The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 03 - Glimmer in the Shadow

by Jason McWhirter

  GLIMMER IN THE SHADOW

  JASON L. MCWHIRTER

  WWW.TWIINENTERTAINMENT.COM

  A Twiin Entertainment Book

  Books by Jason L. McWhirter

  THE CAVALIER TRILOGY

  Book 1: The Cavalier

  Praise for THE CAVALIER, book one in this series

  “The Cavalier (Book One of the Cavalier Trilogy) is a descriptively strong story, staying true to the style of similar fantasy novels. If you enjoy being drawn into a world laced with heroes, goblins, orcs and magic, then this is the story for you.”

  Fantasy Book Review (M.G. Russell)

  Book 2: The Rise of Malbeck

  Book 3: Glimmer in the Shadow

  The last book in the Cavalier Trilogy

  Published by Twiin Entertainment

  www.twiinentertainment.com

  Copyright Jason L. McWhirter, 2013

  Library of Congress

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Luis Gama

  Title page art by Luis Gama

  Epilogue poem by Devin McWhirter

  Maps by Jason McWhirter

  Edited by Twiin Entertainment and Sarah Finley

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored electronically, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents 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.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to all our men and women who serve, or have served, in our armed forces. You are all the true warriors, and because of you we live in a free country, where our life’s choices are protected by your steel and courage. Without your vigilant stand, the world in which we live would be very different.

  I would especially like to honor my wife’s father-in-law. He passed away in July of 2013 at the age of ninety six. He served in World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. He was in the army and has three combat infantry badges and he always said he would still be in the military if they let him. Manuel Montesdeoca, thank you for your service. Thank you for your many sacrifices over the years. Thank you for enduring the pain of lost comrades and protecting our freedoms. You were a true warrior, and a real hero.

  Fortifications for the City of Finarth

  The Gildren Garrison

  GLIMMER IN THE SHADOW

  THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE

  CAVALIER TRILOGY

  JASON L. MCWHIRTER

  Prologue

  Cuthaine was in ruins. The Cuthainians had put up a valiant fight, but in the end it was hopeless. Malbeck’s army was too large, too ruthless, and too strong.

  Some had packed up their belongings and left, while others had stayed behind to help bolster the city’s defenses. None who stayed behind survived the onslaught, and their bodies littered the streets.

  Smoke and flames rose from burning buildings, fouling the night sky in violent billows on the evening breeze. Malbeck’s warriors ran through the streets killing any survivors and looting anything of value. Their grunts and growls, interspersed by the screams of the wounded and dying added another layer of horror to the grisly scene.

  Flocks of carrion crows, drawn by the scent of death, cast ominous shadows across the full moon, their sheer numbers blocking its bright glow. They had come to feed.

  Malbeck stood in front of Cuthaine’s graveyard, his milky white eyes scanning the vista of tombstones. But he was not interested in these stone markers. He was looking for something else, a prize that would be identified by freshly turned dirt and mud. His prize would have been buried in a mass grave with the rest of his warriors who had stormed the Oasis gaming house. They had hoped to kill King Kromm and his meddlesome band of warriors, but they had failed.

  Behind him stood thirty Gould-Irin Orcs waiting for his command. Their charcoal gray armor and weaponry, along with the greenish gray hue of their thick skin, would have made them almost invisible in the darkness if it were not for the white eye of Gould clearly painted on their breastplates and shields, and their red eyes that shone in the night.

  “There,” Malbeck said, his voice heavy and powerful as he pointed the Spear of Gould towards a large mound fifty paces to his left. Malbeck’s thick chest was bare. He wore only black leggings and boots made from the skin of a black dragon. His blue gray skin was thick and tough like leather and his short hair was black as coal, absent of all light. He was a demonoid, part man, part demon, twisted by the magic of the Forsworn. Strapped to his broad muscled back was his mighty double bladed battle axe. He was easily eight feet tall and his shoulders were impossibly broad, contrasting sharply with his narrow waist.

  In his left hand he carried the Shan Cemar, the ancient elven book that held the original words of magic, enabling the possessor to access vast amounts of power from the Ru’Ach, the energy of all things. It was believed that the book had been created by the first elves and had then been hidden, so the true power of the Ru’Ach could not be tapped, could not be taken and twisted by evil men.

  But now Malbeck possessed the book. And he would use it to spread the disease of the Forsworn over Kraawn and blacken the very ground with their desire. The Forsworn, a trio of evil gods who wanted nothing more than to conquer the lands of Kraawn. Once that goal was accomplished then their dark stain could spread to all the lands and even the worlds beyond. Malbeck was their general on this plane of existence, and nothing, and no one, was going to stop him.

  Five orcs from the back came forward and two of them were holding a man in blood splattered armor. The man was powerfully built with a head of thick unruly hair. But he did not look powerful now. Bruised and beaten, his thick hair was matted with sweat and blood. He could barely stand; in fact he would have fallen if the two Gould-Irin Orcs had not been holding his arms.

