Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  FIRST - FALL FROM GRACE

  Chapter 1 - PUNT

  Chapter 2 - DART AND PUPP

  Chapter 3 - DUNGEON

  Chapter 4 - BLOOD MOON

  Chapter 5 - BROKEN BONES

  SECOND - TANGLED KNOT

  Chapter 6 - FIERY CROSS

  Chapter 7 - FATHOM

  Chapter 8 - CHRISMFERRY

  Chapter 9 - GLOOM

  Chapter 10 - BLOOD RITES

  Chapter 11 - SEA HUNT

  THIRD - LANDFALL

  Chapter 12 - CROSSROADS

  Chapter 13 - THE DELL

  Chapter 14 - WHISPERS In THE DARK

  Chapter 15 - BORDERLANDS

  Chapter 16 - CHARNEL PIT

  FOURTH - GODSWORD

  Chapter 17 - SHADOWPLAY

  Chapter 18 - PAST AND PRESENT

  Chapter 19 - THE FIRST GOD

  Chapter 20 - BURNING BLOOD

  Chapter 21 - FREEFALL

  FIFTH - WAR OF THE GODS

  Chapter 22 - UNDER THE RAVEN’S EYE

  Chapter 23 - SWORD IN SHADOW

  Chapter 24 - FALL FROM ON HIGH

  Chapter 25 - CABAL

  Chapter 26 - DOORS

  APPENDIX TO MYRILLIA

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Shadowfall . . .

  “A compelling tale filled with richly developed characters.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “James Clemens once again sets the standard of excellence for fantasy.”—Midwest Book Review

  “A dazzling new entry in the world of epic fantasy. The plot is byzantine in its complexity, the characters are rich and fully realized, and the system of magic . . . is both fascinating and innovative. . . . Shadowfall is likely to become a favorite of fantasy lovers worldwide.”—SFRevu

  . . . and for the enthralling fantasy of James Clemens

  “Grabs at your heart and tears a little hole, then tears another, and another—a brutal and beautiful ride. I can’t put the book down!”—R. A. Salvatore

  “I loved every page. Clemens has constructed a world of magic that’s never been seen before, with a cast of beings who are so engaging and entrancing that you never want the story to end.”—John Saul

  “Clemens demonstrates considerable skill at combining swift pacing with character development.”—Library Journal

  “Fresh, sparky details and enough plot convolutions to keep fans coming back for more.”—Kirkus Reviews

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First Roc Mass Market Printing, November 2006

  Copyright © James Czajkowski, 2005

  All rights reserved

  Map provided and drawn by Steve Prey. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Steve Prey.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-08641-4

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To Charles Mack

  Welcome to the family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This new world of Myrillia grew too vast to tread alone. So I put together my own fellowship of companions, allies, coconspirators, trailblazers, and general muckrakers to keep me on the straight and narrow. First, thanks to Carolyn McCray, who red-inked every page before anybody else, and to my posse of critique-group members who hide behind the infamous title of “The Warped Spacers”: Judy and Steve Prey, Chris Crowe, Michael Gallowglas, David Murray, Dennis Grayson, Dave Meek, Royale Adams, Jane O’Riva, and Caroline Williams. And for all help with the map that fronts this book, a special thanks to Steve Prey for his artistry, skill, and insight. Finally, thanks to the three people whom I respect for their friendship as much as for their counsel: my editor, John Morgan, and my agents, Russ Galen and Danny Baror. And as always, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail fall squarely upon my own shoulders.

  The way is open to all who seek power,

  The low road ends at one’s heels

  And the bloodred path, lined with bones and petals, lies at one’s toes

  Alone

  This is the path one must walk.

  But not the only way.

  —the last spoken words of the Tongueless God

  All shite stinks

  But from it blooms the most fragrant roses.

  —an unsubstantiated proverb from a rogue god

  In Darkness . . .

  IT GLIDES, A SHADOW SEEKING THE LIGHT. Its true name cannot be spoken within the logics of flesh and breath. It is no more than a trembling, a dark vibration along the plane that lies beneath rock and storm. It has no form, no shape, no substance.

  Naethryn.

  That is its being, but not its name. It is a creature of the naether, that vast and empty void.

  It glides up to one of those rare places where its existence overlaps into the world of substance. Few know of these moiety points. But they exist. Just as the sea rides up onto a rocky shore, so do the tides of the naether roll against the world above.

  The naethryn finds a hidden estuary, an opening where its world and the upper world blend and shift. Rising, it swims up a choked channel, silty with substance, into the world above.

