Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  She peered around the corner toward the docks, and her heart sang. Shades who had been left to guard the ships were now running toward the city walls. Behind them crews streamed from their vessels, carrying buckets that they dipped into the Bay.

  She withdrew and ran back to the others. “It worked. They are running to douse the flames. We should get closer to the gates and be ready to run as soon as we discover an opening.”

  Step by step, they followed Loren forward, coughing and casting their cloaks across their mouths to stop themselves from inhaling the soot. Erin buried his head in his father’s shoulder, crying. Loren soon realized she did not have to worry overmuch about being spotted; the smoke pouring through the streets, as well as the scorching heat, held the Shades’ attention. Sometimes, they passed soldiers a few paces away in the smoke, but still attracted no notice.

  They soon emerged coughing from the smoke, running as quickly as they could into the open square before the western gate. But the moment the smoke left their eyes they skidded to a halt on the paving stones.

  There stood Rogan, framed by the western gate. His axe and shield were battered and stained, and his armor bore many rents from blows from battle. He stood alone, for all his soldiers were in the city to wrestle the fires. Loren quaked in her boots, for she knew he was easily a match for them all.

  “I see I was right,” said Rogan. “As soon as I saw the smoke rising from the city, I knew you were making for the boats. A clever tactic, Loren.”

  Chet stepped forward to stand at her side. Gem and Eamin followed.

  “You may stand aside, if you wish,” said the Lord Prince. “I swear we will let you live.”

  Rogan laughed, blood standing out shockingly red against his bright teeth. “A precious sentiment, Princeling. Here is my counter: kneel and present your necks for my axe, and I will make the killing quick.”

  “Remember the tattoo. You cannot defeat him,” Loren said quietly. Then she turned to Xain and the royal guard standing by the High King. “Get yourselves out of the city, and the High King as well. We will hold him off as long as we can.”

  “I will not leave my son,” said Enalyn.

  “You will if you must, Your Grace,” said Loren firmly. “If he will not run from this fight, still you must reach the Selvan shores in safety.”

  “What are you whispering there, Nightblade?” said Rogan. “I think you have used your last clever strategy. Come, we shall make this quick. There is no need for you to suffer as Jordel did.”

  Loren turned on Rogan. Her bow felt light in her hand, and she ached to use it. “You may not speak his name.”

  Rogan smiled, and despite all she knew of him, it looked kind. “You truly loved the Mystic, did you not? The look in your eyes . . . it is almost worship. He should not have died. He should have been on our side. I can only imagine the sort of captain he would have made in our ranks. I am what he could have been—but better, for I will never die.”

  She nocked the arrow without thinking.

  It sped true, but Rogan lifted his shield to block it. Then he was charging forward, and Eamin met the first blow with his sword.

  “Get her away!” cried Loren.

  Enalyn circled around, making for the gate under her guard’s escort. Xain stood frozen, staring at Loren in silent fury.

  “Go,” she said. “You remember what happened when you tried your magic on Trisken. You are even more useless here than I am.”

  He nodded and followed the High King, his son in tow.

  Loren turned, another arrow nocked. Gem had edged forward, his sword held forth, but his hands trembled and he looked ready to flee. Chet was a few paces ahead, holding his staff but seemed equally lost. They knew, as Loren did, that they stood no chance against Rogan. They could only distract him, and surely not for long.

  Eamin was doing a remarkable job for the moment. He matched the brute stroke for stroke, and even without a shield his guard was impenetrable. His armor had been left atop the palace, and he used that to his advantage, dodging blows rather than trying to meet them head on, and striking with light, quick jabs that Rogan had to move quickly to avoid. The Lord Prince hoped to tire his opponent, who was burdened by his armor, before moving in for the final blow.

  As Eamin and Rogan backed away from each other, Loren drew and fired. The arrow glanced from Rogan’s helmet, knocking it sideways. Chet swung with his staff, and Gem took another step forward. But Rogan quickly recovered, blocked the staff with his shield then swung wide to force them both back. Eamin lunged and struck again. His blade found purchase in Rogan’s hip. He grunted and fell back, hiding behind his shield.

  “I had heard you were a mighty warrior,” said Eamin lightly. “But it looks as though the enchantment is your only strength.”

  “It is strength enough,” said Rogan with a smile.

  Loren looked past him to the gate. Enalyn and Xain had nearly reached it. Rogan’s attention was on the Lord Prince—it was going to work.

