Shadow of the Conqueror

by Shad M Brooks

  CHRONICLES OF EVERFALL

  SHADOW OF THE CONQUEROR

  Copyright © 2019 by Shad M. Brooks

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First Edition: July 2019

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  Version: 1.0

  * * *

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-6485729-0-9

  * * *

  Shadiversity Pty Ltd

  and

  Honorguard Productions LLC

  Copy Editor:

  Audrey Logsdon, The Indie Editor

  * * *

  Proofreader:

  Chris Bellomo

  * * *

  Final Proofreader:

  Stephanie Cohen

  * * *

  Beta Readers:

  Scott Leneau, Josiah Hanson, Jesse Adams, Isaiah O’Conner, Diego De Leon, John Merrill, Miroslav Zivkov, Dylan Asmus, Jeremy O’Dell, Kat.

  For my wife, Mary,

  Without her this book would not exist.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  My name is Daylen Namaran, but most knew me as the Great Bastard, the Scourge of Nations: Dayless the Conqueror.

  Yes, contrary to what everyone believes, I’m not dead.

  This is no jest. Honestly, who would claim to be me? You’ll find enough evidence in my home to prove what I say.

  I know this revelation will distress most people who survived my rule, enraged that I escaped punishment, but I haven’t. The twenty years I’ve spent in hiding have been torture, where death would have offered me the rest I desire.

  My torment comes not from my fall from power or that I live in squalor, but because of my endless guilt.

  Yes, that’s right: I, Dayless the Conqueror, decree I was in every way the despicable tyrant the world claims I was. I murdered, raped, pillaged, and ravaged the world all in the name of the Dawn Empire. Would you believe that, in all my actions, I thought I was serving the greater good? Regardless, I’ve come to know nothing justifies what I’ve done.

  I wish there was a way I could fix things, to go back in time and change it all, but what is done is done and I’m left to hate myself more than any person alive. I cannot express in words the depths of my shame. Every hour is agony, and I would have ended my life years ago if not for the knowledge shining through my soul that I deserve such a profound form of torture.

  But now my aged body fails, and death draws near—which I welcome as a long-awaited, if undeserved, gift.

  I could wait out the few falls I have left, but if I am to die, I’ll see it done my own way. The world should be free of Dayless the Conqueror once and for all, and to that end I plan to cast myself from the continent.

  I know, poetic.

  I leave this letter so the world will know the truth. Dayless the Conqueror died hating himself and his whole life. As meaningless as these words are, I’m sorry.

  I leave a world worse for my having lived in it and go to embrace the endless hell I so rightly deserve. If I am lucky, perhaps I’ll be cast into Outer Darkness and my existence destroyed.

  * * *

  Daylen Namaran, also known as Dayless the Conqueror.

  Year fifty-one of the Fifth Day.

  Daylen placed the fountain pen beside his note, which lay next to the small leather-bound journal containing a brief account of his life. He had been as honest as possible, except for the part where he said the Delavian Dukes had sex with goats.

  Daylen laughed to himself in long grating croaks.

  Those stuck-up men were going to have a light-cursed time dispelling that one, especially when the comment was written alongside so many sincere confessions. Why would he lie about the Dukes when he was being so honest about everything else?

  Because he was a bastard, of course; just not the type of bastard the world thought he was, at least not anymore. Also, the Dukes deserved it.

  Daylen’s dark brown eyes slowly focused to his hand, which lay on the desk. Wrinkled and age-spotted, it was a constant reminder of how old he was.

  It was because of reminders like this that Daylen avoided his own reflection. In it was nothing but a haggard stranger whose blue hair had faded to a sickly gray, and whose face partially resembled a scrunched-up piece of paper.

  Daylen turned in his seat to face the never-ending stream of life-giving light shining through the windows of his home—a home fighting with Daylen to see who could be more decrepit.

  It was a sagging one-room structure made of crumbling brick and cluttered with the necessities of life. An aged cabinet which sat near the door held jars of dried fruit and meats. A few tarnished forks and blunt knives were stacked on the washing bench. There was a cast-iron stove for cooking and warmth sitting on a slate hearth, next to battered chests and a dusty bed. A sagging mezzanine hung out as a partial second story, made of aged milled timber and was stacked with more chests, tools, nets, and other useful things. Small sunstones hung from the roof in iron fixtures, adding to the light from the windows.

