Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1)

by Ward, Matthew

  Matthew Ward

  This book would never have seen light of day without the unswerving support of family and friends too numerous to mention individually.

  It's therefore dedicated to all of you who read the endless drafts, who bought the first ebook copies, and whose enthusiasm lent me the momentum to reach the final page. The words are mine, but you worked every bit as hard.

  This is where the journey began, but the road goes on.

  This edition copyright © 2016 by Matthew Ward

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally.

  Woodland and mountain map brushes designed by Ignacio Portola, and used here with his kind permission.

  Contents

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  PART TWO

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  About the Author

  Dramatis Personae

  Outcasts, Warriors & Scoundrels

  Edric Saran

  Hadari Ambassador to the Tressian Council

  Arianwyn

  Tressian noblewoman of impeccable lineage

  Halvorn Jamar

  Edric's bodyguard

  Constans Reveque

  Gentleman of resource and wit

  Zorya

  Seneschal of the Tower of Stars

  Stefan Dalrand

  Scholar of antiquity

  Jaspyr & Fredrik

  Loyal guardians

  Morecet

  A roguish fellow

  Lawkeepers, Lords & Celebrants

  Captain Quintus

  Master of the Tressian City Guard

  Lieutenant Nierev

  Quintus' deputy

  Lord Solomon

  Member of the Tressian Council

  Lord Mikel Karov

  Member of the Tressian Council

  Edroth Olvas

  Archimandrite of the Sidarist faith

  Emperor Eirac I

  Ruler of the Hadari Empire

  Calda Cadvar

  Hadari warleader

  Divinities

  Jack

  Lord of the Living Realm. Known as Jerack in Tressia

  Malgyne

  Lord of Otherworld. Known as Death in Tressia

  Ashana

  Goddess of the Moon. A light in the darkest places

  Sidara Trelan

  Tressian ancestor goddess

  Deceased, but Relevant

  Alfric III

  Ruler of the Hadari Empire, succeeded by Eirac I

  Viktor Droshna

  Tressian lord of blackest renown

  Part One

  A CITY OF SECRETS

  We Tressians have forgotten our gods.

  We taunt the Hadari for their beliefs,

  but shelter in the safety of the lamplight.

  Yet the lamps cannot shine forever,

  and the gods are never so distant we believe.

  - from the journal of Stefan Dalrand

  One

  My people have always liked the darkness. For centuries untold, we crowned our emperors beneath the stillness of midnight sky; our grandest celebrations and greatest legends ever unfolded beneath the moon's soft brilliance.

  One such legend filled my younger self with wonder. In that tale, Malgyne, Lord of Otherworld, and custodian of the dead, came to covet the spirits of the living. To satisfy his greed, Malgyne travelled abroad at night, when folk were sleeping and unable to defend themselves against his hunger.

  When the other gods learned of Malgyne's wickedness, there was great uproar, but they dared not move against him, for his was the power of every creature that had ever died. Yet if Malgyne was the preeminent god, he was not the most cunning – this honour belonged to Ashana, Goddess of the Moon. She thwarted the ruler of the dead by shrouding the souls of the living from his gaze. Ashana could do this only at night, when her power was at its fullest, but it was only then that her protection was needed; during daylight, Malgyne lacked the strength to steal mortal souls.

  More than two decades had passed since I'd first heard that tale. Now, near thirty summers old, I was less easily captive to superstition. The ruler of the dead blinded by the dark? Ridiculous, or so I told myself. Yet however much my adult self mocked the tale, its reassurance remained. Thanks to Ashana, the night was no more dangerous than the day, and the light no more my home than the darkness.

  All of this made it more embarrassing that I, Edric Saran, prince in exile of the Hadari Empire – once champion to the Golden Court, now ambassador to our greatest enemies – cowered upon a staircase like a frightened child, simply because it was dark.

  That was unfair. I was, in fact, straining to catch some telltale whisper of movement from the room ahead. That I heard no such sound only deepened my caution. It could be that the room was empty, but it was equally possible my opposite number stood as motionless as I, waiting for me to betray my presence even as I hoped for him to do the same.

  I silently cursed my foolishness. Used to the gloom of my own near-empty mansion, I'd thought nothing of entering the townhouse's darkened chambers. If I'd taken the stairs more slowly, I might have stopped to consider how Stefan could possibly have made the same journey unless the lanterns were aglow. Stefan's eyesight was far past its prime, and he was forever walking into his own furniture, even in broadest daylight.