  But that hope proved false. Rogan whirled around as though he had eyes in the back of his head and charged them. Eamin ran to follow as the King’s guard stepped forward to block her. But with three swift strokes, Rogan knocked the man’s sword aside and planted an axe in his chest. He sank to his knees with a grunt, dropping the sword to grip the axe with both hands.

  That gave Eamin a moment’s advantage. He plunged his sword into Rogan’s back beneath the breastplate. He cried out in pain, arching backward and grasping at the blade. It was out of his reach, and Eamin held fast, pushing him away from the High King.

  “Go!” Loren slung her bow and ran forward, seizing Gem’s and Chet’s arms then dragging them through the gate. Enalyn was beside them, and Xain with his son. Beyond the wall she stopped and turned to look.

  Still, Eamin held Rogan like a pig on a spit. But Loren could see the glow of dark magic around his neck, and already Rogan’s flesh stitched itself together around the blade.

  He turned like a serpent, ripping the hilt from Eamin’s hand. His mailed fist crashed into the Lord Prince’s face then his chest. Loren had a horrifying flash of memory, of Jordel’s chest caving in under Trisken’s mighty blows. Eamin struggled to hold his feet, but Rogan struck him hard with both fists clenched, and he went flying to land at Loren’s feet.

  “Impotent children,” snarled Rogan. “Come here that I may show you death’s true power.”

  He took a step forward then stopped and looked down. The royal guard still lived, and had wrapped an arm around one ankle. The axe was still buried in his chest. He used his free hand to yank it out with a roar, and sent it skidding across the pavement out the gate.

  “Girl!” he cried. “The chain!”

  Loren ran to the axe and wrapped both hands around its haft.

  Rogan, oblivious, tore his plated boot free from the guard’s grip. The foot came up then down with a horrifying crunch. He stamped repeatedly until the sound grew horrible and wet.

  His gaze rose to Loren, bloodlust burning his eyes. She stood facing him, at the gate’s edge, all her strength barely enough to lift the axe. Rogan bared his teeth in a grin then threw back his head to laugh out loud.

  “What do you mean to do with an axe you can scarcely even wield, girl? You cannot kill me.”

  “I know,” said Loren. Then she swung with all her might at the chain holding the portcullis.

  Rogan barely had time to look up before it came crashing down, crushing him under its weight. Two of the three-foot spikes along its bottom pierced his chest, sinking into the stone, while he screamed in agony and rage.

  Loren dropped the axe and ran, helping Lord Prince Eamin to his feet. After joining the others, together they fled to the docks where a fleet awaited with boats to be chosen.

  thirty-five

  The gates of Garsec, Selvan’s capital city, swung open before them. Limping and sore, Loren and the others made their way through. Inside the palace stood Anwar, King of Selvan, along with a retinue to receive t
hem. His healers ran forward, robes swishing about their feet, to greet the High King.

  “I am well,” Enalyn said, waving them off. “See to the Lord Prince and the others.”

  Anwar came forward at once, taking a knee before her. “Your Grace. I cannot express my relief at seeing you alive and well.”

  Enalyn reached down and took his hands, drawing him to his feet. “King Anwar. Thank you for your hospitality in our time of need.”

  “I could do no less. I blame myself for this. With so many of our soldiers south in Wellmont, we did not keep watch over the Great Bay and did not see the attack upon the Seat until too late.”

  “You could not have known.”

  Loren watched as the healers saw to Eamin’s wounds. They were only bruises and would heal with time. He kept trying to push them off, but with the High King’s command ringing in their ears, they would not leave him alone.

  They had sailed the short distance southwest across the water to the docks of Garsec and immediately sent word of the High King’s arrival. While they waited for a carriage to be sent, they stood upon the docks and watched the Seat across the water. The smoke grew ever thicker, until the flames’ orange glow could be seen across the island. Flames consumed everything until the Shades were forced to flee the island’s destruction. Across the strait they sailed, to land on the coast and vanish again into the Birchwood. Meanwhile, the Dulmun fleet set sail for the east, returning to their homeland to plot their next stroke. One kingdom had risen in rebellion against the High King that day, and who knew which others held treason in their hearts?

  “You are deep in thought, girl.”

  Loren blinked then ducked in a half bow. While she had been distracted, looking out through the palace gates, Enalyn had approached from behind. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

  “Do not. I, too, find my mind much occupied. Will you walk with me?”

