Shadowguard

by Gama Ray Martinez

  Shadowguard

  Pharim War Book 1

  GAMA RAY MARTINEZ

  Shadowguardis a work of fiction. All incidents and dialog, and all characters are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration and design by Holly Heisey, http://hollyheisey.com

  Copyright © 2015 Gamaliel Martinez

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1944091017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944091-01-9

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Jez yelped as the azure flames washed over the half-clothed figure. For a moment, a thick cloud of smoke flooded the lower level of the arena. The upper levels, the ones inhabited by those who couldn’t afford premium seats, erupted in cheers. The acrid scent almost made Jez gag, but a second later, wind stirred and dispersed the smoke. One of the combatants stood with her hands outstretched, her eyes glowing blue, but the other was surrounded by a bubble of scarlet energy, incandescent and completely opaque. The packed sand around the sphere cooled, forming shards of glass.

  The bubble flickered and vanished, revealing a warrior who was already running. He leapt through the air, and for the first time, Jez noticed a youthful face on the fighter. In spite of a height of nearly seven feet, the gladiator couldn’t be more than sixteen years old. His opponent, a petite woman with a mousy face, lifted her hand and the sky rumbled. Dark clouds materialized out of nowhere and spewed a bolt of lightning. Electricity filled the air and made the hairs on the back of Jez’s arms stand on end. The warrior tried to dodge, but he couldn’t move fast enough, and a bolt struck his right shoulder, sending him to the ground. The smell of ozone permeated the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burning hair. The crowd erupted in cheers, half chanting Criera’s name, and half cheering for her opponent, the giant Osmund.

  Jez’s heart pounded so hard that he felt like it would beat out of his chest as Osmund picked himself off the ground. The crowd went silent. He’d had hair a second ago, but it had been burned away. His clothes had been reduced to charred cloth and barely served to preserve modesty. Osmund seemed relatively unharmed, though. He stood up and took a step toward Criera. Her eyes widened and she threw her hands toward her opponent. A beam of emerald energy shot forward. Osmund lifted his arm and caught it in his right hand. White light surrounded it and grew so bright Jez had to turn away. The image of the warrior was burned into his sight and it took several seconds to fade. By then, the crowd cheered so loud that they drowned out the sounds of the battle. When Jez’s vision cleared, Osmund’s hand had closed around Criera’s throat.

  “Disgraceful,” Baron Dusan spat.

  “My Lord?” Jez asked, tearing his eyes away from the battle.

  Dusan’s steel gray eyes were as cold as ice. He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper beard. He looked down his nose at the battle ground. “In a proper duel, Jezreel, the combatants never lay a hand on each other. It’s supposed to be an elegant dance of power.” He waved his hand at the pair. “That brute should be thrown from the arena.”

  Judging by the cheers of the crowd, most people didn’t agree, but Jez simply smiled. He turned his attention back to the combat. Criera’s eyes were wide with fear. She was clawing at Osmund’s arm, but the larger warrior seemed not to notice. Sweat gleamed on Osmund’s forehead. No, it wasn’t sweat. Osmund’s forehead was glowing. In fact, his entire body had begun emitting light and was growing steadily brighter. Some of the cheering died and whispers rippled through the crowd. Criera was already beaten. There was no need for him to summon more power. A man in the scarlet robes of an arena judge stepped onto the battle ground. He raised a hand in a gesture that would’ve ended the duel, but just before he completed it, Osmund dropped his opponent, a look of panic on his face. His glow vanished. As soon as Criera’s feet hit the ground, she dove at him, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

  The crowd erupted again. Criera’s hands glowed with power, but Osmund didn’t seem to be fighting at all. He just stood there. Her fist connected with his chin so hard that even from twenty feet away, Jez felt the air vibrating with the force of the blow. It lifted Osmund off the ground and sent him up at least a dozen feet before he came crashing back down. He groaned and tried to get up, but his arms gave out, and he fell again. This time, he didn’t move. The judge stepped forward and examined the fallen boy. Jez held his breath. If the judge placed a black cloth over the fighter’s face, it would mean he was dead. From what Jez had heard, it did happen sometimes, though rarely. It would be a dark way to end the first duel he’d ever seen. Fortunately, the judge simply stood up and raised a hand. He bowed in Criera’s direction, declaring her the winner. The crowd cheered, but Baron Dusan just gave a slow clap. Some of those seated nearby gave Dusan sidelong glances and stopped cheering. They looked uneasy, but the baron seemed not to notice. Jez wanted to ask him what was wrong, but the people around them were cheering too loud for them to have any meaningful conversation.

