The Shadow Age (The Age of Dawn Book 7)

by Everet Martins

  Grimbald walked over to her, raising the hood she’d worn on the way here. “Have to put this back on you.”

  “Salma.” The Arch Wizard turned from the food table to face her, leaning against it with her arms crossed. “I’m sorry things had to be this way. I hope you understand that my duty to this world… is binding. The Shadow Realm must be watched.”

  An hour or so later, after everyone left her laboratory. Nyset Camfield returned to her office at the Tower’s highest room. Sleep eluded the Arch Wizard of the Silver Tower most nights and rather than waste her evening staring at the ceiling, she worked.

  Work temporarily cut off her anxiety as long as it was directed toward finding the Shadow Princess. There were other things that vied for her attention. There were always other things. It seemed to her that the principal job of a leader was to make decisions for others to relieve them of blame and guilt if things went wrong. On a long enough timeline, everything went wrong.

  She sat in a high-backed chair at her desk, trimmed in intricate carvings of the Dragon and the Phoenix gods. Two sets of three candles burned at the corners of her desk, casting their flickering light over her latest version of the Shadow War. Half of the five-hundred-page tome had been filled out. It was to be her magnum opus, the legacy she hoped to leave behind for her son Gaidal and the future generation of wizards.

  Her laboratory was only a floor below her office, and thus their construction mirrored each other. The principal difference was their level on the Tower’s tallest spire. Both were crammed with books and had a few tables for sundries. A Cerumal skull sat atop a bookshelf, its flesh cleaned away and showing a jaw lined with sturdy canines. Beside it was a Black Wynch hand. Its finger bones curled down to touch the spines of the books below it, ending in talons as long as daggers. She’d always thought their talons were formed by their steel gauntlets but was surprised upon examination of a corpse to discover the bone structures below.

  A crystal bowl sat below the body parts, holding various gems she had been experimenting with in an effort to create her own magical artifact. Each thus far had only resulted in failure, vaporizing the targeted gem. She was determined to discover how Asebor and The Wretched, his generals, had created Equalizer crystals. If she could figure out how to make them, she reasoned she could then find a counterspell. They were proving far more difficult to create than she’d imagined.

  She put her focus back to the book. Her eyes darted over her last writings one more time, remembering where she’d left off. Nyset turned to a blank page of The Shadow War. She carefully smoothed out the empty pages, daring her to try and fill them. She wondered if her book could ever do justice beside the scholars of the past. She had no choice in the matter but to plow onward. This was her duty and her burden as the Arch Wizard. She pulled her shoulders back and sat erect in her chair, long breath escaping her lips. She jabbed her quill into an inkwell and started to write…

  SIX

  On the Transcendence of Blessings

  If one is presented with the chance to travel to the Shadow Realm, ensure you or a companion in your party is a capable dual-wielder. Once in the Shadow Realm, a portal can be woven of the combined Phoenix and Dragon to return to the Land of the Living, also referred to as the World of Man. I am not sure of what if any implications there are if a mortal were to inhabit the Shadow Realm without the capability to return. What we do know is that Walter was able to slay the Shadow God in her world while wielding the blessings of the gods who favor mankind.

  It appears the blessings of the Dragon and Phoenix gods transcends all realms. As formerly documented on page 76, I detailed how I was once able to slay a demon who captured souls within the magical sword Blackout. Thankfully, had the blessings of the gods left me then, I would not be here to write this text today.

  Side note: Remember, I do not claim all credit for fleeing this world, as I had the assistance of Juzo Pulling. As of this writing, he is the only known Blood Eater to my limited knowledge in the Zorian realm. The souls trapped within the sword’s world also assisted me in dealing the final blow to the demon who had possessed them.

  Regarding the creature who calls itself Prodal. Perhaps it is a god, but in this text, I will refer to it as a demon: I suspect that the blessings of the Dragon and the Phoenix would transcend through its world, given their ability to do so in the past. Given this demon’s proclivity to contact man on what is a capricious nature, it is to be feared and respected. This god has a history of offering bargains which are nearly impossible to resist. See pages 109-111 for evidence of this demon’s past work. It knows when you are weak, scared, tired, alone, or dying. It trends toward those willing to take any measure to change course. He offers relief, but the price: unknown.

