Journey of Shadows (The Palâdnith Chronicles Book 1)

by Sam J. Charlton

  Riadamor screamed; an agonised cry that echoed up and down the valley.

  The world disappeared.

  Belythna fell into howling darkness. Wind whipped about her and she plummeted into a black abyss towards nothing. Belythna’s limbs flailed, her hands clawing in the dark, but there was nothing to grab hold of. Then the horror of it consumed her, and she fainted.

  ***

  When Belythna awoke, she found herself face-down on cold, hard stone.

  The smell of damp filled her nostrils.

  Belythna’s body ached, her head throbbed and her mouth tasted foul. For a moment she was completely disoriented. Then it all came rushing back, and with it an agonising sense of loss.

  Stifling a groan, Belythna pulled herself up onto all fours and raised her head to look around. She sat on a circular, stone platform with rope and wooden bridges leading off it on all sides. Nearby, Riadamor sprawled, unconscious, on the rock.

  They sat on the portal: the gateway between two worlds.

  The portal formed the heart of a vast chasm. The sound of dripping water echoed in the emptiness, and only darkness stretched above and below. Pitted stone walls surrounded them, shining wetly in the light from torches chained to the rock. The flames guttered as a cool breeze whispered up from the depths and cast long shadows over the walls.

  Belythna sat back and cast her gaze over the tangle of catwalks that spanned the abyss and circled the walls.

  Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced it back. She could not think about her boys, or Hath, now. There would be an eternity for her to wallow in desolation.

  She glanced over at where Riadamor was stirring.

  The Queen of the Esquill sat up. Riadamor looked about, her face stony.

  Eventually, the two women locked gazes.

  “What have you done?” Riadamor hissed. The torchlight gave her skin a corpse-like appearance and her grey eyes had deepened to black.

  “Brought you to the one place where you can do no harm,” Belythna replied.

  Riadamor’s face twisted.

  “Don’t be so sure of that. Moden has not stripped me of my powers. You have brought me to a dark place – and I have a skill for making dark things do my bidding.”

  Riadamor’s words chilled Belythna and she felt a knot of fear tighten in her belly. She was about to reply, when noises roused them.

  The creak of ropes.

  The slap of bare feet on wood.

  Voices whispering in the darkness.

  The women craned their necks towards the sound, watching as elongated shadows appeared at the far end of one wall – parodies of men, long-limbed and bent.

  Dread curled up within Belythna.

  “Our jailers are coming.”

  The two sorceresses got to their feet. Belythna’s gaze flicked to Riadamor and, for the first time since their arrival, she saw a glimmer of fear on her adversary’s face.

  There was no way out of here – for Moden was an ageless, timeless prison made by long-dead warlocks. Once you stepped through the portal, there was no way back. The ancients had created the perfect dungeon; one where their enemies would simply rot forever.

  Chapter One

  A Word of Warning

  Over thirty years later…

  Osforth Tower

  Weatherbay, Omagen

  Dawn had not yet broken when Seth Falkyn rose from his bed. The candle next to it had burnt down to a stub. Still, it threw out enough light for Seth to distinguish the interior of his tiny, cell-like chamber. Damp walls, a lichen-encrusted flagstone floor and a few items of wooden furniture riddled with woodlice surrounded him. It was a depressing abode, but one that had been his for nearly a decade.

  Seth turned away from the bed, catching sight as he did so, of Matilde’s tussled hair peeking out of the blankets. He envied the girl her slumber. Matilde often shared his bed. She wasn't particularly bright, or half as pretty as most of the girls in the village, but she came whenever he sent word – and that gave her a certain appeal.

  The hiss of rain lashing against the tower made Seth grimace. Shortly, he would have to ride out in this foul weather. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Seth reached for his leather breeches and pulled them on. The leather was clammy against his warm skin. After that, he put on worn leather boots that reached mid-calf before layering the top half of his body with an undershirt, a thick woollen high-necked tunic and a leather vest. Then, Seth took down the hooded mantle he always wore when escorting his master, from its hook behind the door, and fastened it about his shoulders. The mantle was a deep royal blue with Marshal Osforth’s crest, a white stag, on the collar. Finally, Seth buckled his sword about his hips, strapped a knife to his left thigh, and pulled on a pair of thick, leather gloves.