  The only things in his home offering Daylen an escape from its squalor were the two benches covered in halfway-repaired clocks, children’s toys, and generally anything that contained cogs.

  Those townsfolk who left these things with Daylen would have to find another tinker.

  Daylen sneered at the thought. Though he could find contentment in working with things, he hated the term “tinker.” He was an engineer. At least that’s what he would have become if his life hadn’t gone down a much different path. Instead of designing bridges, uncovering new secrets in sunforging, or finding new ways of employing darkstone in automations and construction, Daylen had ended up using his passion to design machines of war. That was all a day’s length from what he did now.

  Daylen placed a hand on the back of his chair and forced his body to swivel out. With a concerted effort, he tried to push himself onto his feet. He failed and
slumped back.

  “Ya blackened useless legs!” Daylen screamed out. He had gotten into the habit of speaking to himself over these many years. It wasn’t like he had anyone else to talk to. “I’d kick ya if it wouldn’t hurt so much, not that you’d let me. Disloyal backstabbing bastards! Do your bloody job and let me stand.”

  Taking a deep breath, he heaved once, and this time rose. “Better,” Daylen grumbled once on his feet.

  “I really should be worried about how much I talk to my anatomy,” he muttered. “But every man talks to his pisser at least a few times in his life. That I’ve extended the practice to other limbs isn’t too strange.”

  Daylen laughed to himself in long croaks. “Not too strange? Light, I’m such an idiot.”

  Looking down to his crotch, he added, “You all right down there? Yeah, I know, stupid question considering who you have to put up with. Your family is nuts and the neighbor’s an asshole.”

  Daylen chuckled which sounded more like he was trying to hack up phlegm.

  He slowly shuffled across the floor to the large cuffed justacorps jacket hanging next to the door. Walking was a chore these falls, and quickly drained what little energy he had. Daylen took the coat and donned it over his vest and loose-sleeved beige shirt.

  Moving to a bench, he took hold of the deep black piece of cubed darkstone lying there. It resisted being picked up, as no light was touching its base. It may as well have been fused to the table. With his other hand he took a shining sunstone bead from a small bowl on the desk and quickly touched it down onto the darkstone’s top. The closer the bead had come to the darkstone the more the darkstone was repulsed by the brighter light, the table having creaked under the strain. But the stone’s repulsion had been nullified as soon as the sunstone touched, which had released it from the table.

  Daylen picked up the darkstone with two fingers at its corners, careful not to cover the sides from light, and dropped the sunstone bead back into the bowl.

  Daylen knew he didn’t really need the darkstone. Falling through the Barrier while touching sunstone would kill a person just as much, and the luminous pendant hanging under his shirt was made from just that. But Daylen was intending to kill himself, and if sunstone or darkstone would kill a man, surely touching both would be twice as effective. He never did anything by half measures.

  An odd thought came to Daylen. “Has anybody ever fallen through the Barrier while touching both stones? I’ve never heard of that happening… Is there a chance touching both stones won’t kill me?”

  Daylen began to cough out a croaking laugh at the absurd thought. “Of course it will, you light-blinded fool! Thinking it won’t is like believing two poisons will cancel each other out. Huh!”

  With the darkstone in hand, Daylen walked to another desk and found a small wooden box. He opened it and a stream of bright light shone out. The box was lined with sunstone, the only way darkstone could be easily transported. Daylen placed the darkstone within and latched the lid. He then grabbed his coin pouch and slipped it into his coat’s pocket.

  Daylen took another pouch that clinked when handled, holding even more money than the first.

  With difficulty, he hobbled outside.

  A soft breeze ruffled his coat and the smell of fresh country air filled his lungs. Glancing to the sky, Daylen saw a black dot slowly moving westward. It was a skyship. One could always see at least a single skyship flying through the air, and they always brought a sense of awe to Daylen. He loved skyships, though he hadn’t been so much as near one for years. Still, Daylen wasn’t looking to spot skyships. He looked farther up and to see the faint underside of the very same continent whereupon he and everyone else lived: Tellos.

  This was a result of the top Barrier of the universe. One simply couldn’t exit the world when they reached its top. No, instead they reentered the world from the other side—in this case, the universe’s base. This had the same effect on one’s line of sight, which was how Daylen could look up and see the bottom of the continent he stood upon.

