by Darren Swart
Table of Contents
Excerpt
In the Shadow
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
He stood before the squatted demon.
Its hideous face gave him the willies. The last time he had encountered this thing, it attacked him. While it showed no outward signs of an unnatural life, he was still cautious. He summoned up the courage and reached inside the mouth, hoping that the gem from his dream would fall into his hands. There was nothing here. Marty swallowed hard. If they had come all this way to find nothing, it would be a very long trip home.
He began to examine the figure more closely. He could feel goosebumps raise on his arms and crawl up the back of his neck. He stemmed the growing panic that threatened to overcome him. He cautiously approached the statue in the dim light. He couldn’t see the figure’s back in stark light, so he blindly ran his finger between the wings. He could feel a narrow crevice like a seam. He felt past the seam to the opposite side. The small ridge felt like a button. Could it be that simple? He pushed in the center of the ridge to hear a faint click and a small rattling sound. The mouth of the devil clicked, allowing the jaw to drop from hidden hinges. He eased his fingers into the cavity and touched something soft in the hole. Carefully, he removed the object wrapped in soft cloth. Marty looked up and around the small vestibule. The old man was nowhere to be seen. Softly, he said, “Guys, I found something.”
In the Shadow
of Men
by
Darren Swart
In the Shadow of Destiny Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
In the Shadow of Men
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Willem Darren Swart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1823-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1824-0
In the Shadow of Destiny Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
I am humbled by all those who have rallied around me through the process of writing this novel.
As with most journeys, I am amazed at
the lessons the process has taught me
and the patience of all those
who have helped move forward through the process.
I am honored by the ceaseless support
from my wife Cindy and daughter Brianna;
my niece and nephew Katie and David;
my sister Ann;
my friends, Michael Como, Caroline Morris
and Roger Blackburn.
While other pieces may follow,
this will always be the first.
“Nature shows us only the tail of the lion. But I do not doubt that the lion belongs to it even though he cannot at once reveal himself because of his enormous size.”
~Albert Einstein
Prologue
The Holy Land, 1187 AD
His gaze darted in the dim light; time was short, his options limited. If he snapped the handle in his hand, he could use the sharp end. The walls and ceiling were sand, but he doubted if he could create a cave-in that would accomplish the task. His sword and weapons were carefully packed away in the armory, which was securely locked on the surface. There was no way to get to it without alerting the others. A knot in his stomach grew worse with each passing moment. He could feel time slipping through his fingers like the sand. He clung desperately to the distant hope that he would find a way to end his life.
His eyes burned with fatigue. He stared vacantly at the fresh dots of blood on the wooden handle in his hands. The pain that gnawed at him was nothing compared to the torment in his spirit. Perhaps it was the incessant drip of water that echoed through the caverns? Maybe it was the looming darkness that seemed to fill him now? All he had ever wanted was to be a Templar Knight and now that he was, all he wanted was to go home and see his family. Bitterly, he contemplated that a real knight could have snapped the shovel handle and driven it through his own heart. On the other hand, a real knight wouldn’t need to.
He loathed himself. Absently, he fidgeted with the blade of the shovel, scraping it across the wall of sand before him. A tiny avalanche fell away and revealed an odd pattern of swirls and color beneath. He studied the striations against the backdrop of dull yellow. The small section seemed an almost dramatic comparison. Curiosity egged him on. He probed gently at the sand and uncovered more defined shapes and colors; shades of red, umber, and blue appeared in patterns that resembled brush strokes. In the flickering torchlight, the lines began to eddy and roll like the tide on a distant shoreline. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the healing sun of his homeland, the briny twang of the ocean. He could see his father standing at the dock waving him on. He breathed in deeply, only to choke on the acrid vapors of pitch from the torch. His eyes flashed open, as he angrily spit at his own deception.
He cleared away more of the loose sand so that more of the image appeared; a winged figure with its arm outstretched. He looked up. It was similar to the one on the faint marble arch above him. The discovery of the arch the day before had nearly driven Monsieur Lavigne, their leader, insane. He literally drooled, as he ran from group-to-group, frantically shoving them to this one spot. Despite his youth and strength, Jean-Michael’s shoulders still ached from the hours of swinging the mattock at the unforgiving soil the night before. The men had stopped exhausted from the effort. He, on the other hand, had pled to remain behind. After the weeks of being underground, he considered he might be going mad. Lavigne eyed him suspiciously before allowing it. When everyone moved to the surface to pray before choking down stale bread and dried mutton, Jean-Michael stayed behind to end his life and the torture of this place. He gave
up his birthright to be a Crusader, only to find he was nothing more than a glorified miner.
