written by
MICHAEL WISEHART
www.michaelwisehart.com
Copyright
Plague of Shadows is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9981505-5-0
Copyright © 2019 by Michael Wisehart
All Rights Reserved
1st Edition
Cover Art by Michael Wisehart
Cover Illustration by Janelle Wisehart
Map of Aldor by Michael Wisehart
Map of Easthaven by Elwira Pawlikowska
Map of Aramoor by RenflowerGrapx
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the author. To find out more about this author, visit www.michaelwisehart.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Books
Map of Aldor – West
Map of Aldor – East
Map of Aramoor
Map of Easthaven
Chapter 1 | Joren
Chapter 2 | Ferrin
Chapter 3 | Ferrin
Chapter 4 | Ferrin
Chapter 5 | Amarysia
Chapter 6 | Kira
Chapter 7 | Kira
Chapter 8 | Kira
Chapter 9 | Jair
Chapter 10 | Jair
Chapter 11 | Jair
Chapter 12 | Kellen
Chapter 13 | Breen
Chapter 14 | Ty
Chapter 15 | Ty
Chapter 16 | Ty
Chapter 17 | Valtor
Chapter 18 | Dakaran
Chapter 19 | Barthol
Chapter 20 | Ayrion
Chapter 21 | Ayrion
Chapter 22 | Ayrion
Chapter 23 | Ferrin
Chapter 24 | Lenara
Chapter 25 | Ayrion
Chapter 26 | Ayrion
Chapter 27 | Ayrion
Chapter 28 | Ayrion
Chapter 29 | Ayrion
Chapter 30 | Ayrion
Chapter 31 | Valtor
Chapter 32 | Ty
Chapter 33 | Ty
Chapter 34 | Ty
Chapter 35 | Ty
Chapter 36 | Ty
Chapter 37 | Barthol
Chapter 38 | Valtor
Chapter 39 | Ayrion
Chapter 40 | Zynora, Ayrion
Chapter 41 | Ayrion
Chapter 42 | Ayrion
Chapter 43 | Ayrion
Chapter 44 | Lenara
Chapter 45 | Ferrin
Chapter 46 | Lyessa
Chapter 47 | Ty
Chapter 48 | Ty
Chapter 49 | Lenara
Chapter 50 | Ayrion
Chapter 51 | Amarysia
Chapter 52 | Amarysia
Chapter 53 | Valtor
Chapter 54 | Ty
Chapter 55 | Ty
Chapter 56 | Lenara
Chapter 57 | Ayrion
Chapter 58 | Ayrion
Chapter 59 | Ayrion
Chapter 60 | Ferrin
Chapter 61 | Ferrin
Chapter 62 | Ayrion
Chapter 63 | Ayrion
Chapter 64 | Ayrion
Chapter 65 | Barthol
Chapter 66 | Kira
Chapter 67 | Breen
Chapter 68 | Ty
Chapter 69 | Ty
Chapter 70 | Breen
Chapter 71 | Ferrin
Chapter 72 | Ferrin
Chapter 73 | Breen
Chapter 74 | Dakaran
Chapter 75 | Ayrion
Chapter 76 | Ayrion
Chapter 77 | Breen
Chapter 78 | Breen
Chapter 79 | Breen
Chapter 80 | Breen
Chapter 81 | Ferrin
Chapter 82 | Ayrion
Chapter 83 | Ferrin
Chapter 84 | Ayrion
Chapter 85 | Ayrion
Chapter 86 | Breen
Aramoor Market
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Character Glossary
Books
THE ALDORAN CHRONICLES
Book 1 | The White Tower
Book 2| Plague of Shadows
STREET RATS OF ARAMOOR
Book 1 | Banished
Book 2 | Hurricane
Map of Aldor – West
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Map of Aldor – East
Click HERE to view this map in more detail.
Map of Aramoor
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Map of Easthaven
Click HERE to view this map in more detail.
Chapter 1 | Joren
JOREN RAN AS fast as he could.
He stumbled over his own feet as he struggled to make his way down the stone encasement. His hands were too busy trying to fasten the gold clasp of his new white mantle to pay attention to where he was going. His nostrils flared as his unpracticed fingers fumbled with the pin. The needle finally slipped into place, and he released a short sigh of relief, then shifted his belt to keep his scabbard from bouncing against his leg.
“Why did the Archchancellor have to pick today of all days for a visit?” His voice followed him down the cold stone as he worked his way farther into the bowels of the White Tower. How deep do these tunnels go? he wondered.
The scent of oil from the torches lining both sides of the narrow passageway did little to mask the lingering stench of mildew. Occasionally, he caught a trace of rich earth—dark soil he hadn’t smelled since he was a boy on his uncle’s farm in northern Cylmar.
It was Joren’s first week as a member of the Black Watch, and he was already off to a bad start. He wasn’t sure why the new recruits had been summoned, only that his late arrival was certain to have him tossed out on his ear. He couldn’t afford to lose this position. He needed the work.
