Simon Blackfyre and the Corridor of Shadows: Book 2 of the Simon Blackfyre sword and sorcery epic fantasy series

by A J Allen

  She passed through the door on the arms of her monks and was gone. Lady Bellemar and Lord Rabek followed.

  Lord Lionsbury placed his unsteady hand on the book’s torn and cracked leather as though looking upon some dreaded treasure that should never have been unearthed. “There will be two guards outside your door all night. Call if you need anything and they will see to your needs. The chamber pot is under the bed.” He turned and strode from the chamber, closing the door behind him without so much as a parting glance.

  Simon stared at the lone flickering candle on the bedside table.

  Demons existed in this world, it was true, but they were of flesh and blood, well groomed, and well-mannered like the lords and ladies of Farrhaven. These were the ones who had the power to show up in the middle of the night and spirit a young man away to poison his mind and body with a sorcerer’s plant.

  Simon blew out the candle.

  Those sorts of demons are the only ones I should fear now.

  Chapter 8

  Trials and Tests

  Next morning, the sun withheld the promise of light in the murky sky. The imposing peaks on the Mountains of Haramir, draped in billowed mantles of snow, seemed to cast down the very air that chilled Simon’s feet inside his leather-soled boots.

  Simon rubbed his hands to keep warm and watched in fascination as the other protectors leaped through the air, dodging, pivoting, then striking their opponents as they executed expert sparring and weapons practice on the frosted ground.

  The clumsy bashing and banging of heads from a few days ago had been replaced by sleek, fluid movements that amazed those who possessed the new skills as much as it did the Council members observing each contest.

  Jack ran up to Simon, breathless. He twirled the wood sword in his hand like a skilled circus performer. “Did you see that, Simon? I always thought myself a fair swordsman but never imagined I could hold my ground against Goran Velizar. This is incredible! Imagine if I had real Miradoran steel in my hands.”

  “Truly, Jack. You are not a pampered boy to be trifled with anymore.”

  “Was I ever? Well, thanks anyway.” He laughed and slapped Simon on the back. “And what about Marcus? He alone stands against Callor, Elric and Damien in an even fight! Who else but my big brother can be chosen as King?”

  A sudden sense of unease pricked Simon’s nerves like icy pins, a sensation coming to him from across the field. Was he being overly suspicious or were those two always watching him? Lord Dowrick and Lord Fromund were conversing and looking directly at him from time to time.

  Fromund rubbed his jaw and crossed the field toward the main doors of Farrhaven.

  Jack balanced his wood sword on his finger, maintaining it perfectly. “What’s the matter?”

  Simon shook his head. “Nothing. Still a little weary from last night.”

  “We’re all happy to see you back in the pink but you barely touched your breakfast. Can’t you feel this new power thundering in your body? I’m so hungry I could eat Byrch’s giant horse when he gets back.”

  “If Shamus doesn’t eat you first.” Rachel stepped next to Simon. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. You had all of us worried.”

  Simon rubbed his stomach. “That particular root didn’t agree with me. I prefer mine chopped and simmering in a stew.”

  Rachel frowned. “Oh, don’t mention food. That’s all everyone talks about. I’m getting plump like a pudding just thinking about supper.”

  That morning, Simon had been euphoric sitting next to Rachel at the breakfast table, so eager to tell his fantastic story that he’d only nibbled on a piece of cheddar like a mouse; the other voracious protectors had feasted on warm bread slathered in carragreen jelly, followed by cheese, and fruit preserves, then platters of savory, sliced roasted ham and sweet potatoes.

  When the moment was right to speak, though, Simon fell silent, feeling no desire to recollect that terrible, unnamed face or any detail of a godforsaken place called The Corridor of Shadows.

  After a barrage of questions from his friends at the breakfast table, Simon offered only the vaguest details of seeing swirling lights and shadowy phantasms which echoed what he had overheard the others describing around the Great Hall.

  Marcus and the other protectors were clearly disappointed by Simon’s less than thrilling account of his experience, but that was something he could accept. He would rather tell his friends little lies that were easy to hear than a single monstrous truth his own eyes refused to believe.

