Knight and Shadow

by Flint Maxwell

  Knight and Shadow

  Of Gathering Darkness #1

  Flint Maxwell

  Copyright © 2019 by Flint Maxwell

  Cover Design © 2019 by Carmen DeVeau

  Edited by Jen McDonnell

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: fm@flintmaxwell.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.

  For my wife

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  The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

  Stephen King, The Gunslinger

  The tidings were mostly sad and ominous: of gathering darkness, the wars of Men, and the flight of the Elves.

  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

  Prologue

  “It is time,” a voice whispered.

  Goroth, the former prince and current king of Aendvar, stood at the bottom of the rock steps, looking up at the swirling shadows on the ceiling. A hum rippled through the air, one he felt rattling the very core of his soul.

  “You may now enter, my king.”

  Goroth’s heart beat nearly out of his chest. His stomach was filled with a strange mixture of anxiety and excitement. He hadn’t seen his father, the former king, in over thirty years—not since he was nineteen, much too young to ascend to the throne…though ascend to the throne he did.

  Slowly, Goroth mounted the steps. He counted fifteen of them, each one uneven and steep.

  The Temple of Shadows was supposed to be a myth, yet here he was, taking part in a ritual of dark magic.

  As Goroth reached the top, he saw the robed figures: barely shadows themselves. They encircled a raised platform. On it was a casket made of stone. Goroth tasted fear on his tongue; he knew that in that casket were the remains of his father, the rightful king, murdered thirty years prior by the now-banished Knights of the Gun.

  Jed, the man who had told him to enter and who had arranged this ritual, was on Goroth’s right. Jed now placed a liver-spotted hand on Goroth’s shoulder. He was the only person in robes whose hood did not hide their face.

  But of course they will want their faces hidden, Goroth thought, because such evildoings bring shame, and how pitiful it is that their king is partaking in it.

  “It’ll be okay, my lord,” Jed whispered. “It is his time. And it would not be right if you were not here to witness it.”

  Goroth found the old man’s eyes. They were hazy with cataracts. He nodded to him and Jed nodded back. Turning, Jed raised his head and ushered Goroth in line with the rest of the circle.

  Is this really what you want? Goroth asked himself. To bring your father back from the dead, to bring that curse on your family, on Mavel and little Cole? Is it, Goroth? Is it?

  But it was too late.

  Jed had snapped his fingers, and three robed figures approached the casket. They hoisted the top off, the stone scraping and echoing in the great chamber deep below Aendvar’s capital.

  Candles flickered around them, casting a weak light in the middle of the circle. But it wasn’t weak enough for Goroth to not make out the rotted body lying on velvet before him, nor the misshapen head on the royal purple satin pillow.

  When Goroth looked upon his father, all doubts of the ritual went away. His heart ached with longing and love. Thirty years had gone by, but he had never forgotten the man Zoroth Tarran had been before the sickness marred his mentality—the sickness the Goroth knew the peasants called ‘madness’ in their hushed whispers and behind his back.

  “Father,” Goroth said weakly, and Jed’s hand rested on his arm for comfort, though the man’s cold, bony fingers were not much in the way of solace.

  Real comfort, Goroth knew, only came from his queen, his Mavel; yet he had not told her of what was to take place on this cold, black night. She would offer no comfort if he did; she would call him crazy, tell him that perhaps he was suffering from the same madness his father had once ‘suffered’ from.

  He’ll suffer no more, Goroth thought.

  “Are you ready, m’lord?” Jed asked, and Goroth nodded again.

  The others in the circle shuffled closer to the open casket, Goroth pulled along with them, his eyes not wavering from the corpse of his father.

  The former king was mostly bone beneath his regal cloak and attire, his arms folded over his chest, a crown atop his head to cover the bullet hole put there by the gun knight who had killed him thirty years ago. His jaw was open and crooked, and dried worms curled around his teeth. The smell within was musty and old; it reminded Goroth of a dying forest.

  “Let us begin,” Jed said.

  The robed figures joined hands, the circle growing closer and closer to the casket. They spoke the dark words of black magic, and their eyes glowed like lightning beneath their hoods.

  The cave shook with the force of their voices, dust cascading down upon them, the ground cracking. Goroth tensed his muscles and clenched his jaw.

  The words continued, repeated over and over. There was a power in those words… Goroth could feel them more than he could hear them.

  Suddenly, the old king’s chest broke open with the sound of snapping tree branches. A light just like the light in the eyes of the robed figures shone through the corpse of Goroth’s father.

  Then Zoroth Tarran sat up, the light bathing and blinding them all.

  The chanting words stopped, and in the momentary brightness, Goroth could make out the grinning faces of the robed figures. Their magic had worked. It had been gone from the world for the past thirty years. No longer.

  Goroth took a step back. Jed’s hands closed tightly on his forearm with a grip stronger than a man his age should’ve been capable of.

  “Go see your lord father,” Jed whispered. “He has missed you.”

  Behind him came the shuffling feet of more robed figures. They formed a wall, blocking the stairs.

  “What—what are you doing?” Goroth demanded. “I am your king. Stand back.”