  The man was General Kurarris, and despite his condition, he looked straight at Malbeck and spit a mixture of blood and saliva at the demonoid’s feet.

  Malbeck ignored him and addressed the orcs standing near the Free Legion general. “Stand him on the mound and slit his throat,” he ordered casually, as if the command were nothing more than a daily chore.

  The orcs dragged Kurarris to the mound of dirt and pulled his arms behind his back, yanking his head back and exposing his thick neck.

  The general was too weak to struggle. He had been beaten so badly that his entire body was numb, which was good considering how many broken bones he had sustained. But he knew that death was coming. Through the daze of pain and fatigue he had heard the order. But strangely it did not matter. He had fought hard, and he had done his duty. Besides, his men had all died defending the city, and it was only fitting that he should join them in their fate.

  With the last bit of his strength he smiled at Malbeck and laughed.

  His laugh was cut short by the sharp blade slicing through his throat. As he fell limply to the ground he could vaguely smell the damp earth as it mixed with the coppery odor of his blood. Then his mind went black and he fell into nothingness.

  “Back up,” Malbeck ordered as he held up the Sham Cemar.

  The orcs silently walked back behind their master as Malbeck began to recite the incantation, a powerful spell that required the blood of a battle hardened and accomplished warrior, a role that the departed general unknowingly played. The words of the spell roll
ed off his lips and after a few seconds the blood pooling around Kurarris began to sizzle and smoke. But the smoke didn’t drift away into the night. It rose up and spun into a small vortex. As the blood slowly boiled away, the coalescing smoke picked up speed as Malbeck continued the spell. Then it spun up into the air and shot straight down to disappear into the earth just as Malbeck recited the last words of the spell.

  At first nothing happened. But Malbeck did not move, nor did the orcs behind him. They stared at the mound of fresh dirt and waited.

  It didn’t take long.

  The dirt heaved sluggishly back and forth like a slow wave. Then a hand shot up from the damp ground. The mud did little to mask the pale bloated skin that covered it.

  “Ah…yessss…come forth, my servant,” Malbeck whispered as he took several steps closer to the mound.

  The hand began to dig at the dirt and after a few seconds another hand burst forth, followed shortly by a hooded head. Dirt and the smell of rotting flesh clung to the corpse as it slowly emerged from the ground.

  The reanimated body wore a dirty gray robe, and it stood up slowly, as if it were acclimating itself to its surroundings. The hooded creature flexed its pale hands. Bits of its skin had been eaten away, exposing rotted flesh and bone. The thing reached up slowly and pulled its hood back, revealing its face.

  It was Gullanin, the wizard, though a pale and hideous version. His face was bloated with decay, and bits of flesh hung loosely from his skull. Gullanin’s eyes were narrow points of red light, and his decayed and torn lips exposed yellow rotting teeth. A gruesome red and black scar encircled his neck. Somehow the magic of the Shan Cemar had fused Gullanin’s head back to his body and brought him back to life.

  “My master, is that you?” Gullanin said uncertainly, his voice rough and raspy and carrying the weight of magic.

  “It is I, my faithful servant. I have brought you back to serve me again,” Malbeck said as he stood before the undead corpse.

  “I feel different,” Gullanin said as he gazed at his hands. His eye sockets were black pits of rotting flesh and his bulbous eyes could clearly be seen nestled within the bony pockets, the pupils now red and glowing with malice.

  “Of course you do. You are a Lich, an undead wizard who stands halfway between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead. You have power, more power than before, as the links to the Ru’Ach are no longer invisible to you. Do you not feel the power around you?” Malbeck asked.

  “I do, my Lord.”

  “I have given you this power to serve the Forsworn, to serve me once again. I need a general, and despite your previous failures, you are the best that I have.”

  Gullanin brought his hands forward, palms up, and crackling blue energy erupted from them, arcing back and forth.

  The Lich’s eerie laugh echoed throughout Cuthaine. “I will not fail you this time, my Lord”.

  One

  New Friends

  Jonas sat cross-legged in the darkness. His mind had drifted while he had sat, unmoving, floating above his inner shield, a small core of humanity he had created within his mind. It was the place he swore not to retreat to while the darkness of the Forsworn overran his body. He would rather die than let that happen, and he was prepared to do just that. But nothing came for him. There were no dark talons reaching out of the black for him, no tentacles snaking towards him trying to destroy the last speck of who he was. He did not know why but he was alone within his own consciousness. He did not quite understand where he was, or what was happening. He felt it more than anything. He had no idea how much time had passed while in this state. There was no sound, smell, nothing. It was disorientating. But he was alive; at least he felt that he was. He knew that what made him him was protected within that one sphere of light below. But here he was, alone. I will not give up, Jonas thought to himself as he positioned his arms on his knees, his silver swords still held firmly, crossing blade to blade. They burned with a white light and Jonas looked into them, concentrating on them as he waited for what was to come.

