Prince of Shadow and Ash

by Selina R. Gonzalez

  Prince of Shadow and Ash

  All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Selina R. Gonzalez.

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please contact me with merchandizing questions or requests—I don’t bite.

  Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-7344676-1-1

  Kindle Ebook ISBN 978-1-7344676-2-8

  Published by Wyvern Wing Press

  www.WyvernWingPress.com

  www.SelinaRGonzalez.com

  To Mom:

  This book would not exist without you for so many reasons.

  Table of Contents

  World Map

  Map of Monparth

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  World Map

  Map of Monparth

  Chapter 1

  THIS QUEST FOR A MARSH flower would be easier without the hulking black armor and oversized black sword.

  Regulus tried to stretch his neck, but his helm and the bulky pauldrons impeded the movement. Curse the sorcerer and his driving, inexplicable need for theatricality. At least Regulus had the more practical hunting knife across his lower back.

  Not as if he needed the heavy armor, anyway. The sorcery inside him kept him alive, and without the armor, his progress would have been faster. With an agitated groan, he gripped his helm by its decorative metal horns and removed it. Instead of the usual relief of fresh air on his face, humidity clung to his skin.

  The marsh stank like rotting carcasses. His damp hair stuck to his forehead and neck and the sweat made the old scar that traced across his right cheek through the corner of his mouth to his chin itch. He turned his head, working out the tension in his neck and scanning for potential enemies. Muddy water—or maybe it was watery mud—stretched in every direction, broken up with patches of marsh grass, green-tipped cattails, and tangled briars. Fog drifted over everything, diluting the sunlight into a drab gray and providing cover for any lurking beasts.

  Regulus had grown up near the Forbidden Marsh, and he’d heard all the stories. Stories of people who entered and never came out. Tales of screams carried on the wind that rustled the cattails. Rumors claimed monsters lurked in the Marsh. Human-hating centaurs, devious fairies, even the last of the redclaws—gaunt, tall, pale creatures with strange long limbs and six-inch-long claws stained permanently red by the blood of their victims.

  He had dismissed them as tall tales, designed to frighten children into compliance. That was, after all, how his cruel childhood guardian had used the Marsh and its monsters. As a threat. But now, with the marsh grasses and cattails rasping around him and the unnatural gray mist, his nerves were on edge.

  And yet, after over an hour of wandering wild, untamed growth and solid-looking moss that gave way beneath his boots, he had found nothing. Not a single monster, and no sign of the magical flower he hunted. He pulled the drawing of the starshade plant out of his belt and studied it. A short black plant with thick stalks and small black flowers that the sorcerer said should glow blue.

  He refolded the parchment, pulled the helm back on, and trudged onward. The black helm had wide slanted rectangles for eye openings and fine holes to allow airflow over the mouth. Two long, thick horns curved from the top like the horns of a bull. His master got some twisted pleasure out of scaring anyone Regulus might encounter on his missions. He would have left it off, but he needed his hands free to draw his sword.

  As he continued his search, the desolation of the marsh seemed ominous. As if something out there watched him, unseen in the gray haze. The muck of the marsh squelched under his boots. Each footstep sounded like a blade being pulled from a wound.

  He shook his head. Maybe monsters prowled the Marsh, maybe they didn’t. He had no reason to fear monsters. He was one of them. All that mattered was finding the flower as commanded and getting back home.

  Home. Regulus smiled. Poor Harold would faint when he saw the state of the armor. The boy had adjusted well from the life of mercenary baggage boy to squire. Better than Regulus had adjusted to the life of a lord. His smile faded. Harold is a far more loyal and dedicated squire than a slave like me deserves.

  The sharp snap of a breaking twig interrupted his thoughts. He drew his sword, turning slowly. The ebony-black blade glinted. The four-foot-long blade was nearly as wide as his palm at the cross-guard and narrowed down to a sharp point. He surveyed the marsh grasses and brush. Nothing. To his right, he heard what sounded like...muttering?

  Regulus spun to face a dense stand of marsh grass. The grass mumbled in a quiet, scratchy voice, “Smells like venison. Venison is tasty, yes.”

  “Who’s there?”

  With a squeal like an injured piglet, a pale green hobgoblin with a long pointy chin and nose, wearing what looked like dead vines as clothes, leapt up at him. Cursing, Regulus swung his sword, but the hobgoblin was too small, maybe as long as Regulus’ forearm from its webbed toes to the mossy-looking hair on its head. The creature grabbed onto his breastplate and scrambled around.

  “Get off!” He swatted at the hobgoblin with his right hand, still awkwardly holding his sword in the other. The menace scurried down to Regulus’ right hip, toward the satchel looped onto his belt, muttering about venison.

  “Don’t you dare!” He seized the vines around its torso. The hobgoblin screamed and flailed. Regulus tried to throw it away, but it grabbed onto his gauntlet with unexpected strength. The vines in his hand broke, and the creature jumped onto his side again.

