Shadow Fall (The Shadow Saga)

by J. L. Lyon

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  ---

  Progeny

  ---

  1 − 2 − 3 − 4 − 5

  6 − 7 − 8 − 9 − 10

  11 − 12 − 13 − 14 − 15

  ---

  The Path of Shadows

  ---

  16 − 17 − 18 − 19 − 20

  21 − 22 − 23 − 24 − 25

  26 − 27 − 28 − 29 − 30

  ---

  Pax Aeterna

  ---

  31 − 32 − 33 − 34 − 35

  36 − 37 − 38 − 39 − 40

  41 − 42 − 43 − 44 − 45

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Papaw

  a hero in every sense of the word,

  but most of all a hero to his family…

  1

  THERE WOULD BE NO DAWN.

  Rain fell in cascades from the black sky, submerging him in an ocean of icy cold. His breath fogged the air in front of him, pushing back a spray of water before rushing back into his face as they fled. His legs were tired, but they could not stop, no more than if the very whips of Hell cracked behind them.

  A hand clutched his, slippery and cold but strong and unrelenting. His strength was failing, his will near shattering at the terrible turns of the day, but the hand that held him was sure. His mother would not let go of him. She would not leave him, as his father had.

  In the past few hours he had known nothing but peril and loss. His mind was numb with the despair of it, as his body was numb from the icy rain. There had barely been any time for him to think about everything that had happened...everything he had lost.

  Fear set in, and his concentration faltered. He slowed, pushed back by the rain, forgetting the danger that lay behind them and the urgency of their flight. But the hand that held him kept on at the same speed, and his mother pulled him forward unexpectedly. Sharp asphalt met his foot and he pitched forward, flailing through the sheets of water as his hand slipped away from hers. He cried out, not from the pain that tore at his knees as he hit the ground, but the fear that his mother might lose him. He could barely see her through this night, though he knew she could only be inches from his outstretched fingertips.

  He only had one moment to despair, for her hand grabbed hold of his and lifted him off the ground. Within the span of a few seconds he was moving again, this time in his mother’s arms. Lightning flashed overhead and revealed the ruined city around them, but this time the accompanying roll of thunder did not subside. It remained, constant and strange, and despite his fear he could not quell his curiosity.

  The boy twisted his neck around to look at the ground retreating behind his mother’s hurried steps, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was not thunder he heard, but the crash of boots on concrete. The dark men were coming, like shadows emerging straight from his nightmares.

  He turned again to face the way forward, only to see another group of shadows come around the corner. He cried out in warning, but his mother had already seen. She made a sharp turn to the left, and though it had seemed impossible just moments before, this new road grew even darker than the ones they left behind. Lightning flashed and revealed brick walls to the right and left, so close he felt a tinge of claustrophobia.

  Then, suddenly, his mother stopped. Nothing but solid brick lay before them: the end of the road.

  She screamed in frustration and pounded on the wall, sending a spray of water flying with every impact of her fist. A choked gasp escaped her throat amidst her labored breaths, and when she looked down at him, he knew: it was over.

  The end had come.

  She sat him down on the road and pushed him behind her, shielding him from view as the thunder of the dark men’s boots grew ever louder. He stole a glance around his mother’s tall form just as the first of them came into view, blocking the mouth of the alley and slowing as they made their victorious approach. He could feel his mother’s tension, like a rubber band about to snap, and saw her reach subconsciously to her right hip in a vain search for the weapon that could have saved them...a weapon that was not there.

  When the front line came within a few yards of the place where they stood, the dark men stopped as one. The ensuing silence was louder than the thunder of their march. His ears rang in the absence of it, and if not for the continual patter of rain and the sound of his own breathing, he might have thought himself deaf.

  For several long moments the soldiers just stood there, rigid in their lines, with expressionless faces behind guns that dangled across their fronts—all at the same angle: downward left. To his eyes they were more like one mind than many, multiple bodies with a single uniform purpose.

  Then there was quick movement. The lines of men seemed to fold in upon one another until they had formed a kind of aisle down their center. And at the end: the road from which they had come. Escape. Freedom. The boy looked up at his mother, wondering if they would make a run for it. They would never get past all those soldiers, surely. So what was going on? Were the soldiers just taunting them?

  His answer came as a sleek black vehicle pulled to a stop at the opposite end of the aisle. His mother’s fear intensified, he could tell by the way she gripped him more tightly. But he was smart enough to know she could not protect him, not from this.

  One of the soldiers moved forward to open the back door of the vehicle and then stepped aside. There was another pause, and the boy held his breath in anticipation. Even the soldiers seemed to be doing the same.

  Black boots touched the wet pavement, and the newcomer emerged from within like a storm of blackness. If the soldiers were dark men, this man was darkness itself. A long black trench coat unfurled as the man straightened and adjusted his clothing. Oblivious to the rain, he advanced slowly, hands behind his back, gazing from side to side at the expressionless soldiers.

  When at last he turned his gaze upon them, he wore a sickening smile.