  Fear worked his jaw for him. These were not the words of a king. He was a petulant child again, quivering before his father’s throne—

  The corpse in the casket stared at him with empty eye sockets, that crooked jaw hanging open, dead bugs falling into his lap. The light grew brighter still, and then Goroth could hear something else, a terrible screaming of tortured souls.

  Of evil.

  Jed removed his hood. His eyes were crazed, sparkling with unnaturalness.

  “You are our ruler no longer, Goroth. I am sorry,” Jed whispered. Then he turned to the corpse. “My king, what would you have me do with him?”

  The jaw creaked, unhinged. A deep voice Goroth had never heard before emanated from within.

  “Kill him,” the voice replied.

  “With honor, sir.”

  Jed stepped forward.

  Goroth was frozen, but even if he hadn’t been, there was nowhere to go. He had no weapons, no guardsmen, and he was a mile below the capital; no one would hear his cries for help.

  “Jed,” Goroth commanded. “Step back and let me leave.”

  Jed didn’t answer. He grinned sickeningly, and from his sleeve, he produced a dagger.

&
nbsp; Goroth tensed, ready for a fight.

  “Kill him!” the corpse raged. “Kill him and bring me his crown!”

  The others grabbed him and held him with the same iron grip as Jed had used earlier.

  The dark magic. It must be the dark magic.

  Then the blade in Jed’s hand raised, and the steel kissed Goroth’s exposed neck. With a terrible grunt, the kiss turned to a bite as Jed sawed back and forth, the blood slapping the stone floor at their feet.

  Goroth died looking at the corpse of his father and thinking of his queen, Mavel, and his own heir, his son Cole.

  Jed wiped the bloody blade on his robes and turned to face the corpse sitting before him. Some regeneration had already occurred.

  “Now what, my lord?” Jed asked.

  “Summon the Shadows,” the new king answered. “We have unfinished business to attend to.”

  “Ansen Kane, sire?”

  The corpse nodded. “Ansen Kane. He must pay.”

  “It will be done, m’lord.”

  The ritual was over, the king was back, and somewhere in the wide world, the last gun knight, Ansen Kane—in hiding and already at the top of every bounty hunter’s list—sensed this disturbance. He shot up from his slumber, sweaty and shaking, a feeling of dread twisting around his gut.

  Chapter 1

  The Gun Knight

  Three bounty hunters entered through the batwing doors of Low Town’s only bar, the Proudpost, an hour before a storm would break out over the Infected Lands.

  These men entered with thoughts of brewing their own storm.

  Each wore the garb of gunfighters—holsters, pistols, and duster jackets—but Ansen Kane, sitting in the back corner of the front room, his permanently windburned and scarred face shrouded in shadow by the wide brim of his gambler’s hat, knew a true gunfighter when he saw one.

  And true gunfighters these men were not.

  In front of Kane, on the sticky tabletop, sat a tumbler glass of warm whiskey. He brought it to his lips and sipped.

  The piano player, Donny, stopped playing his hymns. The bar, full up of ranchers, farmers, and cattlemen, drowning the day’s work with Proudpost liquor, quieted.

  Somewhere, a mug clinked.

  The leader of the three men was tall and heavyset. He wore a bandolier across his leather jacket and a holster on his left hip, the butt of a gun from a long-ago age jutting from it. His hair was shabby and brown, coated with desert dust. His companions stood behind him. One was an old man, his lips twisting as he chewed sickleaf; the other was just a kid, barely sixteen, Kane judged. They, too, wore guns on their hips from different eras of the Old, the Long Ago. These guns were scavenged, no doubt. That was good. They weren’t trained assassins so much as they were road bandits, just trying to make quick coin.

  Ansen Kane brought the glass of whiskey up to his lips again and drank deeper.

  The lead man smiled as he slowly looked around at the bar’s inhabitants. His eyes glanced over Kane’s corner of the bar then did another scan. Another mug clinked. Someone coughed, their lungs sounding as if they were full of mucus.

  “I’m looking for a man,” the leader said.

  “We got plenty of those,” said Wallace, the bartender and owner of the Proudpost. “But if you’re also lookin’ for trouble, I suggest you and your men look elsewhere.”

  “No trouble,” the leader said. “The name’s Cliff Whitaker. We’re just—”

  “I know what you are,” Wallace said. “And I know what you and your friends do. This ain’t that kind of place.”

  Cliff Whitaker stepped up to the bar, the other two right behind, following him around like nursing babes. The half a dozen patrons leaning against the wooden counter parted. A dirty man in overalls spilled a shot glass half-full of dark liquor.

  What a waste, Ansen Kane thought.

  His left hand brought the whiskey up to his lips once more, while the right hand rested on the butt of his own weapon, just beneath his long, leather coat. But his revolver was not scavenged, nor did it come from the Long Ago. His revolver was forged in the fires of Wolfscar Volcano and was as deadly as the magic that leaked from within its chasm.

  “Gimme your best ale,” Cliff Whitaker said. “And a couple of Buddles for my friends here.”

  “I’ll need to see your coin.”

  The stern face cracked beneath the desert dust. Cliff Whitaker dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a shiny gold piece. He slapped it down on the bartop.