  With an irritated growl, Regulus drew his hunting knife. The hobgoblin yanked on his satchel and gnawed on the loops, trying to free it. Regulus stabbed at the creature, but it moved as if it sensed the knife coming. The blade glanced across Regulus’ armor and sliced through part of his satchel.

  The hobgoblin grunted as it tugged, and the fabric ripped. Dried venison and an apple went flying. The hobgoblin hooted in victory, catching most of the meat midair. Desperate, Regulus swung his arms, trying to catch the green-skinned menace. To his surprise, it worked. But now he had an angry hobgoblin pinned between his chest and forearms and a weapon in each hand. Idiot. At least his men weren’t there to witness his humiliati
on.

  The hobgoblin screamed and wiggled, and Regulus realized he didn’t have any other options. He dropped his arms, and the little beast scampered off with a gleeful squeal. Regulus sheathed his dagger and his sword and checked his torn satchel. Empty. He groaned and looked around his feet, but the mud had swallowed any food the hobgoblin hadn’t stolen.

  He kicked at the muck then grabbed for the parchment at his belt. Gone. He cursed. Well, he had looked at it a dozen times, he didn’t need it. Besides, there couldn’t be that many glowing flowers. He checked the water horn on his left side—at least that was still there. Nothing to do but press on.

  The thick clouds made judging the passing time difficult. Why did the sorcerer send him, anyway? He could probably use some spell to lead him right to the stupid plants. And I know he could hover over this filth.

  A faint blue shine on the other side of a tangled mass of briars caught his eye. Hope sparked as he cut his way into a small clearing. A ring of sludge surrounded a raised patch of grass-covered ground, no more than two paces wide. And interspersed over the miniature island—starshade plants. Relieved, Regulus drew his knife and knelt next to the nearest plant.

  After digging up ten of the plants to collect their roots, he tied them together using strips of fabric from his ripped satchel. He tied the roots to his belt and stood. Now to find his way back out of the marsh.

  An hour later, he trudged on, lost and starving. Is anything in this Etiros-forsaken marsh edible? A bramble bush covered in juicy-looking red berries drew his attention. He scrambled for them, then stopped. They could be poisonous. Can poison kill me? He shrugged. What did it matter? Dresden would scold him for such thoughts—but Dresden wouldn’t know.

  He picked a berry and tossed it in his mouth. It tasted tart yet sweet, and not bad. He ate berries as quickly as his gloved hands allowed. Once he had eaten several handfuls, he took a long drink of water from his horn and looked around.

  The marsh stretched on forever. The large standing stones that marked the entrance and where he had left his horse were nowhere to be seen. He squinted at the sun, trying to judge the time and the direction he needed to go. Finally, he decided it must be around two in the afternoon. Based on that, I need to go... He turned to his left and pointed at nothing. That way.

  Before long, he felt a painful twinge in his stomach. Then another. His gut twisted violently, and his vision blacked out. He blinked and stumbled forward as his eyes cleared, wrestling his helm off and dropping it into the muck. Pain wracked his body and heat radiated from his stomach. He fell onto all fours and vomited.

  Red marsh berries: poisonous.

  Sorcery: expels poison.

  The muscles in his abdomen contracted, and he groaned as bile burned his throat. He reached up to wipe sweat off his forehead, but mud coated his gloved hand. The foamy vomit had a stench different from the stench of the marsh. He moaned and clutched at his stomach as he vomited a third time, his whole body shaking and achy. Times like this, I wish I could die.

  He heard a new sound among the quiet rustling of the marsh. Clomp, squelch, clomp, squelch from every side. He blinked back the sweat running into his eyes and looked up through the mud and hair sticking around his face. Tall marsh grass blocked his view. His hand shook as he drew his sword and used it to push himself to his feet. His vision blacked out again and his head spun. He closed his eyes, steadying himself.

  He opened his eyes to a towering centaur staring down at him. The horse half was the size of a destrier, with a dark brown coat the same shade as the human half’s skin. A large broadsword gleamed in the centaur’s hands, held in front of a leather breastplate. The centaur stomped a hoof, and the muscles in his bare arms bulged as he pointed his sword at Regulus.

  Great. Regulus had only had the misfortune of crossing a band of centaurs once, and he and his men had barely escaped alive. On the bright side, his stomach was unclenching, the burning in his throat subsiding, and the light-headed feeling receding.

  “You have stolen from the Forbidden Marsh.” The centaur’s voice was commanding and deep. “You cannot leave the marsh with the starshade roots. Surrender them or die.”

  Regulus counted six other centaurs surrounding him. Three men with swords, two women with drawn bows, and a smaller male centaur whose human half looked to be maybe fourteen. The young centaur gripped a spear and swayed, his eyes wide. Not a child. Etiros, why? Regulus swallowed, his anguished heart crying out in the hope that somehow, after all he had done, the creator-god still heard his prayers. Not a child.

  Regulus looked back at the centaur who had spoken. “I don’t want trouble,” he said slowly. He raised his sword and assumed a defensive position. “But I’m afraid I can’t give up the roots.”