  He came to a stop halfway between them and the soldiers, and spoke in a voice barely audible over the rain, “Lovely night, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve seen better,” the boy’s mother replied.

  “Can’t argue with that,” he grinned. “And yet somehow, despite all you have been through, you still manage to look as beautiful as ever. You were always beautiful, always brilliant, always resourceful. For a moment I thought you might slip through my fingers yet again. But all things, eventually, must end. Now you are mine.”

  He paced in front of her briefly, watching her out of the corner of eyes alight with excitement, as though waiting for something. When she did not speak, he stopped again and raised his eyebrows in question, “You surprise me, Lauren. You were always so defiant, so full of unsolicited wisdom. I find it hard to believe you have nothing to say.”

  “I have no more breath to waste on you.”

  “Then again, perhaps the events of today have broken your defiance. Perhaps all that is left is a shattered soul, clinging to what little slivers of life remain. In the last twelve hours you have lost nearly everything. In the next twelve minutes I expect you’ll lose the rest. So if you will not fight, perhaps it is time for you to plead.”

  “Pleas have no value at the feet of a monster.”

  His smile darkened, “You are the one to blame for what I have become, Lauren Charity! You, your traitorous husband, your self-righteous brother! It is because of you that I am what I am.”

  “Save the sob stories for someone else, Patrick. You’ll get no pity from me.”

  “Never speak that name in my presence!” he spat. “The man who bore that name is dead, as is the world that made him. W
hat I have built in its place is grander than any kingdom ever established upon this earth. Soon all will know the lesson you learned too late: the World System is inescapable.”

  “Yet with all your soldiers, your lands, and your weapons, still you are nothing but a tyrant. History bears witness to your fate: tyrants always fall, in the end. One day someone will bring your World System crashing down around you.”

  “Perhaps,” he flashed a menacing smile. “But not today. That day, if it ever comes, will only be after you have long rotted away in the grave. Like those who have gone before you, who wasted themselves on a cause that never yielded its promised reward. You should have listened to me long ago, Lauren. The only thing worth trusting in this life is power.”

  “Words from a man who has not known love.”

  “I tried love once,” he sneered. “Perhaps you remember.”

  A tense silence descended on the alley, interrupted only by a distant crackle of thunder. At length, the dark man went on, “Let us talk honestly now, you and I. Your life in Silent Thunder is over…but it need not be the end of you. You can—”

  Lauren broke in immediately, “You know I will never do that.”

  “Not for your own sake, no. Your self-righteous sense of purpose runs too deep. But things are not the same as they were then.” He paused, then took a step forward. “I’m curious: how far will you go to save your son?”

  Lauren’s muscles tensed and she drew herself up protectively, “You stay away from him.”

  The boy shrank back against the wall as the dark man reached out and grabbed his mother by the face. He moved within inches of her and hissed, “You still don’t get it, do you? Look around! No one is coming to save you. You are mine. Your son...is mine. Maybe you still believe that there is a power in this world working for your good, that some God will stretch out his hand and intervene. But you are wrong. There is only one god here, and his name is Napoleon Alexander!” He took hold of her arm and flung her back against the line of soldiers, “Hold her!”

  The soldiers obeyed, and the boy—now exposed—looked up at Alexander with every ounce of courage he could muster. He wanted to run, but he did not so much as back away. He simply stood firm and unmoving, eyes shifting between his mother’s helpless face and Alexander’s hateful glare.

  “What is your name?” Alexander asked.

  The boy did not answer, but screwed his features into his best attempt at disdain. What had the man called his mother? Defiant? Well, he would be the same.

  Unsettled by the child’s seeming lack of fear, Alexander grabbed him by the shoulders and demanded, “What is your name?”

  “His name is Elijah,” Lauren answered.

  “Elijah Charity,” he mused. “The spitting image of his father…though he has your eyes. I used to think there was power there, in those depths…that they could read me like an open book.”

  “Let him go,” Lauren pleaded. “Your fight is with me. He has nothing to do with this.”

  “And what then, my dear? March my soldiers back down this alley and leave him here alone, to starve in the Wilderness or die of exposure to the cold? No, a quick death would be so much more merciful, and he can have it, with your help. Unless…” Elijah saw a sudden glint in the dark man’s eye. “Perhaps you wish for me to mold this child into something else…something more amenable. The son of Jonathan Charity, a loyal servant of my World System. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony?”

  Elijah, understanding Alexander’s intentions, leaned forward and said in as strong a voice as he possessed, “Never.”

  Alexander's expression soured, “I suppose I should have known better. He has his father’s stubborn heart. Yes, I believe the quick death will do.” He picked Elijah up by the shoulders and held him about a foot from his mother, “Say goodbye to mommy, Elijah.”

  Elijah was pulled out of Lauren’s reach before he could speak a single word, and the next thing he knew he was in the arms of one of the soldiers. That was when he decided to start screaming.

  “Take him into that room there. Wait for my instructions.”

