The Complete Shadow Trilogy

by Dayne Edmondson

  At last, satisfied, he plunged the sword into a bucket of water at his side, causing steam to billow up. He looked over and saw John and Ashley standing there. “John, Ashley, good to see you. I was just finishing up a sword for the armory. Come on in. Grab an apron, Ashley, if you’d like.” He reached into the water and removed the quenched blade. He set it on one of the finishing racks to dry.

  During their first week in Tar Ebon, the sound of metal on metal had drawn Ashley’s attention as the two of them passed the blacksmith shop. She had stopped, listening for a few moments, before entering the shop and observing Gerry at work. John had seen a light begin to glow in her eyes as she expanded her magical awareness, rudimentary as it was at the time, toward the metal that Gerry had been hammering. After a few minutes, the light had disappeared and she had smiled at John. “That’s amazing, John. The way the metal changes with each strike of the hammer. It’s like I can feel it, the way the heat inundates the iron, the way it feels when metal strikes metal.” She had struck up a conversation with Gerry and began to learn the art of blacksmithing.

  John came with her to the blacksmith shop to be supportive, though he had to admit he hadn’t felt the same connection as she had to the metal. To him, metal was just metal. It was boring and uninteresting. When he drew upon the heightened awareness his magic afforded him, he preferred to study more ephemeral things, such as energy and light. Metal was a constant, predictable thing, while energy seemed full of endless possibilities in John’s mind.

  Ashley took an apron from the rack on the wall and drew it over her head while John took a seat in the corner. She stepped toward the center of the room. “What are we making next, Gerry?”

  “A shield,” Gerry replied as he pulled out an ingot of iron from a set of metal shelves standing against the wall opposite John. “Start the bellows up.”

  Ashley began working the bellows, increasing the temperature in the forge. Sweat began to form on John’s forehead as a fresh wave of heat assailed him. Blacksmith shops by design were always sweltering. Retaining the heat generated by the coals in the forge meant less fuel had to be consumed to maintain a working temperature.

  Gerry began by lowering the iron into the hot coals of the forge with a pair of tongs. The iron sat for several minutes, until it glowed red. He lifted the iron from the forge and laid it on the anvil. “Hammer,” he said.

  Ashley reached over to the tool rack and grabbed a hammer. She handed it to him and he began to hammer the hot iron ingot flat. Several minutes later, after the shield had been shaped and cooled, Gerry turned to Ashley. “Do you want to try forging your own item, Ashley?”

  “Not today, Gerry. I’m exhausted from training. I just like watching you work. I admire the way you make the metal do whatever you desire. Where did you learn so much about metalworking?”

  A distant look came into his eyes as he stared straight ahead. “I learned over many years in the city of Ironforge. I was born there. Have you heard of the place?”

  Ashley shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s a city far to the northeast, along the White Mountains. The greatest metalworking city in all the world, if you ask me. Deep tunnels are dug into the heart of the mountain, where an army of miners dig for iron and other precious metals. The ore is carried out of the mines in massive trains of carts and brought into the foundry. The forges of Ironforge are never cold - they run night and day unending. Underground pipes carry heat from the forges to all of the buildings in the city. Merchants come from far and wide to bring orders for the master craftsmen to fill. The smiths of Ironforge are renowned for their skill and expertise. Many are mages, with the gift of seeing inside the metal, but even the mundane smiths with a passion for the craft are highly praised. It was in the depths of those forges that I learned my craft. If you’re still interested when you complete your training, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation to my own teacher.”

  Ashley clapped her hands. “That would be wonderful! Thank you, Gerry.”

  John stood up. “It’s probably time for us to head back to the inn, Ashley. It’s getting dark.”

  Ashley turned to John and nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” She turned back to Gerry. “Thank you again, Gerry, for an instructive evening. I’ll return soon.”

  “My pleasure, lass,” Gerry replied with a bow. “Good night to you as well, John. You’ve got a good woman there - I hope you appreciate her.”

