Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)
Page 24
An officer from the opposing side stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Our captain is incapacitated,” he said slowly. “I am Lieutenant Marius. We have been tasked with your arrest…” His voice trailed off as his eyes lingered on Alster.
“I now find it militarily prudent to offer our surrender,” Marius added quickly. “Should you accept, I would be forever in your debt.” He bowed his head slightly in deference.
Hademar looked past the man to the top of the valley. “Yes, yes,” he muttered casually. “I wish to be gone from here as quickly as possible. Take your men and leave, though I suspect we will be going in the same direction, yes?”
“You travel to Karrheim?” Lieutenant Marius asked. He tried to pull the king’s attention back to the present, but it was no use. The man’s mind had wandered.
“I shall pay my brother a visit!” he replied with a hearty chortle. “I have the words! The words!” he shouted.
Marius just shook his head. “Do you wish me as your prisoner, sir?” he inquired.
Hademar did not respond, so Marius posited his question a second time, though a good deal louder than the first.
“Ha!” Hademar exclaimed at nothing in particular. “Petra awaits my return, young lad. Where’s my horse?”
Marius stood slack-jawed in the middle of the two forces as the king wandered away toward his horse. “Who among you-”
“I can speak for the king,” a haggard man with several bloody lines in his face said. “My name is Ingvar, and I serve as the king’s second. We graciously accept your offer of surrender.”
“As prisoners?” Marius added.
“We have no need,” Ingvar readily replied. “We wear the same colors, do we not?” He walked over to Palos’ gruesome corpse and spat upon it. “We’re both better off without that one around, aren’t we?” he laughed.
Marius held his tongue, though his face clearly showed his relief.
“You sorry lot can march with us if you like, just promise to fill us in on the last twelve years. We could use some news and fresh company,” Ingvar told them all. “And if you try anything, I’ll have the boy crush you to death in your sleep.”
Alster noticed all the eyes plastered to him and he blushed. He felt different, and not just because an entire suit of magical armor lived inside the layers of his flesh. He felt changed, released, and perhaps a bit accomplished.
At Alster’s side, Elsey rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. “It’s over,” she said, noticing his inner turmoil.
“I don’t know,” the boy answered. “I killed a lord of Karrheim. I killed a member of the high court. Everyone here saw it. And The Shadow King...”
“If King Gottfried sends men after you, it won’t be for several months. We can go to Mournstead. Alistair needs us,” she reminded him.
Alster nodded. “You’d go with me to Mournstead?” he asked.
“You made me into a shadowlith, remember?” she answered. “We will go to Mournstead together.”
As the men from both armies began to reorganize themselves for another long march, the gleam of the sun off his father’s discarded sword caught Alster’s eye. He went to the blade and snatched it from the ground, turning it over in his hands. The sword was more ornamental than functional, but it still looked like it could end someone’s life in the right hands. The blade was thin with a slight taper to it like a saber, and the hilt was decorated with gold inlay.
“It will probably sell well in Mournstead,” Elsey said. “Or you could trade it to one of the soldiers here.”
Alster carried the sword to the left side of the tomb entrance where the valley narrowed and became impassable. The ground was strewn with boulders and sloped downward, finally ending where the two mountains came together. Alster hurled the sword down the rocks. It skipped off of them at first, but quickly became lost to view as it fell between the boulders somewhere about halfway down the stony run.
“I’ll find another dagger in Mournstead,” Alster remarked. He turned back to the gathering horde of soldiers. Some of them had set off back up the valley already, though he couldn’t tell which force was where.
Ingvar stood nearby with a sullen expression on his face.
“Do you think the king will let Hademar try to bring his wife back from the dead?” Alster asked the veteran soldier.
“I don’t think Hademar is in the business of asking permission,” Ingvar replied. “I suppose I will have to try to sneak him into Karrheim, lest we risk an open war which we would certainly lose.”
“I hope he finds what he’s looking for,” Elsey added with sincerity.
“I hope he doesn’t get me killed,” Ingvar replied. “Though I suppose he could bring me back from the dead now.”
“Why do you still follow him?” Elsey asked.
Ingvar stretched his back and scratched idly at his beard. “I’ve seen more of the world than almost anyone in Vecnos,” he said with a warm smile. “And he is my king. I gave him my word that I would help and protect him. Besides, I don’t think the old man can do as much harm as people seem to think he can.”
“Should we tell him about The Shadow King?” Elsey asked so that only Alster could hear.
“Maybe,” Alster replied quietly. “But not yet.”
For a second, Elsey’s breath caught in her throat. “Your eyes,” she added, bashfully looking away.
“What?”
She kicked her feet as though she didn’t really want to answer. “I just noticed,” she began, “when the light catches them, they’re red.”