  Matilde did not stir as Seth crossed the room and let himself out into the stairwell.

  Stifling a yawn and struggling to clear the last remnants of sleep, Seth descended the granite steps that snaked their way down the tower. Candles lit his path, giving some warmth to the austere walls.

  Darin and Kal were waiting for Seth near the kitchens on the ground level. Behind them, warmth emanated from the open doorway; Seth could see the glow of the ovens pulsing like a hot ember in the darkness.

  Kal Roarn, his blond hair rumpled with sleep, passed Seth a crusty roll. It was still warm from the oven.

  “Here. That’s all we’re getting till Dunethport apparently.”

  Seth took a bite and glanced across at Darin Mel, the third of Marshal Osforth’s tower guards. A slender, sharp-featured man with piercing blue eyes, Darin was blinking, owl-like, at the stairwell behind Seth. Darin nodded brusquely at his companions.

  “Osforth’s coming.”

  Seth swallowed the rest of his roll, brushed the crumbs off his cloak and fell into line beside Kal and Darin. The three of them stood to attention as two figures descended the stairs; one portly and richly dressed, and the other whippet-thin and bent.

  Marshal Osforth and his manservant Garth reached the ground floor. The marshal sagged against his servant’s arm, favouring a gouty leg as he walked. He wore fine velvet robes and his long grey hair was brushed out around his shoulders. Looking upon his master, Seth was struck by how old and fat Osforth had become of late. If you were to believe the servants, the marshal had been handsome in his youth, but overindulgence in rich food and a sedentary, pleasure-seeking life, had ruined his health and looks.

  Marshal Osforth halted at the foot of the stairwell. His gaze swept over his tower guards before his face darkened.

  “The three of you look like you have slept in your uniforms,” he snapped. “You’ll have to tidy yourselves up before our audience with the realmlord. I’ll not have you disgrace me!”

  Seth bowed his head, so that Osforth would not see the derision in his gaze, and fell in behind the marshal.

  The only disgrace here milord, is you.

  There had been times, over the past months especially, when those words had been on the tip of Seth’s tongue. Osforth’s financial problems – the very reason they were travelling to Dunethport on this cold, wet morning – had made the marshal even more viperish than usual.

  Together, the party crossed the entrance hall, their boots scuffing on the flagstones, and made their way down to the cobbled courtyard below. An assembly of servants waited next to the marshal’s carriage to see him off. Osforth never left his tower without demanding that his entire household farewell him. The rain had lessened to a thick drizzle but the servants still hunched, miserable, in their woollen cloaks. They held torches aloft to guide the marshal to his carriage.

  Oblivious to his servants’ discomfort, Osforth limped across the cobbles to where his gilded carriage awaited. At this point, it took all three of his tower guards to hoist him into the silk-lined interior. Seth gritted his teeth as he performed the task. At times, he felt as if he was minding an enormous infant rather than one of the most powerful men in the Realm.

  Garth clambere
d to the front of the carriage, pulled up his hood and waited. With the marshal ensconced, Seth mounted his horse. He saw Kal blow one of the kitchen wenches a kiss. She was a giggling blonde known as ‘winsome Marta’. The girl tittered and blew Kal a kiss back.

  Meanwhile, Darin swung up onto his horse’s back, and gathered the reins. “It’s too early in the morning for this,” he muttered.

  A moment later, Garth flicked the reins, and the two grey horses pulling the marshal’s carriage moved off. Seth fell in behind as they rumbled out of the courtyard, under a stone arch and towards Weatherbay. To the east, the first light of dawn stained the sky, while behind them the shadowed bulk of Osforth Tower looked even grimmer than usual. It was a great stone edifice covered in moss and lichen, and wreathed in mist this morning.