  It was several minutes before they were able to get out of the arena. Dusan’s guards, led by a bear of a man named Jabur, formed a circle around them that kept the greater part of the crowd away. Every once in a while, though, Dusan would signal, and they would allow a wealthy merchant or minor noble into their perimeter to speak to the baron. These exchanges lasted only a few minutes, but there were a lot of them, and they added up. With the late afternoon sun beating down on Jez, he just wished they would hurry. The formal clothes the baron had provided looked nice, but they were hot, and Jez was sweating profusely. On the streets outside, coins changed hands and people paid off the bets they’d made. Baron Dusan hadn’t allowed Jez to place a wager, saying a boy of thirteen was too young to gamble. Jez was grateful for that. Like many people, he hadn’t thought Criera had stood much of a chance against the larger and more powerful Osmund, so Jez would’ve lost everything he’d bet.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” Jez said once they’d finally boarded their carriage. “I’d never seen a battlemage duel. My father never brought me to one.”

  Dusan grunted. “Well, I doubt your father could afford to bring you here if he saved for a year. What have you learned?”

  Jez started to speak, but almost bit his tongue as the carriage started bouncing along. Even after six months, he still wasn’t used to how it jostled him about.

  “They are very brave,” he said finally.

  Dusan snorted. “What bravery does it take to fight in such battles? That boy attends the Carceri Academy, and he was a disgrace. They should kick hi
m out for his performance.”

  “Just because he lost?”

  “Because of how he fought,” Dusan said. “This is no tavern brawl. When I attended, the Academy meant something. Only the best of society could attend, none of this lower tier nonsense. The chancellor in my day would turn over in his grave if he knew the depths to which this new breed has fallen.”

  Jez shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. He’d wanted to tell the baron that the seats were too hard, but since the nobleman had been kind enough to take Jez on as a ward, he never felt right complaining.

  “I was thinking about studying battle magic at the Academy.”

  Some of the color drained from Dusan’s face, but it only lasted a second. With visible effort, the baron forced himself to calm down. He straightened his back and looked down his nose at Jez the same way a hawk might look at a mouse. “Absolutely not.”

  “But...”

  “Battle magic is for the lower class, soldiers and such. As my ward you’ll be representing me, and I won’t have my name sullied by your studying of baser subjects.” Jez let out a breath and nodded, and Dusan’s expression softened. “Look, Jezreel, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re a member of my household now. That has a lot of privileges, but it also comes with responsibilities.” Jez sighed and nodded, and the baron let out a long breath. “Would you like it if I took you to see your father?”

  “Oh yes, my lord,” he said. “If that’s ok, I mean.”

  Dusan raised an eyebrow. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Dusan, in private, anyway.” Jez nodded and Dusan banged his cane on the roof of the carriage. The wooden slot slid open, and a man with a pointed nose looked inside.

  “Take us to Goodman Bartin’s home,” Dusan said. “Be quick about it.”

  Jez uttered a thanks, but Dusan waved it aside. They talked idly of what Jez could expect at the Carceri Academy, the premier center of learning in the kingdom of Ashtar. Dusan had attended nearly fifty years before, and he didn’t care for some of the changes the current chancellor, a healer named Balud, was making. A quarter hour later, the carriage came to a stop. The smell of salt water hung thick in the air along with the pronounced scent of fish. Dusan wrinkled his nose and nodded at Jez, who slipped out of the carriage.

  The sun was nearing the western horizon when he stepped onto the street. He’d barely taken a few steps when the driver urged the horses forward and the carriage disappeared around a corner, kicking up dust as it moved. Jez stared at the plain wooden door of the small house. A plank with a blue starfish painted on it hung over the door, the same symbol his father had painted on his fishing boat. The building was a shack compared to the opulent manor he’d lived in since the baron had taken him as a ward. Jez still didn’t know why that had happened. King Haziel had named Dusan as the Baron of Korand six months before. Immediately, Dusan had ordered all the boys in Randak to be brought before him, and for reasons no one could identify, he’d taken on Jez as a ward. Jez had felt out of place ever since. There were plenty of other, higher born boys in town who could benefit the baron’s patronage and who wouldn’t be a stranger to how highborn boys were supposed to behave. Even so, Jez’s father had said to not examine the gift too closely. It would open doors for Jez that would’ve otherwise remain closed and would provide opportunities neither one of them had ever imagined. Still, they hadn’t expected how much it would separate them. They only had the opportunity to visit a handful of times in the past six months. Jez took a deep breath and knocked on the door of the father he had not seen in over a month.

  CHAPTER 2

  The door creaked open, revealing a man with thin wispy hair. He claimed his hair had been as black as Jez’s once, and Jez couldn’t help but wonder if his would end up as gray as his father’s. Bartin had the sunbaked skin of someone who’d spent his life outdoors, and his weathered face had endured both sun and storm. The smell of fish and saltwater hung heavily around him. For a second, confusion twisted his features. Then, his face lit up and he threw his arms around Jez, who practically fell into his embrace.

  “Jez.” Jez could practically hear the tears in that voice. “It’s so good to see you.”

  A lump formed in Jez’s throat and for a moment, he was unable to speak. When he finally did find his words, his voice cracked. “I’m glad to be here, father.”

  “Come in, please. It’s a cool evening, and I don’t want you catching a chill.”