  The soldier did as he was told and carried Elijah into a place of even deeper darkness, followed by the slam of a door that shut the two of them off from his mother, Alexander, and the rest of the dark men in the alley. He could still hear their voices on the other side of the door:

  “Lieutenant, draw your sidearm and prepare to execute the child on my command. Confirm!”

  There was a click next to Elijah’s head and the soldier holding him yelled out, “Understood, sir!” Elijah began to scream louder, but the soldier clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him.

  “You monster!” his mother shouted. “May God exact justice on you for your inhumanity!”

  “A choice is before you now,” Alexander began. “You can renounce all that you are and leave your life in Silent Thunder behind. Do so, and your son will live. Not by your side, of course, but any life is better than none at all. Refuse me, and both you and your son will die today.”

  She did not respond.

  “I’m going to count to three.”

  “Patrick—”

  “One.”

  “Wait!” his mother pleaded. “He’s just a child! He doesn’t have anything to do—”

  “Two.”

  “Okay!” she wailed, her voice betraying utter dejection and defeat. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just please, leave him out of this.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken suddenly by a long stream of Alexander’s cruel laughter. “Well, it seems that everyone does have their price. Even the great Lauren Charity. Unfortunately, however, I have no real interest in you. It just made sense that if I was to take everything from you, I should take your dignity as well.”

  “You unimaginable son of a—”

  “What was it your father used to say?” Alexander cut her off. “That quote you were always so fond of? Ah, yes… ‘No matter how deep the darkness of the night, the sun will still rise tomorrow.’ Well, I’m afraid there will be no more sunrises. Not for you, and not for your son.”

  “Wait! There must be something—”

  “Lieutenant…” Alexander’s voice was calm, regal, and emotionless. “Fire.”

  Lauren screamed, and the shot rang out.

  301-14-A sat up straight in bed, ears ringing as though the gun had gone off right next to his ear. His breath came in ragged gasps and his heart pounded wildly—he was terrified half out of his mind. He reached up to his face and found it wet with tears, then ran his hand through his hair. Surprisingly, it was dry.

  But the storm, the rain, the pursuit…it had all seemed so vivid and real. Almost as though he had actually been there. No, he thought. I’ve been here the entire time. Liz lay peacefully beside him, the sheet covering her up to her neck. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, confirming that she was still asleep. He sighed, thankful he had not woken her. This was one dream he was not eager to explain.

  He slid carefully out of the covers and stepped onto the carpet, stumbling through the darkness toward the bathroom. He flipped the light on and steadied himself against the wall. His entire body was numb with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Maybe that was what had sparked the dream. He reached for the bottle of paste on the sink and applied some of it to his wounded left shoulder. Miracle Heal, soldiers called the stuff. It had been two days and already the shoulder felt good as new again.

  He shook his head. Two days since Silent Thunder staged that false ambush on him and Derek Blaine. Two days since the battle at the Weapons Manufacturing Facility. Two days since Jacob Sawyer’s death. It seemed like it had been much longer than that.

  301 finished with the paste and lifted his gaze to the mirror. As he stared into his own eyes, echoes of the dark alley resurfaced, and he shook himself back to reality. It had only been a dream, probably a result of the multitude of irrational fears that had cropped up in his mind over the last couple of d
ays. That one had been the most vivid, but there were also others. Dreams of terror, dreams of tears, and dreams of blackness. Pain, sorrow, and loss. Rain and fire.

  Pax Aeterna.

  The words were burned into his mind, as dangerous as they were frustrating, Jacob Sawyer’s final testament before passing into the abyss. Seemingly innocuous, unintelligible even, except for the fact that they had followed 301’s question: You knew my father? Who is he? Where can I find him? And then, what Liz had told him: Pax Aeterna was the name of Jonathan Charity’s Spectral Gladius. At first his mind had reeled from the shock that he could be the son of the System’s most notorious enemy, but almost immediately he began to discount it.

  Jacob Sawyer had been on the verge of death. Attributing his last words as the answer to 301’s question might assume too much.

  The files from the Capital Orphanage recorded him arriving when he was one year old. While it seemed he and Jonathan Charity’s son were of a similar age, the boy would have been five or six around the time of his father’s death. The dates simply didn’t match up.

  To cap it all, the death of the child had been confirmed in the palace records by the Ruling Council. It didn’t get much more official than that.

  Still, the entire situation gnawed at him. Perhaps that was where these dreams were coming from: a projection of the fears that this ordeal had created. He took a deep breath, thankful that the effects of the dream had begun to fade. No need to worry, he assured himself. They were just dreams. They don’t have to mean anything.

  He found himself wishing he could talk to Grace. They had shared so much while in one another’s company, he had no doubt she would have some insight.

  But then he felt a heaviness in his chest as it hit him what Grace must be feeling in that moment. Her father was dead. Silent Thunder, in all likelihood, was finished. For all he knew, she had already fled to the Wilderness with whatever remnants of the rebellion Jacob Sawyer had brought to the city. But wherever she was, she was in a lot of pain...pain he was partly responsible for.