  The bad weather had closed in, and a monochrome world enveloped the party. Sheets of rain swept over the travellers and banks of porridge-like mist obscured the ocean from view. They rode through Weatherbay, but there were few outdoors to note their passing. The hamlet was little more than a scattering of low-slung timber houses with thatched roofs stretching down a long, muddy street. Firelight burnt behind tightly shuttered windows and plumes of wood-smoke rose from stacked chimneys. Seth could smell onions roasting as he passed Weatherbay’s only tavern, reminding him of his own meagre breakfast.

  There were no fishermen out this morning collecting shellfish from the mudflats, or netting fish in the channel. Nor were there any farmers out in the fields. Spring was nearing, and once it arrived, the countryside would come to life. For now, nature lay dormant.

  Leaving Weatherbay at their backs, the party climbed the foothills of Mount Caligar. They passed no other travellers. The marshal’s carriage bounced and jolted over the muddy, pot-holed road and they were forced to slow their pace for the cumbersome carriage and its wearisome inhabitant.

  It was a long and tiring journey over the mountain, especially so in bad weather. As he rode, Seth let his mind wander. The spring would mark ten years since he had entered Marshal Osforth’s service – and yet it felt as if the decade had passed in an instant. Seth had departed Barrowthorne with hopes of high adventure. The reality had been far less exciting. Seth had arrived in Dunethport, before finding work at Osforth Tower shortly after – and there had ended any chance of journeys and discovery. He had often talked about leaving, to Kal and Darin, over a few ales in Weatherbay. Usually this talk came after a particularly frustrating day, but Seth had never carried his complaints forward into action.

  Yet now, with the marshal heavily in debt, fate was breathing down Seth’s neck. The three tower guards had spoken of what they would do, if Osforth let them go. With the war between Sude and Farindell, mercenaries were in demand. Rumour had it also that Omagen’s realmlord was getting twitchy, what with war on his doorstep, and was increasing the Dunethport legion – they could always find work there. Neither of those choices held much appeal and Seth eventually shut off his mind to thoughts of what the future held, instead, concentrating on the road across the mountain.

  By the time they reached Dunethport it was mid-afternoon and rain still cloaked the world. Seth, like the other two tower guards, was soaked, chilled and in a foul mood.

  As they rode down the long incline towards the city, Seth cast his weary gaze over Dunethport. Despite his ill temper, the approach to Omagen’s capital never failed to impress him. From this angle, on the southern slopes of Mount Caligar, the city appeared much bigger than it actually was. It spread out from a long harbour and climbed the folds of hills; a jumble of white-washed walls and slate roofs nestled amongst dense copses of rainforest with the purple shadows of mountains beyond. To the east, Seth could just make out the flat surface of the Ocean of No Memory, partially obscured by thick, rolling rain-clouds and banks of mist.

  As the Northern Highway wound its way down the mountainside, the trees receded and the road sloped steeply as they entered the city. They passed terraces of tightly-packed houses that spread up the hill to their left, while to the right the land fell sharply away into a rocky gorge. The River Lelith, swollen from the rains, bubbled through the gorge on its way to the ocean.

  The carriage began the tortuous journey down the hillside into the city centre. The bulk of Dunethport spread out on the flat land below, in the lap of the hills. The Northern Highway ended at the bottom of the hill, where they joined the Street of Lords.

  Osforth’s carriage bounced over rough cobbles, following the street through the heart of Dunethport. A group of blue-robed Sisters of Sial, their hoods pulled up against the misty rain, hurried across the street in front of the party like shadows, before disappearing into a lane. Seth watched them go with interest. There were many more Sisters in Omagen these days, ever since the war had begun. Until recently, the witch women rarely ventured from the forests and hamlets of Sude. Now, they just added to the swelling number of refugees from a war that showed no sign of ending.

  Further on, the travellers passed row upon row of mean-faced shops, protected from the elements by dripping overhangs. Despite the foul weather, townsfolk, huddled under hooded cloaks, went about their daily activities. Amongst them, wandered ragged and filthy refugees; dispossessed from the war between Sude and Farindell. Seth had never seen so many beggars in Dunethport. Many were in a desperate state, and few wore shoes or cloaks. He saw a butcher chase one of them out of his shop. Brandishing his meat cleaver, the butcher shouted insults at the beggar who slunk away like a beaten dog.