  Nyset drew a thick line under the word ‘unknown,’ and then two more. She slowly lowered her quill into the inkwell, fearing that by somehow writing about Prodal it would ring some ethereal alarm, calling it to her. She rested her head back against her chair, closed her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

  A sea breeze whispered through her windows, ruffling tapestries depicting the battles she’d experienced. Nyset gazed at them with eyes unfocused. They were all intricately woven in excruciating lifelike detail. One showed a horde of Cerumal riders swarming through the gates of Breden on that fateful day. The fires of the Festival of Flames burned along the tapestry’s edging, the main body showing Breden villagers fighting back against the invaders. They’d killed the wrong boy’s parents then, triggering their leader’s eventual demise. She wondered if they had any notion of their mistake?

  Another depicted the day the Tower was reclaimed by the forces of the New Tower in Helm’s Reach, the Tree Folk warriors of the Great Retreat, and the battalion of the Midgaard Falcon commanded by General Stokes. It was a glorious day for them, though their victory did not come without blood. The tapestry showed the three forces converged upon half of the Tower’s bridge, the other half darkened with Death Spawn. The skies were dotted with Shattered Wings and streaking fireballs. It was a dark day.

  Nyset flicked her eyes from the tapestry before she found herself dwelling on what she could’ve done differently to prevent Walter’s sacrifice. She closed her eyes with a groan. Her thoughts turned and turned in her head, a swirling maelstrom of questions. One kept emerging from the storm like a stray lightning bolt.

  After Senka had returned from Tigeria, she confided in her that Greyson had mentioned offhandedly that there were spies in the Tower while they were crossing the Tigerian wastes. Senka had quoted him as saying ‘Do you really think the King would let the Arch Wizard’s goings-on pass unchecked? There needs to be a balance of power. Always was, always will be. No Arch Wizard has ever operated alone.’ She memorized it for Nyset, thinking it rightfully important.

  Who among them could possibly betray the Tower? Senka said that Greyson had said it in response to Senka’s surprise at the king knowing of her research on the Shadow Realm. The king knew she was drowning people, and yet he never told anyone. Maybe he was wise enough to know how important it was to keep watch on the Shadow Realm. If it were to again become corrupted by the Shadow…

  She cut the thought off as an impossibility. She knew her paranoia had teeth. It could sink deep into her mind, forcing her into a mad reclusion. She knew she needed all the help she could get, but who was the king’s operative? Was it one? A network? There were so many people she hardly knew if she put her mind to it.

  Everything was blind trust. She’d set Claw on the task of finding out who it was, but he hadn’t found anything of interest. Could it be him? She winced in pain as she pressed her nose too hard.

  “No. Have to trust someone, have to continue,” she muttered, opening her eyes, and lifting her head. She retrieved her quill and flipped open another book, turning a flurry of pages. She needed to add an entry to Dual Wielder Spells with her latest discovery.

  Portalfind

  I have discovered a new spell I have named ‘portalfin
d.’ This spell allows the dual-wielding caster to discover the location in the world from where a portal originated. Once cast successfully, an image of the space of origination will flash in your mind revealing from where the traveler came. The caster can then open a portal to the originator’s location.

  To cast: Embrace both the Dragon and the Phoenix. Start the spell for portal weaving, but then cease your will with the Phoenix’s strength once the start of the vertical line appears. Send a tongue of Dragon fire into the light, releasing your hold on both powers. A spark will materialize in the shape of a five-pointed star and remain in the air for a brief moment. If you then close your eyes (which you feel compelled to do from the brightness), the image will appear. The image has consistently appeared in my mind through repeated experiments. As one of the last known dual-wielders of this age, I cannot confirm that this spell has been or will be successful for others.

