Prince of Shadow and Ash

by Selina R. Gonzalez

  Regulus steeled himself. At least they’re not human. Most centaurs don’t even like humans. The thought didn’t bring comfort. At least they’re not my friends.

  He let his instincts and training take over and lunged. Years of sword fighting experience and every ounce of magically enhanced strength, agility, and speed powered his blade. He aimed a thrust at the golden-haired female’s equine ribcage. She gasped and reared back, but that just allowed him to bury the sword straight up through horse and human. She was dead before he pulled his blade free.

  Regulus turned and slashed across the hind legs of the second female as she turned to flee, then drove his sword through her back. He turned and found himself staring at the young centaur. The boy stood shaking, rooted to the ground, like a sapling shuddering in a strong wind.

  “Run,” Regulus rumbled. He turned from the boy and blocked the sword of a male centaur with a white-and-brown coat. Within moments, the centaur was dead. Regulus spun, looking for the remaining two adult males. Hooves pounded into his chest and Regulus fell backward, gasping for air.

  The centaur raised his sword and aimed for Regulus’ neck. Regulus rolled and scrambled to his feet. The centaur turned, his face red. “Sorcerous abomination!”

  The centaur swung wildly in his rage. Regulus easily parried the attack and drove his sword up under the bottom edge of the centaur’s leather breastplate. The centaur screamed and toppled over as Regulus pulled out his sword. He looked around. He stood surrounded by centaur corpses, watery mud stained with red swirls, and cattails that rasped against each other, making a sound like mourning. The boy and the last male centaur were gone.

  He waited for the mark to burn, to tell him to hunt them down. But it didn’t. He sobbed with relief and left the centaur bodies before his stomach tried to force up nothing. He cleaned some of the blood off his blade with marsh grass. It took him a couple tries to sheath the oversized sword; his hands shook so badly.

  Better them than Dresden or Harold or any of the others. Better centaurs in a marsh than my friends in my castle. Still, the screams of the centaurs echoed in his ears. Killing wasn’t difficult—in fact he was good at it. But he had always followed a strict no-killing-innocents policy. Until the sorcerer.

  He double-checked the roots tied to his belt. After re-determining his direction, he trudged on. Guilt dragged him down more than the mud and water clogging his boots as the day wore on.

  The sun had dipped low to the horizon when he spotted the standing stones. He picked up his pace, eager to be out of that dreadful marsh. His black stallion, Sieger, was waiting where he had left him, munching grass. He mounted Sieger with ease despite his heavy armor and the exhaustion and blood loss. His blood-soaked tunic had dried into stiff, uncomfortable folds beneath his neck.

  Regulus made camp after midnight. Increased abilities and healing or no, he still needed rest. Time to recover. Not that he slept well. By himself, he couldn’t remove most of his armor. He slept for a few hours before waking to a pain in his back. Moonlight shone through the trees. With a groan, he stretched as best he could and staggered to his feet. Can’t die, but can still feel like death. He put his greaves, gloves, and helm back on.

  “I’m sorry, Sieger.” He rubbed the stallion’s neck, coaxing him awake. “It’s time to go again.”

  Sieger nickered and shook his mane.

  “I know, I know.” Regulus rubbed Sieger’s muzzle. He would have given almost anything to be asleep in his own bed. But such was not his lot. He removed his helm to take a drink of water and was disappointed to find only one gulp left in his horn. Now he was out of food and water, and with little time to spare to get more. The sorcerer expected him back soon. Begrudgingly, he turned back to Sieger and gripped the pommel of the saddle.

  He froze as a branch snapped behind him.

  Chapter 2

  REGULUS INCHED HIS hand toward his sword. Rustling and the crunch of last autumn’s leaves sounded some five paces behind him. Someone or something lurked in the bushes. He focused his hearing as he wrapped his fingers around the sword’s grip, his mind racing to rule out possibilities. No heavy breathing, and the intruder had gotten quite close before he heard them. Ruled out anything as big as a bear or troll. No creak of leather or clink or scrape of metal, so it wasn’t armored. No clomp of hooves, so neither centaur nor minotaur.