But at the moment, all of that could wait. His discovery was far too intriguing. He carefully scraped away more of the sand façade and found subtle lines of a magnificent mural beneath the sand. He dropped the shovel and stepped back, so he could see the image clearly. An Angel, stood in the Arch holding a key toward the viewer. Unlike any he had ever seen, its four large points resembled gems protruding on either side of a golden shaft. He moved the torch closer to study the remarkable image in the sand. To his horror, the image suddenly collapsed, falling like an hourglass into a colored heap at his feet. Crestfallen, he stared at the sand. In the dim light, a round globe lay exposed hidden by the mural. He heard his own breath suck in, as the sand continued to sift from the globe, revealing the hollow cavities that had once been home to quick attentive eyes. The sand continued to sift, exposing more of the features until a jawbone dangled precariously from one side.
He squinted in the dim light, drawing the torch closer. His hands trembled as he carefully brushed away loose grains. His ears pounded and adrenaline made his hands shake with excitement. This was something important. He studied the bones, realizing the skeleton was in an odd position, upright, resting on its knees. He stared at it, enthralled. Sand continued to pour away from the bones, and as the loose sand fell free from the cavity, a jewel sparkled in the dim light wedged against the backbone. A blue gem seductively winked at Jean-Michael in the dim light. He stared at it, transfixed. As he touched it, the skin on his hand tingled curiously. Summoning his courage, he reached in and plucked the pecan-shaped gem from its resting place between two of the vertebrae. It felt strangely warm to the touch. He held it up closer in the feeble torchlight, so he could inspect it. A steady hum filled his ears. Deep within the stone, an almost imperceptible gleam winked on as if the stone had awakened. His whole body began to tingle now. He looked at his arm to find the hairs were standing on end. A soft blue radiance grew swiftly in intensity until an ice blue light bathed the cavern. He watched as the cave began to change before his eyes; sand walls around him solidified into alabaster columns and the dirt beneath his feet coalesced into polished marble. His fascination regressed to fear. It was unnatural. He tried to fling the glowing orb, only to find it would not leave his hand. The heat from the gem was so intense that he looked down expecting to see his hand on fire. Instead, he found the skin of his palm was now healed. He looked at his feet in time to see his scuffed worn boots resolved to shiny obsidian leather, while a pearl white tunic replaced his ragged shirt.
The great chamber glowed from every wall with hidden light. In the distance, a figure appeared. It floated toward him. As it drew closer, Jean-Michael stood frozen in place. It loomed over him like a great tree. In the still air, gossamer robes billowed, blown by some unknown wind. His long thin beard almost touched his waist, making his face seem abnormally long. He regarded Jean-Michael severely, staring past his flesh and probing deeply into his soul.
Fear gripped Jean-Michael, as he looked up. He must be dead and this was at the moment of judgment. He dropped to one knee and kneeled as if to the king, steeling himself for what was to come. His head bowed and his eyes shut, he whispered, “Oh merciful, Saint Peter, I know I am unworthy. If you would only allow me passage into our Father’s Kingdom.”
He missed the merry twinkle in the Entity’s eyes. In a voice that reached the core of Jean-Michael’s soul, the Entity commanded, “Arise, young knight. You’re not dead…yet.”
Jean-Michael turned his head slightly and half opened one eye as he regarded the figure. He knew there would be a test. He would not be so easily duped. He slowly rose, still not looking up. “What is it you would have of me, my Master?”
“I am not your Master, boy. I am merely a guide. You hold the Sappir. It has chosen you as its new guardian.”
Jean-Michael refused to meet the Entity’s eyes. “Then what is it that the Sappir would have of me, Master?”
A hint of irritation entered the Entity’s voice. “Jean-Michael, look at me, boy.”
Irked at being called ‘boy,’ he held his head high and squared his shoulders. For the first time, he looked at the figure before him. The spirit no longer billowed or glowed. With the exception of the eyes which still glowed eerily, it almost looked normal. He relaxed a bit. “What would you have of me then, spirit?”
“Your fellow knights will return shortly. They cannot know of the Sappir. You are now the guardian. Bury the guardian before you on consecrated ground. I will guide you when the time is right. You have been chosen to carry this solitary trust.”
Puzzled, Jean-Michael looked up at him. “How will I know what to do?”
“I will guide you. Take heed of your new powers. They will serve you well.”
“Powers?”
His voice trailed off, as the cavernous room before him resolved into a murky catacomb once again. He stared down at the vibrant gem against the healed skin of his hands. In a language so unique, it was not human. The Sappir sang within him. It knew his thoughts. It opened his mind as never before. In the distance, he could hear the crunch of boots coming toward him. Somehow, he knew it was Lord Lavigne. He shoved the gem into his pants. He winced as he dropped heavily onto the sand, striking the shovel handle. Quickly, he clasped his hands together and said, “Be with him, Blessed Mary. Amen.”
