by Steven Drake
Fallen Star
Book Four of the Demon’s Blade Saga
by
Steven Drake
12/1/2017
Copyright © 2017 by Steven Drake
Cover design ©Deanna Cathcart
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.
Steven Drake
76 Leigh Drive
Benton, KY 42025
[email protected]
www.aspiesteve.wordpress.com
Prologue: The Mysterious Girl
Four weeks, that was how long the hunt was supposed to last. Somehow, four had turned into six, then eight. Zitane should have been home by now, but instead, thanks to a dubious rumor and his brother’s dogged persistence, he was freezing to death in a snow-covered waste in the dead of winter. Zitane and his brother, Zandrek, had gone further north than they should have, well beyond their own borders, well beyond the boundaries of the forest itself, across the lands of men, into the empty foothills of the Great Northern Mountains that marked the boundary of what anyone knew, in the dead of winter no less. No reasonable person would be here, but Zandrek never had been particularly reasonable.
Zitane and Zandrek, though twins, could not have been more different. Zitane’s modest stature might have passed for being just below normal among the humans of the east, but to his own elven kind, he was almost laughably short. He had sharp red hair, unusually curly, perpetually tangled, thick and stiff, ears and nose too large for his smallish frame, and cheeks dotted with freckles. Zitane’s shortcomings were, however, not limited to his appearance, as he lacked the usual gifts of his people. His skill in archery was only average, despite training with the best archers in the land. He wasn’t particularly fast, or strong, or agile, or anything else that mattered as far as his parents or most of his people were concerned.
That certainly would have been enough for young Zitane to consider himself unfortunate, but the worst curse, in his humble opinion, was the fact that his brother Zandrek was everything he was not. Zandrek was tall, broad of build for an elf, with long silky flaxen hair that rippled down his back like a sunlit river. Almost painfully handsome, Zandrek always caught the attention of the young maidens. He had taken to the bow like a fish to water, and could already compete with masters at competitions. Agile, strong, and coordinated, Zandrek was lethal with his twin swords. As they had grown up, Zandrek was always the one to earn the praise of teachers, always the one to speak confidently at the royal court, and always the one to dance with the most beautiful ladies of Catarina. Many times, Zitane found himself wishing he could be someone else, anyone else but the son of the king and the brother of Zandrek the impeccably perfect prince. The younger Zitane wished to simply fade into the background and be forgotten, but being a prince, even a disappointing and underachieving prince, always made that impossible.
The two brothers, Zitane and Zandrek, had been sent into the north to hunt for the fabled unicorn, a tradition among the nobility of Catarina. It hardly mattered that no unicorn had been seen in centuries, and that no hunt had been successful in an age. Tradition dictated that the king’s progeny be sent out into the hostile and largely unsettled lands of the humans to hunt unicorn. The hunt was supposed to be a test for young royals when they came of age, though Zitane never could ascertain what, exactly, was being tested. All they had done was wander through the lands, stopping at every isolated village, hunters’ lodge, and dwarven mining camp within several hundred leagues, searching for rumors of the unicorn. Everything had been going well, until they stumbled across a shady character who smelled of death and called himself a mercenary.
Quite conveniently, the “mercenary” had seen a unicorn in an old ruin at the end of a valley in the Great Northern Mountains. Even more conveniently, the man had possessed a crude map that supposedly showed the location of the mysterious valley. Zandrek had bought the man’s story without a skeptical thought, and bartered a priceless trinket to get his hands on the map. Even more disturbing, the strange man had offered to escort them to the spot. Zandrek had refused for the sake of his pride, determined to take as much of the credit as he could, and Zitane had agreed on that point, not out of pride, but rather out of a strong suspicion that this dubious character, who had already tricked them into buying his worthless scrawling, actually intended to lead them out into the wilderness, rob them blind, and leave them for dead.
