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

by A J Allen

  Not wanting to appear totally unsympathetic in front of Marcus’s brothers, Simon turned to Jack. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Jack rubbed his side. “Leave him be. I’ll talk to him.”

  “I will never defend Callor but think it a cruel trick his Lordship played on both of them.”

  Jack brushed the dirt off his raw, scraped hands. “Perhaps, but what angers me more is that Marcus didn’t suspect he was being tricked and failed the test.” He walked after his humbled brother as a transparent mist descended on the ground.

  “What are you all standing around and gawking at?” Grimoric Kovoth stormed up to them. “This mess isn’t going to clean itself. Get to it then and wash yourselves, or you won’t be fed.”

  Goran Velizar stepped forward. “Surely, his Lordship doesn’t expect the Velizar and Strathwald protectors to help?” he said.

  “I agree,” Robert seconded from the back of the crowd. Felicity said something in his ear. “The Tiberions and Evermeres are at fault here.”

  The enraged guard pointed his sword at Goran. “It’s Mister Kovoth to you, for you are no longer a member of the Guard or the old friend you were. Remember that.”

  Goran bowed without comment, his face carefully neutral, and withdrew.

  Kovoth sheathed his sword. “And you can thank Lord Dowrick that he’s even allowing bread and water for the whole stinking lot of you.”

  Simon flinched from a sudden stinging pain in his chest.

  “Are you hurt?” Rachel asked.

  Simon shook his head and gently massaged his eye-shaped branding scar. “It’s never healed properly. Someone must have clawed me like a spitting cat.”

  They helped gather the splintered and shattered wood weapons amid the hostile looks from the other protectors. but none cut more sharply than the piercing gaze from Lord Aubert Hanmer of Dowrick.

  Chapter 9

  A Traitor’s Promise

  Lord Dowrick pulled a black monk’s hood over his face under the deepening shadows of the descending twilight and felt a smug satisfaction; not even Lionsbury knew of the tunnel’s existence below the dungeons.

  He lit a small torch and padded down the stone steps, confident with the superiority afforded by his stealth.

  A few strategically rearranged boulders gave the impression that the old underground escape passage had collapsed centuries ago, as was commonly believed by fools like Rabek and any who cared to recount the musty stories of Farrhaven from the Age of Heroes. Only those who willing to dig deeper could discover the truth buried beneath.

  Once a fair distance outside Farrhaven’s rear wall, he kept under the dark bowers of the ancient trees, stealing his way along a forgotten rocky path inside Roamligor Forest, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Marcus Evermere’s failure in the eyes of the Council had also been Callor Tiberion’s, so on that account, those allied to the one true King were not any further ahead in hastening their plans.

  At the sound of a twig snapping along the path, Lord Dowrick snuffed his flame and slid behind a rocky outcrop. He drew his sword, crouched, and waited. The enveloping night was so thick he could not discern the shrouded figure holding a torch and hastening toward him. Overhead, a hawk screeched. He glimpsed its silhouette against the moon as it flew in circles, lower and lower, as though stalking its quarry in the dark.

  Strange for any bird of prey, save the owl, to be hunting after nightfall, although there might be other predators about unseen by even the sharpest naked eye, he thought, listening and watching. Then he realized.

  “It’s that bloody ogre’s damned bird.”

  In a single fluid movement, Lord Dowrick spun on his heel and slid his blade under the intruder’s throat.

  Lord Fromund barely flinched. “Sometimes, I think you might be doing me a favor.”

  “Are you ill, Randar? Or just a cheerless drunk? For weeks now, you have spoken as though you have one foot in the grave yet you suffer from no wound that I can see.”

  Fromund coughed, his shadowy face like the moon in partial eclipse. “The deadliest are seldom visible to the eye but no less keenly felt.”

  “Enough.” Lord Dowrick sheathed his weapon. “Why did you want to meet here? Our deception is secure. It is wiser for both of us to remain hidden in plain sight at Farrhaven.”

