by A J Allen
SIMON BLACKFYRE
and the CORRIDOR OF SHADOWS
AJ Callen
Copyright Notice
© 2019 A. J. Callen.
All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this book may be reproduced
or copied without the written permission
of the Author.
This book is a work of fiction.
Characters and events are the products
of the author’s imagination.
Any similarity to persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.
Special Thanks to Annie Jenkins for her patience,
encouragement, and superb editing skills.
You can contact her at: https://www.just-copyeditors.com
Cover by rebecacovers
ISBN: 978- 0-9938784-2-8
Contents
1. New Friends and Foe
2. Crossing the Bridge
3. A Sage Encounter
4. Missteps and Blunders
5. Pencils and Books
6. Wooden Swords
7. Danger in the Shadows
8. Trials and Tests
9. A Traitor’s Promise
10. Myth and Monsters
11. Forest of Sorrow
12. Accusations and Lies
13. Speak These Words
14. Vengeance from the Abyss
15. Your Deepest Desire
16. Fables and Stories
17. Who Can You Trust?
Afterword
Chapter 1
New Friends and Foe
The arid breeze, tinged by the sickly-sour pong of something like rotting meat and vegetation, was rustling hair and making noses twitch as the wagons rumbled down the endless winding road.
“Phew!” Niall waved his hand in front of his face. “I’ll take the smell of fresh manure on fields over that anytime.”
“Must be some sort of a slaughterhouse upwind from us,” Rachel speculated.
“Then that is most strange.” Robert blew his nose into a green silk handkerchief. “The nearest shambles were back at Sturza, several leagues downwind from us. I smelled nothing like this when we passed. Did any of you?”
All remain silent and shook their heads. Simon knew what death smelled like above ground but this had the boggy odor of blood and dirt, of something dug up deep from the impenetrable and grumbling bowels of the earth.
“Foul though it may be,” Jack declared, “This is but aromatic incense of the temple compared to spending one more night shacked up in a tent with my so-called brothers. If I could disassociate myself from these stinking fartmeisters, then I would do so.”
Everyone laughed while the three Evermeres jostled and pushed each other around.
“Hey! Mind your manners back there,” the driver barked over his shoulder. “The rites started from the moment you fool-born louts arrived at camp and they don’t end until the Holy Seer says so. Remember that, if any of you has hopes to sit on the throne.”
As their journey continued, the rank odor disappeared with only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees. The Evermeres settled down and Jack commenced telling another of his exciting tales from the Age of Heroes.
Inside a short time, Simon was no longer aware of the dull, rolling leagues passing by under the heavy shaking of the wheels; he was completely enthralled by Jack’s stories of courage and daring, of bloody battles won and lost, and the sacrifices of those who lived and died to become the very stuff of Miradora’s cherished and guarded history.
How much was true, he couldn’t say, but nor could any of the others, he was sure. He stewed on it. Which person living now, in the modern time, could vouch with any certainty for the true and unquestionable details of happenings all those long centuries ago?
He soon gave up on the thought; too much musing had already begun to addle his exhausted brain. Simon yawned and stretched. The hours were no longer quite as heavy as before, each now passing in the time it took for another of the tribe to spin their colorful yarn.
Robert described traveling a dangerous border trade route with his father, a wealthy Avidene merchant noble, accompanied by a large armed guard of mercenaries to defend against highwaymen.
“Did any threaten you?” Niall asked.
“No, yet that was not the oddest thing. The villagers in several towns said the brigands had abandoned the roads at night out of fear for their own lives.”
Simon chewed on a piece of straw.
“And who can strike such fear into the hearts of cut-throats?” he asked.
“The King’s Guard, surely?” Rachel suggested.
Robert shook his head. “No regiments are stationed that far south along the border. We pressed the villagers for answers but they remained silent, though Father insists it was only because the thieves had warning that we would be traveling with mercenaries. Or, with the head-choppers, as Father liked to refer to them. Not that they ever did—chop, I mean. They liked to shoot…”
Simon observed how the rest of his group seemed oddly enthralled by the tale; choppings and shootings always did make for mighty fine stories, regardless of whether they were true or false. But to a mere slave accustomed to fearing for his life, it was a story too close for comfort.
The rambling border hills gave way to dense, dark forest and to jagged, rocky outcrops looming overhead. The cart paused beneath a towering cliff and the driver stepped down. He seemed concerned about one of the horses and went to examine its front hoof.
Simon’s breath quickened and he crouched, barely resisting his instinctive urge to cover his head lest the others make jest of his childhood fear.
“Are you all right, Simon?” Rachel asked.
“I... I don’t like being underneath tall rocks and cliffs.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
The cart lurched forward and Simon forced himself to look away from Rachel’s beguiling emerald eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m just eager to reach Farrhaven, that’s all.”