  “Thanks Gerry,” John said as he stepped up behind Ashley and placed his hands on her waist. “I’m one lucky man.”

  Chapter 19 - Visitor in the Night

  Boris lay on his bunk, exhausted. His bones ached, his muscles burned and the wounds scattered across his body throbbed. The more serious wounds he had sustained were bandaged with crude strips of cloth. Not even the bare wooden slat he lay on bothered him this night.

  He was on the verge of sleep when he heard the door open. He lay very still and slowed his breathing. He had no weapon to speak of - they were taken from him after each match, but he readied himself to strike with hands and feet, catching the intruder by surprise.

  The figure approached. In the darkness, broken only by the faint light from the moon-less sky, he could only see a silhouette. The figure came up to the side of the bed and spoke. “Are you awake?”

  Boris was startled. The voice was that of a female. He did not release the tension in his muscles that left him ready to strike, but he did cease the slowing of his breathing and speak. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sansa,” she said. Without asking for permission, she reached for him.

  Boris lashed out with a hand, grabbing the silhouette of her wrist. Her skin was smooth. “Don’t touch me. Why are you here?”

  Sansa pulled back her hand. “I have been sent to please you this evening. I am told you are the champion.” Her hands rose and caressed her body. “I am yours to command, my champion.”

  A whore, Boris thought. Is this how all the slaves who win are treated? He had not heard of this from the other slaves who had won matches. Knowing them, they would have bragged about it. She very well could be an assassin, sent to slay me when I am distracted. He regarded Sansa with suspicion. “Who sent you?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “I am told to come to this room, so I come.” She went to her knees and placed one hand on his trousers. Her hand found no resistance at its destination. “But enough talk. Allow me to please you tonight, as you deserve.”

  “Let me light a candle, first, so that I might look upon you before we begin.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Sansa said as she leaned forward and caressed his trousers with her lips. Her actions were making it difficult for Boris to concentrate. “We don’t need to see each other,” she whispered.

  “Ah, but I insist on seeing my attacker.”

  “Your…,” but the words were cut off as Boris grabbed her throat in an iron grip and shoved her head backward. Sitting up on the bed, Boris maintained the hold. Sansa tugged at his hand with her own, while the second hand, which had before that point not been seen, swung out. In her hand was the silhouette of a pointed object, a dagger. Boris anticipated the strike, however, and seized her arm with his free hand. He squeezed, and her hand relented under the crushing grip, causing it to open and the dagger to clatter to the stone floor.

  “Now, who sent you?” He released the pressure on her throat enough for her to speak.

  “I don’t know,” she croaked. “I was just given a blade and sent to kill you.”

  “Who gave you the blade?” Boris reached down and grabbed it, while still maintaining a slight grip on her throat.”

  “A man. I don’t know his name.”

  “Describe him.”

  “A giant of a man. I had not seen him before. He had blond hair. The other guards showed respect to him.” Darin, Boris thought.

  “How long have you been at the estate?”

  “I have worked in the mansion for several weeks.”

 
“As a whore?”

  “I have served in any capacity required.”

  “Including attempted assassination. Do you even know what to do with that knife?”

  “I was told to slit your throat.”

  Boris grunted. “I should kill you, to send a message to Darin.” He felt her stiffen beneath his grip, fear seizing her. “However, I will let you live. It is clear you were not meant to succeed. I suspect that Darin planned this so that I would kill you and be blamed for killing a valuable slave. That would be reason enough for him to have me punished, perhaps even killed.”

  “Why doesn’t he just kill you himself?”

  “Because I’m a valuable slave. Those of no value die in the arena. Those that survive, they are prized by the slave master. Not even Darin is allowed to outright kill a winning slave. Not without reason.”

  “I am free to go, then?”

  “Yes. Leave before I change my mind.”

  “Thank you so much for your kindness.” Sansa rose to her knees and headed toward the door. She stopped at the door. “What should I tell Darin if he asks?”