  Townsfolk and vagrants alike peered at the gilded, mud-splattered carriage as it rumbled by.

  Eventually, they reached the Sea Parade; a wide, paved road that ringed the port. Due to the murky day, the lamp-lighter had been out early and all the lanterns on the harbour-front glowed orange in the rain. Here, the carriage veered right, leaving the Street of Lords and the depressing shop-fronts behind. The road hugged the water’s edge. The tide was in and water foamed against the huge rocks that formed a breakwater at the harbour-mouth, spraying across the road. Behind them, to the north, lay the port, where the outlines of ships and fishing boats emerged, wraithlike through the mist.

  To the south, thrusting out its long arm into the ocean, lay Omagen Peninsula. Desolate and possessed of a stark beauty, the peninsula huddled under a bank of rain clouds this afternoon. Nevertheless, Seth caught sight of the great grey edifice that loomed over the harbour at the peninsula’s neck. Marshal Osforth’s carriage followed the Sea Parade to its end, before climbing the peninsula’s first windswept hill towards the realmlord’s fortress – Larnoth Castle.

  The castle rose out of the mist like a grey giant; a grim granite fortress. As they rode into the castle’s courtyard, Seth pushed his hood off his head and raised his face to the misty rain. He looked up at the walls rising high above him. Dark windows stared back at him like blind eyes. Seth had always found Larnoth an unnerving place, and he did not envy any who dwelt here.

  Turning his thoughts to the tasks expected of him, Seth dismounted. He handed his horse over to Garth before helping his master alight from his carriage. Staggering, as much from his thick robes and furs as from his gouty leg, the marshal leaned heavily on Seth and Darin, while Kal followed close behind. Together, they struggled up the stone steps and into the main entrance hall.

  The realmlord’s chamberlain met them, his face pinched with disapproval at the muddy, bedraggled party before him. He left them outside the doors to the reception hall and went to inform the realmlord of their arrival.

  While they waited, Marshal Osforth cast an eye over his tower guards.

  “You look like louts! Tidy yourselves up a bit!”

  Seth pushed his dark, wet hair off his face and raked his fingers through it. The others did the same, but they could all do little about their dress.

  Moments later, the realmlord’s chamberlain reappeared, and ushered them through into Realmlord Thorne’s reception hall. Seth, Kal and Darin hung back, letting Osforth receive the realmlord’s gaze.


  Realmlord Vik Thorne was roughly the same age as Osforth, although any similarity between them ended there. A tall, muscular man, bald and hawk-featured, he wore black mink robes and lounged back in his seat with the loose-limbed ease of a man who had spent his life moving rather than sitting still.

  Two figures flanked him – a man and a woman wearing the green robes of the Esquill. The woman was tall and proud with high cheekbones and a mane of chestnut hair rippling down her back. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, as did the other Esquill; a lithe blond man whose chiselled good looks made him appear aloof.

  Seth had only caught glimpses of the Esquill during his life. They were a reclusive, secretive order employed in the service of Palâdnith’s realmlords as advisors. This role had once been the domain of the Sentorân, wizards and witches who had vanished from the world nearly four decades earlier. The Esquill lived in relative obscurity, holed away in Deep-Spire; their stronghold in Central Omagen. A rare sight, these sorcerers fascinated Seth.

  The Esquill scrutinised the approaching party; the brightness of their gazes made Seth wary. He tore his own gaze away and focused, instead, on the man they had come to see.

  “Osforth,” Thorne rumbled, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Do you know why I have called you?”

  Osforth sank to his knees and bowed low before Thorne.

  “My Lord. I come in supplication and entreaty. My district has suffered from last year’s poor harvest, I am plagued with a land full of lazy peasants and idle fishermen.”

  Osforth struggled to his feet, barely catching his breath before continuing.

  “I beg you to waive my taxes this year. I pledge to fulfil my fiscal obligations come autumn – I promise you I will.”

  “That’s what you said last year,” Thorne replied distractedly. “That’s what you always say.”

  Watching the scene unfold before him, Seth knew the realmlord was playing with Osforth. Observing his master’s pathetic display, Seth felt an uncharacteristic stab of pity towards the marshal.