  “Starshade roots are only good for poison and sorcery!” A female centaur to his right eyed Regulus down the shaft of an arrow.

  Of course they were. Why else would the sorcerer want them?

  “We are the protectors of the Forbidden Marsh,” the first centaur said. “You will leave the roots or die.”

  If only. Regulus rolled his shoulders, his strength returning. He took a step back. “Please. Don’t attack me. I really don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  The centaur frowned. “You are a very good liar.”

  “It’s the truth.” Regulus eyed his helm lying in the mud. “I wish you no harm. But I have no choice. I have to take the starshade roots. And you won’t kill me. You can’t.”

  “Jaresha.” The centaur stomped a hoof.

  He heard the twang of a bowstring and dove for his helm. An arrow flew over him as he replaced his mud-covered helm on his head. Another arrow pinged off his armor. He bolted for the space to the brown centaur’s right. These centaurs weren’t evil. They didn’t deserve to die. He wouldn’t kill them unnecessarily. The power of the sorcerer’s mark lent speed to his legs, giving him a slim chance of outrunning the centaurs.

  Pain burned from the mark hidden under the gauntlet on his right arm. He groaned and skidded to a stop, remembering the sorcerer’s directions. “Kill anyone or anything that tries to stop you.” He turned and the pain faded. The brown centaur charged.

  The centaur slammed his broadsword into Regulus’ chest, knocking him onto his back. Regulus swung at the centaur’s forelegs and the centaur screamed as the massive blade cleaved through bone. Regulus winced at the sound. One of the female centaurs shrieked while the wounded centaur collapsed.

  Regulus scrambled to his feet and turned to go. The pain in his arm redoubled. No. I don’t want to do this.

  “Don’t try to stop me!” Some part of his mind whispered it wouldn’t matter, they had already tried, the mark wouldn’t let him leave until they were all dead, but he had to hope. He had to try.

  An arrow found the gap under the side of Regulus’ helm and buried in his neck. He choked and swayed as his vision spotted from the pain. He ripped the arrow out. As he fell forward, he jammed his sword into the ground and used it to remain standing. An agonizing prickling sensation pulled at the hole in his neck until it closed. He took a deep breath and straightened.

  A female centaur with a white coat and golden hair gaped, her face pale. Her bow trembled in her hands. The lead male centaur had fallen on his side and was hyperventilating between shrieks. Both human and equine lungs heaved. Regulus looked at the hacked-off end of the centaurs’ leg. At this point, it’s a mercy. The mark on his arm burned and ached, goading him on. He raised the sword and swung. The other centaurs screamed. He looked away from the headless body.

  “I’m leaving. You’re not stopping me,” Regulus said. He turned away and bit back a cry as pain sliced up his right arm from the mark to his shoulder.

  “He must have a bond,” a male voice said behind him. Disturbed wonder laced the centaur’s strained voice. “He can’t die.”

  Regulus took another step. They’re letting me go, he told himself. As if maybe he could convince the mark. Pain spread over his shoulder and reached into
his chest, clawing across his skin and grinding through his bones. His heart ached, but he turned back around. Maybe if they say it...

  “Say you’re not stopping me. You’re letting me go.”

  The centaurs shuffled and glanced at each other. Muck flew up from the boy’s frantically tapping hooves. The boy glanced at the dead centaur and whimpered. His spear shook in his hands.

  The pain stopped. Regulus felt a tickle at the back of his head, like something wiggling into his brain. He barely had time to think no, not again before he lost all control of his body. He could still sense everything. His hands gripping the sword. The sharp tang of centaur blood. He still stared at the group of frightened and uncertain-looking centaurs. But he couldn’t so much as blink. The sorcerer’s presence in his mind felt like a tiny piece of sharp, cold iron lodged in his head.

  His mouth moved at the sorcerer’s command. Regulus’ voice came out, but the words were not his. “What is going on?” He looked down at the dead centaur as the sorcerer controlled his body, looking through his eyes.

  No, stop. He tried to close his eyes, to look away, anything. But he couldn’t. The sorcerer gazed at Regulus’ bloody handiwork, meaning Regulus did, too. He looked at the centaurs who were still alive. Regulus’ consciousness felt trapped in someone else’s body. His mind screamed. His body didn’t care.

  Regulus sighed, but the sigh wasn’t his. “First, I feel my power draining away to heal you twice in rapid succession, then I sense you defying me. I’m trying to decipher this ridiculous code. I don’t need distractions.”

  Regulus’ arms raised his sword, and his legs moved him forward. The centaurs backed up, their faces contorted in horror. Regulus mentally begged them to run.

  “What is so difficult about following instructions, boy?” his mouth said. “Kill them and get back here, or we’ll have a conversation about your friends.” Regulus’ mind shuddered and protested, but his body didn’t respond. “And be quick about it!”

  The feeling of cold iron slipped out of his brain. Regulus teetered forward as control of his body reverted to his own mind. The mark burned faintly. The centaurs stood frozen. One of them muttered something in a language he didn’t understand and drew a strange symbol in the air.