  He tried to think of where he was, what sort of creatures lived here. Goblins? Unlikely this far from any caves. Monparth had driven most monsters into uninhabited areas, but there were periodic incursions. Could be something as harmless as a satyr or dangerous as a thike, a medium-sized lithe feline with poisonous barbs on its long tail. Or a human, which were best not underestimated. He turned, bringing his sword into a guard position.

  Nothing.

  His eyes strained to peer into the shadows. Only moments had passed, whatever or whoever had been there must still be there. He moved toward the bushes. There, in a small clearing. A humanoid shape, hidden in a dark robe. The person or creature appeared to be facing away from him. Maybe they weren’t even aware of his presence.

  Regulus leapt through the bushes at the figure. It started to turn at the sudden noise, but he pressed the point of the sword against the figure’s back. “Who are you?”

  “Wh-what?” a normal-sounding man stuttered.

  “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  The man quivered. “I—I’m just—”

  “Spit it out!”

  A woman’s scream ripped through the night. Regulus whipped his head up. A woman in a dark cloak stood in the clearing, her hands covering her mouth. Moonlight glinted off the whites of her wide eyes.

  “Carolyn, run!” the man shouted. But Carolyn stood as if frozen in place.

  Regulus looked down at the man, then back at the woman. Back and forth. Heat rushed to his cheeks. “You’re just...meeting...” He moved his sword away from the man’s back. “Sorry.”

  The man staggered forward. He looked over his shoulder at Regulus. “You mad...” His jaw slackened. “What...who are you?”

  Oh, you had to ask. A burning sensation emanated from the mark on Regulus’ forearm and he gritted his teeth. “I am the Black Knight. And I serve the Prince of Shadow and Ash.” He sheathed his sword as the pain in his arm vanished. “Go. Now.”

  The lovers hurried away, their faces drawn and pale. This was why he preferred traveling at night and avoided roads. Every disputed sighting of the now legendary Black Knight made him more nervous he would get caught.

  Monparth’s laws forbade the use of dark, corrupted magic. And after over twenty years without mages, wielders of pure magic, people were extra wary of any hint of sorcery. The authorities would consider Regulus the sorcerer’s accomplice, and his men guilty by association. He couldn’t die, but his men could. At least the loathsome horned helm protected his identity.

  Regulus rode all day, keeping Sieger at a trot as much as possible and stopping only to steal a couple apples as he passed an orchard. Despite the days growing longer as summer approached, the sun set too soon. He stopped and managed to sleep for a few hours until a pinch from the mark on his arm woke him.

  “I can only cross the kingdom so fast,” Regulus growled under his breath as he slammed the helm back on and rode into the night.

  Around midday, he neared the sorcerer’s tower in the Tumen Forest. He always knew when he was close.

  The bark on trees turned black. Dead, midnight-colored leaves clung to lifeless ebony-shaded branches and covered the forest floor. Brittle tangles of dead wood vine made a pale contrast where the vines wrapped around branches. As the tower came into view, the trees became white, skeletal. All their bark had fallen away, revealing wood drained of all color and life. Barren fir branches stuck out like spikes, while naked deciduous boughs reached out like bony fingers.

  Not even grass grew this close to the tower. The only thing that did grow were mushrooms. Velvety purple mushrooms shaped like thimble
s, bright red domed mushrooms, flat round mushrooms as yellow as a daisy’s center. A faint glow emanated from underneath some. Regulus assumed all of them were poisonous.

  Two years ago, when he was first bound to the sorcerer, there had been only a small circle of blackened trees. Sometimes obviously, sometimes imperceptibly, the decay had spread. Now the deathly forest stretched a ten-minute ride in every direction around the sorcerer’s tower.

  Built of reddish brick darkened by time and sorcery, the tower itself stood around four stories tall, topped with narrow crenellations and covered in layers of dead wood vine. Yellow light filtered through the rough grayish glass of the single gothic window in the top level. Regulus used to wonder why someone who called himself a prince would live in such a drab old tower. He didn’t care anymore. Although, he suspected the Prince of Shadow and Ash simply liked dead, creepy things as much as he liked torturing Regulus.

  Sore, hungry, and exhausted, Regulus dismounted with difficulty. He stuffed the helm in his saddlebag. The iron-latticed oak door opened, and the sorcerer stepped out.