EPILOGUE
The monastery of Xulang-Shen sat atop a frosted mountain peak overlooking a narrow pass. It had perched there for hundreds of years, always watching over the solitude of the valley below—always watching and always waiting. Inside the painted red walls, a monk sat with her legs crossed and her eyes closed, a small tea service sitting patiently before her on the cold ground.
A phoenix crown rested upon her long tresses of coal-black hair, adorned with pearls and designs of dancing dragons. She kept only a simple red robe around her body despite the biting cold of the snow-capped mountain. Behind her, a serving girl approached with hushed steps. To interrupt a monk during their meditation meant a swift death.
The serving girl waited, careful not to let her silk shoes cross the threshold into the monk’s chamber, though she was young, and waiting for long periods of time was difficult for her.
She waited for several hours.
From a small, octagonal window above the monk’s crown, the sun shone with long, blinding rays. As the girl waited, the sun never moved.
Finally, when the serving girl felt her stomach turning from hunger, the monk’s head lifted. It was a movement so slight the average person would not have noticed, but the serving girl had been painstakingly trained to recognize such minor details.
“I heard your breath,” the monk declared without turning.
The serving girl had not yet mastered the difficult art of existing without breathing. “I apologize for my interruptions, Madame Song. There is an urgent message for you.”
Song took an inaudible sip of tea, though it had long since gone cold. Her alabaster hand matched the stark white of the porcelain, and the green tea she drank was speckled with metallic flakes of gold. While her hands and the teacup contrasted sharply with the red paint of the walls and floor, her robe matched so well it was difficult to tell where the hem of it ended and the building began.
“I will have your message,” Song said curtly.
“Madame Ravenwing says her markings have returned, my lady,” the serving girl said. Her voice shook when she spoke.
Another almost indiscernible turn of Song’s head was all the monk offered in reply. The serving girl knew it was a gesture that carried untold weight; she had never seen a monk of Xulang-Shen show surprise in her twelve years of life at the monastery.
Slowly, Madame Song unfolded herself from the ground. When she stood, her back was still
to the room’s only entrance, and she remained just inches from the sun’s rays drifting through the only window. She lifted her left hand up to the sunlight, letting the red robe fall from her delicate skin. Her fingers touched the warm light first, followed quickly by her wrist. As she moved her body more and more into the narrow sunlight, a detailed pattern of dark lines became visible just beneath her flesh. They were like the gnarled veins of a muscular animal, and they wove their way over the monk’s entire body.
When Song’s entire forearm was covered in inky black tendrils, she let her loose robe fall from her shoulders altogether. Her body was slender and toned, a model of flawless perfection without a single scar or blemish to be seen. Song’s skin was the color of the fresh snow falling outside, though every inch that touched the sunlight developed a twisted, curving line of black.
A small disc of swirling darkness appeared between the monk’s shoulder blades. All the tendrils from her body led back to that specific point.
The serving girl heard Song issue a faint sigh—something else she had never witnessed before —and then the monk pulled her robe back over her shoulders, stepping out of the light as she did. Once more veiled in darkness, her skin immediately regained its alabaster glow.
“Tell Madame Ravenwing that my markings have also returned,” the monk said quietly. Her voice fluttered around the small room like a gentle breeze. Song took another sip of her cold tea. “Inform my sisters that our son is alive once more.”
The serving girl bowed her head, her own phoenix crown jingling slightly with the movement. “Yes, my lady,” she quietly replied.
“Tell them The Shadow King is alive once more.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks goes out first and foremost to all the fans who have been reading my books for years. Without you, none of this would be possible. You have my eternal gratitude.
Secondly, I’d like to thank my beta readers, especially Ian, who painstakingly point out all my flaws without getting a dime in return.
I’d also like to thank the four animals living in my house. Without their constant, judgmental stares, my ego would certainly be out of check by now. They push me to be a better writer, though I know I will never live up to their lofty expectations.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Thaman is the Amazon.com best-selling author of six novels and numerous short stories spanning the genres of epic fantasy, sci-fi, and horror. He holds degrees in politics and German from Hillsdale College, and he currently lives in Burlington, Kentucky with his wife, his dog Yoda, and his cats, Ichabod Crane, Bagul, and Eleven. When he isn’t writing or attending conventions, he enjoys listening to metal, smoking cigars, and traveling.
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ALSO BY STUART THAMAN
The Goblin Wars Trilogy
The Siege of Talonrend
Death of a King
Rebirth of a God
For We are Many
Vatican Massacre
Table of Contents
Praise for Shadowlith
Copyright
Dedication
The Map
Prologue
1. A Vow
2. Relics
3. Sharp Things
4. Truth
5. Escape
6. Hunting
7. A Trade
8. Velnwood
9. Karrheim
10. Kings from the Past
11. An Army
12. Blood
13. Transformation
14. Westhaven
15. Discovery
16. Shadows of Doubt
17. The Blightstone Gate
18. The Red Mountains
19. Death
20. Survivors
21. Glory
22. Downfall
23. Commission
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Stuart Thaman