Shadow of the Arisen: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel (Lands of Wanderlust Book 1)

by Paul Yoder

  “Ah. How thoughtless of me,” Metus said, seeming to completely sympathize with the plight Jadu had presented to him.

  “Leith told me of Brigganden city being mostly abandoned and your wonderful work in purging most of the arisen that were left there. I wouldn’t trust it to be completely safe, and we already have a large regiment on their way to reoccupy the city, but perhaps a more helpful gift would be to send a doctor with you, along with a small contingent of guards to help you return to your tower safely. Any supplies you may need to assist you there, be it food and drink, stoneworkers, carpenters, and laborers that could help with any repairs if damage has come to your grounds during the occupation, we will send the necessary support with you.”

  All looked to Zaren now for a response. Zaren, with arms folded like a child who was moodily mulling over if he was going to accept the offer or if he was going to refuse it out of pride, eventually nodded, mumbling, “That would be adequate.”

  Zaren, getting up from his chair, called back to Jadu.

  “Come, Jadu. We leave as soon as the guards and doctor are ready. I’ve been gone from my tower longer than I promised I would be.”

  As Metus issued a quick command to Leith to help assemble the caravan they had promised to the old enchanter, Jadu got up without hesitation and began skipping to the door, stopping in the doorway as if he had just remembered something.

  Turning back, looking to everyone individually, he said after a moment of silence, “Never did get to dissect an arisen. Shame,” before turning to follow his new master down the palace steps and out the door with Leith quickly in pursuit.

  Turning back from staring into the empty hallway, the group all looked around at each other, attempting to make sense of what had just transpired.

  Though none of them had gotten too terribly close with the little praven, he had been an intimate part of each of their lives over the past weeks, sharing some of the most trying and difficult times together. Being through so much together, to them, seemed as though a bond should have somehow tied them together, at least for a little while after the completion of their mission. The abruptness of Jadu and Zaren’s departure out of their lives piercingly betrayed that notion.

  “Arie. Leith told me of your part in the siege on Brigganden. A very brave move. You are welcome to any position you wish in all of Plainstate, as always. I hope you know that.”

  Arie, bowing to Metus, replied humbly, “I enjoy working as a guide. It’s just the right amount of seclusion while still being of service to you. The wild is where I feel most at home.”

  Metus nodded his head, accepting Arie’s answer before turning back to Reza and the rest who still seemed somewhat out of sorts with Jadu’s and Zaren’s sudden departure.

  “My time is short, but there’s one other thing I wanted to discuss with you all.

  “I admit that without the aid of a host of priests, clerics, and most notably amongst the ranks of the faithful, prophet Henarus who led the effort against the arisen’s commander, the narrow victory we earned that day would have been a crushing defeat. I have no doubt that with the wicked might of that arisen king, his army would have plowed through Warwick and Viccarwood’s militia and would have gained strength before arriving at Sheaf. Without the warning you gave us to prepare for war, the outcome might have been drastically different than it was, and to that, we have you to thank. And also for that, gold, silver, and platinum are nowhere near enough to pay you for your service to our people.

  “I don’t know if this is adequate compensation, but if there’s anything any of you ever need, you will always have my ear. Call for help any time and I will do what I can.”

  Getting up from his chair, Metus made his way over to a line of bookshelves and glass cabinets covering the left side of his room, plucking various items up that lay on the shelves and in the large cupboards, coming back to stand before them in front of his desk.

  “Fin,” Metus began, holding out an elegantly curved dagger.

  “I know how much you appreciate a well-crafted dagger.”

  The gleam of steel caused Fin to inadvertently lean forward to get a better look at the weapon as Metus continued talking about the twelve-inch blade.

  “Crafted from the haltia, Leithonel tells me. It’s somewhat of an infamous blade, locally. Rumors have it that this blade has a way of evading the eyes of all but its master.”