  As noted in my previously documented spells, test at your own risk. Dangers and anomalies are not known.

  Nyset signed her name below the spell then set her quill down with a satisfied nod. The dim glow of the rising sun caressed her ceiling, signaling it was time for another try at sleep.

  SEVEN

  Smithing

  “I only lose if I give up. I will find her, or I will die.” - The Diaries of Nyset Camfield

  “You see, it’s not that complicated.” Isa narrowed his eyes, tapping the spine of a cherry-red length of metal with a smithing hammer. “It’s no different than making daggers, except a bit longer… and of course, there are a few tricks to look out for. We’ll go over those too.” The pinging of the hammer filled the vacuous chamber of the Black Furnaces, bouncing from the walls, and roaring against the silence.

  Senka stood beside him with arms held behind her back, narrow chest thrust out. She diligently watched, almond eyes swimming in the glow of the fires. “I’m not sure, Isa. You say it’s easy, but this is not your first sword. I doubt I could produce something as fine as this.” She glanced at him, stirring his heart with a flutter. A smile stretched across his cheeks. For a moment, he thought she was trying to boost his ego, but then saw the genuine admiration in her expression.

  Smokestacks snaked out from each of the furnaces, endlessly burning with harsh white flames before a veil of crawling shadows. They were lit by Dragon fire. Weapons produced in the Black Furnaces were unbreakable and on rare chances were imbued with magical properties.

  Senka and Isa had been here just over a week since they’d reclaimed the forges from the squatting Death Spawn. It was a long needed break from the Tower. They built a simple hut with a conical roof on their first day. “Shelter first, water second, food last,” Senka had reminded.

  The hut was constructed from scavenged materials they were able to extract from the sands that had smothered Senka’s village. They found a jumble of mismatched woods in varied states of aging, frayed twine, rusted nails, and by the Dragon’s luck, some tools. The hut was nothing like the workmanship of the buried corpse of her former home, but it was enough to keep the majority of the day’s heat out. The brutal heat and desiccating wind slowed their progress, necessitating frequent trips to the water reservoir. They worked hard between shared smiles and warm touches. The hut kept them warm at night, not that they had any trouble generating plenty of heat of their own. What they enjoyed most about it was that it was theirs. It was the first time they’d built something together, away from the confines of the Tower.

  They both knew the importance of keeping their edges honed, regarding both weapons and physique. Yesterday, while they sparred, not in the hut with their sweat-soaked bodies, but outside to practice fighting, they discovered something. Senka almost killed Isa.

  She slashed high, purposefully far enough away that her blade would not connect with his face. But then her daggers flashed to life in her hands, brilliance exploding out like a bursting star. Her daggers extended to the length of swords, but not with steel and with licking flames. Isa, detecting danger, craned his head back in time to feel the scorching heat of the blade pass just above his nose, falling with a gasp.

  Senka stood there dumbfounded, staring wide-eyed at the blades flickering in her grip. The eyes of her Dragon head pommels were glowing like a wizard’s.

  “What did you do?” Isa scrambled up to his feet, patting his face for blood and finding none. There was a slight reddishness on the tip of his nose.

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing different. I think.”

  The wind drew eddies of hissing sand around her legs.

  “Can you… feel the Dragon? In your chest?” Isa asked. “I think that’s how the wizards describe it. Like a surge of energy after having too much elixir.”

  “What are you saying?” Senka scrunched her eyes at him, and he couldn’t help but grin at the way her eyebrows drew together. “Oh, nothing,” he chuckled. “Just that you’re a wizard.”

  Senka turned her attention back to the weapons, carefully placing them both in one hand. She slowly inched her fingers toward the length of flame. “It doesn’t hurt… I’m not a wizard, Isa.”

  “Let me try.” Isa trudged through the sand between them, groaning at the clumps filling his boots. She started to offer the daggers to him. “No, no. I want to see if it burns me. Hold them.”