From that point forward, Zandrek had become fixated on being the first prince of Catarina to return with a unicorn’s horn since their legendary great grandfather over a thousand years ago. Zitane, being the younger brother, by about fifteen minutes, had dutifully followed his brother’s lead. As unpleasant as following the vainglorious Zandrek could be, opposing him was generally even worse. If Zitane didn’t do what Zandrek wanted, he could expect to be reminded of his cowardice and lack of determination for years hence, and not just from Zandrek, but from every young lord and lady at court. Zandrek was the taller, the more handsome, the stronger, the more eloquent, and aside from all that, he was the crown prince. Zandrek could easily make Zitane’s life miserable in dozens of ways. Until and unless Zitane felt his life was in real danger, he deemed it better to let his brother have his way.
So they trudged onward, a hundred leagues from nowhere, leading their horses through thigh deep snow, looking for a place that might not even exist. They had found the Great Northern Mountains at least, not that this was particularly difficult. The range ran from east to west across the northernmost regions of Terralien. What lay beyond it, nobody knew, because nobody had ever ventured beyond, or at least not returned to tell of it. There were no known passes, and the perpetual ice and snow made even climbing into the low foothills an exercise in idiocy. Zitane feared that Zandrek would simply leave him in the wilderness if his legs gave out, or perhaps Zandrek would carry him back, to play the hero, carrying the younger and weaker brother, nobly sacrificing glory for a brother’s life. Zitane, however, remained determined that he would neither die, nor suffer that humiliation, so he pressed on.
Just when it seemed things could get no worse, dark clouds descended upon them, threatening a sour turn in the weather. Zitane warned his brother about the looming danger, but of course Zandrek did not listen. When the snow came, it did so in force, a blizzard that beat them down and added more to the already deep enough snow pack.
“Can we finally find some cover?” Zitane asked as the snow began to cake on his face.
“Little brother, you look awful,” Zandrek turned and answered. “You can’t hold out in these conditions. Let’s find some shelter.”
As frustrating as it was to be the constant butt of jokes such as this, Zitane was just glad that some sanity had descended upon his brother. They wandered in the snow for many hours, in the near darkness, up into a cleft between two high hills to search for a cave in which to shelter. They climbed blindly into the biting wind, desperate.
Finally, mercifully, fate smiled upon them, and they found a small cave that bored into a nameless mountain. Relief set in, and they set about the business of starting a fire. Zitane set to work with the kindling they carried while Zandrek set out into the snow to find some good-sized logs to burn. Within a few minutes, they had managed to start a fire large enough to last the night. While the storm raged outside, they huddled in the warmth of the fire.
Sitting on the cold stones, Zitane looked into his brother�
��s eyes, and thought he saw the first signs of fear there, though perhaps that was only his wishful thinking.
“Zandrek, please,” Zitane said. “It’s been over two months. Once the storm is over, let’s just go home. No one will think any less of us.”
“You mean no one will think any less of you,” Zandrek countered. “No one expects you to do anything, but I promised I would bring back a unicorn’s horn.”
“Can’t you admit defeat just this once?” Zitane was almost begging. He had the sense to know their lives were both in danger.
“I’m no coward, and I don’t give up as easily as you.”
“No one is saying you’re a coward. It’s not cowardice to admit you need help. It’s not cowardice to want to stay alive.”
“I cannot face father as a failure,” Zandrek said. “I won’t. You go home if you want. You’ve done nothing but slow me down anyway. I can’t stand to listen to your whining anymore. I’m going to find more wood for the fire. I’m not afraid of a little snow.”
“Ugh!” Zitane stood up and threw up his hands. Blast the fool. Fine, I will go home. Let that fool die out here. Zitane stormed towards the back of the cave and paced furiously back and forth, letting his anger cool. As he did so, doubt crept into him. Despite everything else, Zandrek was still his brother, and though they didn’t get along, Zitane did not want his brother to die. Their parents would blame him, he realized, and they would not be completely wrong to do so. After all, Zandrek would be the next king. To let him die here would be to let the entire kingdom down, and that was far more important than a petty sibling rivalry. As the second son, it had been drilled into Zitane’s head from a young age that he had a duty to serve and protect his older brother.