  Abandoning the naether far below, it enters the depths of a black sea, birthing into the icy waters. Light never reaches these depths. Here is eternal darkness, blurring where one world ends and another begins. But the naethryn knows its way. It’s been told, instructed, willed.

  The shadow creature rises through the cold, dark sea. It shudders and gains form, drawin
g bits of luminescent life from the ocean. The deaths are small, but they thrum through its being, vibrations of pleasure. It sails upward. More and more life is drawn. Substance builds, layer by layer, like barnacles on a ship’s keel.

  Form and shape bloom out of nothingness.

  Pressure lifts as aquamarine moonlight bleeds down, bathing the naether creature’s new form. As it nears the surface, schooled fish flee in clouds of scale. Even a monstrous rill shark flicks its muscular tail and vanishes.

  Unconcerned, it allows them to escape. It has all the structure it needs for this world. It tests its black limbs, its long snaking tail, and swims upward out of the dark womb.

  At last, the naethryn breaks the waves with a crested head and breathes the night’s salt-soaked air, testing its lungs. Lidless eyes shine with a light that does not belong to this world. It stares across the foam-limned waves toward the distant shore.

  Islands breach the waves: shoals, reefs, atolls, volcanic peaks.

  An archipelago.

  The Summering Isles.

  A hiss escapes the broken fish bones that make up its teeth. It swims toward its destination, the largest island of the archipelago. Eyes reflect the flickering lights that sparkle from the isle’s crowned peak and spill down its slopes to the sea, describing homes, streets, and ramparts. A few lamps even skip out into the waters, marking moored fishercraft and masted deepwhalers.

  The naethryn ignores all, knowing its purpose.

  As it crosses the ring of reefs, none note its undulating passage. Even the lesser moon hides her face behind fog and cloud. The naethryn moves through the seawater as easily as through the insubstantial reality of its home.

  Land rises beneath the waves. The naethryn resists touching such solidness, gliding through the shallows, remaining in water for as long as possible. But soon, force and blood and promise drive it from the waves.

  Clawed feet dig into sand. Climbing upright, it balances with a long tail. Though it wears flesh and bone, edges blur with the shadows of the dark beach. It does not belong here.

  It steps forward.

  It must.

  Water sluices from the assassin’s shoulders as it lurches forward. Steam rises from its scales. Claws drip with more than water. It moves across the sand, turning each step to molten glass behind it.

  It has come here to slay.

  To slay a god.

  FIRST

  FALL FROM GRACE

  Hu.mour, u mêr, n. [Old Littick ┌Lσ┌ρ, to be moist.] (1) any functional fluid of an animal (2) one of the quadricals of greater bodily fluids (blood, sweat, masculine seed, feminine menses) or quintrangle of lesser bodily fluids (tears, saliva, phlegm, yellow and black bile) (3) the blessed fluids from which flow the nine Graces of Gods.

  —Annals of Physique Primer, ann. 3593

  1

  PUNT

  SOME NIGHTS SIMPLY NEVER END.

  Tylar de Noche rolled to one knee atop the broken cobbles and wiped blood from the scrub of dark beard under his chin. A moment ago, tossed out of the Wooden Frog, he had landed hard on an arm that was more club than limb. His support had given way, slamming him facedown onto the unforgiving street.

  As he kissed the stones, he was reminded of an old adage concerning the Summering Isles: A good night can last forever, but a bad night lasts even longer.

  On his knees now, Tylar prayed for this particular evening to end. Forget raising a pint and acknowledging, if only to himself, the thirtieth pass of his birth year. He wished only for his lone bed in the garret over the fishmonger’s shop.

  But that was not to be. He would be lucky to see sunrise.

  Tasting blood from his split lip, he swept his gaze right and left as he sought any means of escape.

  Upstreet spread the terraces, palacios, and gardened heights of those with enough wealth to enjoy the cooler breezes of the isle’s cliffs, leading up at last to the white castillion that blazed atop the Summer Mount. Guarded heavily, there would be no escape in that direction.

  Nor downstreet. That direction led to the crooked alleys, whored corners, and dark narrows of Lower Punt. Safety never lay in that direction.

  So, trapped in the middle, he faced his adversaries.

  Bargo and Yorga.

  The pair of bulky Ai’men bore matching tattoos on their shoulders. Two halves of the same slave ring. Once bonded and linked combatants in the blood circuses, they were now freemen.

  Only their sport hadn’t changed.

  Yorga fingered ebony guild beads woven into a lock of his mud-brown hair. Tavern shield beads. Marking him as a hired guardsman to the alehouse.

  At his side, Bargo, the one still with his tongue, barked, “Goodly Master Rind don’t take to Punt scabbers crawling into his tavern a’beggin’.”