  A man of below-average height, the sorcerer’s physique belied his power. A wide, dark leather belt set with polished obsidian secured a long black tunic over his stomach paunch. Crimson accents edged the tunic. The hood of a gold-stitched sable robe shadowed his face, hiding his eyes above a pinched-looking nose. A graying brown beard fell in waves down to his chest. But he walked and spoke with the authority of the prince he pretended to be.

  “You’re late.” The sorcerer’s dark tone chilled Regulus’ blood.

  He untied the roots from his belt. “I got here as quickly as I could, my lord.”

  “After trying to disobey.” The sorcerer strode forward and snatched the roots from Regulus with pale, knobby fingers. “Do we have a problem, mercenary?”

  Regulus swallowed and bowed his head. Don’t take the bait. “No, my lord.” I’m not a mercenary anymore. And yes, we have many problems.

  “Kill all the centaurs?”

  “Yes.” No. He kept his expression calm and neutral.

  “Good.” The sorcerer counted the roots under his breath. “Ten,” he muttered. “Good thing, too. Room for error. Tricky business, breaking an enchantment.” He looked at Regulus. “I need one more thing.”

  Regulus stopped himself from protesting. He needed to rest and eat. He wanted to go home, even if only for a couple days. The sorcerer never sent him out again immediately after returning. But it was no use arguing. The sorcerer got want he wanted. Always. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Wait here.” The sorcerer took the roots inside the tower and returned with a tin goblet and a small carving knife. “Take off your glove and give me your arm. I need your blood.”

  “What?” Regulus gaped. “Why?”

  The corners of the sorcerer’s mouth turned down. Tendrils of pain, like red-hot vines growing under his skin, shot up Regulus’ right arm. He grunted and used his teeth to pull his glove off his right hand.

  “Yes, my lord.” The pain faded as he held his arm toward the sorcerer.

  “Better.” A momentary flicker of a smile made the sorcerer’s beard twitch. “You should be thanking me. I thought about making you bring me the blood of one of your friends. Maybe the one with the beard. Or the boy.”

  Regulus flinched. “I’ve been obeying you, my lord,” he said, choosing his words carefully as the sorcerer grabbed his hand. “I only hesitated today, and I did as you commanded and slaughtered the centaurs. There’s no need to harm my men.” Please, Etiros. Let him be forgiving.

  The sorcerer pulled down on Regulus’ hand so he could see the underside of his wrist beneath his gauntlet. “Mm, yes. You’ve become such an obedient pet. Almost a pity. I did so enjoy making you hurt them.” The sorcerer sliced the knife across Regulus’ wrist. Regulus drew in a sharp breath that hissed between his teeth. “But hesitate again, and I’m going to lose my temper.”

  Regulus stared at the dead wood vine and hoped his master wouldn’t notice his rage. Any defiance always ended in pain. If he was lucky, only his own. The sorcerer let his blood drain into the goblet until the bond linking his life to the sorcerer’s closed the wound, preventing him from bleeding out.

  The sorcerer waved Regulus away as he walked back inside. “Run on home. I have important matters to attend to.” The door slammed shut, leaving Regulus and Sieger alone with the dead forest.

  Shoulders sagging, Regulus remounted. “Let’s go home, Sieger.”

  The stars had been out for hours when he arrived at Arrano castle. It was an old castle, long out of style, but it was his. The square central tower and surrounding four-story wall stood atop a hill. A flag bearing the Arrano crest—a red rose over crossed white swords on a field of black—flew from the north wall turret. The barren hill rose in a gradual incline to the front of the castle.

  Regulus didn’t follow the road up the hill. Instead, he struck out around the castle. Far downhill, with enough space around the hill to ensure a clear line of sight in case of attack, the woods began again. A massive willow tree grew at the edge of the woods. Regulus scanned the surrounding area, ensuring no one was near, then led Sieger under the swaying curtain of the willow’s hanging branches. The stallion whinnied, protesting what came next.

  “I know.” He patted Sieger’s neck. “I know.”