  “You said you knew what I was, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone steady.

  Wallace grinned back. His eyes grew wide and went as shiny as the coin in front of him. He picked it up carefully and examined it as if it were a priceless gem of the Long Ago. A place like Low Town didn’t see much gold these days, especially in a time of lead and copper and nickel.

  Wallace deposited the money into his breast pocket then got the drinks.

  Cliff Whitaker turned, set his elbows on the bar, and leaned back. “I’m looking for a man, I said. A dangerous man. Word is he’s slumming around these parts, trying to blend in. He might be going under an assumed name. Crowne or Bridges. You saw him, you’d know he ain’t no average man. He’s dangerous.”

  Kane’s index finger slid down the gun butt, paused at the clasp on his holster, and waited.

  From outside came the sound of rolling thunder. In the distance, forked lightning lit up the night sky, and the smell of a firestorm hung thickly in the air. During this momentary burst of noise, Kane undid the clasp.

  At the mention of the name Crowne, a few of the Proudpost’s regulars turned in Kane’s direction.

  Crowne was the pseudonym Ansen Kane had been using since coming to Low Town a year and a half back, a place so far out of the reaches of the past that he thought he was safe.

  Apparently, he’d thought wrong.

  Still, a year and a half was a new record. In the three decades since he’d given up his quest and been on the run, the notion of ‘safety’ had proven time and time again to be ridiculous.

  Cliff Whitaker, no dummy, caught the sidelong glances of the regulars. His eyes went to the far right side of the Proudpost where Ansen Kane sat; their gazes met.

  Kane brought the whiskey to his lips. Drained the glass.

  Cliff pushed off from the bar and stepped toward Kane’s booth.

  “Ah, Mr. Crowne, is it?”

  “Yep,” Kane replied.

  He was as still as stone. A sudden movement would make things turn ugly. They were already heading in that direction, true, but Kane liked to go at his own pace.

  In the seven steps the bounty hunter’s had taken toward the gun knight, he had noticed many things. These were the most important:

  One: the older of the hunter’s companions had been drinking; his eyes were red and heavy, the corners of his mouth shiny with spit.

  Two: the other one, the kid, was beyond scared. It was one thing to chase a legend; it was entirely another to see that fiction come to life.

  And three: Cliff Whitaker was not prepared to die, not today, and perhaps not ever. When death was upon him, he would resist, he would beg and cry for one last lungful of air, but in the end, like all men, he would cross the bridge between the living and the deceased.

  That was where Ansen Kane held the advantage. He had always been prepared for death. Stark, his teacher many years ago, had taught him that that was the mark of a true warrior.

  Kane had given up his quest, yes, but they say old habits die hard, and that was the truth.

  “Mind if we have a seat?” Cliff asked.

  Kane pointed to the booth opposite him. “Be my guest.”

  Cliff slid in. The other two continued standing, hands on their weapons.

  Sensing that the storm brewing inside would amazingly be worse than the one outside, a few men left the Proudpost, the batwing doors creaking and banging against the walls in their frenetic flight.

  “So you’re Crowne, huh?”

  Ka
ne nodded. “Noah Crowne.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Cliff stuck out his hand.

  Kane didn’t take it.

  A slight smile played at the sides of the three bounty hunters’ lips.

  Looking at the others’ weapons, comparing them to his own, Kane thought, Too bad.

  Cliff took his hand away. “I didn’t think you’d be so…scrawny. Seems the Infected Lands haven’t treated you well. Then again, they rarely ever do, right?”

  Wallace came out from behind the bar. All eyes watched him. For the last year and a half, Kane had grown pretty close with the old bartender. He was quick-witted and driven, but sometimes he was not a good judge of certain situations.

  Like now.

  He cleared his throat. “Can I, uh, get you gentlemen anything else?”

  Cliff looked out of the corner of his eye. Then he moved quickly, quicker than Kane would have anticipated the bounty hunter being capable of. With his left fist, he sucker punched Wallace in his protruding gut.

  Wallace keeled over and knocked his head against the edge of the table. Bright red squirted from the wound in a spattered stream. He was out cold.

  The older of the bounty hunters laughed deeply, hawked phlegmy spit, and let if fly toward the unconscious bartender.

  “Get him out of my sight,” Cliff said, snapping his fingers.

  Still looking fearful, the kid wrestled with Wallace’s bulk and dragged him away. In the seconds that followed, more patrons scurried out of the Proudpost. A full house of maybe three dozen finally dwindled down to one, and these twelve looked as if someone had driven nails through their boots.

  Ansen Kane hadn’t moved, either.

  “You know they want you alive, Kane,” Cliff said.

  “I don’t know of this Kane you speak of.”

  “Play dumb all you like, but this is the end of the road for you. You’ve evaded capture for over three decades now. You’re getting old. Weak. There’s honor in surrender.” Cliff took a swig of his ale, set the mug down hard enough to splash a few drops on the tabletop. The brown liquid mixed with Wallace’s blood. “Then again, what would a man like you know of honor…a man who would kill an unarmed king and set fire to the palace?”