  Tylar, his eyes narrowed, kept his post in the street, knowing better than to protest his innocence. He’d come to the tavern with two brass pinches, plenty for a pint. But it seemed he had chosen the wrong tavern. He knew better than to risk the establishments of the high city. This wasn’t his place. Yet sometimes he forgot himself. Sometimes he simply sought some memory of a different life.

  He shut out such thoughts and crouched on the cobbles as a warm black rain misted from the dark skies. It was not the pleasant, cleansing downpour of a true storm, but more of a fog that trapped the day’s heat and held it to the islands.

  Still, it wasn’t the weather that pebbled Tylar’s brow with sweat and made his ragged clothes suddenly seem too tight.

  Yorga balled up a fist, and a garbled sound flowed from his scarred throat. Laughter.

  The pair of Ai’men strode out from under the creaking sign of the Wooden Frog. Tylar was to be their amusement this night.

  Yorga came first, all fist and muscle. Little finesse. But skill was not needed against Tylar—at least not any longer. Once a Shadowknight, Tylar previously could have taken both with hardly a wind.

  But the Graces had been stripped from him, along with rank and title. Additionally, the empty vessel left behind had been broken by a half decade spent in the slave rings of Trik. His sword arm was a callused club, numb from the elbow down. His legs had fared no better—one knee was a knot of locked bone from an old hammer blow, the other slow and painful. Even his back was crooked, tightened by scars from the whip.

  He was no knight.

  Not any longer.

  Yet his Shadowmaster at Tashijan had taught him not to depend on the Graces. A cuff usually accompanied his instructor’s gruff words: Remember, the deadliest Grace comes not from a God, but from the heart and mind of a cornered man.

  It seemed a small lesson compared to the size of the combatants here.

  The hulking Yorga, bare chested and sweating of ale, outweighed Tylar by half.

  “When we’re done with you in the streets,” the Ai’man warned, roughly grabbing his crotch, “we’re going to finish you in the alley. We always wanted to bugger a Shadowknight.”

  Tylar narrowed one eye. Finally it was clear why these two had chosen to harangue him. It wasn’t his shabby attire, nor even his broken form. It had been the stripes tattooed on the sides of his face, running in jagged lines from the outer corner of each eye to ear, heralding his former rank, forever marking him. Three stripes. One for page, one for squire, one for vowed knight. What he had once borne with pride was now a mark of disgrace.

  A fallen knight.

  He kept the stripes hidden as much as possible, letting his black hair grow long and ragged, hanging over his storm-gray eyes. He kept his head bowed away from the sight of others.

  Still, anger burned deep behind his ribs, a fire that never dampened. Though it might smolder to embers, it was always there. Always ready to flare.

  Yorga lunged an arm at him, meaning to grab a fistful of hair.

  A mistake.

  Tylar rocked out of the way, pivoting on his clubbed arm. He lashed out with his other, swiftly, bringing his elbow around to strike the bridge of Yorga’s nose as he leaned d
own.

  Bone crushed.

  Tylar didn’t feel it—but he heard it, along with the howl that followed. It wasn’t a cry of pain so much as outrage. Yorga lurched backward, blood spraying from both nostrils.

  Bargo roared, coming around his partner’s side.

  Tylar rolled to his scarred back, kicking out with his legs. He knew where to strike. The heels of his boots smashed into the larger man’s knees. Bargo’s legs flew out from under him. He toppled forward, toward Tylar, arms outstretched, face a mask of rage, spittle flying.

  Tylar, still on his back on the cobbles, rolled to the side, wrapping himself in his tattered cloak. Bargo crashed to the stones beside him, landing as Tylar had a moment before, face-first.

  But the slave fighters knew how to work together.

  Yorga’s fingers clamped onto Tylar’s ankle. With blood flecking from his snarled lips, Yorga hauled Tylar toward him. As a squire, Tylar had once fallen off his horse, tangling a boot in the stallion’s stirrup, and had been dragged behind the beast. Yorga was stronger.

  With a grunt, Tylar flipped from his back to his stomach. The Ai’man had a grip on his mangled leg, the one with the frozen knee. It was like holding a bent shepherd’s crook. The twisting forced Yorga to loosen his grip, lest his own wrist be broken.

  Partially free, Tylar slammed his boot heels together, catching three of Yorga’s fingers between them. Yorga half-lifted Tylar and tossed him away.

  He rolled on a shoulder and allowed the momentum to put distance between himself and his attackers. He stopped in a half crouch, back to his enemies, glancing over his shoulder. He ached everywhere, his small reserves of strength ebbing.