  Near the tree’s trunk rested a large boulder. Regulus picked it up, the strength the sorcerer’s mark granted him making the task easy. A large chunk of grassy ground pulled away with the stone—a dirt and grass-covered wooden panel cemented to the boulder’s base. A hole appeared where the panel and boulder had been, with dirt steps leading into the earth.

  He set the boulder down so the edge of the panel jutted out over the opening. He descended halfway, turned to his right, and felt for the hole in the dirt wall. His fingers found the torch, flint, and an apple where he had left them, and he set about lighting the torch. With the apple and lit torch in hand, he went back for Sieger.

  The stallion shook his head, pawed the ground, and snorted. Regulus sighed. “Come on, boy.” He held out the apple, and Sieger reached for it. Regulus pulled it back a little and backed down the stairs. With a snort of frustration, Sieger followed. Once down the steps, Regulus gave Sieger the apple. While Sieger crunched the apple, Regulus stuck the torch in an iron rung in the dirt wall. He returned to the steps and pulled the panel and boulder back over the tunnel entrance. Maneuvering it into place over his head by holding onto the handles on the bottom was awkward, but he’d done it enough times it didn’t take long.

  The tunnel, which was just tall enough and wide enough for Sieger, sloped upward. He led Sieger until they reached another set of packed dirt steps. Another wooden panel blocked the exit, this one covered with stones to make it blend in with the floor of the stables and to give it extra weight. He deposited the torch in an iron ring in the wall and heaved the trapdoor aside. He extinguished the torch and led Sieger out of the tunnel.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Stalls abutted the outer castle wall to his right, and to his left stretched a wooden wall with shuttered windows. Narrow bands of moonlight streaked across the hay-strewn dirt floor. The smell of horses and manure filled his nostrils, and the quiet, steady breathing of horses provided a backdrop to the muffled stomp of Sieger’s hooves. He led Sieger to his stall and returned the cover to the tunnel entrance. He left Sieger, still wearing all his tack, and headed through his private hedge-protected lane from the stables to a side door in the castle. All part of preventing his few servants from knowing about the Black Knight. He pulled off his helm, closing his eyes as welcome night air cooled his skin.

  A lamp and flint stood on a pedestal near the castle door, waiting for him. With the lamp in one hand and helm in the other, he crept up the stairs, his armor echoing. He knocked on a plain wooden door near the top of the stairs and waited. Nothing. He couldn’t blame the boy, but he also couldn’t get out of his armor unaided. He knocked again, harder,
and opened the door.

  “Harold.”

  The young man sat up in his bed. “Wha...my lord?” Harold rubbed his eyes. A lad of sixteen years, Harold was lanky and a touch fidgety. His dark blond hair was a mess, and he had drool in the scraggly beard he was so proud of.

  “Yes. Get up, I need help with my armor.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Harold teetered out of bed and toward the door, blinking. Regulus suppressed a smile. “I’ll carry the lamp, my lord.”

  They continued up the winding staircase, went through a door into a hallway, and walked down to Regulus’ room. Harold unlocked and opened the door.

  A giant mass of dark fur bolted through the door and jumped on Regulus, knocking him back. Despite his exhaustion, Regulus grinned.

  “Hey, Magnus.” Regulus scratched the dog behind a floppy ear as its giant pink tongue licked his face. Standing on his hind legs, the massive dog was almost as tall as Regulus. “All right, down boy.”

  Magnus trotted back into Regulus’ room, wagging his fluffy light brown tail, and jumped on the bed. His fur—of which he had a copious amount—was black on his face, chest, and haunches, and the rest was brown, getting lighter to the pale fur on the underside of his tail.

  The curtains on the wall-length window were open, and dim moonlight illuminated the room. A large four-poster bed, currently occupied by Magnus, took up most of the room. Next to the bed, a nightstand just big enough for a food tray stood empty. A massive fireplace filled most of the wall opposite his bed, with a small armchair and footstool placed in front of it. Other than his large oak dresser, and a small desk and chair, the only other furnishing was a couple of large trunks, one padlocked shut, and a large rug. Harold set the lamp on the nightstand and headed for the fireplace.

  “Armor first, Harold,” Regulus said, unwilling to stay in the heavy, stinking armor any longer.