Still, getting Zandrek to give up would be no small task. There was, in the end, only one way certain to work. Zitane would say that he could not make it by himself, admit his own weakness, and beg for Zandrek to accompany him back. That would appeal to his brother’s sense of superiority, and more importantly, it would give Zandrek someone to blame for failure. It made his stomach turn to think of it, but at the moment, he had no better alternative.
It was, however, at that moment, Zitane noticed something odd in the back of the cave. Something about the flickering firelight on the cave wall seemed to be slightly off, though he could not immediately say what. Zitane paced back and forth in front of the wall, trying to satisfy his sense of curiosity. He settled on a particular section of wall as the source of his discomfort. Upon first glance, it seemed no different than the rest of the cave, and Zitane had not even noticed it during his initial scouting of the cave’s perimeter, despite exercising his usual caution. Something seemed different now, something visible only in the light of the fire.
The shadows, he exclaimed in his mind, a sudden realization that it wasn’t the light but rather the shadows cast by the light that had caused his confusion. The fire had illuminated the back of the cave, and his own form cast a shadow, but each time he passed this one small section of wall, the shadow vanished, and reappeared again after passing it. How odd. What could it mean?
He walked up to the spot, and leaned forward and put his hand out to feel the wall. Much to his surprise, he felt only empty air as his hand disappeared into the wall. He tried to stop himself, but his weight carried him forward, right into the rock face. He shut his eyes, expecting to smack his forehead on solid stone, but instead, fell forward onto his face, tumbled down what felt like a short flight of stairs, and came to a stop lying on his back on a cold floor.
He opened his eyes, got up, shook his head, and looked around. The fire and the cave had disappeared. He found himself in a small rectangular passage. Behind him was a heavy wooden door, and in front was a set of stairs cut into the stone of the mountain. At the top of the stairs was what appeared to be a solid stone wall. The passage should have been dark, but it wasn’t, as orange firelight illuminated the space. Zitane scratched his head for a moment, then walked to the top of the stairs. He again put a hand to the stone, this time very carefully. Again, his hand passed through the wall as if it were not there. The wall appeared to be solid, but clearly was not. It was only an illusion. He could pass through it, and so could the firelight.
A single word ran through his head. Magic! He shuddered. Everything he knew told him magic was dangerous and evil. Derived long ago by his heretic ancestors from the power of demons, magic was a blight upon all the world. For a moment, Zitane found himself caught between curiosity and fear. On the one hand, any magic was dangerous, but on the other hand, unicorns supposedly fed on magic and stored it within their horns. After all, destroying their magic had been the original reason for hunting them. If there was magic here, perhaps the unicorn would be as well. The thought of taking the unicorn’s horn himself, thus usurping his brother’s glory, crept greedily into his mind.
Zitane’s bitter jealousy got the better of him. He poked his head through the invisible wall. Relieved, he found Zandrek still missing, stupidly gathering firewood in a blizzard just to prove his courage. Zitane quickly grabbed his weapons and one of the burning sticks to use as torch, then darted back through the illusion of the stone wall, toward the heavy wooden door. The thick layer of dust on the wooden door showed that no one had used it in some time. He brushed the dust off the handle, grasped, and turned. Despite its obvious age, the handle turned easily, and the door swung inward with nary a squeak. The passage grew dark rather rapidly, and Zitane had to rely on his hasty torch.
The passage beyond the door continued straight and level for several dozen yards, then ended at another door much like the first. This door also opened easily, and led to another staircase that spiraled upwards. Zitane started carefully climbing the staircase, watchful for any sign of danger. He at first tried to keep count of the steps, but as he grew tired, he lost count. He found no doors, nor any side passages, just more stairs, spiraling ever upward. Zitane’s makeshift torch gradually dimmed as he climbed, so he quickened his pace, but the fire seemed to dim even more rapidly. A moment later, he realized that the torch had not grown dimmer, but rather there was another light coming from somewhere above him.