  Metus flipped the blade over in his hands, inspecting it one last time before handing it over to Fin, mentioning as he did so, “We confiscated it with the capture of a renowned thief, but we’ve never been able to determine if the rumors of the blade live up to the tales associated with it. Perhaps it will find you a more worthy master than I or my servants—in any case, it is a pretty thing.”

  Fin accepted the blade with a bow before sliding it quietly into the folds of his loose garments, Reza struggling to make out the shape of where it should have been in his flowing robes before Metus stole their attention away.

  “Cavok,” Metus said, looking the large man in the eyes before handing him a brass medallion with multiple tear-shaped aquamarines socketed into it.

  Cavok took the small medallion and looked over it with a puzzled look on his face as Metus explained.

  “It’s not the coin that’s my gift. This is a token that’s worth more than its meager physical elements. It’s an item that a man that’s in town will have interest for. What he can provide you with is my gift. Seek him at the Dragon’s Flagon inn downtown. His name is Lecken. Last report before I was off to war informed me that he had planned to stay there for a while. Hopefully he’s still there. He specializes in a skill none in this region performs. If his skill is what reports say it is, then you would be well served, in your line of work, to seek him out. If it happens that he has moved on, bring that medallion back and we’ll work something else out.”

  Cavok, still with a somewhat bemused look on his face, bowed and pocketed the medallion, thanking Metus before he moved on to Nomad.

  Metus, holding a ponderous hand to his chin, considering the man a moment before he began, said, “I did not ask you about your heritage upon our first meeting as time simply did not permit that pleasantry. But with a name such as Nomad, I suspect your home is far from here, and your road ahead is not soon ended.”

  Standing before Metus who still looked over Nomad’s foreign facial features, Nomad met the sultan’s gaze. Metus looked down to a few small bolts of differing shades of fine turquoise fabric, handing the bundle over to Nomad.

  “Fabric may seem like a strange gift, but this fabric, you’ll not find in any bazaar. It’s called fluxlace. It’s a type of cashmere, laced with tear, flame, and weather resistant materials. Your friend Jadu, if he had stayed a bit longer, would have been able to tell you a thing or two more about this rare cloth. It even is said to grant some resistance to channeled hexweave spells. Zaren might have spoken more on that claim, but it is, regardless of that point, some of the best material obtainable, even for me. I’ve been saving it to have it made into something, but never could think of a reason for a garment for myself. It would be a waste of adventure-hardy material on me as the most adventure it would ever see is some heated bureaucracy.”

  Nomad concealed his perplexity at his gift much better than Cavok had, but Metus noticed the blank stare and added, “I’ll have a tailor work the materials into whatever apparel you would like.”

  Bowing his head low, Nomad issued a thank you as Metus stepped over to face Reza, smiling fondly at her for a moment before turning his attention to the scabbarded longsword he had latched by his hip.

  Unlatching it from his belt, he held it up, speaking as he drew it from its silver-tipped, black-lacquered scabbard. It had a red band of cloth tightly wrapped around its base, its steel blade gleamed—its wide, double fuller attractively running up the length of the blade.

  Handing the flawless leather-wrapped handle to Reza, she reluctantly accepted it as he spok
e about the sword, pointing out key features here and there.

  “This sword was a gift from a distant king. It’s an exceptional sword; though, I’ve always preferred my curved sword over a longsword. I don’t know why, but I took it instead of my curved sword to battle this time. I didn’t use it, and actually, it’s never seen battle to this day.

  “The king that gave it to me told me that it’s unbreakable.”

  Metus looked up with a slightly skeptical expression.

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that, but the steel of the blade was said to have been composed of meteorite. The king gave me an ingot of the same metal the blade was forged with for testing purposes. This meteorite in particular seems to contain a very well-balanced carbon ratio, and is a low-alloy steel. My top smith confirmed its purity. It might just hold up to that bold, unbreakable claim. I hope it serves you well.”

  Handing the scabbard to Reza, Reza thanked him graciously.