  Unfortunately, I'd considered this far too late. I'd come into possession of a key to Stefan's house some time ago, but the thick oaken door had required – as it had many times before – a less than gentle shove from my shoulder to force it open. And if the screeching of neglected hinges had not heralded my coming, my twice calling out to Stefan from these very stairs would surely have done so. At least I'd be difficult to spot. The muted greens and blacks of my robes would be almost invisible in the dark.

  Almost. Not the most comforting word.

  There was no getting around it. The door to Stefan's study was open, inviting me in. I could turn on my heel and leave, or chance whatever waited in the darkness. Mentally girding myself, I chose the latter. I owed Stefan that much, at least.

  Edging into the library proper, I was relieved to see moonlight streaming through the windows. After the pitch black of the stairs, the wan rays were a blessed relief. Ashana watched over me still.

  Aisles of bookcases stood before me, looming shadows edged by silver moonlight. On the far side of the room, in front of the glazed balcony doors, sat a broad desk. Its elegant, swirling lines were spoiled by a sprawl of books, a granite paperweight carved in the shape of a winged serathi, and a
huddled figure. Stefan, for a certainty. Alive or dead, I couldn't tell, but I was far from hopeful. The dead have a stillness that the sleeping seldom match.

  Clenching my fists, I choked back the urge to run to the desk and discover whether I could do anything to save the only Tressian who'd embraced me as a friend. The sides of the room lay heavily in shadow, and there was little sense in offering myself up as further sacrifice to Stefan's assailant. Assuming, of course, that such a fellow even existed.

  I rubbed my thumb back and forth over the ridged silver of my remembrance ring. If I died here, would anyone think to send it home? Probably not. If anyone in Tressia was even aware of the tradition, I doubted they'd have the courtesy to observe it. Would my family even care one way or the other? That was a rather better question, and one to which I had no answer.

  I slid my right foot forward.

  The floorboards groaned in protest.

  Alerted by a whisper of movement, I threw myself forward, arms outstretched. Something fast whipped over my head and thudded into a book at the far end of the room.

  Face-down in the middle of one of the aisles, I was an easy target for my stalker. Even now, he could be lining up another shot at my back. I gathered myself into a low crouch, careful that nothing of my head or shoulders presented a tempting target above the shelves.

  If the sound of his muffled footfalls was anything to go by, my opponent had concluded that action would serve better than concealment. But he wasn't heading towards me. Nor was he moving towards the door, as I would have expected, but to the far end of the room. To the desk? Perhaps. The balcony seemed more likely.

  Still stooped, I paralleled the intruder's shadowy outline. I didn't see the stack of books at the aisle's end until it took me across the shins. I fell to my knees, scattering books before me.

  For the second time that night, falling prone saved my life. In the moment I tumbled, the intruder rounded the last bookcase. His sword hissed over my head and thudded into the bookshelves.

  I locked my hands around the intruder's ankles and pulled for all I was worth. He fell backwards, finger tightening on his pistol-crossbow's trigger. The shot whistled past my ear and vanished into the darkness. Scrambling upright, I threw a hurried kick at the crossbow, sending it clattering away under Stefan's desk.

  If the crossbow's loss dismayed my opponent, he gave no sign. But between his hood and half-mask all I saw of his face were the eyes. He slashed at my ankles, forcing me to take a long step backward, and scrambled to his feet. Sword outstretched in a duellist's guard, he advanced, limping very slightly as he came.

  At this point, a more practical man than I would have drawn his own sword, but the memory of the last time it had tasted blood was still too fresh. Fortunately, I had another option. Backing up a pace, I slipped my dagger from its ankle-sheath. I grimaced. Six inches of fine Hadari steel was a formidable weapon under the right circumstances, but it was less than a quarter of the length of the sword that sought to claim my life.

  I retreated along the back wall. The intruder thrust, the steel glinting in the moonlight. I darted back, hoping he'd overextend and lose balance. But he was far too canny to expose himself.

  Two thrusts later, I was uncomfortably aware that I was running out of manoeuvring room. I didn't dare look behind me. I didn't need to. I knew a wall was looming. If I were caught against that, it was all over.

  Spurred on by this unhappy thought, I didn't retreat from the next thrust, but brought my dagger around. Its blade caught the sword perhaps an inch back from the point and knocked it aside.

  Before the intruder could react, I slammed my knee into his stomach. He staggered away, flailing for balance. The back of his sword-hand cracked into the corner of the desk, scattering books to the floor and jarring the weapon from numbed fingers.

  Even then, my opponent didn't miss a beat. He stooped low, his good hand scrabbling for the blade. But I wasn't about to let him get the weapon back. Even as his fingers closed around the hilt, I brought one foot down on the blade, pinning the sword and his fingers to the floor. For good measure, I stomped down with the other, crushing his trapped hand. His howl of pain almost drowned out the sound of cracking bones. That, I felt sure, should have taken the fight out of him. But before I could give the intruder the opportunity to yield, he snatched the granite paperweight from the desk, and hurled it at my head.