  Lord Fromund raised his watery eyes up to the stars with the fading, lusterless air of a caged creature. “It’s gone now. Let us talk.”

  Lord Dowrick didn’t worry about Byrch’s Red-tailed hawk. It wasn’t one of those exotic carnival birds that imitated speech so what could it possibly say to a man? “Then what is so urgent that we would risk being seen by the sentries?” Dowrick asked.

  Fromund ignored the question, simply launching into a new one of his own. “Well? Did you follow the ritual as I instructed?”

  “I did,” Dowrick answered. “And it was a miracle to behold. The invisible King brought the sacrificed deer back to life—as if it had never died.”

  “And do you believe now that he, and he alone, has the power to grant your deepest desire?” Fromund looked at Dowrick expectantly.

  Lord Dowrick drew a deep breath to steady his emotion lest he be overcome again. “When I saw my beautiful Morgana once more, her warm touch on my face, her kiss upon my lips, my spirit broke and I swore at that moment to serve him if he promised to return my beloved wife.”

  Lord Fromund scratched his side. “He will, if we prove worthy, yet there is much work ahead before we are given our just rewards for serving the one true king.”

  “Then why all your dark talk at first? We should be rejoicing in anticipation of the new world, free of war and suffering, that waits to rise before us.”

  Lord Fromund bowed in apology. “Forgive me, Aubert. You speak the very words of the king and I will not forget them again. I have not slept well for my entire soul is filled with the desire to see our rightful monarch crowned.”

  “As are we all and none shall prevent it for I will hold my true love once more.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, yet that slave bastard concerns me, and I am not the only one. He was lost in the Corridor of Shadows for three days yet returned unscathed. Some say it was a miracle he didn’t die a howling madman gouging out his eyes and feasting on his own flesh.”

  Lord Dowrick stepped away. The sickly-sweet odor of rotting flowers emanating of late from his smaller, beleaguered ally was becoming impossible to mask with regular bathing and the strongest colognes. “So Rabek would have us believe from his moldy books, yet the Holy Seer shows him favor and helps nurse him back to health.”

  Lord Fromund grabbed his arm. “But did he truly see our majesty’s face? Did he learn his name before the king-in-waiting is strong enough to call forth his legions and assume his rightful throne?”

  “Simon Blackfyre is an ignorant pagan slave. He does not believe the old witch nor the emerging manifestations of revelation witnessed with his own eyes. I have overheard him dismiss all magic and heap ridicule on those who practice it. He thinks the Eelamassi’s poison, as he calls it, caused him to see terrible visions but that none of them were real. The nightmares of the child are still the nightmares of the man. Each troubling dream is dispelled by the next dawning light and so his comfort is returned, such as it is.”

  He yanked his arm away from Lord Fromund’s clawing grasp. “He sees and understands nothing because he believes nothing. What is there to fear from a pathetic creature like that?”

  “And the other protectors? Once they learn to master their skills they will be an imposing force.”

  “They distrust each other and are focused only on the contender they serve. They will never unite as a single spearhead against the onslaught that is to come.” Lord Dowrick lit his torch from the other’s flame. “All in its proper time, my friend. Like a living chain, let his majesty first test to find the weakest links then sever each before they can be mended. Once broken, the chain cannot be forged anew and there will be
nothing to shackle the one true king to this undeserving world ever again.”

  Lord Fromund scratched his stringy beard. “Our rightful king was betrayed once by those he loved and trusted most. He will not suffer again for believing in the professed loyalty of false brothers.”

  Lord Dowrick’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword. “And do you doubt mine, Randar?”

  Lord Fromund studied the small clump of curly bristles between his fingers. “No” He rubbed his fingers together sprinkling small hairs on the ground. “I will convey your advice by secret messenger to Avidene.”

  Lord Dowrick grabbed his arm. “But when will our allies take me into their confidence and reveal themselves as they have to you?”