  Turning to look over everyone once, taking a calming breath, Metus said in a reverent voice, “Bede would be proud of what you accomplished.”

  Bowing to Reza and the rest, he finished with, “I hope that you’ll all come and visit from time to time; but for now, there are many things I need to tend to, and you’ll have to excuse me. Good journey to each of you.”

  Walking out the door, Arie, Fin, Cavok, Nomad, and Reza sat in the sultan’s study, each considering, now that they had the chance to rest and reflect with their mission at an end, what everyone else was going to do, seeing already the group beginning to dissolve with the departure of Jadu and Zaren.

  47

  Lingering Darkness

  “Hiro! Hiro! Fight it!” Reza’s trembling voice made its way through the dark downpour as she took her hand away from his back to see that black ooze had seeped out of his cursed wound that he had received at the hand of Lashik all those months ago.

  She held him tight in her arms there in the street, his tainted blood turning the puddle that they lay in black as ink.

  Nomad opened his eyes to see that he was observing himself from above.

  He could see every detail: his fluttering eyes as the raindrops pounded down on his face, his disheveled hair slick across his face, his skin quickly losing any semblance of color, his trembling lips going blue—Reza’s devastated head resting on his, her tears falling, streaming across his face.

  His hands, though once weak, now fell limp. His chest ceased its constant labor of rising and falling. Whatever tension that was in his face, now went lax.

  His out-of-body self began to drift higher, away from a desperate Reza who now held her breath, searching for signs of life from a body that showed none.

  After seconds of holding on to hope as long as she could, Reza let out a scream. The cry of a soul so grief wracked that even through the boom of thunder and torrential downpour, Nomad could clearly hear every inflection of loss Reza let out with the cry.

  It was dark, but no longer raining; and, instead of the crash of thunder, Nomad could only hear the fearful blare of his own voice shouting into the night as he sat up, yelling out in bed.

  “Nomad! What is it?” Arie said, sitting up beside him, just coming out of sleep herself from his outburst.

  “She—I—” Nomad began to huff out between catching his breath while looking around for an explanation.

  A sudden pain in his back forced him to jerk his arm tight to his chest as he took in a sharp breath to hold back from crying out in pain.

  “Your back, it’s bleeding black again,” Arie said worriedly, jumping out of bed to grab a basin of clean water and a hand towel at the nightstand, placing them beside him while she helped strip off his upper sleeping garment, dabbing the towel in the water, pressing it over the wound that he had sustained months before.

  Nomad gritted his teeth as the cool water met his hot wound, arching his back as Arie pressed and wiped some of the black blood from the cut that had refused to heal, eating away the multiple stitches, ointments, and bandages the doctors and clergy had used on it to attempt to mend the wicked wound.

  “My god. It looks worse than before, Nomad,” Arie whispered, deeply troubled by the thought that the wound might not get better.

  Catching his breath after Arie cleaned his wound, getting out of the bed they had been sharing for the past three weeks, Nomad walked over to the nightstand mirror and put what he could see of his back in view.

  Of what he could see in the dark at an angle, the cut was still flayed open, the black stain within making it difficult to see any subtlety of the wound.

  The visions had increased in recent weeks as the wound continued to get worse. Always it was Reza who was there with him in his dying moments, and always the wound seeped its constant taint before bleeding the life out of him completely. None of the professionals knew of what nature his wound was other than it was no normal or natural infliction. It was a special, hateful kind of wound from a very powerful, sinful blade.

  “Nomad, you need to find out what this is. It’s eating you alive!” Arie said, walking over, placing the water and towel on the table before standing beside Nomad, putting comforting arms around him.

  Holding his tongue, he looked down at his hands that were supporting him along the nightstand. He wanted to yell at her that he had done nothing since the war but to seek treatment and help with his wound, but he knew better than to be angry at the one who only cared for his wellbeing. She was just worried for him, and he was just angry at the enigma that vexed him from within.