Being the third son of a poor tailor, Joren had no inheritance, no chance of a position within the family business, small as it was. His older brothers had already filled those roles, which left him with nothing more than the odd bit of day labor from other merchants in town. So, when the Black Watch had arrived in Ecrin to spread word that the new High King was looking for able-bodied men from Cylmar to fill their army’s ranks, Joren was one of the first to sign up.
It had only been a few weeks since the deaths of Overlord Saryn and the previous High King. Since then, Prince Dakaran had wasted no time in claiming his father’s throne and declaring Cylmar as part of the New Elondrian Empire. With this announcement, men from Cylmar had flooded over the borders, looking for work.
At twenty-five years of age, Joren was already too old to find an apprenticeship with a local guild and was thankful to have the opportunity to be an armsman. It was an honest profession, one whose skills could be used for future work down the road. Best of all, he could help protect Aldor from the danger posed by these wielders. Their presence seemed to be growing.
The sounds of booted feet and clanging scabbards ahead urged his pace. “Good, I’m not too late.” He couldn’t have picked a worse time to have a privy run. He emerged from the tunnel and found himself at the edge of a deep chasm, with a rather impressive stone bridge leading across.
He didn’t have time to stop and marvel, as the rest of his company had already made it to the other side and were passing through an enormous archway into another section of the cavern.
The doors leading into that section began to shut.
No! He ran as fast as he cou
ld across the ancient bridge, barely slipping between the monolithic doors before they closed. A low rumble reverberated off the cavern walls as they came to a stop. He turned and was surprised to find there were no guards stationed on the inside. Strange, he thought. Then who shut them? Not wanting to draw attention, he rushed over to where the other recruits were waiting and fell in line.
“You!” a woman’s voice called on his left.
Joren stiffened. Was she talking to him? He turned. Several of the bulradoer stood not far from the Watch, their black hooded robes shading their faces. One of the shorter bulradoer was looking in his direction. He wasn’t exactly sure what purpose the bulradoer served, but from the rumors, it was best to stay as far away from them as possible.
He cast a brief glance at the recruits beside him and finally took a step forward.
“Me?” he asked, his hand trembling as he pointed to himself.
“Yes, you. We require your assistance.”
“Of course . . . mistress,” he said with a curt bow, not quite sure how to address her. Not that it mattered. He’d been caught and was likely about to lose his position. With a nervous gulp, he left his place in line and headed in her direction. “My name’s Joren, mistress. How can I help?”
“Just stand there,” she said, pointing to her right.
Joren did as she said. The bulradoer seemed to be distracted by something else, so he used the time to get a better look at the cavern. It was massive, its domed roof shrouded in darkness. He wondered how high up it went. He was also surprised by how warm it was, considering how far underground they were. The place smelled of torch tar and nothing else. None of the lingering, fetid smell of mildew he had experienced in the tunnels on his way down.
In front of him stood a circular barricade of stones, each one marked with a unique symbol. Even if he could read, he doubted he could have translated them. They looked ancient. A half dozen of the white-robed inquisitors mingled off to the side, watching as the bulradoer gathered around a large block of stone inside the ring.
Behind the bulradoer stood one of the largest trees Joren had ever seen. Easily two, maybe three times that of a normal oak. It was a sickly looking beast, its branches twisted and gnarled, like it had been plagued with an arthritic malady. It reminded Joren of his grandmother’s hands, with the knuckles and joints bent awkwardly to the sides. How it had managed to grow so far underground and in the middle of a cavern, Joren couldn’t guess. One thing was for sure: It didn’t look alive anymore. The branches were bare, not a single hint of green in sight.
A pedestal had been placed between the tree and the rectangular block of stone. The slab was about seven feet in length and stood about three feet in height. Someone was lying on top of it, but from where Joren was standing, he couldn’t quite make out who it was.
Behind the tree lay a pool of black liquid. The light from the torches reflected off the surface, giving it the distinct appearance of tar. He shivered when he noticed it was moving, as if an invisible giant was stirring it with an enormous ladle.
One of the bulradoer waved in their direction, and the woman beside him headed into the circle of stone, motioning for him to follow.
Joren scrambled to catch up. Once inside, he was better able to see the proceedings.
The female bulradoer led him through the gathering of inquisitors and around to the side of what he could now see was a marble slab with distinct black veins. The body lying on top turned out to be one of the inquisitors. To say the man was obese would have been an understatement. His bald scalp and face were covered with a web of tattooed symbols.
The inquisitor’s robes were bloodstained, and judging by the hole in the front of his neck, he clearly wasn’t going to be getting back up. Strangely, Joren didn’t notice the pungent smell of death coming from the body. He frowned. Why was the man there? For that matter, why were any of them there?
“Is he dead?” he whispered to the woman beside him, instantly regretting the ridiculous question.
“Unfortunately,” a deep voice behind him said, causing Joren to jump.
He turned to see a tall gaunt-faced man in crimson robes moving through those gathered behind him. Joren’s eyes widened when he noticed the mitre on the older man’s head, and he quickly bowed.