  In fact, the evening was rather warm, but Jez didn’t contradict him. His father scurried out of the doorway. The house had one main room with a stone hearth in the center. A net hung on the wall alongside a pair of fishing lines. Wooden planks groaned underfoot as Jez stepped inside, and he found himself relaxing at the familiar sound. A cauldron boiled on the fire, giving off the aroma fish stew. Jez’s mouth watered. It had been too long. Baron Dusan provided him with elaborate meals from all over the world, but none of them could compare with his father’s fish stew. None of them tasted so much like home. As he followed his father to the table on the other side of the room, he noticed Bartin favored his left leg.

  “What happened?”

  For a moment, confusion dance across his father’s face, but Jez looked at Bartin’s legs and his father shrugged. “This? It’s nothing. I had a good catch and had just sold it to the fishmongers. I had a purse full of silver and my head held high. Too high, actually. I tripped over a twice cursed cat and fell on my rump. I think the entire market laughed at me.” He grinned. “Can’t say that I blame them, but by the seven, did that hurt. Let that go to show you. Don’t get too puffed up with pride or the Creator will find a way to bring you down again.”

  He motioned to the table sitting against one wall. Wrapped bundles of what was probably dried fish sat on one end. Jez took one of the two seats, and his father sat across the table from him.

  “Have you eaten?”

  Jez’s mouth watered, but he nodded. Unfortunately, his stomach betrayed him with a growl. His father wrinkled his brow.

  “You weren’t expecting me,” Jez said. “You only prepared enough for one.”

  “Bah,” his father said, waving off his concern.

  He stood up and went outside. He came back a few minutes later with a cod that he’d doubtlessly hung up to dry, though the process hadn’t finished yet. It would be fresher than the wrapped bundles on the table. He placed it on a stone slab on top of the hearth. With the practiced hand of one who had done it more times that he could count, Bartin reduced the fish to small pieces which he set by the fire while he cut up vegetables. Once that was done, he put everything into the pot and dipped his hands into a bucket of water to wash off. He shook them dry before going back to join Jez.

  “There,” he said. “It should be ready in about an hour.”

  “Baron Dusan’s chef says you can’t add to a dish while it’s cooking.”

  His father snorted. “Maybe he can’t. So tell me. What brings you here tonight?”

  “I’m leaving for the Academy tomorrow,” Jez said. “I wanted to see you before I left. Baron Dusan dropped me off on the way home from the duel.”

  “The duel?” his father asked. “You mean that spectacle they put on in the arena? A twelve year old boy is too young to be watching such things. It’ll put ideas into your head.”

  Jez rolled his eyes. “I’ll be thirteen next month, father. Anyway, Baron Dusan doesn’t want me to use battle magic either.”

  “Maybe if the nobility would concern themselves with things that actually matter, conditions might improve. Did you hear about Kashur?”

  “No.” Jez leaned forward. Kashur lived next door and Jez had grown up with him. They’d often played before the baron had taken him as a ward.

  “He fell asleep two days ago and hasn’t woken up. If something isn’t done, we’ll have a full scale epidemic on our hands.”

  Jez shook his head. “Father, I’ve heard of this sleeping sickness. The healers are wo
rking on a cure. Baron Dusan says the lower class is making too much of it. It’s not like anyone has actually died of it.”

  Too late, Jez realized his mistake and wished he could take back those words. A hurt look flashed across his father’s face, but he banished it with obvious effort.

  “I’m sorry,” his father said. “I didn’t mean to bother you with the concerns of the common man.”

  “Father, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s not. Just remember what I said about getting too puffed up with pride.”

  “Father...”

  “Forget about it. Tell me about your life in the past couple of months. I hope you haven’t been so caught up in learning how to dress like a peacock that you’ve forgotten all the useful things I’ve taught you.”

  Jez looked down at the silk and velvet doublet he wore and felt his face heat up. The jacket was bright red with gold lining. Jeweled buttons ran down the center, and a ruby pin in the shape of a closed fist, Master Dusan’s sigil, sat on the left side of his chest. He wished he’d had the opportunity to change before coming here.

  “I don’t dress like this every day,” he said, his voice a little pained. “It was a gift from Baron Dusan. He wanted me to dress up for the duel.”

  His father snorted. “Dressing up to see two men throw magic at each other.”

  “One was a woman.”

  His father rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Oh, if one was a woman, that makes it much better. If you don’t be careful, you’ll become one of them, ready to trade your soul for money and power.” He looked at Jez and his face softened. “I’m sorry boy. I’ve tried to provide what I could for you. It just bothers me that Dusan swoops in here and takes you from me, and without even trying, he gives you all the things I never could.”

  “I didn’t want to go with him,” Jez reminded him. “You told me to.”

  He smiled, though it was obviously forced. “That I did. I don’t truly hold anything against the man. I’m glad for all he’s provided you with, and I know you’ll go far with it. Just don’t forget about your old father when you go out into the world.”