screamed, but he was too surprised to move.

  Alster clanked as he stepped forward, and Palos shrieked, finally stumbling backward in surprise. A heavy gauntlet crashed into Palos’ jaw as Alster took up the attack. He stood somewhat still, turning only at the waist, and leveled a second blow with his left hand. A third from his right quickly followed.

  Palos staggered backward with blood covering his face. Alster stalked toward him. He was slow due to the armor encumbering his movements, but he felt unstoppable. Alistair’s seal flared with life on the center of his breastplate, matching Alster’s own pulse. Palos tried to run, but his own men blocked his escape with their shields.

  Another heavy punch caught Palos in the rib
s, the force of it snapping bone. The arrogant lord gasped and wheezed, clutching his side in pain. Through the stark limitations of his visor, Alster could only see one thing—victory. All of Palos’ heraldry and pomp did little to dampen the blows from his son’s fists.

  “Beg,” Alster demanded under his breath. “I begged you to stop so many times,” he whispered, his voice muffled by the heavy steel helmet.

  Alster raised his left leg as high as his armor would allow. He stomped down fiercely, catching the back of Palos’ ankle with his steel greave. The man’s skin tore away easily from his bone as his high riding boot was shredded down to the heel.

  Palos tried to stifle a scream with his hands. He collapsed to the ground at the feet of one of the soldiers who made up the makeshift fighting ring. The lord cried out, but he did not beg for mercy.

  With a primal roar, Alster’s left hand slammed into the back of Palos’ collarbone, and the man lurched forward uncontrollably. He hit the soldier’s feet as he flailed on the ground. With a grimace, the soldier just kicked Palos back into the ring.

  Alster’s father fell onto his back with his legs bent awkwardly beneath him. With another slow, clanking step, Alster moved to stand directly over Palos’ eyes. He looked down through his helmet at the man squirming beneath him. Then, without a word, he sent his armored right foot down on Palos’ forehead, snuffing out his life in an instant. Blood and gore covered Alster’s magical boot, but all of it faded away when he released his anger. The whole suit of brilliant plate receded back into his skin a moment later, leaving no trace of its existence whatsoever.

  COMMISSION

  “Well,” Hademar said a few moments after Alster’s magical armor disappeared. “I have to get to Karrheim.” His voice carried a cheerful tone that sounded like nothing had happened at all.

  The soldiers nearest to him gawked, and those still loyal to him offered weak nods. “Is it settled?” the mad king asked to the soldiers opposite his line. “Are we done with this business?” He waved his hands in the air in front of him as though he was casually dismissing a fraudulent merchant’s wares in a town square.