The Archchancellor studied him with sunken eyes. “Is this our volunteer, Lenara?”
“It is, Your Grace,” the female bulradoer said.
“I’m Joren, sir,” he said with a second bow, not quite remembering when he had volunteered.
The Archchancellor nodded and moved to the stone-cut podium at the head of the slab and opened a book that was resting on top.
Lenara motioned Joren forward, removing her hood as she did. She was at least ten to fifteen years older than he was, her curly auburn hair trailing loose down her back. She turned, and he paused when he caught her eyes. They were reddish-purple, almost raspberry, and, when viewed from a certain angle, had tiny gold flecks that seemed to draw him in. Realizing he was staring, he quickly looked away.
The other members of the bulradoer filed in behind them, taking their places around the altar, forming a circle with the Archchancellor at its head. The Archchancellor’s attention was preoccupied at the moment as he flipped through the pages of the large book. He paused briefly to look at the inquisitors. “Dismiss the Watch.”
One of the white-robed individuals stepped outside the stone ring, and the rest of the Tower’s guards turned and left. Joren didn’t know if he should feel honored or worried at being the one member allowed the privilege of staying.
The Archchancellor spoke, and Joren turned back around. He was reading from the book, but Joren had no idea what he was saying. He’d never heard the language before. He leaned over to the female bulradoer. “What’s going on?” It almost looked like the Archchancellor was performing an incantation. But that would be absurd, since he was the head of the White Tower.
“Quiet,” Lenara whispered, her tone stern.
“Is that magic? I . . . I thought we were here to destroy magic?”
The Archchancellor stopped his reading and looked up. “The only way to stop magic is with magic. Magic isn’t tangible. It’s like the wind. You can’t see it, only its effects. It can’t be destroyed any more than you can destroy the wind, or light.” The Archchancellor raised his palm, and a ball of light suddenly appeared.
Joren nearly swallowed his tongue.
“However, it can be contained,” the Archchancellor said, cupping the light between his hands, momentarily snuffing it out.
Joren’s mind was racing. Suddenly, everything around him felt wrong, like he’d opened his eyes and realized he was standing on the edge of a cliff but didn’t know how he’d gotten there.
The Archchancellor—the head of the White Tower—was a wielder? He realized the Archchancellor was still speaking and tried to focus.
“. . . why it falls on the White Tower to contain this threat.” He lifted his arms to those gathered around the altar. “We are the only ones equipped with the knowledge of how to battle this evil. It is a great burden we bear, having to allow our bodies to be vessels for magic’s use, but it is a burden we will gladly suffer if it means saving but a single soul the pain of its existence.”
The Archchancellor truly seemed anguished about having to use magic. Joren could certainly see it on his face. The gauntness in his cheeks, the bags under his eyes, even the wrinkles of his brow, all spoke to the lingering toll magic must be taking on his body.
“Whatever I can do to help, Your Eminence,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. What else was he going to say, standing there surrounded by wielders? He was suddenly feeling quite alone. No wonder they had sent the rest of the recruits out.
The Archchancellor smiled. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. You have a special quality that I could sense the moment you walked into the room.”
Joren spared a quick glance at Lenara and the other bulradoer. It seem
ed they were all looking at him. “I do?” The man sounded sincere, but there was still this lingering doubt. Maybe it was just nerves. This was his first week, after all, and he wanted to make a good impression.
“You are a power for righteousness, my young friend. And that power comes from here.” The Archchancellor placed his hand over his chest. “A pure heart. And I need that purity now to help me restore another righteous soul—one that has dedicated his life to helping the peoples of Aldor, one who has proven time and again to be a force for good against the wielders of this land, one who has given his very life to defend us all. The man who lies before you was murdered last night by the very ven’ae he sought to save.”
Joren looked at the dead man lying on the slab and clenched his fists. It seemed that even the White Tower wasn’t immune from the death and destruction of these rogue wielders. “What do you need me to do?”
The Archchancellor smiled. “Please,” he said, motioning to the altar, “step over here and we’ll begin.”
Joren took a couple of steps forward, stopping in front of the slab where the large man lay. The branches from the tree were casting eerie shadows across the prostrate body.
“I will need you to help me stabilize our sleeping inquisitor.”
Sleeping? The man wasn’t even breathing. Nonetheless, Joren leaned over and laid his hands on the dead man’s arm.
The Archchancellor cleared his throat. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. What I meant was that I will need your help in stabilizing his spirit.”
“His spirit? How do I—”
“Hop up on the stone and I’ll explain it to you.”
Joren felt a slight twinge of unease but followed the Archchancellor’s instructions anyway. The slab was cold, even through his uniform.
“That’s good. Now if you could just lie down right there beside him, I’m going to use your inner strength to help stabilize our friend here. He will be a bit disoriented from his journey back to us.”
Joren looked at the dead man beside him, his earlier apprehension growing as the seed of doubt took root. “What should I do?”
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