Marcus shot a straw like a lance, hitting Simon’s arm.
“Come, Simon, why don’t you tell us a story now? The adventures of young Avidene lords start to all sound the same after a while.”
Simon studied their eager faces, yearning to hear stories of a life none of them could imagine let alone endure.
“Please accept my humble apology and know I mean no disrespect,” he said. “I enjoy listening to your stories of places and people I’ve never seen, yet one day hope to. Hearing you speak of the world I’ve never known inspires my courage and that is why I would be grateful not to be called upon to say anything of my hardships in the servitude of my masters. My telling will inspire none… except, perchance, toward total despair.”
The others stared at Simon with quizzical looks until Jack broke the embarrassing silence by introducing another of his own tall tales. “Have you heard the one about the grave robbers who tried to steal Uncle’s sword from his crypt?”
Marcus shook his head. “A jolly good story, undoubtedly spread by the Royal Guard to scare away superstitious thieves and cutthroats. But it never happened, Jack. You know that as well as I do.”
“Says who, big brother? Do you think we lowly Evermeres are privy to the secrets of the King's Council? I asked Lord Rabek the same question and he slammed his big book shut in my face and told me to get out of his tent. Mother was so embar
rassed.”
Rachel leaned in closer. “The King’s sword? Oh, do tell us more, Jack, please.”
By the time the caravan stopped for the midday meal at the side of the road outside Squall’s End, Simon had heard all he could stomach about men turning howling mad and shriveling up like dried snakeskin, all because they dared to violate the King’s crypt.
Although captivated by old feats of valor, he cared not to hear of magic and superstition. He thought Marcus was right. It was a good lie designed to keep a fool peasant in his place. None would try to steal such a treasure, not even to feed their starving family.
The driver told the group to eat their fill because Squall’s End was the last frontier town and the final stop before reaching Farrhaven and The Mountains of Haramir. Simon huddled with the others around the cooking fire, watching Jack stir the mutton stew. A wary guard stood by the wagon, observing.
“I can stir if you want.” Simon held his hand out for the ladle.
“Not to worry. I make a decent stew, or so I’ve been told.”
Niall inched closer to the pot, his bowl and spoon in hand. “We’ll be the judge of that, brother.”
Jack’s answer had surprised Simon, but then he’d been surprised by a great many things these last two days. “But don’t you have someone to cook for you?”
Jack tasted the stew. “Mmm. Oh? You mean a slave cook?”
“Yes.”
Jack stirred the pot. “No.”
“No, you don’t have a cook?”
“No, I mean we don’t have slaves. Missus Butterwort is a wonderful cook and housekeeper but I’m afraid we’re going to lose her because we can’t afford to pay her what she’s really worth. Several noble families have already made her generous offers.”
Marcus dipped a piece of bread into the pot.
“The same with Mister Spratboar. He must conjure spirits to keep the entire castle grounds from being strangled by poisonous vines and thorns. Maybe once we arrive, they’ll teach us how to cast spells to conquer a wild garden.” He savored his stew-sopped morsel. “Mmm, I’d say it needs paprika but since we don’t have any, let’s eat—before they tell us to put out the fire.”
Simon shifted back from the flames. “They won’t will they?”
Marcus looked at him. “What? Make us put out the fire?”
“No,” Simon said, his face crestfallen. “I mean, they won’t force us to learn magic and conjuring or anything sinister like that?”
“Well, I don’t see why they would. There was never any mention of magic and sorcery in what I’ve read about the rites. What do you think, Jack?”
“No, I don’t think so, though I dare say it might come in quite handy. Our parents are going to need all the help they can summon once Missus Butterwort and Mister Spratboar are gone. That’s for sure.”
Jack ladled out the thick stew, adding it first into Rachel’s bowl. She stirred it with her spoon. “Are you telling the truth? Your family only employs freemen? That doesn’t sound very aristocratic to me.”
Jack poured a generous helping into Simon’s dish.
“I know, and it angered our uncle, good King Christoforus, no end… because our family never spent a single sovereign in the slave market. Only freemen and women we could afford to pay.” He took a deep sniff as if drinking in the tasty aroma, then filled Robert’s bowl next. “But it looks like we won’t be able to do that for much longer unless our fortunes improve.” He handed the bowl to Robert, who blew his breath across the top of his food.
“Thank you, but I wish you wouldn’t act like yours is the only family dealing with difficult times. My father’s trading partners in the eastern kingdoms are demanding higher and higher prices and protection fees to maintain the spice and silk routes. Paying for mercenaries is far too expensive and it’s at the point where we’re not making a profit anymore and stand to lose much of the wealth we’ve invested.”
Robert craned his neck toward the overshadowing Mountains of Haramir several leagues distant. “Something is striking fear into the people of those lands beyond the mountains.”