  “He will know tomorrow that you have failed. But if he asks, tell him that I discovered your treachery and stopped you.”

  “Won’t I be punished? Or killed?”

  “Better to take your chances out there than to die in here. I can offer you no protection.”

  “I understand. Thank you.” She exited the room in the same manner as she had arrived.

  Boris lit a candle and studied the knife. Simple, unadorned, it looked similar to the blade he had used that day during the match. If they had found the dead woman in his rooms, they would have claimed that he hid the blade from the day’s match among his person, then used it on her. Boris took the blade and knelt down beside his bed. Using the knife, he pried one of the floor stones out. Setting the dagger aside, he dug out a shallow hole and laid the dagger within it, before replacing the floor stone. He tossed much of the excess dirt into his chamberpot and scattered the remainder throughout the room. The knife could come in handy when the day came to plan his escape.

  Returning to his flat, he felt more exhausted than before the woman entered. Sleep was not long in coming for Boris.

  Chapter 20 - A Challenge

  A loud crash awoke Dawyn. Sitting up from where he lay next to Anwyn, he saw men rushing into the room carrying crossbows. The men spread into the room, crossbows never deviating from Dawyn and Anwyn’s position. In the space of a few seconds, the room was packed. Dawyn eyed his sword at the side of his bed, but thought better of it. The entire reason for their journey here was to find Ferdinand, and the intrusion into their room suggested he was behind it and aware of their presence.

  Beside Dawyn, Anwyn stirred and sat up. Dawyn had to give her credit, for she did not scream. She looked around at the men, eyes wide, and then looked at Dawyn. “What do we do?”

  “Just stay calm,” Dawyn spoke out of the side of his mouth, not looking at Anwyn. “Let them take us.”

  Anwyn gave no sign of acknowledgment, but he was sure she had understood him.

  After the men had rushed into the room, the figure of Bertram darkened the doorway. “Bertram?” Dawyn asked. “What is the meaning of this? Who are all these men?” He tried to make his voice sound frightened.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you folks, but you were asking too many questions,” Bertram said tersely. “Most people don’t come looking for work for the nobles, and I didn’t like the look of you two. So, why are you here? Answer the question, and my boys won’t have to rough you up too much.”

  Dawyn forced himself to swallow visibly. “Alright, you caught us,” he said, defeat heavy in his voice. “We’re looking for the slave master Ferdinand.”

  “Why might you be looking for Ferdinand?” Bertram asked.

  Anwyn spoke up. “I was a prisoner of his, once. We came searching for revenge.”

  “Revenge you say? Just the two of you?”

  Anwyn nodded.

  “Well, you must be a special kind of stupid, then,” Bertram laughed. “Did you think you could just walk up to Ferdinand and attack him? Did you give no thought to guards or plans or the like?”

  Dawyn averted his eyes toward the comforter atop the bed, trying to seem ashamed. “We didn’t do much thinking. We just…we just wanted revenge.”

  “Well, I admire your spirit. I happen to know Ferdinand very well, for he’s my brother,” Bertram said. “We’ll take you to him, and you can attempt to take your revenge. Now get out of bed and keep your hands where my men can see them. Any wrong moves and you both become pincushions.”

  Dawyn sat up and got out of bed, as did Anwyn on her side. The men searched both Dawyn and Anwyn, throwing their possessions onto the bed, where they rummaged through them. Fortunately, anything that could have identified Dawyn or Anwyn had been left at a safe place in the woods. Satisfied, the men bound the two with ropes around their wrists and ankles and shoved Dawyn and Anwyn out of the room and down the stairs. The hour was late, and the inn was closed for the night, resulting in a silent procession of armed men through the vacant common room of the inn. They exited through the back door, where a carriage awaited. After being shoved into the carriage, four men entered and pointed their daggers at the the two of them, urging them to be quiet and not to try anything.