  Loren nodded, and Enalyn led her through the gate. The palace sat upon a great hill, almost a mountain, in the middle of the city. There was a wide open space outside its walls, from which they could survey the city and all the lands beyond. Enalyn took her north, where they could see the Birchwood green far away. There she stopped to stare at the forest.

  Just as Loren was growing uncomfortable in the silence, the High King finally spoke. “I owe you a great debt. Many times over.”

  Loren shook her head. “I did only the duty that was passed down to me.”

  “Many do their duty. Sometimes, that duty requires much of us, and carrying it out should be seen as a fine thing.”

  “As you say, Your Grace.”

  Enalyn turned to Loren and met her gaze without flinching. She felt overshadowed despite standing more than a head taller. “I have need of those with honest and loyal hearts. I have had many such servants, but they are all of a type. Like the Lord Chancellor, or even my son, they think only of the great battle, the wartime stratagem. We need something else now. The great strength of the Shades is not their might of arms, but the plans they hatch when they believe we cannot see.”

  “Indeed, it seems we cannot. None of us knew their plans, and thus we played the very game they set for us.”

  Enalyn looked into her eyes. “That is what I mean to fix, if you will help me.”

  “Your Grace? I do not understand.”

  “I would have you enter my service, Loren of the family Nelda. My personal service, answerable to me, under the direction and guidance of Chancellor Kal, who it seems I should have been listening to for some time now.”

  “You . . . desire my service?” Loren could not wrap her mind around the idea. I am a simple forest girl. A daughter of the Birchwood. And yet here she stood with the High King. “Your Grace . . . I do not know what to say.”

  “Say you will serve me, of course,” said Enalyn, her words softened with a smile.

  Loren fell to her knee. “Of course, Your Grace. You do me great honor. But . . . what am I, exactly?”

  “I have yet to tell you your task.”

  Loren shook her head. “That is not what I mean. I will be the agent of your will. But what am I? When I act in your name, what will I call myself? Your advisor? Your messenger?”

  “Your title? There is a name already, I hear, in the stories people whisper about you. Let that be your title, my Nightblade.”

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  OTHER BOOKS BY GARRETT ROBINSON

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  The Nightblade Epic

  NIGHTBLADE

  MYSTIC

  DARKFIRE

  A Witty, Piercing Look at Independent Art

  REBEL YELL

  The Realm Keepers Series—Epic Fantasy from Another World

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  The Contemporary Sci-Fi Mystery

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  The International Assassin Thriller

  HIT GIRLS

  The Hilariously Gory Horror Series

  NON ZOMBIE

  NON ZOMBIE II

  The Ridiculously Fun Fairy Tale Adventure

  THE NINJABREAD MAN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Garrett Robinson was born and raised in Los Angeles. The son of an author/painter father and a violinist/singer mother, no one was surprised when he grew up to be an artist.

  After blooding himself in the independent film industry, he self-published his first book in 2012 and swiftly followed it with a stream of others, publishing more than two million words by 2014. Within months he topped numerous Amazon bestseller lists. Now he spends his time writing books and directing films.

  A passionate fantasy author, his most popular series is the Nightblade Epic. However, he has delved into many other genres. Some works are for adult audiences only, such as Non Zombie and Hit Girls, but he has also published popular books for younger readers, including the Realm Keepers series and The Ninjabread Man, co-authored with Z.C. Bolger.

  Garrett lives in Los Angeles with his wife Meghan, his children Dawn, Luke, and Desmond, and his dog Chewbacca.

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  epilogue

  Rogan’s boots shuffled uncertainly through the Birchwood soil, his path swaying back and forth. He tried to muster his strength. It would not do for the Shades at his back to see their commander weak and wandering. His hand went to his chest with a grimace. Still the wounds had not fully healed, where the portcullis had punched through plate, flesh, and bone all at once.

  His teeth ground together. He did not fear his father’s wrath. He feared his disappointment. Rogan was the favored son. He had been told this all his life. And now he had failed the man to whom he owed everything.

  “Are you disappointed, my Son?”

  Rogan staggered to a halt, as did the soldiers behind him. His eyes filled with tears at the voice.

  “Wait here,” he said, keeping his back turned so they could not see his face. “Do not move without my order.”

  He stalked off into the woods, toward the voice. He did not have to search far before he stopped, tears spilling down his cheeks.

  “Father,” he whimpered. He sank to his knees, leaves crunching beneath him. “My father. Forgive me.”