Simon dipped his bread into his bowl. “Has your father told you why?”
Robert swallowed his stew, hurrying to rid his mouth of the last meat fragment so he could speak. “Says they’re suffering a bad season of storms, the worst they’ve ever known, yet by the hushed way he speaks I feel there’s something more he refuses to say.”
Simon looked toward the far-off storm clouds over the mountains. “Lord Lionsbury said to beware the savage eastern winds.”
Jack tapped the ladle on the rim of the pot. “His Lordship has seen what the wrath of nature can do after its fury has passed.”
“Indeed,” Rachel said. “My father mentioned it once at the dinner table. Something about being caught in a vicious storm?”
Jack stirred the pot contents slowly, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I was no more than five or six. I crept down the stairs one night when I heard a terrible ruckus at the front door. Lord Lionsbury, bloodied as if from battle, was raving like a madman, hollering about a hellish storm like the gates of the demonic abyss struggling to open.
“His home, Elsborough Castle, was destroyed by storm and fire along with his entire household. Now, Lord Greyson Aronbach of Delcarden and his family were staying in the guest chambers. Only their eldest son, Niclas, and their manservant, Trumak, are said to have survived the flames.”
Having fed everyone else, Jack finally apportioned himself some food, peering into the bottom of the cavernous pot and scraping about with a giant spoon to see if he could locate any meat. Then he carried on. “Lord Lionsbury lost his pregnant wife and young daughter, Leeann, you know? To this day, none can explain why nature’s fury was visited upon two such kind and noble families, wreaking havoc on them like that.”
Simon appeared pensive. “I have seen the destruction a storm can do in the forest.” He rubbed the brand on his chest; despite the passage of some time, it still burned as though stung by poison ivy. “But you speak as if you believe it was something more.”
“I was only a child, scared out of my wits. I don’t know what I believe now.” Jack shrugged. “I still wish, though, that I could have slept as soundly as my brothers that night.”
Everyone ate their meals in stony silence. Simon stepped away from the group and watched the other young people from many different races and backgrounds talking and laughing around their cooking fires.
Simon was sure he would never know the depths of his Lordship’s suffering. How did any man go on living after losing everyone he loved? Simon shuddered and stepped back to his new-found friends.
“I am eternally grateful to Lord Lionsbury and unspeakably sorry to hear of his tragedy. It is a great honor to be seated here among you, yet although I understand why the children of nobles and freemen are here, why me and those of my station?”
Jack flicked the ladle clean and dipped it into a wash basin. “I don’t know the reason, my dear Simon, but what I do know is we’re all glad you are among us.”
The Evermere brothers shared the rest of the pot. Niall scraped the bottom with his own spoon this time and belched. “Another fine meal, Jack. You may retain your position as family cook in the absence of our marvelous Missus Butterwort.”
Simon turned to Jack. “Now here’s another thing that puzzles me. There are other families of similar noble lineage but why are there only four family banners?”
“Because only the male descendants of the five patriarchs are allowed, you disrespectful, uneducated, half-witted nincompoop,” a strange voice boomed out.
Simon jumped, and he and the others looked up.
A sturdy but tall, blond-haired young man, his face bloodless and menacing, stood between two thuggish brutes. His arms were crossed, and his intense, cold gray eyes seemed fixed on the Evermere brothers.
Simon looked to Jack for a sign that all was still well. He was not sure he spotted one.
The threatening intrude
r stepped forward into the circle. “Well, well; look who they’re allowing to pose as pretenders to the throne these days.”
Jack shook his head and laughed under his breath. “I’d been wondering when Callor Tiberion of Coranthium would grace us with his illustrious presence.”
“That will be King Callor The Magnificent to you, Evermere.”
He smoothed back his blond, neatly-trimmed hair. “I can’t believe we must suffer through such a pretense. Everyone knows the Council would have voted for me to be the next King.” He flicked a piece of chaff from his dark purple silk tunic. “And you, young Robert? Honestly, I’m not sure why you bothered to show up at all. Shouldn’t you be at home helping your ailing father before he goes bankrupt?”
Robert swallowed. “Every family has the same chance. You will have to wait as long as any of us to see a statue erected in your honor.”
Callor took a deep breath and exhaled. “Since mine is the only family that still has theirs, I rather believe that will be much sooner than you think.” He strutted around Simon as though inspecting livestock. “Have your family fortunes improved, Marcus? I didn’t think yours could afford slaves, after setting them all free.”
He leered at Rachel. “…Or such fetching concubines. You can’t believe the prices old man Weezgout is charging these days.” Callor licked his lips and puckered up.
Rachel looked away as if she hadn’t heard; she was not going to let the man demean her, though it took all her strength not to rise to the bait.