  The wagon began moving and turned. It made a series of turns before Dawyn heard the rumbling of the city gates being opened. He wasn’t sure which gate this was, for the city had three gates. The carriage picked up speed as it reached the open countryside, the wheels clattering on the cobblestone road. Dawyn could hear the clatter of horseshoes hammering against the stones as well, suggesting the men from the inn were all accompanying the wagon.

  Several hours later, the wagon began to slow. The sound of voices in the distance reached Dawyn’s ears, while the smell of many cook fires assaulted his nose. At last, the wagon came to a halt. The doors were flung open on each side and Dawyn and Anwyn were once again dragged from the carriage. Dawyn looked around. They were in the center of an encampment of some sort. The tents around them were laid out in disarray, with no distinct pattern that Dawyn could discern. Mercenaries, Dawyn thought. No self-respecting military would allow their camp to be in such disarray. He noticed the riders that had accompanied the carriage - among them was Bertram.

  They shuffled toward a tent. The tent was larger than any of the surrounding tents and bore no banner. The entrance was flanked by two angry-looking guards, who slapped fist to chest as Bertram strode toward the entrance to the tent. The rest of the brutes from the inn followed. Entering through the tent flaps, Dawyn and Anwyn were treated to a scene of pretentious opulence. Thick, elegant carpets with artwork depicting epic battles lined the floor, similar mosaics hung from the walls of the tent. Servants, slaves rather, bustled around the tent.

  At the far end of the tent sat a gold-colored throne. Seated in the throne was a large man with short cut black hair, olive complexion and a scar beneath his left eye. The man wore no shirt, only dark brown trousers. “Bertram,” the man said. “What brings you here at this late hour, my brother?”

  “Hello, brother,” Bertram said with a slight bow of his head. “I have found two charlatans who have been searching for you. The woman was once a slave of yours.” He pointed to Anwyn. “They claim to seek revenge on you for her enslavement. I bring them to you to decide their fate.”

  Ferdinand stood up and walked toward Dawyn and Anwyn. Dawyn tensed as the man studied Anwyn. He grabbed her breasts, squeezing them, and grabbed her chin, turning her face from side to side. He seized her arm and looked on the inside of her wrist, where the mark of his band of slaves was faint but still visible. Anwyn, for her part, endured the inspection in silence, though Dawyn imagined she wanted to tear the man apart. “A pretty woman, though I do not remember her. I will be happy to become reacquainted with her in the bed, however.” He stepped up to Dawyn next and walked around him. “Who is the man?”
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  “Her lover, we believe,” Bertram said. “They were traveling together and stayed in the same room.”

  “Is this true?” Ferdinand asked of Dawyn. “Are you and this woman lovers?”

  Dawyn nodded.

  Ferdinand clapped his hands. “Excellent. There can only be one lover of this woman, so tomorrow you will die in the arena. You will provide the entertainment for my men.”

  “Who will I face?” Dawyn asked.

  “Why, my greatest champion, Golivar. He will relish destroying you.” Ferdinand looked at Bertram. “Take him to the arena and prepare him. Have the woman put in proper attire and taken to my viewing box. She will be seated next to me as her lover dies.”

  “What if I succeed?” Dawyn asked.

  Ferdinand laughed. “If you succeed in killing my champion, you may do as you wish with me. You may even kill me.” His voice made it clear that he did not expect that to be an option.

  Dawyn made eye contact with Anwyn and tried to make his gaze as reassuring as possible. He had no intention of dying. He gave a slight nod to emphasize his unspoken thoughts. She gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, before they were separated.

  Chapter 21 - Binding

  Jason walked through the streets of Tar Ebon without purpose after parting ways with Ashley and John. At the late hour, most of the vendors were closing up, while the taverns and inns throughout the city were just beginning to get busy. He stopped by the water’s edge for a warm meal of fresh whitefish. Returning to the Dancing Mare so soon held little appeal to him, so he decided to take a meandering path back to the tavern, one which took him through the royal district and next to the palace.