  “I see, Isa.” She smiled, slowly lowering the flaming blades toward him. He reached for them, and before he was a foot away, he could feel the heat on his skin. “Yes, certainly hot. That’s a good test for me.”

  “Then why don’t they hurt me?” Senka peered at the crystalline sky for answers, clouds burned away in the savage sun.

  “You’re a wizard,” Isa said flatly. “Maybe being here has woken some latent blessing.”

  “No. That’s not right.” Her eyes scanned his face. “I don’t feel as if I could embrace the Dragon, as the Mistress says. I don’t feel different, not at all.” She lowered her arms, so her flaming swords rested out from her hips. “How do I make it stop?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me try. Give me one.” Isa extended a porcelain hand, veins showing the bluish tint of his blood, the flesh almost translucent. She handed him a dagger, holding it sideways. As soon as he gripped it, the fiery edge vanished. He dared to touch the dagger’s edge, finding it no warmer than he’d expect had it not been burning a second ago. “Hm.” He grunted.

  He handed it back to her, and it remained an ordinary dagger. Ordinary in the sense that it didn’t sprout fire. Another property they knew about her daggers was that they never lost their grisly edge. “My father made them for me. I was thinking about him earlier. I wonder…” The daggers once again erupted into a long sword of fire. “Thinking of him, setting my mind to his face. That did it.”

  “He made them for you. Perhaps there is something about…” Isa felt some strange shame choking off his words. He never knew his parents. He was trash, a discarded orphan at the Tower’s gates. He set his eyes on his boots, watching the sand crawl across the tips.

  “Isa, are you well? What’s wrong?” Senka asked.

  He nodded, raising his head. He felt like he was disconnected. He was a mind trapped in a husk hollowed out by misfortunes. He searched for an appropriate response to a situation that he knew should illicit empathy, finding only numbness. Words flowed out of him, their source unknown, “Maybe his love for you is imbued in these weapons, some thread of it coming through from its creation. And being here… perhaps awakened a connection to the Black Furnaces, you and him, your energies once again together.”

  “I don’t know.” She smiled, but it soon crumbled into a sad laugh. Her eyes filled with wet and a frown tugged at their corners. She dropped the daggers hissing into the sand, and they stood up at angles, flames winking out before they landed. Her throat hitched.

  “Senka… sorry. I didn’t mean to unearth those memories.”

  Senka stumbled into him, wordlessly throwing her arms around his torso. She pressed herself tight against his
chest and squeezed him hard, nuzzling her nose into his armpit. “Isa,” she said, voice muffled. His mouth fell open, arms slowly lowering to embrace her. His mouth pulled into a tight smile as he gazed down at her form, his alabaster skin blazing beside her espresso black.

  She sobbed against his chest. He held her. A few moments later, she pulled away to look him in the eye, brow furrowed. “You stink.” Her red-rimmed eyes creased with a smile, and she released him.

  “I do not,” he snickered. She turned back to snatch her daggers and sheath them.

  In the Black Furnaces, Isa raised the glowing sword to examine it, searching its long edge for imperfections. He saw a few upraised bumps of metal. “See those? They need to be worked out.” He hefted the smithing hammer, its perfect balance and weight a pleasure to work with.

  Senka leaned against his side. “Yes, I see them.” She turned and licked his cheek. He chuckled, the sound feeling strange in his throat. Isa’s thoughts wandered to Senka’s body, the feel of her ass cupped in his hands, the firmness of her stomach. He gave a shake of his head, setting his attention to work. He put the blade back on the anvil then started working it with the hammer.

  “Oh, look. Someone’s getting excited.” Senka grinned, her hand tracing down his chest, and the hammer gently lowered to his side. Her hand went to his stomach before going even lower to eventually rest on his groin.

  “Let’s finish this first!” Isa said with a laugh, shouldering her hand off him.

  “Fine,” Senka said with a feigned glower and crossing her arms.

  Strips of light stabbed down through gaps in the sandstone ceiling, cutting the great darkness and illuminating the spot where they worked. When the wind tore across the surface above, sand rained down the light, pattering all around them.