  Rachel stepped closer to him, her black suede boots scarcely making footprints on the melting frost. “Was there something more you wanted to tell us, Simon, about what really happened to you?”

  Jack flipped his wooden sword high into the air with his finger and caught it by the hilt. “Come, tell us the truth. You were gone the longest of any here. You must have seen something more than the rest of us.”

  Simon glanced back to the misty mountains of Haramir, their cloud-hooded peaks seeming to beckon him to pull back their shrouds.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you again, but whatever I had to say I’ve said to the Holy Seer and his Lordship. I’d like to forget the whole damn business and get back to the only thing that matters. That’s the reason we’re here isn’t it?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “You truly want Marcus to be our next King?”

  “I do, unless you can show me another on this field more deserving of our loyalty.”

  Jack laughed and clapped Simon on the back. “We’ll see you at supper and this time … eat!”

  Simon watched him run across the field and join Niall in the latest battle against the Strathwald protectors. In spite of the Holy Seer’s words to the contrary, Simon understood now that it had been nothing more than a fever dream caused by the plant’s poison, yet he still couldn’t shake the feeling that, for a brief terrifying moment, he had lost Rachel forever in the dark abyss of his own nightmares.

  Rachel poked him in the lower ribs. “You shouldn’t make us fret, Simon. If you don’t eat a full meal tonight I heard that Lord Lionsbury will call for the physician.”

  Simon shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m certain my appetite will return by the time we’re called to the table.” He hoped his reply was convincing for in truth he had little craving for the gluttonous plates of food being stowed away by even the smallest protectors such as Niall and Quinn.

  “Let’s hope your memory returns too. Guess whose turn it is today?”

  The sudden realization made Simon squinch; he was next on the roster for latrine duty. He picked up a wooden ax. “I didn’t forget, and who among us wasn’t inspired to watch Callor and his cronies shoveling exactly what they speak.”

  Rachel laughed and covered her mouth. “You’re terrible.”

  “Not too much, I hope.”

  She touched his hand with a quick, furtive caress. “Mmm. We’ll see.”

  “Think it’s true then? The blood memory of dead heroes flows through our veins?”

  “Before that night, I would have said it was another myth like the Eelamassi itself, but now...” Rachel closed her eyes. She raised her bow and shot a blunt arrow clear across the field. A few moments later it struck the second eye of a scarecrow, matching the other. Arrows stuck out of the heart and every vulnerable spot including its straw-stuffed codpiece.

  She opened her eyes. “I could never hit a target from this distance before with my eyes open, even with my best bow and arrow.”

  Simon threw the fake ax. It flew through the air and cleaved deep into the center of a stacked hay bale more than a hundred paces away. He imagined what he could do with real Miradoran steel in his hands.

  Mr. Joren blew his horn twice.

  All the commotion stopped and everyone paid silent attention.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, protectors of Miradora. The next challenge is between House Tiberion and House Evermere. There shall be no striking about the head, for what little sense you have needs to remain intact.
All mock weapons are permitted except the bow. Protectors are of meager worth if blinded like a mole.”

  Rachel shrugged and put down her bow. “I’ve become pretty handy with a dagger too.” She slipped out a dull pine dagger that looked like a tent peg.

  Callor banged his waster against his barrel-bottom shield. “Send the Evermere cowards to me. I’ll give each a thrashing they won’t soon forget.” He braced himself in a hunched fighting stance.

  Lord Lionsbury stepped next to Mr. Joren. “But would the young lord not like to know the objective of this challenge before engaging his worthy adversary?”

  “What is there to know?” Callor boasted. “We are the strongest house by far and they the weakest. The strong always vanquish the weak. That is the reality of things.”

  Marcus picked up his splintered waster and shield. “I agree and please allow me to show the young lord how that’s done, that is, if he doesn’t start bawling for his mother first.”

  Lord Lionsbury studied both adversaries, his eyes dark and troubled, like the skies overhead. “I see, then you won’t mind if I confide in each of you something I’ve heard only this morning.” He took Callor aside and spoke in hushed tones.