  He had no idea how long it had been since he had been captured. Dykreel’s clerics had tortured him, and in the process they had put something inside him, something filled with the dark magic of the Forsworn. This magic had forced him to fight in an underground arena where desperate warriors came to win glory or gold, and whatever it was that controlled his body had made him kill. Fortunately, Jonas could not remember the events clearly since his mind had retreated deep within himself, forming a barrier against the black magic that was seeping into his body, trying to capture his very essence. He felt hopeless. There was nothing left of him that he felt he controlled, nothing except the circle of light he now sat upon. He was a construct in his own mind, at least that was how it felt. His body had lost the fight, but he still fought to maintain his essence. If he lost that, then he would lose everything. That would not happen without a fight.

  * * *

  Tuvallis huddled quietly under the snow laden bows of a small fir tree. The limbs were near the forest floor and the weight of their white cargo forced them even lower, almost kissing the snow covered ground. Just in front of him the green fronds of a large bushy fern fought through the snow in a losing battle as they sagged towards the ground, pushed down by the weight of their snowy cargo. He was well hidden under his thick furs. They, and his heavily bearded face, camouflaged him from view. There was no way the small group of orcs would spot him as they trudged by his hiding spot. They probably wouldn’t even smell him as his potent odor would likely be similar to their own animal-like scent. The large beasts wore mismatched pieces of armor and thick furs similar to his own garb. They carried short cutting swords at their sides and long crude spears in their thick calloused hands.

  The burly mountain man gripped the leather handle of his long sword tightly as he watched the lumbering beasts march methodically by, oblivious to his presence.

  Tuvallis had spent the last fifteen years roaming the mountains around Finarth and Tarsis, and his appearance reflected the mountain life he lived. He was thick and strong, built like a bull, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders tapering down to his muscular torso and supported by powerful legs accustomed to carrying his large frame over mountainous terrain. Nearly a head taller than most men, his sheer bulk belied his height until he stood next to someone. The furs he wore were a mixture of mountain bear and wolf, with leggings made from the long haired mountain elk. In contrast to his disheveled look was the bright shirt of chain mail that he wore under his furs, a gleaming counterpart to the polished silver crosspiece of the sword he held easily in his meaty hand. His ash wood bow and quiver lay next to him as he squatted in the shadows of the young tree. The re-curved bow was longer than most of its kind. He had it made special for him many years ago and it was worth every gold coin he had spent on it. The bow was shorter than a traditional long bow, making it easier to maneuver through the brush, but it had more power than one of its longer cousins, and very few men were strong enough to draw it, let alone use it with the ease that Tuvallis could. It was his favorite weapon and it always glistened with the oil that Tuvallis meticulously rubbed into it to protect it from the elements. It was apparent that he cared more about his weapons and gear than his appearance, but that was learned over many years of trying to survive in the dangerous wilds. After all, it was his tools and weapons that carried him through each winter, and not his charms or good looks.

  But it wasn’t his tousled dirty orc-like build that was disconcerting. It was his face, if you could call it that. His entire head was covered with long scraggly black hair which seemed to continue growing down his face before melting into his unkempt bushy beard. Wiry, greasy, and streaked with gray, it looked as if it could house several rats. His skin, dark and weathered, was only visible around his eyes, and even his lips were concealed behind his snow encrusted mustache. He was alone, and he liked it that way, therefore his appearance was never a concern.

  Tuvallis shifted slowly as he remove
d his gloved hand from the hilt of his sword and grabbed his bow. He remained still for a few more minutes until the orcs had marched well beyond his location.

  He had seen several groups of the monsters over the last few weeks, and that concerned him. He had also recently been attacked by two boargs. They could have simply been hunting, or perhaps they were scouts for a band of orcs, it was hard to know. It was uncommon to see so many beasts in such a short period of time, especially in such close proximity to the mountain villages that dotted the valleys of the Tundrens. Something was amiss. But that was no surprise to Tuvallis, as he was no stranger to the increasing number of unsettling occurrences that had been happening around Tarsis and Finarth.

  Four years ago, he had witnessed the destruction of the town of Manson, a quiet hunting village deep in the Tundrens. It was as close to a home as he had ever known, a useful place to trade his meats and furs for supplies that he needed to survive in the mountains. He was a tough man, hardened not only by his life in the mountains, but also by the combat he had faced while serving in the Tarsinian army many years ago. Even so, the scene he had witnessed after the town’s destruction still fed his nightmares.

  The boargs had ripped the town apart, killing everyone and feeding on their bloody corpses. He had entered the town several days after the fight, but the stench from the decaying and half eaten bodies reached him long before he saw the destruction.

  He shivered momentarily as the terrible memory again flashed through his mind, like scenes from a horrible dream.

  After the destruction of Manson he had moved his home base farther south and closer to the edge of the Tundrens. He could trade with smaller villages there, and the winter conditions were not as harsh as they were higher in the mountain passes. But he had not seen many orcs or other monsters since, until now.