  “There’s only one hope remaining here in Sheaf. Prophet Henarus is the highest ranking clergyman in the region. I have an appointment with him tomorrow. If he can’t figure out what this curse is—”

  Arie understood Nomad’s point without him having to finish his thought, and there was not much she could think of to say in response.

  After a moment of silence, she asked, “Will you try to sleep tonight? Your body needs rest.”

  Nomad’s tight muscles, eyes locked on himself in the mirror, answered her question as a silence slipped by with no verbal answer.

  “Then I’ll sit with you through the night,” she said, tugging his tense arm until it softened, Nomad accepting her beckons.

  The two headed towards the bed. Nomad sat up while Arie leaned on his shoulder, stroking his arm. Together, they waited out the night as visions of his own death tauntingly haunted every last minute of starlight.

  48

  Solidarity

  The door to the palace residence wing slowly opened, letting in the evening amber-hued light, basking the regal carpet.

  A very worn Nomad tiredly closed the heavy wooden door behind him, looking up to find Cavok, Fin, Reza, and Arie sitting on the lobby room’s sofa. Whatever their previous conversations had been, stopped, all turning to Nomad now.

  “So?” Fin asked, waiting for Nomad to give them the news of how his visit to prophet Henarus had gone.

  “You told everyone?” Nomad sighed, looking sternly at Arie.

  “No,” Reza responded, adding strongly, “Only your closest friends that you surely, carelessly forgot to inform.”

  Knowing he wasn’t going to win any arguments being so outnumbered by so many strong-headed opponents who didn’t place an emphasis on the respect of personal space as he did, he looked back to Fin, answering his initial question.

  “He did what he could,” Nomad said, unlooping his loose-fitting cross blouse, showing a still dark, but healing, scar where his open, weeping wound had been the night before.

  After covering the scar, he added, “The healing cost him a great deal of personal sacrifice, and he said he wouldn’t be able to perform the rite again, and only did so due to my recent contribution to the region.”

  “Wonderful!” Arie said, jumping up to embrace Nomad, who sunk slightly at the hug, Arie, and the rest of the group, suddenly guessing that there was a catch to the good news.

  Holding the tall w
oman at arm’s length, he looked at her, then to the rest as he finished the details of his condition.

  “The wound is temporarily healed, but Henarus assured me that it would reopen and grow. He thinks he knows what kind of hex was placed in me, and it’s a very pernicious wound that I’ve suffered, it seems. The blade could have been made of illimoth steel.”

  Arie covered her mouth, her eyebrows bowing, the realization of what infected her lover’s flesh hitting hard while Reza, Fin, and Cavok waited for an answer, having never heard of that type of obscure steel.

  Seeing that most of his friends hadn’t heard of the material, he explained, “It’s a metal brought from the planes of ash, from Telenthlanor’s realm. Few blades ever appear here as it takes a great sacrifice to transport it here, and the material is very unstable once in our realm, breaking down into a sludge upon touching liquids.

  “It seems that Telenthlanor was in league with the arisen army and held great interest over their campaign; otherwise, they would have never possessed such a precious gift from him.”

  “What does the steel do though?” Reza asked impatiently, wanting to know how serious Nomad’s wound was.

  Arie replied for him.

  “An illimoth blade, once it licks blood, infuses itself into the flesh, slowly corrupting the host until the victim turns to darkness….”

  The room grew still for a moment before Reza asked, “I don’t understand, what does that mean?”

  “It means, I’ll become an underling, The same as that greyoldor we came across in the cave in Brigganden,” Nomad cut in, wanting to get the talk regarding him and his condition all out of the way, seeing how worried and uncomfortable it all was making everyone.

  “Not quite an arisen, but a slave to their ways. Most arisen don’t have a deathly sensitivity to light, but underlings do. I’ll begin to seek darkness, live in caves or the undercities. My mind will warp. I’ll become cold, savage—and I’ll hunger and thirst for flesh and blood. Wickedness and corruption will become me.