  With each passing moment, Callor’s face reddened and burned like a brand. He took a step forward, beating his sword against his shield and needed to be held back by two guards.

  Jack whispered in Marcus’s ear. “I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”

  “I don’t know but whatever it is, Callor has bloody murder in his eyes.”

  “And now, to be fair, I wish to speak with Marcus.” Lord Lionsbury guided him to the opposite side and said something in his ear.

  Marcus rejoined his group, his face pale as wax.

  “What did he say, Marcus? What’s wrong?” Simon asked.

  “Nothing.” He banged his waster against his shield. “Get ready.” He crouched, ready to attack.

  “Brother?” Jack took a cautious step closer. “What are we supposed to—”

  Mr. Joren blew his horn and the two contenders leaped toward each other, swinging their wasters like blood-crazed barbarians.

  Callor howled. “I’ll kill you, you son of a whore! How dare you say that about my family! Have you no shame!” He knocked Marcus back with a lightning fast series of maneuvers.

  Marcus regained his footing. “Not if I skewer you with this stick first like the filthy pig you are.” He rushed Callor headlong, looking like a mad boar, the splintering strikes of their clashing wood swords clacking and smacking across the field.

  Simon and the other Evermere protectors looked at each other unsure of what to do next. Most of them didn’t have time to fetch weapons.

  Simon dove flat to the ground, narrowly avoiding the sweeping staff. He rolled back to his feet just in time to see Elric Skobb yelling and rushing toward him again, staff raised for another strike.

  Standing with one foot behind the other, arms up and ready to grab, Simon dodged the sharp blow. The moment the staff slapped the ground, Simon grabbed the shaft and swung his leg around kicking Elric in the side. The Tiberion protector lost his grip and tumbled over with a groan.

  Solina and Morwyn set upon the startled Evermere protectors in a flurry of clashing punches and kicks. Using their swift element of surprise, the two Tiberion women grappled Rachel, Jack, and Niall to the ground, consuming all in a vicious melee of screaming curses and pummeling fists. The women punched out equal amounts of bruising pain on each other as well as upon the shocked Evermere brothers.

  Rachel broke free of the scrimmage and pivoted, stick dagger in hand, only to be confronted by the steadily advancing Damien and his swinging wood battleax. “You’re going to need something bigger than a twig to stop me, girl.”

  Simon grabbed the fallen Elric’s staff from the ground and, hoisting it like a lance, launched it across the field. It smacked into Damien’s shoulder, spinning him around and forcing him to drop his ax. Rachel yelled fiercely and leapt upon her larger adversary’s back, driving him face-first into the dirt.

  Jack and Niall were evenly matched in hand-to-hand combat against Solina and Morwyn. The brothers took turns fending off one attacker then switching and forcing the two women to match strategies or receive an unexpected blow for not quickly adapting to their different fighting styles.

  Jack grimaced from Solina’s sudden spinning kick to his side. “You must teach me that maneuver. You are as light on your feet as a royal dancer.”

  Solina laughed. “And you are as heavy as a farmer’s ass.” She kicked out again.

  Jack grabbed her foot in mid-air. “Slow and steady may yet win the day.” He twisted her foot, forcing her to spin over on the ground.

  “Look out!” Rachel yelled.

  Simon ducked as Rachel’s wood dagger shot through the air, coming to strike Elric Skobb who had been standing behind him with Damien’s raised ax. The Tiberion challenger recoiled and dropped his weapon. He cradled his injured hand. “Ouch! That really hurts!” He held his hand up. “It’s bleeding!”

  “It’s supposed to, you big oaf,” Rachel scolded. “Remember what they said about striking the head?”

  Elric retreated sheepishly behind his panting Tiberion cohorts who appeared to be regrouping and getting ready for another attack.

  Simon nodded his thanks to Rachel and smiled, vowing to always look out for her as she did for him; there were some here who made their own rules.