  “Soon, my friend. Were you not overjoyed to learn today that Lord Delcarden is missing at sea and presumed drowned in the fierce storm? I can see why Lionsbury and his allies struggle to keep this a secret but it will not be for long.”

  “Then why wait when the single greatest obstacle on the council has been removed?”

  Lord Fromund grinned and ran his tongue over his top lip. “Lady Juliana would make a most fetching bride, don’t you agree? A just reward for the true king’s most loyal servant.”

  “And have I not proved my loyalty the same as you? Who leads us in Avidene?”

  Lord Fromund stiffened. “As you say, Aubert. All in its proper time. The king has suffered centuries to claim his rightful throne.” He glanced down at his lordship’s hand. “What is it for us to wait a while longer until the first snow falls?”

  “And you do not fear being discovered by those loyal to the King’s Council and the crown? What of High Priest Warlaw and the Holy Seer?”

  “We have more friends than you think, my lord.” Lord Fromund threw his cloak over his head. “Your professed loyalty will be tested shortly and you shall know the faces of all your brethren. Until then, if we are discovered and tortured near death each of us still protects our king with our life for we cannot speak of others when, in truth, we have never been told.”

  “What of Ronas Tiberion? He believes we are all loyal to Callor’s claim and that we will, before winter comes, seize the throne for his son.”

  “Ronas is but a pawn in the greater game that guarantees the King’s victory. We each continue to play our part so that the conspirators in Avidene do not suspect our loyalty—at least, until the King returns to claim his rightful throne.”

  “But Ronas and the others will be allowed to prove their worth the same as you and I, will they not?”

  Lord Fromund nodded. “Of course. The King desires that only the most powerful be at his side as his trusted commanders and advisors.”

  “You give me your word, then, that all his Majesty demands is the simple animal sacrifice and blood oath I have sworn?”

  “Fear not, my old friend. Each is asked according to his Majesty’s need. All shall be granted the same opportunity as you and I to prove themselves worthy of his mercy and generosity, but until then . . .” Fromund bowed.

  Lord Dowrick withdrew his sword and stood watch as the furtive noble disappeared safely into the still, black silence behind the trees.

  Though he could not speak the King’s name, he could not stop dwelling upon it and the fate they all may have summoned. Shivering from a sudden chill in the air, he turned and hastened back along the path to Farrhaven.

  The guards snuffed the flames of the wall-mounted torches in the Great Hall as Rachel hurried up the stairs past Solina and Morwyn toward the third-floor women’s dormitory.

  The competing protectors barely glanced at each other, and if they felt as Rachel did, it was more from embarrassment than any lingering hostility. It had been the worst day so far at Farrhaven. Still apathetic and gloomy, Marcus had barely spoken a word to her or any of their friends during their meager bread and water supper. The accusing looks from the other protectors were justified and they each had to bear part of the responsibility for their embarrassing travesty on the field against the Tiberions.

  And then there was Simon. Rachel felt it seemed dangerous to keep looking as they did at each other. Everyone could see it, she was sure. They couldn’t hurt Marcus’s chances anymore and she certainly didn’t want to place Simon’s life in jeopardy.

  Hearing rapid footsteps behind her, Rachel paused and quickly turned, hoping to see a friendly face. The stairway, though, was empty. Only a swift wind, common in drafty castles and keeps, announced itself by glancing her cheek and seeming to race up the stairs ahead of her, taunting and playing a game of chase.

  Her feelings began to overwhelm her heart more than she wished, and now she was yearning for things to happen that could not and should not.

  She drew a breath and continued up the stairs, all the while recalling Lord Rabek’s warnings so that she might recast them as a charm to protect her and Simon both. Any displays of affection between protectors who were not siblings was strictly forbidden—upon penalty of dismissal, or worse. She was the daughter of a freeman, while Simon was the mere son of a slave, which made it unthinkable.