  Daylen’s eyes traveled along Tellos’ underside to its northern edge. Then, tracing down through the sky, in between the mirror image of Tellos above and the land he stood upon, Daylen found the Plummet: the large misshaped landmass that fell through the world perpetually. A kilometer north of the continent, once the Plummet reached the bottom Barrier it would reenter the world from the top and fall all over again. This marked the length of a fall, whereby the people of Tellos measured their times and seasons.

  Daylen surmised the Plummet to be only a quarter way through its fall, meaning it was mid High; or, in other words, noon.

  Paradan should have arrived by now. Daylen thought, grumbling.

  Daylen’s thoughts were interrupted as he noticed a man sitting in front of his house on what was left of a log railing. The railing made the border between his front yard and the brick-paved road running past Daylen’s home.

  He wore the robes of a Lightbringer, the preachers and servants of the Light. Daylen was expecting someone, but certainly not a Bringer.

  Hobbling to the man, who sat facing the road, Daylen called out in a disgruntled tone, “Hey, you, what are you doing?”

  The man turned to look at Daylen. He was at least in his fifties, yet still looked like a pup to Daylen’s aged eyes. His face looked to have been chiseled from stone for all its sharp angles, defined jaw, and prominent chin. He was clearly fit and strong, a common trait among Tuerasians—as identified by the Bringer’s dark brown skin and bright yellow hair, which was cut very short and faded at the temples.

  “Oh, hello there,” the man said in a voice so clear and enunciated he might have been a stage actor. He spoke in a cultured Hamahran accent and, added with the fact that he was fully clothed, indicated that he hadn’t been born in his native Tuerasian lands. That, or hadn’t lived there for long.

  The man stood, revealing that he was half a head taller than Daylen, and looked at him with some of the most discerning eyes Daylen had ever seen, their color a dark blue. “I had wondered who lived here. I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m waiting for someone who’ll be passing here outfall.”

  “Who?” Daylen asked.

  “He’s a young man, though I don’t know his name, only that I’m to meet him here.”

  Daylen’s home sat beside the main road from the village and it served as a recognizable marker, so the explanation made sense.

  “All right, then,” Daylen said. “I don’t suppose I need to worry about a Bringer causing trouble.”

  “Indeed,” the Lightbringer said with a smile. “Rather, we Bringers try to bring as much brightness as we can bring.” He leaned in a bit closer and said conspiratorially, “That’s why we’re called Bringers.”

  Daylen frowned as if he had just tasted something foul. “I hope that wasn’t some retarded attempt at humor?”

  “Umm… Seeing as I’m not mentally disabled, I would have to say no. It was a simple joke.”

  “No, if you think that was a joke, you most definitely are mentally disabled.”

  The Bringer’s mouth hung open and he stared at Daylen, stunned.

  Daylen leaned in and, in the same conspiratorial tone the Bringer had used, said, “It was a joke.”

  “Insults are not jokes.”

  Daylen shrugged. “It depends on who you insult. I once asked the Toulsen Ambassador if his ass was jealous of the amount of crap coming from his mouth.” Daylen croaked a chuckle. “He nearly choked up a lung.”

  “The Ambassador didn’t have you arrested?”

  “No. He had wanted to keep his head.”

  “You threatened him as well?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he still took no action?”

  “He was too much a coward.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you find yourself in a position to insult an ambassador?”

  “I wasn’t a tinker my whole life. I’ve seen the world.”

  “Yes, well, i
t would have surprised me if you hadn’t; I mean, you’re looking at the world right now, after all.”

  “Don’t be a smartass,” Daylen said, turning to make his way to the outside chair in front of his house. Each step was a struggle.

  “Would you like me to heal you of your ailments?” the Bringer called out. “Consider it payment for my intrusion,” he continued, walking toward Daylen.

  Daylen turned back to him. “Bringers can’t heal old age.”

  “True, but if you’re not sick, a healing will still grant you some temporary vitality.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Daylen said, waving a hand.

  The Bringer placed a hand on Daylen’s shoulder. His skin began to glow softly as the light moved to his hand and then transferred into Daylen’s body. A warmth rippled over Daylen that brought with it vigor and lucidity.

  Any question of this man being a true Lightbringer had just been answered. Still, even with the healing—which made him feel like he had just had a good day’s rest—Daylen’s body was dying. He coughed. “See, you can’t heal old age. But the revitalization is welcome.”