Lavigne scowled over him with a torch. “What are you doing, boy? Praying that the sand will move itself?”
Jean-Michael rose slowly and stepped aside, revealing the skeleton before him. Lavigne almost dropped his torch. Jean-Michael heard the older man’s breath draw in quickly before regaining his composure.
Jean-Michael regarded him serenely. “No, Sire. I was praying for this forgotten soul.”
Lavigne pushed him out of the way. As he touched Jean-Michael, it was if a curtain lifted from Jean-Michael’s eyes and vision filled him. He stood on a battlefield. Before him, his master straddled a mound of broken bodies. His tunic was bloodied and torn. As he turned to face him, the older man’s face was gone, leaving only a blackened skull with eyes glowering like embers from some hellish fire. The once pristine Tudor cross emblazoning his tunic was almost unrecognizable through the blood and gore. A single ruby amulet hung from his neck, radiating and untouched by the carnage. It glowed angrily like his eyes. Even as a bystander, Jean-Michael could feel the tug of Lavigne’s amulet against his own—as the fraternal twin to the Sappire Jean-Michael held.
A knight groaned at Lavigne’s feet, groping upward as he desperately clutched his boot. His round eyes pleaded in fear. Lavigne never looked, as his sword plunged into the man’s side, snapping bone and tearing through muscle like it were paper. Jean-Michael heard the man gurgle and watched as bright red foam bubbled from his lips. His head lolled forward, as a crimson ribbon spread across his chest. From the darkening stain of blood, a frightening image emerged. A long thin face, mouth open in mock, silent laughter and long menacing horns full of jagged spikes. Jean-Michael shuddered. He didn’t know the fallen knight, but nothing good could come from this. The vision squeezed him like a vise. His purpose was clear: He must keep the Sappir from his so-called Mentor at all costs.
Jean-Michael blinked and looked up. He could see the irritation in Lavigne’s eyes, as he repeated his question. “I said—was there anything with it?”
Jean-Michael ignored the inference to the remains as something inanimate. “Only his bones, Sire.” He felt the comforting warmth of the stone in his breeches.
Lavigne looked at him contemptuously. “There will be many more before this is over, boy. Clear it away and keep digging.”
Jean-Michael looked at him, stubbornly. “I would like to see that he has a proper burial.”
Lavigne rolled his eyes. “Why, for God’s sake? We don’t know if he was Christian or Muslim. What does it matter?”
The older man studied Jean-Michael’s face. There was a look of resolve he had not see
n before. The youth responded, “It matters to me. He died in this place for a reason. With all due respect, Sire, we owe him that much.”
Lavigne rolled his eyes again. “I should think you would have seen enough digging. Very well. See to it, then. Do not tarry. We still have much work to do.”
Jean-Michael nodded. He worked carefully for the next few minutes, clearing away the soil from the skeleton. He placed the bones reverently on a cart and slowly started his ascent to the top. The wooden cart creaked, as he moved toward the unforgiving sun above. Halfway up the tunnel, he passed the other men. Hollow eyes regarded the bones, as they silently passed. Drained of life they were mere drones in a hive. Jean-Michael couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed it before. The resolve of what had been thrust upon him settled inside of him. He knew he was different now; gone were the petty worries of comfort and fortune. His newfound sense of purpose hardened him. He resolved that history would not remember him, and his family would speak of him only in terms that he had died in the Holy Land. He was reborn a new man.
The chill of night fell upon the desert. Lonely winds swept the hills above them, howling against the vast emptiness of the barren land. The sands formed devil cyclones which danced and skipped across the desolate ground. Despite the anger in the evening wind, Jean-Michael dreamed.
He stood on the warm wooden deck, listening to the waves lap seductively against the side of the ship. Dark-skinned men milled around him laughing and joking in a strange tongue. They walked past him, dropping green leaves on his bare feet. Every spot that a leaf landed, his skin healed. The gentle sun warmed his soul and made him smile, even while he slept. He looked around to find that his was the only white face on the ship. None of them seemed to notice or care. The wind snapped the main sail to attention. He looked to the bow where a handsomely-carved falcon spread its wings to the wind. They faced a smooth emerald green mountain, unlike any he had ever seen.
A cold wind ripped the blanket from him, forcing him awake in the chill of the desert night. The pop and crackle of the dying fire was the only noise in the camp. Men snored around him, exhausted from the hours of digging. Jean-Michael blinked in the darkness, remembering his dream. Silently, he arose, rolled his bedroll, and eased past the sleeping men to the corral. Quietly he saddled a black mare, which stood quietly as if waiting on him. He walked her from the encampment, stroking her side until they were out of eyesight. She never whinnied or made a sound. As he mounted the black mare, he steeled himself for the days ahead.