  If there was any justice in the world, that desperate throw would have had no chance of hitting its target. But fate, fickle as ever, had abandoned me. The winged figurine struck a glancing blow at my temple. Stars burst behind my eyes. Dull aches rushed in to fill the darkness in their wake. The intruder abandoned his sword, wrenched his crippled hand free, and ran for the balcony.

  The room reeled about me. I threw out a hand and steadied myself against Stefan's desk. As my head cleared, I stared blankly down at the body that had once been my friend. Dead, just as I'd feared. Loss threatened to overwhelm me. Then my eyes fell upon the bulging eyes, and the lips drawn taut in terror. Anger scoured away my sorrow.

  Pushing off from the desk, I threw myself through the balcony doors and pursued the murderer outside.

  This time he wasn't waiting for me, weapon in hand or otherwise. The balcony was empty. I ran to the edge, desiccated leaves crunching under my feet. As the moon vanished behind a cloud, I stared out across the rooftops, searching for my foe.

  From that vantage point, I had an unimpeded view across the sea of rooftops leading to the great square and its almost-finished cathedral. Even then, a few hours before dawn, torches and lanterns thronged the square, as crowds of Sidarists held moonlight vigil over their new temple. But there was no sign of Stefan's murderer. I peered over the balcony to look at the gardens below, but if the murderer had jumped or fallen that way, he was long gone.

  I was on the point of giving up when I heard a clatter from behind me. Instantly, I realised my mistake. So intent had I been on the rooftops before me, I'd completely discounted the possibility of an escape in the other direction – up onto the roof of Stefan's house. But there he was, silhouetted for a moment upon the ridgeline before dropping down out of sight on the other side.

  Sheathing my dagger, I ran back towards the study door and leapt, my outstretched fingers searching for a handhold on the guttering above. They made it – just – and I hauled my way up onto the roof proper, trying not to think about the vile-smelling silt oozing between my fingers.

  Beyond the gutter, the roof tiles sloped steeply upwards, and I could see nothing by way of handholds. For a moment, I hung there, feet scrabbling and failing to find any sort of purchase. My arms ached, and the rush of strength from my anger was fading fast. If I didn't figure out a way to keep going, I'd have to accept defeat.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud, and salvation glinted before me. A row of metal spikes, thrust between the tiles, trailed up the roof. Invisible up to that moment, they now stood revealed by Ashana's light. I smiled grimly. This was clearly the escape route the murderer had prepared, and I could surely climb this makeshift ladder as well as he.

  With one last effort, I pulled myself up enough so that my straining fingers could grasp the first spike. Soon after, I reached the ridge.

  Beyond, the tiles sloped back down to meet an expanse of flat roofing heading south. The edges were lined with chimneys, grotesques, and a scattering of ravens who watched our antics with the detached amusement only animals can muster. It was along this route that my quarry fled, his limp more pronounced than in the study.

  I made no attempt to descend the slope in a cautious manner, but slid down on my back, using feet and hands to control my pace. For a moment, it looked like I might actually make it safely, but then a raven on the roof below – presumably startled by the clamour of my transit – took to panicked flight. All would have been well if the bird had headed to my left or to my right, but the wretched creature instead flew full into my face.

  Instinctively, I raised my hands to fe
nd off its frantically beating wings, and at once lost control over my descent. I tumbled end over end for the rest of the way, halting only when my ribs made painful contact with a grotesque.

  My feet and head hung dangerously over the edge. Had it not been for my stone saviour, my fall would have stopped only when my body had hit the street, four storeys below. Wincing with pain, I hauled myself upright once more, and patted the grotesque's head in thanks. This proved to be a mistake. The statue – its fixings already damaged by my impact – wobbled and then toppled into the street. A second later there was a not-entirely manly bellow. Peering over the edge, I glimpsed a pair of blue-tabarded constables, a dozen stone fragments at their feet.

  Sighing at the general unfairness of my night so far, I resumed my pursuit. I'd only taken five or six clattering strides across the tiles when a shrill whistle sounded from below. One of the constables had regained his composure enough to summon aid.

  At least I'd gained ground. The murderer stood less than twenty yards distant, eyeing a gap between our roof and the next. Throwing a startled glance in my direction, he hurled himself across the void, landing with a thud on the far slope.

  As he scrambled towards the ridge, I redoubled my pace, gauging the jump I'd have to make. It was only three or four yards. If my quarry had made it with his injuries, it surely lay well within my ability. Legs pumping with one final effort, I launched myself across the gap.