  Callor and Marcus clashed their wooden swords, breaking each above the hilt. They threw down their broken weapons and lunged at each other, punching and pawing like enraged beasts.

  Robert Strathwald and Goran Velizar broke out in riotous cheers, their protectors shouting and taunting one to prevail over the other.

  Simon glimpsed Lord Lionsbury, his regal face grim as a funeral mask. The violent breath of mad howls and moans filled the cold air. Callor was on top of Marcus punching him in the face. “Who needs a weapon to kill a lying coward? I can do it with my bare hands. Just tarry, and you shall see… if you have eyes remaining in your skull.”

  Marcus spat out blood. “I’m impressed. I would have thought your dainty Tiberion hands would have crumpled by now like your family’s honor.”

  “Then you don’t deny what you said about my mother?” Callor asked.

  “What? You crying for your mother? You think that is the same as the filth you spread against my brothers?” said Marcus.

  Callor suspended his raised fist. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t lie, Tiberion. You are the one without shame.” Marcus spat up into his face.

  Callor roared and raised his fist yet higher to strike Marcus again.

  “Get off my brother!” Niall tackled Callor from behind in a spectacular dive. They toppled off Marcus and the smallest Evermere commenced battering the shocked and much larger Callor with his small, stony paws. The gawking onlookers from every house cheered and whistled louder.

  Each Tiberion and Evermere protector, including Simon, was consumed now in a flurry of bloody fists and curses that had degenerated to the lowborn spectacle of a peasant brawl.

  “Cease at once!” Lord Lionsbury strode to the center of the field.

  Mr. Joren blew his horn twice. All the gasping protectors stopped and lowered their arms, most slumping to the ground, exhausted.

  Simon released Elric by his ripped tunic collar letting him plop to the earth on his backside. Callor and Marcus struggled to their feet, coughing and spitting blood on the dirt.

  His Lordship stood before them, feet astride, hands folded behind his back, his face tempered like steel. Without another word he slapped Callor across the jaw with one hand and Marcus with the other. “How dare you. You are both a disgrace to your family names.”

  “Your Lordship, please,” Callor begged. “What would you have done if this craven liar dishonored your family?”

  “I would have first sought the truth of the accusation and verified the circumstances
before making a decision.”

  Callor looked stunned. “But you said—”

  “Exactly. You raised your sword against your fellow countryman based on nothing more than unfounded accusations and malignant gossip.”

  He leaned in close to Marcus. “Not once did either of you question me or each other about the veracity of my words but supposed them true because I, a respected noble of the realm in a position of highest authority, said it must be so. Is that how you would lead your country, then? To bloody ruin in war because you believed the words from a trusted adviser to be true without proof and asked for none?”

  Callor wiped the sweat and blood out of the corner of his eyes. “Then it’s not true? None of it?”

  “None, except that which you created in your fevered rage to be proved the injured party, thereby justifying your shameless, vengeful actions against another in plain sight of your deceived peers.”

  Marcus lowered his head. “Forgive us, your Lordship. We were not thinking clearly. It will not happen again.”

  “Ahh, and is that what you would say to all those loyal subjects under your command? That you were not in possession of your royal wits? How will you gain the respect of your people when you refuse to respect the burden of proof required before they follow you blindly into battle? Is your strategy to forsake them when they need their King the most?”

  “No, your Lordship,” Marcus and Callor answered at the same time.

  “Then see that it never happens again or I will dismiss both of you and your protectors from these rites. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, your Lordship,” they answered in unison, heads bowed and humbled.

  “Now, be gone from my sight. Return to your quarters and dwell upon what I have said.” He turned his head in disgust. “The survival of our people may well depend on the choices you make next.” He waved them away.

  Simon could not deny the enjoyment of seeing two entitled young nobles plodding toward their dormitory like humiliated, cowed servants before their master. He had nothing against Marcus—he was still the most admirable choice for King as far as he could tell—but all these fine young lords and ladies needed to be publicly humbled as much as that pompous Tiberion titmouse. Maybe then they would understand a little more of what life was like for someone as insignificant as a poor slave from Grimsby.