Zitane hurried upward, spiraling up, until he saw the sky above him. The staircase terminated in a round room, shaped much like the parapet of a tower, though the roof and much of the outer wall were missing. Still, enough of the wall remained intact that climbing it was not an option. That left only a single door slightly to his left.
Zitane took a deep breath and opened the door just a crack. He peered cautiously outward into what might have been a small garden once. Broken statues and long empty planters decorated the large open space. Everything in the area seemed still, worn, old, and gray, long abandoned. The air carried no smells but a faintly stale odor, like ages of dust, and nothing moved, not a breath of wind. The area seemed quiet and peaceful, but somehow sad, something once beautiful and now long forgotten. High, sheer rock walls rose up on all sides, hemming in this ancient garden. There appeared to be no way to climb any higher, leaving the passage Zitane had passed through as the only apparent access.
Zitane paused a moment as the incongruity of his situation suddenly dawned on him. Outside the cave, a blizzard had been raging, but here, there was nothing, nary a flake of snow, nor a puff of wind. Zitane looked upwards into a distant gray blur. He could see the blizzard stirring the air far above, whipping whirls of white snow into a blurry fuzz, but it seemed unable to touch this garden, as though an invisible barrier held it at bay. More magic, Zitane shuddered. He’d already seen a wall that looked solid but was not, and now he had encountered a roof that was solid but somehow invisible.
Zitane set out to explore the garden, taking the most obvious path, a series of sharp, angular stones set into the earth, cut in various shapes so they fit together like a puzzle, but without any apparent pattern. It led from the door where he had entered, across the garden, to one of the walls, where the path ended at a pile of broken rock and boulders. Th
e path along the ground seemed to continue beneath the rubble as far as he could tell. There must once have been another passage here, but there was no getting through now. He turned back and retraced his steps until he came to a branch in the path, something he had not noticed before. The larger part of the path led back to the door where he had entered, while a smaller branch led under a crumbled archway.
He followed this smaller path, where it led slightly upward, to the edge of the garden. He continued until he saw something that made him freeze with fear. The small path terminated a few yards ahead at a small raised platform containing a stone table several feet high, upon which lay a person, a child by all appearances. The strange, unnatural light, served to break up the gray monotone that dominated the rest of the garden, and it seemed to coalesce around the sleeping child. Zitane walked up to the figure, and looked down upon the face.
It was a young girl, the strangest he’d ever seen. She looked elven, but unlike anyone he knew. Her hair was almost white, yet seemed to shimmer and change color as the inside of a clam’s shell. In one spot, it seemed airy blue like the sky, and in another silver, and yet another pale magenta. When he moved his head slightly, the positions of the colors shifted as well. It was odd, to be certain. She was obviously young. Zitane guessed she could be no older than ten. She was, despite her age, beautiful, like a figure out of a painting in the royal halls. Her features were fine and delicate, as though shaped by the most careful of sculptors. Her skin was pale and perfectly smooth, almost ghostly, and seemed to shimmer almost like her hair. She wore a striking necklace, a golden spider that clutched a blue gemstone in its eight legs. Like a porcelain doll, she lay motionless on the table.
Zitane stared in wonder as his mind worked to resolve many questions. He first wondered if she was sleeping or dead. If she was dead, she had to be preserved by some means, or she would be long decomposed, but who would have gone to such trouble out here in this wasteland? If she was sleeping, why here, and how had she survived? She didn’t appear to be breathing, and Zitane did not want to risk touching her to look for a heartbeat. Both possibilities seemed equally impossible, so Zitane scratched his head. Explanation or no, he had to decide what to do with her.