  We are sworn protectors, here to choose the next King of Miradora—not flirt with each other like a featherbrained milkmaid and stable boy, she admonished herself.

  Rachel swore it would never come to that, for unlike many of the others, she had set eye upon a hanging tree in Tillingsgate when she was a little girl; she had not been able to sleep soundly for many months afterward, no matter what gentle sleeping potion her father had prepared for her. Her only thought now was to wash up then blow out the candle and hide under the bed blankets.

  Tomorrow would be a new day and—hopefully—a new challenge where the mettle of House Evermere would still prove worthy in the eyes of the Council.

  As she rounded the corner on the second floor leading to the women’s quarters, two pale, withered hands hooked into her green smock like branches. They seemed to emerge from the dark shadows and would have looked like severed hands, were it not for the visible drapes of long black cuffs.

  Rachel gasped and raised her hands to defend herself.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to have frightened you, child.” The Holy Seer drifted out of the darkness of the stone corridor. Her dark eyes searched Rachel’s face as though reaching into her thoughts. Rachel bowed as her heart still pounded in her chest.

  “Holy Seer, forgive me. I didn’t see you. Do you require assistance? I’ll summon the guard.”

  “No. Thank you.” Her face was strained across the temples and eyes. “Please, would you simply be kind enough to bring me an old book from the library? I thought the walk there would help improve my circulation but I find I am suddenly winded from the steps.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Lord Rabek has placed a large, red bound volume on the desk in the rear archive room. I had planned to read a chapter before retiring.” She pointed her trembling cane to the opposite end of the corridor. “Take the staircase at the far end used by my monks. You will be able to enter the archives from a rear door without disturbing any at the front of library immersed in their evening studies. Lord Rabek, in particular, is easily galled by such interruptions... even by me.”

  The unexpected glee in her frail voice put Rachel at ease. “As you wish, and with your permission I’ll be as silent as a mouse.”

  “Thank you, dear. You may look inside the book if you wish. Perhaps you may find a passage that interests you. I will wait here and rest.”

  She sat back in the shadows on a high-back wooden chair beneath a dusty coat of arms hanging on the wall.

  “Let the morning bring us fresh light so that all will see more clearly,” she said, softly. She closed her eyes gently as if soaking up sunshine on a hot summer’s day.

  Rachel padded down the corridor to the narrow door lit by a wall torch. She stared up at the single, spiral stone staircase rising toward another small door. Did the Holy Seer hope to climb those tortuous stairs alone using only her cane?

  The protectors knew littl
e of what lay beyond the women’s dormitory on the third floor except that they required permission before entering or to be escorted by a guard.

  She took hold of the handle. She had no reason to fear being stopped. She was there at the expressed command of the Holy Seer herself and there was no higher authority at Farrhaven. Rachel took a breath and pushed.

  A reading desk at the back of the dark room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp. The shelves were stacked with dust-laden leather books and crumbling, moth-eaten parchment scrolls. Stepping softly to the desk, she ran her fingers over a large red leather-bound volume.

  Rachel paused. The Holy Seer said she could peek inside the book if she wished before returning it to her. Since the night of initiation and Simon’s terrifying trance, she and the other protectors had more questions than the Council members had answers or were willing to reveal. Maybe it was time to start answering their own questions.

  She blew the dust off the leather binding. Her mind wandered a little.

  All had entered the Corridor of Shadows, yet none emerged the same.

  Mildrith, Solina, and each young woman from the other houses all had sworn to having fought in great battles from the Age of Heroes, as if for the first time.

  The same with the men. The Evermere brothers along with Quinn, Jardani, and Wulpher had given similar accounts of bracing themselves against the crush of hard steel striking their shields, pressing back against an unknown enemy. They had told of the cleaving of flesh and bone beneath their blades. Kissed by the first rays of the next morning, Rachel had woken with the others, convulsing in retching spasms but possessing newfound skills and strength unknown before that night.